The King's Own Part 52

Note. It is singular that the almost incredible story in the above chapter is, perhaps, the only real fact in the whole book. It will be found in the log of the ship, and signed by all the officers; and yet many of my readers will be inclined to reject this, and believe a considerable portion of the remainder of the composition to have been drawn from living characters; if so, they will be like the old woman.

CHAPTER FIFTY.

_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 hara.s.sed 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 a.s.sails 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 h.e.l.l 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, st.u.r.dy 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 a.s.sociation 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 circ.u.mstantially, 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 circ.u.mstances, 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 s.p.a.ce 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 doc.u.ments; and his ident.i.ty 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 G.o.d! how inscrutable are thy ways!" exclaimed the vicar with astonishment and reverence. "Explain to me, my dear sir,--how can you establish your a.s.sertion?"

If the reader will refer back to the circ.u.mstance 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 circ.u.mstances 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 ident.i.ty 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sport 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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.

CHAPTER FIFTY ONE.

And now, with sails declined, The wandering vessel drove before the wind; Toss'd and retoss'd aloft, and then alow; Nor port they seek, nor certain course they know, But every moment wait the coming blow.

DRYDEN.

Three days after the _Aspasia_ had taken a fresh departure from the Western Isles, a thick fog came on, the continuance of which prevented them from ascertaining their situation by the chronometer. The wind, which blew favourably from the south-east, had, by their dead reckoning, driven them as far north as the lat.i.tude of Ushant, without their once having had an opportunity of finding out the precise situation of the frigate. The wind now shifted more to the eastward, and increasing to a gale, Captain M--- determined upon making Cape Clear, on the southern coast of Ireland; but having obtained sights for the chronometers it was discovered that they were far to the westward of the reckoning, and had no chance of making the point of land which they had intended. For many days they had to contend against strong easterly gales, with a heavy sea, and had sought shelter under the western coast of Ireland.

The weather moderating, and the wind veering again to the southward, the frigate's head was put towards the sh.o.r.e, that they might take a fresh departure; but scarcely had they time to congratulate themselves upon the prospect of soon gaining a port, when there was every appearance of another gale coming on from the south-west. As this was from a quarter which, in all probability, would scarcely allow the frigate to weather Mizen-head, she was hauled off on the larboard tack, and all sail put on her which prudence would permit in the heavy cross sea, which had not yet subsided.

"We shall have it all back again, I am afraid, sir," observed the master, looking to windward at the horizon, which, black as pitch, served as a background to relieve the white curling tops of the seas.

"Shall we have the trysails up, and bend them?"

"The boatswain is down after them now, Pearce," said the first-lieutenant.

"The weather is indeed threatening," replied the captain, as he turned from the weather gangway, where he had been standing, and wiped the spray from his face, with which the atmosphere was charged; "and I perceive that the gla.s.s is very low. Send the small sails down out of the tops; as soon as the staysail is on her, lower the gaff, and furl the spanker; the watch will do. When we go to quarters, we'll double-breech the guns. Let the carpenter have his tarpaulins ready for battening down--send for the boatswain, and let the boats on the booms be well secured. Is that eight bells striking? Then pipe to supper first; and, Mr Hardy," added Captain M---, as he descended the companion-ladder, "they may as well hook the rolling-tackles again."

"Ay, ay, sir," replied Hardy, as the captain disappeared. "I say, master, the skipper don't like it--I'll swear that by his look as he turned from the gangway. He was as stern as the figure-head of the _Mars_."

"That's just his way; if even the elements threaten him, he returns the look of defiance."

"He does so," replied the master, who appeared to be unusually grave (as if in sad presentiment of evil). "I've watched him often.--But it's no use--they mind but one."

"Very true--neither can you conciliate them by smiling; the only way to look is _to look sharp out_. Eh, master?" said the first-lieutenant, slapping him familiarly on the back.