CHAP. I.

After serious reflection Sebastian came to the determination of sacrificing his domestic comforts to the ultimate good of his people and his child: the conflict was over with himself, but how was he to conquer the heart of Kara Aziek? of that tender mother, who “chid the winds of Heaven,” if they blew too roughly on the face of her darling?—that tender mother and faithful wife, who saw so much of virtue and happiness around her dwelling at Cachoeira, that she knew not where the world could shew a station more productive of either.

Dreading the excess of her grief, yet arming himself to encounter it, Sebastian quitted his solitude, and went forth to seek her.

He found her with Blanche, just returning from their village church, where they had been witnessing the marriage of an Indian girl with one of the most enlightened and amiable of her tribe. The happy scene from which they were come, had lighted up the countenances of each: Blanche was yet too young for complete sympathy with the blushing Izamba, but her heart sympathized with happiness of any sort; and the tear of benevolent pleasure which stood on the cheek of her mother, called a shower over hers.

Gently walking under a long line of cedars shading the Cachoeira, Sebastian descried them afar off.—The full and perfectly-formed figure of Kara Aziek, her slow soft step, the gentle dignity which distinguished her, were contrasted by the slight and budding graces of Blanche’s more airy form. Her step was quick, bounding, and uncertain as the young Gazelle’s; her looks were timid, not majestic; and like spring preceding summer, she sportively advanced, admiring every object she had seen and admired a thousand times before.

Sebastian scarcely descried her ere she was at his side: by an irresistible impulse he took her in his arms, and holding her to his heart, suffered the tears he could no longer restrain, to fall over her face.

It was the first time that Blanche had ever felt her father’s tears; she looked up, and the bright roses of health and delight faded from her cheek.

“Be not alarmed, my child!” he whispered in a faltering voice, as he let her go again, “I will rejoin your mother soon—speak not to her of this weakness—I must explain it myself.”

Having spoken, he turned away, and hurrying towards a sugar-mill, which he entered, as if intent on business, left Blanche to wait for her mother, who seeing nothing extraordinary in this conduct of her husband, entered her own habitation.

It was long ere Sebastian sufficiently recovered himself to join Kara Aziek; the smile with which he dressed his pale countenance could not conceal from her the unusual agitation of his heart: she fearfully inquired its cause, and was answered by a cautious explanation of De Castro’s situation and engagements.

Kara Aziek listened to him in profound silence, which she did not break till some moments after he had concluded; she then turned on him her expressive eyes; no tears were there, but they were full of that maternal anguish she felt called upon to control.

She looked tenderly at him, as if she believed him unable to avert the calamity with which she was threatened, and as if she considered him equally with herself, an object of compassion. “I submit:” she said at length, turning her eyes from her husband and fixing them on Heaven; “There are periods in which I dare not yield to my feelings. That God who has blessed us with our Blanche, calls her now to become an instrument for her father’s restoration: I may not detain her.”—

At the last words, Kara Aziek closed her eyes as if she would have shut from her husband’s sight the anguish of her soul: a general trembling seized her, and unable to relieve herself by tears, she made an effort to smile, and pressing his hand, leaned her face upon his shoulder.

Sebastian gently supported her. This unresisting acquiescence, this uncomplaining grief, affected him far more than the most violent despair: in proportion as his Aziek appeared more worthy of happiness, her different destiny seemed more cruel.

“Dearest and best of women!” he exclaimed, “is it to day that I am to receive the strongest proof of that love which has been the angel of my life?—You know my heart, and you spare me the misery of contending with tenderness for you, and duty to Portugal: you weep not, you complain not!—O my Aziek, am I then indeed, dearer to thee than the child to whom thou gavest birth?—I expected lamentation, remonstrance, shall I confess it?—sorrowful reproaches—I find gentleness and heroism; I find that I am still the first in that precious heart.”—

Transported out of himself by such a conviction, Sebastian folded his arms around his wife, whose countenance suddenly glowing with vivid emotion, was now bathed in tears. Instantaneously melted by this burst of affection, she wept profusely, but her tears had no bitterness in them; she forgot at that moment the impending evil she had been contemplating.

By degrees this rapture subsided, and the separation from her daughter returned in all its force. “I will try to merit these kind praises:” she said faintly, “but my heart may not always have such strength: pardon me therefore Sebastian, if some moments of weakness should make me the selfish creature you feared to find me. Remember that in this discourse I have spoken my real sentiments, and do not attend to the temporary ravings of a mother, who cannot always hear the voices of Reason and Religion; who cannot always obey their commands. In my soul I am convinced we ought to make this sacrifice; as such, it shall be completed.”

Again the tears of Kara Aziek ceased to flow, and her features resumed their former paleness. Sebastian still looked at her with a mixture of anguish and delight. His affection was eloquent, and repeated tributes to the fortitude he admired, contributed to support and to console Kara Aziek.

One important matter yet remained to be discussed; should they or should they not suffer Blanche to depart without knowing the story of her birth?

Many arguments in favor of each line of conduct presented themselves during this interesting discussion; but those had the most weight, which dictated explanation.

Blanche was of an age and a character to feel the value of such a confidence: the knowledge of her parents misfortunes would surely endear them to her heart; and when widely separated, that anxiety which must result from her acquaintance with their critical situation, would form still a link of union. Their thoughts, their wishes, their solicitudes, would yet remain the same, though their persons might be divided; it would be impossible for Blanche not to remember and to love her parents, when her dearest interests were inseparably interwoven with their images.

In addition to this consideration, Sebastian urged one equally important: Blanche would sooner attain the qualities requisite for her future guidance through life, by this early call upon them. Discretion, courage, attentive observation of persons and events, careful calculation of actions, and their consequences, would be the natural fruit of thus giving her a necessity for all these properties.

With the prospect of one day filling a station of responsibility, seeing in the example of her father the awful vicissitudes to which even monarchy is exposed, and feeling, in her own person, the dependance of man on man, she would avoid the risk of becoming intoxicated with a distinction which presented itself under a shape so forbidding.

Her imagination, chastized by experience, and her heart disciplined by early care, would mature, fix, and ennoble her character: if Providence should call her to a throne, that education would enable her to fill it with honour; if destined to pass her life in obscurity, the memory of her parents lot, would teach her the emptiness of the world, and the rarer treasures of that benevolence which makes joy to itself in every station.

If blind to the advantages of candour, Sebastian should permit Blanche to depart in ignorance of her real condition, he reflected, that she must go with either a sentiment of curiosity about the concealed motives of her parents, or with a sentiment of disappointment at their seemingly-lukewarm affection: continual deception must be practised on her; and bearing away with her no quickening principle of anxiety, her filial love would soon languish.

The remembrance of her happy home, would, from its very happiness, only serve to excuse her to herself for ceasing to feel an animated interest in its inhabitants; and delivering up her young mind to the charms and novelties of a gay life, she would perhaps lose much of her goodness and all her simplicity.

These reflections decided Sebastian, for Kara Aziek had decided at first, from the mere impulse of feeling.

Having left his Aziek seeking additional strength at that sacred source whence human virtue is derived, he sought Gaspar, and imparted to him the resolution to which he had brought himself: Gaspar’s emotion was purely joyful; he neither dreaded dangers nor difficulties, oceans, nor dungeons, when the prospect of being useful to his King lay before him.

His sanguine nature made him certain that he should not be long separated from Sebastian: the destruction of Spanish tyranny, and the restoration of Portugal, were events that he concluded must follow the interference of England; he was but leading his sweet young mistress to a triumph, not to a struggle; he was but going to make the path broad and open which led back to the throne of her ancestors.

“We part, Sire! it is true;” he said, “yet what is our parting?—we shall meet again, and meet in happiness. I feel that Providence has now set a period to your trials: this is the epoch destined for the recovery of your former possessions.—We shall reach England—England will raise her powerful arm, and as if by magic, the whole mass of foreign tyranny will crumble to dust. My honoured young mistress will then be given to the Portuguese as a pledge that their beloved sovereign yet lives, and will condescend to reign over them: you will arrive, Sire, to find in your own kingdom, power, adoration, and happiness!”

“Not adoration Gaspar,” said Sebastian, smiling kindly, “not adoration, that is an impious tribute to kings, which, thank God, I never required, nay, which I abhorred, even in my proudest day.—If I may regain the love of my people, by convincing them that a parental tenderness for them glows in this time-tried heart, I shall indeed rejoice that the meridian hours of my life are not to pass away at Cachoeira. Marvellous destiny! (he added after a thoughtful pause) shall I ever again find myself the ruler of a mighty nation—the arbiter of their fates—the earthly God to punish and to reward?—When I look back to the period in which I was this powerful creature, it seems to me a long-past dream; suffering and seclusion, the only realities!”

“Not so, Sire!” gravely observed Gaspar, “you are a sovereign and a God at Cachoeira; you are the happiest of husbands and of fathers,—and do you say that there are no realities but suffering and seclusion?”

Sebastian fixed his eyes on him, with a look of generous approval, “Ever, my friend!” he exclaimed; “ever watchful over my character as much as my interest! I spoke, Gaspar, in a way too familiar with me: I spoke from the impression of one recollection only; I remembered therefore my losses, and forgot my possessions. Be satisfied, my soul is fully sensible of the rare blessings I enjoy. Had I not lost my liberty and crown, I should never have been the happy father and husband, never have opened my eyes on the light of pure Christianity: this thought makes me consider my misfortunes as benefits.”

Gaspar expressed his satisfaction at so ingenuous a confession of error, and proceeded to name the time and preparations that would be required, ere he could commence his voyage.

He knew that merchant-ships were then in the bay of St. Salvador, bound for St. Lucar: in one of these, it was agreed he should procure a passage for himself and his young charge, with whom he might easily proceed from St. Lucar to Messina.

Nothing was more common than for the children of Brazilian settlers to be sent to Europe for their education or health, and one of these motives would certainly be attributed to Blanche’s separation from her parents, should any persons think such an event of sufficient consequence to employ their thoughts.

Charged with securing the cabin of the merchant-ship, and with providing all things requisite for a tedious voyage, Gaspar hastened to St. Salvador, leaving sadness in that house, which until now, never knew more than the shadow of passing clouds.

The interview with his daughter was a trying hour to Sebastian: Kara Aziek declined being present: her heart dreaded itself; and the nearer drew the moment in which she was to make the sacrifice demanded, the more her fears and her agitation increased.

“If I should fail at last!” she constantly repeated to herself, while striving to strengthen her resolution by the recollection of Sebastian’s commendations; “if I should disappoint his trust in my promise of submission! ah God! pity me, succour me, support my feeble spirit, and give me that added confidence in thy mercy, that added tenderness for his feelings, which may successfully wrestle against the despair of a mother.”

Impressed with a sense of her own weakness, Kara Aziek fled from every scene which could enervate her still further, courageous from that very tenderness of character, with which her courage had to struggle, she refused to herself the luxury of indulging her grief, and of participating in that affecting interview which must increase it.

While she surrounded herself by various occupations, forcibly wresting her mind towards the interest of others, Sebastian was unfolding to their daughter the wonderful story of his youth.

Her amazement and sympathy may be imagined; they were in proportion to the sensibility of her character: but Sebastian looked beyond these, and as he slowly related the events of his life, and pointed out the lessons to be learned from them, he watched their effect on her who might hereafter need such beacons to guide her in the same course.

A serious joy warmed his heart, when he beheld the impression made by the knowledge of her birth: looks of trouble and apprehension were instantly diffused over her features: she was not ambitious therefore: to inspire her with zeal for her own rights, it would be requisite to teach her the benevolent purposes to which they might be directed.

No parts of her father’s narrative so absorbed the attention of Blanche, as those which related to her mother. While Sebastian detailed the variety of Kara Aziek’s destiny, and the transitions from pain to pleasure which they had had mutually endured, the eyes of Blanche alternately shone with the brightness of joy, or fell to the ground blinded with tears. It was evident, that from the moment Kara Aziek appeared upon the scene, her affectionate child saw in her love the best blessing of life, and ceasing to think of her father’s loftier anxieties, was solely interested in reaching the moment which gave her parents to each other.

Once, and only once, did her agitated heart burst through the restraint which delicate timidity, and filial respect had imposed: it was at the description of Sebastian’s return to Portugal, at the reception of Donna Gonsalva, and the conversation of the two noblemen at the house of Lopez Vernara.

Powerfully moved by these incidents, she suddenly threw herself on the bosom of her father, exclaiming, in a voice broken by sobs, “Ah send me not to such a dreadful world! let me not live with people who have thus outraged my dearest father!”

Much affected by a sensibility as just as it was exquisite, Sebastian strained her to his breast, and lifting up the scattered ringlets from her cheek, he kissed it fondly. That roseate cheek, those eyes now closed with grief, but lovely still from the long lashes which fringed them, the soft arms that twined around his neck, and the beautiful tresses which fell dishevelled over them, all these were so like his Aziek’s, that he repeated his caresses, and abandoned to a moment of weakness, whispered, “Should I not risk all things to go with my child?”

At this unexpected dawn of hope, Blanche raised her face, the sunshine of happy youth was on it. “O my father;” she cried, “let us go together!—my mother, my dear mother too—we cannot live without her.”

Sebastian had now recovered himself, and sorrowing to destroy the illusion his own words had raised, he proceeded in a calmer tone, to explain to her the weighty reasons which rendered it necessary for him to trust the judgment of De Castro, and to act by his suggestion: he alone could decide on the prudence of measures, which must be influenced by the conduct of those potentates amongst whom he was acting.

Blanche had been early taught to yield to the voice of reason: the moment she was convinced that what she wished was hostile to her better interests, or blameable in itself, she ceased to form a wish on the subject. She submitted to the commands of duty, as to the irreversible decrees of Heaven.

This valuable habit of moral obedience, now enabled her to acquiesce in the dreary prospect of separating from her parents, and committing herself to a world, of which the history had made her afraid. She wept bitterly; but she frequently repeated, that she saw her father could not in justice to himself and his country, and in gratitude to those friends who were now risking their lives for his sake by secret correspondence with the enemies of Philip, do otherwise than grant them some rallying point like herself.

Sebastian contemplated her as she sat struggling against her grief, kissing his hands and looking at him with humid smiles: Sebastian contemplated her with many an admiring thought. He contrasted her character and conduct with what his own had been at a much more forward period of youth: at that period the whole globe was scarce large enough for his tempestuous passions to rage in. Shame and compunction were on his brow. “Blanche,” he exclaimed, “if the certainty that you possess the fullest love, the most perfect approbation of your father, can give comfort to your heart, be assured that you do possess them—never my child, never were you half so dear or so estimable to me, as at this moment.”

Blanche started from her seat, and threw herself before him; Sebastian bent towards her, and holding her against his breast in the lovely attitude in which she had placed herself, he resumed his discourse. “Cultivate this self-government which ennobles you thus in a parent’s eyes!—O my daughter, self-government is dignity, is happiness, is dominion!—’tis the secret of disarming adversity of its sting—’tis the virtue which comprehends all others—’tis that which will entitle you to a crown in Heaven!—Had I been like thee, my child, at this instant I should have nothing to reproach myself with; I should have been dwelling in the house of my fathers, and I should not have had to send my innocent Blanche into a faithless world in search of that possession which my folly threw away.”

He stopt, and several deep sighs followed his words. Blanche kissed his hand with repressed ardour; her timid voice trembled as she spoke. “You have profited by your chastisements, dearest father, or how should I have become the character you praise?—ah me! shall I always remain so? your virtues have sprung up out of your trials; and mine perhaps may die under them.”

Struck with the justice of this observation, and charmed with the salutary humility which it proved, her gratified father pursued the theme she had begun, and discoursing on principles and passions, on trials and temptations, forgot the lapse of time.

Kara Aziek’s voice near the windows of the apartment in which they sat, roused him to recollection, and taking Blanche by the hand, he went forth to join her mother.

By the same impulse, Kara Aziek and her daughter pressed each other in their arms without speaking; Sebastian approached, and drew them towards him! he too was silent: after some moments of extreme emotion, they recovered themselves, and rose from this sad embrace. The faces of Kara Aziek and Blanche were bathed in tears, that of Sebastian was pale, but more composed.

As if by tacit agreement, no one ventured to speak of the only subject that engrossed their thoughts: their conversation was serious, and interrupted by long pauses, but it was evidently connected with their most interesting reflections.

Not till she was alone with her daughter, a few days previous to her departure, had Kara Aziek courage to name the trial they were about to encounter: at this instant fortitude forsook her, and the weeping Blanche beheld for the first time, her gentle and hitherto patient mother, given up to an agony of despair.

Periods like these, are not those in which human comfortings avail: the soul must seek and find its comforter in itself. It must be habituated to believe that all the decrees of Heaven are wise and good; then will sorrow gradually subside, and a consolation past utterance will succeed to distraction.

Experience had taught this most precious lesson to Kara Aziek; for often had she had occasion to feel in her own person, and through that of her husband, that

The silent caresses and touching tears of her daughter, contributed to console, rather than to afflict her: so sweet, so amiable, so excellent a creature, was she not destined to ornament and to bless mankind?—The heart of a fond mother answered in the affirmative; and like the sick person who courageously bears the crisis of a disorder when the paroxysm is expected to work his cure, she roused herself to support a parting which she hoped would lead to permanent re-union.

Though flattering herself that many months would not elapse ere the path should be open for Sebastian’s return to Portugal, she exhorted Blanche, as if their separation were to endure for years: her admonitions were few and impressive; she had nothing new to teach her daughter, but what she had been hitherto teaching her every day by example rather than precept, she now summed up, in easily-remembered maxims.

This discourse with her mother was never forgotten by Blanche.

Gaspar had provided the accommodations requisite for his young mistress; all their arrangements were completed, and the day was fixed for the sailing of the vessel which was to convey them to Europe. Sebastian confided to his friend a packet for Don Emanuel De Castro, signifying the extent to which he would engage himself with any foreign power willing to assist him: this packet contained also a letter to Queen Elizabeth, which Blanche was to deliver at their first meeting.

Sebastian had written with the dignity of a King, and the tenderness of a father: by the warmth of his paternal expressions, he sought to make her sensible that she could not hope to injure or distress his child with impunity. He expressed himself strongly, yet with such courtly address, that although Elizabeth must feel his meaning, and see his doubts, she could not openly reply to them.

The hour of separation drew near; the ship was to sail on the morrow.

Having resolved to let no other objects share her heart with her parents, at that moment in which she alone would occupy theirs, Blanche took leave of the Indians on the preceding evening: their uncontrolled lamentations affected her powerfully; and it was not till the night was far advanced, that she recovered from the mournful impression.

Day-break awoke her: when she first opened her eyes at the rustling of the breeze among the tall tops of a grove of Magnolias, when she saw their beautiful foliage, and heard the birds singing from their branches, she felt a sudden shock; for this was the last time in which she should see these trees, or feel this air!

She was going far away! she was going from her parents! at this conviction a death-like sickness oppressed her very heart; she sunk back on her pillow, and believing the effort impossible, resigned herself to an excess of despair. The tears which she shed in floods, gradually relieved her feelings, and left them more obedient to her will: she repeated to herself the injunctions and arguments of her parents, she strove to fix a short period for the continuance of their separation, and having recourse to devotion, was enabled to quit her chamber with a tolerably serene countenance.

It was yet early day; no one else was stirring, and Blanche rose thus soon, that she might take a parting look at the recent grave of Barémel.

This playmate and guardian of her infant days, had died of old age, and was buried by Sebastian himself under a cluster of Palmito’s in his garden. No stone, with indecent resemblance to the monument of departed man, marked the place where he laid; but a circle of plaited reeds enclosed the little mound, and Blanche often stole there, to cover the bed of her favorite with flowers.

She now moved lightly and timidly towards it, half-ashamed of a sensibility it was amiable to feel. O lovely season of youth! how sweet art thou to behold, with thy attendant graces of modesty, susceptibility, and self-distrust!

The colours of the blooming flowers through which she passed painted the soft complexion of Blanche; hers was the complexion that announced a tender and intelligent heart, for it varied with every thought and every feeling; it was now flushed with strong emotion.

She approached Barémel’s grave, and was going to throw herself upon it with a violence of sorrow pardonable at her early age, when she was checked by the apprehension of its being criminal.—“Yet he was so loving, and faithful!” she exclaimed, tears trembling in her eyes, “I think it cannot be wrong to remember him with affection.” Her innocent heart decided in the affirmative, and sitting down near the grassy heap, she strewed it with blossoms, and gave loose to her tears.

Her mind was quickly thronged with long-past images: different epochs of holidays and festivals in which Barémel had constantly performed some amusing part; passed in review before her. She remembered his joyful bark, his supplicating whine, his watchful and loving looks, his unwearied attendance of her from infancy to youth, over all the romantic region that surrounded Cachoeira. “Poor Barémel! I can never see thee again!” she said, sighing: that apostrophe conveyed to her heart a salutary exhortation to take comfort on a far dearer subject.

She was indeed going to quit her parents, but not for ever; they were yet in the flower of their lives, and Providence therefore permitted her to anticipate their future re-union. Blanche was of a grateful disposition; she loved to be happy, and far from partaking in the nature of those wretchedly tempered spirits who seem to feast on discontent, and refuse to be comforted; she opened her soul to admit the smallest particle of consolation.

Her reflections now assumed a more serious cast, (for they were employed in enumerating the mercies she yet possessed, and those she might anticipate without presumption,) but they were no longer afflicting: anxious to seize this moment of resignation for appearing before her parents, she got up, and giving a long look of regret to the resting-place of her early companion, turned homeward.

Sebastian was advancing in search of her: “I have only been to look at poor Barémel’s grave,” she said blushing, “since you have told me all that I owe to him, his memory has become almost sacred to me, he saved my dear father’s life.”

Blanche added the last sentence with trepidation which shewed she was eager to give an honorable excuse for what might have been deemed a weakness. Sebastian pressed her hand as he led her forward: “like thy mother in all things!” he observed, “ever diffident of thy best and most engaging actions!”

They proceeded in silence to the apartment of Kara Aziek: she had yet many things to say, or to repeat, and she was now gathering fortitude to pronounce them calmly. Blanche sat down between her parents: each held one of her hands, and frequently pressed it; but as yet, none of them spoke: their eyes were fixed on the ground.

Why is it that the dearest connexions, when about to lose sight of each other, avoid looking on the countenance they love, and which they will so soon long to behold again? is it that the soul instinctively prepares for its calamity, and tries to soften the pang by gradual abandonment of its enjoyments? or is it that grief would be uncontrollable if those delightful feelings were indulged which we are conscious must end with the removal of the person beloved?

Whatever be the motive, its effect was seen in the family at Cachoeira: they remained silent and immovable, drawing by stealth long and interrupted sighs. They were summoning resolution to speak of parting.

At this moment Gaspar hastily entered; every eye was raised towards him: “The ship sails an hour earlier than we expected, a messenger has just come from St. Salvador to say so, we have not an instant to lose.”

Kara Aziek uttered a loud shriek, and clasped her daughter in her arms; they had started up at Gaspar’s first words, and now remained clinging to each other. Tears, sobs, broken exclamations, embraces repeated again and again, were the witnesses of their sorrow.

Gaspar called on them to remember the fatal consequence of delay: almost subdued himself, he yet had courage to appear barbarous, that he might shorten the pangs of others.

Blanche heard him not: she flung herself alternately from the arms of one parent to those of the other, and as she deluged their bosoms with her tears, she called on them to assure her that their separation should not be eternal.

Cold damps stood on the brow of Sebastian, for the pains of death were in his heart, but his eyes were tearless. Kara Aziek was like one frantic; her softness had given place to a wild and resisting despair: she clung to her child, and no remonstrances had power to loosen her grasp!

Sebastian trembled for her reason, and that fear gave him strength to accomplish what he knew to be indispensible. He advanced towards his wife, forcibly, yet tenderly, unlocked her hands as they met round the waist of Blanche, and hastily pushing his daughter towards Gaspar, exclaimed, “Go, go my child! if you would not kill your mother. I have, I have blessed you—I bless you again.”

Gaspar had seized the arm of Blanche, while his agitated master was trying to detain Kara Aziek; he now led the former towards the door, and lifting her up, ran with her from the house to the caloche which was to carry them to St. Salvador.

On reaching the carriage, he found that she had fainted; less alarmed at this natural effect of sorrow, than he would have been grieved by her lamentations, he got into the vehicle, and supporting her against his shoulder, proceeded to bathe her temples with a pungent essence he usually wore about him.

His exertion succeeded, Blanche revived: she looked round, and seeing herself on the road, she knew that all hope of present change was desperate: her eyes closed again, but it was only to weep with less obviousness, and to preserve their last look of her parents.