THE NUN’S DOOM.
BY H. SYMMER.
Near the town of Aspeitia, in the romantic land of Spain, stands a large, syuure, dark-looking house with nothing to relieve the barronness of tho high walls, but few boles with gratings, and which bear the appear- ance rather of loopholes than of windows. It is ecarce strong enough to be @ prison; nor does it resemble a convent, from the absence of a steeple. ‘The superstrac- ture, which is in reality, however, a nunnery, crowns an eminence at the entrance of the town. There is some- thing wa gloomy about the tower—something #0 full of vague and awful mystery that I shuddered involuntarily when I beheld it: and when, some time afterward I came to learn one of the deeds which those gloomy walle had witnessed I was almost tempted to’ believe in superna- tural influences, #0 vague and chill had been the emotion of horror which I felt on beholding that antique building for the firat time.
‘The story was related to mo by an old lady, who, in her youth, had been an inmate of thia convent for many years, Never shall I forget the tone and gesture with which she spoke as follows :—
«There was a lady in our convent, who, during the two years that had elapsed since her arrival, had scarcely exchanged a word with any of the other nuns. She remained constantly secluded in her cell, excepting when summoned by the tolling of the béll to join in tho devotions of the community in the choir. She was shunned and avoided by most of the nuns, who gene- ally supposrd that some terrible crime oppressed her conscience ; for a eal and gloomy despair sat upon her pele brow, and gave a wild yet melancholy expression to her beautiful and dignified features. Mer figuro was lofty and noble, but emaciated with suffering. Her prayers and religious dutics were repeated and per- formed with usual fervor.
“ Often had I remarked, wilh fectings of cornmissera- tion, her wasted form thrown into an attitude of humble and earnest supplication ; her pale though beautiful fea tures formed into an oxpression of tho most poignant grief; ber eyes raised to Heaven, and dimined by burn- ing tears. ‘Thus she would long remain, with her arms crossed upon her breast, and motionless as a statue, with the exception of a convulsive quivering of her lips. Suddenly she would throw henwif upon the ground in & paroxysm of despair, and sob aloud, pronouncing some inarticulate words, as if complaining of her total incspa- city to quell the fearful tempest raised within her breast by the conflict of apposed and unconquerable feelings. Again would she strive lo ruive ber heart to God; but in vain. She found no relief jn prayer; and, in her utter hopelessness, finding that even ‘Religion’ could not
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mitigate her tormenta, she would fall exhaueted, and tie extended on the ground, deep sighs rending ber bosom, and invoking death to put an end to ber miserable sud wretched existence.
“Compassionating her sufferings, I essayed to offer her some consolation. She was moved by the sincere expression of my pity, and perceived that I also was unfortunate, The similerity of our feelings and mis fortunes instinctively drew us toward each other, and I gon geined her friendship, and leamt the cause of her grief
« Her name waa Amelia; she was the daughter of the Count of B——~. Her crime had been the forming of a strong attachment toward a young officer in the army —a man of strict honor and principle, but whose family and prospects were unfortunately beneath the notice of the proud Count of B—, who would have thought himself disgraced by such an alliance, He forbid hie dauglter to speak to her lover, or even to think of him; she entreated; he stemly repeated his commands and left her; he waa disobeyed; the enraged Count brought her to the convent, and forced her to take the veil, threatening, if she refused, to cause the officcr to be assassinated, This had determined her, and she saved hor tover's lifo at the wacrifice of her liberty and ber happiness. For two long years she had struggled inef- fectually to forget, and to offer to the God, to whom she had consccrated her existence, a heart pure and free from all worldly affections and regret. Bat, alas! never could she succeed in erasing from her heart the fond memory of her lovers which, notwithstanding all her efforts to the contrary, continued to hold entire poares- sion of her soul. His image haunted and pureued her every where, It was in vain for her to seek consolation in prayer; her thoughts would still wander away from ber God, and dwell upon her tover, And this constant conflict between love and religion—the fond recollections of the past lost to her for ever, and the torments to which she imagined herself to be doomed for the fature—was the canker which wore and wosted her form, and with ered strongth, whilst the hurning fever within her breast raged on unabated.
“Months flew, and time but increased her suffering all hope had long deserted her. One day, whe had mained otone in the choir, afier the termination of the evening prayers; she was, as usual, imploring for mercy and relicf. Her moditation was interrupied by her heating her name pronounced distinetly, though in « whisper. She listened, and heard it aguin; she started, roce, looked down into the church, and remeined thrilled with emotion; supported by a pillar, to which she clung, for she recognised, by the last gleam of twilight—Yes— she could not de mistaken—she recognised her lover, Fearful of detection, ho threw a letter into the choir, over the lalticework, and disappeared. She war weak
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