“I waited for this answer, Debriseau: had you made any other, I would have run the risk and defied you; nothing would have induced me to have offered to bribe your silence. But I rejoice in your honest and manly conduct— ‘Honesty is the best policy,’ Debriseau. I can now offer, and you can accept, without blushing on either side, that assistance which I have both the power and will to grant. There is no occasion for your going to prison. I make the returns as magistrate, and, as you are an English subject, will be answerable for the omission. We are too far from the world here to have any questions asked. And now let me know how I can be of any service to you, for my purse and interest you may command.”

  “Well, then, to tell you the truth, I am fit for nothing on shore. I must have another vessel, if I can get one.”

  “Not a smuggling vessel, I hope,” replied McElvina, gravely.

  “I should prefer it certainly. Why, there’s no harm in smuggling, if I recollect your arguments right,” replied Debriseau, smiling. “Do you remember the night that you convinced me?”

  “I do, very well,” said McElvina; “but I have reconsidered the subject, and I have one little remark to make, which will upset the whole theory, which is, that other people acting wrong cannot be urged as an excuse for our own conduct. If it were, the world would soon be left without virtue or honesty. You may think me scrupulous; but I am sincere. Cannot you hit upon something else?”

  “Why, I should have no objection to command a fine merchant vessel, if I could obtain such a thing.”

  “That you shall,” replied McElvina; “and to make sure of it, and render you more independent, you shall be part owner. Consider it as une affaire arrangée. And now allow me to offer you the means of improving your personal appearance — I presume the leathern bag is empty?”

  “Bah! a long while ago. After I had lost my vessel, I made up to Mademoiselle Picardon; I thought it would not be a bad speculation — but she never forgave me kicking that dirty puppy down stairs — little beast!”

  “Ah! you forget some of my remarks,” replied McElvina, laughing—”’Love me, love my dog.’ Now oblige me by accepting this; and, Debriseau (excuse me), there’s a capital barber in this street. Au revoir.”

  Chapter Fifty Eight.

  Under his lordship’s leave, all must be mine.

  Middleton.

  The first moments of leisure that McElvina could obtain from his duties were employed in writing to the vicar, informing him of the reappearance of Seymour, under such peculiar circumstances; and requesting his immediate presence, that our hero’s claims to the property of Admiral de Courcy might be established. As before observed, Rainscourt was not at the castle, nor was he expected for some days, having accepted an invitation to join a shooting party some miles distant. A letter was despatched to him by his daughter, detailing the circumstances of the shipwreck, stating that the wounded officer was in the castle, and that, in consequence, until his return, Mrs McElvina would remain as her companion.

  Although the wound that Seymour had received had been pronounced by the surgeon not to be of a dangerous tendency, still, he did not recover so rapidly as might have been expected from his youth and excellent constitution. The fact was, that all his love for Emily, who was constantly at his side, and could not conceal her regard for him, had returned with tenfold violence. The same honourable principle which had before decided him — that of not taking advantage of her prepossession in his favour, and permitting her to throw away herself and her large fortune upon one of unknown parentage and penniless condition, — militated against his passion, and caused such a tumult of contending feelings, as could not but affect a person in his weak state. A slow fever came on, which retarded the cure, and even threatened more serious consequences.

  Madame de Staël has truly observed, that love occupies the whole life of a woman. It is not therefore surprising that women should be more skilful in detecting the symptoms of it in others. Mrs McElvina, with the usual penetration of her sex, discovered what was passing in the mind of Seymour, and communicated her suspicions to her husband. As for some days the health of our hero rather declined than improved, McElvina determined to entrust him with the secret of his birth, which, by removing all difficulties, he imagined would produce a beneficial effect. But there was one point which McElvina could not conceal from our hero, which was the melancholy fact of his father having, under an assumed name, fallen a sacrifice to the offended laws of his country; and the knowledge of this had so serious an effect upon Seymour, as almost to neutralise the joy arising from the rest of the communication. The first question which he asked himself was, whether Emily would or ought to marry a man whose father had perished by so ignominious a death; and, now that all other impediments to his making her an offer of his hand were removed, whether that circumstance alone would not be an insuperable bar to their union. Agitated by these conflicting doubts Seymour passed a sleepless night, and on the ensuing morning his fever had alarmingly increased. This was observed by the surgeon, who stated that he could not account for it, except by supposing that there was something heavy on the mind of his patient, which, unless removed, would retard, if not prevent, recovery.

  Susan, who with her husband had imagined that the disclosure which had taken place would have had a beneficial effect, hastened to the sick chamber, and soon persuaded our hero to make her a confidant of his doubts and fears. “There is but one who can satisfy you on that point, my dear William,” replied she; “for although I feel convinced that I can answer for her, it is not exactly a case of proxy — McElvina will be here directly, and then I will obtain his permission to disclose the whole to Emily, and you will have the answer from her own lips.”

  In the course of the forenoon, Emily was made acquainted with the eventful history of our hero’s birth and parentage — of her no longer being an heiress — of his ardent love for her, and of the fears that he entertained upon the subject.

  “I am only sorry for one thing,” replied Emily, “that he did not ask me to marry him when I thought that I was an heiress — now, if I accept him, I am afraid it may be thought — oh, if you knew how I have loved him — how I have thought of him when far away,” cried the sobbing girl, “you would not — no one would think me capable of interested motives. — I am so glad the property is his,” continued Emily, looking and smiling through her tears.

  “Why, my dear Emily, if you begin to make difficulties, we shall be worse than ever. There never was a more fortunate occurrence than this attachment between you and Seymour. It reconciles all difficulties, puts an end to all Chancery suits, and will shower general happiness, when some at least must have been made miserable. Come with me — William is very feverish this morning: you only can do him good.”

  Mrs McElvina led the agitated girl into the sick chamber, and whispering to Seymour that Emily knew all, and that all was well, was so very imprudent as to allow her feelings to overcome her sense of chaperonism, and left them together.

  I am aware that I now have a fair opportunity of inserting a most interesting conversation, full of ohs and ahs, dears and sweets, etcetera, which would be much relished by all misses of seventeen, or thereabouts; but as I do not write novels for them, and the young couple have no secrets to which the reader is not already a party, I shall leave them to imagine the explanation, with all its concomitant retrospections and anticipations, softened with tears and sweetened with kisses; and, as the plot now thickens, change the scene to the dressing-room of Rainscourt, who had now just risen, at his usual hour, viz., between two and three in the afternoon. His French valet is in attendance shaving him, and dressing his hair, and communicating what little intelligence he has been enabled to collect for his master’s amusement.

  “Monsieur has not seen the young officer who was wounded?”

  “No; I wonder why they brought him up here. What sort of a person is he?”

  “C’est un joli garçon, Monsieur, avec l’air bien distingué. — I carried in the water this morning when his wound was dressed, for I had the curiosity to see him — C’est un diable de blessure — and the young officer has a very singular mark on his right shoulder, like — comment l’appelez-vous? — pied du corbeau.”

  Rainscourt started under the operation of the razor: he remembered the mark of the grandchild, so minutely described by the vicar.

  “Pardon, Monsieur, ce n’est pas ma faute,” said the valet, applying a napkin to stanch the blood which flowed from his master’s cheek.

  “It was not,” replied Rainscourt, recovering himself; “I had a slight spasm.”

  The operation was continued, and fortunately had just been finished when the valet resumed,— “Et rappelez-vous Monsieur le Vicaire de — . Il est arrivé hier au soir, on a visit to Mr McElvina.”

  “The devil he is?” replied Rainscourt, springing from his chair, at the corroborating incident to his previous ground of alarm.

  The astonished countenance of the valet restored the master to his senses. “Bring me my coffee — I am nervous this morning.”

  But Rainscourt had not long to endure suspense. He had barely finished his toilet, when he was informed that the vicar, McElvina, and some other gentlemen, were below, and wished to speak to him. Rainscourt, anxious to know the worst, descended to the library, where he found the parties before mentioned, accompanied by Debriseau and a legal gentleman. We shall not enter into details. To the dismay of Rainscourt, the identity of our hero was established beyond all doubt, and he felt convinced that eventually he should be forced to surrender up the property. His indignation was chiefly levelled at McElvina, whom he considered as the occasion of the whole, not only from having rescued our hero from the wreck, but because it was by his assertions, corroborated by Debriseau, that the chain of evidence was clearly substantiated. McElvina, who, from long acquaintance, had a feeling towards Rainscourt which his conduct did not deserve, waited only for his acknowledgment of our hero’s claim to communicate the circumstance of the attachment between the young people, which would have barred all further proceedings, and have settled it in an amicable arrangement.

  “Well, gentlemen,” observed Rainscourt, “if you can satisfactorily prove in a court of justice all you have now stated, I shall of course bow to its decision; but you must excuse me if, out of regard to my daughter, I resist, until the assertions can be substantiated on oath. You cannot expect otherwise.”

  “We do not expect otherwise, Mr Rainscourt,” replied McElvina,— “but we think it will not be necessary that it should go into court.”

  “Mr McElvina,” interrupted Rainscourt, angrily,— “I wish no observations from you. After your intimacy with the family, particularly with my daughter, who, by your means, will probably forfeit all her prospects, I consider your conduct base and treacherous. You’ll excuse my ringing the bell for the servant to show you the door.”

  McElvina turned pale with rage. “Then, sir, you shall have no suggestions from me. Come, gentlemen, we will retire,” continued McElvina, now determined that Rainscourt should be left in ignorance for the present; and the parties quitted the room, little contemplating that such direful consequences would ensue from this trifling altercation.

  Chapter Fifty Nine.

  Was there ever seen such villany,

  So neatly plotted, and so well performed,

  Both held in hand, and flatly both beguiled?

  Jew of Malta.

  The feelings of Rainscourt were worked up to desperation and madness. As soon as the party had quitted the room, he paced up and down, clenching his fists and throwing them in the air, as his blood boiled against McElvina, whom he considered as his mortal enemy. To send him a challenge, with the double view of removing him and his testimony, and at the same time of glutting his own revenge, was the idea that floated uppermost in his confused and heated brain. To surrender up the estates — to be liable for the personal property which he had squandered — to sink at once from affluence to absolute pauperism, if not to incarceration, — it was impossible. He continued his rapid movement to and fro, dividing his thoughts between revenge and suicide, when a tap at the door roused him from his gloomy reveries. It was the surgeon who attended Seymour; he came to pay his respects, and make a report of his patient’s health to Rainscourt, whom he had not seen since his return to the castle.

  “Your most obedient, sir. I am sorry that my patient was not so well when I saw him this morning. I hope to find him better when I go upstairs.”

  “Oh!” replied Rainscourt, a faint gleam of deliverance from his dilemmas shining upon his dark and troubled mind.

  “Yes, indeed,” replied the medical gentleman, who, like many others, made the most of his cases, to enhance the value of his services; like Tom Thumb, who “made the giants first, and then killed them,”— “a great deal of fever, indeed — I do not like the symptoms. But we must see what we can do.”

  “Do you think that there is any chance of his not recovering?” asked Rainscourt, with emphasis.

  “It’s hard to say, sir; many much worse have recovered, and many not so ill have been taken off. If the fever abates, all will go well — if it does not, we must hope for the best,” replied the surgeon, shrugging up his shoulders.

  “Then he might die of the wound, and fever attending it?”

  “Most certainly he might. He might be carried off in twenty-four hours.”

  “Thank you for your visit, Mr B — ,” replied Rainscourt, who did not wish for his further company. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning, sir,” replied the surgeon, as Rainscourt politely bowed him out of the room.

  Rainscourt again paced up and down. “He might die of this fever and wound in twenty-four hours. There could be nothing surprising in it;” and as he cogitated the demon entered his soul. He sat down and pressed his hands to his burning temples, as he rested his elbows on the table many minutes, perplexed in a chaotic labyrinth of evil thoughts, till the fiend pointed out the path which must be pursued.

  He summoned the old nurse. Those who have lived in, or are acquainted with the peculiarities and customs of the sister kingdom, must know that the attachment of the lower Irish to their masters amounts to almost self-devotion. Norah had nursed Rainscourt at her breast, and, remaining in the family, had presided over the cradle of Emily — adhering to Rainscourt in his poverty, and, now, in the winter of her days basking in the sun of his prosperity.

  “The blessings of the day upon the master,” said the old woman as she entered.

  Rainscourt locked the door. “Norah,” said he, “I have bad news to tell you. Are you aware that the castle is no longer mine?”

  “The castle no longer yours! Och hone,” replied the old woman, opening her eyes wide with astonishment.

  “That I am a beggar, and shall be sent to prison?”

  “The master to prison — Och hone!”

  “That my daughter is no longer an heiress, but without a shilling?”

  “The beautiful child without a shilling — Och hone!”

  “That you will have to leave — be turned out of the castle!”

  “Me turned out of the castle — Och hone!”

  “Yes, Norah, all this will take place in a few days.”

  “And who will do it?”

  “Why, the young man upstairs, whose life we are saving. So much for gratitude.”

  “Gratitude! Och hone — and so young — and so beautiful, too, as he is.”

  “But he may die, Norah.”

  “Sure enough he may die,” replied the old woman, brightening up at the idea. “It’s a bad fever that’s on him.”

  “And he may recover, Norah.”

  “Sure enough he may recover,” replied she, mournfully; “he’s but young blood.”

  “Now, Norah, do you love your master — do you love your young mistress?”

  “Do I love the master and the mistress?” replied the old woman indignantly; “and it’s you that’s after asking me such a question!”

  “Can you bear to see us turned out of house and home — to be cast on the wide world with poverty and rags? Will you permit it, when, by assisting me, you can prevent it?”

  “Can I bear it? Will I assist? — tell me the thing that you’d have me do, that’s all.”

  “I said that the wounded person might die. — Norah, he must die.”

  The old woman looked up earnestly at Rainscourt’s face, as if to understand him. “I see!” — then remaining with her head down for some time, as if in cogitation; she again looked up. “Will father O’Sullivan give me absolution for that?”

  “He will — he shall — I will pay for ten thousand masses for your soul over and above.”

  “But what would you have me do — so young and so beautiful, too! I’ll think over it to-night. I never sleep much now, the rats are so troublesome.”

  “Rats!” cried Rainscourt; “why not get some arsenic?”

  “Arsenic!” echoed the old woman; “is it arsenic for the rats you mean?”

  “Yes,” replied Rainscourt, significantly; “for all sorts of rats — those who would undermine the foundation of an ancient house.”

  “Sure it’s an old house, that of the Rainscourts,” replied the nurse; “but I’m giddy a little — I’ll think a bit.” In a second or two, her face brightened up a little. “Why don’t you marry the two together? Such a handsome couple as they’d be!”

  “Marry, you old fool! Do you think, now that he is aware that all the property is his, that he would marry Emily, without a sixpence? No — no.”

  “True — and it’s the arsenic you want, then? — and you’re sure that the priest will give absolution?”

  “Sure,” replied Rainscourt, out of patience; “come to me at daylight to-morrow morning.”

  “Well, I’ll think about it to-night when I’m asleep. — And so young, and so beautiful, too. Och hone!” murmured the old woman, as she unlocked the door, and with tremulous gait quitted the room.