'Ah! is it so?' exclaimed Agnes, her countenance softening from its sternness--'so young, and so unfortunate! We are sisters, then indeed.Yet, there is no bond of kindness among the guilty,' she added, while her eyes resumed their wild expression, 'no gentleness,--no peace, no hope! I knew them all once--my eyes could weep--but now they burn, for now, my soul is fixed, and fearless!--I lament no more!'
'Rather let us repent, and pray,' said another nun.'We are taught to hope, that prayer and penitence will work our salvation.There is hope for all who repent!'
'Who repent and turn to the true faith,' observed sister Frances.
'For all but me!' replied Agnes solemnly, who paused, and then abruptly added, 'My head burns, I believe I am not well.O! could Istrike from my memory all former scenes--the figures, that rise up, like furies, to torment me!--I see them, when I sleep, and, when I am awake, they are still before my eyes! I see them now--now!'
She stood in a fixed attitude of horror, her straining eyes moving slowly round the room, as if they followed something.One of the nuns gently took her hand, to lead her from the parlour.Agnes became calm, drew her other hand across her eyes, looked again, and, sighing deeply, said, 'They are gone--they are gone! I am feverish, I know not what I say.I am thus, sometimes, but it will go off again, I shall soon be better.Was not that the vesper-bell?'
'No,' replied Frances, 'the evening service is passed.Let Margaret lead you to your cell.'
'You are right,' replied sister Agnes, 'I shall be better there.
Good night, my sisters, remember me in your orisons.'
When they had withdrawn, Frances, observing Emily's emotion, said, 'Do not be alarmed, our sister is often thus deranged, though I have not lately seen her so frantic; her usual mood is melancholy.This fit has been coming on, for several days; seclusion and the customary treatment will restore her.'
'But how rationally she conversed, at first!' observed Emily, 'her ideas followed each other in perfect order.'
'Yes,' replied the nun, 'this is nothing new; nay, I have sometimes known her argue not only with method, but with acuteness, and then, in a moment, start off into madness.'
'Her conscience seems afflicted,' said Emily, 'did you ever hear what circumstance reduced her to this deplorable condition?'
'I have,' replied the nun, who said no more till Emily repeated the question, when she added in a low voice, and looking significantly towards the other boarders, 'I cannot tell you now, but, if you think it worth your while, come to my cell, to-night, when our sisterhood are at rest, and you shall hear more; but remember we rise to midnight prayers, and come either before, or after midnight.'
Emily promised to remember, and, the abbess soon after appearing, they spoke no more of the unhappy nun.
The Count meanwhile, on his return home, had found M.Du Pont in one of those fits of despondency, which his attachment to Emily frequently occasioned him, an attachment, that had subsisted too long to be easily subdued, and which had already outlived the opposition of his friends.M.Du Pont had first seen Emily in Gascony, during the lifetime of his parent, who, on discovering his son's partiality for Mademoiselle St.Aubert, his inferior in point of fortune, forbade him to declare it to her family, or to think of her more.
During the life of his father, he had observed the first command, but had found it impracticable to obey the second, and had, sometimes, soothed his passion by visiting her favourite haunts, among which was the fishing-house, where, once or twice, he addressed her in verse, concealing his name, in obedience to the promise he had given his father.There too he played the pathetic air, to which she had listened with such surprise and admiration; and there he found the miniature, that had since cherished a passion fatal to his repose.
During his expedition into Italy, his father died; but he received his liberty at a moment, when he was the least enabled to profit by it, since the object, that rendered it most valuable, was no longer within the reach of his vows.By what accident he discovered Emily, and assisted to release her from a terrible imprisonment, has already appeared, and also the unavailing hope, with which he then encouraged his love, and the fruitless efforts, that he had since made to overcome it.
The Count still endeavoured, with friendly zeal, to sooth him with a belief, that patience, perseverance and prudence would finally obtain for him happiness and Emily: 'Time,' said he, 'will wear away the melancholy impression, which disappointment has left on her mind, and she will be sensible of your merit.Your services have already awakened her gratitude, and your sufferings her pity; and trust me, my friend, in a heart so sensible as hers, gratitude and pity lead to love.When her imagination is rescued from its present delusion, she will readily accept the homage of a mind like yours.'
Du Pont sighed, while he listened to these words; and, endeavouring to hope what his friend believed, he willingly yielded to an invitation to prolong his visit at the chateau, which we now leave for the monastery of St.Claire.