The carriage which had conveyed the Duke of Altamonte and Colonel De
Ruthven from Colwood Bay could not proceed along that narrow path which
led across the wood to the chapel; they were therefore compelled to
alight; and, hastening on along the road with torches and attendants,
they enquired repeatedly concerning the loud shouts and yells which
echoed in every direction around them.
They were some little distance from the chapel, when the duke paused
in horror.—The moonlight shone upon the bank, at the entrance of the
beech trees; and he there beheld the figure of a female as she lay
extended upon the ground, covered with blood. Her own rash hand,
he thought, had perhaps destroyed her. He approached,—it was Lady
Margaret! That proud spirit, which had so long supported itself, had
burst its fetters. He gazed on her in surprise.—He stood a few moments
in silence, as if it were some tragic representation he were called
to look upon, in which he himself bore no part—some scene of horror,
to which he had not been previously worked up, and which consequently
had not power to affect him. Her face was scarce paler than usual;
but there was a look of horror in her countenance, which disturbed
its natural expression. In one hand, she had grasped the turf, as if
the agony she had endured had caused a convulsive motion; the other
was stained with blood, which had flowed with much violence. It was
strange that the wound was between her right shoulder and her throat,
and not immediately perceivable, as she had fallen back upon it:—it
was more than strange, for it admitted little doubt that the blow
had not been inflicted by herself. Yet, if inhumanly murdered, where
was he who had dared the deed? The duke knelt beside her:—he called
to her; but all mortal aid was ineffectual.
The moon-beam played amidst the foliage of the trees, and lighted
the plains around:—no trace of the assassin could be observed:—the
loneliness of the scene was uninterrupted. A dark shadow now became
visible upon the smooth surface of the green—was it the reflection of
the tree—or was it a human form? It lengthened—it advanced from the
thicket. The shapeless form advanced; and the heart of man sunk before
its approach; for there is none who has looked upon the murderer of
his kind without a feeling of alarm beyond that which fear creates.
That black shapeless mass—that guilty trembling being, who, starting
at his own shadow, slowly crept forward, then paused to listen—then
advanced with haste, and paused again,—now, standing upon the plain
between the beech wood and the chapel, appeared like one dark solitary
spot in the lonely scene.
The duke had concealed himself; but the indignant spirit within
prompted him to follow the figure, indifferent to the fate that might
await on his temerity. Much he thought that he knew him by his air and
Italian cloak; but as his disguise had entirely shrouded his features,
he could alone indulge his suspicions; and it was his interest to
watch him unperceived. He, therefore, made sign to his attendants
to conceal themselves in the wood; and alone, accompanied by Colonel
De Ruthven, he followed towards the chapel. There the figure paused,
and seemed to breathe with difficulty, slowly turning around to gaze
if all were safe:—then, throwing his dark mantle back, shewed to
the face of Heaven the grim and sallow visage of despair—the glazed
sunken eye of guilt—the bent cowering form of fear.—“Zerbellini,” he
cried, “Zerbellini, come down.—Think me not your enemy—I am your real
friend, your preserver.—Come down, my child. With all but a brother’s
tenderness, I wait for you.”
Arouzed by this signal, a window was opened from an apartment adjoining
the cloister; and a boy, lovely in youth, mournfully answered the
summons. “O! my kind protector!” he said, “I thought you had resolved
to leave me to perish here. If, indeed, I am all you tell me—if you do
not a second time deceive me, will you act by me as you ought? Will
you restore me to my father?” The voice, though soft and melodious,
sounded so tremulously sad, that it immediately awakened the deepest
compassion, the strongest interest in the duke. He eagerly advanced
forward. Colonel De Ruthven entreated him to remain a few moments
longer concealed. He wished to know Viviani’s intention; and they
were near enough to seize him at any time, if he attempted to escape.
They were concealed behind the projecting arch of the chapel; and
whilst they beheld the scene, it was scarce possible that the Italian
should so turn himself as to discover them. By the strong light of
the moon, which stood all glorious and cloudless in the Heavens, and
shone upon the agitated waves of the sea, the duke, though he could
not yet see the face of the Italian, whose back was turned, beheld
the features of Zerbellini—that countenance which had often excited
a strange emotion in his bosom, and which now appealed forcibly to
his heart, as claiming an alliance with him. Let then the ecstasy
of his feelings be imagined, whilst still dubious, still involved
in uncertainty and surprise. Viviani, having clasped the boy to his
bosom, said in an impassioned voice these words:—“Much injured child,
thou loveliest blossom, early nipped in the very spring-time of thy
life, pardon thy murderer. Thou art the heir and lord of all that the
pride of man can devise; yet victim to the ambition of a false and
cruel woman, thou hast experienced the chastening rod of adversity,
and art now prepared for the fate that awaits thee.
“Albert,” he continued, “let me be the first to address thee by that
name, canst thou forgive, say, canst thou forgive me?” “I know as yet
but imperfectly,” said the boy, “what your conduct to me has been. At
times I have trusted you as a friend, and considered you as a master.”
“This is no time, my dear boy, for explanations—are you prepared? At
least, embrace the wretch who has betrayed you. Let these tainted and
polluted lips impress one last fond kiss upon thy cheek of rose, fair
opening blossom, whose young heart, spotless as that of cherubims on
high, has early felt the pressure of calamity. Smile yet once on me,
even as in sleep I saw thee smile, when, cradled in princely luxury,
the world before thee, I hurled thee from the vanities of life, and
saved thy soul. Boy of my fondest interest, come to my heart, and
with thy angel purity snatch the fell murderer from perdition. Then,
when we sleep thus clasped together, in the bands of death, ascend,
fair and unpolluted soul, ascend in white-robed innocence to Heaven,
and ask for mercy of thy God for me!”
“Wretch!” cried the duke, rushing forward:—but in vain his haste. With
the strength of desperate guilt, the Italian had grasped the boy,
and bearing him in sudden haste to the edge of the frightful chasm,
he was on the point of throwing himself and the child from the top
of it, when the duke, with a strong grasp, seizing him by the cloak,
forcibly detained him.—“Wretch,” he cried, “live to feel a father’s
vengeance!—live to——” “To restore your son,” said Glenarvon, with a
hypocritical smile, turning round and gazing on the duke. “Ha, whom
do I behold! no Italian, no Viviani, but Glenarvon.” “Yes, and to me,
to me alone, you owe the safety of your child. Your sister decreed his
death—I sav’d him. Now strike this bosom if you will.”—“What are you?
Who are you?” said the duke. “Is it now alone that you know Glenarvon?”
he replied with a sneer. “I suspected this; but that name shall not
save you.”—“Nothing can save me,” said Glenarvon, mournfully. “All
hell is raging in my bosom. My brain is on fire. _You_ cannot add
to my calamities.” “Why a second time attempt the life of my child?”
“Despair prompted me to the deed,” said Glenarvon, putting his hand
to his head: “all is not right here—madness has fallen on me.” “Live,
miserable sinner,” said the duke, looking upon him with contempt:
“you are too base to die—I dare not raise my arm against you.” “Yet
I am defenceless,” said Glenarvon, with a bitter smile, throwing the
dagger to the ground. “Depart for ever from me,” said the duke—“your
presence here is terrible to all.”
Zerbellini now knelt before his father, who, straining him closely to
his bosom, wept over him.—In a moment, yells and cries were heard;
and a thousand torches illumined the wood. Some stood in horror to
contemplate the murdered form of Lady Margaret; others, with shouts of
triumph, conveyed the heir of Delaval to his home. Mrs. Seymour, Mac
Allain, and others, received with transport the long lost boy: shouts
of delight and cheers, long and repeated, proclaimed his return. The
rumour of these events spread far and wide; the concourse of people
who crowded around to hear and inquire, and see their young lord,
was immense.
A mournful silence succeeded. Lady Margaret’s body was conveyed to
the castle. Buchanan followed in hopeless grief: he prest the duke’s
hand; then rushed from his presence. He sought St. Clare. “Where is
Glenarvon?” he cried. “In his blood, in his blood, I must revenge
my own wrongs and a mother’s death.” Glenarvon was gone. One only
attendant had followed him, O’Kelly, who had prepared every thing
for his flight. Upon that night they had made their escape, O’Kelly,
either ignorant of his master’s crimes, or willing to appear so,
tried severely but faithful to the last. They sailed: they reached
the English shore; and before the rumour of these events could have
had time to spread, Glenarvon had taken the command of his ship,
following with intent to join the British fleet, far away from his
enemies and his friends.
Macpherson was immediately seized. He acknowledged that Lord Glenarvon,
driven to the necessity of concealing himself, had, with Lady Margaret
and Count Gondimar’s assistance, assumed the name of Viviani, until
the time when he appeared in his own character at St. Alvin’s Priory.
The rest of the confession he had privately made concerning the child
was found to be true. Witnesses were called. The mother of Billy
Kendall and La Crusca corroborated the fact. La Crusca and Macpherson
received sentence of death.