The Witch of Prague Part 35

"What are they? Tell me one of them, as an instance."

"I should fear to offend you--indeed I am sure I should, though we were good friends once."

"And are still. The more reason why you should tell me what is said. Of course I am alone in the world, and people will always tell vile tales of women who have no one to protect them."

"No, no," Sister Paul hastened to a.s.sure her. "As a woman, no word has reached us that touches your fair name. On the contrary, I have heard worldly women say much more that is good of you in that respect than they will say of each other. But there are other things, Unorna--other things which fill me with fear for you. They call you by a name that makes me shudder when I hear it."

"A name?" repeated Unorna in surprise and with considerable curiosity.

"A name--a word--what you will--no, I cannot tell you, and besides, it must be untrue."

Unorna was silent for a moment and then understood. She laughed aloud with perfect unconcern.

"I know!" she cried. "How foolish of me! They call me the Witch--of course."

Sister Paul's face grew very grave, and she immediately crossed herself devoutly, looking askance at Unorna as she did so. But Unorna only laughed again.

"Perhaps it is very foolish," said the nun, "but I cannot bear to hear such a thing said of you."

"It is not said in earnest. Do you know why they call me the Witch? It is very simple. It is because I can make people sleep--people who are suffering or mad or in great sorrow, and then they rest. That is all my magic."

"You can put people to sleep? Anybody?" Sister Paul opened her faded eyes very wide. "But that is not natural," she added in a perplexed tone. "And what is not natural cannot be right."

"And is all right that is natural?" asked Unorna thoughtfully.

"It is not natural," repeated the other. "How do you do it? Do you use strange words and herbs and incantations?"

Unorna laughed again, but the nun seemed shocked by her levity and she forced herself to be grave.

"No, indeed!" she answered. "I look into their eyes and tell them to sleep--and they do. Poor Sister Paul! You are behind the age in the dear old convent here. The thing is done in half of the great hospitals of Europe every day, and men and women are cured in that way of diseases that paralyse them in body as well as in mind. Men study to learn how it is done; it is as common to-day, as a means of healing, as the medicines you know by name and taste. It is called hypnotism."

Again the sister crossed herself.

"I have heard the word, I think," she said, as though she thought there might be something diabolical in it. "And do you heal the sick in this way by means of this--thing?"

"Sometimes," Unorna answered. "There is an old man, for instance, whom I have kept alive for many years by making him sleep--a great deal."

Unorna smiled a little.

"But you have no words with it? Nothing?"

"Nothing. It is my will. That is all."

"But if it is of good, and not of the Evil One, there should be a prayer with it. Could you not say a prayer with it, Unorna?"

"I daresay I could," replied the other, trying not to laugh. "But that would be doing two things at once; my will would be weakened."

"It cannot be of good," said the nun. "It is not natural, and it is not true that the prayer can distract the will from the performance of a good deed." She shook her head more energetically than usual. "And it is not good either that you should be called a witch, you who have lived here amongst us."

"It is not my fault!" exclaimed Unorna, somewhat annoyed by her persistence. "And besides, Sister Paul, even if the devil is in it, it would be right all the same."

The nun held up her hands in holy horror, and her jaw dropped.

"My child! My child! How can you say such things to me!"

"It is very true," Unorna answered, quietly smiling at her amazement.

"If people who are ill are made well, is it not a real good, even if the Evil One does it? Is it not good to make him do good, if one can, even against his will?"

"No, no!" cried Sister Paul, in great distress. "Do not talk like that--let us not talk of it at all! Whatever it is, it is bad, and I do not understand it, and I am sure that none of us here could, no matter how well you explained it. But if you will do it, Unorna, my dear child, then say a prayer each time, against temptation and the devil's works."

With that the good nun crossed herself a third time, and unconsciously, from force of habit, began to tell her beads with one hand, mechanically smoothing her broad, starched collar with the other. Unorna was silent for a few minutes, plucking at the sable lining of the cloak which lay beside her upon the sofa where she had dropped it.

"Let us talk of other things," she said at last. "Talk of the other lady who is here. Who is she? What brings her into retreat at this time of year?"

"Poor thing--yes, she is very unhappy," answered Sister Paul. "It is a sad story, so far as I have heard it. Her father is just dead, and she is alone in the world. The Abbess received a letter yesterday from the Cardinal Archbishop, requesting that we would receive her, and this morning she came. His eminence knew her father, it appears. She is only to be here for a short time, I believe, until her relations come to take her home to her own country. Her father was taken ill in a country place near the city, which he had hired for the shooting season, and the poor girl was left all alone out there. The Cardinal thought she would be safer and perhaps less unhappy with us while she is waiting."

"Of course," said Unorna, with a faint interest. "How old is she, poor child?"

"She is not a child, she must be five and twenty years old, though perhaps her sorrow makes her look older than she is."

"And what is her name?"

"Beatrice. I cannot remember the name of the family."

Unorna started.

CHAPTER XIX

"What is it?" asked the nun, noticing Unorna's sudden movement.

"Nothing; the name of Beatrice is familiar to me, that is all. It suggested something."

Though Sister Paul was as unworldly as five and twenty years of cloistered life can make a woman who is naturally simple in mind and devout in thought, she possessed that faculty of quick observation which is learned as readily, and exercised perhaps as constantly, in the midst of a small community, where each member is in some measure dependent upon all the rest for the daily pittance of ideas, as in wider spheres of life.

"You may have seen this lady, or you may have heard of her," she said.

"I would like to see her," Unorna answered thoughtfully.

She was thinking of all the possibilities in the case. She remembered the clearness and precision of the Wanderer's first impression, when he first told her how he had seen Beatrice in the Teyn Kirche, and she reflected that the name was a very uncommon one. The Beatrice of his story too had a father and no other relation, and was supposed to be travelling with him. By the uncertain light in the corridor Unorna had not been able to distinguish the lady's features, but the impression she had received had been that she was dark, as Beatrice was. There was no reason in the nature of things why this should not be the woman whom the Wanderer loved. It was natural enough that, being left alone in a strange city at such a moment, she should have sought refuge in a convent, and this being admitted it followed that she would naturally have been advised to retire to the one in which Unorna found herself, it being the one in which ladies were most frequently received as guests.

Unorna could hardly trust herself to speak. She was conscious that Sister Paul was watching her, and she turned her face from the lamp.

"There can be no difficulty about your seeing her, or talking with her, if you wish it," said the nun. "She told me that she would be at Compline at nine o'clock. If you will be there yourself you can see her come in, and watch her when she goes out. Do you think you have ever seen her?"

"No," answered Unorna in an odd tone. "I am sure that I have not."

Sister Paul concluded from Unorna's manner that she must have reason to believe that the guest was identical with some one of whom she had heard very often. Her manner was abstracted and she seemed ill at ease. But that might be the result of fatigue.

"Are you not hungry?" asked the nun. "You have had nothing since you came, I am sure."