The next morning Lorenzo went to the convent, and requested to see his sister. The prioress appeared at the grate with a melancholy countenance: she informed him that for several days Agnes had appeared much agitated; that she had been pressed by the nuns in vain to reveal the cause, and apply to their tenderness for advice and consolation; that she had obstinately persisted in concealing the cause of her distress; but that on Thursday evening it had produced so violent an effect upon her constitution, that she had fallen ill, and was actually confined to her bed. Lorenzo did not credit a syllable of this account: he insisted upon seeing his sister; if she was unable to come to the grate, he desired to be admitted to her cell. The prioress crossed herself! She was shocked at the very idea of a man’s profane eye pervading the interior of her holy mansion, and professed herself astonished that Lorenzo could think of such a thing. She told him that his request could not be granted; but that if he returned the next day, she hoped that her beloved daughter would then be sufficiently recovered to join him at the parlour grate.
With this answer Lorenzo was obliged to retire, unsatisfied and trembling for his sister’s safety.
He returned the next morning at an early hour. “Agnes was worse; the physician had pronounced her to be in imminent danger; she was ordered to remain quiet, and it was utterly impossible for her to receive her brother’s visit.” Lorenzo stormed at this answer, but there was no resource. He raved, he entreated, he threatened: no means were left untried to obtain a sight of Agnes. His endeavours were as fruitless as those of the day before, and he returned in despair to the Marquis. On his side, the latter had spared no pains to discover what had occasioned his plot to fail: Don Christoval, to whom the affair was now entrusted, endeavoured to worm out the secret from the old porteress of St. Clare, with whom he had formed an acquaintance; but she was too much upon her guard, and he gained from her no intelligence. The Marquis was almost distracted, and Lorenzo felt scarcely less inquietude. Both were convinced that the purposed elopement must have been discovered: they doubted not but the malady of Agnes was a pretence, but they knew not by what means to rescue her from the hands of the prioress.
Regularly every day did Lorenzo visit the convent: as regularly was he informed that his sister rather grew worse than better. Certain that her indisposition was feigned, these accounts did not alarm him: but his ignorance of her fate, and of the motives which induced the prioress to keep her from him, excited the most serious uneasiness. He was still uncertain what steps he ought to take, when the Marquis received a letter from the Cardinal-Duke of Lerma. It enclosed the Pope’s expected bull, ordering that Agnes should be released from her vows, and restored to her relations. This essential paper decided at once the proceedings of her friends: they resolved that Lorenzo should carry it to the domina without delay, and demand that his sister should be instantly given up to him. Against this mandate illness could not be pleaded: it gave her brother the power of removing her instantly to the Palace de Medina, and he determined to use that power on the following day.
His mind relieved from inquietude respecting his sister, and his spirits raised by the hope of soon restoring her to freedom, he now had time to give a few moments to love and to Antonia. At the same hour as on his former visit he repaired to Donna Elvira’s: she had given orders for his admission. As soon as he was announced, her daughter retired with Leonella, and when he entered the chamber, he found the lady of the house alone. She received him with less distance than before, and desired him to place himself near her upon the sofa. She then without losing time opened her business, as had been agreed between herself and Antonia.
“You must not think me ungrateful, Don Lorenzo, or forgetful how essential are the services which you have rendered me with the Marquis. I feel the weight of my obligations; nothing under the sun should induce my taking the step to which I am now compelled but the interest of my child, of my beloved Antonia. My health is declining; God only knows how soon I may be summoned before his throne. My daughter will be left without parents, and should she lose the protection of the Cisternas family, without friends. She is young and artless, uninstructed in the world’s perfidy, and with charms sufficient to render her an object of seduction. Judge then, how I must tremble at the prospect before her! Judge how anxious I must be to keep her from their society who may excite the yet dormant passions of her bosom. You are amiable, Don Lorenzo: Antonia has a susceptible, a loving heart, and is grateful for the favours conferred upon us by your interference with the Marquis. Your presence makes me tremble: I fear lest it should inspire her with sentiments which may embitter the remainder of her life, or encourage her to cherish hopes in her situation unjustifiable and futile. Pardon me when I avow my terrors, and let my frankness plead in my excuse. I cannot forbid you my house, for gratitude restrains me; I can only throw myself upon your generosity, and entreat you to spare the feelings of an anxious, of a doting mother. Believe me when I assure you that I lament the necessity of rejecting your
