CHAPTER XCVI.Shortly after Buchanan’s departure, Lady Margaret had recovered from her indisposition. She was tranquil, and had retired early to rest. The next morning she was in her brother’s apartment, when a servant entered with a letter. “There is a gentleman below who wishes to speak with your grace.” “What is his name?” “I know not, my lord; he would not inform me.” The duke opened the letter. It was from M. De Ruthven, who entreated permission to have a few moments conversation with the duke, as a secret of the utmost importance had been communicated to him that night: but it was of the most serious consequence that Lady Margaret Buchanan should be kept in ignoranceof the appeal. The name was written in large characters, as if to place particular emphasis upon it; and as unfortunately she was in her brother’s apartment at the moment the letter was delivered, it was extremely difficult for him to conceal from her its contents, or the agitation so singular and mysterious a communication had caused him.Lady Margaret’s penetrating eye observed in a moment that something unusual had occurred; but whilst yet commanding herself, that she might not shew her suspicions to her brother, Mac Allain entered, and giving the duke a small packet, whispered to him that the gentleman could not wait, but begged his grace would peruse those papers, and he would call again. “Sister,” said the duke, rising, “you will excuse. Good God! what do I see? What is the matter?” Lady Margaret had arisen from her seat:—the hue of death had overspread her lips and cheeks:—yet calm in the midstof the most agonizing suspense, she gave no other sign of the terror under which she laboured. Kindly approaching, he took her hand.“That packet of letters is for me,” she said in a firm low voice. “The superscription bears my name,” said the duke, hesitating. “Yet if—if by any mistake—any negligence—”—“There is no mistake, my lord,” said the servant advancing. “Leave us,” cried Lady Margaret, with a voice that resounded throughout the apartment; and then again faltering, and fainting at the effort, she continued: “Those letters are mine:—my enemy and yours has betrayed them:—Viviani may exhibit the weakness and folly of a woman’s heart to gratify his revenge; but a generous brother should disdain to make himself the instrument of his barbarous, his unmanly cruelty.” “Take them,” said the duke, with gentleness: “I would not read them for the world’s worth.That heart is noble and generous, whatever its errors; and no letters could ever make me think ill of my sister.”Lady Margaret trembled exceedingly. “They wish to ruin me,” she cried—“to tear me from your affection—to make you think me black—to accuse me, not of weakness, brother, but of crimes.”—“Were they to bring such evidences, that the very eye itself could see their testimony, I would disbelieve my senses, before I could mistrust you. Look then calm and happy, my sister. We have all of us faults; the best of us is no miracle of worth; and the gallantries of one, as fair, as young, as early exposed to temptation as you were, deserve no such severity. Come, take the detested packet, and throw it into the flames.”—“It is of no gallantry that I am accused; no weakness, Altamonte; it is of murder!” The duke started. “Aye, brother, of the murder of an infant.” He smiled. “Smile too, when I say further—of themurder of your child.”—“Of Calantha!” he cried in agitation. “Of an infant, I tell you; of the heir of Delaval.”“Great God! have I lived to hear that wretches exist, barbarous, atrocious enough, thus to accuse you? Name them, that my arm may avenge you—name them, dearest Margaret; and, by heavens, I will stand your defender, and at once silence them.” “Oh, more than this: they have produced an impostor—a child, brother—an Italian boy, whose likeness to your family I have often marked.” “Zerbellini?” “The same.” “Poor contrivance to vent their rage and malice! But did I not ever tell you, my dearest Margaret, that Gondimar, and that mysterious Viviani, whom you protected, bore an ill character. They were men unknown, without family, without principle, or honour.” “Brother,” said Lady Margaret, “give me your hand: swear to me that you knowand love me enough to discredit at once the whole of this: swear to me, Altamonte, that without proving their falsehood, you despise the wretches who have resolved to ruin your sister.”The duke now took a solemn oath, laying his hand upon her’s, that he never could, never would harbour one thought of such a nature. He even smiled at its absurdity; and he refused to see either the stranger, or to read the packet—when Lady Margaret, falling back in a hollow and hysteric laugh, bade him tear from his heart the fond, the doating simplicity that beguiled him:—“They utter that which is true,” she cried. “I am that which they have said.” She then rushed from the room.The duke, amazed, uncertain what to believe or doubt, opened the packet of letters, and read as follows:—“My gracious and much injured patron, Lord Glenarvon’s departure,whilst it leaves me again unprotected, leaves me also at liberty to act as I think right. Supported by the kindness of Colonel de Ruthven, I am emboldened now to ask an immediate audience with the Duke of Altamonte. Circumstances preclude my venturing to the castle:—the enemy of my life is in wait for me—The Count Viviani and his agents watch for me by night and by day. Lady Margaret Buchanan, with Lord Glenarvon’s assistance, has rescued the young Marquis of Delaval from his perfidious hands; but we have been long obliged to keep him a close prisoner at Belfont Abbey, in order to preserve him from his persecutors. My Lord Glenarvon sailed yesternoon, and commended myself and the marquis to the colonel’s care. We were removed last night from St. Alvin’s to Colwood Bay, where we await in anxious hope of being admitted into the Duke of Altamonte’s presence.This is written by the most guilty and miserable servant of the Duke of Altamonte.“Andrew Macpherson.”“Thanks be to God,” cried the duke, “my sister is innocent; and the meaning of this will be soon explained.” The remainder of the packet consisted of letters—many of them in the hand-writing of Lady Margaret, many in that of Glenarvon: some were dated Naples, and consisted of violent professions of love: the letters of a later date contained for the most part asseverations of innocence, and entreaties for secrecy and silence: and though worded with caution, continually alluded to some youthful boy, and to injuries and cruelties with which the duke was entirely unacquainted. In addition to these extraordinary papers, there were many of a treasonable nature, signed by the most considerable landholders and tenantry in the country.But that which most of all excited the duke’s curiosity, was a paper addressed to himself in Italian, imploring him, as he valued the prosperity of his family, and every future hope, not to attend to the words of Macpherson, who was in the pay of Lord Glenarvon, and acting under his commands; but to hasten to St. Alvin’s Priory, when a tale of horror should be disclosed to his wondering ears, and a treasure of inconceivable value be replaced in his hands.
Shortly after Buchanan’s departure, Lady Margaret had recovered from her indisposition. She was tranquil, and had retired early to rest. The next morning she was in her brother’s apartment, when a servant entered with a letter. “There is a gentleman below who wishes to speak with your grace.” “What is his name?” “I know not, my lord; he would not inform me.” The duke opened the letter. It was from M. De Ruthven, who entreated permission to have a few moments conversation with the duke, as a secret of the utmost importance had been communicated to him that night: but it was of the most serious consequence that Lady Margaret Buchanan should be kept in ignoranceof the appeal. The name was written in large characters, as if to place particular emphasis upon it; and as unfortunately she was in her brother’s apartment at the moment the letter was delivered, it was extremely difficult for him to conceal from her its contents, or the agitation so singular and mysterious a communication had caused him.
Lady Margaret’s penetrating eye observed in a moment that something unusual had occurred; but whilst yet commanding herself, that she might not shew her suspicions to her brother, Mac Allain entered, and giving the duke a small packet, whispered to him that the gentleman could not wait, but begged his grace would peruse those papers, and he would call again. “Sister,” said the duke, rising, “you will excuse. Good God! what do I see? What is the matter?” Lady Margaret had arisen from her seat:—the hue of death had overspread her lips and cheeks:—yet calm in the midstof the most agonizing suspense, she gave no other sign of the terror under which she laboured. Kindly approaching, he took her hand.
“That packet of letters is for me,” she said in a firm low voice. “The superscription bears my name,” said the duke, hesitating. “Yet if—if by any mistake—any negligence—”—“There is no mistake, my lord,” said the servant advancing. “Leave us,” cried Lady Margaret, with a voice that resounded throughout the apartment; and then again faltering, and fainting at the effort, she continued: “Those letters are mine:—my enemy and yours has betrayed them:—Viviani may exhibit the weakness and folly of a woman’s heart to gratify his revenge; but a generous brother should disdain to make himself the instrument of his barbarous, his unmanly cruelty.” “Take them,” said the duke, with gentleness: “I would not read them for the world’s worth.That heart is noble and generous, whatever its errors; and no letters could ever make me think ill of my sister.”
Lady Margaret trembled exceedingly. “They wish to ruin me,” she cried—“to tear me from your affection—to make you think me black—to accuse me, not of weakness, brother, but of crimes.”—“Were they to bring such evidences, that the very eye itself could see their testimony, I would disbelieve my senses, before I could mistrust you. Look then calm and happy, my sister. We have all of us faults; the best of us is no miracle of worth; and the gallantries of one, as fair, as young, as early exposed to temptation as you were, deserve no such severity. Come, take the detested packet, and throw it into the flames.”—“It is of no gallantry that I am accused; no weakness, Altamonte; it is of murder!” The duke started. “Aye, brother, of the murder of an infant.” He smiled. “Smile too, when I say further—of themurder of your child.”—“Of Calantha!” he cried in agitation. “Of an infant, I tell you; of the heir of Delaval.”
“Great God! have I lived to hear that wretches exist, barbarous, atrocious enough, thus to accuse you? Name them, that my arm may avenge you—name them, dearest Margaret; and, by heavens, I will stand your defender, and at once silence them.” “Oh, more than this: they have produced an impostor—a child, brother—an Italian boy, whose likeness to your family I have often marked.” “Zerbellini?” “The same.” “Poor contrivance to vent their rage and malice! But did I not ever tell you, my dearest Margaret, that Gondimar, and that mysterious Viviani, whom you protected, bore an ill character. They were men unknown, without family, without principle, or honour.” “Brother,” said Lady Margaret, “give me your hand: swear to me that you knowand love me enough to discredit at once the whole of this: swear to me, Altamonte, that without proving their falsehood, you despise the wretches who have resolved to ruin your sister.”
The duke now took a solemn oath, laying his hand upon her’s, that he never could, never would harbour one thought of such a nature. He even smiled at its absurdity; and he refused to see either the stranger, or to read the packet—when Lady Margaret, falling back in a hollow and hysteric laugh, bade him tear from his heart the fond, the doating simplicity that beguiled him:—“They utter that which is true,” she cried. “I am that which they have said.” She then rushed from the room.
The duke, amazed, uncertain what to believe or doubt, opened the packet of letters, and read as follows:—
“My gracious and much injured patron, Lord Glenarvon’s departure,whilst it leaves me again unprotected, leaves me also at liberty to act as I think right. Supported by the kindness of Colonel de Ruthven, I am emboldened now to ask an immediate audience with the Duke of Altamonte. Circumstances preclude my venturing to the castle:—the enemy of my life is in wait for me—The Count Viviani and his agents watch for me by night and by day. Lady Margaret Buchanan, with Lord Glenarvon’s assistance, has rescued the young Marquis of Delaval from his perfidious hands; but we have been long obliged to keep him a close prisoner at Belfont Abbey, in order to preserve him from his persecutors. My Lord Glenarvon sailed yesternoon, and commended myself and the marquis to the colonel’s care. We were removed last night from St. Alvin’s to Colwood Bay, where we await in anxious hope of being admitted into the Duke of Altamonte’s presence.This is written by the most guilty and miserable servant of the Duke of Altamonte.
“Andrew Macpherson.”
“Thanks be to God,” cried the duke, “my sister is innocent; and the meaning of this will be soon explained.” The remainder of the packet consisted of letters—many of them in the hand-writing of Lady Margaret, many in that of Glenarvon: some were dated Naples, and consisted of violent professions of love: the letters of a later date contained for the most part asseverations of innocence, and entreaties for secrecy and silence: and though worded with caution, continually alluded to some youthful boy, and to injuries and cruelties with which the duke was entirely unacquainted. In addition to these extraordinary papers, there were many of a treasonable nature, signed by the most considerable landholders and tenantry in the country.But that which most of all excited the duke’s curiosity, was a paper addressed to himself in Italian, imploring him, as he valued the prosperity of his family, and every future hope, not to attend to the words of Macpherson, who was in the pay of Lord Glenarvon, and acting under his commands; but to hasten to St. Alvin’s Priory, when a tale of horror should be disclosed to his wondering ears, and a treasure of inconceivable value be replaced in his hands.