This extraordinary revival was going on when the doctor rushed in.
Carson, who had been the principal person in all this scene, rushed at
him and drew him back. She kept her hand on his arm, detained him, ran
into voluble but trembling explanations. When he came forward the doctor
gazed with a troubled face at the patient. A fainting fit brought on by
great agitation; nobody could give any other account of it; he felt her
pulse, and prescribed, and lingered, and looked at us all with mingled
inquiry and suspicion. What had we been doing to her? Why had she not
been removed to bed? A flash came from the awakening eyes. She made a
motion of her hand, waving him away, then looked at me, and pointed
vaguely but imperatively before her. When I did not obey immediately,
she repeated the question, and at last spoke, with great evident pain,
impatience, and imperiousness: “Bring him?” were those the words? She
was so imperative, so fiercely determined, that I hastened out to call
Luigi. I found him at the door watching, very pale, and in profound
distress. He came in after me without saying a word; he went up to her
without waiting for me, and knelt down at her feet, and took her hands
in his own. “Mother! Mother!” cried the young man. If it did not go to
her heart, it went to the heart of every other person present; and Aunt
Milly, with a great cry of amazement and terror, repeated it after him,
“Mother!” But who could think of any discovery then? The doctor stood
listening, thunderstruck, behind the screen. I believe Sara Cresswell
was in the room. But we who were round about this terrible figure could
observe nothing else, except the dread inarticulate waves of passion
that kept rising in her dead face. She thrust at her son with a wild
motion of her bloodless hands as if to put him away. She questioned him
with her eyes in such frantic impatience, because he could not
understand her, that the sight was more than I could bear. I fell back
from her trembling and like to faint. Then her will got the better of
her weakness. She cried out aloud, with a voice that I am sure could
have been heard all over the house;--it was not a living voice; it rang
out wild, and loud, and hard, in separate words,--“Where is he?--_he_?
dead! let him come. I know he is dead, let him come;--Count!” and here
the terrible voice rose and broke in a wild horror of babbling cries.
God help us! It was a dreadful scene. Aunt Milly stood supporting
herself by a chair, unable to utter a word or even to move. I was afraid
to stir, lest I should faint and fall on the floor. Carson only stood
close by her mistress, supporting her head and gazing with wistful eyes
at Luigi; the young man stumbled up from his knees in an agony of pity
and horror. He held up his hands in wild appeal, whether to her, or to
us, or only to God, I cannot tell. “It is my father!” he cried. “She
thinks it was my father; and I am to blame!” Then he knelt down again
humbly at her feet, and held up his clasped hands to her as if he were
praying. I think he must have done it with an intention of drawing her
attention by any means, and to prove to her that it was the truth he
said.
“Mother,” he cried, looking up at those eyes which had returned, and
were fixed upon him,--“mother, I am your son! My father is dead and
undisturbed in his grave; he has sent me to his wife. It is I, it is no
other. He is with the saints, where there are no names. It is I who am
Sermoneta; mother! Oh, heaven, does she not hear me? _will_ she not hear
me? It was I, only I. It was Luigi, Countess! If I must not bear your
name, I must bear my own. I say it was I, not my father, who can neither
do evil nor endure it,--me, either Luigi Sermoneta or Lewis Mortimer, as
you will,--your son!”
It is impossible to describe the effect this had upon us all. Aunt Milly
burst forth into weeping, convulsive, and not to be restrained. Poor
Carson’s bosom heaved with silent sobs. Luigi, who had risen up as he
said these last words, stood erect in a passionate self-assertion and
defence before his miserable mother. Even she changed under this sudden
blaze of revelation. She sat up in her chair, and grew more human; her
rigid head began to tremble, her dread-eyes to lose their horror. Now it
was no longer that mad ghastly stare with which she regarded the young
man before her. She looked at him, leaning forward, slowly recovering
her powers. Some convulsive gasps or sobs in her throat alone
interrupted this pause of terrible silence. She looked at him, from head
to foot, with a slow, dismal scrutiny. Only once before in her life had
she met him face to face; then she had been strong enough to send him
away and disown him. Now, perforce, the mother looked at her son. The
young man trembled under that steady gaze; he held out his hands, and
cried out “Mother!” as if all the eloquence in the world lay in that
word. She continued perusing him all over with that slow examination.
Gradually she returned to be herself again. Not changed, not subdued!
Out of that death and agony there came forth, not a repentant woman, but
Sarah Mortimer, a creature who would not believe in everlasting truth
and justice--not though one should rise from the dead.
“If you are Count Sermoneta,” she said, with all her old expression,
pausing between the words to get strength, but speaking in her usual
voice, “how do you dare come to me and offer what your father refused?
Impostor! you shall never, never, never sit in my father’s place! I
disown you. I--I have nothing to do with you. What! would you kill me
again?”
Here I interposed; I could not help myself. My very soul sickened at
her. I came forward, without knowing what I was doing. “Let her alone,”
I cried out, “don’t say anything. She has died and come alive again, and
is no better. Do you think you can move her? Oh, Aunt Milly, it is your
part now. Take him away out of her sight, leave her alone in her
wretchedness. Can you bear to see her smiling there?--_smiling_ at us!
She is dead, and it is a devil that has come into her frame!”
“Milly, hush, hush, you are mad,” cried Sara Cresswell, behind me; but
Aunt Milly did not think I was mad. She came and put her arm into
Luigi’s, her tears driven away by horror and indignation. “As sure as
God sees us all,” cried Aunt Milly, “I will do you justice. Come away
from her, as Milly, says. You make her wickeder and wickeder--Oh,
wickeder than she really is! Oh, Sarah,” she cried out, turning suddenly
round, “is it true?--is he your son?”
Miss Mortimer said nothing;--the very colour had returned to her face.
Her head trembled excessively, but she had forced some frightful
caricature of a smile upon her lip. She held out her hand and pointed at
them in a kind of derision. “You were always a fool,” she said at last,
with a gasp. Aunt Milly did not wait or hesitate any longer. She was
possessed, like me, with a sudden impatience and intolerance of that
inhuman hard-heartedness. She went away hastily out of the room,
drawing Luigi with her. Miss Mortimer listened to the sound of their
steps till it had quite died away. Then she turned round to Carson with
some instinctive confession of weakness at last. Their eyes met; but
even Carson could no longer receive this dreadful confidence. She
stumbled back from her mistress with a cry. “I cannot, I cannot!” cried
Carson, “anything but this. I held him in my arms a baby, and I’ll never
disown him, if I was to die.” As her mistress turned round upon her,
Carson retreated back till she came to the wall, and stood there, fixed
and desperate, holding up her hands as if to keep off those pursuing
eyes. “Whatever you please!” cried Carson, “but not to disown him as I
dressed the first day he was in this world. No! not for no payment nor
coaxing! I’ve served you faithful all times and seasons, but I’ll not do
no more, not if I was to die!”
Miss Mortimer sat gazing at her rebellious maid. What no other appeal
could do this did. She sank into the frail old woman she was, as she
gazed at Carson, who had forsaken her. She broke forth into feeble,
passionate tears. She could bear to send her son away from her, but she
could not bear to lose her faithful companion and attendant of forty
years. “Carson!” cried the broken voice, in a tone of absolute despair.
Then Miss Mortimer rose up. I ran forward to her in terror, and so did
Sara, but she waved us both away, steadied herself, cast a long look
upon the woman who stood trembling against the wall, and slowly turned
to make her way out of the room. She walked like some one upon whom
sudden blindness had fallen, wavering, stopping to steady herself,
putting out her hand to pilot the way, groping through the piercing
daylight that penetrated every corner of the room. We followed her,
trembling and terrified. As she went slowly through the long room, heavy
sobs came from her poor breast, sobs of which she was not conscious; her
muslin scarf had been torn and crushed in her dreadful faint, if it was
a faint, and hung all dishevelled from her shoulders. One hand hung
loosely down by her side, the other she groped with as she made her way.
Now and then she moaned aloud. Oh, miserable forsaken creature! there
had been still one link of life to hold her on to the living world.
We went after her, silent, hushing our very steps lest she should turn
upon us, and watching with a perfect awe of wonder how she steered
herself through the room; she stumbled on the stair, but still rejected
any assistance. All the way up she went forlorn, accepting no support.
When we reached her door, I rushed forward not to let her shut me out.
“Let me be your maid to-night,” I cried out, laying my hand upon hers.
Her hand made me shiver; it was cold, as if it had actually been dead.
She pushed me back, not looking at me, and shut the door. What she did,
or how she sustained herself in that vacant room, we could see no
longer. Sara and I, arrested at the door, turned and looked into each
other’s faces. Sara broke out into the passionate tears of excitement
and agitation which could be restrained no longer. “She will kill
herself!” cried Sara. “Oh, godmamma, let me in, let _me_ in. I will
never cross you or trouble you. I will wait upon you night and day,
godmamma!” No answer came. We tried to open the door, but she had
fastened it. We could do nothing but leave her alone in this dreadful
solitude. For a little while a rustling sound of motion was in the room,
and still those pathetic, unconscious moans breaking at intervals into
the silence. But after a while all became still. She had not fainted or
fallen, for we should have heard her. She made no answer to our
entreaties--dead silence reigned in the room where that living spirit,
with all its dread forces and passions, palpitated within its veil of
worn-out flesh. I could imagine her taking possession of that dreadful
solitude, losing at a blow far more than reputation or fair-fame, all
that made her life tolerable to her, entering upon a new, unthought of,
murderous purgatory. We could not make up our minds to leave that closed
door. Sara was still crying, and almost hysterical with her long strain
of excitement. I made her go into the neighbouring room, where Lizzie
was with my boy, while I ran downstairs for Aunt Milly. Oh, what a
contrast it was! I snatched little Harry into my arms to kiss him, and
went away again, with a pity, I cannot describe, past the door where
that dreadful forsaken woman lay alone in the silence. I could not bear
it. God alone knew how she had sinned; but to leave her thus deserted in
her misery was not in the heart of man.
I ran downstairs very hastily without waiting to think--at the foot of
the stairs Carson stood crying. She gasped out an inquiry at me which
was not audible at first. “Is she alone? alone? alone? Will nobody stay
with her?” cried Carson. “Oh, ma’am, my missis will never let me near
her again! I know it’s no use trying; but, for the love of mercy, let
somebody get into the room! There’s poisons and all sorts there. God
forgive me! couldn’t I have held my tongue?” cried the poor woman, in an
agony of terror. I was angry with her in the impatience of my thoughts.
I did not consider for how many long years Carson had endured all.
“But why can’t you go up now? try if she will let you in; she is fond of
you, Carson,” said I. “Oh, go, go, and try.”
“She’ll never look at me more,” said Carson with mournful certainty;
“but I’ll go, I’ll try. If it was at the end of the world, I’d go; but
she’ll never see me again.” The poor woman went upstairs saying this
over to herself, and dreadful as it was to think so, I was certain she
was right.
And I went on to the library where Aunt Milly was. She had forgotten her
sister. She was listening, with a glowing face, with tears, and
outcries, and lamentations, to the tale Luigi told her. Some papers were
lying before them, and a miniature, which caught my eye even at such a
moment--a picture of a lovely fair woman, imperious and splendid. I
cannot say that it bore any resemblance to the wretched, solitary
creature upstairs; but I knew it was Sarah Mortimer,--Sarah Mortimer,
unkind, untrue, a woman making no account of love or tenderness; but not
the Sarah Mortimer who had delivered herself to the devil, and turned
her back upon nature. I pointed at it unconsciously in my excitement. It
was easier than naming her name.
“Do you know she is alone upstairs, by herself?” cried I, “perhaps
dying, and nobody with her! Aunt Milly, you are her sister. She will
neither let us in, nor answer us. You have a right to go to her. There
are all kinds of dangerous things in the room--she might die!”
“But Carson--Carson is there,” cried Aunt Milly, grasping my hand, to
bring me to myself. “My dear, Carson is a better companion than either
you or me.”
“But Carson has gone,” I cried, “Carson will never be with her any more.
Hush! was that a sound upstairs? Come, I entreat you! She is all alone,
quite alone, not a creature with her. It is heartrending to think what
she is doing there--come! come!”
Aunt Milly stood perplexed. She could not comprehend Carson’s absence,
and I might have had a long account of the whole matter to go through
had not Luigi come to my assistance. He took her hand hurriedly, and
pressed it in his own.
“My aunt, I can wait,” said Luigi, “and I _will_ till there is time for
me; but my mother, my mother is----”
Aunt Milly started, and understood all in a moment. His mother, the
unfortunate wretched woman who had disowned and rejected him--no need
for over-much explaining, or setting-forth of all the darker shades of
the picture to show her wretchedness. Nature and she had parted company,
and there was nothing too dreadful that might not befall her in the
fatal silence of that secluded room.