As she
crossed the lawn, that sloped from the front of the monastery towards
the sea, she was struck with the picture of repose, exhibited by some
monks, sitting in the cloisters, which extended under the brow of the
woods, that crowned this eminence; where, as they meditated, at this
twilight hour, holy subjects, they sometimes suffered their attention
to be relieved by the scene before them, nor thought it profane to look
at nature, now that it had exchanged the brilliant colours of day for
the sober hue of evening. Before the cloisters, however, spread an
ancient chesnut, whose ample branches were designed to screen the full
magnificence of a scene, that might tempt the wish to worldly
pleasures; but still, beneath the dark and spreading foliage, gleamed a
wide extent of ocean, and many a passing sail; while, to the right and
left, thick woods were seen stretching along the winding shores. So
much as this had been admitted, perhaps, to give to the secluded votary
an image of the dangers and vicissitudes of life, and to console him,
now that he had renounced its pleasures, by the certainty of having
escaped its evils. As Emily walked pensively along, considering how
much suffering she might have escaped, had she become a votaress of the
order, and remained in this retirement from the time of her father’s
death, the vesper-bell struck up, and the monks retired slowly toward
the chapel, while she, pursuing her way, entered the great hall, where
an unusual silence seemed to reign. The parlour too, which opened from
it, she found vacant, but, as the evening bell was sounding, she
believed the nuns had withdrawn into the chapel, and sat down to rest,
for a moment, before she returned to the château, where, however, the
increasing gloom made her now anxious to be. Not many minutes had elapsed, before a nun, entering in haste, enquired
for the abbess, and was retiring, without recollecting Emily, when she
made herself known, and then learned, that a mass was going to be
performed for the soul of sister Agnes, who had been declining, for
some time, and who was now believed to be dying. Of her sufferings the sister gave a melancholy account, and of the
horrors, into which she had frequently started, but which had now
yielded to a dejection so gloomy, that neither the prayers, in which
she was joined by the sisterhood, nor the assurances of her confessor,
had power to recall her from it, or to cheer her mind even with a
momentary gleam of comfort. To this relation Emily listened with extreme concern, and, recollecting
the frenzied manners and the expressions of horror, which she had
herself witnessed of Agnes, together with the history, that sister
Frances had communicated, her compassion was heightened to a very
painful degree. As the evening was already far advanced, Emily did not
now desire to see her, or to join in the mass, and, after leaving many
kind remembrances with the nun, for her old friends, she quitted the
monastery, and returned over the cliffs towards the château, meditating
upon what she had just heard, till, at length she forced her mind upon
less interesting subjects. The wind was high, and as she drew near the château, she often paused
to listen to its awful sound, as it swept over the billows, that beat
below, or groaned along the surrounding woods; and, while she rested on
a cliff at a short distance from the château, and looked upon the wide
waters, seen dimly beneath the last shade of twilight, she thought of
the following address:

TO THE WINDS

Viewless, through heaven’s vast vault your course ye steer,
Unknown from whence ye come, or whither go! Mysterious pow’rs! I hear ye murmur low,
Till swells your loud gust on my startled ear,
And, awful! seems to say—some God is near! I love to list your midnight voices float
In the dread storm, that o’er the ocean rolls,
And, while their charm the angry wave controls,
Mix with its sullen roar, and sink remote. Then, rising in the pause, a sweeter note,
The dirge of spirits, who your deeds bewail,
A sweeter note oft swells while sleeps the gale! But soon, ye sightless pow’rs! your rest is o’er,
Solemn and slow, ye rise upon the air,
Speak in the shrouds, and bid the sea-boy fear,
And the faint-warbled dirge—is heard no more! Oh! then I deprecate your awful reign! The loud lament yet bear not on your breath! Bear not the crash of bark far on the main,
Bear not the cry of men, who cry in vain,
The crew’s dread chorus sinking into death! Oh! give not these, ye pow’rs! I ask alone,
As rapt I climb these dark romantic steeps,
The elemental war, the billow’s moan;
I ask the still, sweet tear, that listening Fancy weeps! CHAPTER XVI

Unnatural deeds
Do breed unnatural troubles:  infected minds
To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets. More needs she the divine, than the physician. MACBETH


On the following evening, the view of the convent towers, rising among
the shadowy woods, reminded Emily of the nun, whose condition had so
much affected her; and, anxious to know how she was, as well as to see
some of her former friends, she and the Lady Blanche extended their
walk to the monastery. At the gate stood a carriage, which, from the
heat of the horses, appeared to have just arrived; but a more than
common stillness pervaded the court and the cloisters, through which
Emily and Blanche passed in their way to the great hall, where a nun,
who was crossing to the staircase, replied to the enquiries of the
former, that sister Agnes was still living, and sensible, but that it
was thought she could not survive the night. In the parlour, they found
several of the boarders, who rejoiced to see Emily, and told her many
little circumstances that had happened in the convent since her
departure, and which were interesting to her only because they related
to persons, whom she had regarded with affection. While they thus
conversed the abbess entered the room, and expressed much satisfaction
at seeing Emily, but her manner was unusually solemn, and her
countenance dejected. “Our house,” said she, after the first
salutations were over, “is truly a house of mourning—a daughter is now
paying the debt of nature.—You have heard, perhaps, that our daughter
Agnes is dying?”

Emily expressed her sincere concern. “Her death presents to us a great and awful lesson,” continued the
abbess; “let us read it, and profit by it; let it teach us to prepare
ourselves for the change, that awaits us all! You are young, and have
it yet in your power to secure ‘the peace that passeth all
understanding’—the peace of conscience. Preserve it in your youth, that
it may comfort you in age; for vain, alas! and imperfect are the good
deeds of our latter years, if those of our early life have been evil!”

Emily would have said, that good deeds, she hoped, were never vain; but
she considered that it was the abbess who spoke, and she remained
silent.