“But now it is too late to repine!” she added; “The die is thrown: I have pronounced my vows, and dedicated myself to the service of heaven. I am sensible, how ill I am calculated for a convent. My disgust at a monastic life increases daily: ennui and discontent are my constant companions; and I will not conceal from you that the passion which I formerly felt for one so near being my husband is not yet extinguished in my bosom. But we must part! Insuperable barriers divide us from each other, and on this side the grave we must never meet again!”
I now exerted myself to prove that our union was not so impossible as she seemed to think it. I vaunted to her the Cardinal-Duke of Lerma’s influence at the court of Rome: I assured her that I should easily obtain a dispensation from her vows; and I doubted not but Don Gaston would coincide with my views, when informed of my real name and long attachment. Agnes replied that since I encouraged such an hope, I could know but little of her father. Liberal and kind in every other respect, superstition formed the only stain upon his character. Upon this head he was inflexible; he sacrificed his dearest interests to his scruples, and would consider it an insult to suppose him capable of authorising his daughter to break her vows to heaven.
“But suppose,” said I interrupting her; “Suppose that he should disapprove of our union; let him remain ignorant of my proceedings, till I have rescued you from the prison in which you are now confined. Once my wife, you are free from his authority: I need from him no pecuniary assistance; and when he sees his resentment to be unavailing, he will doubtless restore you to his favour. But let the worst happen; should Don Gaston be irreconcileable, my relations will vie with each other in making you forget his loss: and you will find in my father a substitute for the parent of whom I shall deprive you.”
“Don Raymond,” replied Agnes in a firm and resolute voice, “I love my father: he has treated me harshly in this one instance; but I have received from him in every other so many proofs of love that his affection is become necessary to my existence. Were I to quit the convent, he never would forgive me; nor can I think that on his deathbed he would leave me his curse, without shuddering at the very idea. Besides, I am conscious myself, that my vows are binding: wilfully did I contract my engagement with heaven; I cannot break it without a crime. Then banish from your mind the idea of our being ever united. I am devoted to religion; and however I may grieve at our separation, I would oppose obstacles myself, to what I feel would render me guilty.”
I strove to overrule these ill-grounded scruples: we were still disputing upon the subject, when the convent bell summoned the nuns to matins. Agnes was obliged to attend them; but she left me not till I had compelled her to promise that on the following night she would be at the same place at the same hour. These meetings continued for several weeks uninterrupted; and ’tis now, Lorenzo, that I must implore your indulgence. Reflect upon our situation, our youth, our long attachment: weigh all the circumstances which attended our assignations, and you will confess the temptation to have been irresistible; you will even pardon me when I acknowledge, that in an unguarded moment, the honour of Agnes was sacrificed to my passion.
(Lorenzo’s eyes sparkled with fury: a deep crimson spread itself over his face. He started from his seat, and attempted to draw his sword. The Marquis was aware of his movement, and caught his hand: he pressed it affectionately.
“My friend! My brother! Hear me to the conclusion! Till then restrain your passion, and be at least convinced, that if what I have related is criminal, the blame must fall upon me, and not upon your sister.”
Lorenzo suffered himself to be prevailed upon by Don Raymond’s entreaties. He resumed his place, and listened to the rest of the narrative with a gloomy and impatient countenance. The Marquis thus continued.)
“Scarcely was the first burst of passion passed when Agnes, recovering herself, started from my arms with horror. She called me infamous seducer, loaded me with the bitterest reproaches, and beat her bosom in all the wildness of delirium. Ashamed of my imprudence, I with difficulty found words to excuse myself. I endeavoured to console her; I threw myself at her feet, and entreated her forgiveness. She forced her hand from me, which I had taken, and would have pressed to my lips.
“Touch me not!” she cried with a violence which terrified me; “Monster of perfidy and ingratitude, how have I been deceived in you! I looked upon you as my friend, my protector: I trusted myself in your hands with confidence, and relying upon your honour, thought that mine ran no risk. And ’tis by you, whom I adored, that I am covered with infamy! ’Tis by you that I have been seduced into breaking my vows to God, that I am reduced to a level with the basest of
