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, introduced him 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 mine alone:—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 them
the 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 he has 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 which his 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 unremitting assiduity: 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.