SELF-REPROACH.
While Aunt Jane and I had been watching with intense interest the
death-scene in the cameo boudoir, and Dorina’s extraordinary
resurrection and most unexpected appearance there, the company had
gradually dispersed. I believe this was entirely owing to the Duke of
Dromoland’s tactful cleverness, for he saw that they were very much in
the way; and yet their curiosity was so excited that they seemed
unwilling to leave the house until some explanation had been given
about the mysterious figure on the carved balcony, and the opening of
the trap-door.
But the Duke very quietly took upon himself to order all the carriages
to the door, and induced some few of the neighbours, with whom he was
well acquainted, to intimate to the others that they had better go, as
he was certain that nothing could be known till the next day, when the
Count might be able to leave his dying wife, and have the strange
occurrence investigated.
So we found all the guests had departed when we left the cameo-boudoir,
after Cunigunda’s death. Of course my mind had been distracted from the
thought of Carlo’s dangerous state, by the terrible sight of
Cunigunda’s agony of mind and body, and then the appearance of the
living Dorina; but as soon as all was over, and we left the Count and
Dorina kneeling by the lifeless form of his beautiful wife, a sudden
pang of redoubled anxiety to learn Carlo’s fate smote like a reproach
upon my heart, and I followed Aunt Jane and Dr. Johnson to the library,
where he had been left in a still unconscious state, before we went to
see Cunigunda.
Dr. Johnson went into the room alone, for Aunt Jane said we had better
remain outside till we heard the doctor’s report. As we stood there, in
the silence and gloom of the now deserted halls and half-extinguished
illuminations, mingled with the cold grey of dawn, I became more
impressed with the reality and hopelessness of his state than when,
nearly two hours before the living, moving crowd, and brilliant light,
although clashing and unharmonious, spoke more of life and hope. And
then, too, I had not witnessed the fatal termination of his companion in
suffering, and I now felt convinced that Carlo _must_ die. He seemed to
have suffered even more than she had. I should never hear his melodious
voice again, or be cheered by the sight of his loving eyes. For he had
loved me, that was certain, before those fatal years of college life.
In this moment of apprehension, I made excuses for his change. I
remembered the guileless sympathy which characterised his early
youth--how easily such a disposition might have been led astray by
apparent friends, in whom he unsuspiciously confided. I seemed suddenly
to have grown ever so many years older in wisdom, and could reflect on
and dissect his character and my own, as if I looked back on it from old
age. Had I done so much better than Carlo in every respect?--had I not
been proud and bitter, fickle and self-indulgent?--worse still, had I
not, by my wild coquetry and foolish passion, sacrificed my dearest
friend, marred the happiness for life of Norah--of the very person I
loved best, and had a higher opinion of than I had of anyone in the
world?
How could _I_ blame Carlo for his foolish love of riches--for his having
seemed to fall a victim to the fascination of the lovely syren,
Cunigunda? Had not I bitterly murmured at the loss of my fortune?--in
fact, during the time of this terrible suspense, I proceeded to make
myself out to be far worse than Carlo in every respect; and now that I
saw my faults, I longed to ask his forgiveness, and confess them all to
him. And he would probably never see my face or hear my voice again!
While I tormented myself with self-reproaches of this kind, the cold
blue dawn continued to increase, till the great hall and passages became
fully visible in the hard light of day; and a new misery is never so
keenly felt as when first broad daylight seems to intensify new
perceptions, and deprives us of those shadowy illusions that often
still linger through the first night of a great grief.
At last Dr. Johnson came to the door, and I fancied that he looked more
hopeful, and, in answer to Aunt Jane’s inquiry, he said that recovery
was possible, but the most complete quiet was necessary.
“It would be better that he should not see any well-known face at
present,” added the doctor, as he looked at me; and I fancied he might
have remarked some of the anxiety I felt, and of which I now began to
feel suddenly ashamed.
Of course, this revulsion of feeling made my cheeks glow, and tended to
confirm Dr. Johnson in his suspicions. Aunt Jane, who remarked my
confusion, told me to go and seek for our cloaks, while she would
inquire some more particulars of my cousin, the Marchese Spinola’s
sufferings.