--Miss Gourlay takes Refuge with an Old Friend.
Little did Lucy dream that the fact of their discovery as
fellow-travellers would so soon reach her father's ears, and that the
provision against that event, and the inferences which calumny might
draw from it, as suggested by her prudence and good sense, should render
her advice to the stranger so absolutely necessary.
Whilst the brief dialogue which we have recited at the close of the last
chapter took place, another, which as a faithful historian we are bound
to detail, was proceeding between the redoubtable Crackenfudge and our
facetious friend, Dandy Dulcimer. Crackenfudge in following the stranger
to the metropolis by the 'Flash of Lightning', in order to watch his
movements, was utterly ignorant that Lucy had been that gentleman's
fellow-traveller in the Fly. A strong opposition, as we have already
said, existed between the two coaches, and so equal was their speed,
that in consequence of the mutual delay caused by changing horses, they
frequently passed each other on the road, the driver, guard, and outside
passengers of both coaches uniformly grimacing at each other amidst a
storm of groans, cheers, and banter on both sides. So equal, however,
were their relative powers of progress, that no effort on either side
was found sufficient to enable any one of them to claim a victory.
On the contrary, their contests generally ended in a dead heat, or
something very nearly approaching it. On the night in question the 'Fly'
had a slight advantage, and but a slight one. Before the coachman had
time to descend from his ample seat, the 'Flash of Lightning' came
dashing in at a most reckless speed--the unfortunate horses snorting and
panting--steaming with smoke, which rose from them in white wreaths, and
streaming in such a manner with perspiration that it was painful to look
upon them.
Crackenfudge was one of the first out of the 'Flash of Lightning',
which, we should say, drew up at a rival establishment, directly
opposite that which patronized the 'Fly'. He lost no time in sending
in his trunk by “boots,” or some other of those harpies that are always
connected with large hotels in the metropolis. Having accomplished this,
he set himself, but quite in a careless way, to watch the motions of the
stranger. For this purpose he availed himself of a position from whence
he could see without being himself seen. Judge, then, of his surprise on
ascertaining that the female whom he saw with the stranger was no other
than Lucy Gourlay, and in conversation with the very individual with
whose name, motions, and projects he wished so anxiously to become
acquainted. If he watched Miss Gourlay and her companion well however,
he himself was undergoing quite as severe a scrutiny. Dandy Dulcimer
having observed him, in consequence of some hints that he had already
received from a source with which the reader may become ultimately
acquainted, approached, and putting his hand to his hat, exclaimed:
“Why, then, Counsellor Crackenfudge, is it here I find your honor?”
“Don't you see a'm here, Dandy, my fine fellow?” and this he uttered
in a very agreeable tone, simply because he felt a weak and pitiable
ambition to be addressed by the title of “Your honor.”
“What does all this mean, Dandy?” asked Crackenfudge; “it looks vary odd
to see Miss Gourlay in conversation with an impostor--a' think it's an
elopement, Dandy. And pray Dandy, what brought you to town?”
“I think your honor's a friend to Sir Thomas, counsellor?” replied
Dandy, answering by another question.
“A' am, Dandy, a stanch friend to Sir Thomas.”
“Bekaise I know that if you aren't a friend of his, he is a friend of
yours. I was playin' a tune the other day in the hall, and while I
was in the very middle of it I heard him say--'We must have Counsellor
Crackenfudge on the bench;' and so they had a long palaver about you,
and the whole thing ended by Sir Thomas getting the tough old Captain
to promise you his support, with some great man that they called _custos
rascalorum_.”
“A' am obliged to Sir Thomas,” said Crackenfudge, “and a' know he is a
true friend of mine.”
“Ay, but will you now be a true friend to him, plaise your honor,
counsellor?”
“To be sure I will, Dandy, my fine fellow.”
“Well, then, listen--Sir Thomas got me put into this strange fellow's
sarvice, in ordher to ah--ahem--why, you see in ordher to keep an eye
upon him--and, what do you think? but he's jist afther tellin' me that
he doesn't think he'll have any further occasion for my sarvices.”
“Well, a' think that looks suspicious--it's an elopement, there's no
doubt about it.”
“I think so, your honor; although I am myself completely in the dark
about it, any farther than this, counsellor--listen, now--I know the
road they're goin', for I heard it by accident--they'll be off, too,
immediately. Now, if your honor is a true friend to Sir Thomas, you'll
take a post chaise and start off a little before them upon the Isaas
road. You know that by going before them, they never can suspect that
you're followin' them. I'll remain here to watch their motions, and
while you keep before them, I'll keep after them, so that it will be the
very sorra if they escape us both. Whisper, counsellor, your honor--I'm
in Sir Thomas's pay. Isn't that enough? but I want assistance, and if
you're his friend, as you say, you will be guided by me and sarve him.”
Crackenfudge felt elated; he thought of the magistracy, of his privilege
to sit on the bench in all the plenitude of official authority; he
reflected that he could commit mendicants, impostors, vagrants, and
vagabonds of all descriptions, and that he would be entitled to the
solemn and reverential designation of “Your worship.” Here, then, was
an opening. The very object for which he came to town was
accomplished--that is to say, the securing to himself the magistracy
through the important services rendered to Sir Thomas Gourlay.
It occurred to him, we admit, that as it must have been evidently a case
of elopement, it might be his duty to have the parties arrested, until
at least the parent of the lady could be apprised of the circumstances.
There was, however, about Crackenfudge a wholesome regard for what is
termed a whole skin, and as he had been, through the key-hole of the
Mitre inn, a witness of certain scintillations and flashes that lit up
the eye of this most mysterious stranger, he did not conceive that such
steps and his own personal safety were compatible. In the meantime, he
saw that there was an air of sincerity and anxiety about Dandy Dulcimer,
which he could impute to nothing but a wish, if possible, to make a
lasting friend of Sir Thomas, by enabling him to trace his daughter.
Dandy's plea and plan both succeeded, and in the course of a few minutes
Crackenfudge was posting at an easy rate toward the town of Naas. Many a
look did he give out of the chaise, with a hope of being able to observe
the vehicle which contained those for whom he was on the watch, but in
vain. Nothing of the kind was visible; but notwithstanding this he drove
on to the town, where he ordered breakfast in a private room, with the
anxious expectation that they might soon arrive. At length, his patience
having become considerably exhausted, he determined to return to Dublin,
and provided he met them, with Dandy in pursuit, to wheel about and also
to join the musician in the chase. Having settled his bill, which he did
not do without half an hour's wrangling with the waiter, he came to the
hall door, from which a chaise with close Venetian blinds was about to
start, and into which he thought the figure of a man entered, who very
much resembled that of Corbet, Sir Thomas's house steward and most
confidential servant. Of this, however, he could not feel quite certain,
as he had not at all got a glimpse of his face. On inquiring, he found
that the chaise contained another man also, who was so ill as not to
be able to leave it. One of them, however, drank some spirits in the
chaise, and got a bottle of it, together with some provisions, to take
along with them.
So far had Crackenfudge been most adroitly thrown off the trace of Miss
Gourlay and the stranger; and when Dandy joined his master, who, from
principles of delicacy and respect for Lucy, went to the opposite
inn, he candidly told him of the hoax he had played off on the embryo
magistrate.
“I sent him, your honor, upon what they call a fool's errand, and
certain I am, he is the very boy will deliver it--not but that he's the
divil's own knave on the other. The truth is, sir, it's just one day a
knave and the other a fool with him.”
The stranger paid little attention to these observations, but walked
up and down the room in a state of sorrow and disappointment, that
completely abstracted him from every object around him.
“Good. God!” he exclaimed, “she will not even allow me to know the
place of her retreat, and she may stand in need of aid and support, and
probably of protection, a thousand ways. Would to heaven I knew how to
trace her, and become acquainted with her residence, and that more for
her own sake than for mine!”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Dandy, “I see a cousin o' mine over the
way; would your honor give me a couple of hours to spend wid him? I
haven't seen him this--God knows how long.”
Well might Dandy say so--the cousin alluded to having been only
conceived and brought forth from his own own fertile fancy at the
moment, or rather, while his master was unconsciously uttering his
soliloquy. The truth was, that while the latter spoke, Dandy, whom
he had ordered to attend him, without well knowing why, observed a
hackney-coach draw up at the door of the opposite hotel; but this fact
would not have in any particular way arrested his attention, had he not
seen Alley Mahon giving orders to the driver.
“You'll give me a couple of hours, your honor?”
“I'll give you the whole day, Dandy, if you wish. I shall be engaged,
and will not require any further services from you until to-morrow.”
Dandy looked at him very significantly, and with a degree of assurance,
for which we can certainly offer no apology, puckered his naturally
comic face into a most mysterious grin, and closing one eye, or in other
words, giving his master a knowing wink, said--
“Very well, sir, I know how many banes makes five at any rate--let me
alone.”
“What do you mean, you varlet,” said his master, “by that impudent
wink?”
“Wink?” replied Dandy, with a face of admirable composure. “Oh, you
observed it, then? Sure, God help me, it's a wakeness I have in one of
my eyes ever since I had the small-pock.”
“And pray which eye is it in?” asked his master.
“In the left, your honor.”
“But, you scoundrel, you winked at me with the right.”
“Troth, sir, maybe I did, for it sometimes passes from the one to the
other wid me--but not often indeed--it's principally in my left.”
“Very well; but in speaking to me, use no such grimaces in future;
and now go see your cousin. I shall sleep for a few hours, for I feel
somewhat jaded, paid out of order on many accounts. But before you go,
listen to me, and mark me well. You saw me in conversation with Miss
Gourlay?”
Dandy, whose perception was quick as lightning, had his finger on his
lips immediately. “I understand you, sir,” said he; “and once for all,
sir,” he proceeded, “do you listen to me. You may lay it down as one of
the ten commandments, that any secret you may plaise to trust me with,
will be undher a tombstone. I'm not the stuff that a traitor or villain
is made of. So, once for fill, your honor, make your mind aisy on that
point.”
“It will be your own interest to prove faithful,” said his master. “Here
is a month's wages for you in advance.”
Dandy, having accepted the money, immediately proceeded to the next
hackney station, which was in the same street, where he took a coach
by the hour; and having got into it, ordered the driver to follow that
which he saw waiting at the door of the hotel aforesaid.
“Folly that hackney,” said he to the driver, “at what is called a
respectful distance, an' you'll be no loser by it.”
“Is there a piece of fun in the wind?” asked the driver, with a knowing
grin.
“When you go to your Padereens tonight,” replied Dandy, “that is, in
case you ever trouble them, you may swear it on them.”
“Whish! More power--I'm the boy will rowl you on.”
“There, they're off,” said Dandy; “but don't be in a hurry, for fraid we
might seem to folly them--only for your life and sowl, and as you hope
to get half-a-dozen gum-ticklers when we come come back--don't let them
out o' sight. By the rakes o' Mallow, this jaunt may be the makin' o'
you. Says his lordship to me, 'Dandy,' says he, 'find out where she goes
to, and you and every one that helps you to do so, is a made man.'”
“Ha, ha!” exclaimed the driver, with glee, “is that it? Come,
then--here's at you--they're off.”
It was not yet five o'clock, and the stranger requested to be shown to a
bedroom, to which he immediately retired, in order to gain a few hours'
sleep, after the fatigue of his journey and the agitation which he had
Undergone.
In the meantime, as Dandy followed Miss Gourlay, so shall we follow
him. The chase, we must admit, was conducted with singular judgment and
discretion, the second chaise jogging on--but that, in fact, is not the
term--we should rather say flogging on, inasmuch as that which contained
the fair fugitives went at a rate of most unusual speed. In this manner
they proceeded, until they reached a very pretty cottage, about three
quarters of a mile from the town of Wicklow, situated some fifty or
sixty yards in from the road side. Here they stopped; but Dandy desired
his man to drive slowly on. It was evident that this cottage was the
destination of the fugitives. Dandy, having turned a corner of the road,
desired the driver to stop and observe whether they entered or not; and
the latter having satisfied himself that they did--
“Now,” said Dandy, “let us wait where we are till we see whether the
chaise returns or not; if it does, all's right, and I know what I know.”
In a few minutes the empty chaise started once more for Dublin,
followed, as before, by the redoubtable Dulcimer, who entered the city
a much more important person than when he left it. Knowledge, as Bacon
says, is power.
About two o'clock the stranger was dressed, had breakfasted, and having
ordered a car, proceeded to Constitution Hill. As he went up the street,
he observed the numbers of the houses as well as he could, for some had
numbers and some had not. Among the latter was that he sought for, and
he was consequently obliged to inquire. At length he found it, and saw
by a glance that it was one of those low lodging-houses to which country
folks of humble rank--chapmen, hawkers, pedlers, and others of a,
similar character--resort. It was evident, also, that the proprietor
dealt in huckstery, as he saw a shop in which there was bacon, meal,
oats, eggs, potatoes, bread, and such other articles as are usually to
be found in small establishments of the kind. He entered the shop, and
found an old man, certainly not less than seventy, but rather beyond it,
sitting behind the counter. The appearance of this man was anything
but prepossessing. His brows were low and heavy; his mouth close,
and remarkably hard for his years; the forehead low and narrow,
and singularly deficient in what phrenologists term the moral and
intellectual qualities. But the worst feature in the whole face might be
read in his small, dark, cunning eyes, which no man of any penetration
could look upon without feeling that they were significant of duplicity,
cruelty, and fraud. His hair, though long, and falling over his neck,
was black as ebony; for although Time had left his impress upon the
general features of his face, it had not discolored a single hair
upon his head; whilst his whiskers, on the contrary, were like snow--a
circumstance which, in connection with his sinister look, gave him a
remarkable and startling appearance. His hands were coarse and strong,
and the joints of his thick fingers were noded either by age or disease;
but, at all events, affording indication of a rude and unfeeling
character.
“Pray,” said the stranger, “is your name Denis Dunphy?”
The old man fastened his rat-like eyes upon him, compressed his hard,
unfeeling lips, and, after surveying him for some time, replied--
“What's your business, sir, with Denis Dunphy?”
“That, my friend, can be mentioned only to himself; are you the man?”
“Well, and what if I be?”
“But I must be certain that you are.”
There was another pause, and a second scrutiny, after which he replied,
“May be my name in Denis Dunphy.”
“I have no communication to make,” said the stranger, “that you may be
afraid of; but, such as it is, it can be made to no person but Denis
Dunphy himself. I have a letter for him.”
“Who does it come from?” asked the cautious Denis Dunphy.
“From the parish priest of Ballytrain,” replied the other, “the Rev.
Father M'Mahon.”
The old man pulled out a large snuff-box, and took a long pinch, which
he crammed with his thumb first into one nostril, then into the other,
bending his head at the same! time to each side, in order to enjoy it
with greater relish, after which he gave a short deliberative cough or
two.
“Well,” said he, “I am Denis Dunphy.”
“In that case, then,” replied the other, “I should very much wish to
have a short private conversation with you of some importance. But you
had better first read the reverend gentleman's letter,” he added, “and
perhaps we shall then understand each other better;” and as he spoke he
handed him the letter.
The man received it, looked at it, and again took a more rapid and less
copious pinch, peered keenly at the stranger, and asked--“Pray, sir, do
you know the contents of this letter?”
“Not a syllable of it.”
He then coughed again, and having opened the document, began
deliberately to peruse it.
The stranger, who was disagreeably impressed by his whole manner and
appearance, made a point to watch the effect which the contents of the
document might have on him. The other, in the meantime, read on, and,
as he proceeded, it was obvious that the communication was not only
one that gave him no pleasure, but filled him with suspicion and alarm.
After about twenty minutes--for it took him at least that length of time
to get through it--he raised his head, and fastening his small, piercing
eyes upon the stranger, said:
“But how do I know that this letter comes from Father M'Mahon?”
“I'd have you to understand, sir,” replied the stranger, nearly losing
his temper, “that you are addressing a gentleman and a man of honor.”
“Faith,” said the other, “I don't know whether I am or not. I have
only your word for it--and no man's willin' to give a bad character of
himself--but if you will keep the shop here for a minute or two, I'll
soon be able to tell whether it's Father M'Mahon'a hand-write or not.”
So saying, he deliberately locked both tills of the counter--to wit,
those which contained the silver and coppers--then, surveying the
stranger with a look of suspicion--a look, by the way, that, after
having made his cash safe, had now something of the triumph and
confidence of security in it, he withdrew to a little backroom, that
was divided from the shop by a partition of boards and a glass door, to
which there was a red curtain.
“It is betther,” said the impudent old sinner, alluding to the cash in
the tills, “to greet over it than greet afther it--just keep the shop
for a couple of minutes, and then we'll undherstand one another, may be.
There's a great many skamers going in this world.”
Having entered the little room in question, he suddenly popped out his
head and asked:
“Could you weigh a stone or a half stone of praties, if they were called
for? But, never mind--you'd be apt to give down weight--I'll come out
and do it myself, if they're wanted;” saying which, he drew the red
curtain aside, in order the better, as it would seem, to keep a watchful
eye upon the other.
The latter was at first offended, but ultimately began to feel amused by
the offensive peculiarities of the old man. He now perceived that he was
eccentric and capricious, and that, in order to lure any information
out of him, it would be necessary to watch and take advantage of the
disagreeable whimsicalities which marked his character. Patience, he saw
clearly, was his only remedy.
After remaining in the back parlor for about eight or ten minutes, he
put out his thin, sharp face, with a grin upon it, which was intended
for a smile--the expression of which, however, was exceedingly
disagreeable.
“We will talk this matter over,” he said, “by and by. I have compared
the hand-write in this letther wid a certificate of Father M'Mahon's,
that I have for many years in my possession. Step inside in the
meantime; the ould woman will be back in a few minutes, and when she
comes we'll go upstairs and speak about it.”
The stranger complied with this invitation, and felt highly gratified
that matters seemed about to take a more favorable turn.
“I trust,” said he, “you are satisfied that I am fully entitled to any
confidence you may feel disposed to place in me?”
“The priest speaks well of you,” replied Dunphy; “but then, sure I know
him; he's so kind-hearted a creature, that any one who speaks him fair,
or that he happens to take a fancy to, will be sure to get his good
word. It isn't much assistance I can give you, and it's not on account
of his letther altogether that I do it; but bekaise I think the time's
come, or rather soon will be come. Oh, here,” he said, “is the ould
woman, and she'll keep the shop. Now, sir, come upstairs, if you plaise,
for what we're goin' to talk about is what the very stones oughtn't to
hear so long as that man--”
He paused, and instantly checked himself, as if he felt that he had
already gone too far.
“Now, sir,” he proceeded, “what is it you expect from me? Name it at
wanst.”
“You are aware,” said the stranger, “that the son of the late Sir Edward
Gourlay, and the heir of his property, disappeared very mysteriously and
suspiciously--”
“And so did the son of the present man,” replied Dunphy, eying the
stranger keenly.
“It is not of him I am speaking,” replied the other; “although at the
same time I must say, that if I could find a trace even of him I would
leave no stone unturned to recover him.”
The old man looked into the floor, and mused for some time.
“It was a strange business,” he observed, “that both should go--you
may take my word, there has been mischief and revenge, or both, at the
bottom of the same business.”
“The worthy priest, whose letter I presented to you to-day, led me to
suppose, that if any man could put me in a capacity to throw light upon
it you could.”
“He didn't say, surely, that I could throw light upon it--did he?”
“No, certainly not--but that if any man could, you are that man.”
“Ay, ay,” replied old Dunphy; “all bekaise he thinks I have a regard for
the Gourlays. That's what makes him suppose that I know anything about
the business; just as if I was in the saicrets of the family. I may have
suspicions like other people; but that's all.”
“Can you throw out no hint, or give no clew, that might aid me in the
recovery of this unhappy young man, if he be alive?”
“You did well to add that, for who can tell whether he is or not?--maybe
it's only thrashing the water you are, after all.”
The stranger saw the old fellow had once more grown cautious, and
avoided giving a direct reply to him; but on considering the matter, he
was, after all, not much surprised at this. The subject involved a black
and heinous crime, and if it so happened that Dunphy could in any way
have been implicated in or connected with it, even indirectly, it would
be almost unreasonable to expect that he should now become his own
accuser. Still the stranger could observe that in spite of all his
caution, there was a mystery and uneasiness in his manner, when talking
of it, which he could not shake off.
When the conversation had reached this point, the old woman called her
husband down in a voice that seemed somewhat agitated, but not, as far
as he could guess, disagreeably.
“Denis, come down a minute,” she said, “come down, will you? here's a
stranger that you haven't seen for some time.”
“What stranger?” he inquired, peevishly. “Who is it? I wish you wouldn't
bother me--I'm talkin' with a gentleman.”
“It's Ginty.”
“Ginty, is it?” said he, musing. “Well, that's odd, too--to think that
she should come at this very moment. Maybe, the hand of G--. I beg your
pardon, sir, for a minute or two--I'll be back immediately.”
He went down stairs, and found in the back parlor the woman named Ginty
Cooper, the same fortune-teller and prophetess whom we have already
described to the reader.
The old man seemed to consider her appearance not as an incident that
stirred up any natural affection in himself, but as one that he looked
upon as extraordinary. Indeed, to tell the truth, he experienced a
sensation of surprise, mingled with a superstitious feeling, that
startled him considerably, by her unexpected appearance at that
particular period. He did not resume his conversation with the stranger
for at least twenty minutes; but the latter was perfectly aware, from
the earnestness of their voices, although their words were not audible,
that he and the new-comer were discussing some topic in which they must
have felt a very deep interest. At length he came up and apologized for
the delay, adding: “With regard to this business, it's altogether out of
my power to give you any assistance. I have nothing but my suspicions,
and it wouldn't be the part of a Christian to lay a crime like that to
any man's door upon mere guess.”
“If you know anything of this dark transaction,” replied the stranger,
whose earnestness of manner was increased by his disappointment, as
well as by an impression that the old man knew more about it than he
was disposed to admit, “and will not enable us to render justice to the
wronged and defrauded orphan, you will have a heavy reckoning of it--an
awful one when you meet your God. By the usual course of nature that
is a reckoning that must soon be made. I advise you, therefore, not to
tamper with your own conscience, nor, by concealing your knowledge of
this great crime to peril your hopes of eternal happiness. Of one thing
you may rest assured, that the justice we seek will not stoop to those
who have been merely instruments in the hands of others.”
“That's all very fine talk,” replied Dunphy, uneasily however, “and from
the high-flown language you give me, I take you to be a lawyer; but
if you were ten times a lawyer, and a judge to the back of that, a man
can't tell what he doesn't know.”
“Mark me,” replied the stranger, assailing him through his cupidity, “I
pledge you my solemn word that for any available information you may or
can give us you shall be most liberally and amply remunerated.”
“I have money enough,” replied Dunphy; “that is to say, as much as
barely does me, for the wealthiest of us cannot bring it to the grave.
I'm thankful to you, but I can give you no assistance.”
“Whom do you suspect, then?--whom do you even suspect?”
“Hut!--why, the man that every one suspects--Sir Thomas Gourlay.”
“And upon what grounds, may I ask?”
“Why, simply because no other man had any interest in getting the child
removed. Every one knows he's a dark, tyrannical, bad man, that wouldn't
be apt to scruple at anything. There now,” he added, “that is all I know
about it; and I suppose it's not more than you knew yourself before.”
In order to close the dialogue he stood up, and at once led the way down
to the back parlor, where the stranger, on following him, found Ginty
Cooper and the old woman in close conversation, which instantly ceased
when they made their appearance.
The stranger, chagrined and vexed at his want of success, was about to
depart, when Dunphy's wife said:
“Maybe, sir, you'd wish to get your fortune tould? bekaise, if you
would, here's a woman that will tell it to you, and you may depend upon
it she'll tell you nothing but the truth.”
“I am not in a humor for such nonsense, my good woman; I have much more
important matters to think of, I assure you; but I suppose the woman
wishes to have her hand crossed with silver; well, it shall be done.
Here, my good woman,” he said offering her money, “accept this, and
spare your prophecy.”
“I will not have your money, sir,” replied the prophetess; “and I say so
to let you know that I'm not an impostor. Be advised, and hear me--show
me your hand.”
The startling and almost supernatural appearance of the woman struck him
very forcibly, and with a kind of good-humored impatience, he stretched
out his hand to her. “Well,” said he, “I will test the truth of what you
promise.”
She took it into hers, and after examining the lines for a few seconds
said, “The lines in your hand, sir, are very legible--so much so that I
can read your name in it--and it's a name which very few in this country
know.”
The stranger started with astonishment, and was about to speak, but she
signed to him to be silent.
“You are in love,” she continued, “and your sweetheart loves you dearly.
You saw her this morning, and you would give a trifle to know where
she will be to-morrow. You traveled with her last night and didn't know
it--and the business that brought you to town will prosper.”
“You say you know my name,” replied the stranger, “if so, write it on a
slip of paper.”
She hesitated a moment.
“Will it do,” she asked, “if I give you the initials?”
“No,” he replied, “the name in full--and I think you are fairly caught.”
She gave no reply, but having got a slip of paper and a pen, went to the
wall and knocked three times, repeating some unintelligible words
with an appearance of great solemnity and mystery. Having knocked, she
applied her ear to the wall three times also, after which she seemed
satisfied.
The stranger of course imputed all this to imposture; but when he
reflected upon what she had already told him, he felt perfectly
confounded with amazement. The prophetess then went to her father's
counter and wrote something upon a small fragment of paper, which she
handed to him. No earthly language could now express his astonishment,
not from any belief he entertained that she possessed supernatural
power, but from the almost incredible fact that she could have known so
much of a man's affairs who was an utter stranger to her, and to whom
she was herself unknown.
“Well, it is odd enough,” he added; “but this knocking on the wall
and listening was useless jugglery. Did you not say, when first you
inspected my hand, that you could read my name in the lines of it? then,
of course you knew it before you knocked at the wall--the knocking,
therefore, was imposture.”
“I knew the name,” she replied, “the moment I looked into your hand, but
I was obliged to ask permission to reveal it. Your observation, however,
was very natural. It may, in the meantime, be a consolation for you to
know that I'm not at liberty to mention it to any one but yourself and
one other person.”
“A man or woman?”
“A woman--she you saw this morning.”
“Whether that be true or not,” observed the stranger, “the mention of my
name at present would place me in both difficulty and danger; so that I
hope you'll keep it secret.”
She threw the slip of paper into the fire. “There it lies,” she replied,
“and you might as well read it in those white ashes as extract it from
me until the proper time comes. But with respect to it, there is one
thing I must tell you before you go.”
“What is that, pray?”
“It is a name you will not carry long. Ask me no more questions. I have
already said you will succeed in the object of your pursuit, but not
without difficulty and danger. Take my advice, and never go anywhere
without a case of loaded pistols. I have good reasons for saying so. Now
pass on, for I am silent.”
There was an air of confidence and superiority about her as she uttered
these words--a sense, as it were, of power--of a privilege to command,
by which the stranger felt himself involuntarily influenced. He once
more offered her money, but, with a motion of her hand, she silently,
and somewhat indignantly refused it.
Whilst this singular exhibition took place, the stranger observed the
very remarkable and peculiar expression of the old man's countenance.
It is indeed very difficult to describe it. He seemed to experience a
feeling of satisfaction and triumph at the revelations the woman
had made; added to which was something that might be termed shrewd;
ironical, and derisive. In fact, his face bore no bad resemblance to
that of Mephistopheles, as represented in Retsch's powerful conception
and delineation of it in his illustration of Goethe's “Faust,” so
inimitably translated by our admirable countryman, Anster.
The stranger now looked at his watch, bade them good day, and took his
leave.