Volume One—Chapter Twelve.
Here we have arrived at the last chapter of our first volume, without having advanced any way in our story; but it is, we conceive, an error on the right side, as the chief interest will be found in the two following ones, without any fear of our materials being exhausted.
We have also placed ourselves in a dilemma; for while we are anxious to describe certain events which befell Don Luis, our gallantry would lead us to follow the fair Donna Clara on her journey to Lisbon; for, although far advanced, as we are, down the vale of years, and invulnerable to the soft blandishments of the sex, that feeling, or sentiment, still retains its influence over us, owing to our having been educated before the civilisation of our countrymen was refined by their intercourse with the Indians of North America, or the intellectual inhabitants of Australia—before, indeed, the days of modern chivalry.
It is remarkable that, although Senhora Gertrudes exerted herself to the utmost to amuse her young lady, Donna Clara found her journey from Leiria to Lisbon very long and tedious; and it more than once occurred to her, how far more agreeable it would have been had Don Luis d’Almeida been travelling in the same instead of in a contrary direction; but she did not utter her thoughts to her old nurse—indeed, she scarcely acknowledged them to herself. The weather, too, had become dark and gloomy, and the horses of a small body of cavalry, whom her father had procured as an escort for part of the way, created a dust and disturbance, the men looking much more like banditti than soldiers, so that she was very glad when the towers of Lisbon, and the broad flowing Tagus, appeared in sight. When the travellers were within a short distance of the city, a party of cavaliers were seen approaching, who drew in their reins as they came close to the fidalgo; one of the foremost leaping from his horse, and advancing towards him. He was a young man of graceful and refined exterior, dressed rather in the extreme of fashion, with an abundance of lace to his ruffles and shirt, his waistcoat richly flowered, and jewels glittering on the handle of his sword; his countenance, also, bore strong marks of dissipation, and there was a wild, careless manner in his whole air.
“Welcome to Lisbon, my honoured father; and my fair sister, I trust she has not suffered from the journey. I have brought my friend, San Vincente, out to meet you,” he added, introducing a young man, whose dark handsome countenance was disfigured by a lowering brow, and a furtive glance of the eye. Both gentlemen bowed low and often.
“I am most happy in having so early an opportunity to make the personal acquaintance of one of whom I have heard so much, and with whom I hope shortly to be yet more intimate.” The count bowed lower still at the compliment, and the priest, who rode near his patron, eyed him narrowly.
“We received notice of your approach but at a late hour, and instantly mounted our horses to ride forward to meet you,” said the young Fidalgo. “Excuse me, I will now go and address my sister;” and he rode up to the side of her litter. “Ah, my pretty Clara, blooming and fresh as ever!” he said, after the first greetings were over. “I am delighted to see you drawn out of the seclusion of that horrid place, Oporto, to enjoy the gaieties of the capital, where you will soon get rid of that bashful timidity which sits so ill upon you. Ah! I have a friend whom I must introduce to you, the Conde de San Vincente; see, he is riding by the side of our father. You have often heard of him, of course?”
“I have heard his name mentioned,” answered his sister; “but little else respecting him.”
“You will know more of him soon, then. He is an excellent fellow, and a particular acquaintance of mine; rather proud and haughty towards the scum of the earth, the lower orders, and not of a very forgiving temper if insulted; but those are qualities ladies seldom find fault with. I will bring him up to you presently, to pay his respects.”
“Oh no, no, do not inconvenience the count. You will have another opportunity of introducing your friend,” said Donna Clara.
“What a timid little bird you are,” answered the young Fidalgo, laughing. “Now, I dare say your heart is fluttering with agitation. Why, the count is dying to see you, I have so praised you to him; and as soon as he can escape from the side of our father, he will come to throw himself at your feet.”
He soon afterwards rode on and joined his father and the count, when, having contrived to bring their conversation to a close, he returned with the latter to the side of his sister’s litter. Clara cast a hurried glance at the countenance of her brother’s friend, and with that quick perception with which some women are fortunately endued, in that one moment she read more of his character than her brother had discovered during the whole course of his acquaintance; not that she could dream of the dark crimes and vices of which he was capable; such was impossible to her pure mind; but she saw something there which she did not like, she knew not what, and she returned a cold bow to the many flourishes of his hat, and chosen phrases of compliment with which the count honoured her.
Though rather piqued at her indifference, he was not in the least abashed; but kept his place on one side, while her brother rode on the other, endeavouring, though in vain, to win her attention by flattery to her beauty and by stories of the day, till they arrived in front of the palace of the Marchioness of Corcunda, a relation of Gonçalo Christovaö, where he had been invited to take up his abode during his stay in Lisbon. The count threw himself from his horse, and offered to hand Clara from her litter, an attention she could not, without marked rudeness, refuse; but as her hand touched his, a shudder passed through her frame, such as, it is said and believed, the victim feels in the presence of his destroyer; and she turned aside her head, to avoid the glance of those dark baneful eyes, which she felt an undefined consciousness were capable of withering her young pure happiness, her very existence itself.
Again bowing coldly to him, she withdrew her hand, when he was obliged to take his leave, while she flew to join her father, who with great ceremony conducted her upstairs, and introduced her to the old marchioness, who, surrounded by a number of old women, more hideous, if possible, than the witches in Macbeth, was standing ready to receive her guests at the entrance of the ante-room leading to the state apartment, a mark of very great distinction. She was a lady well advanced in years, of most grave and formal aspect; every motion of her body, and every thought of her mind, being regulated by what she considered the strict rules of etiquette. Her dress, like her mind, was composed of the stiffest materials, her gown being of a thick rich silk, capable of standing alone without the wearer, making a loud rustling as she moved forward and curtsied to Clara, whom, timid and blushing, her father presented to her; when the old lady bestowed a kiss (rather savoury of snuff, it must be owned) on each side of her face. “You are a very pretty young lady,” she said, staring at her; “so was I once; but the world since then has changed with me, as it will with you. I am glad to see you, Gonçalo Christovaö,” she added, though her looks belied her words; for it appeared impossible that any feelings of gladness could exist beneath that rigid aspect. “Remember, you are to make my house, and all it contains, entirely your own during your residence here: a daughter of yours will not be guilty of any of those levities in which young ladies of the present day are too apt to indulge; and I hear that you have brought your most excellent confessor with you, who will instil into her mind those principles of decorum and religion so essential in the conduct of a young lady.” The marchioness having delivered this oration, led the way to her room of state, her attendants drawing aside to allow her and her guests to pass, and then followed in line, and arranged themselves on each side of the apartment.
The conversation was continued in the same stiff and formal strain, so that poor Clara was delighted when she was allowed to retire to the rooms appropriated to her use, where Senhora Gertrudes was ready to receive her, not at all more pleased than her young lady with the attendants of the marchioness.
Although, during the excitement of the journey, Clara had borne up against the effects of the terror she had endured, when she attempted to rise on the morning after her arrival, she fell back on her couch weak and feverish, and a severe illness seized her, which for many days confined her to her room; during which time numerous were the inquiries made at the door of the palace, the fame of her beauty having spread among the nobles of the city, all eager to see the new ornament which they hoped was to be added to the Court.
The most constant visitor was the Conde de San Vincente, for his fiery passions had been at once captivated by her tranquil beauty; the very indifference she had exhibited towards him serving to increase the flame, so that, looking on her as his affianced bride, he vowed the most deadly vengeance against any who should venture to come between him and the consummation of his hopes. He had sufficient tact carefully to conceal his character from her father, as he had, indeed, the darker shades from her brother, who would not otherwise have continued on the same intimate terms with him, though, it is to be feared, from the low state of morals at that time in society, he would not have treated him with the scorn and hatred he deserved.
Unremitting, therefore, in his attentions to the fidalgo, making promises of large settlements, and a handsome establishment, he completely won him to forward his wishes; indeed, in those times, few fathers ever thought of asking their daughters’ consent in forming for them a connexion in which the whole happiness of their future life was concerned; and the young ladies, having few opportunities allowed them of choosing for themselves, generally yielded to their fate without a murmur; too often afterwards indemnifying themselves at the expense of their husband’s honour.
In the meantime poor Clara remained in happy ignorance of the fate awaiting her; though the hints carelessly thrown out by her brother had for the time alarmed her; but she persuaded herself that he had but spoken in joke, and thought no more on the subject; her only remaining doubts being occasioned by her not having been informed of the reason for her visit to Lisbon. She was occasionally visited by the old marchioness, whose conversation was very far from contributing to enliven her, being chiefly long homilies for the regulation of her religious and moral conduct, and warnings against the sins which the pomps and vanities of the world would lead her to commit. Then she would launch out into praise of the advantages to be derived from a life of seclusion from the temptations of the world, ending with deep regrets that she herself in her youth had not rather assumed the veil, than subjected herself to the unhappiness she had endured; though it may be observed that she had never thought so till she had lost all taste for the pleasures she reprobated, and had contrived for a long course of years to yield very freely to the temptations she spoke of, without very seriously damaging her reputation; the marquis, her husband, having been of a very kind and indulgent disposition, and she having discovered certain peccadillos of his, which enabled her to keep a constant check over him, and prevented him from inquiring too minutely into what she chose to do.
The chief cause of her present style of conversation was, that the Padre Alfonzo, who had determined, for reasons of his own, that his fair young penitent should assume the veil, and was now employing every means he thought likely to aid his purpose, had for that reason assiduously paid his court to the marchioness from the moment of his arrival, and easily gained her over to his views, pointing out the advantages which Clara would find, both in a spiritual and moral point of view, in a monastic life, and the misery she would endure if united to a man of so bad a character as he hinted that of the count to be. He also assured the old lady that it would much contribute to gain pardon from heaven for her own trespasses, if she were the means of offering so acceptable a sacrifice to the Church; and the last argument completely gained his point.
Gonçalo Christovaö was at first very much alarmed at his daughter’s illness, but being assured by the physicians that there was no danger to be apprehended, he with resignation awaited her recovery. It must be observed, that though, in this instance, the doctors were perfectly right, they knew very little of the subject, their chief specific being that of Doctor Sangrado, and a judicious administering of mummy powder, and various drugs long since banished from every pharmacopeia in civilised Europe. Fortunately they came to the determination that Clara did not require bleeding, and thus, under the care of kind nature, she was allowed to recover without their interference, and all praised the physicians who had wrought so speedy a cure. Her father, having made up his mind that she should become the bride of his estimable young friend, the Conde San Vincente, determined, as soon as he considered she was sufficiently recovered to bear conversation, to open the subject to her. Now, he was, as we have said, a very amiable man, and an affectionate father; but he was one of those people who, according to circumstances, may be either praised for their firmness or blamed for their obstinacy; if he had once taken an idea into his head, he was very fond of retaining it, from the difficulty he had in getting it there. Of his own accord, and by the advice of his son, he had determined that his daughter should espouse the Conde San Vincente, while his confessor, in whose judgment he put implicit confidence, had persuaded him, by dint of much argument, that if she would not marry according to his will, she must inevitably assume the veil. Besides the quality which his enemies would have called obstinacy, he possessed another, which the same persons would have designated as a passionate temper, though his admirers might look upon it as a just indignation: it had rarely been aroused, principally from his having always enjoyed his own way, no one attempting to oppose his will, so that he was not even aware of it himself, imagining that he was of the mildest disposition possible. When he entered his daughter’s apartment, he found her risen from her bed, and seated on a sofa near the open window, enjoying the fresh air, the only remedy which she required to restore her to perfect health. He took her hand as he seated himself by her side. He began much in the way fathers always must begin when they have the same sort of subject to communicate, particularly when they have some floating suspicions that it may not afford entire satisfaction to their hearers, and that they must be prepared for a slight opposition to their will, as his confessor had warned him might now be the case. He talked a great deal about his love and affection, and his care for her interests and happiness, in answer to which his daughter looked into his face, and thanked him with a sweet beaming smile, and an assurance of her confidence in his love. Then he talked of the necessity of leaving as large a fortune as possible to his son, whose expenses were, he confessed, considerable, that he might maintain the family honour and dignity, in which she most readily acquiesced. He next approached the main point. He observed that young ladies must form matrimonial connexions suitable to their family and station, and that nothing was more disgraceful or wrong than for a person of pure and noble blood to wed with one who could not boast an equal number of quarterings on their escutcheons. Clara said she had always heard such was the case, and believed it fully; then she looked down on the ground, wondering what was next to come. The Fidalgo went on to observe, that there were very few unmarried men of his acquaintance whom he should consider as a suitable match for his daughter, that many of pure blood were poor, and that he would, on no account, expose her to the miseries of poverty; and that there were several aged bachelors and widowers who were most unexceptionable, but that there were objections to her marrying an old man, especially if not very wealthy. She again thanked him, and agreed in some part of the observations. It did occur to her for an instant, and she longed to say so, that she thought she had met with one who might perhaps please him, but her modesty restrained her, so she blushed at her own thoughts, and fixed her eyes more intently on the ground. He had now arrived at the delicate point, and he began to speak quicker, as if to get over it; for he saw his daughter turning paler every instant, and he could not bear to watch her, so he averted his eyes while he spoke. He said that he had looked round among all his acquaintance, in which search her brother had materially aided him, to find a suitable husband for her, as he considered that she ought now to marry; that, after infinite trouble, he had succeeded in selecting one in every way her equal in blood, being of the highest Fidalguia, and of title and large property, so that she must consider herself as a very fortunate girl. Poor Clara now trembled violently, but her father did not, or would not, observe her agitation. He continued, that her intended husband was a particular friend of her brothel, who much wished the match to take place; that he was the young Conde San Vincente; and that he had engaged his word as a fidalgo that she should marry him and no one else: therefore, that she must be prepared to receive him on the following day as her future husband. At this communication Clara turned deadly pale, and trembled so violently, that she almost fell from her seat. Her worst suspicions were realised: that dreaded man must be her husband! She shuddered at the thought; for her confessor had taken care to instil into her mind his opinion of the count, more by dark insinuations than by any direct accusation; for the former he knew would have far greater effect, while the latter might be refuted, and might injure himself. There was a spirit in the bosom of that young girl which she knew not of, both firm and enduring, enabling her to resist tyranny with determination; but she first made use of the feminine weapons most natural to her age and habits.
“Oh, my father, I love you, and have always sought to obey your wishes; but do not now require of me what I cannot do,—cause me not now to act in disobedience to your commands. Oh! alter that decision, which it would break my heart to obey. It is impossible that I should love the count, and you would not make me wed one for whom I can never feel affection?”
The fidalgo looked at her with amazement. He had never supposed it possible that she should offer any resistance to his wishes, though they might not at first please her. It is just probable that, had she not mentally daguerreo-typed that likeness of Don Luis at Leiria, she might not have thought of opposing the commands of her father, who, however, never made any such calculation; nor had the said Don Luis even occurred to his recollection, as he knew him to be the son of a poor noble, whose property was much involved.
“What is this nonsense I hear about love and affection? What objections can you have to the count? He is young, handsome, and rich, as you know; and as you have scarcely seen him, it is not possible that you can dislike him; so that you will soon learn to love him as much as is necessary; and what further would you wish? Come, come, Clara, I have always been an indulgent father to you,—do not let me now find you a disobedient child, in the most important affair of your life. Am not I the fittest person to choose a husband for you? and tell me, how could you, who can know nothing of the world, select one for yourself? Such an idea would be unmaidenly and highly incorrect, and one in which no young lady would dream of indulging; and I have pledged my word to the count, therefore you must marry him.”
Clara did not see the clearness of her father’s reasoning. “I would do all to please you,” she again answered; “I would die, and, oh! willingly, for your sake; but this I cannot do.”
“Clara, beware you do not make me utter such words as I thought never to speak to you. My honour is dearer to me than my life: it is dearer even than my child’s life or happiness; and my honour is pledged to the count. It must be so.”
“Oh, my father, I must die, then, if I obey you!” returned the fair girl, faintly.
The fidalgo’s heart was softened, and, for the moment, he repented of his pledge; but it must be redeemed, if the count demanded it.
“Clara, there is an alternative, but one that I wish you not to choose. Your mother, on her death-bed, made it her dying request that you should rather take the veil than marry against your will. I have vowed to fulfil her wish. I give you, therefore, your choice. Within a month you must wed the Count San Vincente, or give up the world and all its pleasures, and dwell for the remainder of your life in the gloomy precincts of a convent. But I know my pretty Clara will recover from her fit of bashful fears, and long before that time the count will have won the love you speak of.”
“Oh no, no!” exclaimed Clara, with energy. “Let me far rather enter a convent. I will at once so decide; and let me not be exposed to the dark glances of the count, which alone fill me with terror.”
“Clara, you will excite my just anger,” returned the Fidalgo, in a tone which very plainly showed his anger was excited already. “I will not now hear your decision. At the end of the month we will again speak on the subject; till then I will not allude to it. I insist on your receiving the count, in the meantime, and shall inform him that he must not expect your answer till that period has elapsed.”
Clara burst into tears; but her father was angry, and they did not influence him. He was, as we have said, not accustomed to be opposed. Seeing that she continued weeping (it was at her father’s unkindness, so unusual in him, towards her), his feelings were moved, which made him only still more angry; so he rose to quit her, in order to avoid the sight. “Clara, this is but increasing your folly. I must now quit you, and remember to-morrow to wear at least a serene countenance to receive the count.” He stooped down, as was his wont, to kiss her brow, when she threw herself on his neck, and wept hysterically; but he placed her again on the seat, and left the room, muttering, “It must be thus,” and ordered Senhora Gertrudes to attend her mistress.
The proud fidalgo was not the most happy man in Lisbon that night. As he met Senhora Gertrudes, he told her to advise her young mistress to think of marrying, instead of entering a convent, which general directions the old lady was very well able to obey.
“What is it the fidalgo has been telling me, that my child wishes to go into a convent? Why, she never before uttered such an idea to me! Would she have all that beautiful fair hair cut off, and hide that lovely face within the gloomy walls of a nunnery? I should die to see my child so lost to the world.”
“Oh no, no, I do not wish to go into a nunnery, my good ama,” returned Clara, as soon as she had recovered sufficiently to speak; “but I do not wish to marry.”
“Not wish to marry! Ha, ha! that’s what many young ladies say, but don’t mean, minha alma! You would be very happy to marry, if the right person offered. Now, suppose that handsome young Don Luis d’Almeida proposed to you. Would not he please you, my child?”
“Oh, but he is not the person selected for me, my good nurse,” answered Clara, blushing as she spoke.
“Who is it, then, my love?—speak, pray,” cried the nurse anxiously.
“It is that dark Count San Vincente, my brother’s friend,” answered the young lady.
“Oh, he is not half so handsome as Don Luis; so I am not surprised at your not liking him; and he did not even deign to speak to me, when he came out to meet us on our coming here. Don Luis will suit you much better, and I will tell the fidalgo so. Come, now, dry your eyes, and you shall be happy.”
We fear, Senhora Gertrudes, you were not fulfilling your master’s intentions by your last impolitic observations.
“But, alas! my kind nurse, my father has pledged his word to the count, and cannot retract,” answered Clara.
“I don’t understand anything about pledging words; but I will not have my child made unhappy, to please that rude count. So do not fear, my soul. I will persuade your father, or I will frighten the count. I will do something or other; but you shall neither marry him nor go into a convent. Now, go to bed again, my love, and to-morrow you will be quite well and happy.”
As soon as it was reported that Donna Clara was sufficiently recovered to receive visitors, numbers crowded to the door of the marchioness’s palace, eager to ascertain, in person, whether the beauty was over praised, which, it was generally supposed, would adorn the Court. Among the first who came to make her acquaintance, whom she received in her own apartment, was Donna Theresa d’Alorna, the betrothed of the young Marquis of Tavora; for, although their families were in no way related, that intimacy had been kept up between them which existed generally amongst the Fidalguia, and was so necessary for their own preservation as an order, against all other classes. As Donna Theresa was announced, a slight blush tinged the fair cheek of Donna Clara; for she could not avoid coupling her name with that of Don Luis, till she recollected that he had himself contradicted the report her nurse had heard; and she rose to receive her visitor with that elegant courtesy so natural to her. The young ladies saluted each other on the cheek before they spoke, when Clara led her guest to a seat.
“I have been longing to come and see you, since I heard of your arrival,” Donna Theresa began. “And no sooner was I told that you could receive me, than I flew hither.”
Clara thanked her for her politeness.
“They told me you were very beautiful,” she continued; “and, for a wonder, report has not exaggerated your perfections. Oh! you will commit immense havoc in the Court. You have but to appear, to conquer!”
Clara smiled, and assured her she was too complimentary.
“Oh, not half enough so!” she answered; “but it is said you are already given away; that the bargain is struck, the arrangements made; and that the Conde San Vincente is the happy man. However, I now see you are a great deal too good for him. You cannot have seen him very often, I suppose?”
“I have seen him but twice,” answered Clara.
“Oh, how fortunate you were!” answered Donna Theresa, laughing. “Few have so many opportunities of judging of their future lords and masters. Then, for a second wonder, the report is correct, and you are betrothed to the count?”
“Oh, I trust in Heaven not,” said Clara, sorrowfully: “I could never love the count.”
“Very likely not,” returned her visitor, laughing. “It is a question seldom asked of us poor girls till we arrive at the altar, with a lie on our tongues. But your father wishes for the match?”
Clara bowed assent.
“Oh, then, I fear, poor bird, you are entrapped; but you need not be unhappy alone, for you have plenty of sisters in affliction;” and a shade passed over the lovely countenance of Donna Theresa.
“But is it possible to marry a man one cannot love?” asked Clara, with emphasis on her words.
“Possible! why yes, such is but a trifle, which thousands do every day,” answered her guest, laughing at her simplicity. “It is a trifle not worth thinking about. We poor women are doomed to have husbands of some sort; such is our unavoidable lot, and we must submit to it; but for my part, I prefer having one I do not love; for he will give me much less trouble in managing, and I shall be able to enjoy as much liberty as I can desire. Now I should advise you to follow my example.”
Clara shook her head; she was shocked at what she heard.
“Ah, I see you have a great deal of rustic simplicity to cure yourself of, before you can properly appreciate the pleasures of a city life; but after you have married the count, I shall find you wonderfully improved.”
“I can never marry the count: I shall enter a convent rather,” said Clara.
“Oh, horror of horrors! I know not why such places were invented, except as a punishment for our sins, or by some sour, crusty old fathers, to frighten their daughters into obedience to their tyrannical commands. I have heard some extraordinary stories about two or three convents in the old king’s time, which I will tell you; for they may amuse you, though I do not think they would encourage a modest young lady to enter one, as they are not much improved since then.”
We do not give the stories; for we must observe, that the minds of young ladies in those days were less refined than at the present time; and that they assumed far more freedom in their language, particularly those who had been educated like Donna Theresa; though the recital, to which Clara’s pure ears were unaccustomed, made the blushes rise on her cheeks. It is only necessary to say, that several convents were entirely suppressed by Pombal, on account of their scandalous excesses and immoralities, which had become a disgrace to civilisation and Christianity.
Donna Theresa’s conversation had, however, the effect of making Clara feel that she ought rather to undergo any misery than assume the veil; and, that her only course was to obey her father’s commands; an opinion, her new friend did her utmost to foster. She became also accustomed to the count’s expression of features, which had, at first, alarmed her; for he exerted himself to please her, and her brother lost no opportunity of praising his generous qualities. The count had also contrived to gain over the old marchioness, by a variety of artifices, which he well knew how to practise, and the confessor, for some unexplained reason, had not again spoken to Clara on the subject of her taking the veil; so that she was left, poor girl! with the old nurse, as the only friend in whom she could confide, or who seemed to take a real interest in her welfare. Yet, simple virtue, and purity of thought, will often strengthen the weak to counteract all the wiles and plots of the subtle intriguer, though confident in his strength and talent. Thus affairs continued; her month of probation was nearly drawing to a close, and, in a few days, she must consent to receive the count as her husband, or assume the veil; all she had heard increased her dislike to the latter alternative, and everybody around her endeavoured to persuade her, that the other was a very happy lot.
The count had, by some means or other, discovered the cause of the delay; and that she was hesitating about accepting him, not from his having any rival in her affections, whom he might chastise, as he vowed he would, if he discovered one; but, because she felt so great an antipathy to him, that she fancied she should prefer a life of seclusion in a convent, to wedding him with rank, wealth, and liberty. This was not very complimentary to him, nor was he pleased by it; but he was not a man who foolishly gave vent to his feelings in outward show, though he vowed an oath, deep and bitter, that, once master of that bright jewel, he would wring her young heart for its present obduracy, till she should repent ever having dared, for an instant, to oppose his lordly will.
He persuaded the marchioness that gaiety was most likely to restore her young friend to her usual state of spirits and health; and, perhaps, the old lady was not sorry to discover a plausible excuse for opening her palace once more to the gay world. Her father and brother wisely judged that if they could give her a taste for the amusements of society, she was less likely to wish to quit it. There was also to be a Beja Mao, literally a kissing hands, or drawing-room, at the Court, when she was to be introduced to the royal family, so that there was little time afforded her for thought or meditation; indeed, very little would have turned the scale, and made her accept the count at once; but she sought to put off the day, which she knew must seal her misery, till the end of the period allowed her.
The only person who appeared to be an indifferent spectator of what was taking place, was the father confessor, Padre Alfonzo: he merely kept his gaze fixed on her, with an ominous frown on his brow, whenever the count was engaged in conversation with her; and his was, perhaps, the only eye beneath which the glance of the young noble cowered.
A few days before the end of the month, the confessor encountered the fidalgo alone: it was towards the close of the evening, as he was pacing a long gallery of the palace, hung with the grim portraits of some of his ancestors, who were those likewise of the marchioness.
“Your daughter appears inclined to obey your wishes,” said the Priest. “But if not, you remember your vow to our holy Church; and let your heart be steeled, and your honour unsullied, as was that of your noble predecessors. Let me feel confident that your wife’s dying request may be fulfilled, and again swear, that as long as the count urges his suit to your daughter, she shall accept him, or become the bride of Heaven.”
“Father, I have already said so, and I again swear, that she shall marry the man I choose, or assume the veil,” exclaimed the Fidalgo.
“I am satisfied,” said the Priest.