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 make my 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 lost and 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 your infant’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 fine but 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. Did we
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.