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.
Rainscourt, left to himself again became the prey to conflicting passions. Although his conscience had long been proof against any remorse at the commission of the every-day crimes which stained the earth, yet it recoiled at meditated murder. More than once he determined to leave it all to chance, and if Seymour did recover, to fly the country with all the money he could raise; but the devil had possession, and was not to be cast out.
The door was again opened, and Emily, radiant with happiness after the interview with Seymour, in which she had plighted and received the troth of her beloved, entered the room.
“My dear father, Mr Seymour is so much better this evening.”
“Would he were in his grave!” replied Rainscourt, bitterly.
Emily had come in, at the request of Seymour, to state to her father what had taken place, but this violent exclamation deterred her. She thought that it was not a favourable moment, and she retired, wishing him good night, with no small degree of indignation expressed in her countenance at his iniquitous wish. She retired to her chamber—her anger was soon chased away by the idea that it was for her sake that her father was so irritated, and that to-morrow all would be well. Bending to her Creator in gratitude and love, and not forgetting Seymour in her orisons, she laid her head upon her pillow, and visions of future happiness filled her dreams in uninterrupted succession.
Enjoy them, beautiful and innocent one! Revel in them, if it were possible, to satiety—for they are thy last enjoyment. How much would the misery of this world be increased, if we were permitted to dive into futurity. The life of a man is a pilgrimage in error and in darkness. The ignis fatuus that he always pursues, always deceives him, yet he is warned in vain—at the moment of disappointment, he resolves—sees another, and pursues again. The fruit is turned to ashes in his mouth at the fancied moment of enjoyment—warning succeeds warning—disappointment is followed up by disappointment every grey hair in his head may be considered as a sad memento of dear-bought, yet useless experience—still he continues, spurred on by Hope, anticipating everything, in pursuit of nothing, until he stumbles into his grave, and all is over.
Little did McElvina and the vicar think what the consequences would be of their leaving Rainscourt in his wrath. Little did Rainscourt and the nurse imagine how dreadful and how futile would be the results of their wicked intentions. Little did the enamoured and guileless pair, who now slumbered in anticipated bliss, contemplate what, in the never-ceasing parturition of time, the morrow would bring forth.
Early in the morning, Rainscourt, who was awake, and who had not taken off his clothes, was startled by a low tapping at his door. It was the nurse.
“Well,” said Rainscourt, hastily, “have you procured what we were talking of?”
“I have indeed; but—”
“No buts, Norah, or we part for ever. Where is it? Who is with him?”
“One of the women. I tould her I would nurse him after daylight.”
“When does he take his fever draughts?”
“Every two hours—Och hone, he’ll take but one more.—So young, and so beautiful, too.”
“Silence, fool; go and send the other woman to bed, and then bring in one of the draughts.”
The old nurse turned back as she was hobbling away—
“And the absolution?”
“Away, and do as I order you,” cried Rainscourt, with violence.
“Blessed Jesus, don’t talk so loud! It’s the whole house will hear you,” said the hag, beseechingly, as she left the room.
She returned with the draught. Rainscourt poured in the powder, and shook it with desperation.
“Now this is the first draught he must take; give it him directly.”
“Och hone!” cried the old woman, as she received the vial in her trembling hands.
“Go; and come back and tell me when he has taken it.”
Norah left the room. Rainscourt waited her return in a state of mind so horribly painful that large drops of perspiration poured from his forehead. At one moment, he would have recalled her—the next beggary stared him in the face, and his diabolical resolution was confirmed. His agony of suspense became so intense that he could wait no longer. He went to the door of the sick chamber, and opening it gently, looked in.
The old woman was sitting down on the floor, crouched, with her elbows on her knees, and her face and head covered over with her cloak. The noise of the hinges startled her; she uncovered her head and looked up. Rainscourt made signs to her, inquiring whether he had taken the draught. She shook her head. He pointed his finger angrily, desiring her to give it. The old woman sank on her knees, and held up her hands in supplication. Rainscourt beckoned her out—she followed him to his own room.
“Do you see these pistols?” said Rainscourt—“they are loaded. Immediately obey my orders—promise me, on your soul that you will, or you shall be the occasion of your master’s death. Swear!” continued he, putting one of the pistols to his ear, and his finger to the trigger.
“I will do it—on my soul I will, master dear,” cried Norah. “Only put away the pistols, and if he were thousands more beautiful, and if my soul is to be burnt for ever, I’ll do it.”
Again she returned to the chamber of the victim, followed by Rainscourt, who stood at the door to fortify her resolution.
Seymour was awoke by the old beldame—from a dream in which the form of Emily blessed his fancy—to take the fatal draught now poured out and presented to him. Accustomed to the febrifuge at certain hours, he drank it off in haste, that he might renew his dreaming happiness. “What is it? It burns my throat!” cried Seymour.
“It’s not the like of what you have taken before,” said the old woman, shuddering, as she offered him some water to take the taste away.
“Thank you, nurse,” said Seymour, as he again sank on his pillow.