The Prime Minister
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“No, but he may be drowned, though, when the water flows in,” said Luis, despondingly.
“Not if he knows how to swim,” answered the Friar; “and then the water, which would destroy another, will be his preservation. Let that be your consolation.”
“Alas! I fear your observations are too correct, and I must submit to my fate,” said Luis. “Can you, however, contrive to let me see Gonçalo Christovaö?”
“There will be no great difficulty, for since the execution, in some parts of the prison, the captives are allowed to communicate with each other.”
“Of what do you speak?” inquired Luis; and the Friar recounted to him the dreadful tragedy which had taken place. “Alas!” he exclaimed, “and has that gay and bold youth been a victim?” and while he shuddered, as he recollected the risk he had run of sharing their fate, he thought how nobly young Jozé de Tavora had behaved in not betraying him; for, as he heard, torture had been administered to extract confession.
“Come now with me,” said the Friar, interrupting his thoughts. “The turnkey waits without, and will, under my responsibility, allow you to visit this old fidalgo, for his cell is close to this, I heard as I came hither.”
“Then no delay!” exclaimed Luis, starting up; “I will this instant accompany you.”
The turnkey, on the representations of the Friar, was easily persuaded to allow them to pass, and enter the fidalgo’s cell.
The old man started with terror, as he beheld them, fancying that they were officers come to lead him to trial, or to death.
“Lead on, ye myrmidons of tyranny! I am prepared!” he exclaimed, rising.
“You are mistaken, senhor,” said Luis. “I come as an old friend, a fellow-prisoner, to offer such consolation as is in my power.”
“Thanks, senhor, for your courtesy, but your name has escaped my memory,” said the Fidalgo, scanning him closely.
“Luis d’Almeida.”
“What! the murderer of my son? – the destroyer of my daughter’s peace?”
“Certainly not the murderer of your son, for he yet lives; and rather would I die a hundred deaths than cause one pang of grief to your fair daughter.”
“My son lives, say you?” exclaimed the Fidalgo. “Bring him hither, then, that I may embrace him before I am led forth to death.”
“He lies himself upon a bed of sickness; but I trust, Senhor, to be able to conduct you to him,” answered Luis.
“In mercy then, without delay, let me hasten to my long-lost boy,” exclaimed the Fidalgo. “Is he within these cruel walls – a prisoner like ourselves?” – “He is, senhor, alas! and this good Friar will arrange an interview, which will require some precaution,” answered Luis; and turning to Frè Diogo, he requested him to learn from the gaoler, when they might visit the cell of the unfortunate youth.
“Pardon me, for the want of courtesy with which I received you, Senhor Conde,” said the Fidalgo, as soon as they were left alone. “I owe you much for the news you bring me; and my poor boy, does he know I am near him? and what crime has he committed to be confined within these walls?”
Luis described, in as few words as possible, the dreadful treatment his son had suffered, and the fatal results he apprehended. We need not describe the father’s grief, or his regrets for the manner in which he had treated his guest; but his emotion was far greater, when, on Luis presenting the long-lost packet, he tore it open, and his eye hurried over the contents.
“Great God! how have I been deceived in that man!” he cried, in a tone of agony. “My child, my sweet child! and thou hast been the sacrifice! Oh, for freedom, that I might hasten to rescue her from the bondage she detests! A week hence, and her fate will have been sealed, when I, alas! shall have no power to release her. And I – oh, how cruelly have I treated her! Curses on the stern tyrant who thus detains me. He is a father, and did he know the cause, he would release me. No, the base upstart would but smile the more to see the high-born fidalgo’s agony. May Heaven’s anger blast all the works in which he prides himself! May – ah! I am raving – oh! God, support me!”
Luis stood amazed at this sudden outbreak of the usually sedate and dignified fidalgo, though scarcely himself less agitated in his eagerness to learn the contents of the letter, the purport of which the fidalgo’s words appeared to intimate. The old man saw his inquiring gaze. “See,” he continued, extending his hand with the paper. “Read that, and see how I have been deceived; and alas! my poor child has been sacrificed;” and he sunk into his chair, covering his eyes with his hands, while Luis read the letter. It was to the following effect: —
“Heaven has thought fit to summon me from this world, during your absence, my beloved husband, and already do I feel the near approach of death. Alas! I have no one to whom I can confide my dying wishes, and a secret which I would entrust but to your ears alone. I therefore write with faltering hand this paper, which I trust may be seen by our sweet Clara, and given to you. It is for her sake I am anxious; for I see perils surrounding her course through life, which will require all a mother’s care to guard against.
“Do not, as you value her happiness or your own, confide in the Father Alfonzo. He is a wretched hypocrite; yet till lately I discovered it not. For many days past has he been endeavouring to persuade me to devote our Clara to the service of the Church; but I know too well the misery and wretchedness it will entail on her, and firmly have I refused to sanction his plan. While I spoke, he smiled scornfully in return, nor do I doubt his purpose. He has long hated me, for he knew I was not deceived in him. As you love me, as you prize our child’s happiness, let her select her own lot in life; but warn her against the dangers of a convent. She will never insist on wedding one beneath her in family; but never insist on her marrying one she cannot learn to love. My eyes grow dim, my hand weak, yet do I exert myself, during the absence of Frè Alfonzo, to finish this, lest he should return before I have concealed it. Adieu! my beloved husband! ere you can reach your home, I shall have ceased to breathe; and, as you have loved me in life, forget not my dying prayer.”
The last lines were faint and almost illegible. Luis returned the paper with a look of despair, and, for a minute, the father and the lover stood gazing at each other, without uttering a word.
“What hope is there?” at last exclaimed the Fidalgo.
“Alas, none!” was the dejected reply of Luis; then, suddenly rousing himself, he exclaimed, “Yes, there is hope! I will escape from hence, and save her, or die in the attempt! Give me but your written order to the Lady Abbess, to prevent your daughter’s taking the veil, and I will bear it to her, and also a note to Donna Clara, to assure her of her mother’s real prayer, and of your consent to her following her own inclinations.”
“Alas, I fear such is but a hopeless chance,” said the Fidalgo. “We must confide the order to some one who is at freedom.”
“No one can be found who would hasten as I will; for no one has the same excitement,” answered Luis.
“Remember you are still a captive,” said the Fidalgo, mournfully.
“Alas! too true,” ejaculated Luis.
Just as he spoke the door opened, and the gaoler, whispering to them to walk carefully, beckoned them to follow him, while he led the way to the cell of the young Gonçalo. The son uttered a cry of joy, as he rose to embrace his father, and then sunk down languidly on his couch. For many minutes they remained in earnest conversation; the fidalgo seeming to forget his daughter in the joy of recovering his son, while Luis, in the mean time, explained to Frè Diogo the importance of the paper he had preserved, beseeching him to lend his assistance, either in aiding his escape, or in forwarding the fidalgo’s despatch to Oporto.
“I am happy to do all I can to mitigate the irksomeness of your imprisonment, my friend; but it is more than I can do to risk my neck in aiding your escape, or carrying any communication beyond the walls of the prison, which would, most certainly, be discovered, and punished with almost equal severity. Think better of it, Count; there is no use running so much risk for the sake of any girl under the sun. Let her take the veil, she will be happy enough; and, when you get out of this place, you can easily find another to make amends for her loss.”
“You have never been in love, to speak thus,” exclaimed Luis.
“No, thank Heaven, I never have,” answered the Friar. “I never saw any good come of such folly.”
“Then, have I no hopes of your assistance?” asked Luis.
The Friar shook his head.
Meantime the fidalgo rose from his son’s couch, over which he had been leaning, and took the Count’s hand – “Pardon me, for all the wrong I have done you!” he exclaimed; “but you see how severely I have been punished. My poor boy!” and he pointed to young Gonçalo, and his voice faltered – “and my fair daughter. Have you persuaded the good Friar to forward the letter I will write to the Lady Abbess?”
“He refuses to aid me,” answered Luis, again appealing, in vain, to the Friar.
“Then I have no hope!” exclaimed the unhappy father, sinking into a chair.
The bolts, as he spoke, were heard to be withdrawn, and a stranger entered the cell.
Volume Three – Chapter Twenty One
The day following the execution of the Duke of Aveiro and his unhappy companions, a fine merchant ship was seen to glide slowly up the broad Tagus, dropping her anchor within a short distance of a frigate, which lay off Lisbon. A person of some consequence seemed to be on board the former, for a boat quickly pushed off from the sides of the frigate, bearing her Captain; and approached the merchantman. He eagerly stepped on board, and hastened towards a venerable and dignified-looking man, who was pacing the deck, with short and hurried steps, casting anxious glances towards the city, while several attendants stood round, and various chests and packages lay about, as if ready for speedy disembarkation.
No sooner did the stranger see the Captain of the frigate, than he advanced to embrace him, with an expression of satisfaction, “Ah! my kind friend, Captain Pinto,” he exclaimed, “this is kind indeed! The last to see me off, and the first to welcome my return to Portugal, no longer a wanderer and an outcast, but at length with my toils at an end, and my property secured.”
“I rejoice to hear it,” answered our old friend, Captain Pinto, “though I have some sad news to give in return, which I will communicate as we pull on shore, if you are now prepared to accompany me.”
“Gladly! I long once more to tread my native land,” returned the stranger, as he descended with the Captain into the boat. The distance to the landing-place was not great; but, during the short time occupied in reaching it, many important matters were discussed; and, for the first time, the stranger learned of the conspiracy, and the dreadful punishment of those supposed to be the chief leaders, and the imprisonment of many hundreds of others implicated in it.
“Poor boy! it wrings my heart with grief to hear it!” exclaimed the stranger, as they neared the shore: “I cannot believe him guilty.”
“Nor I neither,” said the Captain. “I have in vain endeavoured to discover the place of his imprisonment, and would risk all to save him. It is reported that the Minister has determined to punish many more, either by banishment to the coast of Africa, or by death; but, without interest, as I am, I could do nothing till your arrival, for which I have anxiously waited. Our only chance of success is by an appeal to the Minister himself.”
“To the Minister we will appeal, then,” said the stranger; “I have some hope through him. He will scarcely refuse the first petition of an old and long-lost friend.”
“We have not a moment to lose; for Sebastiaö Jozé is a man both quick to think and to execute, and even now my young friend may be embarking for Angola,” said the Captain, as the boat touched the shore.
A smile of satisfaction passed over the stranger’s features, as he once more landed in his native country, but it quickly vanished as he thought of all the miseries that country was suffering; and, accompanied by Captain Pinto, whose well-known person enabled him to pass without the interference of the police, he hurried towards the residence of the Minister. As they arrived in sight of the house, they observed a strong body of cavalry dashing down the street at full speed, who halted in front of it, and, from among them, the commanding figure of Carvalho was seen to dismount from his horse, and enter the building.
“What means this?” asked the stranger. “Does the preserver of his country require a body-guard?”
“The corrector of abuses, we should say, or the despotic tyrant, as his enemies call him, does,” observed the Captain, cautiously. “Alas! by such means only can our countrymen be governed.”
When they arrived, they found a guard drawn up in the entrance-hall; and after Captain Pinto had sent up his name, requesting an audience, they were compelled to wait a considerable time in an ante-room, before they were admitted.
The stranger smiled, – “Times have changed since we parted,” he said.
The great Minister rose to receive them, with his usual courtesy, as they entered, desiring them to be seated, while his piercing eye glanced sternly at the stranger with an inquiring look, as he demanded of the Captain the cause of his visit.
“I came, your Excellency, to introduce one, whom, with your permission, I will now leave to plead his cause with you,” and, bowing profoundly, he withdrew.
The Minister rose, as did the stranger.
“I cannot be surprised that you should not recognise in these furrowed and care-worn features the countenance of him who was the friend of your youth,” said the latter.
“My recollection is not liable to be deceived,” said the Minister, scanning the stranger still more earnestly. “They recall the likeness of one long since dead, and truly mourned – one to whom I owed a debt of gratitude never to be repaid – the preserver of my life!”
A gleam of satisfaction passed over the stranger’s features. “I am not forgotten, then!” he exclaimed. “You see before you one long supposed dead – him, I trust, of whom you speak.”
“What!” cried the Minister, grasping the stranger’s hand. “Speak! are you the friend of my days of neglect and poverty, – does the Luis d’Almeida I loved so well still live?”
“The same, my friend,” cried the stranger, as they warmly embraced; “and great is my satisfaction to find that I am not forgotten.”
“’Tis a happiness I can seldom, if ever, enjoy, to call any one my friend,” said the proud Minister; and a shade passed across his brow, as he thought how completely he had isolated himself from his fellow-men. He had chosen his station – it was one of power and grandeur, but of danger and remorse. In each statesman of the country he saw a foe eager to hurl him from his post; and in no one who exhibited talent would he place confidence; he perceived treachery and hatred in the glance of every courtier around him, though he felt he could rule them but with a rod of iron.
The two friends talked long and earnestly together, forgetful of the flight of time.
“I have one petition to make to you,” said Senhor d’Almeida, for so we may call the stranger; “it is my first, and it shall be my last.”
“What! cannot I see my only friend without hearing that hateful word?” interrupted Carvalho, and a frown darkened his brow. “Yet let me hear it, for I would not willingly refuse you.”
“I would ask for the pardon of one in whom all my affections are centred – the young Count d’Almeida, my nephew.”
“Ah! I have been deceived in that youth! He is accused of the darkest treason,” exclaimed the Minister.
“I will answer for his innocence – he is incapable of a dishonourable deed,” answered the uncle, warmly.
“He is in prison with others equally culpable, and I have vowed to show no mercy to any,” returned the Minister. “If I waver, they deem mercy arises from weakness, and my power is at an end.”
“Then have I lived and toiled in vain,” said the stranger. “Pardon me, I ask but this grace, and I find that I have presumed too far on the love you bore me.”
“Stay, my friend!” exclaimed the Minister. “You wrong me and yourself: I will not refuse your request, but on one condition: your nephew must forthwith quit the country, and till he embarks, appear to no one. He is not proved innocent, and the guilty must not escape punishment. I will send some one who will, this night, set him at liberty, and conduct him to the house where you reside: from thenceforward he is under your charge; and remember, he must run no risk of being retaken.”
The stranger expressed his sincere thanks to his powerful friend; and at length rose to depart. Carvalho accompanied him to the ante-room, and as he saw the worthy Captain Pinto still waiting – “Senhor Pinto,” he said, “prepare to sail, to-morrow morning, for England; I have despatches to send by you.”
The Captain intimated the readiness of his ship for sea; and, accompanied by the stranger, whom the Minister again affectionately embraced, he withdrew.
Volume Three – Chapter Twenty Two
We must once more return to the cell of the younger Gonçalo Christovaö, in the Jungueira prison. The person who entered, narrowly scrutinised the features of all the occupants; the only one of whom that seemed rather uneasy under his glance being the good Frè Diogo.
“What! you here, and in this disguise, my old friend,” he said, laughing. “Are you caught at last, then?”
“I am in no disguise, but in the habit of the order to which I belong, Senhor Antonio,” said the Friar.
“It matters not – my business is not with you, but with the Senhor Conde d’Almeida, if he will favour me with his company,” said the stranger.
Luis started as he spoke, for he recognised the officer of police who had assisted him in his search for Clara; and he fully believed that he had now come to conduct him to some other prison.
“I shall be ready to follow you when I have taken farewell of my friends,” he answered.
Antonio approached him, and whispered in his ear, “Fear not, I come to set you at liberty.”
Delightful words to a prisoner! A thrill of joy shot through the Count’s heart – he might yet be able to rescue Clara! “Stay,” he answered; “a few minutes are precious. Senhor Gonçalo, I have the means of conveying the order to the Lady Abbess to set your fair daughter at freedom.”
Writing materials were soon procured by the kind-hearted gaoler, and the important document being written, and signed by the fidalgo, he committed it to the care of Luis, saying, as he did so, “Should better times come round, and should you regain your liberty, and your fortune, to no one would I more gladly consign my child’s happiness.”
“My liberty I trust to regain, but my fortune, alas! is irretrievably gone,” answered the Count, despondingly.
Taking leave of Clara’s father and brother, the latter of whom appeared revived by the sight of his parent, Luis signified to Antonio that he was in readiness to accompany him. Frè Diogo followed them from the cell, the door of which the gaoler locked behind them, and then bringing the Count’s cloak, and throwing it over his head, carefully led them along the low, dark passages which Luis had traversed on his entrance, and now sincerely hoped never to see again.
“Farewell, my dear Count,” whispered the Friar, as they were about to enter into a more public part of the prison; “I may as well not be seen with you, for I must take care of my character, you know. May Heaven bless you!” and he gave Luis a hug which almost took the breath out of his body; then, putting his mouth to Antonio’s ear, he whispered, “Have more regard to a holy friar’s cowl and gown, than to allude to days when I was sowing my wild oats: I am a reformed character, now. Adeos!” and, with a low laugh, he glided away.
At a signal from Antonio, the guards at each post allowed him and his charge to pass without question; and soon, to Luis’s delight, he once more found himself breathing the free air. A carriage was in waiting, which quickly conveyed them to the other side of Lisbon, where, stopping at the door of a house, Antonio begged Luis to descend. “Adeos, senhor, we may not perhaps, meet again,” he said; “’tis my last day of service, and an agreeable duty I have performed. You will find friends awaiting your arrival.”
Luis sprung eagerly up stairs, and, entering a room, found himself in the warm-hearted embrace of his kind friend, Captain Pinto. “Ah!” he exclaimed, as soon as he was released, “I am rejoiced to see Senhor Mendez also.”
“No longer Senhor Mendez, but your lost uncle, Luis d’Almeida,” exclaimed the Captain.
Luis threw himself at the feet of his uncle, who, raising him, pressed him affectionately to his heart. “This is, indeed, a happy moment to me, my nephew, after all my sufferings, to find one of my family who learned to love me as an outcast and a beggar!” he exclaimed.
The young Count was soon informed of the means taken to procure his liberation, and of the banishment to which he was doomed; his uncle, however, assuring him, that it should not be passed in poverty.
“Alas!” he answered, after expressing his gratitude, “liberty and fortune are of no value, except I can share them with one to whom my heart has long been engaged;” and he hurriedly described his love for Donna Clara, the position in which she was placed, and her father’s authority delegated to him to rescue her.
His uncle and the Captain looked at each other disappointed. “It cannot be helped, Luis,” said the latter; “you must be on board my ship to-morrow morning, when I sail for England; and all I can promise is, to land you for an hour or so at Oporto, if the sea is smooth; when you can deliver her father’s despatches to the young lady, and pay a farewell visit.”
“That plan will never do,” exclaimed Luis: “contrary winds might delay us, or a rough sea might prevent my landing, and Clara would be lost to me for ever. I will trust only in my own exertions; and I purpose this very hour to start on my journey, for I cannot rest till I know that she is free.”
“I see how it is,” said the Captain; “there is but one way for it. What hour is it? Not ten: then the Minister will yet see me. He is a stern ruler when political necessity demands it, but he has yet a kind heart. Let me see, I know all the story.” Without waiting to hear what anybody might say, the Captain hurried away.
Scarcely had he gone, when Pedro rushed into the room, embracing his master’s knees, in his joy at seeing him alive, and at liberty; but Luis was obliged to hurry him away, to bring a change of raiment from his lodgings, and to procure horses, and make other preparations for his journey.
We need not give the interesting conversation which ensued between the uncle and nephew; one important part of it was, that the former informed the latter that he would find five hundred pounds at his immediate disposal on his arrival in England; and that he had already settled the bulk of a far larger fortune than his family had ever possessed upon him, nor did he doubt, if he was in time to prevent Donna Clara from taking the veil, that her father would longer hesitate to bestow her upon him.
The Captain now returned in high spirits. “I told him the whole story, how the fidalgo had shut up his daughter in a convent, and how you wished to release her: so, as he hates the system of convents, and, I verily believe, would like to thwart what he imagines the fidalgo’s wishes, he has given you a passport, and an order for horses wherever you may require them, besides an order to the Lady Abbess to deliver Donna Clara de Christovaö into the charge of Don Luis d’Almeida: so now, the sooner you are off, after taking a little rest, the better. I sail to-morrow by day-break; and shall land at Oporto, while my ship cruises outside. I will wait for you, and take you on board after you have seen the lady, and restored her to her home.”
This plan being arranged, and Pedro having returned, and reported that he had selected a couple of strong horses for the journey, the Captain repaired on board his ship; and Luis endeavoured to snatch an hour’s sleep before the horses were in readiness. Long before daylight he was in the saddle, after taking an affectionate farewell of his newly-found uncle. He had a journey of full one hundred and fifty miles before him, over rough roads, with dangers of all sorts; but he thought not of them, his only consideration being how he could most quickly perform the distance. The time of year was in his favour, but three days was the very least he could hope to do it in, and all depended on finding fresh horses on the road.