Volume Two—Chapter Seventeen.
Sad was the change which three days of intense anxiety and suffering had worked on the fair cheek of the still lovely Clara. She might have been compared to the fresh-blown rose, drooping beneath the hot blast of the sirocco, yet still retaining its fragrance and beauty, and which the balmy dews of evening would quickly restore to health and vigour. The old hag had never for an instant quitted her, nor had she been able to extract a single sentence from her, even to learn in what part of the city she was imprisoned. Her thoughts all the time dwelling on the too probable loss of her father, and brother, and of one who she could not help confessing was even dearer than either, yet she did not rely on her informer’s declaration of their deaths; and she endeavoured so to nerve her courage, as to resist every attempt he might make to compel her to become his bride. Though he had spoken in a feigned voice, and she had not seen his features, she had no doubt as to the identity of her gaoler; and she felt assured that terror of the law would prevent him from perpetrating any violence,—the abduction only of the daughter of a fidalgo being punishable by death, with confiscation of property; though, had she known the disorganised state of society since the earthquake, her alarm would have been far greater. Since the masked stranger had visited her, no one had appeared, and she was now, with dread and agitation, looking forward to his return. She heard footsteps approaching—her heart beat quick—they stopped at the cottage-door, against which a single blow was struck; but the old woman paid no attention to it. It was again repeated, with the same result. Several louder knocks were then heard, when the hag approached the door, and placed her ear against it, in the act of listening.
“Who is there?” she asked, in a voice like the croaking of a raven. “Go away, and leave an aged lone woman in quiet.”
“Open the door first, and we will not harm you,” said a voice.
“I cannot open the door, for my son has gone away, and taken the key: you must wait till he returns,” answered the hag.
“We should have to wait long enough,” muttered some one outside.
Clara’s heart throbbed yet quicker; but it was with hopes of liberation; yet she feared to cry out, for the eye of the hag was fixed on her with a malignant glance; and while she held up one finger to impose silence, her other hand clasped the handle of a sharp-pointed knife, with a significant gesture.
“What is that you say about my son?” she asked, with a startling energy, which made Clara’s blood thrill with dread.
“We speak not of your son, old woman,” said the voice. “Open the door quietly, or we shall be obliged to force it, in the name of the King.”
“You had better not attempt it,” she croaked forth. “My son is not one who likes to have his house visited in his absence, so go your ways till he returns.”
“Delay no longer, but force the door!” said another voice, which caused a tumultuous joy in Clara’s bosom, for she knew it to be that of Luis.
“First tell me where my son is?” cried the beldame.
“Your son Rodrigo is in prison, where you will join him, if you do not directly obey our orders,” said the former voice.
“Ah! is it so?” she shrieked. “It shall not be without cause, and I will be revenged on you first.” Clara uttered a cry of terror—loud blows resounded against the door,—and the vile hag, with her glittering knife upraised, rushed towards her, her eyes glaring with savage fury; and, with a yell of derisive laughter, she aimed her weapon at the bosom of the fair girl; but her foot slipped, and she fell to the ground. In a moment she rose again, and pursued her victim, who endeavoured to escape her rage.
“Luis, Luis, save me!” cried Clara, in an agony of fear.
The blows against the door were redoubled. The hag, with frantic gestures, followed her. Her last moment seemed come, when the door was burst open; and, while several men seized the wretched woman—yet not before she had plunged the knife into her own heart—Clara, with a cry of joy, fell fainting into her lover’s arms.
“Where is my son? you said he was taken,” muttered the old woman, as she forced away the hand of Antonio, who was endeavouring to stanch the blood flowing from her wound.
“By this time he is dangling from one of the new gibbets at the gates of the city,” answered one of the men.
“Then I will disappoint those of what they would much like to know,” she muttered.
She then suddenly endeavoured to tear herself from the grasp of those who held her, uttering shriek upon shriek, mixed with dreadful curses on all around.
“Ay, ay, I see my son in the flames of purgatory, and the devils are dragging me down to him. I will not go yet—I will live to curse those who have slain him. May their end be like his, and may they dwell for ever in the torments of hell!”
She ceased not uttering exclamations like these till her evil spirit fled its vile tenement.
Luis bore Clara from the dreadful scene, accompanied by Captain Pinto, and followed by the rest of the party, till they reached an open space, where a carriage was in waiting; and, as he placed her in it, and took his seat by her side, he caught a glimpse of a tall man, whose features were concealed in a cloak, watching them at some distance. Having received the warm congratulations of his friend, who was obliged to return to his duty, while Pedro and some of the men prepared to accompany him as guards, Luis offered a purse of money to Antonio, as a recompense for his exertions.
“No, senhor,” he answered, declining it; “I have but performed the commands of the Minister, and I seek my reward from him alone;” and, bowing profoundly, he took his leave.
We must not attempt to transcribe the conversation of Clara and Luis, as they slowly proceeded by a long and circuitous road towards the residence of the old Marchioness. She first asked eagerly for her father, when Luis assured her that though too unwell to engage personally in the search for her, he was in no danger, and that her presence would soon recover him. Why, we know not, but she did not even mention her brother’s name. Luis then told her of his wretchedness, and almost madness, at her loss, and she confessed to have suffered as much, which afforded, doubtless, great consolation to him. Next he told her of all the fruitless endeavours he had made to recover her, which had worn him nearly to a skeleton; and, in answer, she told him of the visits she had received from the masked stranger, and of her suspicions as to who he was; when they both agreed, that, if she was right, the Count had acted so cautious a part, that though he as richly deserved hanging as his assistant Rodrigo, it would be utterly impossible to punish him by any legal means, though Luis vowed internally to take the first opportunity of chastising him. Yet they only slightly touched on these subjects; for there was a far more engrossing one which occupied the greater part of the time, as on it they had very much to say. What it was we leave our readers to guess, it being remembered that they had not met with an opportunity to converse since the evening when they first made their mutual acknowledgments of love; and they agreed that what they then felt was cold and tame, compared to their present feelings, after all the dangers and sufferings they had undergone.
We, however, prefer leaving what are usually called love scenes to be described by our fair sister authoresses; because they can paint the characters of their own sex with far more delicate touches, and, besides, know much more about the subject than we old men possibly can, whose days of tender endearment have so long passed by. We shall, therefore, carry them safely to the gates of the palace, when Luis, lifting Clara from the carriage, supported her to the garden, where, under various tents and sheds, the family were still residing.
The first person they encountered was old Gertrudes, who, the moment she observed them, gazed at them as if they were a couple of spirits from the dead, and then rushing towards them, seized Clara in her arms, with cries and tears of joy, almost smothering her with kisses; and then seizing on Luis, joined him in the embrace, bestowing alternate kisses on him; and if, in returning them, which he was bound to do, he did make some slight mistake in the person, we think he is justly to be excused, considering he had never before ventured on such a liberty. He then resigned Clara into her nurse’s care, and was about to withdraw, when, clasping his hand, she raised it to her lips.
“Oh! do not leave me,” she exclaimed. “I dread the thoughts of again parting from you: I know not what may occur: I fear some danger may happen to you, or I may again be committed to a convent. Come to my father, and he will thank you for having again saved his child!”
“You had better first go alone and see the senhor your father,” interrupted the nurse. “There is a vile story told of Don Luis, which I know is not true, but which makes your father dislike to see him.”
“Senhora Gertudes speaks rightly,” said Luis. “Go, beloved one, alone to meet your father, and I doubt not he will soon learn to think more justly of me. I will not quit the palace.”
Persuaded by this assurance, Clara accompanied the nurse to the shed in which the fidalgo was lying. Gertrudes first prudently entered, to advise the father of his daughter’s safety and return, but soon again came out and beckoned her to approach.
No sooner did he behold her, than raising himself from his couch as she stooped to meet him, he pressed her in his arms, sobbing like a child the while. “Thank Heaven that you are restored to me, my Clara!” he exclaimed; “for I could not bear the double loss I thought I was doomed to suffer,—two children within two days!—it was a heavy blow; but now you are recovered, I must, if so I can, be reconciled to your brother’s death.”
“My brother dead?” responded Clara, in a tone of sadness. “Alas! I heard, but did not believe, the tale.”
“It is but too true, I fear,” said the Fidalgo. “He was slain by one you must in future learn to hate,—Don Luis d’Almeida!”
“Oh, do not, do not believe that one so brave, so noble, could be guilty of such a deed! Twice, at the hazard of his life, since we first met, has he saved me from destruction. At that dreadful time, when all others were flying for their lives, forgetful of parents, children, and all the nearest ties of kindred, he rushed among the falling ruins, braving a horrid death to rescue me! In every way has he proved his love,—and he surely could not have slain my brother. Oh, do not, my father, believe that lying tale which says so; for I, whatever befalls, can never cease to love him.”
“At the moment you are restored to my heart, I cannot speak a harsh word, my child,” said the Fidalgo; “but remember that you are vowed to the service of Heaven; and were you not, you could not wed one whose hands are stained with a brother’s blood, although guiltless of the intention of shedding it. That Don Luis has risked his life to save one dear child from destruction, disarms me of my revenge; but from henceforth you must be as strangers to each other.”
Poor Clara scarce heard the concluding sentence; the bright hopes which were budding forth with the first gleam of sunshine were suddenly blighted by this confirmation of the masked stranger’s report of her brother’s death; and instead of feeling joy at her return home, naught but clouds and gloom threatened her future days. She had no arguments to advance against her father’s decree; for she felt that what he said was just. Placing her head on his pillow, she burst into an agony of tears.
The fidalgo in vain endeavoured to comfort her; for he had no consolation that could avail to offer her. He assured her that her return had restored him to health and strength, and that he would not willingly contradict her wishes in anything; but that his confessor, Father Alfonzo, had told him that he must determine, if he recovered her, to keep to his original intention of dedicating her to the Church, as the most acceptable way of proving his gratitude to Heaven for the favour vouchsafed to him,—the Father promising not to cease his prayers to the saints to intercede for him, but more especially to the Holy Virgin.
To this the unhappy girl had not a word to answer: it was but, alas! too much in accordance with the creed she had been taught, and she had never even heard that a doubt had been started against its infallibility. Yet her heart rebelled against the decree; but she shuddered at her own feelings, and endeavoured to stifle them; for the lessons inculcated on her mind told her they were sinful.
After some time, in a voice trembling with grief and agitation, she inquired the manner of her brother’s death. Her father then told her, that on the morning after the sad occurrence, the one preceding the earthquake, he had become alarmed at Gonçalo’s not returning; when the Conde San Vincente called to say, with much friendly concern, that he had been with him on the previous evening, when suddenly they were set upon by several persons, among the foremost of whom he recognised Don Luis d’Almeida, who seemed bent upon engaging with Gonçalo, and that, after exchanging several passes, he saw his friend fall severely wounded; but from having great difficulty in defending his own life, he could not go to his assistance. While thus engaged, several persons who had taken no part in the fray had rushed up, and lifting Gonçalo from the ground, had borne him off he could not tell where, and that, as soon as this was done, Don Luis and his party had drawn off. The Count then said, that he had made every exertion to discover whither Gonçalo had been conveyed; and that he had at length learned from a man who had been engaged in the affair, and whom he could produce, that he had been carried off by order of Don Luis, and that he hoped, in a few days, to discover where.
The fidalgo then said, that the Count had called that very morning on him, having only just learnt where he was to be found; and that his worst fears had been realised. He said that Gonçalo had been conveyed to a house near where the fray took place, and had died of his wound the very morning that the awful catastrophe had occurred; that the house falling, had involved all its inmates in destruction, so that it was utterly impossible to discover any further particulars of the case. The fidalgo finished by lamenting that his own prostration of strength had prevented him from making inquiries, and searching for his children as he earnestly had sought to do.
Clara listened to the account the Conde had given with incredulous ears, and then, in return, narrated the adventures which had befallen herself, and her suspicions that it was from his power Luis had rescued her; but to this her father would not for a moment listen, affirming that he was the soul of honour, and incapable of such an act; nor could anything advanced by Clara convince him to the contrary. We have before remarked, that when once an impression had been made on his mental faculties, it was difficult to remove it. No longer able to bear the conversation, even of his daughter, he sank back exhausted on his couch.
Luis had long been anxiously waiting at the entrance of the garden for the return of Clara, when he saw her approaching with slow and timid steps. He hastened to meet her.
“Oh, Luis, I am very wretched,” she said; and she detailed the history she had heard from her father, as the Count had given it, at which the indignation of Luis was excessive; though, as may be supposed, he had no great difficulty in persuading her of its falsehood. Yet her tears flowed fast; for he acknowledged what she hoped to hear him deny, that, though he had striven to avoid it, her brother had been wounded by his hand. “Yet far rather would I myself have been the victim, than have spilt a drop of the blood of one dear to you,” he continued. “And believe me, did I deem myself your brother’s murderer, I would not have dared to touch you with my polluted hands.”
“Oh no, no, I feel that you are not,” she answered. “But, Luis, there is a sad foreboding at my heart, which tells me that we must part, and for ever. My father did not forbid me to see you to-day; though, alas! I know full well he will do so to-morrow, and then I dare not disobey his commands. Yet think not, Luis, that I shall forget you; that no power can compel me to do; and the remembrance that I was loved by you, will be a soothing balm to my heart for the few remaining years I have to endure my cruel lot. But you must learn to forget me, or to think of me as one already in her grave. You will enter the world, where there is much to drown your thoughts of the past, and where you will meet with one in whose love you may be happy.” As she came to the last sentence her voice trembled, and her tears flowed fast.
Luis clasped her in his arms, and she did not attempt to resist. He swore that he could never forget her; and that he could never love or wed another. He entreated her not to despair, or consent to return to a convent, and he promised that he would compel the Count to contradict the vile accusation he had brought against him; and that perhaps then her father might relent. That he could at once prove part of the Count’s story false, through his friend, Captain Pinto, who was with him at the time, and engaged in the rencontre. He said, indeed, everything that could possibly be said on the occasion, though he failed of imparting any of his own sanguine hopes to Clara; yet at times she gazed up into his face and smiled, but it was a smile more of sadness than of joy, and her tears again flowed unrestrained. How long the interview would have lasted it is impossible to say, had not Senhora Gertrudes, who had been in attendance at a respectful distance, hastened up to warn her that they must part; and at length Luis, imprinting another kiss on her brow, yielded her half fainting to her nurse’s arms, and hurried from the palace.
At the gate he found Captain Pinto waiting for him, who insisted on his accompanying him to his lodgings, and on the following day returned with him to the palace, where he went with the hopes of seeing Clara, or, at all events, having an interview with her father. He had been again unsuccessful in his search for the packet he had received in the hermit’s cave, and now all hopes of ever discovering it had vanished with the destruction of his father’s house; so he tried to console himself with the hope that it was unimportant; though the contrary would again and again recur to him. As he appeared, a servant handed him a letter, requesting him to read it at once. It was from the fidalgo, expressing his deep obligation to him for rescuing his daughter from destruction, and for having afterwards recovered her from the ruffian who had carried her off; but that these acts could not cancel the feelings he entertained towards the destroyer of his son, even convinced, as he now was, from what his daughter had told him, that he was innocent of any intention to commit the deed. He finished by requesting Captain Pinto would do him the favour of calling, adding, in a postscript, that he had desired his daughter not to see him again, and begging him not to attempt to seek her.
The Captain having but little time to spare, immediately requested to be conducted to the fidalgo, while Luis waited outside. He soon returned, shaking his head.
“The fidalgo is inexorable,” he said. “I have convinced him that you neither intended to kill his son, nor had anything to do with concealing him; hinting, that it was our suspicion the Count had done so himself. He seemed struck by the observation; and will make all possible inquiries on the subject; but he insists on your not again seeing his daughter, and he says that when he is perfectly convinced of his son’s death he shall return to Oporto, where she is again to enter a convent. It is extraordinary how slow some men are in forming an opinion, and how difficult it is to knock it out of their heads, when once there: now he has taken it into his that the Count is an honourable man, and has much at heart the interests of his family; nor can all Donna Clara and I have said to him persuade him that it was probably he who caused Gonçalo to be concealed after he was wounded, for the sake of making her hate you; and that also it was on his account she was carried away after you had saved her from the ruins. I trust, however, that I have made some impression, though he does not acknowledge it. But come, it is useless remaining here, and I must attend to these disagreeable duties imposed on me.”
Luis accompanied his friend, in a state of sad despondency; his hopes again blasted, even on the very threshold, as he had fancied, of happiness.
“Come, rouse thee, my friend,” said the Captain. “This is but one of the many trials you must yet undergo in your course through life, to perfect your character as a man; and fortunate are those who are so tried, that when the still greater struggles of life approach, they may not be found wanting. See, it is now my turn to raise, rather than depress your hopes. Look on what has occurred, with the calm eye of philosophy, and you will see that you are not only not in a worse state than you were before the earthquake, but have the additional consolation of feeling that you have saved the life of a very charming lady, I allow. Her father may relent; her brother may not have died from his wound, as we have only the Count’s word for it, and he may be proved to be a villain. Here is food enough to supply a lover’s hopes for a year at least. However, I not being a lover, must hurry on to take my dinner, so come in, and share it with me.”