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 ignorance of 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 midst of 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
the murder 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 know and 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.