Chapter II: Revival of Early Impressions

I found afterwards that Aunt Jane had often heard from Norah during my long illness, or rather stupor, but she carefully concealed the letters from me, lest my attention should have been arrested by the poor girl’s handwriting, and she felt that my self-reproach might endanger my life, if any circumstance awakened the recollection of the grievous wrong I had done to her.

It was not until Aunt Jane had gladly seen my interest awakened by the strange history of the Roland family, which fortunately diverted my mind from recent events, that she ventured even to allow me to speak or think of anything connected with the exciting events of the last six months; and, above all, she avoided any allusion to Norah.

She used to make me describe the beautiful scenery of my Italian home, and repeat any words of conversation of my father and mother which I could recollect. By inquiring his opinion on various subjects, she seemed to revive long dormant recollections, and words unheeded at the time were, by her comments and the experience my suffering (more than age) had given, enabled me to read his character by a still more attractive light.

My deep affection for him, which had hitherto been more an instinct, thus became not only intensified, but justified by reason and fact. She purposely, though gradually, began to awaken my fears lest his character should suffer in the opinion of the unthinking world, by the imputations thrown out by Mr. Mordaunt--that he had purposely concealed the marriage of his brother and birth of a son. I say purposely, because she was prompted by the kindest motives to do this, in order to excite my interest and prevent my mind from again falling back into its fatal lethargy.

For a time this anxiety about the slur which might be cast on my father seemed entirely to engross my mind, but one fatal morning, when Aunt Jane was confined to her bed with a violent cold, the letters were brought in to me, and I saw one for Aunt Jane in Norah’s handwriting.

It was as if a thunderbolt had been gradually gathering over my head, and now suddenly exploded with annihilating force. All my guilt, the thoughtless perverseness of my conduct, appeared in its true blackness before my startled gaze, and then the remorse I felt seemed to paralyse all my faculties.

How I survived this suddenly awakened and most poignant and stunning grief I never could understand. This thorough awakening to a consciousness of the full guilt and folly of my conduct Aunt Jane had been anxious to postpone till my bodily health became stronger, for she fancied that when I came fully to understand the wrong I had entailed on Norah, remorse would nearly kill me.

It would, she thought, be the great turning-point of my life if I were strong enough fully to feel, and yet survive the shock. I now saw plainly how deeply I had injured the person I loved and venerated most--a character which, from the first moment I became acquainted with it, seemed the embodiment of everything beautiful and good. To think that I had inflicted on her one of the greatest sorrows that one woman can be guilty of towards another!

I now remembered her every look and word during my painful illness--how she actually rescued me from the grave, for I certainly should have died without her judicious efforts and her extraordinary soothing power.

For a time I sat with the letters before me, without moving. I seemed to see nothing but that handwriting. Strange that I never should have felt all this before, except at that moment when Aunt Jane arrived in London, and suddenly made me write the letter to Sir Alfred Rivers. I was even then so full of anger towards him that my compassion for Norah was by no means fully aroused; and the excitement was so great that I became insensible as soon as the letter was gone; and when I partly recovered, Aunt Jane saw that I could bear no more.

I might have sat for hours looking at that loved handwriting, had not the maid come from Aunt Jane to inquire whether there were no letters for her.

“Ah! yes,” I said, with the kind of emphasis as if I felt that the most important letter in the world had arrived. “Oh! yes, I will take it--I will take them to her myself.”

The moment I opened her door, she scanned me with one of her most searching looks, as if half anticipating some result which she had been labouring to avert. Then she saw it all--the total change in my expression, the conscious horror and dismay, the acute suffering which had replaced the dull, heavy look of passive discontent, alternating with half-conscious enjoyment of the scenes around me and the beauties of nature.

“It must be a letter from Norah,” she said, before she looked at those I held in my hand. “Well, give it--give them to me,” she said, with a solemn voice, “and go and walk in the garden, on your favourite bank by the river, while the sun shines; and when you come in I will see whether I can show you her letter.”

Then she took my hand, and kissed my forehead, as if she were satisfied with the sad expression it wore, and the resignation to bear, as I must, what I had brought upon myself. She afterwards showed me the letter, which I found was full of anxiety about my state. Norah’s father was better, but it was decided that they were to pass the next Winter in a warmer climate, and would probably go to Rome or Naples.

“Ah! how I hope they will meet, then; for Sir Alfred may possibly be there!” I exclaimed.

“So do I,” said Aunt Jane; “for if any one could reclaim him, and develop his naturally good qualities, it is Norah. And to-morrow you may write and tell her how you are yourself--not to-day. You must economise your agonies,” she added, with a smile, “or you will not live long enough to repent.”