Antonia was now left alone with her mother: a temporary silence ensued. Both wished to speak upon the same subject, but neither knew how to introduce it. The one felt a bashfulness which sealed up her lips, and for which she could not account: the other feared to find her apprehensions true, or to inspire her daughter with notions to which she might be still a stranger. At length Elvira began the conversation.
“That is a charming young man, Antonia; I am much pleased with him. Was he long near you yesterday in the cathedral?”
“He quitted me not for a moment while I stayed in the church: he gave me his seat, and was very obliging and attentive.”
“Indeed? Why then have you never mentioned his name to me? Your aunt lanched out in praise of his friend, and you vaunted Ambrosio’s eloquence: but neither said a word of Don Lorenzo’s person and accomplishments. Had not Leonella spoken of his readiness to undertake our cause, I should not have known him to be in existence.”
She paused. Antonia coloured, but was silent.
“Perhaps you judge him less favourably than I do. In my opinion his figure is pleasing, his conversation sensible, and manners engaging. Still he may have struck you differently: you may think him disagreeable, and. …”
“Disagreeable? Oh! dear mother, how should I possibly think him so? I should be very ungrateful were I not sensible of his kindness yesterday, and very blind if his merits had escaped me. His figure is so graceful, so noble! His manners so gentle, yet so manly! I never yet saw so many accomplishments united in one person, and I doubt whether Madrid can produce his equal.”
“Why then were you so silent in praise of this phoenix of Madrid? Why was it concealed from me that his society had afforded you pleasure?”
“In truth, I know not: you ask me a question which I cannot resolve myself. I was on the point of mentioning him a thousand times: his name was constantly upon my lips, but when I would have pronounced it, I wanted courage to execute my design. However, if I did not speak of him, it was not that I thought of him the less.”
“That I believe; but shall I tell you why you wanted courage? It was because, accustomed to confide to me your most secret thoughts, you knew not how to conceal, yet feared to acknowledge, that your heart nourished a sentiment which you were conscious I should disapprove. Come hither to me, my child.”
Antonia quitted her embroidery frame, threw herself upon her knees by the sofa, and hid her face in her mother’s lap.
“Fear not, my sweet girl! Consider me equally as your friend and parent, and apprehend no reproof from me. I have read the emotions of your bosom; you are yet ill-skilled in concealing them, and they could not escape my attentive eye. This Lorenzo is dangerous to your repose; he has already made an impression upon your heart. ’Tis true that I perceive easily that your affection is returned; but what can be the consequences of this attachment? You are poor and friendless, my Antonia; Lorenzo is the heir of the Duke of Medina Celi. Even should himself mean honourably, his uncle never will consent to your union; nor without that uncle’s consent, will I. By sad experience I know what sorrows she must endure, who marries into a family unwilling to receive her. Then struggle with your affection: whatever pains it may cost you, strive to conquer it. Your heart is tender and susceptible: it has already received a strong impression; but when once convinced that you should not encourage such sentiments, I trust that you have sufficient fortitude to drive them from your bosom.”
Antonia kissed her hand, and promised implicit obedience. Elvira then continued.
“To prevent your passion from growing stronger, it will be needful to prohibit Lorenzo’s visits. The service which he has rendered me permits not my forbidding them positively; but unless I judge too favourably of his character, he will discontinue them without taking offence, if I confess to him my reasons, and throw myself entirely on his generosity. The next time that I see him, I will honestly avow to him the embarrassment which his presence occasions. How say you, my child? Is not this measure necessary?”
Antonia subscribed to everything without hesitation, though not without regret. Her mother kissed her affectionately, and retired to bed. Antonia followed her example, and vowed so frequently never more to think of Lorenzo, that till sleep closed her eyes she thought of nothing else.
While this was passing at Elvira’s, Lorenzo hastened to rejoin the Marquis. Everything was ready for the second elopement of Agnes; and at twelve the two friends with a coach and four were at the garden wall of the convent. Don Raymond drew out his key, and unlocked the door. They entered, and waited for some time in expectation of being joined by Agnes. At length the Marquis grew impatient: beginning to fear that his second attempt would succeed no better than the first, he proposed to reconnoitre the convent. The friends advanced towards it. Everything was still and dark. The prioress was anxious to keep the story a secret, fearing lest the crime of one of its members should bring disgrace upon the whole community, or that the interposition of powerful relations should deprive her vengeance of its intended victim. She took care therefore to give the lover of Agnes no cause to suppose that his design was discovered, and his mistress on the point of suffering the punishment of her fault. The same reason made her reject the idea of arresting the unknown seducer in the garden; such a proceeding would have created much disturbance, and the disgrace of her convent would have been noised about Madrid. She contented herself with confining Agnes closely; as to the lover, she left him at
