The knowledge, or belief, does nought to tranquillise her feelings or explain the situation, to her all mysterious. Instead, it but adds to her bewilderment, and she once more exclaims, almost repeating herself:
“Am I myself? Is it a dream? Or have my senses indeed forsaken me?”
She clasps her hands across her forehead, the white fingers threading the thick folds of her hair which hangs dishevelled. She presses them against her temples, as if to make sure her brain is still untouched!
It is so, or she would not reason as she does.
“Everything around shows I am in France. But how came I to it? Who has brought me? What offence have I given God or man, to be dragged from home, from country—and confined—imprisoned! Convent, or whatever it be, imprisoned I am! The door constantly kept locked! That window, so high, I cannot see over its sill! The dim light it lets in telling it was not meant for enjoyment. Oh! Instead of cheering it tantalises—tortures me!”
Despairingly she reseats herself upon the side of the bed, and with head still buried in her hands, continues her soliloquy; no longer of things present, but reverting to the past.
“Let me think again! What can I remember? That night, so happy in its beginning, to end as it did! The end of my life, as I thought, if I had a thought at that time. It was not, though, or I shouldn’t be here, but in heaven I hope. Would I were in heaven now! When I recall his words—those last words and think—”
“Your thoughts are sinful, child!”
The remark, thus interrupting, is made by a woman, who appears on the threshold of the door, which she had just pushed open. A woman of mature age, dressed in a floating drapery of deep black—the orthodox garb of the Holy Sisterhood, with all its insignia, of girdle, bead-roll, and pendant crucifix. A tall thin personage, with skin like shrivelled parchment, and a countenance that would be repulsive but for the nun’s coif, which partly concealing, tones down its sinister expression. Withal, a face disagreeable to gaze upon; not the less so from its air of sanctity, evidently affected. The intruder is “Sister Ursule.”
She has opened the door noiselessly—as cloister doors are made to open—and stands between its jambs, like a shadowy silhouette in its frame, one hand still holding the knob, while in the other is a small volume, apparently well-thumbed. That she has had her ear to the keyhole before presenting herself is told by the rebuke having reference to the last words of the girl’s soliloquy, in her excitement uttered aloud.