CUNIGUNDA’S LAST VALSE.
The workmen, assisted by the Count and several other gentlemen, soon
succeeded in tearing down the stones which had closed up the passage
through an ancient Norman gateway; and the Count lifted the apparently
lifeless form of Cunigunda in his arms, and carried her through it.
Doctor Johnson, with the help of the Duke of Dromoland, who had been
most active in his endeavours to assist, proceeded next; and we all
emerged from the damp and dismal vaults into the bright moonlight which
illuminated the ruined towers and arches of the old castle.
At another moment I should have enjoyed it; and in after-thought the
impression remains on my mind (although I scarcely seemed to take it in
at the time) of the wondrous beauty of the scene, while the shadows of
the broken Gothic and early Norman arches and mullioned windows on the
mossy turf, the sweet heath-scented air and pure silvery light, all
formed such a striking contrast to the artificial illumination, and also
in Cunigunda’s, and perhaps many other cases, artificial gaiety of the
ball-room we had just quitted. But at the time I seemed to comprehend
nothing but Carlo’s pale and ghastly face, and dark hair stained with
blood. I found that the cool air revived him--that his eyes were slowly
opening. We had to walk across the entire space enclosed by the outer
walls of the castle, till we reached the gateway which had formed the
chief entrance, and where the old portcullis still remained, although a
bridge of a later date, which was now the only approach to the ruins,
had been thrown across the old moat. A good road then wound round the
rocky height, which led us down to the front entrance of the present
house.
The Count carried his wife into the cameo-boudoir, which was the nearest
room; and Carlo was taken into a small library opening from the
entrance-hall.
Doctor Johnson had already given orders to send an express to the
celebrated De Cheyne, and also to the next village for a clever medical
man, as he wished for more assistance, and shrank from the
responsibility of attending alone to such dangerous injuries.
Aunt Jane followed the poor Countess into the boudoir, making a sign to
me to remain outside the door of the library, where Carlo was laid on
the sofa. The Duke of Dromoland, and some other gentlemen, went with
him, and remained in the library after the doctor hastily left it, for
all thought that the Countess was in the more dangerous condition.
The entrance-hall became densely crowded after the news had reached the
distant ball-room that the sufferers had been brought into the house;
but few of the numerous guests seemed disposed to leave until the
doctor’s report upon those injured had been heard. Besides, great
curiosity had been excited to ascertain the cause of the awful
catastrophe. Several people besides myself had seen the mysterious
figure in the carved gallery, which apparently seemed to have caused the
Countess’s shrieks preceding her fall; and they had described it to
others.
“Who or what was it?” was the eager question, which received every kind
of probable and improbable answer.
“Then why did the floor sink down in that extraordinary manner all at
once, when it must have been danced upon hundreds of times in the course
of the evening?”
Many of these questions and vague surmises reached my ears as I stood at
the library door, and I felt as much perplexed as any of the wondering
throng.
In a few minutes Aunt Jane returned to tell me that the Count wished to
see me, “for he says you might possibly be able to explain something,”
she added, in a low whisper; so I immediately accompanied her to the
cameo-boudoir, in spite of the efforts of numerous people who pounced
upon Aunt Jane to hear how the Countess was. They had recognised her as
the first person who descended the ladder leading to the trap-door.
“She is still alive--that’s all,” Aunt Jane said, in a low but distinct
voice, as she with difficulty made her way through the throng.
“But why did it happen?--was it really the ghost she saw?” was asked us
by numerous voices, which we still continued to hear till we had shut
the double doors of the cameo-boudoir.
Cunigunda’s eyes were open, and the moment she saw me she gave a most
piteous moan, and seemed trying to speak.
“Go near--put your ear down to her mouth,” said the Count, who stood at
the head of her sofa.
I leaned down, and also tried to take her hand, which hung down by the
side of the sofa.
“She cannot feel your hand,” said the doctor; “her arm is broken, and we
can do nothing; but she has evidently something painful on her mind. Try
to catch the cause. Look, she is endeavouring to speak.”
I saw her poor lips trying to move, so I spoke to her in Italian, and
endeavoured to soothe and give some hope in this her evidently dying
hour. She certainly understood me, for a look of such agonized despair
passed over her face, that I shuddered at the thought of her misery. I
tried to remind her of the atonement--to implore her to turn her heart
to the Saviour, who had died to save us all. “Only believe this,” I
entreated; but her lips moved convulsively, and I fancied they were
trying to pronounce the word “Dorina.”
“Yes,” I said, with firm decision, “Dorina will forgive you too.” But
she could not believe it, and her despair seemed to increase.
Of course the Count heard and understood me, for he whispered in my ear
in Italian--“I’m sure she thinks that figure in the balcony was her
spirit--and, indeed, so do I.”
Mrs. Lacy was in the room, and on hearing me say the word “Dorina,” came
up and whispered some most astounding words in my ear, and then asked my
advice. Aunt Jane saw there was some mystery--that I was anxious for her
advice, and that poor Cunigunda looked more and more overwhelmed by some
fearful remorse.
“Sacrifice everything to give her peace--clear up every mystery, if you
can!” said Aunt Jane.
Upon which Mrs. Lacy spoke in a low tone to the doctor, to which his
decided answer was, “She cannot possibly live more than an hour at
most.”
“Then I will take upon myself the responsibility,” she said, with a kind
of trembling decision, as she begged the Count to follow her out of the
room.
We feared that Cunigunda was sinking fast, but the look of despair in
her splendid eyes seemed to increase in its horror as her efforts to
speak were unavailable.
It was heartrending to see her trying to utter something, and Aunt Jane
entreated me not to give up my efforts to impart to her some hope.
I said everything that I could think of, and tried to persuade her that
Dorina had actually forgiven her for any injury or any fault she might
ever have committed. But I saw that, although she heard and understood
my words, she could not believe.
“No, not for me--there can be no forgiveness for such as I am,” was the
sad and despairing expression on her still most lovely face. We saw that
she was looking anxiously towards the door, as if in expectation of the
Count’s return--as if she were still more afraid to die without seeing
him again, and perhaps hearing a word of forgiveness from his lips.