Chapter XXIV: 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.