Kitabı oku: «The Prime Minister», sayfa 31
“Cease, cease, whoever thou art, mysterious man,” exclaimed the King, interrupting him, and trembling with agitation. “We tarried not to hear words like these. We fancied that thou earnest to inform us of some plot against our throne and life. Speak, who art thou? that we may know how much credence to give to thy words.”
“I am one whom thou hast persecuted – I am the Father Malagrida!”
“Ah! why, then, this strange garb? and how darest thou to approach our royal person?” cried the King.
“I dare do all that is commanded me; and for this peasant garb, it enabled me, unperceived, to enter this domain, where, living on the berries of the trees, and roots from the earth, have I long waited to meet thee thus. Wilt thou then promise to amend and turn from thy wickedness?”
“Silence! daring Priest!” cried the King. “Begone to the town appointed for thy residence, or I will command my attendants to seize thee, and commit thee to the lowest dungeon in our prisons.”
“I fear thee not, and dare thy vengeance! Thou hast set the seal upon thine own fate. From henceforth no warning voice shall meet thine ear; and rapidly shalt thou run thy course unto destruction. I would have saved thee, but thou wouldest not be saved. Wretched Monarch, we meet no more!”
Joseph, who wanted not personal courage, (indeed cowardice has never been a failing of his race,) and was above the vulgar superstitions of his country, enraged more than terrified by these daring threats, made an attempt to seize the mad Jesuit; but Malagrida, perceiving his intention, eluded his grasp, and uttering a loud laugh of derision, plunged among the rocks and brushwood, whither it was impossible for the King to follow on horseback.
In vain the Monarch attempted to cut off his retreat. After searching for him for a considerable time, he was obliged to desist; and then set off at full speed, in the hopes of quickly finding the Minister and his nobles, and despatching people to apprehend the daring Jesuit.
The Duke and his attendant watched eagerly for his approach; every instant they expected to triumph in his destruction; at last they beheld him galloping towards them through the wood, when the loud shouts of men, the sound of horses, and the barking of the hounds, broke on their ears, nearer approaching the spot where they were concealed. Onward came the King, when, as he was within a few yards of them, a wolf, closely pursued by the most active dogs, dashed by, his eyes straining, and his mouth covered with foam from rage and terror. The King, forgetful of the scene in which he had just engaged, and of everything except the excitement of the sport, turned his horse’s head, and gave chase after the wolf. The savage animal, already almost spent with fatigue, was quickly overtaken, and ere he could stand at bay, the spear of the King had pinned him to the ground, when the dogs setting on him, had almost torn him to pieces, before a party of the noble hunters, with Carvalho at their head, could come up. What was their surprise on finding their sovereign in at the death, when it was supposed that he had followed another quarry in a different direction. All, of course, were loud in praise of his skill and address; none more so than the Duke of Aveiro, who soon rode up as if he had never harboured a thought of treachery.
At last Joseph recollected Malagrida, and calling the Minister to him, he recounted all that he had said. Carvalho, inwardly cursing his master’s supineness, in not having at once informed him of the circumstance, advised him to summon all the party to aid in apprehending him. Leaving, therefore, all thoughts of further sport for wild beasts, they eagerly joined in what was, after all, far more exciting, and suited to their natures – the hunting down a fellow-creature, though none were told who was the person. They searched everywhere; not a bush in the neighbourhood was left unbeaten; but Malagrida had escaped, and, at last, in despair, they were obliged to desist, when fatigue warned the King that it was time to return home, and Carvalho immediately set off on his return to the city.
Volume Three – Chapter Four
We have just discovered that we have written five chapters of our history without once mentioning the name of one who played so conspicuous a part in the commencement: we mean our most particular friend, Don Luis d’Almeida; and, lest any of our readers should begin to suspect that we have laid him on the shelf altogether, and should, in consequence, throw down our book as of no further interest, we will again return to the narration of his fortunes.
He was seated by the bedside of his father, the old Count d’Almeida, in the country-house we have before described, near Coimbra. His eyes were directed towards the invalid, with a glance of filial affection and deep sorrow; for on his countenance too clearly had the stern hand of death set his seal to claim his victim. A great change had come over Luis; disappointment, grief, and illness, had done their cruel work on him; he was no longer the sanguine and gay youth who laughed at misfortunes as things which might strike, but could not injure him; he was now the grave and thoughtful man: he had learned the great lesson – that sorrows must visit all but the few, and those few not to be the most envied, perhaps; but he had also learned to face disappointment with fortitude and resignation. The many months which he had spent in retirement, by the side of his dying parent, he had devoted, when not in actual attendance on him, to severe study. He had discarded all frivolous or light reading, drawing his ideas alone from the pure springs of knowledge and of truth, among the authors of antiquity; and truly did he find his mind strengthened by the invigorating draughts he had imbibed. For several weeks his father had not risen from his sick couch, and both were aware that they must soon part, though the son imagined not how soon.
The old Count had been sorely afflicted at the thoughts of leaving the son in whom all his affections centred, his pride and boast, so ill-provided with a worldly inheritance. He left him his honoured name, and his title; but beyond that, except the small Quinta on which he resided, all the residue of his fortune had been lost by the earthquake. The merchant who managed his affairs, and held possession of all his monied property, had failed, owing to that dreadful event, when several houses, from which he drew a considerable portion of his revenue, were also entirely destroyed; so that Luis would, with the greatest economy, be but barely able to support the character even of a private gentleman. For this he cared but little. Of what use now to him was wealth and rank, since she for whom alone he valued either was lost to him for ever? His ambition lay buried in that living tomb which now enclosed his Clara – now doubly lost; for, had he not been supposed to be the destroyer of her brother, and should he ever find means to clear himself from that imputation, yet would her father never consent to give her to one destitute of fortune. He had long banished from his mind all thoughts of happiness through the tender sympathies of our nature. A wife’s sweet smile, issuing from her heart of hearts, he should never know; the name of father, uttered by the lips of his first-born, he should never hear: cold and solitary must be his course – yet both loving and beloved – but apart from his soul’s idol – he knew her love would endure, and that consciousness would prevent his from ever changing. Since his return from Lisbon, he had once only quitted his father’s house: it was to pay a short visit to Oporto, in the faint hopes of gaining an interview with Donna Clara. He saw her, as we shall hereafter describe; but, alas! little was gained to either, except a confirmation of their mutual constancy.
The old Count had been sleeping. As his eyes languidly opened, they met the earnest gaze of his son. “Luis,” he said, in a feeble voice, “I must deceive you no longer. I know that I have not many hours to live. Before the sun again rises, I shall be taken from you; but yet, my boy, I die contented; for, though small is the share you will possess of this world’s wealth, I leave you rich in all the endowments which conduce to true happiness. I dreamed, too, just now, that all your wishes were fulfilled – that she on whom you have set your heart was restored to you, and that wealth from an unexpected source flowed in upon you. Such, I know, are vain thoughts for one whose heart ought to be set alone upon the world towards which I am hastening; but Heaven will pardon a father for thinking of his only child.”
“My dear father, speak not thus of quitting me!” exclaimed Luis, his voice choking with grief, and with willing blindness deceiving himself; “Heaven will yet spare you to me.”
“Do not flatter yourself with false hopes, Luis, which will unfit you for the moment which must so soon come,” answered the Count. “Yet, before I go, I would speak to you on a subject which has long oppressed me. Do not judge harshly of any man till you know the motives of his actions, nor bear hostile feelings towards him because he differs from you in his opinions, unless they advocate immorality or irreligion. Alas! I wish that I had always acted as I now counsel you to do. I had a brother, some few years younger than myself, a gay and gallant youth, with impetuous feelings and headstrong passions, but possessed of a noble and generous soul, which despised danger, and could but ill bear restraint. At an early age he became imbued with the heretical doctrines of religion, then first introduced in this country. He was also strongly opposed to the system of government which has for so many years existed, and took no pains to conceal either one or the other. The expression of his religious opinions might have passed unnoticed, as he never attempted to make converts to them; but when he ventured to lift his voice against what he called the vices of the priests, the bigotry of the people, the sycophancy of the nobles, and the tyranny of the sovereign, all joined in condemning him; even I, as his brother, deemed that his presumption ought to be punished. He was persecuted on every side; his life, even, was demanded as the only recompense for his crime, and the Inquisition endeavoured to lay hold of him. He came to me for aid to escape, but I looked upon him as an infidel and a traitor, and refused my assistance, telling him as my reason, that I could not answer to my conscience for my doing so. I remember his last words: ‘Brother,’ he said, ‘I shall not cease to love you; for you act as you think right – I speak according to my judgment; though I should have been wiser to have held silence. I will not now ask you to do what you consider wrong. Farewell!’ Without uttering another word, he left me, and I saw him no more. My heart smote me for my cruelty and want of brotherly affection; but my confessor, the Father Jacinto, who had urged me so to act, assured me I had done rightly; for that it would have been participating in the sin to have aided so impious an heretic: yet I could not forget his last words, nor have I ever forgiven myself. My brother could not effect his escape: he was seized, imprisoned, tried, and condemned to expiate his crimes on the burning shores of Africa, where death would soon have finished his career, but he never reached his destination. The ship which bore him was never more heard of, and was supposed to have foundered in a violent storm, which was known to have raged in the latitudes where she was. I have never received further tidings of my unfortunate brother. Alas! my conduct towards him is the bitterest draught of death; but we shall yet meet in another world, where he will forgive me my trespass towards him.”
Exhausted by the exertion he had made to speak, the Count fell back into his son’s arms.
Luis now gazed with alarm at his father’s countenance, which had assumed the ghastly hue of death; but, in a few minutes, the Count again revived, and gave his hand a gentle pressure, to assure him of his consciousness, yet some time elapsed ere he again spoke. We need not detail more of the conversation between the father and son, nor are we fond of describing death-bed scenes, where no object is to be gained by the contemplation. We delight not to harrow up the feelings of our readers by descriptions of those mournful and inevitable occurrences with which we must all be more or less familiar, and which cannot fail of bringing back melancholy recollections to our minds, while we have a long catalogue before us of strange and terrible events, their very strangeness interesting, though persuading us that we can never be doomed to witness the like.
The conversation of the Count and his son was interrupted by the arrival of the priest to administer extreme unction to the dying man, the voice of the choristers, chanting the hymn of the dying, being heard without. How mournfully did the notes strike upon the ear of Luis! Often had he heard them before, but then they were sung to the departing soul of some person indifferent to him – now, to the being he revered most on earth.
The Count having confessed his sins, and the last sacrament being administered to him, the priest, in his gilded canonicals, took his departure, bearing in his hands the sacred emblems; his head being protected from the sun’s rays by a silken awning, supported on poles by four attendants, when the sick man was left to die in peace.
Ere another sun arose, the old Count’s forebodings were fulfilled – he had ceased to breathe, and Luis found himself alone in the world. On the following day, the body of the Count, dressed in full costume, and decorated with the orders he possessed, was laid out in an open coffin, placed on high trestles in the centre of the chapel belonging to the house. Here all the surrounding population attended, with marks of real sorrow, to take a last farewell of one who had ever been an indulgent landlord to his tenants and a friend to all.
In the evening it was carried to the neighbouring church, where was the tomb of his family. The interior of the church was hung with black, and a canopy of black cloth and silver was erected over the spot where the body was deposited during the performance of the service, the tenants, and those friends who had been enabled to arrive in time, lining each side of the building, with thick wax tapers in their hands, upwards of seven feet in length. The service being over, the lid of the coffin was closed, and the key delivered to the care of the person of highest rank present, whose duty it was to present it to the heir of the deceased, the young Count d’Almeida.
The day after the funeral, as Luis was seated in solitude, his mind dwelling with sad satisfaction on the affection and the many virtues of the parent he had lost, Pedro entered the room, and placed a letter in his hands. He examined the seal, which appeared to have been broken and again closed without much care; but he thought not more of the circumstance after he had torn open the envelope. It was from his young friend, Don Jozé de Tavora. His colour went and came, and his eye flashed, as he read on. The words were to this effect: —
“Much esteemed and dear Friend, – Knowing you to be a man of that high honour and integrity, surpassed by none, to you I write freely and openly. I have been very wretched lately, not on my own account, but on that of my brother; he has been insulted, grossly insulted, by one from whom he can gain no satisfaction, who would be above all laws, human and divine, and who would, to gratify his own evil inclinations, trample on our dearest rights and privileges – he hopes with impunity. In that he is mistaken. He forgets that his nobles, at least those who are worthy of the name, cherish their honour before their lives, and that they wear swords to protect both one and the other. His name I will not mention – you know it. You have not forgot, I know, your promise to defend, to the last drop of your blood, the fame of your cousin Theresa, my lovely sister-in-law. The time has now arrived to do so. She has been daily persecuted by the attentions of that high personage during my brother’s absence. I believe her innocent of all crime; for surely one so lovely cannot be guilty; but my brother, mad with jealousy, is not so persuaded, and has sworn to be avenged on the disturber of his happiness. No plan is yet arranged, but whatever is done will require the aid of all the high-born and pure nobles of the land to carry into effect. To you, therefore, Luis, I write, to summon you, without delay, both to counsel and to act. More I may not say, but I rely upon your not failing to fulfil your promise. Adeos, dear friend, and fortunate am I to be able so to call you.” – The letter was signed, “Jozé Maria de Tavora.”
“Theresa in danger!” he exclaimed, “the greatest danger which can befall a woman; – she I once loved so fondly! I must fly to rescue her. But how? Alas, we cannot tear her from the hands of our sovereign without being accused of treason! Even that risk would I brave to secure her innocence. No, Theresa would not, cannot be guilty!”
With a troubled mind, forgetting entirely his own cause for grief, Luis arose, and summoning Pedro, ordered him to prepare for a quick departure for Lisbon. He then set to work to perform the many duties his father’s demise had rendered necessary before he could leave his home. Pedro was in high glee at the thoughts of another visit to Lisbon. He had grown heartily weary of the monotonous quiet of his master’s home, after the bustle and activity to which he had become accustomed during his travels; and he had managed to quarrel with his country love, so that he had become very anxious to renew his acquaintance with the fair one he admired in the city, should she still remain faithful to him.
Two days necessarily passed before the young Count, for so we may in future call Luis, was prepared to quit his home. The journey was a sad and silent one; for he was far too deeply occupied to listen to the idle prating of Senhor Pedro, who considered it part of his duty to endeavour to amuse his master. Luis, though fully alive to the danger he ran by engaging in any conspiracy against the sovereign, his principles, indeed, determining him not to do so, unless driven to it by the most direful necessity, yet forgot, for the time, all the warnings he had received from his friends Captain Pinto and Senhor Mendez, also from the Minister himself, not to allow any intimacy to spring up between himself and the family of the Tavoras. This advice he had disregarded when he gained the friendship of young Jozé de Tavora, but he could not resist the amiability, candour, and high feelings of the youth, though with no other member of that once proud race had he become intimate. What further befell him we will reserve for a future chapter.
Volume Three – Chapter Five
When the Father Jacinto da Costa quitted the Quinta of the Marchioness of Tavora, he paid several visits, in different parts of the city, to forward the various plots in which he was engaged, and towards the close of the evening he approached the ruins of the church and convent of San Caetano, where, as we have described, Malagrida had, some time previously, been seized, while preaching against the authority of the King and his Minister. No attempts had yet been made to restore the buildings, so that the spot presented a wild scene of havoc and destruction, increased by the thickening gloom which pervaded the city: here a few blackened and tottering walls, there vast masses of masonry piled one on the other, among which dank plants and shrubs had begun to spring up, already eager to claim the ground so long the abode of man.
The Priest walked round to the back of the ruins, where a wall, in some places thrown down, served to enclose the garden of the convent. He here easily climbed over the fragments, and found himself on comparatively unencumbered ground. He wound his way among the moss-grown paths, impeded by the luxuriant vegetation of the geraniums and rose trees, which, long unpruned, sent their straggling branches in every direction, filling the cool night air with the sweet scents of their flowers. The once trimly-cut box trees had lost all signs of their former shapes; the fountains had ceased to play; the tanks were dry, once stocked with the luscious lamprey, and other rich fish, to feed the holy friars on their days of fasting and penance; indeed, desolation reigned throughout the domain.
The Priest heeded not these things, his eye was familiarised with them; nor did he cast a pitying thought upon the worthy friars who had been driven forth to seek another home; – they were his foes – his rivals on the field he sought to claim as his own. His mind, too, was occupied by matters of vast import to the safety of his order; yet he doubted not that he should ultimately come off victorious.
With some little difficulty he reached the centre of the garden, and, looking carefully around, he seated himself on one of the stone benches by the side of a large circular tank, now empty. He waited for some time till he heard a step approaching, when, starting up, he beheld the figure of a man closely shrouded in a cloak, emerging from among the thick-growing shrubs. He advanced towards him with an eager step, which betrayed his deep anxiety, so unlike his usually cold and calm demeanour.
The stranger threw back his cloak as he approached the Jesuit, so as to exhibit by the uncertain light the features apparently of a young and handsome man. “Father, I have come at your command,” he said, “though with great risk of discovery, if I hasten not back to my post.”
“It is well, Alfonzo. What news do you bring me?” demanded the Jesuit.
“I have naught but the worst to reveal,” answered the young man.
“Speak it without fear: no one can here listen to your words,” exclaimed the Father. “Stay, we will examine well the neighbouring bushes, to see that no lurking spy is there concealed.”
The Jesuit and his young companion, having concluded their search, seated themselves on the stone from which the first had risen. “Now, speak,” said the Father.
“I have long watched for an opportunity to ascertain what you desired,” began the stranger. “Yesterday, while the Minister was absent, I opened his bureau with the key you gave me. With trembling hands I searched each paper, and from all of importance I have made notes. At last I came to one roughly drawn out in Carvalho’s writing: it was a plan to be submitted to the King for abolishing your whole order throughout the kingdom. He proposes to implicate you in some act of rebellion, or some illegal practice; then to surround your colleges, and to embark all who are professed, on board vessels for the coast of Italy, banishing you for ever from Portugal. He advises the King to allow no delay in executing his plan; for that every day you are increasing in power and malevolence, and that you will in time sap the very foundation of his throne.”
“Ah! thinks he so? – he shall find that he is not mistaken!” exclaimed the Jesuit, with greater vehemence than he had ever before given way to. “No time must then be lost in putting our plot into execution, and we will try the success of both. Alfonzo, you have acted well, and will meet with the approbation of our general. You will, when you profess, rise rapidly to the highest rank in our order, and will become one of its brightest ornaments.”
“I merit no praise,” returned the young neophyte, for such the Father declared him to be. “I have but done my duty.”
“You might yet win far greater praise,” said the Father, scarce noticing his answer. “It would be a noble thing to destroy the great enemy of our order. It would at once free us from all further fear of danger.”
The young aspirant started. “I understand not your words, Father,” he said.
“I speak of Carvalho’s death,” answered the Jesuit, calmly. “It is said that the dagger of the assassin cannot reach him, – that often has his life been attempted, but each attempt has failed. What steel cannot accomplish, the poisoned chalice may.”
“What mean you, Father?” gasped forth Alfonzo.
“It is simple to understand, my son: now listen calmly,” returned the Jesuit, in a voice calculated to soothe his listener’s fears. “It is a law, founded on nature and on justice, that we have a right to defend our lives and properties, at every cost, against those who would deprive us of either. No one would scruple to strike the assassin dead who would take our life, or the robber who would steal our purse: then can it be a sin to destroy the man who would blast our name, who would deprive us of our lawful power, and drive us forth to beggary and to death? Can Heaven blame us that we seek to deprive him of life who would thus treat us? No, my son; be assured that the death of that man of crime would be an acceptable sacrifice to the Ruler of the Universe.”
The pupil answered not.
“Listen, Alfonzo,” continued the Master. “You have determined to become the follower of the great Loyola: you seek by that means to gain power and influence among the men you have learned to despise. The way is open to you to follow if you will; but while Carvalho lives, our order in Portugal can never flourish. In him we have the most inveterate and deceitful foe we have ever known. He must die, or we shall meet a certain destruction. Hear me, Alfonzo: I speak not to a weak and trembling child, but to a man who has boldly dared, and successfully performed, and who will yet do more!”
The Jesuit took from beneath his robes a small box, and extracted from it a paper closely folded, which he placed in the hands of his companion. “Take this parcel,” he continued. “It contains a powder, which, when mixed with a glass of water, will not dim its crystal purity. Its effects are deadly, but slow, and no antidote has power to act against it; nor will the most clever physician be able to detect its workings on the human frame. Watch your opportunity, and mix it with the first beverage you see prepared for him; but beware no one else tastes of it, nor do you lose sight of it till he has drunk it to the dregs. Now then will our mighty tyrant have become a thing to loathe!”
“Father!” exclaimed the young man, in a scarcely articulate voice, “I have ever obeyed your commands to the utmost; I have acted a part from which my heart revolts; I have betrayed the man who has confided in me, – but I cannot become a murderer. I could not live, and see the man who has taught me to admire and love him writhing in agony, and know that it was the effect of my foul act. In mercy take back the deadly powder.”
“Alfonzo, I expected not a like answer from you,” replied the Priest, quietly taking back the paper. “I trusted that you had been taught to rise above the common and false prejudices of the world, – that you had bravely conquered the weak feelings of human nature, and were each day advancing in qualifying yourself to become a professed member of our order; but I see, alas! that I was mistaken, and that you are still held back by weak bonds, which a bold man would long ere this have broken through.”
“Spare me, Father, spare me a task I cannot perform!” cried the young man, clasping his hands convulsively together; but the other gazed on him sternly.
“Alfonzo,” he answered, “you have another motive than dread of the deed for your refusal to obey the commands of your superior. I have watched you closely, when you little thought it. I know your inmost feelings. You love! Ah, you start, conscious of your guilt. The fair daughter of the Minister has drawn you from the path of duty. While you betrayed the father, you allowed your heart to be led captive by the daughter’s charms. She loves you in return, perchance; but, think you, even were you to desert the colours you have determined to follow, the powerful and haughty Minister would listen to the suit of one without wealth or family? Naught but the infatuation of madness can lead you on; yet, try your fortune, and hear his answer: he will scorn and drive you from him with derision, even if he consign you not rather to one of the lowest dungeons of his prisons; then, in darkness and solitude, except when the executioner is sent to torture you, will you spend your days, till death puts an end to your sufferings. Such will be your fate if you destroy him not.”
“Such, then, be my fate; I cannot murder,” answered the youth, in a deep tone.
“Have I not told you that self-defence is not murder?” returned the Jesuit. “On my head be the sin, if sin there be. Take your choice. If you still determine to follow our banner, obey my orders; if you seek to continue as a layman, and would gratify your passion by wedding the daughter of Carvalho, take this paper – ’tis not you that give its contents, ’tis I – and no crime can be laid to your charge. ’Tis the shedding of blood alone against which the Scripture speaks. While Carvalho lives the fair girl can never be yours; if he dies, you may find means to win her; but if you pertinaciously refuse to follow my counsels, no power can avert your destruction.”
“Give me the fatal powder,” exclaimed the youth, in a faltering voice. “I will not pledge myself to administer it, but I will act as circumstances demand. You, Father, shall not have cause to taunt me with my faltering purpose.”
“Spoken like one worthy to belong to our holy order,” said the Jesuit. “Take the paper, and preserve it carefully. Meet me here to-morrow, if possible, at the same hour, and bring me all further information you can collect. Falter not in your purpose, my son, and let the high destiny which awaits you be an encouragement to perseverance in the holy course you have chosen.”
The unhappy youth took the packet containing the poison, and the Jesuit, as he delivered it, felt his hand tremble.
