《Love at Dawn》克拉克拉

39、The Fate of Sister Agatha

　　Plymouth, too, embraced the brief summer of this year. Fiona noticed that her blue uniform had seemingly grown shorter overnight.

　　"You've grown quite a bit, Miss Fiona," the nun in charge of the boarders said with a smile. "And blossomed into an even comelier young lady, I must say."

　　On this August night, Fiona tossed and turned in her bed, unable to sleep due to the oppressive heat. The chirping of insects and the song of the nightingale outside seemed magnified countless times. Restless, she turned to her side and decided to open her eyes, gazing into the nocturnal landscape beyond her window.

　　After a while, the little girl faintly heard a woman's voice singing. At first, she almost believed it to be a figment of her imagination. She strained her ears to listen, as the ethereal voice carried both sorrow and longing, as if it were the lament of a distant soul.

　　"Fairer than Apollo's radiant gleam,

　　My love, a vision, beyond any dream.

　　His eyes, like diamonds, his crown of gold,

　　I grasp his trembling hand, our love to hold.

　　But alas, they severed my beloved's head!

　　Oh, how I yearn to cradle it instead.

　　Upon my knee, I'd place that pale brow,

　　With countless kisses, my love I'd endow.

　　I'd plant it in a pot with utmost care,

　　Watered day and night with tears of despair.

　　From that burial soil, a miracle may arise,

　　A blooming poppy, in vibrant disguise!"

　　The eccentric lyrics sent Fiona into a shivering state. The haunting melody drew closer, while the other girls in the room remained immersed in sweet slumber.

　　Just as Fiona began to question whether the song was nothing more than her illusion, her gaze met a pale face outside the window.

　　Veiled by a cascade of ebony locks, the face appeared worn, burdened with grief, yet undeniably beautiful. It belonged to a woman clad in a flowing white nun's robe - she clearly was no longer young, but her expression seemed frozen in the throes of girlhood.

　　Fiona heard no footsteps, yet the woman approached the window, pressing her slender hands against the glass, peering into the collective dormitory of young students. Rather than observing the room's surroundings, it seemed as if she were still delving into some hypnotic dream world. Her large, vacant eyes stared into the abyss, seemingly oblivious to Fiona's gaze.

　　Strangely, Fiona found herself devoid of any sense of terror. She silently beheld the apparition in white, seemingly affected by the woman's peculiar and chilling beauty, evoking a sense of melancholy within her own being.

　　After what felt like an eternity, the ghost slowly turned around, then moved towards the other end of the porch. Her steps were soundless, without ups and downs, gliding as if on air, her pallid gown billowing in the night breeze. All the while, she continued to chant the eerie and plaintive ballad:

　　"But why deny me even his severed head?

　　So stingy they are, not leaving it instead.

　　In morning's glow, our vows were sealed,

　　To be with my love, through all that life revealed.

　　For this one wretched desire, I shall roam,

　　To the ends of the earth, far from my home.

　　To seek my love's head, ah,

　　To seek my love's head!"

　　The ethereal, mournful voice gradually faded into the distance, leaving the room in serene silence. Only the soothing, rhythmic breaths of the girls remained, as if everything just now was but a fleeting dream.

　　Fiona reclined, her hands folded upon her chest, closing her eyes, her heart still savoring the enchanting encounter of the night.

　　The following morning, after the day's service, Amy, always fond of gossip, gathered everyone together, wearing a mysterious expression.

　　"Hey, have you heard?" she whispered, her voice lowered, brimming with excitement. "That madwoman in our convent, she drowned in the pool last night."

　　"How could she suddenly drown?" one girl asked, astonished.

　　"She's always hysterically sleepwalking. It's only a matter of time before she lost her footing someday," Charlotte commented.

　　"They say it's not an accident," Amy shook her head. "I overheard a few Sisters whispering; apparently, she deliberately jumped into the pond."

　　"That woman always seemed unhinged. Why did she choose last night to commit suicide?" another girl curiously inquired.

　　"It seems it wasn't simply to end her own life," Amy explained. "There's an experienced old gardener in the convent, and he believes that the madwoman died within her dreams. In her final moments, she must have seen something she imagined in the pool, compelling her to venture into the waters. There was likely no struggle before her passing, as her face bore a serene smile."

　　The big girl Anne nodded in agreement. "Regardless, the madwoman's death brings peace. She always wandered around in the dead of night, sometimes disturbing our sleep with her creepy songs."

　　It was only then that Fiona finally spoke up, "I believe what I saw last night was her figure. But how could this woman have gone mad?"

　　"Oh, dear Fiona, so you haven't heard the story of the madwoman in the convent!" Charlotte exclaimed, exaggeratingly.

　　"I can tell you all about it," Amy immediately boasted, "I have the most complete understanding of her story."

　　After the lights were out that night, everyone gathered around Amy's bed. Except for Fiona, the schoolgirls present had all heard the tale of the madwoman several times to varying extent. However, the allure of the story still attracted them to join little Fiona in listening.

　　"Do not be deceived by the ghoulish appearance of the madwoman, for behind it lies a tragic romance," Amy began her narration with a solemn expression. "This woman was originally born into a highly noble and illustrious family, the sole daughter cherished within the household. She possessed grace, beauty, and versatility, destined for a bright future. Her father and brothers envisioned various splendid plans, believing wholeheartedly that this apple of their eye, if not crowned queen, would at least become a duchess.

　　"However, the Lord always has some wondrous yet cruel arrangements: when the young girl turned eighteen, a young footman was newly employed in their house. This lad was honest and capable, a fact that no one could deny. But unfortunately, he had a face that was too handsome for someone of the lower orders. Regarding the beginning of this affair, it's also difficult to blame the father and brothers for their carelessness.It was on a sunny summer afternoon when the young man led the horses to graze on the lawn, seemingly guided by an unseen force, his gaze drawn towards the flowerpot displayed on the lofty terrace. As his eyes met the rosy cheeks above the pot plant, and her gaze locked with his sky-blue eyes, the destinies of these two young souls became entwined in a fatal bond!

　　"By the stream in the early morn, he plucked a rose and adorned her luscious locks; In a voice filled with tenderness, she whispered to him countless vows. The lovers were entangled in the web of passion, having long cast aside any thoughts of their disparities. In their eyes, they beheld only the youth and beauty they shared, forgetting all about nobility and lowliness! Love burned fervently, rendering them heedless of consequence; following their primal instincts, he brought a □□ and climbed through her chamber window. Night after night, they reveled in bliss and joy, until inevitably discovered by the maiden's family!"

　　"How unfortunate!" little Barbara exclaimed, shaking her head.

　　Amy continued, "Her father and brothers naturally viewed it as a burning disgrace. With their family's standing, dealing with such an insignificant servant hardly required any effort. With just a little bit of influence, that presumptuous young man was accused of theft and handed over to the executioner's axe."

　　"That must have been devastating for a young maiden," Anne interjected.

　　"The death of her lover alone did not drive this young lady to madness," Amy went on, "She even calmly requested the executioner for his head. She brought the young man's head back home, cradling it in her lap, kissing it over and over again, and later planted that blonde head in a flowerpot on the balcony. From that day on, she wore long mourning dress, her face veiled in black, spending her days tending to that flowerpot, paying no attention to anyone who tried to engage her in conversation."

　　"What a weird woman!" Charlotte muttered.

　　"Her strange act unsurprisingly drew attention from people. When her older brother discovered the truth, he was furious and immediately took away the flowerpot, destroying it, and forbidding the stubborn young lady from wearing mourning clothes ever again. It was as if the girl only truly understood the misfortune that had befallen her once she lost the flowerpot. She buried her face in her pillow, crying heartbroken tears that could move anyone to weep! Her family thought that after this fit of childishness passed, she would return to her former self, so they hastily arranged a passable marriage for her - for a maiden who had already become the talk of the town, such a place was something to be grateful for, indeed.

　　"Who would have thought that the damsel would cease her weeping, only to lose all her emotions as well! She was not even twenty years old, yet her complexion turned as pale as a corpse, her once dainty nostrils contracting as if she had exhaled her final breath. Her mind had already departed to another world, and when encountering people, she would ask only one question: whether they had seen her beloved flowerpot, containing the head of her sweetheart!

　　"Her father and brother also began to regret their earlier harshness, so they summoned renowned doctors and experts from various places, exhausting all possible methods in an attempt to bring back the joyous smile to her rose-like face. However, all their efforts were in vain; the girl had gone insane, beyond any cure! Helpless, her family had no choice but to send her to the Saint-Mathilda Convent. This woman was abandoned in an isolate attic, growing older day by day, all alone. Wrinkles crept upon her face, yet her expression remained the same as her heart, forever frozen in that summer of blossoms!

　　"The madwoman only emerged to wander during the quiet hours of the night, wearing a white gown, walking soundlessly, always humming the same desolate ballad, like a forlorn spirit. Some Mothers speculated that she was already dead, and what remained in this world was merely an empty shell. If anyone stayed outside at night and was caught by that ghostly woman, she would surely seize you and demand the head of her lover from you!"

　　"Oh my, let's not talk about it anymore. It's truly frightening in the middle of the night." The girls hurriedly wrapped their arms around themselves, shaking their heads at Amy.

　　Fiona had been silently listening to this story all along. Only then did she suddenly make a comment, "Is that so? I just feel sorry for her."

　　"Fiona, you are really bold!" the other girls exclaimed in disbelief.

　　The secluded fence stirs the imagination, tempting the girls of the convent with whimsical ideas.

　　After lights out in the dormitory, the eldest girl, Daisy, would retrieve a carefully hidden sketchbook from under her mattress, attracting the little heads of her fellow boarders to gather in excitement.

　　This sketchbook was a gift from Daisy's cousin, a captain in the royal guard. It was said that this cousin was of exceptionally handsome look, and Daisy would often speak of him with a mixture of pride and shyness. The book had a satin cover that evoked languid reminiscence; its inner pages were filled with verses of romance and beauty, with dashing signatures of men at the bottom. It had to be opened clandestinely, careful not to be caught by the Mothers, and thus aroused the most fascinating fantasies among the schoolgirls.

　　On one page, several innocent and vibrant noble girls were depicted, burying compact boxes in the soil beneath a tree. In the blank spaces, as customary, elegant cursive handwriting adorned the page, weaving sentimental verses that described this unique game: to bury a few significant objects in the depths of the earth, inscribe a message capturing the present moment, and unearth them after ten or twenty years, thus allowing memories to transcend through the passage of time.

　　Little Fiona found this idea incredibly romantic. She poured her heart and soul into creating her own time capsule. But in the end, all she could think of was to cut a strand of her fiery red hair and select a hairpin from the Marquis's gift that she wouldn't miss too much. Finally, on a slip of paper, she crafted a few crooked lines of poetry with her newly learned words, mimicking the style in the sketchbook.

　　However, after preparing everything, when she invited a few close pals to join her in the venture, she was met with hesitant refusal. "Those pesky Mothers are always lurking around even during breaks. How can we find a chance to dig the soil? If they catch us, who knows what punishment awaits us?"

　　"We can sneak into the garden at night when everyone is asleep!" Fiona proposed.

　　Upon hearing this, the other girls shook their heads repeatedly instead. "Even though we won't encounter that madwoman anymore, it's still unnerving to walk outside in the dead of night!"

　　Fiona shrugged her shoulders with a mixture of regret and pride and said, "Well then, I'll have to go alone!"

　　That very night, little Fiona took advantage of the entire convent falling into silence and stealthily made her way to the garden where the children played. She lifted her skirt and crouched beneath a towering tree, placing the small box aside. With great enthusiasm, she eagerly pushed aside the withered leaves, uncovering a patch of seemingly loose soil, and began to dig.

　　The little girl's fingertips encountered something weird to the touch, and as she picked it up, she discovered it was a long fingernail belonging to a woman, stained with traces of blood.

　　Driven by an inexplicable impulse, Fiona hastened her digging. Soon, the soil revealed an uncorrupted corpse, frozen in an expression of terror, yet still recognisable.

　　In the chilly moonlight, the girl recognised the ghastly pale face of Mother Agatha.

　　Fiona felt a pale, icy hand with long, sharp nails clutching her tiny heart. She lost consciousness on the spot.