CHAPTER IV.About the time of the disappearance of Glenarvon, Captain Buchanan died; and Lady Margaret expected that Lord Dartford would immediately fulfil his engagement, and reward her long and devoted attachment to himself by the offer of his hand. Count Gondimar was with her at the time. In all companies, in all societies, the marriage was considered certain. One alone seemed eager to hear this report contradicted—one who, dazzled by the charms and beauty of Lady Margaret, had devoted himself, from the first hour in which he had beheld her, entirely to her service. The name of the young enthusiast was Viviani. A deep melancholy preyed upon his spirits; a dark mystery enveloped his fate. Gondimar had, with some coldness, introducedhim to Lady Margaret. He was the friend of the lost Glenarvon, he said, and on that account alone he had strong claims upon his affection. Lady Margaret received the stranger with more than common civility: his ill state of health, his youth, his beauty, were powerful attractions. He confided his sorrows to her bosom; and soon he dared to inform her that he loved.Lady Margaret was now more than usually attentive to Lord Dartford: the day even for her intended nuptials was fixed. “Oh give not that hand to one who values not the prize,” said the young Count Viviani, throwing himself before her; “let not Dartford call himself your lord; his love and mine must never be compared.” “Go, foolish boy,” said Lady Margaret, smiling on her new victim: “I can be your friend as readily when I am Lord Dartford’s wife as now.” Her young admirer shuddered, and rose from the earth: “You must be minealone:—none other shall approach you.” “The disparity of our ages.” “What of that?” “Enough, enough. I will give my hand to Dartford; my heart, you know, will still be at your disposal.” A deep blush covered the pale cheeks of Viviani, he uttered one convulsive sigh, and left her to ruminate on his hopeless fate; for every thing, he was informed, was prepared for the approaching nuptials.But they knew little of the nature of man, who could conceive that Lord Dartford had even a thought of uniting himself to Lady Margaret by any lasting ties. On the contrary, he suddenly and secretly, without even taking leave of her, departed for England; and the first letter which she received from him, to inform her of his absence, announced to her, likewise, his marriage with a lady of fortune and rank in his native country.Lady Margaret was at dinner with a numerous company, and amongst themthe young count, when the letters from England were placed before her. The quivering of her lip and the rolling of her dark eye might have betrayed, to a keen observer, the anguish of a disordered spirit; but, recovering herself with that self-command which years of crime and deep dissimulation had taught her, she conversed as usual, till it was time for her to depart; and only when in her own apartment, closing the door, gave vent to the fury that opprest her. For some moments she paced the room in silent anguish; then kneeling down and calling upon those powers, whose very existence she had so often doubted: “Curse him! curse him!” she exclaimed. “O may the curse of a bitter, and deeply injured heart, blast every promise of his happiness; pursue him through life; and follow him to the grave!—May he live to be the scorn of his enemies, the derision of the world, without one friend to soften his afflictions!—May those, whom hehas cherished, forsake him in the hour of need; and the companion he has chosen, prove a serpent to betray him!—May the tear of agony, which his falsehood has drawn from these eyes, fall with tenfold bitterness from his own!—And may this blooming innocent, this rival, who has supplanted me in his affections, live to feel the pangs she has inflicted on my soul; or perish in the pride of her youth, with a heart as injured, as lacerated as mine!—Oh if there are curses yet unnamed, prepared by an angry God, against offending man, may they fall upon the head of this false, this cold-hearted Dartford!”She arose, and gasped for breath. She threw up the sash of the window; but the cool air, the distant lashing of the waves, the rising moon and the fine scene before her, had no power to calm, even for one moment, a heart torn by guilt and tortured by self-reproach. A knock at the door roused her from her meditations. It was the fair Italian boy,he had followed her; for, at a glance, he had penetrated her secret. With a smile of scorn he upbraided her for her weakness.—“What! in tears lady!” he said: “is it possible? can a marriage, a disappointment in love, overpower you thus!” Lady Margaret affecting a calmness, she could not feel, and opposing art to art, endeavoured to repel his taunting expressions. But he knew her thoughts: he saw at once through the smiles and assumed manners which blinded others; and at this moment he watched her countenance with malignant delight. It was the face of an Angel, distorted by the passions of a Dæmon; and he liked it not the less for the frailty it betrayed.It happened, however, that he had just attained the means of turning the tide of her resentment out of its present channel, and, by awakening her ambition—her ruling passion, of at once quenching the dying embers of every softer feeling. “You have read I perceive,”said he, “but one of the epistles with which you have been favoured; and I am already before hand with you in hearing news of far greater importance than the loss of a lover.”—The Duchess of Altamonte. “What of her?” “After a few hours illness,” continued Viviani, drawing one of the English papers from his pocket, “the Duchess of Altamonte is safely delivered of a son and heir.” The blood forsook Lady Margaret’s lips: “I am lost then!” she said: “the vengeance of Heaven has overtaken me! where shall I turn for succour? Is there none upon earth to whom I can apply for assistance? Will no one of all those who profess so much, assist me? Shall Dartford triumph, and my son be supplanted? Revenge—revenge me, and I will be your slave.”If the name of love must be given alike to the noblest and most depraved of feelings, the young Viviani loved Lady Margaret with all the fervor of whichhis perverted heart was capable. She had made him the weak instrument of her arts; and knowing him too well, to place herself in his power, she had detained him near her, by all the varying stratagems of which she was mistress.—He now knelt before her, and, reading in her fierce countenance her dreadful wishes, “I will revenge thee,” he said, “yes it shall be done!” “Blood—blood is the price!” said Lady Margaret. “Seal the compact thus:—be mine but for one hour:—let me fancy myself blest—and: ....” “My son must be Duke of Altamonte,” returned Lady Margaret, deeply agitated.—“He shall.”—“Swear it, my loveliest, my youngest friend!”—“By the living God of Heaven, I swear it.”—“Ah! but your courage will fail at the moment: your heart, intrepid as I think it, will shudder, and misgive you.—Say where, and how, it can be done with safety.” “Leave that to me: keep your own counsel: I will do the rest.” He spoke, and left her.When they met again, the following day, not one word was uttered upon the dreadful subject of their former discourse: the compact between them was considered as made: and when once again the Count Viviani spoke of his passion, and his hopes, Lady Margaret reminded him of his vow; and a fearful silence ensued. Revenge and ambition had urged her to a determination, which a sentiment of prudence inclined her to retract. Viviani unconscious of her wavering resolution, enjoyed a momentary triumph. “Is not this extacy?” he exclaimed, as he viewed the woman he now considered as entirely bound to him. “Is it not rapture thus to love?” “Revenge is sweet,” she answered. “Will you give yourself to me Margaret? Shall I indeed press you to my burning heart! say—can you love?” “Aye, and hate too,” she replied, as, convulsed with agony, she shrunk from the caresses of her importunate admirer.From that hour he courted her with unremittingassiduity: he was the slave of every new caprice, which long indulgence of every selfish feeling could awaken. But the promised hour of his happiness was delayed; and his passion thus continually fed by hope, and yet disappointed, overcame in his bosom every feeling of humanity, till he no longer cherished a thought that did not tend to facilitate the immediate gratification of his wishes.
About the time of the disappearance of Glenarvon, Captain Buchanan died; and Lady Margaret expected that Lord Dartford would immediately fulfil his engagement, and reward her long and devoted attachment to himself by the offer of his hand. Count Gondimar was with her at the time. In all companies, in all societies, the marriage was considered certain. One alone seemed eager to hear this report contradicted—one who, dazzled by the charms and beauty of Lady Margaret, had devoted himself, from the first hour in which he had beheld her, entirely to her service. The name of the young enthusiast was Viviani. A deep melancholy preyed upon his spirits; a dark mystery enveloped his fate. Gondimar had, with some coldness, introducedhim to Lady Margaret. He was the friend of the lost Glenarvon, he said, and on that account alone he had strong claims upon his affection. Lady Margaret received the stranger with more than common civility: his ill state of health, his youth, his beauty, were powerful attractions. He confided his sorrows to her bosom; and soon he dared to inform her that he loved.
Lady Margaret was now more than usually attentive to Lord Dartford: the day even for her intended nuptials was fixed. “Oh give not that hand to one who values not the prize,” said the young Count Viviani, throwing himself before her; “let not Dartford call himself your lord; his love and mine must never be compared.” “Go, foolish boy,” said Lady Margaret, smiling on her new victim: “I can be your friend as readily when I am Lord Dartford’s wife as now.” Her young admirer shuddered, and rose from the earth: “You must be minealone:—none other shall approach you.” “The disparity of our ages.” “What of that?” “Enough, enough. I will give my hand to Dartford; my heart, you know, will still be at your disposal.” A deep blush covered the pale cheeks of Viviani, he uttered one convulsive sigh, and left her to ruminate on his hopeless fate; for every thing, he was informed, was prepared for the approaching nuptials.
But they knew little of the nature of man, who could conceive that Lord Dartford had even a thought of uniting himself to Lady Margaret by any lasting ties. On the contrary, he suddenly and secretly, without even taking leave of her, departed for England; and the first letter which she received from him, to inform her of his absence, announced to her, likewise, his marriage with a lady of fortune and rank in his native country.
Lady Margaret was at dinner with a numerous company, and amongst themthe young count, when the letters from England were placed before her. The quivering of her lip and the rolling of her dark eye might have betrayed, to a keen observer, the anguish of a disordered spirit; but, recovering herself with that self-command which years of crime and deep dissimulation had taught her, she conversed as usual, till it was time for her to depart; and only when in her own apartment, closing the door, gave vent to the fury that opprest her. For some moments she paced the room in silent anguish; then kneeling down and calling upon those powers, whose very existence she had so often doubted: “Curse him! curse him!” she exclaimed. “O may the curse of a bitter, and deeply injured heart, blast every promise of his happiness; pursue him through life; and follow him to the grave!—May he live to be the scorn of his enemies, the derision of the world, without one friend to soften his afflictions!—May those, whom hehas cherished, forsake him in the hour of need; and the companion he has chosen, prove a serpent to betray him!—May the tear of agony, which his falsehood has drawn from these eyes, fall with tenfold bitterness from his own!—And may this blooming innocent, this rival, who has supplanted me in his affections, live to feel the pangs she has inflicted on my soul; or perish in the pride of her youth, with a heart as injured, as lacerated as mine!—Oh if there are curses yet unnamed, prepared by an angry God, against offending man, may they fall upon the head of this false, this cold-hearted Dartford!”
She arose, and gasped for breath. She threw up the sash of the window; but the cool air, the distant lashing of the waves, the rising moon and the fine scene before her, had no power to calm, even for one moment, a heart torn by guilt and tortured by self-reproach. A knock at the door roused her from her meditations. It was the fair Italian boy,he had followed her; for, at a glance, he had penetrated her secret. With a smile of scorn he upbraided her for her weakness.—“What! in tears lady!” he said: “is it possible? can a marriage, a disappointment in love, overpower you thus!” Lady Margaret affecting a calmness, she could not feel, and opposing art to art, endeavoured to repel his taunting expressions. But he knew her thoughts: he saw at once through the smiles and assumed manners which blinded others; and at this moment he watched her countenance with malignant delight. It was the face of an Angel, distorted by the passions of a Dæmon; and he liked it not the less for the frailty it betrayed.
It happened, however, that he had just attained the means of turning the tide of her resentment out of its present channel, and, by awakening her ambition—her ruling passion, of at once quenching the dying embers of every softer feeling. “You have read I perceive,”said he, “but one of the epistles with which you have been favoured; and I am already before hand with you in hearing news of far greater importance than the loss of a lover.”—The Duchess of Altamonte. “What of her?” “After a few hours illness,” continued Viviani, drawing one of the English papers from his pocket, “the Duchess of Altamonte is safely delivered of a son and heir.” The blood forsook Lady Margaret’s lips: “I am lost then!” she said: “the vengeance of Heaven has overtaken me! where shall I turn for succour? Is there none upon earth to whom I can apply for assistance? Will no one of all those who profess so much, assist me? Shall Dartford triumph, and my son be supplanted? Revenge—revenge me, and I will be your slave.”
If the name of love must be given alike to the noblest and most depraved of feelings, the young Viviani loved Lady Margaret with all the fervor of whichhis perverted heart was capable. She had made him the weak instrument of her arts; and knowing him too well, to place herself in his power, she had detained him near her, by all the varying stratagems of which she was mistress.—He now knelt before her, and, reading in her fierce countenance her dreadful wishes, “I will revenge thee,” he said, “yes it shall be done!” “Blood—blood is the price!” said Lady Margaret. “Seal the compact thus:—be mine but for one hour:—let me fancy myself blest—and: ....” “My son must be Duke of Altamonte,” returned Lady Margaret, deeply agitated.—“He shall.”—“Swear it, my loveliest, my youngest friend!”—“By the living God of Heaven, I swear it.”—“Ah! but your courage will fail at the moment: your heart, intrepid as I think it, will shudder, and misgive you.—Say where, and how, it can be done with safety.” “Leave that to me: keep your own counsel: I will do the rest.” He spoke, and left her.
When they met again, the following day, not one word was uttered upon the dreadful subject of their former discourse: the compact between them was considered as made: and when once again the Count Viviani spoke of his passion, and his hopes, Lady Margaret reminded him of his vow; and a fearful silence ensued. Revenge and ambition had urged her to a determination, which a sentiment of prudence inclined her to retract. Viviani unconscious of her wavering resolution, enjoyed a momentary triumph. “Is not this extacy?” he exclaimed, as he viewed the woman he now considered as entirely bound to him. “Is it not rapture thus to love?” “Revenge is sweet,” she answered. “Will you give yourself to me Margaret? Shall I indeed press you to my burning heart! say—can you love?” “Aye, and hate too,” she replied, as, convulsed with agony, she shrunk from the caresses of her importunate admirer.
From that hour he courted her with unremittingassiduity: he was the slave of every new caprice, which long indulgence of every selfish feeling could awaken. But the promised hour of his happiness was delayed; and his passion thus continually fed by hope, and yet disappointed, overcame in his bosom every feeling of humanity, till he no longer cherished a thought that did not tend to facilitate the immediate gratification of his wishes.