_Cym_.
Guiderius had
Upon his neck a mole, a sanguine star.
_Bel_.
This is he,
Who hath upon him still that stamp.
SHAKESPEARE.
When Mr Rainscourt left Cheltenham, he wrote a hasty note to the
McElvinas, requesting that they would take charge of Emily, whose
presence would be necessary at the Hall--and, when they had arranged
their own affairs, would bring her with them over to Ireland, where it
was his intention to reside for some time. A few days after Rainscourt
had quitted Cheltenham, Emily, who, since her mother's death, had
remained with the McElvinas, was accompanied by them to that home which,
for the first time, she returned to with regret.
It may be inquired by the reader, whether Rainscourt was not harassed by
his conscience. I never heard that he showed any outward signs.
Conscience has been described as a most importunate monitor, paying no
respect to persons, and making cowards of us all. Now, as far as I have
been able to judge from external evidence, there is not a greater
courtier than conscience. It is true, that, when in adversity, he
upbraids us, and holds up the catalogue of our crimes so close to our
noses, that we cannot help reading every line. It is true, that, when
suffering with disease, and terrified with the idea of going we know not
where, he assails the enfeebled mind and body, and scares away the
little resolution we have left. But in the heydey of youth, in the
vigour of health, with the means of administering to our follies, and
adding daily and hourly to our crimes, "he never mentions hell to ears
polite." In fact, he never attacks a man who has more than ten thousand
a year. Like a London tradesman, he never presents his bill as long as
you give him fresh orders that will increase it; but once prove yourself
to be "cleaned out," by no longer swelling the amount, and he pounces
upon you, and demands a post-obit bond upon the next world, which, like
all others, will probably be found very disagreeable and inconvenient to
liquidate. Conscience, therefore, is not an honest, sturdy adviser, but
a sneaking scoundrel, who allows you to run into his debt, never caring
to tell you, as a caution, but rather concealing your bill from you, as
long as there is a chance of your increasing its length--satisfied that,
eventually, he must be paid in some shape or other.
The McElvinas, who could not leave Emily by herself, took up their abode
at the Hall, until the necessary arrangements had been completed, and
then removed with her to the cottage, that they might attend to their
own affairs. Emily was deeply affected at the loss of her mother. She
had always been a kind and indulgent friend, who had treated her more as
an equal than as one subject to authority and control. The McElvinas
were anxious to remove Emily from the Hall, where every object that
presented itself formed a link of association with her loss, and,
trifles in themselves, would occasion a fresh burst of grief from the
affectionate and sorrowful girl. And she may be pardoned when I state,
that, perhaps, the bitterest tears which were shed were those when she
threw herself on that sofa where she had remained after the abrupt
departure of William Seymour.
The vicar hastened to offer his condolence; and finding that Emily was
as resigned as could be expected, after a long visit walked out with
McElvina, that he might have a more detailed account of the unfortunate
event. McElvina related it circumstantially, but without communicating
the suspicions which the story of the grooms had occasioned, for he was
aware that the vicar was too charitable to allow anything but positive
evidence to be of weight in an accusation so degrading to human nature.
"It is strange," observed the vicar, very gravely, "but it seems as if a
fatality attended the possessors of this splendid estate. The death of
Admiral de Courcy was under most painful circumstances, without friend
or relation to close his eyes; it was followed by that of his immediate
heir, who was drowned as soon almost as the property devolved to him--
and I, who was appointed to be his guardian, never beheld my charge.
Now we have another violent death of the possessor--and all within the
space of twelve or thirteen years. You have probably heard something of
the singular history of the former heir to the estate?"
"I heard you state that he was drowned at sea; but nothing further."
"Or, rather, supposed to be, for we never had proof positive. He was
sent away in a prize, which never was heard of; and, although there is
no confirmation of the fact, I have no doubt but he was lost. I do not
know when I was so much distressed as at the death of that child. There
was a peculiarity of incident in his history, the facts of which I have
not as yet communicated to any one, as there are certain points which
even distant branches of the family may wish to keep concealed--yet,
upon a promise of secrecy, Mr McElvina, I will impart them to you."
The promise being given, the vicar commenced with the history of Admiral
de Courcy,--his treatment of his wife and children,--the unfortunate
marriage, and more unfortunate demise of Edward Peters, or rather of
Edward de Courcy--the acknowledgment of his grandson by Admiral de
Courcy on his death-bed--the account of Adams--his death--the boy being
sent away in a prize, and drowned at sea. "I have all the particulars
in writing," continued the good man, "and the necessary documents; and
his identity was easy to be proved by the mark of the broad-arrow
imprinted on his shoulder by old Adams."
"Heavens! is it possible?" exclaimed McElvina, grasping the arm of the
vicar.
"What do you mean?"
"Mean!--I mean that the boy is alive--has been in your company within
the last two years."
"That boy?"
"Yes, that boy--that boy is William Seymour."
"Merciful God! how inscrutable are thy ways!" exclaimed the vicar with
astonishment and reverence. "Explain to me, my dear sir,--how can you
establish your assertion?"
If the reader will refer back to the circumstance of the vicar calling
upon Captain M---, he will observe that, upon being made acquainted with
the loss of the child, he was so much shocked that he withdrew without
imparting the particulars to one who was a perfect stranger; and, on the
other hand, Captain M---, when Seymour again made his appearance, after
an interval of three years, not having been put in possession of these
facts, or even knowing the vicar's address or name, had no means of
communicating the intelligence of the boy's recovery.
"I must now, sir," said McElvina to the vicar, "return the confidence
which you have placed in me, under the same promise of secrecy, by
making you acquainted with some particulars of my former life, at which
I acknowledge I have reason to blush, and which nothing but the
interests of William Seymour would have induced me to disclose."
McElvina then acknowledged his having formerly been engaged in
smuggling--his picking up the boy from the wreck--his care of him for
three years--the capture of his vessel by Captain M---, and the
circumstances that had induced Captain M--- to take the boy under his
protection. The mark was as legible as ever, and there could be no
doubt of his identity being satisfactorily established.
The vicar listened to the narration with the interest which it deserved,
and acknowledged his conviction of the clearness of the evidence, by
observing--
"This will be a heavy blow to our dear Emily."
"Not a very heavy one, I imagine," replied McElvina, who immediately
relieved the mind of the worthy man by communicating the attachment
between them, and the honourable behaviour of Seymour.
"How very strange this is!" replied the vicar. "It really would be a
good subject for a novel. I only trust that, like all inventions of the
kind, it may end as happily."
"I trust so too; but let us now consider what must be done."
"I should advise his being sent for immediately."
"And so should I: but I expect, from the last accounts which I received
from him, that the ship will have left her station to return home before
our letters can arrive there. My plan is, to keep quiet until his
return. The facts are known, and can be established by us alone. Let
us immediately take such precautions as our legal advisers my think
requisite, that proofs may not be wanting in case of our sudden demise;
but we must not act until he arrives in the country, for Mr Rainscourt
is a difficult and dangerous person to deal with."
"You are right," replied the vicar; "when do you leave this [house] for
Ireland?"
"In a few days--but I shall be ready to appear the moment that I hear of
the ship's arrival. In the meantime, I shall make the necessary
affidavits, in case of accident."
McElvina and the vicar separated. McElvina, like a dutiful husband,
communicated the joyful intelligence to his wife, and his wife, to
soothe Emily under her affliction, although she kept the secret, now
talked of Seymour. In a few days the arrangements were made--the
cottage was put into an agent's hands to be disposed of; and, quitting
with regret an abode in which they had passed some years of unalloyed
happiness, they set off for Galway, where they found Rainscourt on their
arrival. Consigning his daughter to his care, they removed to their own
house, which was on the property which McElvina had purchased, and about
four miles distant from the castle. McElvina's name was a passport to
the hearts of his tenants, who declared that the head of the house had
come unto his own again. That he had the true eye of the McElvinas,
there was no mistaking, for no other family had such an eye. That his
honour had gladdened their hearts by seeing the property into the ould
family again--as ould a one as any in ould Ireland.
McElvina, like a wise man, held his tongue; and then they talked of
their misfortunes--of the bad potato crop--of arrears of rent--one
demand was heaped upon another, until McElvina was ultimately obliged to
refer them all to the agent, whom he requested to be as lenient as
possible.
Emily was now reinstated in the castle where she had passed the first
years of her existence, and found that all in it was new, except her old
nurse, Norah. The contiguity of the McElvinas was a source of comfort
to her, for she could not admire the dissipated companions of her
father. Her life was solitary--but she had numerous resources within
herself, and the winter passed rapidly away.
In the spring, she returned to London with her father, who proudly
introduced his daughter. Many were the solicitations of those who
admired her person, or her purse. But in vain: her heart was
pre-engaged; and it was with pleasure that she returned to Ireland,
after the season was over, to renew her intimacy with the McElvinas, and
to cherish, in her solitude, the remembrance of the handsome and
high-minded William Seymour.