She started from the bank on which she was seated. I endeavoured to detain her; but she disengaged herself from me with violence, and took refuge in the convent.
I retired, filled with confusion and inquietude. The next morning I failed not as usual to appear in the garden; but Agnes was nowhere to be seen. At night I waited for her at the place where we generally met; I found no better success. Several days and nights passed away in the same manner. At length I saw my offended mistress cross the walk on whose borders I was working: she was accompanied by the same young pensioner, on whose arm she seemed from weakness obliged to support herself. She looked upon me for a moment, but instantly turned her head away. I waited her return; but she passed on to the convent without paying any attention to me, or the penitent looks with which I implored her forgiveness.
As soon as the nuns were retired, the old gardener joined me with a sorrowful air.
“Señor,” said he, “it grieves me to say, that I can be no longer of use to you. The lady whom you used to meet has just assured me that if I admitted you again into the garden, she would discover the whole business to the lady prioress. She bade me tell you also, that your presence was an insult, and that if you still possess the least respect for her, you will never attempt to see her more. Excuse me then for informing you that I can favour your disguise no longer. Should the prioress be acquainted with my conduct, she might not be contented with dismissing me her service: out of revenge she might accuse me of having profaned the convent, and cause me to be thrown into the prisons of the inquisition.”
Fruitless were my attempts to conquer his resolution. He denied me all future entrance into the garden, and Agnes persevered in neither letting me see or hear from her. In about a fortnight after, a violent illness which had seized my father obliged me to set out for Andalusia. I hastened thither, and as I imagined, found the Marquis at the point of death. Though on its first appearance his complaint was declared mortal, he lingered out several months; during which my attendance upon him during his malady, and the occupation of settling his affairs after his decease, permitted not my quitting Andalusia. Within these four days I returned to Madrid, and on arriving at my hotel, I there found this letter waiting for me.
(Here the Marquis unlocked the drawer of a cabinet: he took out a folded paper, which he presented to his auditor. Lorenzo opened it, and recognised his sister’s hand. The contents were as follows:
“Into what an abyss of misery have you plunged me! Raymond, you force me to become as criminal as yourself. I had resolved never to see you more; if possible, to forget you; if not, only to remember you with hate. A being for whom I already feel a mother’s tenderness solicits me to pardon my seducer, and apply to his love for the means of preservation. Raymond, your child lives in my bosom. I tremble at the vengeance of the prioress; I tremble much for myself, yet more for the innocent creature whose existence depends upon mine. Both of us are lost, should my situation be discovered. Advise me then what steps to take, but seek not to see me. The gardener, who undertakes to deliver this, is dismissed, and we have nothing to hope from that quarter: the man engaged in his place is of incorruptible fidelity. The best means of conveying to me your answer, is by concealing it under the great statue of St. Francis, which stands in the Capuchin cathedral. Thither I go every Thursday to confession, and shall easily have an opportunity of securing your letter. I hear that you are now absent from Madrid; need I entreat you to write the very moment of your return? I will not think it. Ah! Raymond! Mine is a cruel situation! Deceived by my nearest relations, compelled to embrace a profession the duties of which I am ill-calculated to perform, conscious of the sanctity of those duties, and seduced into violating them by one whom I least suspected of perfidy, I am now obliged by circumstances to choose between death and perjury. Woman’s timidity, and maternal affection, permit me not to balance in the choice. I feel all the guilt into which I plunge myself, when I yield to the plan which you before proposed to me. My poor father’s death which has taken place since we met, has removed one obstacle. He sleeps in his grave, and I no longer dread his anger. But from the anger of God, oh! Raymond! who shall shield me? Who can protect me against my conscience, against myself? I dare not dwell upon these thoughts; they will drive me mad. I have taken my resolution: procure a dispensation from my vows; I am ready to fly with you. Write to me, my husband! Tell me, that absence has not abated your love, tell me that you will rescue from death your unborn child, and its unhappy mother. I live in all the agonies of terror: every eye which is fixed upon me seems to read my secret and my shame. And you are the cause of those agonies! Oh! When my heart first loved you, how little did it suspect you of making it feel such pangs!
Having perused the letter, Lorenzo restored it in silence. The Marquis replaced it in the cabinet, and then proceeded.)
Excessive was my joy at reading this intelligence so earnestly-desired, so little expected. My plan was soon arranged. When Don Gaston discovered to me his daughter’s retreat, I entertained no doubt of her readiness to quit the convent: I had,
