That night, Lord Glenarvon slept not at the Castle. Zerbellini’s guilt was now considered as certain. The Duke himself awakening the child, asked him if he had taken the necklace. He coloured extremely; hid his face, and then acknowledged the offence. He was questioned respecting his motive; but he evaded, and would not answer. His doom was fixed. “I will take him from hence,” said Gondimar. “He must not remain here a single hour; but no severity shall be shewn to so youthful an offender.”
It was at that dark still hour of the night, when spirits that are troubled wake, and calmer eyes are closed in sleep, that Lady Margaret and Count Gondimar, entering Zerbellini’s room, asked him if he were prepared. “For what?” exclaimed the boy, clasping his hands together. “Oimè! eccelenza che vuoi! Save me,” he cried, appealing to Lady Margaret. “I will not, cannot go. Will no one pity me? Oh Gondimar! are these your promises—your kindnesses?” “Help me to bear him away,” said Gondimar to Lady Margaret. “If Glenarvon should hear us? and force was used to bear the struggling boy from the Castle?”
In the morning Calantha was informed, by Lady Margaret, of the whole transaction. She said, however, that on account of his youth, no other notice would be taken of his fault, than that of his being immediately sent back to his parents at Florence.
Calantha was unquiet and restless the whole of the day. “The absence of your page,” said Lady Margaret sarcastically, as she passed her, “seems to have caused you some little uneasiness. Do you expect to find him in any of these rooms? Have you not been to Craig Allen Bay, or the Wizzard’s glen? Has the Chapel been examined thoroughly?”
A loud noise and murmur interrupted her. The entrance of the Count Gondimar, pale and trembling, supported by Lord Glenarvon and a servant, gave a general alarm.—“Ruffians,” said Gondimar, fiercely glancing his eyes around, “attacked our carriage, and forced the child from my grasp.” “Where?—how?” “About twenty miles hence,” said the Italian. “Curse on the darkness, which prevented my defending myself as I ought.” “Those honorable wounds,” said Glenarvon, “prove sufficiently that the Count wrongs himself.” “Trelawny,” whispered Gondimar, “do me a favour. Fly to the stables; view well Glenarvon’s steed; mark if it bear any appearance of recent service: I strongly suspect him: and but for his presence at these grates, so calm, so cleanly accoutred, I could have staked my soul it was by his arm I received these wounds.” “The horse,” said Lord Trelawny, when he returned, “is sleek and far different from the reeking steeds that followed with your carriage.” Glenarvon smiled scornfully on the officious Lord: then fixing his eye sternly upon Gondimar, “I read your suspicions,” said he in a low voice, as he passed: “they are just. Now, serpent, do thy worst: thou art at my mercy.” “Not at thine,” replied Gondimar, grinding his teeth. “By the murdered....” “Say no more,” said Glenarvon, violently agitated, while every trembling nerve attested the agony he endured. “For God’s sake be silent. I will meet you at St. Alvin’s to-night: you shall investigate the whole of my conduct, and you will not find in it aught to give you just offence.” “The ground upon which you stand has a crimsoned dye,” said Gondimar, with a malicious smile: “look at your hand, my lord....” Glenarvon, faint and exhausted, scarce appeared to support himself any longer; but suddenly collecting all his forces together, with a struggle, which nature seemed scarcely equal to endure, he sprung upon the Italian, and asked him fiercely the meaning of his words. Gondimar now, in his turn, trembled; Lord Trelawney interposed; and peace was apparently restored.
CHAPTER XXIX.
The scene of the morning had caused considerable speculation. The count, though slightly indisposed—appeared at dinner: after which Lord Glenarvon took a hasty leave. It need not be said what Calantha’s feelings were. Gondimar and Lady Margaret talked much together, during the evening. Calantha wrote in anxiety to Glenarvon. None now was near to comfort her. As she retired slowly and sadly to her room in dreadful suspense, O’Kelly, Glenarvon’s servant, passed her on the stairs. The sight of his countenance was joy to her. “My lord waits to see you, at the back door on the terrace,” he said, as he affected to hasten away with a portmanteau on his shoulder. She heard and marked the words, and watching an opportunity hastened to the door. It was locked; but O’Kelly awaited her and opened it. To be in the power of this man was nothing: he was Glenarvon’s long tried and faithful servant; yet she felt confused when she met his eyes; and thought it an indignity that her secret had been betrayed to him. Glenarvon, however, had commanded her to trust him; and every command of his she too readily obeyed. “My lord is going,” said the man. “Where?” she cried; in the utmost agony. “From Ireland,” said O’Kelly. “But he waits for you by yonder tree,” she hastened forward.
“Ah speak to me,” she said, upon seeing him: my heart is tortured; confide at least in me: let me have the comforts of believing that I contribute to the happiness of one human being upon earth; I who cause the misery of so many. Glenarvon turned from her to weep. “Tell me the cause of your distress.” “They will tear you from me,” he said. “Never, never,” she answered. “Look not on me, frail fading flowret,” he said, in a hollow mournful tone—“ah look not on me, nor thus waste thy sweets upon a whited sepulchre, full of depravity, and death. Could’st thou read my heart—see how it is seared, thou would’st tremble and start back with horror.” “I have bound myself to you,” she replied, “I am prepared for the worst: it cannot be worse than the crime of which I am guilty; grieve not then for me, I am calm, and happy—oh most happy, when I am thus with you.”
There is a look of anguish, such as a slave might give when he betrays his master—such as a murderer in thought might shew previous to the commission of the bloody act, in presence of his victim:—such a look, so sad, so terrible, impressed a momentary gloom over the beautiful countenance of Glenarvon. Yes, when she said that she was happy, at that very time he shrunk from the joy she professed; for he knew that he had led her to that which would blast all peace in her heart for ever.
“Calantha,” at length Glenarvon said, “before I explain myself, let me press thee once more to my heart—let me pour out the agonies of my soul, to my only friend. I have promised your aunt to leave you: yes; for thy dear sake, I will go; and none shall hereafter say of me, that I led you to share my ruined fortunes, or cast disgrace upon your name! Whatever my wrongs and injuries, to others, let one woman exist to thank me for her preservation. It will break my heart; but I will do it. You will hear dreadful things of me, when I am away: you will learn to hate, to curse me.” “Oh never, Glenarvon, never.” “I believe you love me,” he continued; “and ere we part, ere we forget every vow given and received—every cherished hope, now blighted so cruelly for me, give me some proof of your sincerity. Others perhaps have been my victims; I, alas! am yours. You do not know, you cannot know what I feel, you have made me insensible to every other pursuit. I seem to exist alone in you, and for you, and can you, can you then abandon me? go if it be your pleasure, receive the applause of the world, of friends, of those who affect the name; and when they hear that Glenarvon has fled, a voluntary exile from his country without one being to share his sorrows, perishing by slow degrees of a cruel and dangerous malady, which long has preyed upon his constitution, then let your husband and your aunt triumph in the reflection, that they have hastened his doom. And you, wretched victim, remember that, having brightened for a few short hours my weary path, you have left me at the last more lonely, more deserted even than when first you appeared before me. Oh Calantha, let others mock at my agony, and doubt the truth of one who has but too well deserved their suspicions; but do not you refuse to believe me. Young as I appear, I have made many miserable: but none more so than myself; and, having cast away every bright hope of dawning fame and honor, I renounce even now the only being who stands like a guardian angel between myself and eternal perdition. Oh canst thou doubt such love? and yet believing it, wilt thou consent that I should thus abandon thee? I have sacrificed for thee the strong passions that, like vultures, prey upon my heart—fortune, honor, every hope, even beyond the grave, for thy happiness—for thy love! Ah say canst thou—wilt thou now abandon me?”