AS Antonio had business to transact for the King with his cabinet, he did not return immediately from Lisbon, and Sebastian having visited him without any of his favorite Lords, was now thrown principally upon his own resources for amusement. The weather was too hot for hunting or tennis, reading stirred his ardent spirit too violently, and he was not in the mood for general society; the next day therefore, he naturally thought of the last day’s agreeable adventure: without absolutely proposing to do so, he rode out again unattended.
On reaching the pass leading into the valley, he left his horse in charge with a goatherd who was stationed there to watch some flocks, and pursued his way on foot. The heat was moderated by a slight shower which had refreshed the verdant landscape, and now the birds sung from every copse: but the scene wanted the presence of Gonsalva; she was not there. Sebastian mechanically followed the track he had seen her take, and descending the opposite side of a steep hill, saw stretched out before him, a luxuriant and extensive vale, in which the villa and domain of Vimiosa, were nobly conspicuous.
Proceeding through a thicket of evergreen oaks, the King soon found himself in a labyrinth of walks; he chose one at a venture, and fortune destined it should lead him to the entrance of a bower, where stood the fair subject of his thoughts, occupied in reading a letter.
At sight of him, roseate blushes succeeded by entrancing smiles, passed over her face. “Don Fabian!” she exclaimed, “for Heaven’s sake what brings you here?”
The question was unlucky, as it was the only one perhaps, which the King could not answer satisfactorily to himself, he looked at her, hesitated, felt embarrassed, and at length said timidly, “to ask forgiveness I believe, for the fault I committed yesterday.”
Donna Gonsalva now remembered that she had left him in anger. “So then, you have the boldness to encrease that fault by following me into a place, where if you were to be seen, it might cost you your life; me, my reputation and peace of mind!—for pity’s sake, do not stay here—I expect—I expect one of my relations every instant—should he see you—a stranger—-go, for Heaven’s sake go!”—As the beautiful Portuguese spoke, she unconsciously grasped his arm with her hand, and impelled him towards the mountains.
Sebastian’s heart, for the first moment in his life, throbbed with a tender emotion, nearly a-kin to love: he understood nothing in this speech but a desire for his preservation; and he knew himself unknown: It was not the King of Portugal then, but an obscure stranger, whom the daughter of the count Vimiosa was thus solicitous to save. “Ah, charming Gonsalva,” he cried with an air of mental intoxication, “if you are as amiable as you appear, the wishes of”—my people, he was going to add, but checking the indiscreet expression, he finished the sentence with a sigh.
An excess of pleasure brightened the beauty of Gonsalva; she averted her eyes to conceal it, while she repeated an intreaty that he would consider the impropriety of her being discovered in conversation with a young nobleman unknown to her family. Sebastian still lingered: “you must not refuse me another meeting!”—he said; and he said it with the air of a man to whom command is habitual, and refusal a novelty.
“I must not!” repeated Gonsalva, laughing, “do you remember, Don Fabian, that you are speaking to a woman—and that woman the daughter of the count Vimiosa?—our sex are not accustomed to yield, even the slightest favors, at the mere expression of an ardent wish; we must be sued to submissively.”
“Submission is my abhorrence!” exclaimed the young monarch with vivacity, “I feel now, and for the first time in my life, that I can admire, I can prize, I can love, perhaps; but you must not expect me to renounce equality with the object. I must have heart for heart, I must excite as many tender apprehensions as I feel, or—”
“And who are you, that can never speak without an I must:” exclaimed Gonsalva, laughing excessively—“but I have not time to hear your answer, leave me I say—we may perhaps meet again, and then—I hear footsteps—farewell count.”—She turned abruptly into a side path, and Sebastian desirous of remaining unknown, hastened out of the domain.
He was no sooner at a distance from the villa Vimiosa, than he began to muse over the confession of admiration into which he had been hurried, and to dwell with extreme pleasure on the concluding words of Gonsalva, as they certainly intimated a wish to see him again. In less than an hour, a complete set of new ideas had taken possession of his mind: the conversation with Don Antonio, and the wish of his people, blending with the image of Donna Gonsalva, awakened in his bosom an emotion hitherto unknown; but an emotion too sweet and subtle for rejection. The adventure itself had the charm of novelty; as for the first time in his life he beheld a young and lovely woman, who so far from dreaming of his rank, believed herself his superior. Amongst the ladies of the court he had seen beauty, but it was beauty divested of its most touching graces, the play of innocent freedom: he had never met with one who did not appear emulous to attract the King’s notice; and as he possessed too much delicacy to bear the thought of owing any thing to an exalted station, he despised and avoided their homage.
Occupied solely with the romantic reveries of an amiable, though erring ambition, he had hitherto felt without reasoning upon the subject, that he had no time for love; conscious that whenever he yielded to that sentiment it would influence his happiness entirely. Here, now, was the only opportunity that might ever present itself for acquiring a female heart, without the hateful aid of royalty; here was an opportunity of gratifying his people without mortifying his own feelings. The prospect of arms and victories, no longer filled the void of his capacious soul, and how could he better console himself for this, than by trying to accommodate his private inclinations with those of his subjects?
The extreme beauty and graceful gaiety of Donna Gonsalva delighted the senses of Sebastian; he hoped to find her equally charming in mind and heart: above all he passionately desired to make her love him. With the inperiousness of a King, he resolved to reign absolute over her affections, to have his power avowed and submitted to, or not to reign at all: he determined to be preferred as Don Fabian, before he should be known as Sebastian. Every thing promised success to this romantic resolution; and the more he reflected on it the more he was confirmed in the intention of concealing his real rank from Gonsalva; as she lived much secluded, and at some miles distance from Crato, discovery was unlikely, besides which, the clandestine nature of their intercourse rendered enquiries on her part almost impossible.
Satisfied with these mental arrangements, the King rode gaily home, forgetful of the foolish vow he had taken; treading lightly on the delightful precincts of Love, whose first prospects are like “the opening of Heaven’s everlasting gates, on golden hinges turning.”—
He finished the day amongst his young nobles, with uncommon animation.
The prior of Crato was expected the next morning: Sebastian saw day dawn, after passing a night of sweet wakefulness, during which the image of Donna Gonsalva had floated perpetually before him. Eager to behold her in reality, ere the return of his cousin, the King withdrew early from his attending lords, and took the road to Vimiosa.
As he was proceeding to enter the path through the thicket, he saw Gonsalva at a distance, in another part of the domain, walking on a terrace, cut on the side of a hill, that overlooked the house; he hastened thither, but perceiving that she had a female companion, retreated and placed himself under the boughs of a tree. The ladies turned, and walked towards him: as they approached, his heart beat with an anxiety that surprized himself; if Gonsalva should not see him! he shook the branches of the tree with a trembling hand, at which she started and put aside her veil. The same bright glow of pleasure irradiated her effulgent beauty, the same smile that had charmed away the reason of Sebastian, again transported him; but she dropped her veil, and passed on without speaking.
After taking several turns together, the ladies separated: the aunt of Gonsalva descended a flight of steps over which the trees hung so thick, as soon to exclude her from sight, while her fair niece at first advanced towards the grove which concealed Sebastian, and then capriciously struck into a path sloping directly from him.
The impetuous monarch disturbed at the thought of her departure, sprang forward, intreating that she would stay. Gonsalva half turned round—“So, you are here again my good friend?”—she said, in a tone of careless gaiety which her sparkling looks contradicted,—“are you come to teach me another lesson out of your new catechism of female subjection?—let me tell you that air of authority that you have, is abominably provoking, and I should like vastly to break its neck: one grain of humility would make you—not absolutely hateful.”
“You shall find me humbler to you, than to any other being in the world;” replied Sebastian smiling, “if you will but strive to think of me with tenderness.” Gonsalva laughed. “What a pleasant madman chance has introduced me to!—upon what do you ground these extravagant pretensions? pretensions too, so insolently urged! did you never read the Spanish author, who calls Love, that courteous affront offered to beauty?—prithee con over his definition and profit by it. Think of you with tenderness! why, my presumptuous friend, if I think of you at all in any way ’tis more than you should expect. Think of you with tenderness, when all I know of you is that you have a tolerable figure, which sillier women than myself may have persuaded you is irresistible!—A potentate could not woo with more authority.”
The accidentally penetrating glance of her eyes while speaking these words, so confounded Sebastian, that it made the blood mantle on his cheeks, she laughed again. “Come, this is the colouring of penitence, so I must not chide you any more. Never let me hear a presumptuous word breathed, consent to be docile as a lamb, and I may condescend to be so much interested in you as to ask you, who you are? whence you come! and whither you go?”
During this discourse Donna Gonsalva had entered a path leading off the terrace, and they were now advancing through an olive plantation which effectually secured them from observation. Sebastian was encouraged by her arch freedom: “Whence I come, and whither I go, fair Gonsalva,” he said, “matters not; what I am, you shall know. I am a soldier: one that hitherto had no other passion than glory; one that never yet bowed either heart or knee to beauty. If you see honour and honesty in my countenance, believe me when I swear that neither my rank nor fortune are unworthy of the count Vimiosa’s heiress: but ask me no further; imperious circumstances render me mysterious. Suffer me to see you, suffer me to attempt winning your heart, and losing my own, and then,”—“O ye saints!” interrupted Gonsalva, “what excess of gallantry! So—you have not lost your heart yet! but wait most obsequiously for the surrender of mine! I protest count, or duke, or whatever you are, you have a very taking way of making love! This cloven foot of arbitrary insolence is for ever shewing itself: I have a shrewd notion you are one of our young King’s attendants, and have caught his character?” “And what is the King’s character?” asked Sebastian smiling. “An excellent one for a King, doubtless,” replied Gonsalva. “He thinks of nothing but rule and dominion, breathes nothing but war and devastation, and would fancy himself un-kinged if he were to yield an iota to a woman. All the court ladies love him mortally, and hate him mortally: they are charmed by his accomplishments, but piqued at his coldness. I have heard some of them say so repeatedly. Give him the world to reign over, and he would not care if there was not a woman in it.”
Sebastian did not reply: he was momentarily lost in rumination upon the injustice done to his actions by mistaking their motives. It was evident that Gonsalva had learned his character from report, and spoke therefore the prevailing opinion. After a pause he said, “I have been told that Don Sebastian young as he is, cannot be justly taxed with a thirst for mere power; he is said to be actuated by zeal for our holy faith.”
“You know it perhaps?” rejoined Gonsalva playfully. “Come, come, confess that you are one of his court. I hear his majesty is at Crato with Don Antonio, and of course some of his lords must be in attendance on him.”
“Well then,” replied Sebastian, “I may frankly own that I came with the King, and must return with him to Lisbon. My visits here are secret; Don Sebastian has always expressed such disdain at lovers, that if he knew me capable of humbling myself to such a merciless tyrant as your fair self, I fear he would blush for my altered sentiments. Allow me to hope, charming Gonsalva, that you will permit me to see you here again at this hour to-morrow? The King will soon return to Lisbon, and then I shall see you no more.”
Sebastian pronounced the last words with a sigh, and anxiously looked on the heavenly features of Gonsalva for an expression of answering regret: those heavenly features were as usual brilliant with delight; her heart did not appear touched by the intimation of this separation. “Do you see that tower yonder?” she asked, pointing to a part of the house which rose above some trees—“my apartments are there: under the tower-window passes a neglected path half choaked with shrubs, where if you chuse to ramble and take the chance of seeing me, and being noticed, I shall not command you away. A short excursion by moonlight will do you no harm: but mark me—no serenading.”
“Then it is at night I am to expect the happiness of seeing you?”
“Have I not told you, not to expect any thing? if you won’t consent to take even trifles as unlooked-for favors, you will lose my friendship. I will be absolute in my way; a very counterpart of your royal master. Fare you well, Don Fabian, if you should miss seeing me at my window, take this as a complete adieu: and, do you hear, when you return to Lisbon, do set about curing both yourself and the King, of your abominable insolence.”
Away flew the volatile beauty with the grace of a nymph, leaving Sebastian pierced with pains which he dreaded to analyze; too certain they were occasioned by her seeming indifference. Something like resentment swelled his proud heart as he recalled the tenderness of his parting manner, and the carelessness of hers: he felt as if he had been duped; and execrated himself for having yielded even momentarily to a weakness which had thus sunk him into the play-thing of a coquet. To have gained gently upon her affections, and fanned an infant fire with the softest breath of respectful love, had been the aim of his wishes; but to worship an idol without a heart, feed an inhuman deity with groans and tears, to dote on what he could not esteem, was a meanness he scorned.
“You have seen me for the last time, insensible Gonsalva!” he exclaimed, as turning from the view of the tower, he rushed towards the mountains.
Vexed at himself, and irritated with disappointment, he rode to Crato in a mood that clouded his physiognomy. The prior was waiting his return: Sebastian scarcely noticing him, seized a bundle of dispatches sent from one of his ministers, and began to read them eagerly. Don Antonio ventured a jocular remark upon his disturbed countenance.
“I am in an ill-humour cousin,” replied the King, “in a rage at my own conduct; and at this moment could tear up the roots of earth itself.”—Antonio expressed some astonishment and more curiosity: Sebastian declined satisfying it, adding, “I have quite enough to bear, cousin, when I have my own contempt to encounter, without seeking the addition of yours. Let this squall of temper have its way—for heaven’s sake talk with me of business, news, nonsense, any thing—change the current of my thoughts if possible.—What said Alcoçava and the cardinal to my refusal of the Frenchwoman?”
“Since you require me to change the current of your thoughts, and thus lead to the subject of love and marriage, I may conclude the mischief-making God has had no hand in raising the present storm?”—Don Antonio spoke this with a forced smile, and not without hesitation; yet he fixed his eyes earnestly upon those of his cousin: the ingenuous countenance of the latter was immediately crimsoned over; he turned away, uttering an exclamation of contempt, coupled with the idea of love, and abruptly entered on another topic. The prior surprized and disturbed, appeared somewhat hurt at the King’s reserve, for he became thoughtful, and supported conversation with less spirit than was usual with him; but at length this mutual restraint wore off, and the remainder of the day was spent in all the freedom of friendship.
Sebastian’s resolution to avoid Gonsalva, lasted rather longer than his indignation. By degrees the flattering parts of her manner came oftener to his memory than those gay airs of indifference which had mortified his too sanguine nature: the agitating blush, the hope-awakening smile haunted his day-dreams; sometimes he saw her in the visions of the night, yielding him one of those tresses like the morn, which shaded her ivory neck, and half-averting a cheek now glowing with the sensibility of a melting heart.—He awoke, but the seducing image still swam before him.
Sebastian then revolved the probability of his having judged hastily and harshly: delicacy alone, or love distrustful of its empire, might have dictated that sprightly carelessness which had shocked him: though she had said they might not meet again, she did not perhaps think so, nor mean him to seek for her in vain at her window; would it not be well then, to make another essay to observe the effect of his absence? the youthful lover decided in the affirmative.
Being unexpectedly summoned by state affairs to his capital, he determined to make a last trial of Gonsalva’s sentiments, by visiting her on the night before his departure. When that night came, he excused himself from the amusements of his courtiers, and leaving Don Antonio chained down to a game of chess, he glided away unobserved, and was soon conveyed by his swiftest horse to the domain of Vimiosa.
A soft moonlight distinctly discovered the spot to which Gonsalva had directed him six days before. He saw the steep romantic bank shading the road towards which he now turned his steps: as he trod it lightly, the smell of orange flowers and wild thyme, came mingling from the hills and the gardens. While his eyes were fixed on the windows of the tower, where perhaps Gonsalva slept, some low tender sounds caught his ear: he listened, but they had ceased; the next moment they returned again; drawing gently nearer he found they proceeded from a lute which some one was touching at intervals with an unsteady hand, another pause succeeded: he stood still, and scarcely respired; for now the voice of Gonsalva was heard singing this canzonet.
“Hast thou, a sleepless pillow prest,
And vainly, vainly sought for rest?
Ah! say, have sighs and tears confess’d
That love was kindling in thy breast?
Alas! if not, why dost thou fly
To haunt my gate, my path, mine eye,
Still looking as thou wanderest nigh
A world of fond idolatry?
O cease, if vanity should be
The only aim that leads to me;
O cease, while yet my heart is free
From hope, and fear, and love, and thee!”
Rapt, enchanted, Sebastian stood listening to this celestial voice: its thrilling tones revolving in continual sweetness but endless variety, were like the melodious warblings of a nightingale. The serene Heavens, the resplendent moonlight, the fragrance of the earth, the transport and the gratitude of his own heart, all conspired to heighten its magical effect. Donna Gonsalva had evidently chosen this song because it pourtrayed a situation like her own; this thought finished the intoxication of Sebastian, and he vehemently exclaimed, “Angel!”
At this expression, Gonsalva dropped her lute, and flying forward, uttered a cry of pleasure. “Ah, is it you, ungrateful Fabian!” she cried: her beauty and her emotion completed the conquest over her sovereign. She was without a veil, and he now beheld for the first time, all the charms of that matchless face: traces of tears were on it.
Scarcely conscious of the extreme joy he betrayed, the king uttered a passionate expression at this visible mark of sensibility; and forcing his way up the bank through shrubs and roots of trees, got sufficiently near the object of his tenderness to kiss her hand from the window. The night breeze blowing among his fine hair, and the moon beams falling on his white forehead, gave lustre and animation to the noblest countenance that ever yet united sublimity with beauty: Donna Gonsalva evidently beheld him with admiration.
Endeavouring to recover from the effects of her surprize, she attempted to answer his ardent assurances of repentance and gratitude, by light railleries: She acknowledged that she had been in tears, but would not confess that his absence was their cause: Sometimes she spoke in a tone of touching sensibility, then suddenly flew off into sallies of gaiety: her air and her words were at variance. Sebastian, though little skilled in the science of woman’s heart, could not help perceiving the whimsical inconsistencies of Gonsalva: while her voice fluttered, her complexion glowed, her eyes sparkled, she persisted in assuring him that he had never once entered her thoughts since they parted, and that even now, if his ridiculous speeches did not amuse her excessively, she would not stay a second moment at the window.
It was in vain she asserted this: the delighted lover assured her in return, that the stratagem of insincerity was fruitless. Since he was resolved to win the heart, she seemed determined not to surrender.—“And if you were to take it by storm, (as I perceive that is your mode of conquering,)” replied Gonsalva, “what would it avail? You know, daughters are not allowed to dispose of themselves: I have a father, Don Fabian, and it is from his hand I must take my husband.”
Sebastian gazed on her enamoured, smiling with the consciousness of sovereign power: “Let us not talk of fathers, fair Gonsalva; were I beloved, I should fear nothing: what will not a joyful and ardent passion accomplish? Do not deny me then the hope of having interested you?—I must quit Crato to-morrow; the King is recalled by important business, and I cannot remain behind.”
“O! how much you are in love!” exclaimed Gonsalva, with an air of tender reproach, “you profess to live only in my sight, and yet you can leave me merely for the sake of preserving an empty honor about the King!”
The gratified Sebastian protested that nothing but a sense of duty could make him forego the delight of these stolen interviews, which he would hasten to renew; promising soon to return. “Till that blissful moment, let this remind you of Fabian,” said he, (unloosing from his neck a brilliant cross of the order of Christus which had hitherto been concealed by his vest.) “Let this assure you, that your lover is noble.”
“And if he were not”—exclaimed Gonsalva, stopping and ending the sentence with a tender sigh. The triumph of Sebastian was now complete: “and if he were not, charming Gonsalva, you would not cease to bid him hope?—Dare I flatter myself that such was the sentiment your modesty deprived me of?”—Gonsalva bowed her fair neck without speaking, while rapture sparkled in her eyes: the King lightly threw over her head the embroidered ribbon by which the order was suspended, and when he did so, lifted some of the tresses of her hair to his lips. “Might I bear away with me one of these glittering ringlets!—Surely you will not deny me the precious gift?”
A faint denial only served to stimulate the young monarch, Gonsalva refused, and chided, and jested, but yielded at last.
At parting, the coy beauty would not utter a confession of regret, though she suffered the sentiment to appear in her swimming eyes. Sebastian was perhaps more enamoured by this conduct: the difficulty of subduing so haughty or so delicate a heart, gave additional pleasure to the attempt; and the spirit of domination then mixed with the tender desires of love. He returned to Crato with his golden prize, believing himself a conqueror when he was in reality a slave.
The vivacity of Sebastian’s feelings were in proportion to their novelty: he loved for the first time, therefore he loved with his whole soul; and the idea of being beloved in return, for his own sake, finished the enchantment.
During their rapid journey to Lisbon, he disclosed the romantic secret to his cousin.
Though Don Antonio was evidently too discreet for the indulgence of ill-timed raillery or unpalatable rebuke, the King perceived that his imprudent attachment surprized and shocked him: the prior’s florid complexion changed frequently, and he spoke with a trepidation unusual to him. Donna Gonsalva’s comparatively inferior birth, was in his opinion an insurmountable objection; but he forbore to press other arguments upon his sovereign, whose suddenly inflamed looks warned him to beware. Having by a strong effort conquered his excessive surprize, which secret circumstances rendered almost insufferable, he gradually acquiesced in the passionate reasoning of his kinsman, and began to assist him with plans for the completion of these new wishes.
To facilitate the King’s interviews with Donna Gonsalva, and yet conceal the affair from his court, it was requisite that some plausible excuse should be found for his visiting Crato again: Antonio therefore offered to return almost immediately to his priory, feign sickness there, and intreat the society of his gracious cousin. This offer was accepted: Don Antonio scarcely refreshed himself in Lisbon ere he set out once more for Crato: the King remained behind, and for the first time in his life gave audience to his ministers with a divided mind, after dispatching the various state affairs for which he had returned to his capital, he waited impatiently the prior’s summons, and shortly receiving it, hastened, with a very small train, to the hunting lodge.
The interviews of the lovers were now regular, and every interview heightened the young monarch’s passion. His fair mistress stimulated this ardor by just as much condescension as excited without satisfying hope; acquiring at each unexpected act of kindness fresh power over his peace. Sebastian gradually lost that self-command upon which he piqued himself, and often found that he bartered some of his independence for a smile or a kiss: but he had learned the art of silencing his own reproofs; and constantly declared to his cousin that he knew himself beloved to excess, or he would not stoop to acts which otherwise would be mean submissions.
At length, the moment so long panted after, arrived; Gonsalva one evening pronounced the tender confession of reciprocal preference, and was rewarded the next instant by an avowal of her lover’s sovereign rank.
Confused and agitated, the fair Portuguese half sunk upon her knee, faltering out a few words of humility and gratitude: Sebastian hastened to raise, and clasp her in his arms, while he explained his intention of recalling her father from France in order to witness their immediate marriage. Donna Gonsalva changed colour, averted her eyes, hesitated, panted for breath, and at length apprehensively confessed that she was under engagements to a young nobleman; nay, that her father had given her to him in marriage at the age of seven years.
Had the earth opened at the feet of Sebastian, he could not have felt more horror.—Speechless with emotion, his looks only continued to interrogate Gonsalva: she trembled and wept, but conjured him to believe that after the ceremony was performed, she had almost forgotten it, as her bridegroom had gone out to Goa with his grandfather the viceroy of India, and was but lately returned.
“And you have seen him Gonsalva?” asked the King mournfully. “Yes, I have seen him thrice, but without giving him the least hope that I would ratify the cruel engagement in which my infant mind had no share.—When he visited me last, you were absent, your love was doubtful, your real rank unknown, I was uncertain whether you might ever return to me, and yet I told him my resolution.”
“Then you loved me from the first?” cried the transported Sebastian, “let not my Gonsalva ever again torture me with assumed indifference, when this conduct shews that she preferred the pain of concealment to the hazard of losing me by the early mention of this hateful obstacle. Take courage, dearest! ties like these may be broken without dishonour; and thank God! I am a King.”
The impetuous and imperious Sebastian forgot at this moment his character of just; he was incapable of admitting either a parent’s or a husband’s right, when the one had used his power tyrannically, and the other had been forced upon a child incapable of choice. To obtain the pope’s bull for annulling this marriage, seemed not a matter of difficulty; the consent of Vimiosa was of course certain; and as the rival husband had not been long returned from India, he was not likely to oppose the divorce from any motive of attachment: at all events, Sebastian resolved to use his prerogative if necessary, since Gonsalva had expressed for him the most passionate preference, and ought not her happiness to be the first object of his life!—She now repeated her promise of living for him alone, and at that sound the momentary obstacle disappeared from her lover’s sight.
After this conference the rash young monarch dispatched couriers into France with letters to the count Vimiosa, demanding his daughter, and inviting him to return and assist in dissolving the bands which tied her to Don Emanuel de Castro: at the same time he sent a magnificent embassy to Rome, praying for a divorce; and commissioned his cousin Antonio to see and converse with Don Emanuel.
Meanwhile Donna Gonsalva had hinted to Sebastian the impropriety of exposing her reputation to the scandal of being discovered in a clandestine intercourse with her sovereign: having no longer a reason for concealment, Sebastian embraced the permission this hint gave him, and came with a splendid retinue to Vimiosa. His lords saw nothing extraordinary in a young monarch paying a courteous visit to the sister and daughter of one of his greatest subjects, but no sooner did they behold the transcendent beauty of Donna Gonsalva, and the emotion of their royal master, than a suspicion of the truth was awakened amongst them.
Lost in a round of new and delightful enjoyments, Sebastian was from that hour continually at the house of his mistress: his cousin accompanied him in these visits, and warmly applauded his choice. But the eloquence of the latter had been used in vain to obtain an hearing from Don Emanuel De Castro; that young nobleman refusing to converse on the subject of her marriage with any other than the King himself.
Sebastian’s nature was too generous not to revolt from some arbitrary measures which Antonio suggested in the height of his zeal and displeasure: he refused to degrade or distress his rival; and the dictates of delicacy forbade him to attempt purchasing his acquiescence by mere honours.
De Castro was indeed worthy of this liberal treatment: he had distinguished himself in the Indies under his grandfather, by the most brilliant services. His intrepidity and genius for war were not the only themes of praise; to these were added justice, temperance, a benevolent attention to the natural propensities, habits, and even prejudices of the Indians, and a conciliating manner which subdued them still more than his arms. Filial piety was the first of his virtues: after twelve years residence in India, a dangerous disease fastened upon his aged parent, which compelled him to return home: Don Emanuel was advised to remain at Goa, where he would in all probability receive an immediate nomination to succeed the viceroy in his government; but he refused to act thus:—abandoning this expectation, and resigning his military command, he left the eastern world, chiefly for the sake of softening the discomforts of a tedious voyage to a relation he revered; though the idea of claiming his young bride sweetened the sacrifice.
On reaching Portugal, the viceroy had gone to his seat at Santaren, from whence Don Emanuel had twice visited Gonsalva: but the death of his beloved grandfather quickly followed, and prevented him from seeing her again, till the first days of his mourning were passed.—Don Emanuel was preparing to appear at court for the first time, when the King’s pleasure was intimated to him by the prior of Crato. Refusing to discuss so important a matter with a third person, he was ordered into the presence of his sovereign.—The King alone, and secretly at war with himself, received him with embarrassment: his excessive emotion formed a decided contrast to the grave and dignified composure of De Castro. The latter was just going to pay the usual mark of homage to princes, when Sebastian impetuously caught him by the arm, exclaiming, “Bend not your knee to one who would dismiss from your mind in this conference all thought of his authority: I wish you to hear me, Don Emanuel, not as a King, who might insist, but as a man who is willing to submit to the decision of equity.—In conversing on this interesting topic, let us think only of the rights and the happiness of Donna Gonsalva—let us forget, if possible, our own desires.—Believe me, if I did not flatter myself with being inexpressibly dear to her, if I did not abhor and renounce with my whole heart this unnatural practice of infant nuptials, I would not seek to release her hand, though certain of commanding it the next instant:—nay, had I known earlier of her engagements, preposterous as I deem them, I would have avoided the scandal and the pain of dissolving them.”
De Castro fixed his eyes upon the ingenuous though disturbed countenance of the King: esteem and compassion were in the look.—“This is the first time,” he said, “in which I have had the honour of seeing and conversing with my sovereign, and I foresee it will add to my former loyalty, the sentiments of gratitude and admiration.—my fortunes, my services, my life, sire, are at your feet, dispose of them henceforth as you will; but I beseech you for your own honour and happiness, for the sake of your people, proceed no further in dissolving my union with Donna Gonsalva.”
“How! Don Emanuel,” exclaimed Sebastian, “do you pretend to persuade me of these animated sentiments, and yet deny me the only favor peculiarly your own to bestow? as your sovereign I may command your services and life; but when I ask of you with the simplicity of an equal, to resign the shadow of a right over a woman whom you cannot love, whom I love with all the ardour of virtuous tenderness, and who blesses me in return, when I ask this at your hands, you capriciously, tyrannically deny me. What conduct is this? how dare you mock me with expressions of devoted regard?”
Embarrassed yet not confounded, Don Emanuel was silent; the king pressed his remark with increased ardour, adding, in a tone of greater emotion, “You were contracted to Donna Gonsalva at the age of thirteen, you went immediately after to India, from whence you are returned but three months; in that period you have seen the fair Gonsalva only thrice, and that in reserved interviews before her aunt, where nothing beyond personal graces could speak to your senses. No charm of varied discourse; no enchantment of sensibility could penetrate to your soul; the coldness of her feelings must have chilled yours: love feeds, grows, lives upon love! Can you then, will you then have the injustice to place your mere admiration of her beauty upon a par with my lively preference of her character, and my tender sympathy with her disinterested affection? Have a care, Don Emmanuel, force me not to resume the King; you may rouse me into measures which otherwise I would have spurned.”
“I trust, Sire, to your own conviction of the justice of my claim, replied De Castro firmly, the king of Portugal is born to be the glory and the examplar of Kings: he will teach the Portuguese to obey the laws, by first obeying them himself; he will respect even the simplest rights of his subjects; he will reflect that absolute power tempts to oppression, and renders self-denial the greatest effort of virtue; and in proportion as injustice is easy to him, his magnanimity will render it difficult.” Don Emanuel paused, but Sebastian was silent; for there was something in Don Emanuel’s manner which at once inspired respect, and rivetted attention: interpreting his sovereign’s looks, that nobleman continued—“Pardon my boldness, sire, if I venture to tell you, that in marrying a subject, and that subject a woman ravished from her husband, you will stain your unsullied name, and disappoint your people. Hitherto, monarchs of Portugal have strengthened their power by foreign alliances—you, sire, have refused daughters of France and Spain; and when it is known that you have refused them for a private person, may we not dread the consequences?”
“What! Don Emanuel,” interrupted Sebastian, “does your otherwise admirable theory of a prince’s duties, lead to this extravagant conclusion, that he is bound to sacrifice his domestic happiness to a mere shew of benefitting his people?—Is a powerful alliance more than a political pageant?—When did you ever find the dearest connections amongst earthly potentates, (and I blush for them whilst I urge it,) able to counterbalance the promptings of ambition and opportunity? every solid advantage would be as firmly secured to Portugal by my union with a subject as with a princess. I am not the first King of Portugal who has declared that ‘marriage is the prerogative of every man.’”
“True, Sire!” returned De Castro, respectfully, “but your majesty will remember that the august monarch who made this declaration, coupled it with these words—I promise never to invade this prerogative in the person of another, and for that reason expect never to have it invaded in my own.”
“De Castro,” said the King earnestly, “tell me that you tenderly, exclusively love her—swear it to me by your hope of eternal salvation, and whatever it may cost me, I will relinquish my own happiness, but never again expect to behold the face of your sovereign: for the man who would force to his arms an unwilling bride, must have a soul with which mine can have no fellowship.”
Extremely affected by the honourable emotion of his royal master, Don Emanuel’s voice faltered as he replied, “My nature, sire, is incapable of deriving gratification from any forced submission; much less from that submission of woman’s heart, which must be voluntary to be sweet:—be assured Donna Gonsalva shall not be compelled into my arms. To swear I love her dearer than any thing on earth, would be false, for I love my King better: I take Heaven to witness it is more for his honor and prosperity, than for my own wishes, that I thus desperately risk his displeasure. Time, perhaps, may plead in my justification, and convince you, sire, that though I refuse every other ground of discussion except that of right, yet am I sincere when I repeat, that for loyalty and the most passionate wish for your majesty’s real happiness, my heart may challenge any heart in Portugal.”
Sebastian’s indignant eyes searched the countenance of Don Emanuel; “There is a proud mystery about you, sir,” he said, “which displeases me:—I have humbled myself too much.—Since it is to be a question of right, learn to respect the rights of your prince. From this hour know that I will be obeyed.”
Don Emanuel threw himself at the King’s feet.—“Then I must implore for justice, and conjure my sovereign to decide on my claim as he would have done in a similar cause in which he was not a party. Ah, sire! you turn pale! your upright soul feels the force of that plain appeal. Would to God, for your own august sake, that you would not precipitately do an act of violence.—Have you no fears, sire, that the woman who could so long conceal, and so lightly break a sacred tie (however imposed,) has been actuated by less disinterested motives than those of virtuous love?”
At this unexpected question, the King lost all command of his passions, and fiercely motioned for Don Emanuel to withdraw; his look and gesture were too violent not to warn de Castro that he trod on the brink of a precipice: that young nobleman rose from the ground, and as he bowed respectfully, a deep sigh escaped him, he bowed again, and left the King to his own thoughts.