She sat down, and they put a cap over her head and face, drew it tight around her neck, adjusted the rope, and she was launched into eternity. To me it seemed a horrid thing, and I could not look upon her dying struggles. I did not justify the girl in what she had done, yet I knew that the woman would have died if she had let her alone; and I also knew that worse things than that were done in the nunnery almost every day, and that too by the very men who had taken her life. I left the chapel with a firm resolve to make one more effort to escape from a thraldom that everyday became more irksome.
At the door the Abbess met me, and led me to a room I had never seen before, where, to my great surprise, I found my bed. She said it was removed by her order, and in future I was to sleep in that room. "What! sleep here alone?" I exclaimed, quite forgetting, in the agitation of the moment, the rule of silent obedience. But she did not condescend to notice either my question or the unpleasant feelings which must have been visible in my features. I did feel very much troubled. I had never slept in a room alone a night in my life. Another nun always occupied the room with me, and when she was absent, as she often was when under punishment, the Abbess slept there, so that I was never alone. I did not often meet the girl with whom I slept, as she did not work in the kitchen, but whenever I did, I felt as pleased as though she had been my sister. Yet I never spoke to her, nor did she ever attempt to converse with me. Yes, strange as it may seem, incredible as my reader may think it, it is a fact, that during all the years we slept together, not one word ever passed between us. We did not even dare to communicate our thoughts by signs, lest the Abbess should detect us.
That night I spent in my new room; but I could not sleep. I had heard strange hints about some room where no one could sleep, and where no one liked to go, though for what reason I could never learn. When I first entered, I discovered that the floor was badly stained, and, while speculating on the cause of those stains, I came to the conclusion that this was the room to which so much mystery was attached. It was very dark, with no window in it, situated in the midst of the house, surrounded by other rooms, and no means of ventilation except the door. I did not close my eyes during the whole night. I imagined that the door opened and shut, that persons were walking in the room, and I am certain that I heard noises near my bed for which I could not account. Altogether, it was the most uncomfortable night I ever spent, and I believe that few persons would have felt entirely at ease in my situation.
To such a degree did these superstitious fears assail me, I felt as though I would endure any amount of physical suffering rather than stay there another night. Resolved to brave everything, I went to a priest and asked permission to speak to him. It was an unusual thing, and I think his curiosity was excited, for it was only in extreme cases that a nun ventures to appeal to a priest When I told him my story, he seemed much surprised, and asked by whose order my bed was moved to that room. I informed him of all the particulars, when he ordered me to move my bed back again. "No one," said he, "has slept in that room for years, and we do not wish any one to sleep there." I accordingly moved the bed back, and as I had permission from the priest, the Abbess dared not find fault with me.
CHAPTER XX. — STUDENTS AT THE ACADEMY.
Through the winter I continued to work as usual, leading the same dull, dreary, and monotonous life, varied only by pains, and privations. In the spring a slight change was made in the household arrangements, and for a short time I assisted some of the other nuns to do the chamber work for the students at the academy. There was an under-ground passage from the convent to the cellar of the academy through which we passed. Before we entered, the doors and windows were securely fastened, and the students ordered to leave their rooms, and not return again till we had left. They were also forbidden to speak to us, but whenever the teachers were away, they were sure to come back to their rooms, and ask us all manner of questions. They wished to know, they said, how long we were going to stay in the convent, if we really enjoyed the life we had chosen, and were happy in our retirement; if we had not rather return to the world, go into company, get married, etc. I suppose they really thought that we could leave at any time if we chose. But we did not dare to answer their questions, or let them know the truth.
One day, when we went to do the work, we found in one of the rooms, some men who were engaged in painting. They asked us if we were contented. We did not dare to reply, lest they should betray us. They then began to make remarks about us, some of which I well remember. One of them said, "I don't believe they are used very well; they look as though they were half starved." Another replied, "I know they do; there is certainly something wrong about these convents, or the nuns would not all look so pale and thin." I suspect the man little thought how much truth there was in his remarks.
Soon after the painters left we were all taken suddenly ill. Some were worse than others, but all were unwell except one nun. As all exhibited the same symptoms, we were supposed to have taken poison, and suspicion fastened on that nun. She was put upon the rack, and when she saw that her guilt could not be concealed, she confessed that she poisoned the water in the well, but she would not tell what she put into it, nor where she got it. She said she did not do it to injure the nuns, for she thought they were allowed so little drink with their food, they would not be affected by it, while those who drank more, she hoped to kill. She disliked all the priests, and the Superior, and would gladly have murdered them all. But for one priest in particular, she felt all the hatred that a naturally malignant spirit, excited by repeated acts of cruelty, is capable of. He had punished her repeatedly, and as she thought, unjustly, and she resolved to avenge herself and destroy her enemy, even though the innocent should suffer with the guilty. This was all wrong, fearfully wrong we must admit. But while we look with horror at the enormity of her crime let us remember that she had great provocation. I hope there are few who could have sought revenge in the way she did; yet I cannot believe that any one would endure from another what she was compelled to suffer from that man, without some feelings of resentment. Let us not judge too harshly this erring sister, for if her crime was great, her wrongs were neither small nor few, and her punishment was terrible.