Chapter Sixty.

Hor. You see he is departing.

Corn. Let me come to him; give me him as he is. If he be turned to earth, let me but give him one hearty kiss, and you shall put us both into one coffin.

Webster.

It was but a few minutes after the scene described in the last chapter, that Emily awoke from her slumbers, and chid the sun for rising before her. As soon as she was dressed, she descended to inquire after the health of him whose fate was now entwined with her own. She gently opened the door of the room. The shutters were yet closed, but the sun poured his rays through the chinks, darting, in spite of the obstruction, a light which rendered the night-lamp useless. The curtains of the bed were closed, and all was quiet. Norah sat upon the floor, her eyes fixed upon the ceiling with wild and haggard look, and as she passed the beads which she was telling from one finger to the other (her lips in rapid and convulsive motion, but uttering no sound), it appeared as if she thought the remnant of her life too short for the prayers which she had to offer to the throne above.

Emily, having in vain attempted to catch her eye, and fearful of waking Seymour, tripped gently across, and pushed the nurse by the shoulder, beckoning her out of the chamber. Norah followed her mistress into an opposite room, when Emily, who had been alarmed by the behaviour of the old woman, spoke in a low and hurried tone. “Good heavens, what is the matter, Norah? You look so dreadful. Is he worse?”

“Och hone!” said the nurse, her thoughts evidently wandering.

“Tell me, nurse—answer me, is he worse?”

“I don’t know,” replied Norah; “the doctor will tell.”

“Oh God; he’s worse—I’m sure he is,” cried Emily, bursting into tears. “What will become of me, if my dear, dear Seymour—”

“Your dear Seymour?” cried the startled Norah.

“Yes, my dear Seymour. I did not tell you—I love him, nurse—he loves me—we have plighted our troth; and if he dies, what will become of me?” continued the sobbing girl.

“Och hone! and is it the truth and the real truth that you’re telling me, and was he to be your husband?”

“Was he!—he is, Norah. What did you mean by was he?” cried Emily, in hurried accents, seizing the old woman by the wrist, with a look of fearful anxiety.

“Did I say, was he? I did sure, enough, and it’s true too. I thought to do my darling a service, and I cared little for my own soul. So young and so beautiful too. And it’s a nice pair ye would have made. And it’s I that have kilt him! Och hone!” cried Norah, wringing her withered hands.

“Killed him, Norah! What have you done?—tell me directly,” screamed Emily, shaking the old hag with all her force—“Quick!”

The old nurse seemed to have all the violence of her mistress’s feelings communicated to her as she cried out, with a face of horror, “It was all for ye that I did it. It’s the master that made me do it. He said my darling would be a beggar. It’s the poison for the rats he’s taken. Och, och hone!” and the old woman sank on the floor, covering up her head, while Emily flew shrieking out of the room.

When McElvina and his party quitted the castle, they returned to McElvina’s house. “I cannot but pity Mr Rainscourt,” observed the vicar; “indeed, I wish that, notwithstanding his violence, we had not quitted him without making the communication.”

“So do I,” replied McElvina; “but the injustice of his accusation prevented me; and I must confess that I have some pleasure in allowing him to remain twenty-four hours in suspense—longer than that, not even my revenge has stomach for.”

“I am afraid,” observed Debriseau, “that we have done unwisely. The violence and selfishness of the man’s character are but too well known, and Seymour is in his power.”

“Do not be so uncharitable, sir,” replied the vicar, gravely. “Mr Rainscourt, with all his faults, is incapable of anything so base as what you have hinted at.”

“I trust I have done him injustice,” replied Debriseau; “but I saw that in his eye, during the interview, which chilled my blood when I thought of your young friend.”

“At all events, when I go up to-morrow morning to see how Seymour is, I think it will be right to inform Mr Rainscourt of the facts. I shall be there by daylight. Will you accompany me, sir?” said McElvina to the vicar.

“With pleasure,” replied the other; and from this arrangement the vicar and McElvina were at the castle, and had sent their cards in to Mr Rainscourt, at the very time that Emily had beckoned the old nurse out of the chamber.

As long as the deed still remained to be done, the conflict between the conscience and the evil intentions of Rainscourt had been dreadful; but now that it was done, now that the Rubicon had been passed, to listen to the dictates of conscience was useless; and, worn out as it had been, in the struggle, and further soothed by the anticipation of continued prosperity, it no longer had the power to goad him. In short, conscience for the time had been overcome, and Rainscourt enjoyed after the tempest a hallow and deceitful calm, which he vainly hoped would be continued.

When McElvina and the vicar were announced, he thought it prudent to receive them. The bottle of brandy, to which he had made frequent applications during the morning, was removed; and having paid some slight attention to his person, he requested that they would walk up into his dressing-room. When they entered, the violence of the preceding day was no longer to be perceived in his countenance, which wore the appearance of mental suffering. The consciousness of guilt was mistaken for humility, and the feelings of both McElvina and the vicar were kindly influenced towards Rainscourt.

“Mr Rainscourt,” said the former, “we pay you this early visit that we may have the pleasure of relieving your mind from a weight which it is but too evident presses heavily upon it. We think, when you hear what we have to impart, you will agree with us, that there will be no occasion for litigation or ill-will. Mr Seymour and your daughter have repeatedly met before this, and have long been attached to each other; and although Mr Seymour was too honourable to make your daughter an offer at the time that he was friendless and unknown, yet the very first moment after he became acquainted with the change in his circumstances, he made a proposal, and was accepted. I presume there can be no objections to the match; and allow us, therefore, to congratulate you upon so fortunate a termination of a very unpleasant business.”

Rainscourt heard it all—it rang in his ears—it was torture, horrible torture. When they thought that his eye would beam with delight, it turned glassy and fixed—when they thought that his features would be illumined with smiles, they were distorted with agony—when they thought that his hands would be extended to seize theirs, offered in congratulation, they were clenched with the rigidity of muscle of the drowning man.

The vicar and McElvina looked at him and each other in dismay; but their astonishment was not to last. The door burst open, and the frantic and shrieking Emily flew into the room, exclaiming,—“They have murdered him—Oh, God! they have poisoned him. My father—my father how could you do it?” continued the girl, as she sank without animation on the floor.

The vicar, whose brain reeled at the dreadful intelligence, had scarcely power to move to the assistance of Emily, while McElvina, whose feelings of horror were mingled with indignation, roughly seized Rainscourt by the collar, and detained him his prisoner.

“I am so,” calmly replied Rainscourt, who, stunned by the condition of his daughter, the futility and blindness of his measures, and the unexpected promulgation of his guilt, offered no resistance. “Had you made your communication yesterday, sir, this would not have happened. I surrender myself up to justice. You have no objection to my retiring a few minutes to my bedroom, till the officers come—I have papers to arrange?”

McElvina acceded; and Rainscourt, bowing low for the attention, went into the adjoining room, and closed the door. A few seconds had but elapsed, when the report of a pistol was heard. McElvina rushed in, and found Rainscourt dead upon the floor, the gorgeous tapestry besprinkled with the blood and brains of the murderer and the suicide.

One more scene, and all is over. Draw up the curtain, and behold the chamber in which, but the evening before, two souls, as pure as ever spurned the earth and flew to heaven,—two forms, perfect as ever nature moulded in her happiest mood,—two hearts, that beat responsive without one stain of self,—two hands, that plighted troth, and vowed and meant to love and cherish, with all that this world could offer in possession,—health, wealth, power of intellect and cultivated minds—Joy and Love hand in hand smiling on the present—Hope, with her gilded wand, pointing to futurity,—all vanished! And, in their place standing like funeral mourners, at each corner of the bed, Misery,—Despair,—Agony,—and Death!—Woe, woe, too great for utterance—all is as silent, as horribly silent, as the grave yawning for its victim.

McElvina and Susan are supporting the sufferer in his last agonies; and as he writhes, and his beseeching eyes are turned towards them, supply the water, which but for a moment damps the raging fire within.

The surgeon has retired from his useless and painful task—habituated to death, but not to such a scene as this.

The vicar, anxious to administer religious balm, knows that in excruciating torture his endeavours would be vain, and the tears roll down his cheeks as he turns away from a sight which his kind heart will not allow him to behold.

Emily is on her knees, holding Seymour’s hand, which, even in his agony, he attempts not to remove. Her face is lying down upon it, that she may not behold his sufferings. She speaks not—moves not—weeps not—all is calm—deceitful calm—her heart is broken!

And there he lies—“the young, the beautiful, the brave in one short hour to be:—

“A thing
O’er which the raven flaps her funeral wing.”