Chapter XXIII: 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.