"Then you knew!" said Renzo.
"Too well," replied Lucy.
"What did you know?"
"Do not make me speak now, do not make me weep! I'll call my mother and dismiss the company. We must be alone."
As she departed, Renzo whispered, "And you have never spoken of it to me!"
"Ah, Renzo!" replied Lucy, turning for a moment to gaze at him.
He understood well what this action meant; it was as if she had said, "Can you doubt me?"
Meanwhile the good Agnes (so the mother of Lucy was called) had descended the stairs, to ascertain the cause of her daughter's disappearance. She remained with Renzo, while Lucy returned to the company, and, assuming all the composure she could, said to them, "The Signor Curate is indisposed, and the wedding cannot take place to-day." The ladies departed, and lost no time in relating amongst the gossips of the neighbourhood all that had occurred, while they made particular enquiries respecting the reality of Don Abbondio's sickness. The truth of this cut short the conjectures which they had already begun to intimate by brief and mysterious hints.
CHAPTER III.
Lucy entered the lower room as Renzo was sorrowfully informing Agnes of that, to which she as sorrowfully listened. Both turned towards her from whom they expected an explanation which could not but be painful; the suspicions of both were, however, excited in the midst of their grief, and the displeasure they felt towards Lucy differed only according to their relative situation. Agnes, although anxious to hear her daughter speak, could not avoid reproaching her—"To say nothing to thy mother!"
