Chapter IV: The Renewed Engagements

On our arrival at Castle Hall we found Dorina very ill, and the Duchess of Dromoland was extremely anxious about her. She had never quite recovered from the effects of her fall, of the news of her father’s death, and the disappointment which her betrothed’s marriage with Cunigunda had caused.

Then the painful scene at Cunigunda’s death-bed seemed to have re-awakened all her powers of suffering, and aroused her out of the state of half-unconsciousness in which she had lived since she took the resolution not to appear, or to allow the reports of her death to be contradicted. More than half her vitality of mind and body seem to have departed in this fearful effort.

Since that night when she and Count Rossi knelt together by the dying Cunigunda, she had not seen him, nor could she be persuaded to quit the strange little apartment in the ruined wing of the old Castle, where she had secretly lived for so many months; but she had at last promised to see him once before he left the Castle, and to come down and live in the house when he had gone.

“There is a naïve decision and simplicity in all she says or does,” said the Duchess to Aunt Jane, “that is most touchingly fascinating. She has such beautiful faith, too, and unwavering trust in the goodness of God, and is so extraordinarily forgiving. When I ventured to say that we all hoped she would fulfil her long-standing engagement to Alphonso, she said, ‘I should wish to try to make him happy if I live, but I am not what I was before.’ Still I hope,” added the Duchess, “that with very great care she may recover. It is chiefly her mind. It seems to me that her beautiful trusting nature has never got over the surprise of finding such wickedness in human nature as must have actuated that extraordinary Cunigunda; but she evidently does not condemn the Count, nor does she wonder at his having been fascinated by her rival. You must try to interest her about all her poor people, and show her the greatness of her responsibilities as possessor of these vast estates. What immense power she has of doing good! I fancied she listened to me more attentively when I tried to impress this upon her than she did to anything else I said. So you must keep it well up, and take her to see all the poor people and the schools as soon as you can get her out at all.”

About a fortnight after our arrival at Castle Hall, the Duke of Dromoland wrote to tell Aunt Jane that he was going to bring the Marchese Spinola the next day, to take leave of us before his departure for Italy.

“I don’t think he is at all fit to travel,” wrote the Duke; “but he is so anxious to go, that we fear it may still more retard his recovery if we were to thwart his wishes. He is in very low spirits, and seems quite broken down, so I hope you will endeavour to do him good; in fact, the only chance I see for his recovery, is the result of his interview with a certain young lady to-morrow. He never speaks to me on the subject, but the Duchess’s quick perception always discovers things of this kind, and she says the future of his life, for evil or good, depends upon his interview, and she is longing most anxiously to hear the result. We both feel sure that there is much good in his natural disposition, but he has been thrown among such a very bad set of people that he has had a poor chance.”

This letter, which Aunt Jane gave me to read, showed plainly the responsibility of my position, and I was still more confirmed in it by the sight of Carlo’s still suffering and most anxious face the next day. He only walked with crutches, and was so thin and pale that I implored him to put off his journey till his recovery was more complete.

But when Aunt Jane left us alone, and I had answered his trembling question, the change in his countenance was marvelous. My consent seemed to instill new life; he declared that he felt well enough to travel all over the world, and now felt sure he should be the means of clearing my father’s character.

“I hope you believe that that is all I wish for. I do not now desire riches, and I should really have more pleasure in becoming a singing-master, or doing anything you thought best to earn a little more than my poor father would be able to allow, in order to add something to the diminished income you now possess.”

I assured him we should have enough for both, if he no longer valued luxury and grandeur; and we determined that if I never regained possession of Langdale Priory we should live with my mother at Sorrento. Count Rossi succeeded in persuading Carlo to remain at Castle Hall till the next day; and he offered to accompany Carlo on his journey to Italy as far as Milan.

We were all glad to hear of this arrangement, and I undertook to persuade Dorina to grant Alphonso an interview the next morning, before they were to start on their journey. I would not mention it to her, till about an hour before the time they were to go, as we feared that the agitation of a prolonged interview might be dangerous. I also feared that if she had any time to think about it, she might shrink from what might appear to be a decisive moment.

I went up into the old turret chamber with some misgiving as to my powers of persuasion; but she quietly said, “I will come into the blue room;” and putting on a long black veil over her head, she took my hand, and I led her down the narrow turret stairs, and through the old secret rooms, till we reached the door which had been so long concealed, and which opened into the blue drawing-room. We found Alphonso there, as if he had expected she would come that way, and having placed her hand in his, I hastily left the room.

I began to think the interview between the lost bride and her formerly betrothed husband must have been satisfactory, for Alphonso came into the hall as the travelling carriage drove up to the door, and he and Carlo both looked far happier than they had done the preceding day; and the Duke jokingly said they did not appear so broken-hearted at leaving us.

But when the carriage drove off, and I watched till it disappeared in the Park woods, I rushed up to my rooms, and was about to indulge in a good cry, when I remembered that Dorina was alone in her turret, and that she must now be brought down, and installed in the comfortable apartments we had all been preparing for her reception. It was called the good Baroness Clotilda’s room: its deep bay windows commanded the most lovely views on two sides; and the adjoining boudoir looked towards the old ruined castle with Cæsar’s Tower, and its projecting oriel window far above.