the convent: I had, therefore, entrusted the cardinal-duke of Lerma with the whole affair, who immediately busied himself in obtaining the necessary bull. Fortunately, I had afterwards neglected to stop his proceedings. Not long since I received a letter from him, stating that he expected daily to receive the order from the court of Rome. Upon this I would willingly have relied; but the cardinal wrote me word, that I must find some means of conveying Agnes out of the convent, unknown to the prioress. He doubted not but this latter would be much incensed by losing a person of such high rank from her society, and consider the renunciation of Agnes as an insult to her house. He represented her as a woman of a violent and revengeful character, capable of proceeding to the greatest extremities. It was therefore to be feared lest, by confining Agnes in the convent, she should frustrate my hopes, and render the pope’s mandate unavailing. Influenced by this consideration, I resolved to carry off my mistress, and conceal her till the arrival of the expected bull in the cardinal-duke’s estate. He approved of my design, and professed himself ready to give a shelter to the fugitive. I next caused the new gardener of St. Clare to be seized privately, and confined in my hotel. By this means I became master of the key to the garden-door, and I had now nothing more to do than prepare Agnes for the elopement. This was done by the letter which you saw me deliver this evening. I told her in it, that I should be ready to receive her at twelve to-morrow night; that I had secured the key of the garden, and that she might depend upon a speedy release.
You have now, Lorenzo, heard the whole of my long narrative. I have nothing to say in my excuse, save that my intentions towards your sister have been ever the most honourable: that it has always been, and still is, my design to make her my wife; and that I trust, when you consider these circumstances, our youth, and our attachment, you will not only forgive our momentary lapse from virtue, but will aid me in repairing my faults to Agnes, and securing a lawful title to her person and her heart.
C
HAP
. V.
POPE.
Here the marquis concluded his adventures. Lorenzo, before he could determine on his reply, passed some moments in reflection. At length he broke silence.
“Raymond,” said he, taking his hand, “strict honour would oblige me to wash off in your blood the stain thrown upon my family; but the circumstances of your case forbid me to consider you as an enemy. The temptation was too great to be resisted. ’Tis the superstition of my relations which has occasioned these misfortunes, and they are more the offenders than yourself and Agnes. What has passed between you cannot be recalled, but may yet be repaired by uniting you to my sister. You have ever been, you still continue to be, my dearest, and indeed my only friend. I feel for Agnes the truest affection, and there is no one on whom I would bestow her more willingly than on yourself. Pursue, then, your design. I will accompany you to-morrow night, and conduct her myself to the house of the cardinal. My presence will be a sanction for her conduct, and prevent her incurring blame by her flight from the convent.”
The marquis thanked him in terms by no means deficient in gratitude. Lorenzo then informed him, that he had nothing more to apprehend from Donna Rodolpha’s enmity. Five months had already elapsed since, in an excess of passion, she broke a blood-vessel, and expired in the course of a few hours. He then proceeded to mention the interests of Antonia. The marquis was much surprised at hearing of this new relation. His father had carried his hatred of Elvira to the grave, and had never given the least hint that he knew what was become of his eldest son’s widow. Don Raymond assured his friend, that he was not mistaken in supposing him ready to acknowledge his sister-in-law, and her amiable daughter. The preparations for the elopement would not permit his visiting them the next day; but, in the mean while, he desired Lorenzo to assure them of his friendship, and to supply Elvira, upon his account, with any sums which she might want. This the youth promised to do, as soon as her abode should be known to him. He then took leave of his future brother, and returned to the palace de Medina.
The day was already on the point of breaking when the marquis retired to his chamber. Conscious that his narrative would take up some hours, and wishing to secure himself from interruption, on returning to the hotel he ordered his attendants not to sit up for him; consequently, he was somewhat surprised, on entering his anti-room, to find Theodore established there. The page sat near a table with a pen in his hand, and was so totally occupied by his employment, that he perceived not his lord’s approach. The marquis stopped to observe him. Theodore wrote a few lines, then paused, and scratched out a part of the writing; then wrote again, smiled, and seemed highly pleased with what he had been about. At last he threw down his pen, sprang from his chair, and clapped his hands together joyfully.
“There it is!” cried he aloud: “now they are charming!”
His transports were interrupted by a laugh from the marquis, who suspected the nature of his employment.
“What is so charming, Theodore?”
The youth started, and looked round: he blushed, ran to the table, seized the paper on which he had been writing, and concealed it in confusion.
“Oh! my lord, I knew not that you were so near me. Can I be of use to you? Lucas is already gone to bed.”
“I shall follow his example when I have given my opinion of your verses.”
“My verses, my lord?”
“Nay, I am sure that you have been writing some, for nothing else could have kept you awake till this time of the morning. Where are they, Theodore? I shall like to see your composition.”
Theodore’s cheeks glowed with still deeper crimson: he longed to shew his poetry, but first chose to be pressed for it.
“Indeed, my lord, they are not worthy your attention.”
“Not these verses, which you just now declared to be so charming? Come, come, let me see whether our opinions are the same. I promise that you shall find in me an indulgent critic.”
The boy produced his paper with seeming reluctance; but the satisfaction which sparkled in his dark expressive eyes betrayed the vanity of his little bosom. The marquis smiled while he observed the emotions of an heart as yet but little skilled in veiling its sentiments. He seated himself upon a sopha. Theodore, while hope and fear contended on his anxious countenance, waited with inquietude for his master’s decision, while the marquis read the following lines:
LOVE AND AGE.
The night was dark; the wind blew cold;
Anacreon, grown morose and old,
Sat by his fire, and fed the cheerful flame:
Sudden the cottage-door expands,
And, lo! before him Cupid stands,
