CHAPTER V.It was not long after Lady Margaret’s arrival at the castle that Count Gondimar, who had accompanied her to Ireland, prepared to return to Italy. A few evenings before he quitted her, he sought the secret habitation of his friend Viviani who had likewise followed Lady Margaret to Ireland, but in order to facilitate his designs, had never openly appeared at the castle. “How strong must be the love,” said Gondimar, addressing him, “which can thus lead you to endure concealment, straits and difficulty! return with me: there are others as fair: your youthful heart pictures to yourself strange fancies; but in reality this woman is little worth you. I love her not, and it is but imagination, which thus deceives you.” “I will not leave her—I cannot go,” saidViviani impatiently: “one burning passion annihilates in my heart every other consideration. Ah! can it merit the name of passion, the phrenzy which rages within me! Gondimar, if I worshipped the splendid star, that flashed along my course, and dazzled me with its meteor blaze, even in Italian climes, imagine what she now appears to me, in these cold northern regions. I too can sometimes pause to think whether the sacrifice I have made is not too great. But I have drained the poisoned cup to the dregs. I have prest the burning firebrand to my heart, till it has consumed me—and come what may, now, I am resolved she shall be mine, though the price exacted were blood.” Gondimar shuddered.It was soon after this, that he returned to Italy. Before he departed, he once more in secret affectionately embraced his friend. “She has deceived me,” cried Viviani; “months have glided byin vain attempts to realize her depraved wish. She evades my suit. But the hour of success approaches:—to-morrow:——nay, perhaps, to-night.... If thou, Gondimar—oh! if thou couldst believe: yet wherefore should I betray myself, or shew, to living man, one thought belonging to the darkest of human hearts. This alone know—I dare do every thing; and I will possess her. See, she appears—that form of majesty—that brow of refulgent brightness. The very air I breathe speaks to me of her charms. What matters it to me, whilst I gaze entranced upon her, if the earth shake to its foundation, and rivers of blood were streaming around me!—Pity me, Gondimar.—Pardon me.—Farewell!”Hurried on by mad passion, Viviani, who constantly visited Lady Margaret, was now upon the eve of fulfilling her wishes. Yet once, in the hope of dissuading his savage mistress from herbloody purpose, he placed the infant in her arms, and bade her take pity on its helpless innocence. “See thy own—thy brother’s image in those eyes—that smile,” he whispered; “ah! can you have the heart?” But Lady Margaret turned from the child in haughty displeasure, thrusting it from her as if afraid to look on it; and, for many days, would not vouchsafe to speak to the weak instrument of her criminal ambition. Yet he, even he, whose life had been one continued course of profligacy, who had misused his superior talents to the perversion of the innocence of others, and the gratification of his own ungoverned passions, shuddered at the thought of the fearful crime which he had engaged himself to commit!His knowledge of human nature, and particularly of the worst part of it, was too profound to depend upon any personal or immediate aid from Lady Margaret: he, therefore, conceived a projectwhich, by any one but himself, would, in every view of it, have been considered as altogether desperate and impracticable. It was, however, a maxim with Viviani, which his practice and experience had justified, that nothing is impossible to a firmly united league of time, money and resolution. Alone, he could have accomplished nothing; but he had a satellite long trained in his service, who possessed every quality which fitted him to assist the designs of such a master. The name of this man was La Crusca. In spite of a seeming wish to conceal himself, in conformity, perhaps, with his master’s designs, this man was known at the castle to be a servant to the count, and by his flattery and the versatility of his genius, had become familiar with a few of its inhabitants; but shortly after his arrival, he had been dismissed, and it was now three months and more since his departure.One evening, according to custom,Viviani having secretly entered the castle, sought Lady Margaret in her own apartment; his face was fearfully pale; his hand trembled. He found her in company with her son, Buchanan, and Calantha. Alarmed at his manner and appearance, the latter concealed her face on the white bosom of her aunt, nor guessed by what storms of fierce passion that bosom was disturbed. Viviani mistook the brilliant hue which heightened Lady Margaret’s complexion for a softer feeling; he approached her, and, gently removing the child, whispered vows of ardour and tenderness in the ears of his mistress, and urged his suit with every argument he could devise to overcome any remaining scruple. But when he looked, in expectation of a favorable answer, he sprung back with terror from her; for it seemed as if the fiends of hell were struggling in her eyes and lips for looks and words with which to express their horrid desire, already without theaid of words, but too sufficiently manifest! At length, breaking silence, and rising in scorn from her seat: “Have I not promised myself to you?” she whispered indignantly, “that you thus persecute me for the performance of a voluntary vow? Do you think your protestations can move, and your arguments persuade? Am I a timid girl, who turns from your suit bashful or alarmed? Or am I one grown old in crime, and utterly insensible to its consequence?—Nothing, you well know, can make me yours but my own free will; and never shall that will consign me to such fate, till the sickly weed is destroyed, and the fair and flourishing plant restored to its wonted vigour and due honors. See there, there is the image of my brother, of all that is glorious and lovely.” As she spoke, she pointed to Buchanan.... “Lady, the deed is already done! This night,” said the Italian, trembling in every limb, “yes, on this fearful night, I claim the performance ofthy vow!” He spoke with an emotion she could not mistake.—“Is it possible?” said she, “my beautiful, my beloved friend:” and his hand trembled as he gave it her, in token of his assent.—Fearing to utter another word, dreading even the sound of their own voices, after such a disclosure, she soon retired.Was it to rest that Lady Margaret retired?—No—to the tortures of suspense, of dread, of agony unutterable. A thousand times she started from her bed:—she fancied that voices approached the door—that shrieks rent the air; and, if she closed her eyes, visions of murder floated before her distracted mind, and pictured dreams too horrible for words half suffocated by the fever and delirium of her troubled imagination. She threw up the sash of her window, and listened attentively to every distant sound. The moon had risen in silvery brightness above the dark elm trees; it lighted, with its beams, the deep clear waters of Elle.The wind blew loud at times, and sounded mournfully, as it swept through the whispering leaves of the trees, over the dark forest and distant moors. A light appeared, for one moment, near the wood, and then was lost, Lady Margaret, as if palsied by terror, remained fixed and breathless on the spot;—a step approached the door;—it was the step of one stealing along, as if anxious no one should hear it pass. Again, all was silent:—so silent that the grave itself had not been more tranquil, and the dead could not have looked more pale, more calm, more still, than Lady Margaret!But how was that silence broken? and how that calm disturbed?—By the shrieks of an agonized parent—by the burning tears of a heart-broken father—by the loud unrestrained clamours of the menial train; and that proud mansion, so lately the seat of gaiety, whose lighted porticos and festive halls had echoed to the song of joy and revelry, presentednow a scene of lamentation, terror and despair.—The heir of Altamonte was dead—the hope so fondly cherished was cut off—the idol, upon whose existence so many hearts were fixed, lay in his gilded cradle and costly attire, affording a lesson impressive although every day repeated, yet unheeded although impressive,—that it is the nature of man to rest his most sanguine expectations upon the most frail and uncertain of all his possessions.The women who had been employed to attend upon him were weeping around him. His nurse alone appeared utterly insensible to his fate,—her eyes were fixed,—her lips motionless,—she obeyed every command that was given; but, when left to herself, she continued in the same sullen mood. Some called her hard and unfeeling, as in loud accents they bewailed the dire calamity that had fallen on their master’s house; but there were others who knew that this apparentinsensibility was the effect of a deeper feeling—of a heart that could not recover its loss—of a mind totally overthrown.She had arisen that morning at her accustomed hour, to take to her breast the little infant who slept in the cradle beside her;—but lifeless was that form which, a few hours before, she had laid on its pillow, in the full enjoyment of health. Spasms, it was supposed, had seized the child in his sleep; for his face was black and dreadfully disfigured. All efforts to recover him were fruitless. Physician nor medicine could avail,—the hand of death had struck the flower,—the vital spark was extinguished.It was in vain that the distracted mother, pressing his cold lips to hers, declared, in the agony of hope, that they still retained a living warmth.—It was in vain that she watched him till her eyes deceived, fancied that they saw a change imperceptible to others—a breath of life restored tothat lifeless breathless form. It was in vain:—and floods of grief, with the sad rites of a pompous funeral, were all which the afflicted Duke and his sorrowing family had to bestow.The tenants and peasantry were, according to an ancient custom, admitted to sing the song of sorrow over the body of the child: but no hired mourners were required on this occasion; for the hearts of all deeply shared in the affliction of their master’s house, and wept, in bitter woe, the untimely loss of their infant Lord.—It was thus they sung, ever repeating the same monotonous and melancholy strain.Oh loudly sing the Pillalu,And many a tear of sorrow shed;Och orro, orro, Olalu;Mourn, for the master’s child is dead.At morn, along the eastern sky,We marked an owl, with heavy wing;At eve, we heard the benshees cry;And now the song of death we sing;Och orro, orro, Olalu.Ah! wherefore, wherefore would ye die;Why would ye leave your parents dear;Why leave your sorrowing kinsmen here,Nor listen to your people’s cry!How wilt thy mother bear to partWith one so tender, fair and sweet!Thou wast the jewel of her heart,The pulse, the life, that made it beat.How sad it is to leave her boy,That tender flowret all alone;To see no more his face of joy,And soothe no more his infant moan!But see along the mountains side,And by the pleasant banks of Larney,Straight o’er the plains, and woodlands wide,By Castle Brae, and Lock Macharney:See how the sorrowing neighbours throng.With haggard looks and faultering breath;And as they slowly wind along,They sing the mournful song of death!O loudly sing the Pillalu,And many a tear of sorrow shed;Och orro, orro, Olalu;Mourn, for the master’s child is dead.Thus singing they approached the castle, and thus amidst cries and lamentations, was Sidney Albert, Marquis of Delaval, borne for ever from its gates, and entombed with his ancestors in the vault of the ancient church, which, for many hundred years, had received beneath its pavement the successive generations of the family of Altamonte. Heartfelt tears, more honourable to the dead than all the grandeur which his rank demanded, were shed over his untimely grave; while a long mourning and entire seclusion from the world, proved that the sorrow thus felt was not momentary, but lasting as the cause which had occasioned it was great.
It was not long after Lady Margaret’s arrival at the castle that Count Gondimar, who had accompanied her to Ireland, prepared to return to Italy. A few evenings before he quitted her, he sought the secret habitation of his friend Viviani who had likewise followed Lady Margaret to Ireland, but in order to facilitate his designs, had never openly appeared at the castle. “How strong must be the love,” said Gondimar, addressing him, “which can thus lead you to endure concealment, straits and difficulty! return with me: there are others as fair: your youthful heart pictures to yourself strange fancies; but in reality this woman is little worth you. I love her not, and it is but imagination, which thus deceives you.” “I will not leave her—I cannot go,” saidViviani impatiently: “one burning passion annihilates in my heart every other consideration. Ah! can it merit the name of passion, the phrenzy which rages within me! Gondimar, if I worshipped the splendid star, that flashed along my course, and dazzled me with its meteor blaze, even in Italian climes, imagine what she now appears to me, in these cold northern regions. I too can sometimes pause to think whether the sacrifice I have made is not too great. But I have drained the poisoned cup to the dregs. I have prest the burning firebrand to my heart, till it has consumed me—and come what may, now, I am resolved she shall be mine, though the price exacted were blood.” Gondimar shuddered.
It was soon after this, that he returned to Italy. Before he departed, he once more in secret affectionately embraced his friend. “She has deceived me,” cried Viviani; “months have glided byin vain attempts to realize her depraved wish. She evades my suit. But the hour of success approaches:—to-morrow:——nay, perhaps, to-night.... If thou, Gondimar—oh! if thou couldst believe: yet wherefore should I betray myself, or shew, to living man, one thought belonging to the darkest of human hearts. This alone know—I dare do every thing; and I will possess her. See, she appears—that form of majesty—that brow of refulgent brightness. The very air I breathe speaks to me of her charms. What matters it to me, whilst I gaze entranced upon her, if the earth shake to its foundation, and rivers of blood were streaming around me!—Pity me, Gondimar.—Pardon me.—Farewell!”
Hurried on by mad passion, Viviani, who constantly visited Lady Margaret, was now upon the eve of fulfilling her wishes. Yet once, in the hope of dissuading his savage mistress from herbloody purpose, he placed the infant in her arms, and bade her take pity on its helpless innocence. “See thy own—thy brother’s image in those eyes—that smile,” he whispered; “ah! can you have the heart?” But Lady Margaret turned from the child in haughty displeasure, thrusting it from her as if afraid to look on it; and, for many days, would not vouchsafe to speak to the weak instrument of her criminal ambition. Yet he, even he, whose life had been one continued course of profligacy, who had misused his superior talents to the perversion of the innocence of others, and the gratification of his own ungoverned passions, shuddered at the thought of the fearful crime which he had engaged himself to commit!
His knowledge of human nature, and particularly of the worst part of it, was too profound to depend upon any personal or immediate aid from Lady Margaret: he, therefore, conceived a projectwhich, by any one but himself, would, in every view of it, have been considered as altogether desperate and impracticable. It was, however, a maxim with Viviani, which his practice and experience had justified, that nothing is impossible to a firmly united league of time, money and resolution. Alone, he could have accomplished nothing; but he had a satellite long trained in his service, who possessed every quality which fitted him to assist the designs of such a master. The name of this man was La Crusca. In spite of a seeming wish to conceal himself, in conformity, perhaps, with his master’s designs, this man was known at the castle to be a servant to the count, and by his flattery and the versatility of his genius, had become familiar with a few of its inhabitants; but shortly after his arrival, he had been dismissed, and it was now three months and more since his departure.
One evening, according to custom,Viviani having secretly entered the castle, sought Lady Margaret in her own apartment; his face was fearfully pale; his hand trembled. He found her in company with her son, Buchanan, and Calantha. Alarmed at his manner and appearance, the latter concealed her face on the white bosom of her aunt, nor guessed by what storms of fierce passion that bosom was disturbed. Viviani mistook the brilliant hue which heightened Lady Margaret’s complexion for a softer feeling; he approached her, and, gently removing the child, whispered vows of ardour and tenderness in the ears of his mistress, and urged his suit with every argument he could devise to overcome any remaining scruple. But when he looked, in expectation of a favorable answer, he sprung back with terror from her; for it seemed as if the fiends of hell were struggling in her eyes and lips for looks and words with which to express their horrid desire, already without theaid of words, but too sufficiently manifest! At length, breaking silence, and rising in scorn from her seat: “Have I not promised myself to you?” she whispered indignantly, “that you thus persecute me for the performance of a voluntary vow? Do you think your protestations can move, and your arguments persuade? Am I a timid girl, who turns from your suit bashful or alarmed? Or am I one grown old in crime, and utterly insensible to its consequence?—Nothing, you well know, can make me yours but my own free will; and never shall that will consign me to such fate, till the sickly weed is destroyed, and the fair and flourishing plant restored to its wonted vigour and due honors. See there, there is the image of my brother, of all that is glorious and lovely.” As she spoke, she pointed to Buchanan.... “Lady, the deed is already done! This night,” said the Italian, trembling in every limb, “yes, on this fearful night, I claim the performance ofthy vow!” He spoke with an emotion she could not mistake.—“Is it possible?” said she, “my beautiful, my beloved friend:” and his hand trembled as he gave it her, in token of his assent.—Fearing to utter another word, dreading even the sound of their own voices, after such a disclosure, she soon retired.
Was it to rest that Lady Margaret retired?—No—to the tortures of suspense, of dread, of agony unutterable. A thousand times she started from her bed:—she fancied that voices approached the door—that shrieks rent the air; and, if she closed her eyes, visions of murder floated before her distracted mind, and pictured dreams too horrible for words half suffocated by the fever and delirium of her troubled imagination. She threw up the sash of her window, and listened attentively to every distant sound. The moon had risen in silvery brightness above the dark elm trees; it lighted, with its beams, the deep clear waters of Elle.The wind blew loud at times, and sounded mournfully, as it swept through the whispering leaves of the trees, over the dark forest and distant moors. A light appeared, for one moment, near the wood, and then was lost, Lady Margaret, as if palsied by terror, remained fixed and breathless on the spot;—a step approached the door;—it was the step of one stealing along, as if anxious no one should hear it pass. Again, all was silent:—so silent that the grave itself had not been more tranquil, and the dead could not have looked more pale, more calm, more still, than Lady Margaret!
But how was that silence broken? and how that calm disturbed?—By the shrieks of an agonized parent—by the burning tears of a heart-broken father—by the loud unrestrained clamours of the menial train; and that proud mansion, so lately the seat of gaiety, whose lighted porticos and festive halls had echoed to the song of joy and revelry, presentednow a scene of lamentation, terror and despair.—The heir of Altamonte was dead—the hope so fondly cherished was cut off—the idol, upon whose existence so many hearts were fixed, lay in his gilded cradle and costly attire, affording a lesson impressive although every day repeated, yet unheeded although impressive,—that it is the nature of man to rest his most sanguine expectations upon the most frail and uncertain of all his possessions.
The women who had been employed to attend upon him were weeping around him. His nurse alone appeared utterly insensible to his fate,—her eyes were fixed,—her lips motionless,—she obeyed every command that was given; but, when left to herself, she continued in the same sullen mood. Some called her hard and unfeeling, as in loud accents they bewailed the dire calamity that had fallen on their master’s house; but there were others who knew that this apparentinsensibility was the effect of a deeper feeling—of a heart that could not recover its loss—of a mind totally overthrown.
She had arisen that morning at her accustomed hour, to take to her breast the little infant who slept in the cradle beside her;—but lifeless was that form which, a few hours before, she had laid on its pillow, in the full enjoyment of health. Spasms, it was supposed, had seized the child in his sleep; for his face was black and dreadfully disfigured. All efforts to recover him were fruitless. Physician nor medicine could avail,—the hand of death had struck the flower,—the vital spark was extinguished.
It was in vain that the distracted mother, pressing his cold lips to hers, declared, in the agony of hope, that they still retained a living warmth.—It was in vain that she watched him till her eyes deceived, fancied that they saw a change imperceptible to others—a breath of life restored tothat lifeless breathless form. It was in vain:—and floods of grief, with the sad rites of a pompous funeral, were all which the afflicted Duke and his sorrowing family had to bestow.
The tenants and peasantry were, according to an ancient custom, admitted to sing the song of sorrow over the body of the child: but no hired mourners were required on this occasion; for the hearts of all deeply shared in the affliction of their master’s house, and wept, in bitter woe, the untimely loss of their infant Lord.—It was thus they sung, ever repeating the same monotonous and melancholy strain.
Oh loudly sing the Pillalu,And many a tear of sorrow shed;Och orro, orro, Olalu;Mourn, for the master’s child is dead.At morn, along the eastern sky,We marked an owl, with heavy wing;At eve, we heard the benshees cry;And now the song of death we sing;Och orro, orro, Olalu.Ah! wherefore, wherefore would ye die;Why would ye leave your parents dear;Why leave your sorrowing kinsmen here,Nor listen to your people’s cry!How wilt thy mother bear to partWith one so tender, fair and sweet!Thou wast the jewel of her heart,The pulse, the life, that made it beat.How sad it is to leave her boy,That tender flowret all alone;To see no more his face of joy,And soothe no more his infant moan!But see along the mountains side,And by the pleasant banks of Larney,Straight o’er the plains, and woodlands wide,By Castle Brae, and Lock Macharney:See how the sorrowing neighbours throng.With haggard looks and faultering breath;And as they slowly wind along,They sing the mournful song of death!O loudly sing the Pillalu,And many a tear of sorrow shed;Och orro, orro, Olalu;Mourn, for the master’s child is dead.
Oh loudly sing the Pillalu,And many a tear of sorrow shed;Och orro, orro, Olalu;Mourn, for the master’s child is dead.At morn, along the eastern sky,We marked an owl, with heavy wing;At eve, we heard the benshees cry;And now the song of death we sing;Och orro, orro, Olalu.Ah! wherefore, wherefore would ye die;Why would ye leave your parents dear;Why leave your sorrowing kinsmen here,Nor listen to your people’s cry!How wilt thy mother bear to partWith one so tender, fair and sweet!Thou wast the jewel of her heart,The pulse, the life, that made it beat.How sad it is to leave her boy,That tender flowret all alone;To see no more his face of joy,And soothe no more his infant moan!But see along the mountains side,And by the pleasant banks of Larney,Straight o’er the plains, and woodlands wide,By Castle Brae, and Lock Macharney:See how the sorrowing neighbours throng.With haggard looks and faultering breath;And as they slowly wind along,They sing the mournful song of death!O loudly sing the Pillalu,And many a tear of sorrow shed;Och orro, orro, Olalu;Mourn, for the master’s child is dead.
Oh loudly sing the Pillalu,And many a tear of sorrow shed;Och orro, orro, Olalu;Mourn, for the master’s child is dead.
Oh loudly sing the Pillalu,
And many a tear of sorrow shed;
Och orro, orro, Olalu;
Mourn, for the master’s child is dead.
At morn, along the eastern sky,We marked an owl, with heavy wing;At eve, we heard the benshees cry;And now the song of death we sing;Och orro, orro, Olalu.
At morn, along the eastern sky,
We marked an owl, with heavy wing;
At eve, we heard the benshees cry;
And now the song of death we sing;
Och orro, orro, Olalu.
Ah! wherefore, wherefore would ye die;Why would ye leave your parents dear;Why leave your sorrowing kinsmen here,Nor listen to your people’s cry!
Ah! wherefore, wherefore would ye die;
Why would ye leave your parents dear;
Why leave your sorrowing kinsmen here,
Nor listen to your people’s cry!
How wilt thy mother bear to partWith one so tender, fair and sweet!Thou wast the jewel of her heart,The pulse, the life, that made it beat.
How wilt thy mother bear to part
With one so tender, fair and sweet!
Thou wast the jewel of her heart,
The pulse, the life, that made it beat.
How sad it is to leave her boy,That tender flowret all alone;To see no more his face of joy,And soothe no more his infant moan!
How sad it is to leave her boy,
That tender flowret all alone;
To see no more his face of joy,
And soothe no more his infant moan!
But see along the mountains side,And by the pleasant banks of Larney,Straight o’er the plains, and woodlands wide,By Castle Brae, and Lock Macharney:
But see along the mountains side,
And by the pleasant banks of Larney,
Straight o’er the plains, and woodlands wide,
By Castle Brae, and Lock Macharney:
See how the sorrowing neighbours throng.With haggard looks and faultering breath;And as they slowly wind along,They sing the mournful song of death!
See how the sorrowing neighbours throng.
With haggard looks and faultering breath;
And as they slowly wind along,
They sing the mournful song of death!
O loudly sing the Pillalu,And many a tear of sorrow shed;Och orro, orro, Olalu;Mourn, for the master’s child is dead.
O loudly sing the Pillalu,
And many a tear of sorrow shed;
Och orro, orro, Olalu;
Mourn, for the master’s child is dead.
Thus singing they approached the castle, and thus amidst cries and lamentations, was Sidney Albert, Marquis of Delaval, borne for ever from its gates, and entombed with his ancestors in the vault of the ancient church, which, for many hundred years, had received beneath its pavement the successive generations of the family of Altamonte. Heartfelt tears, more honourable to the dead than all the grandeur which his rank demanded, were shed over his untimely grave; while a long mourning and entire seclusion from the world, proved that the sorrow thus felt was not momentary, but lasting as the cause which had occasioned it was great.