Viviani had long and repeatedly menaced Lady Margaret with vengeance.
In every moment of resentment, on every new interview, at every
parting scene, revenge, immediate and desperate, was the cry; but it
had been so often repeated, and so often had proved a harmless threat,
that it had at length lost all effect upon her. She considered him
as a depraved and weak character—base enough to attempt the worst;
but too cowardly to carry his project into effect. She knew him not.
That strong, that maddening passion which had taken such deep root
in his soul, still at times continued to plead for her; and whilst
hope, however fallacious, could be cherished by him, he would not at
once crush her beyond recovery. A lesser vengeance had not gratified
the rage of his bosom; and the certainty that the menaced blow when
it fell would overwhelm them both in one fate, gave him malignant
consolation.
Her renewed intercourse with Lord Dartford, he had endured. Lord
Dartford had prior claims to himself; and though it tortured him to see
them in each other’s society, he still forbore: but when he saw that
he was the mere object of her hate, of her ridicule, of her contempt,
his fury was beyond all controul. He wrote to her, he menaced her;
he left her, he returned; but he felt his own little importance in
the unprovoked calm with which she at all times received him: and
maddening beyond endurance, “This is the moment,” he cried: “now, now
I have strength to execute my threats, and nothing shall change me.”
It was in London that Count Viviani, having left Lady Margaret in
anger, addressed Buchanan by letter. “Leave your steeds, and your
gaming tables, and your libertine associates,” he said. “Senseless
and heartless man, awake at last. Oh! you who have never felt,
whose pulse has never risen with the burning fires of passion, whose
life, unvaried and even, has ever flowed the same—awake now to the
bitterness of horror, and learn that you are in my power.” Buchanan
heard the tale with incredulity; but when obliged to credit it, he
felt with all the poignancy of real misery. The scene that took place
between himself and his mother had left him yet one doubt: upon that
doubt he rested. It was her solemn asseveration of innocence. But the
heart that is utterly corrupted fears not to perjure itself; and he
continued in suspense; for he believed her guilty.
Such was the state of things, when Viviani, having by fraud again
possessed himself of Zerbellini, sought Lady Margaret, and found
her a few moments after the duke had left the castle. He well knew
whither he was gone; he well knew also, that it was now too late to
recall the vengeance he had decreed; yet one hope for Lady Margaret
and himself remained:—would she fly with him upon that hour. _All_ was
prepared for flight in case he needed it; and with her, what perils
would he not encounter. He entered the castle, much disguised: he made
her the proposal; but she received it with disdain. One thing alone
she wished to know; and that she solemnly enjoined him to confess to
her: was Zerbellini the real heir of Delaval?—was she guiltless of
the murder of her brother’s child? “You shall see him, speak with
him,” said Viviani, “if you will follow me as soon as the night is
dark. I will conduct you to him, and your own eyes and ears shall be
convinced.”
So saying, he left her to fill the horrors of her own black
imagination; but, returning at the time appointed, he led her to the
wood, telling her that the boy was concealed in an apartment of the
turret, close to the chapel. Suddenly pausing, as he followed the
path:—“This is the very tree,” he cried, turning round, and looking
upon her fiercely; “yes, this is the spot upon which La Crusca shed the
blood of an innocent for you.” “Then the boy was really and inhumanly
murdered,” said Lady Margaret, pale with horror at the thought, but
still unappalled for herself. “Yes, lady, and his blood be on your
soul! Do you hope for mercy?” he cried, seizing her by the arm. “Not
from you.” “Dare you appeal to heaven?” She would not answer. “I must
embrace thee here, lady, before we for ever part.” “Monster!” said
Lady Margaret, seizing the dagger in his hand, as he placed his arm
around her neck. “I have already resolved that I will never survive
public infamy; therefore I fear you not; neither will I endure your
menaces, nor your insulting and barbarous caresses. Trifle not with
one who knows herself above you—who defies and derides your power. I
dare to die.” And she gazed unawed at his closely locked fist. “Stab
here—stab to this heart, which, however lost and perverted, yet exists
to execrate thy crimes, and to lament its own.” “Die then—thus—thus,”
said her enraged, her inhuman lover, as he struck the dagger, without
daring to look where his too certain hand had plunged it. Lady Margaret
shrunk not from the blow; but fixing her dying eyes reproachfully
upon him, closed them not, even when the spirit of life was gone.
Her murderer stood before her, as if astonished at what he had dared
to do. “Lie there, thou bleeding victim,” he said, at length pausing
to contemplate his bloody work. “Thou hast thought it no wrong to
violate thy faith—to make a jest of the most sacred ties. Men have
been thy victims: now take the due reward of all thy wickedness.
What art thou, that I should have idolized and gazed with rapture
on that form?—something even more treacherous and perverted than
myself. Upon thee, traitress, I revenge the wrongs of many; and when
hereafter, creatures like thee, as fair, as false, advance into the
world, prepared even from childhood to make a system of the arts of
love, let them, amidst the new conquests upon which they are feeding
their growing vanity, hear of thy fate and tremble.”
Saying these words, and flying with a rapid step, his dagger yet
reeking with the blood of his victim, he entered the town of Belfont,
at the entrance of which he met St. Clare, and a crowd of followers,
returning from the last meeting at Inis Tara. “Hasten to the castle,”
he cried, addressing all who surrounded him; “sound there the
alarum; for the heir of Altamonte is found; Lady Margaret Buchanan is
murdered.—Hasten there, and call for the presence of the duke; then
return and meet me at the chapel, and I will restore to your gaze your
long forgotten and much injured lord.” The people in shouts re-echoed
the mysterious words, but the darkness of evening prevented their
seeing the horrid countenance of the wretch who addressed them. St.
Clare alone recognised the murderer, and fled. Viviani then returned
alone to the chapel.