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."