Chapter XXX: 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.