Volume Two—Chapter Nineteen.
“Farewell, my kind friend,” exclaimed Don Luis, pressing the hand of Captain Pinto, as they stood together in front of their humble lodgings on the outskirts of the ruined city, while Pedro held his master’s horse and his own, prepared for a journey.
“Farewell, Luis; we may meet again under happier auspices, when I return from the cruise on which I am now despatched, and you recover from the effects of your disappointment and reverse of fortune.”
“The mere loss of fortune I could, as far as I am individually concerned, have borne with fortitude, but that it casts a cloud over the last days of my father’s life, and that it deprives me of the last chance of gaining Donna Clara.”
“But is your father’s property so irretrievably involved, that you may not hope to recover it?” asked the Captain.
“So Father Jacinto, my cousin, informs me, the mercantile house in which the whole of my father’s monied property was placed having completely failed, and the estates being mortgaged to their full value.—No, alas! I see no chance of ever being able to recover what we have lost; and with me, I fear, our once high name must end.”
“Don’t think of such a thing. When you least expect it, Fortune’s wheel will turn up a prize, and you will find yourself prosperous and happy. You do not mean to become a friar, I hope? You were fitted for nobler aims than such a life can offer.”
“I must visit my father,—I fear it will be but to close his eyes,—before I fix on my future course in life, though surely anything is preferable to hanging about the Court, a poverty-stricken noble, in greedy expectation of some paltry office, cringing meanly to those one despises, to obtain it, as is the fate of many, and would be mine also if I could submit to it; but that I never can. No, I would far rather sink my rank and name, and be forgotten by the world, than lead such a life.”
“You are right, Luis, anything is better than that contemptible hunting after place, in which so many men waste their energies; but you need not be reduced to that necessity,—the Minister will gladly give you employment whenever you ask for it, as he has already promised you, and he is not a man to forget his word.”
“That was when fortune appeared to smile on me, and I was not a suppliant for charity. You yourself have often told me that people are far more ready to bestow gifts on those who do not ask for them, than on those who are petitioners.”
“With people in general, such is the case,” replied the Captain; “but the Minister is not to be judged by the same rules as other men: besides, you have other powerful friends, whom you are not aware of, but who would be the last people to wish you to enter the profession of the Church—with due reverence be it spoken. Should you be deprived of your natural counsellor,—your father, do not take any step without consulting one in whose judgment you may place the fullest confidence,—I mean, Senhor Mendez. You will always hear of him at the house where he is now residing, and he will ever be ready to advise you. Do not act like some foolish people, who fancy that it betrays a weakness of judgment to ask advice, whereas another person, of even inferior capacity, may often, from viewing a case calmly and dispassionately, be able to form a better opinion than he who, having to act, is naturally biassed according to his feelings at the time. You will think me an old proser if I continue talking much longer; and, at all events, your servant and horses are impatient to be off, so once again, Luis, farewell.”
The friends embracing affectionately, Luis mounted his horse with a sad heart, and turned his back once more on all the horrors and miseries with which for the last few weeks he had been surrounded. He had, in despair, been obliged to give up his search for the younger Gonçalo Christovaö, not being able to discover the slightest trace of him, so that at last he felt convinced that he must have been one of the sufferers in the earthquake.
The fidalgo had recovered his strength, and a few days before had set off on his return to Oporto, accompanied by his daughter, and his confessor, who did not cease to insist on his fulfilling his vow of placing the fair girl in a convent; and it was at last agreed that she should enter the principal one in that city. Clara, broken-hearted and despairing, offered no opposition to the proposed plan, so that it was arranged she should commence her noviciate soon after her return home,—her younger brother, who had been before destined for the Church, being taken from Coimbra, where he was pursuing his studies, little thought of or cared about, to be treated henceforth as the heir of the house.
Luis heard of these arrangements through a message sent him by Senhora Gertrudes, who promised him that, happen what might, her young mistress should never forget his love and devotion; and that to his courage she owed her life and honour. This was the only particle of consolation he received; and, as it was the only food offered to his hopes, it was not surprising that they were left to starve.
He had just passed the last point from which the ruined capital could be seen,—Pedro, observing his master’s mood, not attempting to interrupt his meditations,—when a horseman from a cross-road suddenly joined them, and riding up to the side of Luis, accosted him.
“Good morrow, Senhor Fidalgo, you are early on the road,” said the stranger, in a clear jovial voice. “By your leave, I will ride on some way with you.”
“Many thanks, senhor, for your polite offer,” returned Luis, scarcely noticing the speaker; “but I should prefer travelling alone.”
“What! Don Luis d’Almeida, the brave, the gallant, and the gay, turned misanthropical?” exclaimed the stranger, laughing. “However, great changes are taking place every day,—honest men turning rogues, and rogues turning honest; one can never tell what will happen next.”
As the stranger was speaking, Luis regarded him attentively, nor was he long in discovering, beneath the military curled wig and queue, the fierce moustaches, and heavy travelling dress, the features of the ci-devant Frè Lopez.
“I trust that you are one of those making a change for the better, Senhor Padre,” said Luis; “but I expected to have met you in a dress more appropriate to your character than the one you wear.”
“I am glad to find that you do not forget your old friends, as I was at first afraid you were going to do,” returned the Friar. “With regard to my costume, you belie it, to say that it is not suited to the character of an honest man; for let me assure you, that, doubt it as you may, I have turned honest; and where can you find a more honourable dress than that of a soldier?”
“Yet, such is surely not suited to your character as a friar,” said Luis.
“Why not? may I not belong to the church militant,” returned Frè Lopez. “However, to confess the truth, I have my friar’s robes carefully wrapped up in my valise behind me, and I intend before long to don them for ever; for I am growing weary of the fatigues and dangers of the wild life I have led, and pine for the quiet and security of the cloister. Yet, let me assure you that it was for your sake I assumed my present disguise. I heard that you were about to travel this way, and, knowing that the roads were very far from safe, on account of the number of thieves who have been frightened out of Lisbon, I thought it my duty to accompany you, to prevent your suffering from them.”
“Many thanks for your attention; but are you not afraid of being apprehended yourself as a suspicious character? You heard that the Minister has issued an order to the corregidors of all the towns in the south, to stop every one who has no pass from him, in case they should be carrying off any property stolen from the city.”
“Oh yes, senhor, I heard of the order, and am provided with a pass, if necessary; but I should think it would not be asked for in such worshipful company as yours.”
“Then you had some other motive in favouring me with your company?” said Luis, scarcely refraining from laughing at the man’s impudence.
“People generally have more than one motive for their good actions,” returned the Friar. “Now, if I, being a rogue, preserve you from the rogues, you, in return, being an honest man, are bound to preserve me from the fangs of the law; therefore, the obligation is mutual, and I have the satisfaction of performing a good action, and receiving a service from you besides. Don’t think I am the less honest on that account. I tell you my motives, whereas another man would keep them secret, or, at all events, give you only one of them; but I scorn such hypocrisy.”
“You are honest,” said Luis.
“You flatter me, senhor,” interrupted the Friar. “It is the first time, for many a long year past, that I have been told so; and I will endeavour to merit the good opinion you have formed of me.”
“I shall be indeed glad to hear that you have foresworn the very suspicious companions with whom I have so frequently met you,” said Luis.
“I have already bidden farewell to most of them. There they hang, like fruit on the trees, thanks to the mild clemency of the Minister!” As the Friar spoke, he pointed towards Lisbon. “I am glad enough to get beyond the sight of those ghastly corpses. Ah, senhor! it is a dreadful thing to hang people up in that way; and many an innocent man is among them. Thank Heaven, I have not such deeds on my conscience! That reminds me, senhor, that I have gained some information which may assist you in discovering what you spoke to me about. I was speaking to one of those poor fellows the night before he was caught and hung,—and, by-the-bye, he no more deserved hanging than I do!—he told me that he had been employed, some time ago, in carrying a young fidalgo, who had been wounded in a night-fray, to a house in the outskirts of Lisbon; but that he could not exactly tell where it was, and who was the person. He had been hired by Rodrigo, who did not mention the name of their employer. The poor fellow was to have accompanied me the next day to try and find out the house, but he was hung instead. Ah! I am a great enemy to the system of hanging.”
Luis listened with deep interest to this account. Then Gonçalo might have escaped destruction from the earthquake! He might be yet alive! He longed to turn back, and continue his search; but he had slight grounds to go upon; for the Friar could give him no further information, and his father was expecting him at home. With sanguine dispositions, the slightest thing is sufficient to raise hopes which, alas! may never be accomplished, but which it often takes years and years of disappointment to learn to distrust. Now old men, as we have informed our readers we are, even to this day, we find ourselves building castles in the air, of such bright and glowing colours, that our own sight is dazzled by the splendour of the fabric we have raised, when a single word has been sufficient to make it fade away like the morning mist, each brilliant hue growing less and less distinct, till we have wondered that it could ever have existed even in our imaginations; and at other times a rude blow has dashed the lovely edifice to the ground, and as we have flown to the spot, we have not found a fragment remaining.
The words the Friar had spoken had been sufficient to raise just such a fabric in Luis’s brain; and, thus occupied, in happier mood he rode on, while the former fell back to converse with Pedro, who was not averse to the company of so amusing a personage, although a rogue. Several very suspicious parties either overtook them, or passed them on the road; but a signal, or a few words, from the Friar, always sent them peaceably away; so that Luis, during the whole journey, met with no adventure worth relating.
“Farewell, Don Luis!” said the soi-disant Friar, as they came in sight of the gates of the Count’s estate. “I have borne you company thus far, and we must now part. We shall meet again some day, I hope; if not, think of me sometimes, as I would be, and not as I have been; but I fear I shall not be a more honest man as a real Friar than I have been as a pretended one. Adeos, senhor!”
And, without waiting for an answer, he rode back the way he had come; while Luis, followed by Pedro, hastened to embrace his father, although the tidings he had to communicate must, he knew, cause much sorrow to the old Count.