As sickness falls heaviest on those who are in the full enjoyment of
health, so grief is most severe, when it comes unexpectedly, in the
midst of happiness.—It was from this cause, that the Duke, more than any
one in his family, gave vent to the sorrows of his heart; and murmured
at the irrecoverable loss, by which he had been afflicted. The Duchess
in vain attempted to share, and lessen the regret of her husband:—he
had that haughtiness of mind which disdains all confidence, and flies
from all consolation. But of her far keener suffering, for the loss
she had sustained, little shew was made; for real misery delights not
in reproaches and complaints. It is like charity and love—silent, long
suffering and mild.
There are virtues which admit of no description—which inspire on the first
mention of them but little interest. Great faults and heroic qualities,
may be pourtrayed; but those milder merits which contribute so much
to the comfort and happiness of life—that sweetness of disposition, to
which every hour that passes by, bears an approving testimony, can be
only felt, enjoyed and regretted. Benevolence that never fails, patience
under the heaviest calamities, firmness in friendship under every trying
change—these are among its characteristic features; and these were all
possessed by the Duchess of Altamonte, who seemed to live for no other
purpose than to endear herself to those who surrounded her.
With this consideration for others, and forgetfulness of self, she had
apparently endured the loss of her son with greater fortitude, than had
been expected: indeed she sustained it with a degree of firmness which
religion alone could have inspired: she murmured not; but submitted to
the trial with the meek spirit of pious resignation.—“My dear, dear
boy, my pretty Albert” would sometimes escape her, and a few tears
would wait upon the exclamation; but her whole study was to share the
disappointment, and lighten the sorrows of her husband; as well as to
check the intemperate complaints, and soothe the more violent agitations
of Lady Margaret.
But while the soul of the Duchess rose superior to the ills of life,
her constitution, weakened by a long period of ill health, and by the
agitations of extreme sensibility, was not in a state to resist so great
a shock; and though she lingered upwards of a year, the real cause of
her death could not be mistaken:—an inward melancholy preyed upon her
spirits, which she combated in vain.—“Many have smiled in adversity,”
she would say; “but it is left for me to weep in prosperity:—such is
the will of Heaven, and I resign myself as becomes me, to that power,
which knows when to give, and when to take away.”
On her death-bed, she said to the Duke: “This is a hard trial for you
to bear; but God, who, when he sends trials, can send strength also,
will, I trust, support you.—You will pursue your career with that honour
and dignity, which has hitherto distinguished it—nor would my feeble
aid assist you in it; but I, on the contrary, like a weak unsupported
plant, must have drooped and pined away, had I lived to survive the
tender and faithful friend, who has guided and sustained me. It is far
better, as it is. You will be a guardian and protector to my Calantha,
whose quickness and vivacity, make me tremble for her. I could not have
watched over her, and directed her as I ought. But to you, while she
smiles, and plays around you, and fills the space which I so soon must
leave,—to you, she will prove a dear and constant interest. Never, my
dearest Altamonte, ah! never suffer her to be absent, if possible, from
your guiding care:—her spirits, her passions, are of a nature to prove a
blessing, or the reverse, according to the direction they are permitted
to take. Watch over and preserve her—are my last words to you.—Protect
and save her from all evil—is the last prayer I offer to my God, before
I enter into his presence.” ...
Calantha! unhappy child, whom not even the pangs of death could tear
from the love, and remembrance of thy mother,—what hours of agony were
thine, when a father’s hand first tore thee from that lifeless bosom,—when
piercing shrieks declared the terror of thy mind, oppressed, astonished at
the first calamity, by which it had been tried,—when thy lips tremblingly
pronounced for the last time, the name of mother—a name so dear, so sacred
and beloved, that its very sound awakens in the heart, all that it can
feel of tenderness and affection! What is left that shall replace her?
What friend, what tie, shall make up for her eternal absence? What even
are the present sufferings of the orphan child, to the dreary void, the
irreparable loss she will feel through all her future years. It was on
that bosom, she had sought for comfort, when passion and inadvertence
had led her into error. It was that gentle, that dear voice, which had
recalled her from error, even when severity had failed.—There is, in
every breast, some one affection that predominates over the rest—there
is still to all some one object, to which the human heart is rivetted
beyond all others:—in Calantha’s bosom, the love of her mother prevailed
over every other feeling.
A long and violent illness succeeded, in Calantha, the torpor which
astonishment and terror at her loss had produced; and from this state,
she recovered only to give way to a dejection of mind not less alarming:
but even her grief was to be envied, when compared with the disorder
of Lady Margaret’s mind.—Remorse preyed upon her heart, the pride and
hardness of which, disdained the humility of acknowledging her offence
in the presence of her Creator.
The great effort of Lady Margaret was to crush the struggles of passion;
and when, at times, the agony of her mind was beyond endurance, she found
it some relief to upbraid the wretch who had fulfilled her own guilty
wishes.—“Monster!” she would exclaim, “without one tender or honourable
feeling, take those detested and bloody hands from my sight:—they have
destroyed the loveliest innocent that was ever born to bless a mother’s
wishes:—that mother now appears in awful judgment against thee:—out,
out, perfidious wretch!—come not near—gaze not upon me.”—Viviani marked
the wild expression of her eye—the look of horror which she cast upon
him; and a deep and lasting resentment succeeded in his breast, to every
feeling of attachment. Seizing her hand, which he wrung in scorn: “What
mean you by this mockery of tardy penitence?” he fiercely cried.—“Woman,
beware how you trifle with the deep pangs of an injured heart:—not upon
me—not upon me, be the blood of the innocent:—it was this hand, white
and spotless as it appears, which sealed his doom:—I should have shewn
mercy; but an unrelenting tigress urged me on.—On thee—on thine, be the
guilt, till it harrow up thy soul to acts of phrenzy and despair:—hope
not for pardon from man—seek not for mercy from God.—Away with those
proud looks which once subdued me:—I can hate—I have learned of thee
to hate; and my heart, released from thy bonds, is free at last:—spurn
me,—what art thou now? A creature so wretched and so fallen, that I
can almost pity thee.—Farewell.—For the last time, I look on thee with
one sentiment of love.—When we meet again, tremble:—yes—proud as thou
art, tremble; for, however protracted, thou shalt find the vengeance of
Viviani, as certain, as it is terrible.”
“Is it possible,” said Lady Margaret, gazing upon that beautiful and
youthful countenance—upon that form which scarcely had attained to
manhood,—“is it in the compass of probability that one so young should
be so utterly hardened?” Viviani smiled on her and left her.—Very shortly
after this interview, he quitted Ireland, vainly endeavouring in the hour
of his departure to conceal the deep emotion by which he was agitated
at thus tearing himself from one who appeared utterly indifferent to
his hatred, his menaces, or his love.