When the duke arrived at Colwood Bay, he found Colonel de Ruthven
prepared to receive him; but was surprised and alarmed at hearing that
Lord Glenarvon had that very morning sent for Zerbellini, and neither
himself nor the boy had been seen since. The duke then informed the
colonel that Lord Glenarvon had been at the castle about an hour since;
but this only made the circumstance of his having taken away the child
more extraordinary. It was also singular that Lord Glenarvon had paid
for his passage the night before, and had taken leave of his friends,
as if at that moment preparing to sail: his presence at the castle
was, however, a full answer to the latter report: and whilst every
enquiry was set on foot to trace whither he could be gone, the duke
requested permission of the colonel himself to examine the maniac La
Crusca and Macpherson: the former was still at St. Alvin Priory—the
latter immediately obeyed the summons, and prepared to answer every
question that was put to him.
The duke first enquired of this man his name, and the principal
events of his life. Macpherson, in answer to these interrogations,
affirmed, that he was a native of Ireland; that he had been taken a
boy into the service of the late Countess of Glenarvon, and had been
one of the few who had followed her into Italy; that after this he
had accompanied her son, the young earl, through many changes of life
and fortune; but having been suddenly dismissed from his service,
he had lost sight of him for above a year; during which time he had
taken into his pay a desperado, named La Crusca, who had continued
with him whilst he resided at Florence.
After this, Macpherson hesitated, evaded, and appeared confused; but
suddenly recollecting himself: “I then became acquainted,” he said,
“with the Count Viviani, a young Venetian, who took me immediately
into his service, and who, residing for the most part in the palace
belonging to Lady Margaret at Naples, passed his time in every excess
of dissipation and amusement which that town afforded. In the spring
of the year, the count accompanied Lady Margaret secretly to Ireland,
and, after much conversation with me, and many remonstrances on my
part, gave me a positive command to carry off the infant Marquis
of Delaval, but to spare his life. He menaced me with employing La
Crusca in a more bloody work, if I hesitated; and, having offered
an immense bribe, interest, affection for himself, and fear, induced
me to obey. My daughter,” continued Macpherson, “was in the power of
the count:—she had listened too readily to his suit. ‘I will expose
her to the world—I will send her forth unprovided,’ he said, ‘if you
betray me, or refuse to obey.’”
“No excuses,” cried the duke, fiercely: “proceed. It is sufficient
you willed the crime. Now tell me how amongst you you achieved it.”
“I must be circumstantial in my narrative,” said Macpherson; “and
since your grace has the condescension to hear me, you must hear all
with patience; and first, the Count Viviani did not slay the Lord of
Delaval: he did not employ me in that horrid act. I think no bribe
or menace could have engaged me to perform it: but a strange, a wild
idea, occurred to him as he passed with me through Wales, in our
journey hither; and months and months succeeded, before it was in
my power to execute his commands. He sent me on a fruitless search,
to discover an infant who in any degree might resemble the little
marquis. Having given up the pursuit as impossible, I returned to
inform the count of the failure of his project. A double reward was
proffered, and I set forth again, scarce knowing the extent of his
wishes, scarce daring to think upon the crime I was about to commit.
“It is useless to detail my adventures, but they are true. I can
bring many undoubted witnesses of their truth: and there yet lives an
unhappy mother, a lonely widow, to recount them. It was one accursed
night, when the dæmons of hell thought fit to assist their agent—after
having travelled far, I stopt at an inn by the road-side, in the
village of Maryvale, in the County of Tyrone. I called for a horse;
my own was worn out with fatigue: I alighted, and drank deep of the
spirits that were brought me, for they drove away all disturbing
thoughts—but, as I lifted the cup a second time to my lips, my eyes
fixed themselves upon a child; and I trembled with agitation, for I saw
my prey before me. The woman of the house spoke but little English;
but she approached me, and expressed her fear that I was not well.
Sensible that my emotion had betrayed me, I affected to be in pain,
offered her money, and abruptly took leave. There was a wood not far
from the town.
“On a subsequent evening I allured her to it: the baby was at her
breast. I asked her its name.—‘Billy Kendal,’ she answered, ‘for the
love of its father who fights now for us at a distance.’ ‘I will be
its father,’ I said. But she chid me from her, and was angrily about
to leave me: striking her to the earth, I seized the child. The age,
the size—every thing corresponded. I had bartered my soul for gold,
and difficulties and failures had not shaken me. I had made every
necessary preparation; and all being ready and secure, I fled; nor
stopped, nor staid, nor spoke to man, nor shewed myself in village
or in town, till I arrived at my journey’s end.
“I arrived in the neighbourhood of Castle Delaval, and continued to
see my master, without being recognized by any other. He appeared
much agitated when he first beheld me. I cannot forget his smile.
He desired me to keep the boy with me out at sea that night; and
directing me to climb from the wherry up the steep path of the western
cliff (where but yesterday I stood when the colonel sent for me), he
promised to place food, and all that was requisite for us, near the
chapel. ‘But trust no one with your secret,’ he said: ‘let not the
eye of man glance upon you. Meet me in the night, in the forest near
the moor, and bring the child. Mind that _you_ do not utter one word,
and let _it_ not have the power of disturbing us. Do you understand
me?’ ‘Yes,’ I said, and shuddered because I did so. My master saw
me shrink, and reminded me of the reward. I undertook punctually to
fulfil every injunction: it was now too late to repent. But, oh, my
lord! when I think of that night, that accursed night, what horror
comes over me!
“It was past twelve o’clock when I took the boy up from a sweet sleep,
and fastening the wherry near the foot of the rock, with one hand I
climbed the steep ascent, while with the other I carefully held the
child. In one part the cliff is almost perpendicular: my foot slipped,
and I was in danger of falling; but I recovered myself with much
exertion. There was no moon; and the wind whistled loud and shrilly
through the churchyard. It is, I believe, two miles from thence to the
castle; but through the thick wood I now and then caught a glimpse
of its lighted portico; and, remembering its former gaiety, ‘you
rejoice to-night,’ I thought, ‘with music and dancing, regardless of
my sorrows, or the hardships of others, even more wretched than I:
but to-morrow, the black foot of care shall tread heavy even upon you.’
“The wind rustled among the trees. This was the spot in which I was
to meet my employer. I heard a step; it approached; and I pressed the
child nearer to my bosom. ‘Some mother is weeping for you surely,
little boy,’ I said; ‘and would give all she is worth to see that
pretty face again. She little dreams of your hard fate, or into
what rough hands her treasure has fallen; but I will not harm thee,
boy. Hard must be the heart that could.’ Such were my thoughts: God
be witness, such were my intentions at that moment. I now saw La
Crusca; and well I knew by the villain’s countenance his horrible
intentions: the lantern he carried glimmered through the trees; his
eyes glared as in a low voice he enquired for the boy: and, as he was
still concealed from him under my cloak, he seized me by the arm, and
asked me why I trembled. He urged me instantly to deliver the child
to him; but finding that I hesitated, he rudely grasped him; and the
boy waking suddenly, cried aloud. ‘Did not our master tell you to
prevent this?’ said the Italian, enraged, as, bidding the child be at
peace, he abruptly fled with it. I heard not long after one piteous
shriek, and then all was silent.
“I returned to the boat. All there looked desolate. The little
companion who had cheered the lonely hours was no more. The mantle
remained. I threw myself upon it. Suddenly, upon the waves I thought
I saw the figure of the child. I heard its last cry. I ever hear that
piteous cry. The night was dark: the winds blew chilly over the vast
water: my own name was pronounced in a low voice from the cliff.
“It was my lord who spoke,—my master—the Count Viviani. He had returned
to give me further instructions. I ascended the fearful steep, and
listened in silence; but, before he left me, I ventured to ask after
the boy, ‘Leave him to me,’ said the count, in an angry tone. ‘He is
safe: he shall sleep well to-night.’ Saying this, he laughed ‘O! can
you jest?’ I said. ‘Aye, that I can. This is the season of jesting,’ he
answered; ‘for, mark my words, Macpherson, we have done a deed shall
mar our future merriment, and stifle the heart’s laugh for ever. Such
deeds as these bleach the hair white before its time, give fearful
tremblings to the limbs, and make man turn from the voice of comfort
on the bed of death. We have sent a cherub thither,’ continued the
count, pointing up to heaven, ‘to stand a fearful testimony against
us, and exclude us for ever from its courts.’
“Saying which, he bade me hasten to some distant country. He entrusted
the Lord of Delaval to my care, repeated his instructions, and for
the second time that night departed. The morning sun, when it rose,
all glorious, and lighted the eastern sky with its beams, found me
still motionless upon the cliff. My eye involuntarily fixed upon
the great landmark, the mountains which extend behind yon beautiful
valley; but, starting at the thought of the crime I had committed, I
turned for ever from them. I thought never again to behold a prospect
so little in unison with my feelings. It is many years since I have
seen it; but now I can gaze on nothing else. My eyes are dim with
looking upon the scene, and with it upon the memory of the past.”
Macpherson paused:—He turned to see what impression his narrative
had made on the duke: he was utterly silent.—Macpherson therefore
continued: “So far we had succeeded but too well in our black attempt;
but the fair boy intrusted to me sickened under the hardships to
which I was obliged to expose him. The price agreed on was paid me.
La Crusca joined me; and together we reared the child in a foreign
country, so as I hope to do him honour. But a dark malady at times
had fallen upon La Crusca. He would see visions of horror; and the
sight of a mother and a child threw him into frenzy, till it became
necessary to confine him. I had not heard for some time from my
master. I wished to bring my young charge back to his own country,
before I died. I wrote; but no one answered my letters. I applied to
the Count Gondimar; but he refused to hear me.
“In the dead of night, however, even when I slept, the child was torn
from me. I was at Florence, when some villain seized the boy. I had
assumed another name: I lived apparently in happiness and affluence.
I think it was the Count Gondimar who rifled my treasure. But he
denied it.
“Accompanied by La Crusca, I returned first to England and then
to Ireland. I sought Count Gondimar; but he evaded my enquiries;
and having taken the child from me, insisted upon my silence, and
dispatched me to Ireland with letters for the Lord Glenarvon, who
immediately recognized and received me.” “Where?” cried the duke.
Macpherson hesitated.—“At the priory, where he then resided, and where
he remained concealed: La Crusca was likewise permitted to dwell
there; but of this story my lord was ignorant till now.” “That is
false,” said the duke. “One morning La Crusca beheld Lady Margaret
even as in a vision, on that spot to which I every day returned;
but he had not power to speak. Madness, phrenzy had fallen on him.
Lord Glenarvon protected him. His house was also my only refuge.
He gathered from me much of the truth of what I have related, but I
never told him all. I durst not speak till now. He was deeply moved
with the wrongs of the injured boy; he vowed to revenge them; but he
has forgotten his promise; he has left us, he has forsaken us. I am
now in the service of another: this gentleman will befriend me; and
the Duke of Altamonte will not turn from the voice of his miserable
servant.”
“Where?” said the duke starting, “where did you say Viviani, that
damned Italian, had once concealed the child? He is there now perhaps!
there, there let us seek him.”—“In the chapel,” said Macpherson
hesitating, “there is a vault, of which he retains the key; and there
is a chamber in the ruined turret, where I have ofttimes passed the
night.” “Let us hasten there this instant,” said the duke.—“What hour
is it?” “Nine.” “Oh! that it may not be too late! that he may not
already have taken advantage of the darkness of evening to escape!”
Saying this, the duke and Colonel de Ruthven having previously given
orders to the servants to watch Macpherson carefully, drove with all
possible haste to the chapel, near the Abbey of Belfont. But still
they hoped that Viviani was their friend—He could have no motive in
concealing the child: his only wish was probably to restore him, and by
this means make terms for himself. With such thoughts they proceeded
to the appointed spot. And it is there that for some moments we must
leave them. The duke was convinced in his own mind who his real and
sole enemy was; he was also firmly resolved not to let him escape.