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João da Cruz was away from the house for two hours, and Simão's curiosity turned into distress. ‘Could your father have been arrested?’ he asked Mariana. ‘My heart does not tell me so, and my heart never deceives me,’ she replied. Simão then wished to know what that heart foretold for him. Would his troubles end there? Mariana hesitated, but at last confessed that her heart told her that his troubles were only beginning. Simão listened to her in silence, struck by the prediction. Yet a dark idea, unjust to that simple young woman, assailed him: might she wish to draw him away from Teresa so that he would love her? It was only Simão's suspicion; nothing confirmed it.
At that moment the farrier returned with a cheerful air and declared that Simão's mother had sent for him. Simão asked how she had learnt that he was in that house. João said that Rita knew of the gentleman's visit, but believed her son was already on his way to Coimbra. He did not know who had told her and had asked no questions, for, according to João's father, respectable people were not to be interrogated. The lady knew the reason for the hiding place and had scolded him a little. João assured him that he had calmed her as best he could and that there was no news. When she asked why Simão had stayed after Teresa entered the convent, the farrier invented a fall from a horse and an illness. Rita had also asked whether her son had money; João had replied that he did not know. Then, according to the story, she had gone inside and returned with a parcel for Simão. She had not written because the chief magistrate was beside the writing desk. She had also advised Simão to write to her only from Coimbra, since discovery of the hiding place would throw the whole household into chaos. Not a word had been said about Baltasar's servants; no one in the city was discussing the affair any longer. As for Teresa, João claimed to have heard only that she had gone to the convent. His performance complete, he went to tend the mare, which had arrived streaming with sweat.
Simão counted ten full gold coins and three quarters of another, and marvelled at such unexpected generosity. In the adjoining room, Mariana embraced her father and congratulated him on telling the lie so well. ‘You were the one who lied,’ João corrected her, reminding her that the plan had been born in that little head. The performance, however, had been perfect: Simão had swallowed the story as readily as a sweet. João joked about the calves she had lost and the oxen she might one day receive in exchange. Mariana cut in, offended, saying that she had not done it for gain. Her father replied that he knew it, but added the proverb: whoever sows, reaps. Mariana grew thoughtful and consoled herself with the idea that Simão could not judge her as João did. God knew that no hope of personal gain lay behind her sacrifice. In truth, the coins came from Mariana's calves; she had devised the false maternal gift, which João had acted out.
Simão called the farrier and offered him part of the supposed maternal gift to pay for his food. Had he possessed no money, he would have accepted João's favours without reluctance. He believed that João would provide those favours without expecting profit, but now wanted the farrier to accept that payment. Even so, many debts of gratitude would remain which no money could settle. João drew back his hand: accounts were settled at the end, and no one would hear them, God willing. If he needed money, he would ask; for the present, there were hens in the coop and bread baked every week. Simão insisted that he accept it and use it as he saw fit. With feigned annoyance, Master João declared that he alone gave orders in his house. The gentleman was to keep his money and say no more about the matter if he wanted the business brought safely to its conclusion. And João concluded the prohibition with a comic, half-serious air.
During the next five days, Simão regularly received letters from Teresa. Some were resigned and consoling; others sprang from the exasperated violence of longing. In one of them, Teresa said that her father must have known Simão was nearby. As long as he remained, Tadeu would certainly not remove her from the convent. It would be better for Simão to go to Coimbra and allow her father to forget the recent events. Otherwise, Tadeu would not restore her freedom, nor would she know how to escape from that hell. Simão had no idea what a convent was like. Even if Teresa could sacrifice her heart to God, she would still seek a less corrupt atmosphere. She believed it possible to pray and live virtuously everywhere except in that convent.
In another letter, however, the same Teresa begged: ‘Do not abandon me, Simão; do not go to Coimbra.’ She feared that her father would transfer her to a stricter convent. One nun had told her that she would not remain there; another had asserted that Tadeu was arranging her removal to Porto. Above all, she was terrified by the knowledge that her father intended to force her to take vows. The threat frightened her, but it did not bend her will. She could not take vows without spending a year as a novice and being questioned three times. On every one of those occasions she would answer no. She wished only that she could escape. Within the enclosure, she had seen a cart gate which opened directly onto the road. That gate was sometimes opened to admit carts carrying firewood. Unfortunately, it would not be opened again until the beginning of winter. If she could not escape before then, Teresa would attempt it at that time. Prudence and longing thus alternated in her requests; the change cancelled none of the dangers.
Meanwhile, Tadeu de Albuquerque's arrangements quickly bore fruit. The prioress of Monchique, a woman of great virtue, believed that her cousin's daughter was seeking refuge in the convent out of devotion and love of God. She prepared accommodation for her and congratulated her on a resolution she imagined to be pious. Teresa never received that letter of congratulation because her father intercepted it. The prioress herself warned her against the plan, if a passing grief was driving her into such imprudence. A convent could be a refuge where passions grew fiercer instead of dying away. Once the precautions had been taken, Tadeu informed his daughter that her aunt at Monchique wished to have her company for a time. The departure would take place at dawn the following day.
When she received the unexpected news, Teresa had already sent that day's letter to Simão. In her painful perplexity, she decided to pretend to be ill. Her emotions, however, had made her so feverish that no pretence was needed. Tadeu did not wish to yield to the illness. The convent doctor protested against the inhumanity of the father and of the prioress, who was intent on imposing that coercion. That night, Teresa wished to write to Simão. The prioress's servant, obeying her mistress's suspicions, did not leave the sick woman's bedside. The surveillance had arisen from a malicious remark by the convent scribe, uttered whilst she was suffering indigestion from the medicinal wine. She had said sarcastically that Teresa spent her nights in mental prayer. She had added that the young lady corresponded with an angel from heaven through a mendicant woman. Some of the nuns had seen the poor woman in the courtyard, waiting for Teresa's alms. Until then, they thought the poor woman was merely someone the young lady supported out of charity. The ironic remark was interpreted as an accusation, and the mendicant was ordered to leave the gatehouse. On learning this, Teresa ran in anguish to a window and called to the woman, who was leaving in alarm. She threw a final note down to her in the courtyard. ‘Our correspondence has become impossible,’ Teresa wrote. She was to be taken to another convent, and Simão was to await news from her in Coimbra. The prioress quickly learnt about the note and sent the gardener after the messenger. He followed her beyond the gates, beat her, took the paper from her and carried it to Tadeu de Albuquerque. The mendicant did not turn back: she reached the farrier's house and told Simão what had happened.
Simão leapt out of bed and called João da Cruz. In that extremity, he needed a friendly voice and a hand capable of gripping the hilt of a dagger. The farrier heard the story and advised them to wait and see. Simão rejected that cold prudence and announced that he would leave for Viseu at once. Mariana had heard everything and considered her father's view sensible. Faced with the guest's impatience, however, she asked leave to speak although she had not been invited to do so. She proposed going into the city and going to the convent in search of a young woman she knew, who served one of the nuns. Mariana knew that young woman as Brito. Through her, she could deliver a letter from Simão to the young lady. Simão exclaimed, almost embracing Mariana, that he could scarcely believe it was possible. João approved the solution: what could be done would be done. He told his daughter to dress whilst he prepared the mare.
Simão sat down to write, but his thoughts came in such disorder that he could not work out the best plan for them both. After a long hesitation, he told Teresa to escape by daylight, when the gate was open. If necessary, she was to force the portress to open it. He asked her to name an hour on the following day. At that hour, he would wait for her with mounts prepared for their escape. As a last resort, he promised to storm the convent with armed men. Or else he would set it on fire, so that the gates would open. These were extreme intentions written at the height of his agitation, not acts already committed. That programme suited the student's spirit: his poor head was burning with a living fire. Once he had sealed the letter, he began pacing the house in tortuous circuits, driven by conflicting impulses. He dug his nails into his head and pulled out strands of hair between his fingers. Striking blindly at the walls, he would sit down for an instant only to rise again with fresh force. He mechanically grasped his pistols and flung his arms about in a frantic motion. He opened the letter again to reread it and almost tore it up. At one moment he feared it would leave too late, and at the next that it would never reach Teresa's hands. Mariana entered during that battle of schemes, her eyes full of tears. Simão was too distraught to notice them.
Oh Mariana, noble heart of a pure woman, how greatly you suffered at that moment! If you helped that young man out of gratitude to the man who had saved your father's life, yours was a rare virtue. But if you loved him, the sacrifice was more painful still. To relieve his suffering, you yourself cleared the road along which he would escape you for ever. What name could be given to such virtue? What angel had destined you for the sanctity of an obscure martyrdom? Whether gratitude or love, neither motive was certain.
‘I am ready,’ said Mariana. Simão gave her the letter and asked her to do all she could to bring back an answer. At the same time, he held out a parcel of money to her. ‘Is the money for the lady as well?’ she asked. ‘No, it is for you, Mariana; buy a ring,’ Simão replied. Mariana took the letter and quickly turned her back. She did not want Simão to see on her face an expression of hurt, perhaps of disdain. It was clear only that Mariana took the letter; whether she accepted the money intended for the ring remained unknown. Simão did not dare insist when he saw her hurry down to the yard where João was bridling the mare.
João had covered the pack-saddle with a scarlet coverlet, and Mariana sprang onto it. ‘Do not use the stick too freely on her,’ her father advised. Only then did he notice his daughter's pallor: she was as yellow as a citron. He asked what was wrong, but Mariana denied that anything was the matter and asked him for the stick. The mare set off at a gallop. In the middle of the road, João stood admiring his daughter and the mare, and launched into a soliloquy which Simão overheard. Mariana was worth more, he said, than all the noblewomen of Viseu. He would not exchange his mare for the most finely adorned woman. Nor would he give his daughter even to the Mira-Molim of Morocco, if he came to ask for her. ‘Now that is a real woman,’ he concluded with rustic pride; ‘the rest is mere talk.’