Lady Margaret walking hastily off, had arrived near the Convent of St.
Mary, as the last ray of the setting sun blazed in the west, and threw its
golden light over the horizon. Close to the convent, is built the chapel
where the young Marquis and all the family of Altamonte are interred.
It stands upon a high barren cliff, separated by a branch of the sea
from the village of Belfont, to which any one may pass by means of the
ferry below. To the north of the chapel, as far as the eye can trace,
barren heaths and moors, and the distant view of Belfont and St. Alvin
Priory, present a cheerless aspect; while the other side displays the
rich valley of Delaval, its groves, gardens and lake, with the adjacent
wood.
At this spot Lady Margaret arrived, as has been said, at sun-set. She
thought she had been alone; but she heard a step closely following her:
she turned round, and, to her extreme surprise, beheld a man pursuing her,
and, just at that moment, on the point of attaining her. His black brows
and eyes were contrasted with his grizzly hair; his laugh was hollow;
his dress wild and tawdry. If she stopped for a moment to take breath,
he stopped at the same time; if she advanced rapidly, he followed. She
heard his steps behind, till passing near the convent he paused, rending
the air with his groans, and his clenched fist repeatedly striking his
forehead, with all the appearance of maniac fury, whilst with his voice
he imitated the howling of the wind.
Terrified, fatigued and oppressed, Lady Margaret fled into the thickest
part of the wood, and waited till she conceived the cause of her terror
was removed. She soon perceived, however, that the tall figure behind
her was waiting for her reappearance. She determined to try the swiftness
of her foot, and sought with speed to gain the ferry:—she durst not look
behind:—the heavy steps of her pursuer gained upon her:—suddenly she felt
his hand upon her shoulder, as, with a shrill voice and loud laugh, he
triumphed at having overtaken her. She uttered a piercing shriek; for
on turning round she beheld....
His name I cannot at present declare; yet this I will say: it was terrible
to her to gaze upon that eye—so hollow, so wild, so fearful was its
glance. From the sepulchre, the dead appeared to have arisen to affright
her; and, scarce recovering from the dreadful vision, with a faltering
step, and beating heart, she broke from that grasp—that cold hand—that
dim-fixed eye—and gained with difficulty the hut of the fisherman, who
placed her in safety on the other side of the cliff.
The castle bell had already summoned the family; dinner awaited; and
the duke having repeatedly enquired for Lady Margaret, was surprised
to hear that she had returned home alone and after dusk. The servant,
who informed him of this circumstance, said that her ladyship appeared
extremely faint and tired; that her women attendants had been called;
that they apprehended she was more ill than she would acknowledge. He
was yet speaking, when, with a blaze of beauty and even more than her
usual magnificence of dress, she entered, apologised for the lateness of
her appearance, said the walk was longer than she had apprehended, and,
taking her brother’s arm, led the way into the dining room. But soon the
effort she had made, proved too great:—her colour changed repeatedly;
she complained that the noise distracted her; she scarcely took any part
in the conversation, and retiring early, sought a few hours’ repose.
Mrs. Seymour accompanied her out, whilst the rest of those whose
curiosity had been much excited in the morning, narrated their morning
adventures and enquired eagerly concerning Lord Glenarvon’s character
and mode of life. At the mention of his name, the colour rushed into
Calantha’s face. Was it himself she had seen?—She was convinced it
was. That countenance verified all that she had heard against him: it
was a full contradiction to all that Lady Trelawney had spoken in his
favour; it expressed a capability of evil—a subtlety that led the eye
of a stranger to distrust; but, with all, it was not easily forgotten.
The address to the people of Ireland which Lady Avondale had read before
with enthusiasm, she read now with a new, an undefinable sensation. She
drew also those features—that countenance; and remembered the air he had
sung and the tones of his voice.—She seemed to dive into the feelings of
a heart utterly different from what she had ever yet observed: a sort
of instinct gave her power at once to penetrate into its most secret
recesses; nor was she mistaken. She heard, with eager curiosity, every
anecdote narrated of him by the country esquires and gentry who dined
at the castle; but she felt not surprised at the inconsistencies and
absurdities repeated. Others discredited what was said: she believed the
worst; yet still the interest she felt was undiminished. It is strange:
she loved not—she admired not that countenance; yet, by day, by night,
it pursued her. She could not rest, nor write, nor read; and the fear
of again seeing it, was greater than the desire of doing so. She felt
assured that it was Lord Glenarvon:—there was not a doubt left upon her
mind respecting this circumstance. Mrs. Seymour saw that Calantha was
pre-occupied: she thought that she was acquainted with the secret which
disturbed Lady Margaret—that horrid secret which maddened and destroyed
her: for, since her adventure at the Priory, Lady Margaret had been ill.
It was not till after some days retirement, that she sent for Calantha,
and when she visited her in her own apartment, she found her silent
and trembling. “Where is your boy?” she said. “He sleeps: would you
that I should bring him you?” “I do not mean your son: I mean that
minion—that gaudy thing, you dress up for your amusement—that fawning
insect Zerbellini.” Calantha shuddered; for she knew that a mother could
not thus speak of her child without suffering acutely. “Has my pretty
Zerbellini done any thing to deserve such unkind words from you? If so,
I will chide him for it. Why do you frown? Zerbellini haste here: make
your obeisance to Lady Margaret.” The boy approached: Lady Margaret fixed
her eyes steadily upon him: the colour rushed into her cheek, then left
her pale, as the hue of death. “_Oimè si muoja!_” exclaimed, Zerbellini:
“_Eccelenza si muoja_;” and he leant forward to support her; but Lady
Margaret moved not.
Many moments passed in entire silence. At last, starting as if from
deep reflection, “Calantha” she said, “I know your heart too well to
doubt its kindness:—the presence of this child, will cause the misery of
your father.” “Of my father!” “Do you not guess wherefore? I read his
feelings yesterday: and can you my child be less quick in penetrating
the sentiments of those you love? do you not perceive that Zerbellini is
of the very age and size—your lost—and—lamented brother would have been?
... and certainly not unlike the duchess.” She hesitated—paused—recovered
herself. “I would not for the world have you suggest this to a human
being. I would not appear to have said—what you, out of an affectionate
regard might—should—have considered.”—“I am astonished: you quite amaze
me,” replied Calantha; yet she too well guessed her feelings.
You heard your father yesterday say, how necessary it was for him to
attend the general meeting at Belfast: he flies us to avoid this boy—the
likeness—in short, oblige me, place him at the garden cottage, or at the
Rector of Belfont’s—he will attend to him. I am told you mean to leave
your children with Mr. Challoner: if so, he might likewise keep this
boy. His strong resemblance—his age—his manner—have given me already the
acutest pain.—My brother will never demand any sacrifice of you;—but I,
Lady Avondale,—I solicit it.—“Shall I be refused”? “Dearest aunt, can
you ask this? Zerbellini shall be immediately sent from the castle.” “Oh
no: such precipitate removal would excite curiosity.” “Well then, allow
me to place him, as you say, under the care of the Rector of Belfont
and his wife—or—” “But how strange—why—did you never observe this before?”
“Calantha,” said Lady Margaret, in a hollow tone, “it is the common
talk: every one observes it: every eye fixes itself upon him, and seems
to—to—to—reproach—to-morrow—morn—to-morrow morning, I must quit this
place—business of importance calls me away—I hope to see you shortly:
I shall return as soon as possible—perhaps I shall not go.—The trifle
I now suggest, is solely for my brother’s sake.—If you mention one word
of this to any one, the sacrifice I ask will lose its value. Above all,
if the Count Gondimar is made a confidant.” “Fear not: I shall request
as of myself, that Zerbellini may be placed with my little son: but you
cannot think how much you surprise me. My father has seen the boy so
often; has spoken so frequently with him; has appeared so perfectly at
his ease.”
“The boy,” said Lady Margaret, “is the living picture of—in short I
have dreamt a dreadful dream. Shall I confess my weakness, Calantha:
I dreamt last night, that I was sitting with a numerous and brilliant
assembly, even in this very castle; and of a sudden, robed in the white
vestments of an angel, that boy appeared—I saw his hand closely stealing
behind—he had a dagger in it—oh it made me sick—and coming towards me—I
mean towards your father—he stabbed him.—These phantasies shew an ill
constitution—but, for a short time, send the child away, and do not expose
my weakness—do not love. I have many sorrows—my nerves are shattered—bear
with me—you know not, and God forbid you should ever know, what it is
to labour under the pressure of guilt—guilt? aye,—and such as that brow
of innocence, that guileless generous heart, never can comprehend.” “My
aunt, for God sake, explain yourself.” Lady Margaret smiled. “Oh not such
guilt either, as to excite such looks as these: only I have suffered my
heart to wander, child; and I have been punished.”
Calantha was less surprised at this conversation, from remembering the
secret Gondimar had communicated, than she otherwise must have been; but
she could not understand what had given rise to this paroxysm of despair
at that particular moment. A singular circumstance now occurred, which
occasioned infinite conjecture to all around. Every morning, as soon as
it was light, and every evening at dusk, a tall old man in a tattered
garb, with a wild and terrible air, seated himself in front of the castle
windows, making the most lamentable groans, and crying out in an almost
unintelligible voice, “Woe, on woe, to the family of Altamonte.” The
Duke was no sooner apprised of this circumstance, than he ordered the
supposed maniac to be taken up; but Lady Margaret implored, entreated
and even menaced, till she obtained permission from her brother to give
this wretched object his liberty.
Such an unusual excess of charity—such sudden, and violent commiseration
of a being who appeared to have no other view than the persecution and
annoyance of her whole family, was deemed strange; but when they no longer
were molested by the presence of the fanatic, who had denounced their
ruin, they ceased to converse about him, and soon the whole affair was
forgotten. Calantha indeed remembered it; but a thousand new thoughts
diverted her attention, and a stronger interest led her from it.