Clara; or, Love and Superstition

Joaquín Telesforo de Trueba y Cosío

Gil Perez was one of the most narrow-minded individuals. Having never received the advantages of an enlightened education, and his natural talents being on a very limited scale, he had imbibed all the vulgar prejudices of which a weak mind is susceptible. His days had been spent in making money, and reciting long prayers. Gil Perez was a furious devotee, who firmly believed every syllable that a friar chose to utter, and he was very lavish in dealing out damnation to any lukewarm christian who chanced to come in his way. His religious temperament had increased to a tenfold degree with the progress of years, until it settled at length into a sullen gloom, and a bitter feeling of enthusiasm. Perhaps he felt some compunctions visitings on the score of his wealth. It had been accumulated somewhat too rapidly, even considering it was in South America; but to silence any qualms of conscience, Gil Perez took those efficient means which the church, with no less charity than prudence, recommends to her offending children. Nothing tends so much to tranquillize a restless and guilty soul, as bestowing one's money on convents, and ordering some thousand masses (price 2s. 6d. each) to be said every year. Gil Perez adopted this orthodox method of setting to work in order to gain repose. He associated with friars —made a new settlement in favour of convents upon every case of emergency— heard two masses in the morning, and recited interminable prayers in the evening. Yet, strange to say, despite of so many masses and so much praying —despite of the edifying company which he kept, and the great sums which he paid for the advantage, the poor man was never a jot the more tranquil, more happy, or more satisfied with himself and his fellow-creatures.

The wife of Gil Perez was also a devotee, although not quite so melancholily religious as her husband. She also believed in the efficacy of masses, long prayers, friars, beads, &c. &c.; but then she prudently conceived there were other ways of passing one's time in this vale of tears more consonant with common sense, than preserving a fixed, lugubrious expression of countenance, fasting, and the use of the discipline, sighing, groaning, preaching, croaking, railing against sinners, and abusing the d—l every hour of the day. Not but, that like a good devotee she loved scandal dearly, but then she was more varied in selecting the objects of animadversion. Young, handsome girls specially called forth her zeal. She had their welfare so much at heart, that she could not endure to see a beautiful specimen of her sex cross the street, on account of the great danger there is in the possession of charms. Fortunately Dona Josepha had never had this awful peril to encounter; her motives were therefore perfectly disinterested, she acted from mere love of charity, and she never felt so happy as when she saw a female pass by in all the security of age and ugliness.

Gil Perez was blessed with two nieces that would have made the happiness of a reasonable relative. The two girls were no less remarkable for the beauty of their persona than the superiority of their moral endowments. They were, however, of very different dispositions. Agnes, the elder, possessed a strong will, and a boldness of spirit that would shrink from no danger. Clara, her younger sister, was made up of all the softer attributes of her sex. Agnes was endowed with no ordinary talents: she had an inquiring mind, and was averse to yield her judgment to any power except that of conviction. Her temper too, was irritable, although she possessed one of the kindest and most generous hearts. Her sister, though not so rich in the stores of talent, was by no means deficient in intellect: she was less brilliant, less witty than Agnes; but the gentleness of her character was, in a great measure, responsible for any deficiency of mind which a careless observer might discover at first. From her infancy, Clara had been taught to bend blindly to the slightest sign of parental authority; she would never inquire into the justice or injustice of one act.

There was also a striking contrast between the style of beauty of the two sisters. That of Agnes was of a more intellectual character —Clara's was more remarkable for a soft and winning expression. Agnes appealed at once for admiration to the mind, and she never failed to command it —Clara won gradually and unobtrusively her way into the heart. The eyes of Agnes were full of brilliancy —those of Clara were composed of softness and gentle tenderness. Agnes possessed an elegant and commanding figure, and her carriage was distinguished for its ease and dignity —Clara was not so striking, her frame was more delicate, and, although all her movements were remarkable for feminine grace, yet they escaped observation at first, from the retiring modesty ana shrinking nature of her disposition.

Unfortunately Agnes and Clara had been left orphans, unprovided for and unprotected, at a very early period of infancy, and they had fallen under the care of two fanatic devotees quite incompetent to appreciate the value of the gems intrusted to their guardianship. Don Gil, wrapped up in the gloom of his religious reveries, was not susceptible to that tenderness of heart which would have operated in a more enlightened mind. Dona Josepha, on her side, was a weak, credulous woman, who would not certainly put herself forward to harm her fellow-creatures; but who, at the same moment, was totally incapable of contributing the least share to their happiness or comfort. Besides, Agnes and Clara were in the possession of youth and great personal beauty, and this, in the opinion of the beata, was a misfortune amounting almost to sin. Had her nieces been deformed, aged, and disagreeable, they would have possessed far more valuable charms in the estimation of their aunt.

Every one is acquainted with the vast influence which the clergy exercise in Spain. Don Gil Perez was, as a matter of course, labouring under the yoke. He was the nominal master of his house, whilst the real power was engrossed by a friar of the order of barefooted Franciscans.

The ascendancy which Father Bastos had acquired over the mind of Don Gil, and the absolute sway which he exercised in the weak Indiano's house, was, to Agnes, a source of continual misery and indignation. She dwelt constantly on the vexatious subject, until a rooted hatred for the usurper was engendered in her heart. This hostile feeling was not long a secret to the friar, and his vindictive nature was roused, whilst his policy pointed to the danger of so powerful an enemy. The superior understanding of the young girl, and her decision of character, were serious obstacles towards that plan of absolute, despotic dominion which he had acquired in the Indiano's¹ family. To remove this impediment was the scheme which, at present, occupied the friar's mind. It was indispensable to check the evil before it could produce a corresponding effect in any of the other members of the family. Like every holder of usurped power, Father Bastos trembled lest his slaves should awake to a sense of their degradation, and assert their freedom.

The scheming friar had already harboured the thought of bringing Don Gil to bequeath his fortune to the convent. There was nothing extraordinary in the plan, and the success with which such attempts are crowned in Spain emboldened him to proceed with buoyant hopes in his undertaking. He watched for one of Don Gil's most religious moods, and having worked on the superstitious fears of the weak man, after an edifying sermon, continued, «And yet, dear brother, what avails the fulfilment of our religious duties, when the weak flesh is rebellious? Blind deference to the voice of the church—».

«Nay, Father Bastos», interrupted the gloomy Indiano, «no one in my family, I trust, pretends to dispute that power».

«Your eldest niece does. I am sorry to find her imbued with the spirit of the world. The dangers that surround her path are manifold and awful, and I dread to think what may be her future destiny».

Gil Perez felt duly alarmed at the words of his ghostly counsellor. Besides, he had observed in the conduct of Agnes certain tokens which awakened his anxiety. He fancied he observed in her a reluctance to long prayers. He never heard her speak a single word in praise either of convents or friars. Nay, she went once so far as to question the necessity of attending two masses a day. Now all these were fearful symptoms of a dislike to piety, nearly akin to irreligion. Father Bastos, on his side, readily availed himself of the occasion to work upon his jaundiced feelings and superstition, and he succeeded to the fullest extent.

The life led by the young girls, one may easily imagine, was one continued series of misery and annoyance. Dona Josepha was an indefatigable sentinel. Cerberus was a mere blind puppy to her in point of alertness. When they went to church (the only pastime allowed in the Indiano's family) the activity of his wife redoubled. Don Gil himself being deeply engrossed in working the salvation of his soul, had no time to observe the conduct of his nieces. Whilst he remained at church he was profoundly absorbed in devotion, and no event short of the altar tumbling down would drive his attention from his rosary and prayer-book.

Dona Josepha was not so selfish. Certainly she thought of her own salvation, but then she had an eye (nay, two) for that of other people. Her nieces were a source of the deepest interest and solicitude. Sensible as she felt of the unfortunate gifts which nature had bestowed upon them, it was her duty to keep always on the alert. Accordingly, with exemplary self-abnegation, instead of fixing her eyes on her prayer-book, she kept them steadfastly on the girls. This was certainly an extraordinary instance of charity. Nothing escaped the observation of the pious sentinel, and when they returned home, the nieces, in addition to the church Service, were obliged to undergo an interminable lecture from their zealous aunt. Woe to them, if by an unlucky chance, they had coughed, or sneezed, or uttered any sound, which might be construed into a desire to draw the attention of the men! Woe —woe if they had lifted their eyes but for a single second from their prayer-books! for these grievous offences were visited with all the profuse eloquence of religious acrimony. Nay, it was not enough that they had not looked —to be looked at was, in the estimation of the pious aunt, almost as bad. Such an existence was a perfect martyrdom; and the teazing, preaching, railing, croaking, was so great, that really the nieces deeply regretted at times the enviable situation of those females, who, having neither youth nor beauty, were fortunately exempt from the infliction of their pious persecutor.

This system produced very different effects on the two sisters. In Agnes, it tended to embitter her feelings against her tormentors, and to suggest the idea of bursting from the thraldom in which she suffered. She was conscious of the insult offered to her understanding, no less than of the injustice and cruelty practised on her free will. Clara, from the mildness of her character, was averse to any display of opposition. She preferred to pine away her days in secret sorrow, rather than show the least symptom which might afford scandal to the neighbours. A being so soft, so kind, shrunk from the task of inflicting the least pain even on her tormentors, and she had accordingly chosen her destiny for life —calm resignation, silent tears, and, perhaps, an early grave!

Don Gil Perez and Father Bastos had already conversed copiously on the propriety of sending Agnes to a nunnery. Clara, who had hitherto been blindly submissive to all their whims and fancies, might ultimately follow the example of her elder sister. It was no difficult matter for the friar to persuade the credulous and hypochondriac Indiano that a nunnery was the only safe retreat for a girl of such strong passions and wayward will as Agnes had evinced. With regard to Dona Josepha, she, of course, approved most cordially of a plan which was to render nugatory the baneful possession of that youth and beauty with which, most unfortunately, the life of Agnes was at present saddled. The only difficult point was to gain the consent of the girl herself, and this indeed they anticipated would not be easily obtained. But it is well known in Spain, that when a family is firmly bent on sending a young girl to a nunnery, they are sure to succeed, unless, indeed, the girl is so perverse as to prefer breaking her heart, or going raving mad —a choice which sometimes girls have been known to make from a spirit of contradiction. This, however, is a far lesser calamity, in the estimation of a hot and zealous devotee, than the horror of seeing a daughter, a sister, or a niece, falling in love with a man, when they ought to preserve their affections for the exclusive use of heaven!

From the moment that Agnes evinced a decided opposition, the life of the poor girl became one uninterrupted series of trials and vexations. Nothing that could harass the mind, or torment the heart, was omitted, in order to oblige her to alter a resolution which she seemed determined to abandon only with her existence. She was teazed and worried by the aunt in the most tantalizing manner; and when she had gone through this infliction, her uncle came forward with a lugubrious voice and aspect to add the benefit of his gloomy rebukes. Nor was the friar behindhand whenever the work of torturing was going on. The triumvirate were indefatigable in their task, till, at the end of a month, they had fully succeeded, not in making a nun of Agnes, but in impairing her health, and embittering her temper. She fell ill; but this circumstance did not in the least tend to relax the cruelty of her religious executioners. They very coolly and solemnly announced that this was a judgment, and that the hand of God was visible in this malady, which was sent purposely at once to punish her disobedience and obstinacy, and to signify that the patient should take the holy vows of religion.

Agnes recovered, but her resolves had not suffered from the effects of her malady. Her mind, instead of losing any of its tone, had become more firm in consequence of the persecution she was obliged to endure. She was fully aware of the atrocious injustice perpetrated against her inclinations; and nothing, no, not even the fear of the most appalling death, could force her to break a resolution, which was, as it were, interwoven with her existence. Dona Josepha neglected no means of wounding the pride of the poor victim. A series of petty, spiteful trials was systematically pursued in vain. But there was a source of pain to Agnes. She could courageously withstand the assaults of her oppressors, but was not equally proof against the tears of her sister. The aunt had been busily at work, and had partially succeeded in persuading the poor gentle girl that there was great criminality in the conduct of Agnes. Clara was made up of softness and placidity: her mind was not of that masculine order which prefers undergoing all sorts of trials, rather than submit to injustice. Her gentle nature shrank from the idea of opposition, whilst her imagination, already imbued with strict religious notions, was excellently adapted to receive the impressions which her fanatic relatives thought proper to convey.

Father Bastos perceived, in this morbid state of Clara, a rich mine, which might be explored with advantage, and he did not allow the opportunity to escape. The poor girl was convinced of the truth and justice of the friar's observations; but the only triumph which he and his colleagues gathered from the achievement, was that of adding to the misery of Agnes, without in the least altering her resolves. Many a night when silence reigned, and Agnes was thankful that the trials of the day were over, another and a far more distressing one came to perplex her mind and afflict her heart. She, alas! was compelled to endure, not indeed reproaches, for to those the gentle soul of Clara was a total stranger; but what are a hundred times more painful —the visible tokens of her distress and sorrow.

The mischief consequent on a system of oppression is not long in making its appearance. Agnes brooded constantly over her situation. Her independent spirit felt more indignant the more she reflected. But she was not discriminating enough, in the turmoil of embittered feelings, to distinguish the pure essence of religion from its abuse; and the aversion which she had justly conceived for Father Bastos, induced her to believe that every friar was selfish and tyrannical. By a chain of argument she next began to harbour doubts, until the line between right and wrong was scarcely discernible. This tone of mind was extremely dangerous, especially in a female of such decision of character. She was driven to an extreme point, and she secretly made a vow to dare her relatives —the world— opinion —all— all rather than submit to the odious sacrifice. This resolution, under certain restrictions, would have been strictly correct; but in the wild excitement of poor Agnes heart, she would not disguise from herself, that she considered any means justifiable in rescuing her from the present oppression.

Don Gil Perez, from a series of rebukes and sermons, had now proceeded to more violent measures. He peremptorily confined Agnes to her room, where he suffered no one to visit her except the hated Father Bastos. This tribulation Agnes at first endured with fortitude; nay, she felt a sort of pride in being a martyr in the cause of her free will; and she took a pleasure in reflecting that all the artifices and devices of tyranny were not sufficient to enslave her mind.

The imprisonment of Agnes began at length to exhaust her patience, and she was ready to adopt the most desperate plan, rather than suffer herself to continue a toy in the hands of her ruthless tormentors. This idea once admitted into her mind, the occasion was not long wanting of putting it into execution. Agnes had observed a gentleman looking at her with peculiar interest as she was wont to return from church; for although the alertness of Dona Josepha offered an insurmountable obstacle to make such observations, what that is gratifying to the female vanity can escape the notice of a young girl? Agnes, however, had too strong a sense of propriety to afford the least encouragement to the stranger by returning his glances. She could feel no partiality for a person with whom she was totally unacquainted, and she never suffered a thought on the subject to disturb her repose. Had she been blessed with other relatives —had she not been unfortunate in her natural friends and protectors— the image of the stranger would probably have been the cause of mere mirth in the family. She would have felt no hesitation in speaking on the subject, and perhaps be the first to join in the laugh against the inamorato.

The case, however, was very different at present. Agnes found herself perfectly isolated in this world. Her relatives were her obstinate oppressors; and in her sister, instead of consolation, she could only find an addition to her woe and perplexity. In this absolute want of sympathizing friends, her mind was not extravagant in reverting towards an object, which under ordinary circumstances would never have occupied her meditations. The imagination loves to conjure up images of comfort, and there is scarcely an idea, however wild and extravagant, which passing through the medium of an overheated brain and a sorrowing earth does not assume, not merely a consolatory, but a reasonable form. Such was the situation of Agnes, when fate, to prolong the dangerous illusion, presented to her view the subject of her present thoughts.

As she chanced to cast a glance from the small window of her room, she perceived the stranger walking to and fro opposite the house. Her attention was drawn —she caught his eye— there could be no mistake. She occupied his thoughts —probably he knew of the hardships she endured: these and other wild thoughts darted with rapidity across the imagination of the fair prisoner, and they brought consolation to her heart.

The stranger was assiduous at his post on the following day, and he made signs as if he wished to convey a letter. This he contrived to throw into the room. Agnes was weak enough to receive and read it —From that moment her fate was sealed. Her admirer's letter ran thus:

«I am aware of the cruel treatment you are forced to endure. Allow me to rescue you from your dismal fate. Trust to my honour —the more so, for the sake of that passion which I have long felt for your person, and which the knowledge of your wrongs and sufferings has served to augment.

Gabriel Fuentes».

Agnes perused this note with a feeling of pleasure and hope. Her imagination dwelt on the subject with a fondness she would have been the first to condemn in another; nay, in her own self, had she not been so long the victim of oppression. Bold, daring, and extravagant as the resolution was, she made up her mind to quit her uncle's roof, and trust her destiny to the honour and affection of a man with whom she had not hitherto so much as exchanged words. But the proud spirit of Agnes, and the injustice of her relatives behaviour towards her, had driven her mind to burst those shackles of female restraint, which form at once the ornament and protection of the sex. To carry her plan into effect, however, was no easy task. A woman's mind, always fruitful in resources in cases of emergency, did not desert Agnes in the present. She called dissimulation to her aid, and by feigning to listen with a more subdued spirit to the admonitions of Father Bastos, her uncle, in hopes that she was about to be converted, relaxed in his severity, and delivered his niece from her confinement.

Agnes continued the work of deceit with perfect success. She appeared almost reconciled to the proposition of her relatives. She demanded only a fortnight to reconsider the proposal. Her request was easily granted, and every day that passed, the chances of her taking the veil became more certain. The gentle Clara caressed her beloved sister in all the tenderness of her affection; but, to her surprise, Agnes, instead of the calm resignation which she evinced before the family, had only bitter tears and heavy sighs for the moments of privacy with her sister.

Matters were in this state, and the Indiano had already begun to arrange the preliminaries for the noviciate of his niece, when one day, to their utter surprise and consternation, the intended nun was missing. The whole house was carefully searched in vain. A note, however, was found addressed to Clara, in which her sister informed her that she had trusted her fate into the care of a husband. This word was a thunderbolt to Gil Perez, his wife, and Father Bastos. The uncle bestowed a hearty curse on the fugitive for her deception: Dona Josepha crossed herself fervently, and declared that the event did not excite any extraordinary surprise in her —she was prepared for such a catastrophe; the vanity of the girl, and the fatal beauty which she possessed, were well calculated to lead to this result. Father Bastos delivered a long harangue on the temptations of the flesh —the manœuvres of Satan— the weakness of human nature, &c. &c. concluding with foretelling the most appalling end to the fair sinner, and asserting that such crimes called for the deepest vengeance of Heaven. They were all three of accordance in one point —in feeling persuaded that Agnes had afforded an example of deception almost unparalleled, and deserving the severest retribution. When they had preached, croaked, abused, denounced, prophetized, and anathematized to their heart's content, the three pious personages sat down to dinner with a very good appetite.

The system of deception followed by a young creature like Agnes would suggest melancholy thoughts, had that plan been acted upon under ordinary circumstances. But the mortifying trials which she had undergone —the prospect of new ones— and the persuasion that the only means of escaping a cruel destiny, was that of seeming to submit to it, may offer not a justification, but, at least, an excuse for her imprudent and rash conduct. In the excitement of her feelings, to avoid one danger she had blindly precipitated herself into another. Had her better judgment been allowed to exercise its power with calmness and repose, she would have shrunk from her headlong design. She had been driven almost to despair; and the combined effects of indignation, sense of wrong, anger, and disgust, made themselves manifest in her flight with a man who was a total stranger, and of whose character she had no other report than the one she received from himself.

Don Gil Perez heard nothing from his fugitive niece, further than that she was living in reduced circumstances with her husband, Don Gabriel Fuentes, a poor officer —a man of good family, but of whose moral qualifications and personal merits little more was known than that he was a professed gambler. This intelligence did not in the least affect the morose Indiano. On the contrary, he felt a sort of satisfaction in the anticipated misery and trials which his niece was doomed to suffer from her rash union with such a character. With all the furious zeal of a fanatic, he thundered out that he perceived clearly the hand of God in the various stages of the affair, and that it was certain Heaven had permitted the marriage of Agnes as a just punishment for her guilty obstinacy in refusing to become a nun. This logic was satisfactory to Dona Josepha. Nor could the friar feel dissatisfied, as he had succeeded in removing one impediment from the road to his schemes, if not by shutting Agnes in a nunnery, at least by driving her from a home, to which, judging from the disposition of her relatives, she could never expect to return.

Some months elapsed, and the name of Agnes was almost forgotten, except by poor Clara, on whom the rashness of her sister had made a painful impression. But a new source of anxiety came soon to alarm the family, and more specially Father Bastos. This was the presence of a visitor at the Indiano's house —a nephew of Don Gil— a ward of the Indiano, who had been absent to complete his studies in the University of Alcala. This young gentleman, whose name was Theodosio, had been fondly attached to his cousins, whom he had known from their infancy. Clara, especially, was his favourite —she was a mere child of twelve years old when he had last seen her. But half a dozen years make a material difference in this period of woman's existence, and he was agreeably surprised when he perceived the advantageous change which had taken place in his cousin's personal appearance, as well as in the developement of her mental qualities. In fine, Clara preserved all the artless graces, all the winning manners of the girl, combined with the more refined and more intoxicating charms of approaching womanhood. The flowers of spring, and the first beauties of summer, were united in her person without distinction of season.

Youthful affection for his cousin was now exchanged for a more absorbing and manly feeling. In the society of Clara, Theodosio enjoyed a pleasure to which his heart had hitherto been a stranger. Among the females of his acquaintance he had never met one which approached so closely to his idea of female perfection. Angelic softness breathed in all her words and looks. In every trifling act, the kindness of her disposition showed itself, for Clara's supreme felicity was centered in the comfort and happiness of others: the society of such a being was not to be enjoyed with impunity, and Theodosio but too soon discovered that he was the slave of a passion, the more absorbing, deep, and lasting, because of the good foundation on which it was based. His bliss was complete, when his active eye perceived that his love was acknowledged and returned, despite of the efforts which female timidity and blushing restraint were making to keep the secret from him.

The first person who observed the affection existing between Theodosio and Clara was Father Bastos, and the discovery was to him annoying in the extreme. He had already settled it in his mind that the wealth of the Indiano should go to enrich his convent, and to the founding of another, of which he himself felt the ambition of becoming superior —from this step to a bishopric, the distance he considered short; and wild dreams of ecclesiastical preferment and greatness revelled before the imagination of the ambitious friar. He lost no time in communicating his suspicions to Don Gil. The Indiano at first treated the matter with indifference, assuring his monitor, that the affection of Theodosio for Clara was that of an elder brother towards a young sister. When, however, he perceived that the friar's surmises were just, the fanatic man felt no less disappointment than vexation; he again foresaw the fountain-head of evil, and the image of Agnes returned vividly to his memory.

Don Theodosio was a young man of quick fancy and an inquiring mind —his natural talents were good, and a strong love for study had tended to their full developement and maturity. He had always a wish to travel, and, much against the inclination of his uncle, he had spent the last eighteen months in visiting foreign courts. Upon his return to his own country, his ideas were enlarged, and his views of men and things more imbued with that spirit of philosophy, which the commerce of the world bestows on an observant mind. He felt a thorough contempt for the feeble intellect of his relative, while the tyrannic temper which had led to the rash step taken by his cousin Agnes, filled him with disgust and abhorrence. The feelings with which Don Gil regarded his nephew, were ten times more decided and hostile. He considered him as little better than a heretic. The freedom of his speech, the boldness of the maxims which he feared not to propound, and the little respect which he paid to the holy words of Father Bastos, were enough to produce that rancorous and bitter feeling which fanaticism seldom fails to confer on its zealous votaries.

It was, therefore, with a kind of horror that he discovered the partiality existing between his obnoxious nephew and Clara. The friar was not backward in heightening the terrors which his weak mind had conjured up. Theodosio was represented as a man totally devoid of religion, since he scrupled not to doubt many things, which no true son of the Christian church should ever call in question. The notions of the young man on the subject of convents, particularly shocked the sensibility of the friar. Dona Josepha, on her side, was literally thrown into fits at the idea of harbouring a heretic beneath her roof —and her alarm, of course, was terribly augmented, when the heinous crime of Clara's loving such an object came to her knowledge. She wondered how a Christian girl could be so wicked, and, at the same time, she let not the opportunity escape of launching against that pernicious beauty which had produced the admiration of Theodosio.

Meantime the affection of the young people had developed itself into a deep and absorbing feeling, which now became beyond the power of tyrannic controul to check. One day Theodosio ventured to open his heart on the subject that engrossed all his thoughts. Clara, who already loved her cousin, with all the warmth and sincerity of a first and pure female affection, was thrown into confusion when her cousin revealed the state of his heart. He took her hand, which trembled in his, and to the kind and fervent vows which he made she gave no answer, but the visible agitation under which she laboured, told the lover, if any proof were yet wanting, that his affections were fully returned. This was a moment of bliss supreme, for there is not in nature aught so intoxicating as the first avowals of true love. How much is the value of such happiness enhanced when the object of adoration is a young, pure, artless girl, of the possession of whose heart an angel-spirit might feel proud!

This beautiful dream of felicity —this powerful charm of nature, was soon dissolved by the sudden appearance of the Indiano. He fixed an austere look on his young relatives —the crimson flew to Clara's cheek— and this only served to augment the devotee's displeasure and suspicion. He no longer could harbour a doubt concerning the true position of things and he felt a bitter annoyance at what he considered little short of a sin in the young people. Let us return to Agnes.

The condition of poor Agnes was at the present period most distressing. She had at length discovered the error of her imprudent conduct. Instead of a kind protector, a loving friend, she had found in her husband a worthless being, equally devoid of heart and principle. His whole soul was engrossed with gambling pursuits, in which vice, as well as other excesses, he consumed the greater part of his existence. But what produced the keenest agony in the mind of Agnes, was the conviction that she had never truly possessed his affection; his marriage having been prompted more by sordid interest than affection; and this, the most painful discovery that a deluded woman can make, had already produced a melancholy effect in the health of the unfortunate Agnes.

Gabriel Fuentes was well acquainted with the Indiano's vast wealth, and he had settled it within his own mind to possess himself of a considerable portion of it. He imagined that Agnes and Clara would inherit their uncle's fortune, and he forthwith determined to make up to the former. Fuentes was a character any thing but what would have pleased a man of the devotee's strict religious ideas, and he would scout the remotest notion of an alliance with a notorious profligate, even if no attack had been premeditated against his pocket. This obstacle, however, did not make our enterprising adventurer give himself up to despair. He was thoroughly acquainted with all the avenues to the female heart, and extremely conversant with all the little arts which have so high a value in the estimation of young girls, and which are so available in ensnaring their affections. The personal appearance of Don Gabriel was prepossessing —his manner and deportment elegant, and he was a practised master in the science of tender looks. Having once secured the object of his scheme, he felt no apprehension with regard to the result. He argued on the old notion, that parents sooner or later will relent, and forgive the fault of young transgressors. Thus he flattered himself with the idea that, at a future period, a portion of the Indiano's fortune would fall into his power.

How distant was the poor deluded Agnes from suspecting the real nature of her admirer's thoughts! Whilst she imagined that he was actuated by a noble spirit, and by the stimulus of admiration, to rescue her from her painful condition —whilst she invested her husband with all the charms of a generous heart and manly character, the deceitful man was coolly and calmly planning the most selfish and sordid schemes. Alas! how many girls live in this pleasing delusion, and only awake to the painful reality when the evil is beyond the power of redress.

The two first months of their union, Agnes and her partner lived with sufficient comfort and happiness —the charms of the wife, her youth, talents, and warmth of heart, were enough to captivate, for a short time, even the worn-out taste of a professed libertine. But these halcyon days were soon to expire. Don Gabriel got at length tired with the life he had embraced —he again flew to the gaming-table— the want of money to satisfy his ruling passion excited vexation and impatience. He applied to the Indiano. His first letter remained unanswered —his second shared the same fate— the third was written by Agnes, in all the agony of grief: it failed to soften the heart of the old man. Instead of the means of supporting life, the indignant uncle sent her a long sermon, in which he detailed the heinous sins of which she had been guilty —the enormity of her ingratitude towards her kind relations, and the unreasonableness of her application to persons whom she had so deeply offended. He concluded his epistle by exhorting her to penance, and telling her to trust in the mercy of God, but to discard every hope of ever receiving a farthing from her uncle.

This letter threw Don Gabriel into a fit of rage and disappointment. From this moment the indifference, which he had already begun to exhibit towards his helpless wife, was converted into unequivocal contempt and aversion. He no longer took any care to conceal the detestable feelings of his heart, and the sordid character of his mind. He bitterly upbraided the wretched Agnes with his misfortune, and cursed the moment he first saw her fatal person. This addition of misery produced a wild and fearful sensation on the almost broken heart of the poor victim; but the measure of woe was not yet complete. It was in the midst of accumulated sorrow, in the midst of poverty and remorse —abandoned by her relatives— hated by her husband, and forgotten by all, that poor Agnes became a mother! In the infant born to her, she might have experienced some alleviation to her affliction and sorrow, had not the birth of the child redoubled the bitter feelings of her husband.

Appalling poverty —utter destitution came now to weigh on the wretched and ill-assorted couple— the transition from habitual vice to the commission of crime is almost imperceptible. Don Gabriel, after a midnight broil, and instigated by despair, had associated with some profligates, and taken a part in a desperate robbery. The act came to the knowledge of the police, and an active pursuit of the delinquents commenced. What was the horror of the wretched Agnes, when she beheld her doors broken open in the silence of night, and the agenda of justice rush into her very chamber in search of a public malefactor —a robber! Still more —what were her feelings when, in the person of the detested criminal, she was compelled to recognize her husband! Hitherto her pride had supported the unfortunate woman in all the stages of bitter sorrow, disappointment, and wretchedness, but the last stroke of fate —the brand of disgrace and shame, was beyond the power of fortitude. Poor Agnes uttered a piercing cry, and fell senseless on her bed by the side of her sleeping babe.

The circumstances attendant on the robbery were of so flagrant a nature, that Fuentes, after being ignominiously expelled from the regiment to which he belonged, was, despite of the powerful interest made for a commutation of punishment, condemned to banishment to the prisons of Ceuta —the principal depot for the Spanish convicts. Agnes had been left by her worthless husband in a state, not only of utter destitution, but encumbered with debts which it was completely out of her power to discharge. The landlord of the humble dwelling which she occupied was the first to urge his claims. He had waited a long time for his rent, and perceiving no prospect of ever obtaining his due, he came to the cruel resolution of expelling the ill-fated Agnes from his premises. He allowed her a few days to arrange her affairs, and the term having expired, insensible to her prayers, and unmoved by the horrid picture of her distress, he proceeded to put his plan into execution.

Agnes had disposed of every article of the least value, to provide for the first necessaries of life. Her trinkets, and even her dresses, had gradually disappeared, and when the dreadful instant of her expulsion arrived, she had no object to carry away with her —nothing but the mournful weight of an infant, doomed to the severest gripe of misfortune. She took the poor child into her arms, and summoning her pride and energy of character for this most appalling of her trials, she quitted the house, a poor, wretched, roofless wanderer, uncertain whither to direct her steps, ignorant of what might be her destiny, and almost indifferent and callous to any further prospective woe.

The shadows of evening were descending, when the ill-fated Agnes quitted her dwelling; a drizzling rain had begun to fall, the day was cold, chill, and dreary, fit emblem of the state of her mind. Every thing announced that the approaching night would be one of darkness and cheerless gloom. Agnes for some time wandered about the streets of Madrid, totally careless what course to pursue. She applied at last for shelter to the house of an elderly female relative of her husband, in whose society she had experienced the only comfort which her bitter life had of late enjoyed; to her utter consternation she found the doors and windows of the house closed; the crime and ignominious destiny of Don Gabriel had compelled his relation to quit the scene of his disgrace, and retire to a distant part of the country. This discovery vanquished the last remains of the poor sufferer's courage. She gave herself up to despondency, and totally regardless of what might be her fate, she continued for some time her melancholy perambulation through the capital. The night had closed in utter darkness, and the rain began to fall profusely. Fatigue, exhaustion, and the increasing storm, compelled at length the wanderer to seek refuge from its fury under the porch of the convent of St. Philip Neri.

There poor Agnes, crouched like a dog, endeavoured by her caresses to hush the cries of her infant. What a dreadful picture was this! What fearful isolation! Agnes, in the midst of a great capital, was like a being who had no communion, no sympathy with those of her species; the world was a blank —a dreary waste to her. Shivering with the piercing cold, drenched in the rain, which fell in torrents, and from which she could only obtain a partial shelter, she looked with a sort of listless apathy on the gloomy prospect before her. A few stragglers, flying from the storm, hurried by in haste, and took no notice of the wretched being, they were too busy in seeking the comfort of their homes, to bestow even a passing thought on the sufferer. A sumptuous equipage came by —then another; and as the rolling of the wheels became more faint in the distance, the awful silence which followed served to augment the fearful feeling of desolation and horror. A reverend friar belonging to the convent then approached close to Agnes. She received no other consolation than a pious rebuke from the man of God. Mistaking her probably for one of the wretched females who pay the forfeit of their virtue with a life of shame and misery, he bestowed a smart reproach on the poor victim, and then hastened to a comfortable bed, no doubt, well satisfied with the zeal he had shown in the cause of morality.

In this awful and bitter moment the memory of poor Agnes reverted to her sister. Was she happy? would not her ulterior destiny be equally appalling! No —no, her gentle nature would bend to the will of her relatives, and calm resignation would ultimately lead to comparative repose and happiness. This idea diffused a momentary gleam of consolation over the darkened heart of Agnes. But the increasing and more painful cries of her child dissolved the transient dream, and recalled her senses to all the horrors of her situation. Although the fire and boldness of her temper had been subdued by the iron pressure of misfortune, still enough remained of that desperate courage, which in a moment of moral oblivion, might counsel the adoption of a fearful act. The image of self-destruction for a moment intruded on the throbbing brain of poor Agnes. She dwelt with a bitter complacency on the horrible thought. It would put a termination to her constant and overwhelming sufferings. She would press her child to her bosom, and by one bold, fearful act, place him and his wretched mother beyond the power of a world in which they were outcasts, doomed to misfortune. Fortunately this frightful idea was soon repelled by that principle of right, which not all her formidable trials had been able to eradicate from the mind of Agnes. She shuddered at the crime the next moment after the spirit of evil had instigated its perpetration, and this last victory of hapless, forlorn, and forsaken virtue, brought along with it that gratifying and consoling sensation, which is its constant attendant.

The pathetic wailing of the little sufferer attracted, at last, the notice of a charitable being —for happily in this world of selfishness there are still those who come forward to vindicate the better attributes of the human species. This humane person was a female, who lived hard by, and who had been moved by the incessant cries of the child. Alas! when the voice of sorrow and distress fills the air, the ear of woman is always first to catch the mournful sound! Agnes was offered a shelter by a charitable individual of her own sex. She felt deeply thankful, but the hand of consolation came too late. A violent fever, consequent on the dreadful suffering both of mind and body which she had undergone, rendered indispensable her removal to a public hospital.

What a dreadful contrast did poor Agnes offer at this sad period, with what she had been a few years since. All her charms had withered —her cheek was hollow and ghastly— her eye sunk and lustreless —her lips cold and quivering— her raven locks, tinged with the silver of premature decay, and the lines of sorrow furrowed her smooth and beautiful brow. Her mind had undergone the same melancholy change: her spirits were broken —the fire of her fancy extinguished— even the power of memory was bedimmed and almost lost. Thus a lovely, intelligent, and beautiful being —the expectant of fortune and happiness— born to ornament society, sank in early youth on the bed afforded by public charity. From this bed she was never more to rise; in a few days her suffering spirit was released from the miseries to which it had been so long condemned. Poor Agnes expired in the hospital, abandoned by her relatives, neglected by her friends, and surrounded only by strangers and images of woe and isolation. Her child followed, soon after, its wretched mother to her early grave. By charity their remains were consigned, without delay, to the earth. The ceremony was over, and they were forgotten!!!

When Don Gil Perez received intelligence of the melancholy fate of his niece, instead of feeling compassion for her misfortunes, or being visited by remorse for that cruel treatment, which had been the real origin of her untimely end, the narrow-minded and superstitious old man felt a degree of horror at the supposed crimes of the poor victim; and he failed not to tell her sister that the hand of God was visible in the punishment with which the disobedience of Agnes had been attended. Father Bastos said many edifying things on the occasion. He descanted copiously on the dreadful effects of pride and disobedience —the eligibility of conventual seclusion— and the happy destiny which Agnes had lost by her rebellious spirit. He concluded by hoping for the mercies of Heaven towards the poor sinner, and trusting that Clara would at least take warning from the dreadful example of her elder sister. Dona Josepha threw also her share into the stock of this pious and superfluous oratory. She was of course very eloquent on the subject of female youth and beauty, to the possession of which she unhesitatingly attributed the misfortunes, offences, and disastrous fate of her niece.

The situation of Clara became, from this moment, more irksome and mortifying. In the lectures with which these personages thought proper to treat the young girl every day in the year, the disobedience of Agnes and her punishment was the unvarying peroration to the discourse. As it was a self-evident truth that Agnes would not have died in an hospital if she had consented to enter a nunnery, Dona Josepha, by process of a very curious chain of argument, satisfied herself that the only remedy for Clara escaping the same, was to make a nun of her with all possible dispatch.

The possession of riches is, according to many very pious and learned authors, a severe impediment in the road to heaven; simply because their use being misapplied, it leads imperceptibly to the commission of sin, and the perdition of souls. This being admitted, what act could illustrate in a more exemplary manner the fervour of charity, than to remove the said terrible obstacle from a Christian's path! Father Bastos had the salvation of the Indiano, the wife, and the niece much at heart; and consequently he felt it a duty incumbent, both on his fatherly solicitude and religious capacity, to ward off the dangers that might obstruct the accomplishment of so desirable an end. Hence the pious man was indefatigable in the holy work of getting from the Indiano all the money he could.

But this was not all. The fact being now established beyond doubt that Theodosio and Clara were deeply in love, it was indispensable to provide a prompt and efficacious remedy for a danger which threatened so much evil and calamity. Father Bastos had conceived a bitter and very zealous aversion against the young man. Theodosio was equally disgusted with the sordid schemes and superstition of Father Bastos. A vast quantity of rancorous feeling was divided into two equal portions, and shared between the lover and the friar. It was no difficult task to imbue the narrow mind of Don Gil with prejudice against his nephew.

A warm dispute, which occurred between Father Bastos and Theodosio, brought matters to a crisis. The infuriated friar represented every mark of contempt bestowed on his person as so many gross affronts offered to religion. The Indiano was shocked, Dona Josepha escaped a fainting fit by the merest chance, and the expulsion of the offender from the house was instantly decided upon. This plan was without loss of time carried into effect; but Don Theodosio, on quitting his beloved Clara, made an eternal vow of constancy, and frequently conjured her not to take any future step without his previous knowledge and approbation. He promised that ere long he would return armed with legal power to rescue her from the state of thraldom in which she was kept by her relatives.

The departure of Theodosio was the harbinger of joy to every member of the Indiano's family except his niece. The separation from her lover fell like a heavy weight on her heart. She felt as if she were doomed never more to see the object of her first and only affection. Her gentle spirit pined away in secret sorrow, although the meekness of her disposition induced her to assume before her relatives a cheerful aspect, that was in direct contradiction with the state of her feelings.

To induce Clara to take the veil was the next measure to be adopted, and the success of this scheme appeared but little doubtful in the opinion of Father Bastos. To the first attacks Clara put forward an opposition which her catechisers had not anticipated —the genuine feelings of nature— and the potency of a pure, deep, and absorbing affection struggled hard against the suggestions of superstition. Although she did not possess powers of intellect of the strongest order, yet her sense would tell her that there was no crime in the love which she felt for her cousin. A soothing hope, which came at intervals to illumine her heart, supplied her with a momentary courage, and she for the first month uniformly repelled every endeavour made to induce her to enter on a life of seclusion.

But this opposition was not calculated to discourage Father Bastos. He flattered himself that time and perseverance would vanquish the reluctance of the girl. Clara's soft and yielding disposition would not withstand long, unassisted, the repeated attacks of parental authority and religious expostulations. The only danger which the friar had to apprehend, was from the attempts made by the lover to thwart his plans. To prevent any intercourse between him and Clara was accordingly a primary consideration. This, in a house like that of the Indiano, and with the secluded habits of life in which Clara spent her time, was a matter of very easy accomplishment. Two months elapsed, and yet Clara had received no intelligence from her lover. His letters had been intercepted, while she herself was kept in complete ignorance of the fact.

The most fearful expedient which the Indiano and the friar used to carry their schemes into effect was, as we have already stated, the awful terrors of religion. The mind of Clara was but too timid and well disposed to receive such impressions. After some time, therefore, she began to think that she had been guilty of grievous sin in the eyes of God, for having entertained so absorbing an affection for a mortal man —one of his creatures— made of perishable clay, and full of frailties and imperfections! The lugubrious phantom soon became the source of constant and mortifying anxiety —the repose of poor Clara was destroyed. She, who was pure and sinless, began seriously to fancy herself a delinquent —a sombre gloom gradually pervaded her mind— she became more attached to frequent the church and recite long prayers —the fatal disease of her relatives had infected her, although, in her case, the malady was destitute of that poison which tended to the misery of others. No; the hapless and deluded girl could not, for a moment, harm any living thing save herself —one of the most lovely, guileless, and unoffending of Heaven's creations!

Of all the dismal images that worked on her fevered brain, none was so fearful, so full of sorrow, or so constantly recurring, as the remembrance of her unfortunate sister. This terrible phantom persecuted her by day, and disturbed her slumbers by night. Father Bastos had but too well succeeded in persuading Clara that Agnes had evinced the conduct of a great sinner, and that her miseries and disastrous end was a just punishment by an offended God. Moreover, the example of the sister was strongly urged as the most efficient arm to induce Clara to become a nun. A parallel was instituted between her present reluctance to enter a convent, and the rebellious conduct exhibited by Agnes at a former period. This reasoning, however false in principle, was but too plausible not to produce a strong effect in the already bedimmed understanding of Clara. She felt the full force of the friar's remonstrances, and she shuddered in anticipation at the sins which she might commit, and the dreadful death she might incur, should she persist in opposing the wishes of her uncle.

Dwelling on this perplexing subject, she retired one evening to bed, her mind more than usually loaded with frightful images of future misery. She directed her fervid prayers to Heaven, and composed herself to sleep. It was in vain —a thousand superstitious terrors run riot in her imagination. Then the form of her lover —that true, kind, and sincere lover, whom she was compelled to abjure, came forward arrayed in all the attributes of sorrow and affection to distract her heart. The snatches of slumber which closed her eyes were troubled with these mournful visions. Poor Clara discovered that she had placed too great a reliance on herself. Theodosio, far from being forgotten, was still in possession of her entire affection. Those affections were harassed and perplexed, tainted and shadowed, in the mist of superstitious terror; but yet they remained true to the object by which they were engrossed.

This was a source of additional misery to Clara. She struggled desperately to discard the image of her lover from her thoughts, but in this attempt she failed —the mournful object still kept fixed before the eyes of her mind, and his looks seemed to be full of a gentle reproach —the reproach of love and pain. In the tumult of her feelings Clara rose from her bed, and knelt on the bare ground before a picture of the Holy Virgin which adorned her room. The apartment was illumined by the dim and gloomy refulgence of a lamp, well calculated to promote the morbid sensibility of Clara's feelings. She raised her eyes to the image, and prayed fervently for the restoration of that calm and repose which appeared to have fled for ever from her bosom. The tears of the penitent (for such Clara considered herself) flowed fast, whilst her sobs and groans bespoke the agony of her soul. The fever of her imagination was now worked up to the highest degree, and she at length fancied that the image, before which she knelt in humble prayer, fixed a mournful look upon her. This illusion of her brain, she considered as a warning from heaven, and she prayed fervently that the will of Providence might be made known to her, that she might sacrifice her feelings and comforts, life, the world —all— to that sacred admonition.

When Clara rose on the following morning, the struggles which her soul had undergone during the night were but too visible on her countenance. She was interrogated concerning the cause of this emotion, and she, whose thoughts were made of candour and purity, found no difficulty in revealing the whole secret of her heart. Don Gil and his wife, as usual, immediately perceived the hand of Providence on her. The anxiety and disquietude which the image of Theodosio had produced, and the tumult of agony in which Clara had passed the night, afforded ample evidence, that she ought to renounce every idea of her love, and become a nun with all possible expedition. Soon after Father Bastos came in to throw his assistance into the balance. He delivered a very lengthy and edifying sermon, and solemnly asserted that Clara was a bride elect of heaven, and then congratulated the maiden on her happy destiny. She requested a few days to adopt a final resolution —the wish was too just, and was easily complied with.

At this interesting period Dona Josepha died, or rather, as Father Bastos expressed it, she was gone to claim the inheritance of glory which she had gained by her piety and good works. The temper of Don Gil became, from this moment, more lugubrious, and in the jaundiced state of his mind, he conceived that every thing which he saw and heard was a sin; the wretched man became a torment to himself, and a positive nuisance to those who came into the least contact with him. His imagination was stored with ideas of every possible calamity that can afflict human nature, and he once entertained the notion that the end of the world was fast approaching. The increasing superstition and gloom of her uncle, and the torture resulting therefrom, made another inducement for Clara's taking the veil. She at length gave her consent, and, at the age of seventeen, commenced her noviciate in the convent of ——.

Clara found no difficulty in adapting herself to the habits of a life of seclusion —her uncle's house had always been a kind of nunnery, as far as intercourse with the world was concerned. Indeed the change, if any thing, was for the better, as she could enjoy the society of the nuns, some of whom were very young, and not so morose as their elder sisters. But for the severe aspect and austere character of the mother abbess, from which the gentle nature of Clara recoiled, she would have enjoyed comparative repose and happiness; yet even the rigour of the abbess was far preferable to the tantalizing, hypochondriacal, and tormenting character of Don Gil Perez.

In a few months, calm was restored to Clara's bosom. Not that the phantom of Theodosio had completely quitted her thoughts. That image still broke upon her meditations at intervals, but still the intrusion was not accompanied with that intense feeling of disquietude and pain, which it was wont to bring on former occasions —a sensation of subdued sorrow, rendered endurable by the spirit of piety and resignation, had now taken possession of Clara's heart, and even this remnant of unfortunate love, she hoped would, at a future period, be converted into a tender, pure remembrance for the object, divested of all human passion, and incapable of inflicting either pain or regret. With this soothing idea the days of the novice flowed in a gentle stream, unrippled by cares or remorse, whilst those of her lover were involved in mystery. We must now revert to Theodosio, who had, by this time, become as a dead man to his beloved Clara.

The destiny of Clara had long been a subject of doubt and speculation to her absent lover, thanks to the activity of Don Gil and Father Bastos. Every means of intercourse had been so efficiently intercepted, that in the moments of grief, Theodosio entertained the most gloomy ideas, sometimes fancying that he was no longer an object of tenderness to Clara, at others, that she had sunk into an early grave. A charge of heresy brought against him before the holy office of the Inquisition, confined him to the dungeons of that terrible tribunal for a period of several months —the accusation, however, was not substantiated, and he was released from prison. The first use he made of his liberty, was to repair to Madrid in all haste, to ascertain the fate of his beloved Clara: the information which he gathered, filled him at once with astonishment and sorrow. One ray of hope, however, dawned upon his soul —the noviciate of his mistress had not yet expired, and she might yet be rescued from pronouncing a rash vow, which would bring along with it only misery and regret. Theodosio, naturally enough, conceived that undue influence had been used in persuading Clara to take the veil. He considered her as an addition to the list of victims of fanatic zeal and parental oppression. With this idea, a feeling of pity and justice alone, had no other more tender sentiment actuated him, would have suggested the propriety of an attempt to rescue her from the convent.

This enterprise, however, was surrounded with almost insurmountable difficulties. But a few days remained of the noviciate, and it was not probable that in so short a period Theodosio could succeed in getting access to his mistress, and inducing her to a flight. Instigated by a tumult of dread, love, and compassion, he hastened to the nunnery, and essayed every means of informing Clara that he was sojourning in the precincts of that solemn prison-house. Baffled in all his attempts, he one day adopted a step of greater boldness —he climbed the walls of the garden at the fall of evening, and hiding himself behind a cluster of trees, he struck a few melancholy strains on a guitar, which were followed by a Moorish ballad, to which Clara had been always very partial. The scheme was full of danger, but, like many other attempts instigated by boldness in the moment of despair, was accompanied with success.

Clara was sitting by the narrow window of her cell, when her ear caught the plaintive sound. She was at first startled, and imagined that she laboured under some delusion of the brain. She listened attentively —her heart now throbbed with a tumult of conflicting feelings. The leading events of her life passed rapidly and vividly before her mind. She trembled with a strange mixture of terror, hope, and pleasure. She opened her window and leant forwards to ascertain if her eyes would confirm the promise of her ear. A man issued from the green bosom of a thicket, which appeared now partially tinged by the silvery radiance of the moonbeams. Clara, with a thrill of uncontrollable emotion, perceived the form gently moving forwards. She beheld the outlines of a man resembling her lover in height and deportment: imagination filled up the picture, and the throb of her heart clearly told her that Theodosio had impiously intruded within the precincts of that sacred spot. But the sensations of terror and superstition gave way before the more genuine and powerful feelings of human nature. The pure stream of love returned to those channels of the heart, from which it had been repulsed by the troubled current of superstition.

Theodosio held up a letter, and with all the eloquence of passion, conjured Clara, by signs, to admit it into her possession. He then placed the epistle in a marked spot, but yet sufficiently hidden to escape detection, and after lingering for some time on the hallowed place which contained all that his soul held dearest in life, he at length retreated from the garden, to concert measures for the rescue of his beloved Clara. The feelings of the young novice were now excited to the highest point; the astonishment produced by the unexpected apparition of her lover, had at first completely absorbed all her powers, and she suffered no ungrateful reproach to intrude in order to dissolve the charm by which she was bound. But with the retreat of Theodosio came reflection. Clara was soon plunged into a deep and perplexing reverie. She blamed herself for the guilt which she had incurred by affording the least encouragement to the desperate attempts of a man with whom every connexion was broken in this world —a man, whom, more than any other member of the human species, she was bound to banish from her thoughts. These painful speculations disturbed the repose of Clara during the night. To soothe the agitation of her soul, she had recourse to prayer, but even the power of fervent devotion failed in calling back the lost tranquillity of her mind —that mind, despite of the efforts of piety, was chiefly occupied by the image of her lover. Alas! all the endeavours of religious zeal were insufficient to eject so powerful a tenant from the habitation of which he had taken possession.

When morning came, the state of Clara's mind was, if possible, more distressing. Her sense of duty suggested that she ought not to read the contents of her lover's letter. Moreover, some whispering spirit told her that the epistle should be delivered to the mother abbess. She was almost determined to act up to this idea, but her courage failed at the moment of putting it into execution. A stream of tenderness and of returning affection inundated her heart. The death of her lover might perhaps be the result of her severity. She had not yet pronounced the awful and hopeless vow, and the agency of her will was still unshackled. Besides, the period of a noviciate is allowed to the young mind in order to weigh maturely the awful responsibility of the engagements which it is about to make. These consoling reflections came next to counsel a different course, and as the heart is never backward in adopting that alternative which is more consonant with the tenor of its feelings, Clara at length resolved to be guided by the impulse of ill-suppressed affections.

She descended to the garden, and watching a favourable opportunity, was fortunate enough to possess herself of her lover's letter, without having attracted notice, or excited suspicion. Her fingers trembled as she took up the paper. She felt (in her estimation) a guilty joy, and she sped to the secrecy of her cell; she fancied that every object which met her eyes was a severe witness of her offence, and reproached her conduct. Once again safe within her narrow chamber, she breathed more freely; but the tumult of her heart increased as she opened the letter and read its contents —they were imbued with the wild eloquence of impassioned love and despair. The perusal produced a powerful and decisive impression on the mind of the gentle and affectionate girl. After detailing the trials which he had undergone, and his efforts to obtain information with regard to her destiny, the ill-fated lover continued to dissuade Clara from the rash resolution which she had adopted. This part of the letter ran thus:

«Clara! Clara, my own beloved —the hope of my soul— the sole principle of my life! I conjure you by that immaculate purity —by that love of virtue which is the essence of thy nature, to repel an instigation which is prompted not by the voice of true religion and piety, but by the foul breath of fanaticism. Oh! listen ere it is too late —the moments are counted, and a life of remorse and despair will be the award of your infatuation. Yes, Clara, you are going to pronounce sacrilegious vows, in which the heart will have no share. Pause, I conjure you; pause ere it is too late. And if after this more solemn admonition, the pleadings of my agony and despair could be weighed in your mind, let me recall to your memory the sacred pledge of love. Have you forgotten a feeling which I deemed interwoven with the very principle of your life? Are you ashamed of that love?

No, no; the love which I feel for you, Clara, is not the offspring of vanity, or a fleeting passion. No, it is a sentiment worthy of the object by which it was inspired —a sentiment tender as the expression of thine eyes— pure as the imaginings of thy mind —deep as the innate goodness of thy soul— a sentiment fresh like thy beauty —enduring and indelible, like thy virtues».

After these, and other earnest admonitions, Theodosio concluded by insinuating that he would convey to her the means of escape. No time was to be lost, and as the case was so urgent, the lover announced his intention of making a bold attempt.

The perusal of this letter threw poor Clara into the most powerful agitation; the conflict of her feelings produced a keen sensation of pain, yet in the midst of her emotion she enjoyed an undefinable charm in the boldness expressed by her lover; the darker phantom of sin now and then came across her imagination, but the lurid image was soon chased away by more consoling and enlivening prospects. One thing, however, puzzled her ideas, and this was, the nature of the plan which her lover would pursue to accomplish his designs. In the postcript of his letter he had intimated that in a trunk which was to be taken to the convent on the following day, she would find the means for effecting her escape. We must explain.

When a young maiden takes the veil, and abjures the world for ever, the most interesting part of the ceremony is certainly that which refers to the sacrifice as connected with her personal charms. The young novice is represented as the bride-elect of the Saviour, and accordingly, on the day on which her espousals are to take place, she is attired in the most splendid habiliments. She is adorned with the most scrupulous care and rich profusion, and these worldly ornaments are exchanged by her for the humble and coarse habit of the convent; her hair is then cut short, and every thing is done to give the impression that she renounces all the pomp and charms of life, for an existence of penance and humility.

Don Gil Perez of course was neither forgetful of this part of the ceremony, nor disposed to let it pass without evincing his zeal. It was a matter of the highest importance: nay, a sprinkling of worldly vanity might also be mixed with this religious fervour, and he had accordingly resolved that his niece should be dressed for the approaching ceremony with all the pomp and splendour that care and expense could procure. Father Bastos approved highly the zeal evinced by the Indiano. It was an additional proof of the influence which every thing connected with religious ceremonies exercised over his mind. The preparations were accordingly made in the most expensive manner, and a passing sunshine diffused itself over the lugubrious aspect of the devotee, as he conceived that he was zealously promoting the future welfare of his niece, as well as his own. With regard to Father Bastos, he inwardly congratulated himself on the near completion of those plans which he had laboured so much to bring about.

Clara, the interesting subject of so much care and speculation, was, meantime, labouring under the painful trials of dread and irresolution. The impassioned appeal of her lover had made the strongest impression on her heart. She felt half determined to follow his wishes, but in the following moment the image of the sinful duplicity which she was committing, would fill her soul with agony and terror. The battle of her feelings was very distressing, and the nuns failed not to observe the agitation of the young novice; this, however, did not afford matter for great surprise —such displays were not of unusual occurrence in the nunnery on similar occasions. The painful reverie of Clara was soon dispelled by the necessity for action. A trunk arrived from her uncle, containing the dress and ornaments in which she was to be decked out for the ceremony of the morrow. Clara endeavoured to conceal the emotion which she experienced when the key of the trunk was delivered to her. She would have immediately proceeded to examine the contents, but her desire was thwarted for the present, as she was obliged to attend the confessional, and undergo other religious exercises, preparatory to the solemn sacrifice which she was on the eve of making.

The hour for evening prayers arrived, and the disquietude which Clara had felt during the day increased to a painful degree: the sisterhood repaired to the choir, with that sort of listless indifference which habit had rendered natural. The mother abbess, with her accustomed severity of aspect and solemnity of deportment, heralded her flock to the evening devotions, pride and moroseness stamped on those features which all the efforts of practised deceit could not bend to enact humility. She cast a scrutinizing look on Clara —the glance went to the young girl's inmost heart; that heart, though pure as the unsullied snow, quailed from the cold unfeeling eye of cruel superstition. The excitement produced by her lover's letter could not be hidden from the observing mind of the abbess, but she was far from surmising the real cause of so visible an emotion. She naturally concluded that it was the effect of the solemn ceremony about to take place on the morrow. Convinced, as she felt, that the young novice was one of the many victims obliged to pronounce vows in which the heart has no share, and to bid adieu to the pomps and deceits of a world, of which, alas! they were incompetent to judge —the circumstance, therefore, excited neither surprise nor indignation; the event was of no unusual occurrence, and all that was required of a novice was an humble spirit when making the detestable sacrifice.

Prayers began in the usual solemn monotony of tone, but the mind of Clara was absent from devotion —the sensations of her young heart were harassing and painful. It was in vain that she endeavoured to fix her thoughts on the religious duties for which they were assembled. She had no longer controul over her will —a crowd of distressing images flocked and fleeted before her imagination, all full of dismal omens, all pregnant with a certain woe and horror, which though undefinable, appeared yet to threaten with a fearful certainty. The letter of her lover had thrown her into a state of wild excitement. She seemed no longer the mild, pure, pliant being, born merely to suffer and bend to the will of others. Nor did her aspect offer the image of a virgin, spotless even in the most fleeting thoughts: alas! no, a revulsion of feeling had come over her heart —good and virtuous she was still, but that angelic purity of mind was withered. She had in some measure sanctioned any steps which her lover might be induced to take in his despair, and this thought conveyed a poignant sensation to her soul. Her sense of virtue shuddered from the lurid phantom which her weakness had conjured up in her imagination. She fancied herself guilty of some great sin, and the impression was productive of the deepest agony and remorse.

Nor was this the only feeling that pressed to distract her mind —the pathetic appeal of her unfortunate lover had gone to her inmost heart, and remained firmly impressed thereon. She could not disguise from herself that she still loved him —loved him with all the fondness of a first, a pure, deep affection, loved him with that absorbing sentiment which can alone be felt by a devoted female in the spring of life, when all her feelings are fresh, all her thoughts unsullied, all her acts beaming with the light of candour and purity. Such love partakes of a celestial origin —it is a rare boon— frequently, alas! the bitterest curse that can fall on the possessor. But there is a charm in the feeling, which takes a strong possession of the mind which loves to dwell on the idea, however harrowing, and which, in the midst of dismal gloom and threatening horror, throws a soothing influence to cheer up the sinking heart. It is a cheering light glimmering through the darkness —a smiling flower blooming in a dreary desert.

The tumult of Clara's thoughts increased every moment. She was anxious to see the prayers ended —never had they appeared so long as in the present instance; her mind was restless —her heart throbbing to painful intensity— the wildest and most incoherent ideas played before her besotted imagination. Sometimes the prospect of escape from the life of misery to which she was about to condemn herself, came to diffuse a momentary comfort, but in the next moment the sacrifice of the morrow dispelled the illusion, and she shrunk from the wickedness of which she was guilty in harbouring such criminal thoughts; this conflict of feeling grew to a degree that made her ready to faint, and she reclined for protection on the balustrades of the choir. Meantime the nuns continued mumbling the accustomed service in their usual drowsy monotonous manner, perfectly heedless of the sorrow and wretchedness which weighed on the soul of the novice.

What an awful moment was this! The silence of the hour —a chilling silence, and disturbed alone by the solemn voice of prayer. The melancholy and awe-inspiring aspect of the place was sufficient to engender gloom and despondency in the youthful heart. Images of woe and terror danced before the mind of poor Clara —the church seemed enrobed in dismal shadows— the saints appeared as if animated and coming forward from their niches; the solemnity of death, which presided over the place, whispered to the soul a warning of misery and woe. A fearful presentiment seized on the hapless victim —she strove to discard it from her mind, but she strove in vain, for the unwelcome and dismal thoughts broke on her meditations with ominous pertinacy. She could not pray —her whole soul was absent from the spot, and when, by a strong effort, she summoned back her thoughts to the holy duty she was performing, she shuddered at the phantom of guilt which presented itself to her mind. She was on the point of bidding farewell to the world —of pronouncing solemn, irrevocable vows which would render her as it were dead to all the purposes of life— her whole thoughts, feelings, and desires, were henceforward to be directed towards heaven alone, and yet at such an awful, such a sacred period, she had hearkened to the voice of a lover —granted his request— and was harbouring criminal hopes of a rescue from her religious confinement.

A thrill of horror shot to her heart as the pealing organ spread its full, solemn, and elevating notes along the aisles of the church. That mournful sound, to which her ear ought to have been accustomed, was like a voice of death. There was something replete with dark forebodings in those sublime, yet melancholy strains. She felt an undefinable presentiment of evil working in her throbbing brain, and she trembled in every limb, unconscious of a cause for the agitation.

Theodosio had promised to supply the means of her deliverance. Were those contained in the trunk which contained the rich habiliments in which she was solemnly to renounce the world and take the vow? This thought recurred frequently to her mind. It had already troubled her from the first, but every moment it became more and more anxious and tormenting. Perhaps a ladder of ropes —but would she have courage enough to adopt so desperate a course? Again, was not this an act of guilt from which a virtuous mind ought to shrink with horror?

Prayers were ended, and the nuns, in the usual order and awful silence, having received the blessing of the mother abbess, began severally to retire to their cells. When Clara, her heart brimful to bursting, approached the abbess, the matron addressed some words of consolation, not unmingled with a certain severity both of tone and manner, which is in accordance with strict religious discipline.

«Go, my daughter», she said in a calm, austere voice, «go to thy rest, and may the Holy Virgin watch over thy slumbers —raise your soul to heaven— for to-morrow thou wilt choose the better part. Thou art a bride elect of the Saviour, and an imperishable wreath will be thy reward hereafter».

Each of these words was a dagger in the breast of poor Clara; they were so many condemnations of her duplicity; and she felt relieved when the abbess, holding forth her hand to be kissed, bestowed upon her the parting blessing for the night. With hurried speed and a panting heart the novice then hastened to her cell: she entered —closed the door— breathed a long sigh, and felt eased from the weight that pressed on her soul. For a moment she stood as if fixed in the midst of the narrow tenement, then summoning her strength, she approached the trunk. No sooner had she touched it than she felt a cold chill running through her veins —her bosom heaved fearfully— her tongue was parched up —her eyes seemed burning in the sockets— a powerful, overwhelming fever, paralyzed her limbs. She wept —wept aloud— unconscious of the cause of her sorrow; but her conscience was not tranquil, she considered herself a sinful being, and a fearful voice rang in her ear the award of guilt. Poor, hapless girl! thou wert good and angelic; if the shadow of sin approached thee, it was thy own gentle and pure nature alone that converted the fleeting, perishable shade, into a thing of substance!

A moment elapsed —Clara felt somewhat more tranquil. She at length resolved to open the trunk: she turned the key —her eyes were fixed for a moment— the next a scream of wild horror and dismay filled the room, and was echoed along the silent precincts of the cloisters. The trunk, instead of bridal ornaments, contained the breathless corpse of a man —that man was Theodosio, her ill-fated and devoted lover! She gazed again in throbbing anxiety —he might be alive; —alas! no— it was too late —the chill of death was upon his brow, and his countenance exhibited the ghastly hue produced by suffocation. He had been too long kept without the power of breathing; for although he had bored an aperture in the trunk, the porters who brought it to the convent, ignorant of its contents, had placed it in a manner to render abortive the unfortunate lover's contrivance. Life was extinct. With a look of glazed horror the wretched Clara contemplated the fearful object before her. She had no tears to shed —hers was an agony beyond the power of the least passing relief. Mechanically she took the hand of her adored lover —the clammy coldness of the touch called her wandering senses again to concentrate in all the horrors of her situation. The first paroxysm was over. Again she endeavoured to deceive herself with false hopes —again those fearful hopes were repulsed by the chilling reality. She found the powers of utterance —and a loud, wild, harrowing cry disturbed, for the second time, the awful silence that reigned in the convent.

The painful sound had startled the peaceful tenants of the place. The mother abbess, and two or three of the neighbouring nuns, rushed to the spot from which the dismal cry had issued —the door of the cell flew open, and the horrid spectacle struck their astonished eyes. Clara's wild and frenzied looks were for a moment withdrawn from the ghastly remains of her lover, and fixed on the stupified nuns. The misery of her situation was increased. The mother abbess gazed for some time on the terrible scene before her, then suddenly bursting into a strain of horror —«Can this be possible?» she exclaimed. «The corpse of a man in this holy cell! Are then our sacred walls defiled by so flagrant a guilt? Thou wretched thing», she added, turning to the awe-struck novice, «tremble at the enormity of thy crime —the curse of Heaven is on thy head— a life of unceasing penitence can only partially atone for your sins, and serve to calm the wrath of Heaven. Prepare to be immured for the rest of thy wretched existence in the close and dismal dungeon which justice and religion have assigned for criminal females like yourself».

The sufferings of Clara had now arrived at their acme —the cup of misery was brimful to overflowing— the dreadful image of disgrace which would attach to her memory, presented a hideous train of thought to her mind; the awful aspect of the mother abbess —the prophetic terror of her words— the fearful malediction she pronounced, added to the horrors of the tragic scene, pressed so heavily on her head, that the weight surpassed all the powers of suffering. Clara spoke not a word; she looked mournfully for a moment on the abbess, uttered a low, plaintive moan, and fell on the body of her unfortunate lover. The nuns imagined this was a swoon, produced by the horror of the scene, and hastened to proffer their assistance. Alas! it was in vain —Clara was no longer among the living— her heart was broken, and her trials and sorrows were no more. For some time the nuns harboured hopes she might recover, but when the death of the poor victim could afford no doubt, such a catastrophe, instead of the tears of compassion for the hapless fate of a lovely being, only produced in the votaries of fanaticism a religious terror at the supposed crimes of a wretched sinner. So vast, so absorbing is the power of superstition, that it corrupts even the pure stream of female tenderness! And that feeling of compassion, which they would not withhold from the most worthless object in the creation in the moment of distress and destitution, they deny to a wretched, innocent, and lovely being of their own sex!

The news of the dreadful tragedy, despite of the precaution of the mother abbess, was soon spread through the town, and produced a powerful sensation among the friends of the parties. Don Gil Perez was horror struck at the catastrophe. Yet, although he had been so materially instrumental in bringing it about, he nevertheless felt not the least remorse of conscience, whilst his zealous indignation was powerfully excited at the fancied crimes of his victims. The Indiano's health had for sometime been in a declining state, and the fearful events which had within so short a space of time taken place among his nearest relatives, were calculated to hasten the period of his existence. His malady assumed a mortal aspect, he felt his end approach, and desired Father Bastos not to quit his side. He died calmly, as if his had been a life of blessing, comfort, and utility to his fellow creatures, instead of the accursed origin of a great sum of deepest woe and misfortune. He consoled himself with the idea that he died the death of the just, an idea which the pious Father Bastos took no care to contradict, for his plans had succeeded to the fullest extent. The whole wealth of the superstitious Gil Perez devolved on the church, and such piety certainly rendered him deserving of an immortal crown in the regions of bliss.

The funeral of the deceased Indiano was performed with the greatest pomp and solemnity. Masses were ordered to be said in every convent, church, and chapel. Charity was distributed to all the paupers of the place, and the service for the dead was celebrated with all the state and ceremony of religion. To conclude the scene in a befitting manner, Father Bastos ascended the pulpit, and delivered a panegyric on the deceased, which in the eyes of common sense would seem like a mockery of religion. He descanted copiously on the piety, charity, and other virtues of the Indiano in extravagant terms, coolly announced to the congregation that his soul had flown to the realms of light, and concluded by making a contrast between the virtues of Gil Perez and his edifying death, and the guilty lives and appalling deaths of his relatives.

The greater part of the audience felt no doubt convinced by the friar's eloquence, and departed accordingly, impressed with a feeling of terror mingled with astonishment, that such pious persons as Don Gil Perez and his wife, should be the relations of such fearful sinners as Agnes, Clara, and Don Theodosio.

Tantum religio potest suadere malorum!