Soon after, he took leave, and, when Emily joined some of the nuns, she was surprised to find them acquainted with a circumstance, which she had carefully avoided to mention, and expressing their admiration of his intrepidity in having dared to pass a night in the apartment, whence Ludovico had disappeared; for she had not considered with what rapidity a tale of wonder circulates. The nuns had acquired their information from peasants, who brought fruit to the monastery, and whose whole attention had been fixed, since the disappearance of Ludovico, on what was passing in the castle.
Emily listened in silence to the various opinions of the nuns, concerning the conduct of the Count, most of whom condemned it as rash and presumptuous, affirming, that it was provoking the vengeance of an evil spirit, thus to intrude upon its haunts.
Sister Frances contended, that the Count had acted with the bravery of a virtuous mind. He knew himself guiltless of aught, that should provoke a good spirit, and did not fear the spells of an evil one, since he could claim the protection of a higher Power, of Him, who can command the wicked, and will protect the innocent.
“The guilty cannot claim that protection!” said sister Agnes, “let the Count look to his conduct, that he do not forfeit his claim! Yet who is he, that shall dare to call himself innocent!—all earthly innocence is but comparative. Yet still how wide asunder are the extremes of guilt, and to what a horrible depth may we fall! Oh!—”
The nun, as she concluded, uttered a shuddering sigh, that startled Emily, who, looking up, perceived the eyes of Agnes fixed on hers, after which the sister rose, took her hand, gazed earnestly upon her countenance, for some moments, in silence, and then said,
“You are young—you are innocent! I mean you are yet innocent of any great crime!—But you have passions in your heart—scorpions; they sleep now—beware how you awaken them!—they will sting you, even unto death!”
Emily, affected by these words and by the solemnity, with which they were delivered, could not suppress her tears.
“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 I strike 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, tonight, 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
