FORGIVENESS.
Aunt Jane began to be very anxious, and quitted the room to see whether
she could hasten the Count’s return. It was a dreadful moment of
suspense, for Cunigunda was quite sensible, and seemed aware that the
kind and energetic Aunt Jane (although she had never seen the dear old
lady before) had compassion for her misery and remorse, and was
endeavouring to assist in mitigating her awful sufferings.
I fancied that she was making a violent effort to live until her husband
returned, for she tried several times to swallow the restoratives which
Dr. Johnson occasionally put to her lips.
At last, just as we feared her eyes were closing in the agony of death,
the door opened. She heard the sound, and never shall I forget the
beseeching expression of those beautiful eyes when the Count entered the
room alone.
His agitation was extreme, and he could scarcely speak, yet endeavoured
to inquire of the doctor “whether the sight of an old and formerly dear
friend, who was thought to be dead two years ago, but who had been
miraculously saved, would----” He had, with the most extreme difficulty,
proceeded thus far, but Cunigunda evidently heard and caught at his
incoherent words, with a mixture of joy and terror, and tried to express
an eager anxiety to hear more.
Doctor Johnson, who had keenly watched her countenance, said,
“Let the old friend come at once; it may be the person she wishes to
see.”
A grateful smile seemed to pass over her face, and an imploring look
towards the Count induced him to open the door and beckon to some one
outside, when a closely veiled figure in white glided into the room, and
knelt down by Cunigunda’s sofa.
“Tu mi conosci,” the lady said in a melodiously sweet voice; “non son
morta.”
And drawing back her veil, the most lovely face I had seen on the
balcony beamed on the dying Countess with a look of heavenly peace and
hope.
As Cunigunda gazed intently on the kneeling form, her features seemed to
catch, as it were, some reflection of the same expression, for gradually
despair seemed to be exchanged for the dawning of hope; she made a final
effort to speak, and at last she said, “Dorina, perdonami, ti voleva
male, e adesso io muojo per l’istessa morte che voleva dare a te. Tu
puoi perdonarmi?”
“Ah si, preghiamo Iddio, è sicuro ti perdonera come io lo fo.”
“Ed Alfonso pure,” added Cunigunda, as she raised her eyes with an
imploring look towards her husband.
The Count seemed unable to speak, but the expression on his face
probably satisfied his dying wife. With a last effort she slowly spoke
the words, “Siate felici insieme;” and, after a pause, during which she
seemed to have great difficulty in breathing, she added, “e pregate per
me.”
Her eyes closed, but the look of hope which had so lately begun to dawn
on her features still remained--her bodily sufferings were ended; and
when Dorina, and then Alphonso, kissed her beautiful forehead, in token
of forgiveness, Cunigunda had ceased to feel.