The duke continued many moments on the spot where she had left him,
without lifting his eyes from the ground—without moving, or speaking,
or giving the smallest sign of the deep feelings by which he was
overpowered; when suddenly Lord Glenarvon was announced.
The duke started back:—he would have denied him his presence. It
was too late:—Glenarvon was already in the room. The cold dews stood
upon his forehead; his eye was fixed; his air was wild. “I am come
to restore your son,” he said, addressing the duke. “Are you prepared
for my visit? Has Lady Margaret obeyed my command, and confessed?” “I
thought,” said the duke, “that you had left Ireland. For your presence
at this moment, my lord, I was not prepared.” “Whom does Lady Margaret
accuse?” said Lord Glenarvon tremulously. “One whom I know not,” said
the duke—“Viviani.” Glenarvon’s countenance changed, as with a look
of exultation and malice he repeated:—“Yes, it is Viviani.” He then
briefly stated that Count Gondimar, having accompanied Lady Margaret
from Italy to Ireland in the year —— had concealed under a variety
of disguises a young Italian, by name Viviani. To him the charge
of murdering the heir of Delaval was assigned; but he disdained an
act so horrible and base. La Crusca, a wretch trained in Viviani’s
service, could answer for himself as to the means he took to deceive
the family. Lord Glenarvon knew nothing of his proceedings: he alone
knew, he said, that the real Marquis of Delaval was taken to Italy,
whence Gondimar, by order of Viviani some years afterwards, brought
him to England, presenting him to Lady Avondale as her page.
In corroboration of these facts, he was ready to appeal to Gondimar,
and some others, who knew of the transaction. Gondimar, however, Lord
Glenarvon acknowledged, was but a partial witness, having been kept
in ignorance as to the material part of this affair, and having been
informed by Lady Margaret that Zerbellini, the page, was in reality
her son. It was upon this account that, in the spring of the year,
suddenly mistrusting Viviani, Lady Margaret entreated Count Gondimar
to take the boy back with him to Italy; and not being able to succeed
in her stratagems, on account of himself (Glenarvon) being watchful
of her, she had basely worked upon the child’s feelings, making him
suppose he was serving Calantha by hiding her necklace from his (Lord
Glenarvon’s) pursuit. On which false accusation of theft, they had
got the boy sent from the castle.
Lord Glenarvon then briefly stated, that he had rescued him from
Gondimar’s hands, with the assistance of a servant named Macpherson,
and some of his followers; and that ever since he had kept him
concealed at the priory. “And where is he at this time?” said the
duke.—“He was with Lord Glenarvon’s cousin, Colonel de Ruthven, at
Colwood Bay.”—“And when could the duke speak with Viviani?”—“When it
was his pleasure.” “That night?”—“Yes, even on that very night.”—“What
witness could Lord Glenarvon bring, as to the truth of this account,
besides Viviani?”—“La Crusca, an Italian, from whom Macpherson had
received the child when in Italy—La Crusca the guilty instrument of
Viviani’s crimes.”—“And where was La Crusca?”—“Madness had fallen on
him after the child had been taken from him by Viviani’s orders: he
had returned in company with Macpherson to Ireland. Lord Glenarvon
had offered him an asylum at his castle. Lady Margaret one day had
beheld him; and Gondimar had even fainted upon seeing him suddenly,
having repeatedly been assured that he was dead.”—“By whom was he
informed that he was dead?”—“By Lady Margaret and Viviani.”—“Was
Gondimar then aware of this secret?”—“No; but of other secrets, in
which La Crusca and Viviani were concerned, equally horrible perhaps,
but not material now to name.”
This conversation having ended, the duke ordered his carriage, and
prepared to drive to Colwood Bay. Lord Glenarvon promised in a few
hours to meet him there, and bring with him Viviani. “If he restore my
child, and confesses every thing,” said the duke, before he left Lord
Glenarvon, “pray inform him, that I will promise him a pardon.” “He
values not such promise,” said Glenarvon scornfully. “Lady Margaret’s
life and honour are in his power. Viviani can confer favours, but
not receive them.” The duke started, and looked full in the face of
Glenarvon. “Who is this Viviani?” he said, in a tone of voice loud
and terrible. “An idol,” replied Glenarvon, “whom the multitude have
set up for themselves, and worshipped, forsaking their true faith,
to follow after a false light—a man who is in love with crime and
baseness—one, of whom it has been said, that he hath an imagination
of fire playing around a heart of ice—one whom the never-dying worm
feeds on by night and day—a hypocrite,” continued Glenarvon, with a
smile of bitterness, “who wears a mask to his friends, and defeats
his enemies by his unexpected sincerity—a coward, with more of bravery
than some who fear nothing; for, even in his utmost terror, he defies
that which he fears.” “And where is this wretch?” said the duke: “what
dungeon is black enough to hold him? What rack has been prepared to
punish him for his crimes?” “He is as I have said,” replied Glenarvon
triumphantly, “the idol of the fair, and the great. Is it virtue
that women prize? Is it honour and renown they worship? Throw but
the dazzling light of genius upon baseness, and corruption, and every
crime will be to them but an additional charm.”
“Glenarvon,” said the duke gravely, “you have done me much wrong;
but I mean not now to reproach you. If the story which you have told
me is true, I must still remember that I owe my son’s safety to you.
Spare Lady Margaret; keep the promise you have solemnly given me; and
at the hour you have mentioned, meet me with the Italian and this boy
at Colwood Bay.” Glenarvon left the presence of the duke immediately,
bowing in token of assent. The Duke then rang the bell, and ordered
his carriage. It was about four in the afternoon when he left the
castle: he sent a message to Lady Margaret and Mrs. Seymour, to say
that he had ordered dinner to await his return at seven.