William Kingston - The Prime Minister

“Yes, senhor,” she answered, with a half averted eye, “I have, indeed, yet scarcely recovered from terror, though I know it is foolish to be further alarmed; but – ” and she hesitated to proceed.

“Do you know, Senhor Don Luis,” exclaimed the old Nurse, eager to speak, and at the same time to relieve the embarrassment of her charge, “that I have heard a great deal of you, and seem to know you perfectly well, though I never saw you before. Ah! senhor, I have heard, too, of your fair cousin, Donna Theresa, and am surprised she is not with you; for I thought you were to have been married before this.”

At Donna Theresa’s name a cloud passed across the cavalier’s brow.

“You must have been misinformed, senhora,” he answered gravely. “My cousin is engaged to the Marquis of Tavora.”

“Oh! I beg your pardon, senhor,” said the old Nurse; “I hope I have not offended by the question; but I hear that she is a very lovely young lady.”

“Oh no, no, you have not offended,” said Don Luis, as he rode from the side of the litter, to avoid showing the blush which burned on his cheek at hearing an affair so lightly alluded to, which he had fancied unknown to the world. Very different was the effect of his words on Donna Clara; for though she felt that, whether he was single, engaged, or married, ought to be a matter of complete indifference to her, yet a certain uneasy sensation seemed removed from her breast, and she again leaned forward to speak, when she found he was no longer by her side.

More than an hour elapsed before Don Luis again approached the litter, during which period the young lady unconsciously allowed a number of new sensations, which had never before been known to her, to take possession of her heart; and she welcomed his return with a smile whose sweetness might have softened the bosom of a stoic, – and certainly her gallant deliverer was not one. For the remainder of the journey he did not leave the side of her litter for more than a few minutes at a time, always gladly again returning to it; and, although they had emerged some time before from the dark forest of pines, and were traversing a comparatively thickly-peopled country, so that all fear of the brigands was banished, yet he insisted on accompanying the party to the end of their day’s journey. As the travellers wound round the base of a hill, the bright rays of the evening sun were throwing a ruddy hue on the topmost turrets of the once proud castle of Leiria; which, standing on the summit of an eminence, situated to the north of that most ancient town, now burst on their view, enclosed in an amphitheatre of hills, surrounding a smiling, well-cultivated valley. A road winding round the foot of the hill conducted them, through the narrow streets of the town, to the house of a fidalgo, who, though absent, had requested Gonçalo Christovaö to take up his abode there.

Don Luis spent the evening in the society of the fidalgo and his daughter; nor did he lose the ground he had gained in the estimation of either; though the priest regarded him with frowning looks, keeping a lynx-eyed watch on every expression of his countenance, and on each word he uttered: the whole party, however, overcome with fatigue, were glad to retire at an early hour to rest.

The sun had already risen above the walls of the town on the following morning, before Don Luis thought of ordering his horses, and he then considered it but an act of common courtesy to wait till he had seen one of Donna Clara’s attendants, to inquire how their lady had borne the fatigues of the journey, and at last, when a black-eyed soubrette tripped down stairs, she kept the handsome stranger in conversation with abundance of questions in return, hoping that he neither had suffered in any way, and finishing by assuring him that her young mistress would be quite offended, she felt sure, if he departed without allowing her again to thank him in person for his gallantry. These observations, we must remark, were entirely the damsel’s own ideas; for, of course, Donna Clara would not have dreamed of delaying Don Luis in his journey on her account; but so thought not the soubrette, and she was merely acting towards her mistress as she would have wished others to do towards herself; for it is remarkable what quick perceptions her class possess on such matters. He therefore could not be so ungallant as to refuse her request, and then he bethought him also that he ought to pay his respects to Gonçalo Christovaö, who had not yet issued from his sleeping apartment. He had for some time been pacing the drawing-room with rather impatient steps, when, on facing the door, it opened, and Donna Clara appeared, enveloped in the full and graceful drapery of her travelling dress, a slight pallor on her delicate cheeks, her eyes soft and liquid, and with a slight degree of bashfulness in her manner as she advanced into the room. There seems to be always a brighter halo of freshness and purity, circling round a young and innocent girl when she first greets the early morn with her smile of gladness, before the glowing sun of noon-day has cast his scorching beams upon her head to dim the seraph-like lustre of her beauty. So lovely, indeed, did Donna Clara appear to the eyes of Don Luis, that for a moment, as the blood rushed quickly from his heart, he stopped, unconsciously, to gaze with admiration involuntary; but, recovering his usual manner, he approached her with graceful courtesy, to inquire if she had suffered from the terror and fatigue of the previous day. She answered, in tones of silvery softness, a sweet smile beaming on her lips, and, as she spoke, his eyes wandered over her features, imprinting every lineament indelibly on the tablets of his memory. Though he knew it not, neither age, grief, nor madness itself, could efface that image of beauty he had drawn. Years might pass away, his own eyes might grow dim, that lovely form might fade, but there it would remain, unchangeable, cherished, and adored!

Though old age has stolen on us, it has made us neither sullen nor morose, and we can yet find pleasure in recurring to the fresh days of our youth, when a lovely face had power to make an impression on our hearts; and we can thus vividly picture to ourselves many of those, seen perhaps but once, suddenly bursting on our view, like a picture of Titian’s, never to be forgotten; and it is from those we describe the fair creatures we would introduce to our readers. Now and again we have met the same, we have fancied, in the person of a younger sister, or a daughter, or perhaps of no kindred except that of sentiments and disposition, which always give a similar expression to the countenance. Sometimes, too, we have met the self-same being, changed, alas! from the creature of angelic loveliness we once knew; – the roses have fled her cheeks, the sylph-like form is no longer there; we hear no more her soft silvery voice; but soon some old familiar expression, some reference to past days, conjures up the former image in all its glowing tints of loveliness, and we deem our youth again returned, and once more do her joyous laughter and the sweet notes of her voice ring, like fairy music, in our ears. ’Tis for this reason that we esteem painting the first, the most divine of the arts; for, with regard to music, the hand or the voice may fail; with poetry, the language may alter or be lost, and the words bring no meaning to the senses; but painting has survived the destruction of kingdoms, the dispersion of nations, a people whose language and very name would have passed away, but that the productions of this art remain to tell their history. Who has not gazed with rapture on some lovely, almost speaking, portrait of one absent, or perhaps lost to us for ever? As we have stood before it, we have seemed to hold converse with it; the eyes have appeared to burn with the mysterious light of intellect, and the lips to move; and we have answered to the words we in fancy heard! Can poetry or music work this magic effect? No; they have their own charms – and oh! how powerful our soul confesses! but we have seen paintings which combine all, which have poetry in every line, and music in every tint.