“The latter days of Agnes,” resumed the abbess, “have been exemplary;
would they might atone for the errors of her former ones! Her
sufferings now, alas! are great; let us believe, that they will make
her peace hereafter! I have left her with her confessor, and a
gentleman, whom she has long been anxious to see, and who is just
arrived from Paris. They, I hope, will be able to administer the
repose, which her mind has hitherto wanted.”

Emily fervently joined in the wish. “During her illness, she has sometimes named you,” resumed the abbess;
“perhaps, it would comfort her to see you; when her present visitors
have left her, we will go to her chamber, if the scene will not be too
melancholy for your spirits. But, indeed, to such scenes, however
painful, we ought to accustom ourselves, for they are salutary to the
soul, and prepare us for what we are ourselves to suffer.”

Emily became grave and thoughtful; for this conversation brought to her
recollection the dying moments of her beloved father, and she wished
once more to weep over the spot, where his remains were buried. During
the silence, which followed the abbess’ speech, many minute
circumstances attending his last hours occurred to her—his emotion on
perceiving himself to be in the neighbourhood of Château-le-Blanc—his
request to be interred in a particular spot in the church of this
monastery—and the solemn charge he had delivered to her to destroy
certain papers, without examining them.—She recollected also the
mysterious and horrible words in those manuscripts, upon which her eye
had involuntarily glanced; and, though they now, and, indeed, whenever
she remembered them, revived an excess of painful curiosity, concerning
their full import, and the motives for her father’s command, it was
ever her chief consolation, that she had strictly obeyed him in this
particular. Little more was said by the abbess, who appeared too much affected by
the subject she had lately left, to be willing to converse, and her
companions had been for some time silent from the same cause, when this
general reverie was interrupted by the entrance of a stranger, Monsieur
Bonnac, who had just quitted the chamber of sister Agnes. He appeared
much disturbed, but Emily fancied, that his countenance had more the
expression of horror, than of grief. Having drawn the abbess to a
distant part of the room, he conversed with her for some time, during
which she seemed to listen with earnest attention, and he to speak with
caution, and a more than common degree of interest. When he had
concluded, he bowed silently to the rest of the company, and quitted
the room. The abbess, soon after, proposed going to the chamber of
sister Agnes, to which Emily consented, though not without some
reluctance, and Lady Blanche remained with the boarders below. At the door of the chamber they met the confessor, whom, as he lifted
up his head on their approach, Emily observed to be the same that had
attended her dying father; but he passed on, without noticing her, and
they entered the apartment, where, on a mattress, was laid sister
Agnes, with one nun watching in the chair beside her. Her countenance
was so much changed, that Emily would scarcely have recollected her,
had she not been prepared to do so: it was ghastly, and overspread with
gloomy horror; her dim and hollow eyes were fixed on a crucifix, which
she held upon her bosom; and she was so much engaged in thought, as not
to perceive the abbess and Emily, till they stood at the bedside. Then,
turning her heavy eyes, she fixed them, in wild horror, upon Emily,
and, screaming, exclaimed, “Ah! that vision comes upon me in my dying
hours!”

Emily started back in terror, and looked for explanation to the abbess,
who made her a signal not to be alarmed, and calmly said to Agnes,
“Daughter, I have brought Mademoiselle St. Aubert to visit you: I
thought you would be glad to see her.”

Agnes made no reply; but, still gazing wildly upon Emily, exclaimed,
“It is her very self! Oh! there is all that fascination in her look,
which proved my destruction! What would you have—what is it you came to
demand—Retribution?—It will soon be yours—it is yours already. How many
years have passed, since last I saw you! My crime is but as
yesterday.—Yet I am grown old beneath it; while you are still young and
blooming—blooming as when you forced me to commit that most abhorred
deed! O! could I once forget it!—yet what would that avail?—the deed is
done!”

Emily, extremely shocked, would now have left the room; but the abbess,
taking her hand, tried to support her spirits, and begged she would
stay a few moments, when Agnes would probably be calm, whom now she
tried to sooth. But the latter seemed to disregard her, while she still
fixed her eyes on Emily, and added, “What are years of prayers and
repentance? they cannot wash out the foulness of murder!—Yes, murder! Where is he—where is he?—Look there—look there!—see where he stalks
along the room! Why do you come to torment me now?” continued Agnes,
while her straining eyes were bent on air, “why was not I punished
before?—O! do not frown so sternly! Hah! there again! ’tis she herself! Why do you look so piteously upon me—and smile, too? smile on me! What
groan was that?”

Agnes sunk down, apparently lifeless, and Emily, unable to support
herself, leaned against the bed, while the abbess and the attendant nun
were applying the usual remedies to Agnes. “Peace,” said the abbess,
when Emily was going to speak, “the delirium is going off, she will
soon revive. When was she thus before, daughter?”

“Not of many weeks, madam,” replied the nun, “but her spirits have been
much agitated by the arrival of the gentleman she wished so much to
see.”

“Yes,” observed the abbess, “that has undoubtedly occasioned this
paroxysm of frenzy. When she is better, we will leave her to repose.”

Emily very readily consented, but, though she could now give little
assistance, she was unwilling to quit the chamber, while any might be
necessary. When Agnes recovered her senses, she again fixed her eyes on Emily, but
their wild expression was gone, and a gloomy melancholy had succeeded. It was some moments before she recovered sufficient spirits to speak;
she then said feebly—“The likeness is wonderful!—surely it must be
something more than fancy. Tell me, I conjure you,” she added,
addressing Emily, “though your name is St. Aubert, are you not the
daughter of the Marchioness?”

“What Marchioness?” said Emily, in extreme surprise; for she had
imagined, from the calmness of Agnes’s manner, that her intellects were
restored. The abbess gave her a significant glance, but she repeated
the question.