The Fugitive. A TRUE TALE.

Judah Azavédo was the only son of a rich Jewish merchant, settled in London. His grandfather, a native and resident of Portugal, having witnessed the fearful proceedings of the Inquisition on some of his relations and friends, secretly followers of Israel, as himself, fled to Holland, bearing with him no inconsiderable property. This, through successful commerce, swelled into wealth; and when, on his death, his son, with his wife and child, removed to England, and settled in the metropolis, they were considered, alike in birth, education and riches, one of the very highest families of the proud and aristocratic Portuguese.

But the situation of the Jews in England, some eighty or ninety years ago, was very different to their situation now. Riches, nay, even moral and mental dignity, were not then the passport to society and friendliness. Lingering prejudice, still predominant in the hearts of the English, and pride and nationality equally strong in the Hebrew, kept both parties aloof, so that no advance could be made on either side, and each remained profoundly ignorant of the other, not alone on the subject of opposing creeds, but of actual character.

This, though certainly a social evil, was, in some respects, as concerned the Israelites, a national good. It drew them more closely, more kindly together; aliens and strangers to the children of other lands, the true followers of their persecuted creed were as brothers. Rich or poor, it mattered not. Hebrews and Portuguese were the ties in common, and the joy or grief of one family was the joy or grief of all. Fashion was little thought of. Heartlessness and that false pride which forswears relation to or connection with poverty were unknown. Faults, no doubt they had; but a more kindly, noble-hearted set of men, in their own sphere, than the Spanish and Portuguese Jews, nearly a hundred years ago, never had existence.

The restlessness and over-sensitiveness of Judah Azavédo was a subject of as much surprise to his nation as of regret to his father. Sole heir to immense wealth—unencumbered with business—nothing to occupy him but his own pleasure—gifted with unusual mental powers—dignified in figure—a kindly and most winning manner, when he chose to exert it; yet was his whole life embittered by the morbid sensitiveness with which he regarded his most unfortunate lack of all attraction in face and feature. He was absolutely and disagreeably plain; we would say ugly, did we not so exceedingly dislike the word. Yet there were times when the glow of mind, or still more warmth of heart, would throw such a soft and gentle expression over the almost deformed features, that their natural disfigurement ceased to be remembered. Those who knew him never felt any difference between him and his fellow-men, save in his superior heart and mind; but Azavédo himself always imagined that, wherever he went he must be an object of derision or dislike. He shrunk from all society, particularly from that of females, who, he was convinced, would be terrified even to look at him. Entreaties, commands, and remonstrances were vain. Could he have known more, mingled more with the world at large, these morbid feelings would, in time, have been rubbed off; but in his very limited circle of familiar friends this was impossible, and the evil, in consequence, each year increased.

To the Israelites of ninety years ago, the idea of travelling for pleasure was incomprehensible; they were too happy, too grateful to the land which gave them rest and peace, to think of quitting it for any other. That Judah Azavédo should restlessly desire to leave England, and seek excitement in foreign lands, was in accordance with all his other extraordinary feelings; but that his father, the wise, sedate, contented old man, whose every hope and affection were centred in this son, should give his consent, was more extraordinary still; and many, in kindness, sought to dissuade him from it. But Azavédo loved his son too well to permit old habits and prejudices to interfere with the only indulgence Judah had ever asked: he gave him his blessing and carte blanche with regard to gold, and the young man forthwith departed.

He was absent three years, having travelled as far as the East, and visited every scene endeared to him as one of that favoured race for whom the sea itself had been divided. He had looked on misery, in so many varied forms, as the portion of his nation, that he felt reproached and ashamed at his own repinings. He learnt that only sin and crime could authorize the misery he had endured; that he was an immortal being, and one whose earthly lot was blessed so much above thousands of his brethren, that he only marvelled his sin of discontent had not called down on him the wrath of God. His soul seemed suddenly free from fetters, and he moved among his fellow-men fearless and unabashed.

Notwithstanding the danger of such a route—for, if known, or even suspected as a Hebrew, he would inevitably have perished—Judah chose to return home through Spain and Portugal, making himself known to some friends of his family still dwelling in the latter kingdom. With them he remained some few months, and then it was that a new emotion awoke within him, chaining him effectually, ere aware of its existence. From his earliest youth Judah had dreaded, and so forsworn love, feeling it next to impossible for him ever to be loved in return; but Love laughs at such forswearers. Before he could analyse why that bitterness against his unhappy ugliness should return, when he had thought it so successfully conquered, he loved with the full passionate fervour of his race and his own peculiar disposition, and loved one of whom he could learn nothing, trace nothing, know nothing, save that she was so surpassingly lovely, that though he had seen her but three times, never near, and only once without her veil, her beauty both of face and form lingered on his memory as indelibly engraved as if it had lain there for years, and then had been called into existence by some strangely awakening flash. She was as unknown to his friends as to himself; only at the Opera had she been visible; no inquiry, no search could elicit information. Once only he had heard the sound of her voice, and it breathed music as thrilling and transporting as the beauty of her face. Yet was she neither saintlike nor angelic; it was an arch witchery, a shadowless glee, infused with the nameless, descriptionless, but convincing charm of mind.

Judah Azavédo returned home an altered man, yet still no one could understand him. He no longer morbidly shunned society, nor even cared to eschew the company of females, seeming as wholly careless and insensible to the effects of his presence as he had before thought too much about it. Some said he was scornfully proud; others, that it was impenetrable reserve: all agreed that he was changed, but only his most intimate friends could perceive that he was unhappy, and from some deep-seated sorrow essentially distinct from the feelings engrossing him when he left England, and that this one feeling it was which rendered him so totally indifferent to everything else.

Three, nearly four years elapsed, and Azavédo, in character and habits, remained the same. His father was dead, leaving him immense wealth, which he used nobly and generously, winning “golden opinions” from every class and condition of men, who, at the same time, wished that they could quite understand him; and so we must leave him to waft our readers over the salt seas, and introduce them to a more southern land and a very different person.

In a luxuriously furnished apartment of a beautiful little villa, a few miles from Lisbon, was seated a lady of that extraordinary beauty which ever fastens on the memory as by some strange spell. Not more than three or four and twenty, all the freshness of girlhood was so united to the more mature graces of woman, that it was often difficult to say to which of these two periods of life she belonged. Her large, lustrous, jet-black eye, and the small, pouting mouth, alike expressed at will either the mischievous glee of a mirth-loving girl or the high-souled intellectuality of maturer woman. Hair of that deep, dark brown, only to be distinguished from black when the sunshine falls upon it, lay in rich masses and braids around the beautifully shaped head, and giving, from the contrast, yet more dazzling fairness to the pure complexion of face and throat which it shaded; the brow, so “thought-thronged” when at rest, yet lit up, when eye and mouth so willed, with such arch, laughter-loving glee; but we must pause, for the pen can never do beauty justice, and even if it did, would be accused of exaggeration, although there yet remains those who, from personal acquaintance, can still bear witness to its truth.

A gentleman was standing near her as she sat on her sofa, in the busy idleness of embroidery; and as part of their conversation may elucidate our tale, we will record it briefly as may be.

“Then you refused him?”

“Can you ask?” and the lightning flash of the lady’s dark eye betrayed unwonted indignation. “He who would have so tempted a helpless girl of seventeen—I was then no more, though I had been married nearly a year—under such specious reasoning, that I dreamed not his drift till the words of actual insult came; sought to sow suspicion and distrust in my heart against my husband, his own brother, to serve his vile purposes: and you ask me if I refused him, when, being once more free to wed, he dared pollute me with his abhorred addresses! Julian, my fair cousin, have you so forgotten Inez?”

“If I had, that indignant burst would have recalled her; but of insult, remember, I knew nothing. You were married when so young, to a man so much older than yourself, that when I heard of his death, three years ago, I fancied, as you know is often the case with us, you would have married his younger brother, so much more suitable in point of qualities and years.”

“More suitable! Wrong again, cousin mine. If I did not love my husband, I respected, honoured him—yes, loved him too as a father; but as for Don Pedro, as men call him, Julian, I would rather have trusted the tender mercies of the Inquisition than I would him, and so I told him.”

“You could not have been so mad!”

“In sober truth, I was feeling too thoroughly indignant to weigh my words. It matters not, he dare not work me harm, for the secret on which alone he can, involves his safety as well as mine.”

“I wish I could think so; there are many to say that he is in truth what he appears to be, and therefore one most dangerous to offend.”

“I fear him as little as I scorn him much. I have heard this report before, but heed it not at all. Our holy cause loses little in the apostasy of such a member.”

“It may be so, Inez; but he holds the lives of others in his keeping, and therefore revenge is easily obtained.”

“You will not frighten me, Julian, try as you may. They say Pedro Benito is ill, almost to death—I am sorry for him, for I know no one more unfit to die; but I have far too much pride to fear him, believe me. Better he should injure me, than I my own soul in uniting it with his. See,” she continued, laughing, as she pointed to the portly figure of a Dominican priest pushing his mule up the steep ascent leading to the villa, in such evident haste and trepidation as to occasion some amusement to his beholders; “there is more fear there than I shall ever feel. What can the poor priest need? Do you know him, Julian? comes he to you or me?”

“I trust to neither, Inez, for such hot haste bodes little good.”

“Why, now, what a craven you have grown! I will disown you for my cousin if you pluck not up more spirit, man!”

Julian Alvarez tried to give as jesting a reply, but succeeded badly, his spirits feeling strangely anxious and oppressed. He was spared further rallying on the part of Inez, by the sudden reappearance of the priest (whom they had lost sight of by a curve in the ascent), without his mule, at the private entrance of Inez’s own garden, and without ceremony or question neared the window. Inez addressed him courteously, though with evident surprise; the priest seemed not to heed her words, but laying his hand on her arm, said, in a deep, low tone—

“Donna Inez, this is no time for courtesy or form. Daughter, fly! even now the bloodhounds are on the track. The scent has been given; a dying man proclaimed you a Jewess in hearing of others besides his confessor, else had you been still safe and free. Ere two hours, nay, in less time, they will be here. Away! pause not for thought; seek to save nothing but life, too precious for such sacrifice. A vessel lies moored below, which a brisk hour’s walk will reach. She sails for England the moment the wind shifts; secure a passage in her, and trust in the God of Israel for the rest.”

“And who are you who thus can care for me, knowing that which I am?” answered the lady, in accents low as the supposed priest’s, but far less faltering, and only evincing the shock she had sustained by the sudden whiteness of cheek and lip.

“Men call me—think me, Padre José, my child; but were I such you had not seen me here. That which you are am I, and because I thought Pedro Benito the same, I stood beside his death-bed. Vengeance and apostasy went hand in hand. Ask no more, but hence at once; how may those fragile limbs bear the rack—the flames? Senor Alvarez, shake off this stupor, or it will be too late!”

Julian did indeed stand as paralysed, so suddenly and fearfully were his worst fears confirmed. Fly! and from all, home, friends, luxury, to be poor and dependent in a strange land! It was even so; the voice of vengeance had betrayed the fatal secret of race and faith, the very first whisper of which consigned to the Inquisition—but another word for torture and death. In two short hours, part of which had already gone, Inez had to find the vessel, be received on board, and leave no trace whatever of her way. Her very domestics must suspect nothing, or discovery would inevitably ensue. And yet, in the midst of all this sudden accumulation of misfortune, Inez but once betrayed emotion.

“Julian, Julian, my boy!” she exclaimed, her sole answer to the reiterated entreaties of her companions for her to depart at once; “what will they not do to him?”

“Nothing, lady; he shall be with me till he can rejoin you. Who will suspect Padre José of harbouring an Israelite save to convert him to the Holy Faith?”

Inez caught the old man’s hand, her lip and eyelids quivering convulsively; but even the passion of choking tears was conquered by the power of mind. In less than half an hour she was walking, at a brisk pace, through the shrubberies, in the direction of the river, enveloped in mantilla and veil, and Julian Alvarez carrying a small parcel, containing the few jewels which she could collect, and one or two articles of clothing, the all that the mistress of thousands could save from the rapacious hands which, under the garb of religion, were ever stretched out to confiscate and to destroy.

Scarcely had they quitted the shrubberies, after nearly an hour’s brisk walking, and entered the high road, their only path, when about a dozen men, in the full livery of the Holy Office, were clearly discernible on a slight rising not half a mile beyond them, pushing their horses so as directly to face them, and advancing at full speed. To turn back was to excite suspicion, to meet them, tempt discovery. Fortunately a small enclosure of tall larches and thick firs lay forward, a little to the left, and there Inez impelled her bewildered companion, walking as carelessly, to all appearance, as taking a saunter for amusement. They saw the troop rapidly advance, pause exactly in front of their hiding-place, look round inquiringly; one or two spurred forwards, as to beat the bushes; a man’s step at the same time sounded in their rear—his dress fanned them as he passed: it was one of Donna Inez’s own labourers. They heard him hailed as he appeared, and questions asked, of which they heard nothing, but that wordless sound of voices so torturing to those who deem that life or death are hanging on the words. A few minutes—feeling hours—the conference lasted; some direction, loudly repeated along the file, betrayed that their questions only related to their further route to the Villa Benito, and the horses galloped on.

Without exchanging a syllable, Inez and her companion hurried forward. It was still full half-an-hour’s walk to the river, the sun was declining, and the wind had risen fresh and balmy; but while Julian rejoiced in its reviving power, he trembled lest it should be bearing his cousin’s only chance of safety farther from them. Their pace was brisk as could be, yet every step seemed clogged with lead, and weary felt the way, till the river’s brink was gained. Bathed in the lingering glow of a magnificent sunset, the bright waters lay before them, and every sail spread, gliding softly yet swiftly on her course, they beheld the longed-for vessel receding from their sight.

For one minute they stood, gazing on the departing ship, as mute, as feelingless as stone, save to the horrible consciousness that flight was over, all hope of escape must be vain. But great emergencies prevent the continuance of despair. Ere Julian had recovered the stupor of alike disappointment and dread, Inez had hailed the boatman, and drawing a diamond ring of immense value from her hand, bade him place her in safety on board the English vessel, and it should be his. The man hesitated, then swore it was worth the trial, and very speedily a boat was ready, manned by four stout rowers impatient as herself.

“And now farewell, dear Julian!” she said, calmly, taking the parcel from his hand, and looking in his astonished face with her own sweet smile. “You go no farther; I will not risk your life, so precious to your wife and children, because I weakly fear to meet my destiny alone. Do not attempt to argue with me, it will be useless, as you ought to know. Look to my poor boy, he needs you more than I do.” Her voice sunk to a thrilling whisper: “The God we both serve bless you, and keep you from a similar fate.”

She wrung his hand, and lightly springing into the boat, it was pushed off, and rapidly cutting the yielding waters, ere Julian Alvarez recovered sufficiently from his emotion to speak even a farewell word. And now, with feelings wrought almost to agony, he watched a chase seemingly so utterly vain. For some time the vessel still kept ahead, but the efforts of the rowers in no degree relaxed. He heard their stentorian hail repeated by the innumerable echoes on the shore, but still there seemed no answer. Again, and yet again! It is fancy. No, the sails are lowered, the vessel’s speed is diminished, till the boat appears almost alongside. Julian strained his gaze, while his very heart felt to have ceased beating, in the sickening fear that even now her flight might be prevented by a refusal to receive her. He could discern no more, for twilight had gathered round him, and interminable seemed the interval till the boat returned with the blessed assurance that the Senora was safe on board.

Night fell; the lovely southern night, with its silvery moonshine on the gleaming waters, its glistening stars, appearing suspended in the upper air as globes of liquid light, with its fresh, soft breezes, bearing such sweet scents from the odoriferous shores, that a poet might have fancied angelic spirits were abroad, making the atmosphere luminous with their pure presence, and every breeze fragrant with their luscious breath.

Inez sat upon the deck, a fugitive, and alone. She who, only the evening previous, had been the centre of a brilliant group, whose halls had sounded with the voice of revelry, the blithesome dance, whence aught of sorrow seemed so far away as to be but a name, not a reality. To us, looking back on the extraordinary fact of the most Catholic kingdoms being literally peopled with secret Jews, whose property and life might be sacrificed from one hour to another, it appears incomprehensible that security or happiness could ever have existed, and still more difficult to understand what secret feeling it was which thus bound them to a country where, acknowledged or discovered, Judaism was death, when there were other parts of the globe where they could be protected and received. Yet so it was, and there are still families in England to trace their descent from those who, like the Senora Benito, were compelled to fly at an hour’s warning, saving little else than life.

Some spirits would have sunk under a misfortune so sudden, so overwhelming in its details, but Inez rose above it. She had nothing to look to but her own resources; the few valuables she had secreted would, she knew, soon be exhausted, did she depend on them alone. She was going to a land where she knew not one, her only credentials being a letter hurriedly written by her cousin to one of his friends in London. Loneliness, privation, care, and even manual toil, all awaited her, child as she had been of luxury and wealth, lavish as it was believed exhaustless; yet, as she looked forth on the glorious night with her star-lit dome, as she inhaled the sweet breath of a thousand flowers floating on the breeze, she knew she was not forsaken. He who cared for all nature would still more care for her, and, when the spirit is at peace, how lightly is all of sorrow borne.

The unusual stir in the harbour, which they reached about midnight, attracted the attention not only of Inez but of the captain and crew. On stopping at the quay for passengers and freight, he was told that the vessel must remain at anchor, no English ship being allowed to leave the harbour until it had received a visit from the officers of the Inquisition, in search of a female fugitive suspected of Judaism, who, having effectually disappeared from her home, was supposed to have taken refuge in some English vessel, the general receivers of heretics and unbelievers.

“I halt not at any man’s beck or bidding!” was the proud reply. “England owns no Inquisitional supremacy. Had any such fugitive taken refuge in my ship, no power of the Inquisition, backed by the whole kingdom, should force me to give her up.”

Time for reply or seizure there was none. Every sail spread at the word of command, and almost bending beneath her weight of canvas, the gallant ship, with her right English-hearted crew, sped on to sea.

Inez had seen all, felt all—but though her heart beat quicker, no word or sign betrayed it. She saw the captain look hastily on her, and for a terrible moment she knew not whether the glance of discovery, for such it was, would be followed by her surrender or her safety. His words speedily reassured her, and sent her to the berth provided for her comfort, with more care than for any other passenger, with the grateful feeling that all of danger was indeed at end. She was in England’s keeping, and no Inquisition could work her harm.

Nor was it the mere excitement of misfortune which so endowed her with courage to endure. She retained not only firmness but liveliness during the voyage, and when received in England with the most hospitable kindness by Julian’s friends, gaily consulted them on the best means of subsistence—whether to take in plain work or enter upon the business of fancy confectionary, for both of which her convent education had well fitted her. And what with her brilliant beauty, her sparkling wit, and readiness of repartee, ere two days had passed she had completely fascinated old and young.

The evening of the third day, Mr. Nunez’s family had been engaged to spend with a friend living a few miles from London. On sending to state that a Portuguese lady staying with them would prevent their going, an entreaty was instantly forwarded that she would accompany them.

“What, go! and my whole wardrobe consists of this one dress?” was her laughing reply. “I shall bring shame on your fashionable reputation, my kind friends.”

They assured her that dress was of little consequence, and even if it were, she need not be alarmed, being more likely to bring them fame by the fashion of her face than shame by the plainness of her robe; which, by the way, a rich black velvet, set off the dazzling clearness of her complexion more becomingly than the most carefully assorted garb.

To the house of their friend, in consequence, they went; and the beautiful stranger, with her broken English, sweetly spoken Portuguese, and most romantic story, soon commanded universal attention.

Towards the middle of the evening a rapidly approaching carriage, followed by a thundering rap, announced the arrival of some new guest.

“That is Azavédo,” observed one, “I know him by the sound of his four horses. A strange fancy that, always sporting a carriage and four, when in everything else he has no pretension whatever. Did you expect him, Cordoza?” he asked of his host.

“He said he might look in on his way to Epping,” was the reply.

“What a changed man he is,” said another; “I remember when he literally loathed society, and shrunk from beauty, male or female, as if it stung him by the contrast with himself.”

“I have never heard him admire a woman yet though,” rejoined the first speaker. “I wonder if he will notice the beauty of to-night?”

Azavédo entered as he spoke, and, after addressing his host and hostess, began an earnest conversation with a friend near them.

A low, musical laugh from the centre of a merry group at the opposite end of the large drawing-room caused Azavédo suddenly so to start, with such an indescribable change of countenance, as to impel the anxious query whether he were ill. He answered hurriedly in the negative, but his friend perceiving his eye fixed on the group, eagerly entered on the story of the stranger, from whom the laugh had come, inviting him to join the circle round her. Somewhat hesitatingly he did so. Inez, in compliance with the customs of her own country, still wore her veil, which, in answer to the inquiry of some one near her as to the different fashions of wearing it in Portugal, she had drawn so closely round her as to hide every feature.

“Tell her that it is not the custom of English ladies to wear veils,” whispered Azavédo to his hostess, in tones of such strong and most unusual excitement, that she looked at him as if in doubt of his identity. His hint was acted upon, however, and Inez, with winning courtesy, soon after laid aside her veil.

Azavédo had become in some degree a man of the world, and it was well he was, or he might have found it difficult so to suppress inward emotion as to conceal it from those around him. He looked once more on the being who for four long years had in secret so occupied his heart, as never to permit the entrance of another image, or the faintest thought of another love. She was there, not only yet more radiant in finished loveliness than when he had first beheld her, but free, and of his own race and creed. And so exquisite were the feelings of the moment, that he feared to be introduced, lest her first glance upon his face, if it revealed the horror that he believed it would, should sentence him to misery.

That he had trembled needlessly was proved by his never leaving her side that evening. The lively spirits of the young stranger appeared, by some extraordinary species of mesmerism, to call forth the same from him; and lie conversed more brilliantly, more unreservedly, than he had ever before been known to do.

Judah Azavédo pursued his journey to his country-house, and Inez quietly fixed her residence with a Jewish family in London, and pursued her intention of taking in plain work; giving no more thought of her former affluence, save to wish that part had been spared for her boy, who, through the efforts of Padre José and Julian Alvarez, joined her about three weeks after her flight, bringing the information that every article belonging to her had been seized and confiscated.

Twice a week, then three times, and at length every day, did Azavédo, on some pretence or other, visit the fair fugitive. Folks talked and wondered, but for once he heeded neither. But why prolong our tale, claimed as it is by truth, however it may read like fiction? Not six weeks after Inez left Portugal, a fugitive for her very life, she became the wife of Judah Azavédo, the richest Hebrew in London, and the possessor of a love as warm and unwavering as was ever felt by man. But did she—could she—return it? Reader, we will not blazon the simplicity of truth with the false colouring of romance. She did not love him, in the general acceptation of the term, and she told him so, beseeching him to withdraw his offer, if his heart could not rest satisfied with the respect and gratitude which alone she felt. He thanked her for her candour, but the hand was not withdrawn, and they were married. Some biographers stop here, bidding the curious reader probe not too deeply into the history of wedded life. As regards our heroine, however, we shrink not from the probe. The romance of love before marriage she might not have known, but its reality afterwards she made so manifest, even when disease, joined to other infirmities, so tried her husband as to render him fretful and irritable, that there are still living some to assert that never was wife more tenderly affectionate, more devotedly faithful than was Inez Azavédo. Her extraordinary beauty seemed invulnerable to age, for I have heard it said that even in her coffin, and she lived to the full age of mortality, she retained it still.