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."