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Chapter Fifty Seven.

Ah me! what perils do environ

The man that meddles with cold iron;

What plaguey mischiefs and mishaps

To dog him still with after-claps.

Hudibras.

The melancholy loss of lives which we have detailed, occurred upon a reef of rocks close to Cape — , on the coast of Galway, and not four miles from the castle and property held by Mr Rainscourt. The intelligence had been communicated to McElvina by some of his tenants, early in the morning of the day on which the survivors had gained the shore. The western gales, sweeping the Atlantic, and blowing with such fury on the coast, would not permit any vegetation or culture so near the beach; but when once past the range of hills which exposed their rugged sides as barriers to the blast, the land was of good quality, and thickly tenanted. The people were barbarous to an excess, and, as they had stated, claimed a traditionary right to whatever property might be thrown up from the numerous wrecks which took place upon the dangerous and iron-bound coast. This will account for the tragical events of the day.

When McElvina was informed of vessels having been stranded, he immediately went up to the castle to procure the means of assistance, which were always held there in readiness, and as many of Rainscourt’s people as could be collected. This, however, required some little delay; and Emily, shocked at the imperfect intelligence which had been conveyed to her, determined to ride down immediately, in company with Mrs McElvina, and a young friend who was staying with her during her father’s absence. On their arrival at the sea-range of hills, the explosion of the shealing, and subsequent conflict between the parties, met their eyes. Emily’s fears, and knowledge of the Irish peasantry, immediately suggested the cause, and, aware of her influence with the Rainscourt tenants, she made all the haste that the roads would permit to arrive at the spot, galloping down the hill, in so bold and dexterous a style, that her companions neither could nor would have dared to keep pace with her. How fortunate was her arrival need hardly be observed, as in all probability the English seamen would eventually have been sacrificed to the cupidity and resentment of the natives.

“William, do you know me?” whispered Emily, as the tears ran down her cheeks, and her countenance betrayed the anguish of her mind.

Seymour pressed the small white hand that trembled in his own, and a faint smile illuminated his features; but the excitement at the appearance of Emily was too great — the blood again gushed from his wound, his eyes closed, and his head fell on his shoulder, as he swooned from the loss of blood.

“Oh, God, preserve him!” cried Emily clasping her hands, and raising her eyes to Heaven, and then sinking down in mental and fervent prayer.

“My dear McElvina, I am so glad that you have come at last,” said Susan, bursting into tears. “Look at whose side Emily is kneeling — ’tis William Seymour, dying.”

“Seymour!” cried McElvina, who had but that moment arrived; but aware of the importance of prompt assistance, he called for the basket containing the restoratives, and gently removing Emily, he took her situation by the side of our wounded hero.

To strip off his clothes, examine the wound, bandage it, so as to prevent a further loss of blood, and pour down his throat some diluted wine, was the work of a few minutes. Seymour, who had only fainted, reopened his eyes, and soon showed the good effects of McElvina’s presence of mind.

“McElvina, — is it not? — Did not I see Emily?”

“Yes, you did, my dear fellow; but keep quiet. I do not think your wound is dangerous.”

“I am better now, McElvina — much better; but I must see Emily.”

McElvina thought it advisable to accede to his wish, and returned to his wife, who was supporting the fainting girl. A glass of water, the assurance that Seymour would do well, if not too much agitated, and a promise exacted from her to say but little, was followed by an interview which had a reviving effect upon both.

Medical practitioners, who dive into the inmost recesses of the human frame in pursuit of knowledge, and who search through the mineral and vegetable kingdom for relief, when will you produce a balm so healing, a specific so powerful, an elixir so instantaneous or restorative, as — joy?

McElvina was in the meantime occupied in preparations for removing the wounded, and portioning out food and necessaries to the rest of the party. When he beheld the sad relics in the shealing, and heard from the boatswain the tragical events of the day, his indignation was beyond bounds. Seven Frenchmen, fifteen Englishmen, and eight Irishmen, had been burnt alive; three Englishmen and five Irishmen had been killed in the affray; making, independently of many severely wounded, a total of thirty-eight who had perished on this disastrous morning.

The Irish who had attacked them were all tenants of the property belonging either to him or Rainscourt — an immediate notice to quit was given to them on the spot, and the dreadful word, emigration, thundered in their ears. This brought them on their knees, with such crying and beseeching, such uncouth and ridiculous gestures, as almost to create a laugh among the English seamen who were witnesses to the scene.

“Well, if them ain’t funny beggars, I’ll be blowed,” cried one of the English seamen.

“Just the wae wid ’em,” observed Conolly, “all honey or all vinegar — there’s never a good turn they won’t do ye now. If it had not been for the ‘cratur’, there wouldn’t have been this blow-up.”

But to continue. The bodies of the dead in the shealing were consigned to the earth as they lay, the four walls composing a mausoleum where animosity was buried. The corpses of McDermot, and the Irish who had been killed in the conflict, were removed by their friends, that they might be waked. By the direction of McElvina the wounded English were carried up by their former antagonists to the small town at the foot of the castle, where surgical assistance was to be obtained. Seymour was placed on a sort of bier that had been constructed for him, Emily and her companions riding by his side; and the cavalcade wound up the hill, the rear brought up by Mr Hardsett and the remainder of the English crew. In two hours all were at their respective destinations; and Seymour, who had been examined by the surgeon upon his arrival at the castle, and whose wound had been pronounced by no means dangerous, was in bed and fast asleep, Susan and Emily watching by his side.

Debriseau, who had recognised his quondam friend McElvina, and perceived by his appearance, and the respect that was shown to him, that he had been more fortunate in his career, since they had parted, than he had himself, from a proud feeling of the moment, did not make himself known. That McElvina, who had no idea of meeting him in such a quarter, should not, in the hurry of the scene, distinguish his former associate, covered as he was with dust and blood, and having the appearance more of a New Zealand warrior than of any other living being, was not surprising — and Debriseau joined the English party in the rear of the cavalcade, and remained with them at the town, while McElvina and the rest of the cortège continued their route to the castle, with the wounded Seymour.

As soon as our hero’s wound had been dressed, and the favourable opinion of the surgeon had been pronounced, McElvina rode down to the town, to make arrangements for the board and lodging of the English seamen. It was then that he was asked by Mr Hardsett, what was to be done with the Frenchman who had been saved.

“Where is he?” demanded McElvina.

Debriseau was summoned to the magistrate, and having cleaned himself of the dust and gore, was immediately recognised.

“Debriseau!” exclaimed McElvina, with astonishment, and a look of displeasure.

“Even so, Captain McElvina,” replied Debriseau haughtily; “you do not seem very well pleased at meeting an old acquaintance.”

“Captain Debriseau, will you do me the favour to step on one side with me. I will ‘be honest,’ with you,” continued McElvina to the Guernseyman, when they were out of hearing of the boatswain and the rest; “and confess that, although I wish you well, I was not pleased at meeting with you here. You addressed me as Captain McElvina — that title has long been dropped. I did once confide to you the secret of my former life, and will own, what I little imagined at the time, that I have in consequence put it into your power to do me serious injury. You must now listen to me, while I give you a sketch of my memoirs, from the time that we parted at Cherbourg.”

McElvina then entered into a short history of what the reader is acquainted with. — “Judge, then, Debriseau,” pursued he, “if, after what has passed, I could ‘honestly’ say that I was glad to see you — who not only, by your presence, reminded me of my former irregularities, but had the means, if you thought proper, of acquainting my friends and acquaintances with what I wish I could forget myself.”

“Captain — I beg your pardon — Mr McElvina,” replied Debriseau with dignity, “I will be as honest as you. I am here without a sou, and without a shirt, and when I leave this, I know not where to lay my hand upon either; but rather than betray a confidence reposed in me, rather than injure one who always was my friend, or, what is still more unworthy, attempt to work upon your fears to my own advantage, I would suffer death, nay, more — Sacristie — I would sooner turn custom-house officer. No, no, McElvina — je suis Français, moi — bah, I mean I am a true Englishman. Never mind what I am — all countries are alike, if a man’s heart is in the right place. I sincerely wish you joy of your good fortune, and know nobody that in my opinion deserves it more. I shall go to prison with some resignation, now that I know you have been so fortunate; and do me not the injustice to imagine that you will ever be troubled by either seeing or hearing from me.”

“I waited for this answer, Debriseau: had you made any other, I would have run the risk and defied you; nothing would have induced me to have offered to bribe your silence. But I rejoice in your honest and manly conduct — ‘Honesty is the best policy,’ Debriseau. I can now offer, and you can accept, without blushing on either side, that assistance which I have both the power and will to grant. There is no occasion for your going to prison. I make the returns as magistrate, and, as you are an English subject, will be answerable for the omission. We are too far from the world here to have any questions asked. And now let me know how I can be of any service to you, for my purse and interest you may command.”

“Well, then, to tell you the truth, I am fit for nothing on shore. I must have another vessel, if I can get one.”

“Not a smuggling vessel, I hope,” replied McElvina, gravely.

“I should prefer it certainly. Why, there’s no harm in smuggling, if I recollect your arguments right,” replied Debriseau, smiling. “Do you remember the night that you convinced me?”

“I do, very well,” said McElvina; “but I have reconsidered the subject, and I have one little remark to make, which will upset the whole theory, which is, that other people acting wrong cannot be urged as an excuse for our own conduct. If it were, the world would soon be left without virtue or honesty. You may think me scrupulous; but I am sincere. Cannot you hit upon something else?”

“Why, I should have no objection to command a fine merchant vessel, if I could obtain such a thing.”

“That you shall,” replied McElvina; “and to make sure of it, and render you more independent, you shall be part owner. Consider it as une affaire arrangée. And now allow me to offer you the means of improving your personal appearance — I presume the leathern bag is empty?”

“Bah! a long while ago. After I had lost my vessel, I made up to Mademoiselle Picardon; I thought it would not be a bad speculation — but she never forgave me kicking that dirty puppy down stairs — little beast!”

“Ah! you forget some of my remarks,” replied McElvina, laughing — “‘Love me, love my dog.’ Now oblige me by accepting this; and, Debriseau (excuse me), there’s a capital barber in this street. Au revoir.”

Chapter Fifty Eight.

Under his lordship’s leave, all must be mine.

Middleton.

The first moments of leisure that McElvina could obtain from his duties were employed in writing to the vicar, informing him of the reappearance of Seymour, under such peculiar circumstances; and requesting his immediate presence, that our hero’s claims to the property of Admiral de Courcy might be established. As before observed, Rainscourt was not at the castle, nor was he expected for some days, having accepted an invitation to join a shooting party some miles distant. A letter was despatched to him by his daughter, detailing the circumstances of the shipwreck, stating that the wounded officer was in the castle, and that, in consequence, until his return, Mrs McElvina would remain as her companion.

Although the wound that Seymour had received had been pronounced by the surgeon not to be of a dangerous tendency, still, he did not recover so rapidly as might have been expected from his youth and excellent constitution. The fact was, that all his love for Emily, who was constantly at his side, and could not conceal her regard for him, had returned with tenfold violence. The same honourable principle which had before decided him — that of not taking advantage of her prepossession in his favour, and permitting her to throw away herself and her large fortune upon one of unknown parentage and penniless condition, — militated against his passion, and caused such a tumult of contending feelings, as could not but affect a person in his weak state. A slow fever came on, which retarded the cure, and even threatened more serious consequences.

Madame de Staël has truly observed, that love occupies the whole life of a woman. It is not therefore surprising that women should be more skilful in detecting the symptoms of it in others. Mrs McElvina, with the usual penetration of her sex, discovered what was passing in the mind of Seymour, and communicated her suspicions to her husband. As for some days the health of our hero rather declined than improved, McElvina determined to entrust him with the secret of his birth, which, by removing all difficulties, he imagined would produce a beneficial effect. But there was one point which McElvina could not conceal from our hero, which was the melancholy fact of his father having, under an assumed name, fallen a sacrifice to the offended laws of his country; and the knowledge of this had so serious an effect upon Seymour, as almost to neutralise the joy arising from the rest of the communication. The first question which he asked himself was, whether Emily would or ought to marry a man whose father had perished by so ignominious a death; and, now that all other impediments to his making her an offer of his hand were removed, whether that circumstance alone would not be an insuperable bar to their union. Agitated by these conflicting doubts Seymour passed a sleepless night, and on the ensuing morning his fever had alarmingly increased. This was observed by the surgeon, who stated that he could not account for it, except by supposing that there was something heavy on the mind of his patient, which, unless removed, would retard, if not prevent, recovery.

Susan, who with her husband had imagined that the disclosure which had taken place would have had a beneficial effect, hastened to the sick chamber, and soon persuaded our hero to make her a confidant of his doubts and fears. “There is but one who can satisfy you on that point, my dear William,” replied she; “for although I feel convinced that I can answer for her, it is not exactly a case of proxy — McElvina will be here directly, and then I will obtain his permission to disclose the whole to Emily, and you will have the answer from her own lips.”

In the course of the forenoon, Emily was made acquainted with the eventful history of our hero’s birth and parentage — of her no longer being an heiress — of his ardent love for her, and of the fears that he entertained upon the subject.

“I am only sorry for one thing,” replied Emily, “that he did not ask me to marry him when I thought that I was an heiress — now, if I accept him, I am afraid it may be thought — oh, if you knew how I have loved him — how I have thought of him when far away,” cried the sobbing girl, “you would not — no one would think me capable of interested motives. — I am so glad the property is his,” continued Emily, looking and smiling through her tears.

“Why, my dear Emily, if you begin to make difficulties, we shall be worse than ever. There never was a more fortunate occurrence than this attachment between you and Seymour. It reconciles all difficulties, puts an end to all Chancery suits, and will shower general happiness, when some at least must have been made miserable. Come with me — William is very feverish this morning: you only can do him good.”

Mrs McElvina led the agitated girl into the sick chamber, and whispering to Seymour that Emily knew all, and that all was well, was so very imprudent as to allow her feelings to overcome her sense of chaperonism, and left them together.

I am aware that I now have a fair opportunity of inserting a most interesting conversation, full of ohs and ahs, dears and sweets, etcetera, which would be much relished by all misses of seventeen, or thereabouts; but as I do not write novels for them, and the young couple have no secrets to which the reader is not already a party, I shall leave them to imagine the explanation, with all its concomitant retrospections and anticipations, softened with tears and sweetened with kisses; and, as the plot now thickens, change the scene to the dressing-room of Rainscourt, who had now just risen, at his usual hour, viz., between two and three in the afternoon. His French valet is in attendance shaving him, and dressing his hair, and communicating what little intelligence he has been enabled to collect for his master’s amusement.

“Monsieur has not seen the young officer who was wounded?”

“No; I wonder why they brought him up here. What sort of a person is he?”

“C’est un joli garçon, Monsieur, avec l’air bien distingué. — I carried in the water this morning when his wound was dressed, for I had the curiosity to see him — C’est un diable de blessure — and the young officer has a very singular mark on his right shoulder, like — comment l’appelez-vous? — pied du corbeau.”

Rainscourt started under the operation of the razor: he remembered the mark of the grandchild, so minutely described by the vicar.

“Pardon, Monsieur, ce n’est pas ma faute,” said the valet, applying a napkin to stanch the blood which flowed from his master’s cheek.

“It was not,” replied Rainscourt, recovering himself; “I had a slight spasm.”

The operation was continued, and fortunately had just been finished when the valet resumed, — “Et rappelez-vous Monsieur le Vicaire de — . Il est arrivé hier au soir, on a visit to Mr McElvina.”

“The devil he is?” replied Rainscourt, springing from his chair, at the corroborating incident to his previous ground of alarm.

The astonished countenance of the valet restored the master to his senses. “Bring me my coffee — I am nervous this morning.”

But Rainscourt had not long to endure suspense. He had barely finished his toilet, when he was informed that the vicar, McElvina, and some other gentlemen, were below, and wished to speak to him. Rainscourt, anxious to know the worst, descended to the library, where he found the parties before mentioned, accompanied by Debriseau and a legal gentleman. We shall not enter into details. To the dismay of Rainscourt, the identity of our hero was established beyond all doubt, and he felt convinced that eventually he should be forced to surrender up the property. His indignation was chiefly levelled at McElvina, whom he considered as the occasion of the whole, not only from having rescued our hero from the wreck, but because it was by his assertions, corroborated by Debriseau, that the chain of evidence was clearly substantiated. McElvina, who, from long acquaintance, had a feeling towards Rainscourt which his conduct did not deserve, waited only for his acknowledgment of our hero’s claim to communicate the circumstance of the attachment between the young people, which would have barred all further proceedings, and have settled it in an amicable arrangement.

“Well, gentlemen,” observed Rainscourt, “if you can satisfactorily prove in a court of justice all you have now stated, I shall of course bow to its decision; but you must excuse me if, out of regard to my daughter, I resist, until the assertions can be substantiated on oath. You cannot expect otherwise.”

“We do not expect otherwise, Mr Rainscourt,” replied McElvina, — “but we think it will not be necessary that it should go into court.”

“Mr McElvina,” interrupted Rainscourt, angrily, — “I wish no observations from you. After your intimacy with the family, particularly with my daughter, who, by your means, will probably forfeit all her prospects, I consider your conduct base and treacherous. You’ll excuse my ringing the bell for the servant to show you the door.”

McElvina turned pale with rage. “Then, sir, you shall have no suggestions from me. Come, gentlemen, we will retire,” continued McElvina, now determined that Rainscourt should be left in ignorance for the present; and the parties quitted the room, little contemplating that such direful consequences would ensue from this trifling altercation.