Macpherson paused:—He turned to see what impression his narrative had made on the duke: he was utterly silent.—Macpherson therefore continued: “So far we had succeeded but too well in our black attempt; but the fair boy intrusted to me sickened under the hardships to which I was obliged to expose him. The price agreed on was paid me. La Crusca joined me; and together we reared the child in a foreign country, so as I hope to do him honour. But a dark malady at times had fallen upon La Crusca. He would see visions of horror; and the sight of a mother and a child threw him into frenzy, till it became necessary to confine him. I had not heard for some time from my master. I wished to bring my young charge back to his own country, before I died. I wrote; but no one answered my letters. I applied to the Count Gondimar; but he refused to hear me.
“In the dead of night, however, even when I slept, the child was torn from me. I was at Florence, when some villain seized the boy. I had assumed another name: I lived apparently in happiness and affluence. I think it was the Count Gondimar who rifled my treasure. But he denied it.
“Accompanied by La Crusca, I returned first to England and then to Ireland. I sought Count Gondimar; but he evaded my enquiries; and having taken the child from me, insisted upon my silence, and dispatched me to Ireland with letters for the Lord Glenarvon, who immediately recognized and received me.” “Where?” cried the duke. Macpherson hesitated.—“At the priory, where he then resided, and where he remained concealed: La Crusca was likewise permitted to dwell there; but of this story my lord was ignorant till now.” “That is false,” said the duke. “One morning La Crusca beheld Lady Margaret even as in a vision, on that spot to which I every day returned; but he had not power to speak. Madness, phrenzy had fallen on him. Lord Glenarvon protected him. His house was also my only refuge. He gathered from me much of the truth of what I have related, but I never told him all. I durst not speak till now. He was deeply moved with the wrongs of the injured boy; he vowed to revenge them; but he has forgotten his promise; he has left us, he has forsaken us. I am now in the service of another: this gentleman will befriend me; and the Duke of Altamonte will not turn from the voice of his miserable servant.”
“Where?” said the duke starting, “where did you say Viviani, that damned Italian, had once concealed the child? He is there now perhaps! there, there let us seek him.”—“In the chapel,” said Macpherson hesitating, “there is a vault, of which he retains the key; and there is a chamber in the ruined turret, where I have ofttimes passed the night.” “Let us hasten there this instant,” said the duke.—“What hour is it?” “Nine.” “Oh! that it may not be too late! that he may not already have taken advantage of the darkness of evening to escape!” Saying this, the duke and Colonel de Ruthven having previously given orders to the servants to watch Macpherson carefully, drove with all possible haste to the chapel, near the Abbey of Belfont. But still they hoped that Viviani was their friend—He could have no motive in concealing the child: his only wish was probably to restore him, and by this means make terms for himself. With such thoughts they proceeded to the appointed spot. And it is there that for some moments we must leave them. The duke was convinced in his own mind who his real and sole enemy was; he was also firmly resolved not to let him escape.
CHAPTER CI.
Viviani had long and repeatedly menaced Lady Margaret with vengeance. In every moment of resentment, on every new interview, at every parting scene, revenge, immediate and desperate, was the cry; but it had been so often repeated, and so often had proved a harmless threat, that it had at length lost all effect upon her. She considered him as a depraved and weak character—base enough to attempt the worst; but too cowardly to carry his project into effect. She knew him not. That strong, that maddening passion which had taken such deep root in his soul, still at times continued to plead for her; and whilst hope, however fallacious, could be cherished by him, he would not at once crush her beyond recovery. A lesser vengeance had not gratified the rage of his bosom; and the certainty that the menaced blow when it fell would overwhelm them both in one fate, gave him malignant consolation.
Her renewed intercourse with Lord Dartford, he had endured. Lord Dartford had prior claims to himself; and though it tortured him to see them in each other’s society, he still forbore: but when he saw that he was the mere object of her hate, of her ridicule, of her contempt, his fury was beyond all controul. He wrote to her, he menaced her; he left her, he returned; but he felt his own little importance in the unprovoked calm with which she at all times received him: and maddening beyond endurance, “This is the moment,” he cried: “now, now I have strength to execute my threats, and nothing shall change me.”
It was in London that Count Viviani, having left Lady Margaret in anger, addressed Buchanan by letter. “Leave your steeds, and your gaming tables, and your libertine associates,” he said. “Senseless and heartless man, awake at last. Oh! you who have never felt, whose pulse has never risen with the burning fires of passion, whose life, unvaried and even, has ever flowed the same—awake now to the bitterness of horror, and learn that you are in my power.” Buchanan heard the tale with incredulity; but when obliged to credit it, he felt with all the poignancy of real misery. The scene that took place between himself and his mother had left him yet one doubt: upon that doubt he rested. It was her solemn asseveration of innocence. But the heart that is utterly corrupted fears not to perjure itself; and he continued in suspense; for he believed her guilty.
Such was the state of things, when Viviani, having by fraud again possessed himself of Zerbellini, sought Lady Margaret, and found her a few moments after the duke had left the castle. He well knew whither he was gone; he well knew also, that it was now too late to recall the vengeance he had decreed; yet one hope for Lady Margaret and himself remained:—would she fly with him upon that hour. All was prepared for flight in case he needed it; and with her, what perils would he not encounter. He entered the castle, much disguised: he made her the proposal; but she received it with disdain. One thing alone she wished to know; and that she solemnly enjoined him to confess to her: was Zerbellini the real heir of Delaval?—was she guiltless of the murder of her brother’s child? “You shall see him, speak with him,” said Viviani, “if you will follow me as soon as the night is dark. I will conduct you to him, and your own eyes and ears shall be convinced.”
So saying, he left her to fill the horrors of her own black imagination; but, returning at the time appointed, he led her to the wood, telling her that the boy was concealed in an apartment of the turret, close to the chapel. Suddenly pausing, as he followed the path:—“This is the very tree,” he cried, turning round, and looking upon her fiercely; “yes, this is the spot upon which La Crusca shed the blood of an innocent for you.” “Then the boy was really and inhumanly murdered,” said Lady Margaret, pale with horror at the thought, but still unappalled for herself. “Yes, lady, and his blood be on your soul! Do you hope for mercy?” he cried, seizing her by the arm. “Not from you.” “Dare you appeal to heaven?” She would not answer. “I must embrace thee here, lady, before we for ever part.” “Monster!” said Lady Margaret, seizing the dagger in his hand, as he placed his arm around her neck. “I have already resolved that I will never survive public infamy; therefore I fear you not; neither will I endure your menaces, nor your insulting and barbarous caresses. Trifle not with one who knows herself above you—who defies and derides your power. I dare to die.” And she gazed unawed at his closely locked fist. “Stab here—stab to this heart, which, however lost and perverted, yet exists to execrate thy crimes, and to lament its own.” “Die then—thus—thus,” said her enraged, her inhuman lover, as he struck the dagger, without daring to look where his too certain hand had plunged it. Lady Margaret shrunk not from the blow; but fixing her dying eyes reproachfully upon him, closed them not, even when the spirit of life was gone.