maidens, run,” exclaimed the young lady. “Run and attend Donna Florinda to her chair. Haste all of you, and pay her proper respect.” The maids, accustomed to the imperious orders of their young mistress, threw down their work, and followed Donna Florinda, for so their majesties of Portugal had been pleased to call their black favourite; and no sooner was the room cleared, than with eager hands the young lady opened the casket which had been sent her. It contained, doubtless, the little finger of Saint Anthony, but it contained also a small fold of paper, which she hurriedly abstracted, placing the casket aside, as a thing she valued not.
Agitation was visible on her countenance, as with trembling fingers she tore open the note. “Enchanting, beautiful girl,” it ran, “too often have I gazed enraptured on those matchless charms to resist longer their enslaving power. Though the barriers of custom and bigotry intervene to keep us asunder, yet would I break through all obstacles to win one smile of acquiescence to my ardent wishes from those bright eyes! and ah! believe that this heart, which has never felt till now one pang of love, though surrounded by the fairest, the most lovely in the land, has at length been punished for its obduracy; nor can I experience one moment of peace till I know that this has been accepted by her for whom it is intended, and that she will deign to send some answer favourable to my hopes. From one who would, were it possible, lay a crown at the feet of the most captivating of her sex.” No signature was attached to the epistle; but, as the lady’s eyes glanced hurriedly over it, her breathing grew quick, a blush mantled on her neck and cheek, though remaining but a moment ere a pallor succeeded, as she placed it in her bosom, on hearing the return of her attendants along the corridor leading to her apartment. Her principal attendant gazed at her earnestly, with an expression of concern.
“Surely, Senhora, you are now really ill indeed; and I fear St. Anthony’s finger has been of slight benefit. Let me run and procure you some of the restorative medicine I am ordered to take.”
“No, no, there is no necessity for it,” answered the young lady; “I merely slightly pricked my finger as Donna Florinda left the room, and the pain was acute, and made me feel faint; but it has passed away and left no mark. I shall be well again directly.”
As she spoke her former colour returned to her cheeks, but the smile which had sat on her lips was not so easily recovered; and though she attempted to talk with animation, her gaiety was forced and unnatural. Before many minutes had passed, another visitor was announced as the Marchioness of Tavora, at which name the attendants stood up respectfully, the young lady advancing herself to the door of the apartment to receive her guest. The lady who now entered was of majestic deportment, with firmness and dignity in every movement, at the same time that there was much feminine beauty in her features; for, although they had much passed their prime, they yet retained a large portion of those charms for which she had once been celebrated, without any of the disfiguring marks of old age. She gazed with a look of affection, as she addressed the young lady, who conducted her respectfully to a chair, and placed herself on a lower seat at her feet.
“I have come, my sweet daughter, as an ambassadress from my son, the heir of his father’s wealth and titles, earnestly to press his suit,” began the Marchioness; “you know how fondly he loves you, and all the necessary preliminaries having been arranged between the Marquis of Tavora and your father, your consent is alone wanting to fix the day on which he may be made happy. Say, then, that you will not defer the day, and let me be the bearer of the joyful tidings to my boy.”
“I am highly flattered by the honour you do me, Senhora Marqueza,” answered the young lady, “and by the preference your son shows me; but I do not feel myself worthy of his love without giving mine in return, and I would rather not wed yet.”
“Do I hear aright?” exclaimed the Marqueza, with surprise, and a degree of anger in her tone. “Can you, whom I already look upon in the light of a daughter, dream of disobedience to your father’s commands, and refuse my son’s proffered alliance? Such a thing is impossible. Have you not constantly given me reason to suppose that you would throw no difficulty in the way, – then why this sudden and unaccountable change of opinion? But I know that these words do not express your feelings: they were uttered more from a freak of maiden bashfulness, than from any confirmed determination. To such folly, however, you must not yield. Think well again before you give your final answer; for of such as that you before uttered I cannot be the bearer.”
The young lady remained silent for some minutes; a pallid hue again overspread her features, and she gasped for breath, as if some intense feelings were passing through her bosom; but the Marchioness, occupied with her own thoughts, did not, apparently, observe her. At length, by a strenuous effort recovering her composure, she looked up. “If such is the will of my father, that I should wed, I will follow it,” she said; “my hand, when he shall claim it, is at your son’s command; and I must crave your pardon that I at first refused the proffered honour.”
“My sweet daughter, you have made me most happy,” exclaimed the Marchioness, folding her in an affectionate embrace. “My beloved son, on whom you know every sentiment of my heart is placed, will hasten to throw himself at your feet; but say, my fair child, when you will crown his joy, by bestowing that hand he prizes so much?”
“I would petition for a short delay,” returned the lovely girl; “let the day be in November next: he will not have long to wait; and it is but short time to prepare to quit a home where I have spent the few happy days of my life, and for the future, alas! oh, may Heaven protect me!” The last part of the sentence was uttered rather to herself than aloud, nor did the Marchioness attend to the words.
“I will not, at present, urge you to fix an earlier time, though I would have wished it sooner; but perhaps my son may have more influence,” said the Marqueza, smiling. “I must now go to relieve his mind of the anxiety which oppresses it, and before long, expect your loving bridegroom here.” Saying which, the Marchioness of Tavora arose, and, embracing the young lady, she quitted the apartment with the same stately dignity with which she had entered, attended, with the utmost respect, by the retinue of maidens who waited on their young mistress.
We scarce dare describe the thoughts of the bride elect, of that young and lovely creature who seemed formed for virtue and happiness alone. She hastened to the open window to seek fresher air, for that in the room oppressed her, she thought, and stood gazing, with dilated eye, on the pure blue, calm sky, so contrasted with the agitation of her bosom. “Alas! for what am I prepared?” she exclaimed; “what a dark gulf do I see yawning beneath my feet, which no human power can aid me to overleap. Could I summon courage, I might yet escape; but then how blank and desolate would my heart become! No! I could part with happiness, rank, wealth, all the world esteems; but I cannot yield up love. Ah, why should I tremble or hesitate? Have not others done the same? and without risk, how can power and greatness be obtained? And yet, oh, heavens! I wish it had been otherwise.”
Thus giving utterance to broken and disjointed sentences, in a tone often of despair and grief, her small delicate hands clasped together, she continued at the window for some minutes. Again she was silent, when what sounded more like an hysterical laugh than one of joy broke from her lips. “It were destruction to turn back now,” she cried; “and, my young lord marquis, I am your most humble bride. Begone, from henceforth, all vain foolish fears and regrets, which gaiety will easily dissipate.” She turned quickly round with a smiling countenance, for she heard a footstep approaching, thinking it was one of her female attendants; but she started suddenly at seeing, instead, the tall figure of a young and handsome cavalier, advancing rapidly towards her with the intention, it appeared by his gestures, of saluting her on the cheek without waiting for permission, had she not drawn back with an expression of anger in her countenance, and, throwing herself into a chair, coldly held out her hand. The movement had the effect, as by magic, of arresting the young man in his headlong career. He gazed at her for some time, without uttering a syllable, with a steady, mournful, and surprised look. “Can it be possible that I am so changed, during an absence but of two years, that you know me not?” he at length exclaimed. “I cannot, dare not, believe that Donna Theresa would thus cruelly have behaved, had she known me.”
“Oh, I know you perfectly, my good cousin,” answered the young lady; “nor do I perceive that you are in the slightest degree changed from the boisterous,