--Woodward, on his way Home, meets a Stranger.--Their Conversation.
The next morning he joined the family in the breakfast parlor, where he
was received with much kindness and attention. The stranger was a young
man, probably about twenty-seven, well made, and with features that must
be pronounced good; but, from whatever cause it proceeded, they were
felt to be by no means agreeable. It was impossible to quarrel with, or
find fault with them; their symmetry was perfect; the lip well defined,
but hard and evidently unfeeling; his brows, which joined each other,
were black, and, what was very peculiar, were heaviest where they
met--a circumstance which, notwithstanding the regularity of his other
features, gave him, unless when he smiled, a frowning if not a sinister
aspect. That, however, which was most remarkable in his features was
the extraordinary fact that his eyes were each of a different color, one
being black and piercing in its gleam, and the other gray; from which
circumstance he was known from his childhood by the name of _Harry na
Suil Gloir_--Suil Gloir being an epithet always bestowed by the Irish
upon persons who possessed eyes of that unnatural character. This
circumstance, however, was not observed on that occasion by any of the
family. His general manners, though courteous, were cold, and by no
means such as were calculated either to bestow or inspire confidence.
His language, too, was easy enough when he spoke, but a cold habit of
reserve seemed to permeate his whole being, and to throw a chill upon
the feelings of those to whom he addressed himself. So much was this the
case that when ever he assumed an air of familiarity a dark, strange,
and undefinable spirit, which was strongly felt, seemed not only to
contradict his apparent urbanity, but to impress his auditors with a
sense of uneasiness sometimes amounting to pain--an impression, however,
for which they could not at all account.
“Sir,” said Mr. Goodwin, “I hope you slept well after what you suffered
under the tempest of last night?”
“I assure you, sir, I never enjoyed a rounder night's sleep in my life,”
replied their guest; “and were it not for the seasonable shelter of
your hospitable roof I know not what would have become of me. I am
unacquainted with the country, and having lost my way, I knew not where
to seek shelter, for the night was so dreadfully dark that unless by the
flashes of the lightning nothing could be seen.”
“It was certainly an awful--a terrible night,” observed his host;
“but come, its severity is now past; let me see you do justice to your
fare;--a little more ham?”
“Thank you, sir,” replied the other; “if you please. Indeed, I cannot
complain of my appetite, which is at all times excellent”--and he
certainly corroborated the truth of his statement by a sharp and
vigorous attack upon the good things before him.
“Sir,” said Mrs. Goodwin, “we feel happy to have had the satisfaction
of opening our doors to you last night; and there is only one other
circumstance which could complete our gratification.”
“The gratification, madam,” he replied, “as well as the gratitude, ought
to be all on my side, although I have no doubt, and can have none,
that the consciousness of your kindness and hospitality are equally
gratifying on yours. But may I ask to what you allude, madam?”
“You are evidently a gentleman, sir, and a stranger, and we would feel
obliged by knowing--”
“O, I beg your pardon, madam,” he replied, interrupting her; “I presume
that you are good enough to flatter me by a wish to know the name of
the individual whom your kindness and hospitality have placed under such
agreeable obligations. For my part I have reason to bless the tempest I
which, I may say, brought me under your roof. 'It is an ill wind,' says
the proverb, 'that blows nobody good;' and it is a clear case, my very
kind hostess, that at this moment we are mutually ignorant of each
other. I assure you, then, madam, that I am not a knight-errant
travelling in disguise and in quest of adventure, but a plain gentleman,
by name Woodward, step-son to a neighbor of yours, Mr. Lindsay, of
Rathfillan House. I need scarcely say that I am Mrs. Lindsay's son by
her first husband. And now, madam, may I beg to know the name of the
family to whom I am indebted for so much kindness.”
Mrs. Goodwin and her husband exchanged glances, and something like a
slight cloud appeared to overshadow for a moment the expression of their
countenances. At length Mr. Goodwin spoke.
“My name, sir,” he proceeded, “is Goodwin; and until a recent melancholy
event, your family and mine were upon the best and most cordial terms;
but, unfortunately, I must say that we are not so now--a circumstance
which I and mine deeply regret. You must not imagine, however, that
the knowledge of your name and connections could make the slightest
difference in our conduct toward you on that account. Your family, Mr.
Woodward, threw off our friendship and disclaimed all intimacy with us;
but I presume you are not ignorant of the cause of it.”
“I should be uncandid if I were to say so, sir. I am entirely aware of
the cause of it; but I cannot see that there is any blame whatsoever
to be attached to either you or yours for the act of my poor uncle. I
assure you, sir, I am sorry that my family failed to consider it in its
proper light; and you will permit me to request that you we not identify
my conduct with theirs. So far as I am least am concerned, my uncle's
disposition of his property shall make no breach nor occasion any
coolness between us. On the contrary, I shall feel honored by being
permitted to pay my respects to you all, and to make myself worthy of
your good opinions.”
“That is generously spoken, Mr. Woodward,” replied the old man; “and it
will afford us sincere pleasure to reciprocate the sentiments you have
just expressed.”
“You make me quite happy, sir,” replied Woodward, bowing very
courteously. “This, I presume, is the young lady to whom my cousin Agnes
was so much attached?”
“She is, sir,” replied her father.
“Might I hope for the honor of being presented to her, Mr. Goodwin?”
“With pleasure, sir. Alice, my dear, although you already know who this
gentleman is, yet allow me, nevertheless, to present him to you.”
The formal introduction accordingly took place, after which Woodward,
turning to Mrs. Goodwin, said,
“I am not surprised, madam, at the predilection which my cousin
entertained for Miss Goodwin, even from what I see; but I feel that I am
restrained by her presence from expressing myself at further length. I
have only to say that I wish her every happiness, long life, and health
to enjoy that of which she seems, and I am certain is, so worthy.”
He accompanied those words with a low bow and a very gracious smile,
after which, his horse having been brought to the door, he took his
leave with a great deal of politeness, and rode, according to the
directions received from Mr. Goodwin, toward his father's house.
After his departure the family began to discuss his character somewhat
to the following effect:
“That is a fine young man,” said Mr. Goodwin, “liberal-minded and
generous, or I am much mistaken. What do you think, Martha,” he added,
addressing his wife.
“Upon my word,” replied that lady, “I am much of your opinion--yet I
don't know either; although polite and courteous, there is something
rather disagreeable about him.”
“Why,” inquired her husband, “what is there disagreeable about him? I
could perceive nothing of the sort; and when we consider that his uncle,
who left this property to Alice, was his mother's brother, and that he
was nephew by blood as well as by law, and that it was the old man's
original intention that the property should go directly to him, or in
default of issue, to his brother--I think when we consider this, Martha,
that we cannot but entertain a favorable impression of him, considering
what he has lost by the unexpected turn given to his prospects in
consequence of his uncle's will. Alice, my dear, what is your opinion of
him?”
“Indeed, papa,” she replied, “I have had--as we all have had--but a very
slight opportunity to form any opinion of him. As for me, I can judge
only by the impressions which his conversation and person have left upon
me.”
“Well, anything favorable or otherwise?”
“Anything at all but favorable, papa--I experienced something like pain
during breakfast, and felt a strong sense of relief the moment he left
the room.”
“Poor child, impressions are nothing. I have met men of whom first
impressions were uniformly unfavorable, who, notwithstanding their rough
outsides, were persons of sterling worth and character.”
“Yes, papa, and men of great plausibility and ease of manner, who, on
the contrary, were deep, hypocritical and selfish when discovered and
their hearts laid open. As regards Mr. Woodward, however, heaven forbid
that I should place the impressions of an ignorant girl like myself
against the knowledge and experience of a man who has had such
opportunities of knowing the world as you. All I can say is, that
whilst he seemed to breathe a very generous spirit, my impressions
were completely at variance with every sentiment he uttered. Perhaps,
however, I do him injustice--and I should regret that very much. I will
then, in deference to your opinion, papa, endeavor to control those
impressions and think as well of him as I can.”
“You are right, Alice, and I thank you. We should never, if possible,
suffer ourselves to be prematurely ungenerous in our estimate of
strangers, especially when we know that this world is filled with the
most absurd and ridiculous prejudices. How do you know, my dear child,
that yours is not one of them?”
“Alice, love,” said her mother, “I think, upon reflection, your father
is right, as he always is; let us not be less generous than this young
man, and you know it would be ungenerous to prejudge him; and this comes
the more strange from you, my love, inasmuch as I never yet heard you
express a prejudice almost against any person.”
“Because I don't remember, mamma, that I ever felt such an
impression--prejudice--call it what you will--against any individual as
I do against this man. I absolutely fear him without knowing why.”
“Precisely so, my dear Alice,” replied her father, “precisely so; and,
as you say, with-out knowing why. In that one phrase, my child, you have
defined prejudice to the letter. Fie, Alice; have more sense, my dear;
have more sense. Dismiss this foolish prejudice against a young man,
who, from what he said at breakfast, is entitled to better feelings at
your hands.”
“As I said, papa, I shall certainly strive to do so.”
Alice Goodwin's person and character must, at this stage of our
narrative, be made known to our readers. As to her person, it is only
sufficient to say that she was a tall, beautiful girl, of exceeding
grace and wonderful proportions. There was, however, a softness about
her appearance of constitutional delicacy that seemed to be incompatible
with a strong mind, or perhaps we should rather say that was identical
with an excess of feeling. This was exhibited in the tenderness of
her attachment to Agnes Hamilton, and in the agonizing grief which she
experienced at her death--a grief which had well-nigh become fatal to a
girl of her fragile organization. The predominant trait, however, in her
character was timidity and a terror of a hundred trifles, which, in the
generality of her sex, would occasion only indifference or laughter. On
that very morning, for instance, she had not recovered from her painful
apprehensions of the thunder-storm which had occurred on the preceding
night. Of thunder, but especially of lightning, she was afraid even to
pusillanimity; indeed so much so, that on such occurrences she would
bind her eyes, fly down stairs, and take refuge in the cellar until the
I hurly-burly in the clouds was over. This, however, was not so much
to be wondered at by those who live in our present and more enlightened
days; as our readers will admit when they are told that the period of
our narrative is in the reign of that truly religious monarch, Charles
the Second, who, conscious of his inward and invisible grace, was known
to exhaust himself so liberally of his virtue, when touching for the
Evil, that there was very little of it left to regulate that of his own
private life. In those days Ireland was a mass of social superstitions,
and a vast number of cures in a variety of diseases were said to be
performed by witches, wizards, fairy-men, fairy-women, and a thousand
other impostors, who, supported by the gross ignorance of the people,
carried that which was first commenced in fraud and cunning into a
self-delusion, which, in process of time, led them to become dupes to
their own impostures. It is not to be wondered at, then, that Alice
Goodwin, a young creature of a warm imagination and extraordinary
constitutional timidity, should feel the full force of the superstitions
which swarmed around her, and impregnated her fancy so strongly that
it teemed with an unhealthy creation, which frequently rendered her
existence painful by a morbid apprehension of wicked and supernatural
influences. In other respects she was artlessness itself, could never
understand what falsehood meant, and, as to truth, her unspotted
mind was transparent as a sunbeam. Our readers are not to understand,
however, that though apparently flexible and ductile, she possessed
no power of moral resistance. So very far from that, her disposition,
wherever she thought herself right, was not only firm and unbending,
but sometimes rose almost to obstinacy. This, however, never appeared,
unless she considered herself as standing upon the basis of truth. In
cases where her judgment was at fault, or when she could not see her
way, she was a perfect child, and, like a child, should be taken by the
hand and supported. It was, however, when mingling in society that her
timidity and bashfulness were most observable; these, however, were
accompanied with so much natural grace, and unaffected innocence of
manner, that the general charm of her whole character was fascinating
and irresistible; nay, her very weaknesses created an atmosphere of love
and sympathy around her that nobody could breathe without feeling her
influence. Her fear of ghosts and fairies, her dread of wizards and
witches, of wise women and strolling conjurers, with the superstitious
accounts of whom the country then abounded, were, in the eyes of
her more strong-minded friends, only a source of that caressing and
indulgent affection which made its artless and innocent object more dear
to them. Every one knows with what natural affection and tenderness we
love the object which clings to us for support under the apprehension
of danger, even when we ourselves are satisfied that the apprehension
is groundless. So was it with Alice Goodwin, whose harmless foibles
and weaknesses, associated as they were with so much truth and purity,
rendered her the darling of all who knew her.
Woodward had not proceeded far on his way when he was overtaken by
an equestrian, who came up to him at a smart pace, which, however, he
checked on getting beside him.
“A fine morning, sir, after an awful night,” observed the stranger.
“It is, sir,” replied Woodward, “and a most awful night it assuredly
was. Have you heard whether there has been destruction to life or
property to any extent?”
“Not so much to life,” replied his companion, “but seriously, I
understand, to property. If you had ridden far you must have observed
the number of dwelling-houses and out-offices that have been unroofed,
and some of them altogether blown down.”
“I have not ridden far,” said Woodward; “I was obliged to take shelter
in the house of a country gentleman named Goodwin, who lives over in the
trees.”
“You were fortunate in finding shelter anywhere,” replied the stranger,
“during such a tempest. I remember nothing like it.”
As they proceeded along, indulging in similar chat, they observed that
five or six countrymen, who had been walking at a smart pace, about a
couple of hundred yards before them, came suddenly to a stand-still,
and, after appearing to consult together, they darted off the road
and laid themselves down, as if with a view of concealment, behind the
grassy ditch which ran along it.
“What can these persons mean?” asked Woodward; “they seem to be
concealing themselves.”
“Unquestionably they do,” replied the stranger; “and yet there appears
to be no pursuit after them. I certainly can give no guess as to their
object.”
While attempting, as they went along, to account for the conduct of the
peasants, they were met by a female with a head of hair that was nearly
blood-red, and whose features were hideously ugly, or rather, we should
say, absolutely revolting. Her brows, which were of the same color as
the hair, were knit into a scowl, such as is occasioned by an intense
expression of hatred and malignity, yet which was rendered almost
frightful by a squint that would have disfigured the features of a
demon. Her coarse hair lay matted together in stiff, wiry waves! on each
side of her head, from whence it streamed down her shoulders, which
it covered like a cape of scarlet. As they approached each other, she
glanced at them with a look from which they could only infer that she
seemed to meditate the murder of each, and yet there was mingled with
its malignity a bitter but derisive expression that was perfectly
diabolical.
“What a frightful hag!” exclaimed Woodward, addressing his companion; “I
never had a perfect conception of the face of an ogress until now!
Did you observe her walrus tusks, as they projected over her misshapen
nether lip? The hag appears to be an impersonation of all that is evil.”
“She may be a very harmless creature for all that,” replied the other;
“we are not to judge by appearances. I know a man who had murder
depicted in his countenance, if ever a man had, and yet there lived!
not a kinder, more humane, or benevolent creature on earth. He was as
simple, too, as a child, and the most affectionate father! and husband
that ever breathed. These, however, may be exceptions; for most
certainly I am of opinion that the countenance may be considered, in
general, a very certain index to the character and disposition. But what
is this?--here are the men returning from their journey, let us question
them.”
“Pray,” said Woodward, addressing them, “if it be not impertinent, may
I inquire why you ran in such a hurry off the road just now, and hid
yourselves behind the ditch?”
“Certainly, sir, you may,” replied one of them; “we wor on our way to
the fair of, Knockmore, and we didn't wish to meet Pugshy Roe.” (Red
Peggy).
“But why should you not wish to meet her?”
“Bekaise, sir, she's unlucky--unlucky in the three ways--unlucky to man,
unlucky to baste, and unlucky to business. She overlooks, sir; she has
the Evil Eye--the Lord be about us!”
“The Evil Eye,” repeated Woodward, dryly; “and pray, what harm could her
evil eye do you?”
“Why, nothing in the World,” replied the man, naively, “barrin' to
wither us off o' the earth--that's all.”
“Has she been long in this neighborhood?” asked the stranger.
“Too long, your honor. Sure she overlooked Biddy Nelligan's child, and
it never did good afterwards.”
“And I,” said another, “am indebted to the thief o' hell for the loss of
as good a cow as ever filled a piggin.”
“Well, sure,” observed a third, “Father Mullen is goin' to read her out
next Sunday from the althar. She has been banished from every parish in
the counthry. Indeed, I believe he's goin' to drown the candles against
her, so that, plaise the Lord, she'll have to tramp.”
“How does she live and maintain herself?” asked the stranger again.
“Why, sir,” replied the man, “she tuck possession of a waste cabin and
a bit o' garden belongin' to it; and Larry Sullivan, that owns it, was
goin' to put her out, when, Lord save us, he and his whole family were
saized with sickness, and then he sent word to her that if she'd take it
off o' them and put it on some one else he'd let her stay.”
“And did she do so?”
“She did, sir; every one o' them recovered, and she put it on his
neighbor, poor Harry Commiskey and his family, that used to visit them
every day, and from them it went over the country--and bad luck to her!
Devil a man of us would have had luck or grace in the fair to-day if we
had met her. That's another gift she has--to bring bad luck to any
one that meets her first in the mornin'; for if they're goin' upon
any business it's sure not to thrive with them. She's worse than Mrs.
Lindsay; for Mrs. Lindsay, although she's unlucky to meet, and unlucky
to cattle, too, has no power over any one's life; but they say it has
always been in her family, too.”
The equestrians then proceeded at a rather brisk pace until they had got
clear of the peasants, when they pulled up a little.
“That is a strange superstition, sir,” said Woodward, musingly.
“It is a very common one in this country, at all events,” replied the
other; “and I believe pretty general in others as well as here.”
“Do you place any faith in it?” asked the other.
The stranger paused, as if investigating the subject in question, after
which he replied,
“To a certain extent I do; but it is upon this principle, that I believe
the force of imagination on a weak mind constitutes the malady. What is
your own opinion?”
“Why, that it is not a superstition but a fact; a fact, too, which has
been frequently proved; and, what is more, it is known, as the man said,
to be hereditary in families.”
“I don't give credence to that,” said the stranger.
“Why not, sir?” replied Woodward; “are not the moral qualities
hereditary? are not the tempers and dispositions hereditary, as well as
decline, insanity, scrofula, and other physical complaints?”
The stranger paused again, and said, “Perhaps so. There is certainly
much mystery in human nature; more, probably, than we can conceive or be
aware of. Time, however, and the progress of science, will develop much.
But who was this Mrs. Lindsay that the man spoke of?”
“That lady, sir,” replied the other, “is my mother.”
The stranger, from a feeling of delicacy, made no observation upon this,
but proceeded to take another view of the same subject.
“Suppose, then,” he added, “that we admit the fact that the eye of a
certain individual can transfuse, by the force of strong volition, an
evil influence into the being or bodily system of another--why should it
happen that an eye or touch charged with beneficence, instead of evil,
should fail to affect with a sanative contagion those who labor under
many diseases?”
“The only reply I can make to your question,” said Woodward, “is this:
the one has been long and generally known to exist, whereas the latter
has never been heard of, which most assuredly would not have been the
case if it had ever existed; as for the cure of the King's Evil it is a
royal imposture.”
“I believe in the latter,” observed the other calmly.
“Upon what grounds?” asked his companion.
“Simply because I know a person who possesses the sanative power I speak
of.”
“And I believe in the former,” replied Woodward, “and upon better
grounds still, because I possess it myself.”
“You will pardon me,” said the other; “but I hesitate to believe that.”
Woodward, who felt this imputation against his veracity with resentment,
suddenly pulled up his horse, and, turning himself on the saddle, looked
upon his companion with an expression that was as extraordinary as it
was blighting. The stranger, on the other hand, reining in his horse,
and taking exactly the same attitude as Woodward, bent his eye on him in
return; and there they sat opposite to each other, where we will leave
them until we describe the somewhat extraordinary man who had become the
fellow-traveller of the hero of the breakfast table.
[Illustration: PAGE 631-- The gaze was long and combative]
He was mounted upon a powerful charger; for indeed it was evident at
a glance that no other would have been equal to his weight. He was
well-dressed--that is to say, in the garb of a country gentleman of the
day. He wore his own hair, however, which fell in long masses over his
shoulders, and a falling collar, which came down over his breast. His
person was robust and healthy looking, and, what is not very usual in
large men, it was remarkable for the most consummate proportion and
symmetry. He wore boots and silver spurs, and his feet were unusually
small, considering his size, as were also his hands. That, however,
which struck the beholder with amazement, was the manly beauty of his
features. At a first glance this was visible; but on contemplating
them more closely you began to feel something strange and wonderful
associated with a feeling of veneration and pleasure. Even this,
however, was comparatively little to what a still more deliberate
perusal of that face brought to light. There could be read that
extraordinary union of humility and grandeur; but above all, and beyond
all other expressions, there proceeded from his eyes, and radiated like
a halo from every part of his countenance, a sense of power which was
felt to be irresistible. His eyes, indeed, were almost transparent with
light--a light so clear, benignant, and strong, that it was impossible
to withstand their glance, radiant with benevolence though it was. The
surrender to that glance, however, was a willing and a pleasing one. The
spectator submitted to it as an individual would to the eye of a blessed
spirit that was known to communicate nothing but good. There, then, they
sat contemplating one another, each, as it were, in the exercise of some
particular power, which, in this case, appeared to depend altogether
on the expressions of the eye. The gaze was long and combative in its
character, and constituted a trial of that moral strength which each,
in the peculiar constitution of his being, seemed to possess. After some
time, however, Woodward's glance seemed to lose its concentrative
power, and gradually to become vague and blank. In a little time he felt
himself rapidly losing ground, and could hardly avoid thinking that
the eyes of his opponent were looking into his very soul: his eyelids
quivered, his eyes assumed a dull and listless appearance, and
ultimately closed for some moments--he was vanquished, and he felt it.
“What is the matter with you?” said his companion at length, “and why
did you look at me with such a singular gaze? I hope you do not feel
resentment at what I said. I hesitated to believe you only because I
thought you might be mistaken.”.
“I entertain no resentment against you,” replied Woodward; “but I must
confess I feel astonished. Pray, allow me to ask, sir, are you a medical
man?”
“Not at all,” replied the other; “I never received a medical education,
and yet I perform a great number of cures.”
“Then, sir,” said Woodward, “I take it, with every respect, that you
must be a quack.”
“Did you ever know a quack to work a cure without medicine?” replied the
other; “I cure without medicine, and that is more than the quack is able
to do with it; I consequently, cannot be a quack.”
“Then, in the devil's name, what are you?” asked Woodward, who felt that
his extraordinary fellow-traveller was amusing himself at his expense.
“I reply to no interrogatory urged upon such authority,” said the
stranger; “but let me advise you, young man, not to allow that
mysterious and malignant power which you seem to possess to gratify
itself by injury to your fellow-creatures. Let it be the principal
purpose of your life to serve them by every means within your reach,
otherwise you will neglect to your cost those great duties for which God
created you. Farewell, my friend, and remember my words; for they are
uttered in a spirit of kindness and good feeling.”
They had now arrived at cross-roads; the stranger turned to the right,
and Woodward proceeded, as directed, toward Rathfillan House, the
residence of his father.
The building was a tolerably large and comfortable one, without any
pretence to architectural beauty. It had a plain porch before the
hall-door, with a neat lawn, through which wound a pretty drive up to
the house. On each side of the lawn was a semicircle of fine old trees,
that gave an ancient appearance to the whole place.
Now, one might imagine that Woodward would have felt his heart bound
with affection and delight on his return to all that ought to have been
dear to him after so long an absence. So far from that, however, he
returned in disappointment and ill-temper, for he calculated that unless
there had been some indefensible neglect, or unjustifiable offence
offered to his uncle Hamilton by his family, that gentleman, who, he
knew, had the character of being both affectionate and good-natured,
would never have left his property to a stranger. The alienation of this
property from himself was, indeed, the bitter reflection which rankled
in his heart, and established in it a hatred against the Goodwins which
he resolved by some means to wreak upon them in a spirit of the blackest
vengeance. Independently of this, we feel it necessary to say here, that
he was utterly devoid of domestic affection, and altogether insensible
to the natural claims and feelings of consanguinity. His uncle abroad,
for instance, had frequently urged him to pay a visit to his relatives,
and, of course, to supply him liberally with the necessary funds for the
journey. To every such suggestion, however, he gave a decided negative.
“If they wish to see me,” he would reply, “let them come and see me: as
for me, I have no wish to see them, and I shall not go.”
This unnatural indifference to the claims of blood and affection, not
only startled his uncle, but shook his confidence in the honor and
integrity of his favorite. Some further discoveries of his dishonesty
ultimately led to his expulsion from the heart of that kind relative, as
well as from the hospitable roof of which he proved himself so unworthy.
With such a natural disposition, and affected as he must have been by a
train of circumstances so decidedly adverse to his hopes and prospects,
our readers need not feel surprised that he should return home in
anything but an agreeable mood of mind.