“By that of being your affianced husband, my fair sister; and as his friend, I must guard his interests as well as yours,” said her brother. “He requests your hand for the next dance, and will then better urge his own claims.” Upon this the Count advanced, assuming the softest smile, and in the blandest voice made his request.
Clara shrunk from him, as she answered, “I can dance no more; and I beg the Conde San Vincente will not deceive himself by supposing that any claims he can urge will afford me otherwise than pain.”
“Is this, then, madam, the answer I may expect to-morrow—for which I have waited patiently a whole month?” exclaimed the Count, fiercely.
“Such is the only one I can ever be induced to give,” returned Clara, with firmness. “Though, had not the Conde San Vincente drawn the answer from me now, I should have preferred giving it through my father.”
The Count’s brow lowered, and again that ominous glance shot from his eyes. “I give you till to-morrow to alter your determination, madam,” he whispered, between his closed teeth; “for I was led to expect a very different answer; when, if I find that a rival has influenced it, as you have given me just cause to suspect, remember that his heart’s blood shall pay for his audacity. I will not lose so fair a prize without wreaking my vengeance on him who has ventured to deprive me of it.”
Clara turned pale at these words, which her brother could not hear; and though they increased her horror and hatred of the speaker, she smothered the feeling for the moment, for the sake of one who, from the contrast, was every instant becoming dearer to her. “Oh, no,” she answered, “you have no rival but the Church, which claims me, if I become not your bride; yet, as a man, a noble, and a Christian, do not urge your claim. I can never love you; but surely that is not a crime: and I will never wed where I cannot love, for that would indeed be crime. Then spare me, for my fate is in your power.”
The Count smiled darkly, as he spoke. “You know that I love you, lady, and my love is not a weak, puny passion, to be thrown aside at pleasure; nor will I yield it to any power but the Church, against which even I cannot strive; so do not persuade yourself, that I am, like a boy, to be gained over, by prayers or tears, to do what I should most assuredly repent of. For the present, I yield to your wishes, and leave you; but to-morrow I shall return, and claim the fulfilment of your father’s promise.” The Count, on this, bowed profoundly, and joined her brother, who was standing at some little distance, and to whom he expressed his conviction that he possessed a rival in his sister’s affections in the person of Don Luis d’Almeida, when they together left the palace.
Poor Clara watched their departure with anxiety. What fears does love conjure up in a woman’s breast! She knew her brother’s fiery temper, and dreaded the Count’s vindictive disposition. They might encounter Don Luis; they would quarrel, and he would fall a victim to their anger. She longed to be able to seek Don Luis, and to warn him of his danger; or to have some trusty messenger whom she could send to assist him; but she felt that she was helpless, and so completely did her agitation overcome her, that she was obliged to fly to her own chamber, to give way to her feelings in tears. The old marchioness was excessively angry when she found that the Count had quitted the party, and she could nowhere see Donna Clara. The fidalgo, who had been deeply engaged in a game of cards, knew nothing of his daughter; and when, at last, it was discovered that she had retired to her chamber, which no persuasions could induce her to leave, the old lady grew more sour than ever, and vowed she would never again be guilty of the folly and wickedness of giving a party to please any human beings, as other old ladies have often since done, when their soirées have not gone off as well as they expected. Balls in those days, in Portugal, were very solemn affairs, the stately and sedate cotillon being the only dance allowed, people endeavouring, by outward gravity and decorum, to make amends for universal license and depravity of morals; hoops, bag-wigs, and swords, not increasing any inclination for saltatory amusements. How far better is the graceful and animating waltz, the inspiriting galop, and the conversational quadrille, of the present day, with the really correct behaviour so general in society.
Now, we dare say, some of our readers will accuse us of having again fallen into the errors of romance writers, in describing Donna Clara’s hasty acknowledgment of her love for Don Luis; and, in our defence, we affirm, in the first place, that such was the fact—which ought to be sufficient. And that none may deem her unmaidenly, it must be remembered that she had naturally thought of him every day since they first met, that she had contrasted him with the Count, for whom she had from the first felt a dislike, and that Don Luis proved he had thought of her and her wishes, by recovering her mother’s jewels; besides, he was a very handsome, noble person, and her equal in birth; but, above all, he told her he loved her, and she believed him. Why should she not? More than a month had passed since they first met; and though they had not since personally encountered each other, they had, every day and hour, in spirit; for their love was of that pure essence which neither time nor space can divide, which, born in heaven, outlives decay, and against which neither the powers of the earth, nor the spirits of darkness, can prevail; that heavenly spark which, in an instant kindled, burns brightly for eternity! Love at first sight! We pity the heart-withered worldlings who deem this impossible; who, because the furnace of society has seared and hardened their feelings, laugh and sneer at all the refined and tender sentiments which gentle nature implanted in the bosom of man; though such they truly cannot experience, yet the young and innocent may, and we know, are often thus blessed. We say blessed, for a few moments of such pure ecstasy are of incomparably far greater value than a whole life of apathetic indifference. Those who require confirmation of the truth of our history, we must remind, that Lisbon is considerably to the south of the latitude of Verona, for we firmly believe that a certain William Shakespeare never drew a character not true to life. Now, he tells how, in Verona, the young and ardent Romeo and Juliet loved, and loved so truly, that they died for love; and yet their love in one instant sprung to life, and flourished bright and lovely to the end. Before concluding, we may quote some words spoken by Juliet on their second meeting, and then we think Clara will not be accused of precipitancy:—
Juliet.