CHAPTER XCVII.So many strange asseverations, and so many inconsistencies, could only excite doubt, astonishment, and suspicion; when Lady Margaret, re-entering the apartment, asked her brother in a voice of excessive agitation, whether he would go with Colonel de Ruthven, who had called for him? And without leaving him time to answer, implored that he would not. “Your earnestness to dissuade me is somewhat precipitate—your looks—your agitation....” “Oh, Altamonte, the time is past for concealment, go not to your enemies to hear a tale of falsehood and horror. I, whom you have loved, sheltered, and protected, I, your own, your only sister, have told it you—will tell it you further; but before I makemy brother loathe me—oh, God! before I open my heart’s black secrets to your eyes, give me your hand. Let me look at you once more. Can I have strength to endure it? Yes, sooner than suffer these vile slanderers to triumph, what dare I not endure!“I am about to unfold a dreadful mystery, which may no longer be concealed. I come to accuse myself of the blackest of crimes.” “This is no time for explanation,” said the duke. “Yet hear me; for I require, I expect no mercy at your hands. You have been to me the best of brothers—the kindest of friends. Learn by the confession I am now going to make, in what manner I have requited you.” Lady Margaret rose from her chair at these words, and shewed strong signs of the deep agitation of mind under which she laboured. Endeavouring not to meet the eyes of the duke, “You received me,” she continued, in a hurried manner, “when my character was lostand I appeared but as a foul blot to sully the innocence and purity of one who ever considered me and treated me as a sister. My son, for whom I sacrificed every natural feeling—my son you received as your child, and bade me look upon as your heir. Tremble as I communicate the rest.“An unwelcome stranger appeared in a little time to supplant him. Ambition and envy, moving me to the dreadful deed, I thought by one blow to crush his hopes, and to place my own beyond the power of fortune.” “Oh, Margaret! pause—do not, do not continue—I was not prepared for this. Give me a moment’s time—I cannot bear it now.” Lady Margaret, unmoved, continued. “To die is the fate of all; and I would to God that some ruffian hand had extinguished my existence at the same tender age. But think not, Altamonte, that these hands are soiled with yourinfant’s blood. I only wished the deed—I durst not do it.“I will not dwell upon a horrid scene which you remember full well. There is but one on earth capable of executing such a crime: he loved your sister; and to possess this heart, he destroyed your child.—How he destroyed him I know not. We saw the boy, cold, even in death—we wept over him: and now, upon plea of some petty vengeance, because I will not permit him to draw me further into his base purposes, he is resolved to make this scene of blood and iniquity public to the world. He has already betrayed me to a relentless son; and he now means to bring forward an impostor in the place of your murdered infant!”—“Who will do this?”—“Viviani; Viviani himself will produce him before your eyes.” “Would to God that he might do so!” cried the duke, gazing with pity and horror on the finebut fallen creature who stood before him.“I have not that strength,” he continued, “you, of all living mortals, seem alone to possess.—My thoughts are disturbed.—I know not what to think, or how to act. You overwhelm me at once; and your very presence takes from me all power of reflection. Leave me, therefore.” “Never, till I have your promise. I fear you: I know by your look, that you are resolved to see my enemy—to hear.” “Margaret, I will hear you to-morrow.” “No to-morrow shall ever see us two again together.” “In an hour I will speak with you again—one word.”—As he said this, the duke arose: and seizing her fiercely by the arm: “Answer but this—do you believe the boy this Viviani will produce?—do you think it possible?—answer me, Margaret, and I will pardon all—do you think the boy is my long lost child?” “Have no such hope; he is dead. Didwe not ourselves behold him? Did we not look upon his cold and lifeless corpse?” “Too true, my sister.” “Then fear not: Buchanan shall not be defrauded.” “It is not for Buchanan that I speak: he is lost to me: I have no son.” “But I would not have you fall a prey to the miserable arts of this wretch. Beware of Viviani—remember that still I am your sister: and now, for the last time, I warn you, go not to Colwood Bay; for if you do....” “What then?” “You seal your sister’s death.” As she uttered these words, Lady Margaret looked upon the duke in agony, and retired.
So many strange asseverations, and so many inconsistencies, could only excite doubt, astonishment, and suspicion; when Lady Margaret, re-entering the apartment, asked her brother in a voice of excessive agitation, whether he would go with Colonel de Ruthven, who had called for him? And without leaving him time to answer, implored that he would not. “Your earnestness to dissuade me is somewhat precipitate—your looks—your agitation....” “Oh, Altamonte, the time is past for concealment, go not to your enemies to hear a tale of falsehood and horror. I, whom you have loved, sheltered, and protected, I, your own, your only sister, have told it you—will tell it you further; but before I makemy brother loathe me—oh, God! before I open my heart’s black secrets to your eyes, give me your hand. Let me look at you once more. Can I have strength to endure it? Yes, sooner than suffer these vile slanderers to triumph, what dare I not endure!
“I am about to unfold a dreadful mystery, which may no longer be concealed. I come to accuse myself of the blackest of crimes.” “This is no time for explanation,” said the duke. “Yet hear me; for I require, I expect no mercy at your hands. You have been to me the best of brothers—the kindest of friends. Learn by the confession I am now going to make, in what manner I have requited you.” Lady Margaret rose from her chair at these words, and shewed strong signs of the deep agitation of mind under which she laboured. Endeavouring not to meet the eyes of the duke, “You received me,” she continued, in a hurried manner, “when my character was lostand I appeared but as a foul blot to sully the innocence and purity of one who ever considered me and treated me as a sister. My son, for whom I sacrificed every natural feeling—my son you received as your child, and bade me look upon as your heir. Tremble as I communicate the rest.
“An unwelcome stranger appeared in a little time to supplant him. Ambition and envy, moving me to the dreadful deed, I thought by one blow to crush his hopes, and to place my own beyond the power of fortune.” “Oh, Margaret! pause—do not, do not continue—I was not prepared for this. Give me a moment’s time—I cannot bear it now.” Lady Margaret, unmoved, continued. “To die is the fate of all; and I would to God that some ruffian hand had extinguished my existence at the same tender age. But think not, Altamonte, that these hands are soiled with yourinfant’s blood. I only wished the deed—I durst not do it.
“I will not dwell upon a horrid scene which you remember full well. There is but one on earth capable of executing such a crime: he loved your sister; and to possess this heart, he destroyed your child.—How he destroyed him I know not. We saw the boy, cold, even in death—we wept over him: and now, upon plea of some petty vengeance, because I will not permit him to draw me further into his base purposes, he is resolved to make this scene of blood and iniquity public to the world. He has already betrayed me to a relentless son; and he now means to bring forward an impostor in the place of your murdered infant!”—“Who will do this?”—“Viviani; Viviani himself will produce him before your eyes.” “Would to God that he might do so!” cried the duke, gazing with pity and horror on the finebut fallen creature who stood before him.
“I have not that strength,” he continued, “you, of all living mortals, seem alone to possess.—My thoughts are disturbed.—I know not what to think, or how to act. You overwhelm me at once; and your very presence takes from me all power of reflection. Leave me, therefore.” “Never, till I have your promise. I fear you: I know by your look, that you are resolved to see my enemy—to hear.” “Margaret, I will hear you to-morrow.” “No to-morrow shall ever see us two again together.” “In an hour I will speak with you again—one word.”—As he said this, the duke arose: and seizing her fiercely by the arm: “Answer but this—do you believe the boy this Viviani will produce?—do you think it possible?—answer me, Margaret, and I will pardon all—do you think the boy is my long lost child?” “Have no such hope; he is dead. Didwe not ourselves behold him? Did we not look upon his cold and lifeless corpse?” “Too true, my sister.” “Then fear not: Buchanan shall not be defrauded.” “It is not for Buchanan that I speak: he is lost to me: I have no son.” “But I would not have you fall a prey to the miserable arts of this wretch. Beware of Viviani—remember that still I am your sister: and now, for the last time, I warn you, go not to Colwood Bay; for if you do....” “What then?” “You seal your sister’s death.” As she uttered these words, Lady Margaret looked upon the duke in agony, and retired.