Mr. and Mrs. Goodwin, in the absence of their daughter, held a very
agreeable conversation on the subject of Mrs. Lindsay's visit. Neither
Goodwin nor his wife was in the slightest degree selfish, yet, somehow,
there crept into their hearts a certain portion of selfishness, which
could be traced only to the affection which they felt for Alice. They
calculated that Henry Woodward, having been reared and educated by
his uncle, would be amply provided for by that wealthy gentleman--who,
besides, was childless. This consideration became a strong element in
their deliberations and discussions upon the projected match, and
they accordingly resolved to win over Alice's consent to it as soon as
possible. From the obedience of her disposition, and the natural pliancy
of her character with the opinions of others, they concluded the matter
as arranged and certain. They forgot, however, that Alice, though
a feeble thinker on matters of superstition and others of a minor
importance, could sometimes exercise a will of her own, but very seldom,
if ever, when opposed to theirs. They knew her love and affection
for them, and that she was capable of making any sacrifice that
might contribute to their happiness. They had, however, observed of
late--indeed for a considerable time past--that she appeared to be in
low spirits, moved about as if there was a pressure of some description
in her mind; and when they asked her if she were at ease--which they
often did--she only replied by a smile, and asked them in return why she
should be otherwise. With this reply they were satisfied, for they knew
that upon the general occurrences of life she was almost a mere child,
and that, although her health was good, her constitution was naturally
delicate, and liable to be affected by many things indifferent in
themselves, which girls of a stronger mind and constitution would
neither perceive nor feel. The summing up of all was that they
apprehended no obstruction to the proposed union from any objection on
her part, as soon as she should be made acquainted with their wishes.
In the course of that very evening they introduced the subject to
her, with that natural confidence which resulted from their foregone
conclusions upon it.
“Alley,” said her mother, “I hope you're in good spirits this evening.”
“Indifferent enough, mamma; my spirits, you know, are not naturally
good.”
“And why should they not?” said her mother; “what on earth have you to
trouble you?”
“O, mamma,” she exclaimed, “you don't know how often I miss my
sister;--at night I think I see her, and she looks pale and melancholy,
and full of sorrow--just as she did when she felt that her hope of life
was gone forever. O, how willingly--how joyfully--would I return her
fortune, and if I had ten times as much of my own, along with it, if it
could only bring her back to me again!”
“Well, you know, my darling, that can't be done; but cheer up; I have
good news for you--news that I am sure will delight you.”
“But I don't stand in need of any good news, mamma.”
This simple reply proved an unexpected capsize to her mother, who knew
not how to proceed; but, in the moment of her embarrassment, looked to
her husband for assistance.
“My dear Alice,” said her father, “the fact is this--you have achieved a
conquest, and there has been a proposal of marriage made for you.”
Alice instantly suspected the individual from whom the proposal came,
and turned pale as death.
“That does not cheer my spirits, then, papa.”
“That may be, my dear Alice,” replied her father; “but, in the opinion
of your mother and me, it ought.”
“From what quarter has it come, papa, may I ask? I am living very lonely
and retired here, you know.”
“The proposal, then, my dear child, has come from Henry Woodward, this
day; and what will surprise you more, through his mother, too--who has
been of late such an inveterate enemy to our family. So far as I have
seen of Henry himself, he is everything I could wish for a son-in-law.”
“But you have seen very little of him, papa.”
“What I have seen of him has pleased me very much, Alice.”
“How strange,” said she musingly, “that father and daughter should draw
such different conclusions from the same premises. The very thought of
that young man sinks the heart within me. I beg, once for all, that you
will never mention his name to me on this subject, and in this light,
again. It is not that I hate him--I trust I hate nobody--but I feel an
antipathy against him; and what is more, I feel a kind of terror when I
even think of him; and an oppression, for which I cannot account, whilst
I am in his society.”
“This is very strange, Alice,” replied her father; “and, I am afraid,
rather foolish, too. There is nothing in his face, person, manner, or
conversation that, in my opinion, is not calculated to attract any young
woman in his own rank of life--at least, I think so.”
“Well, but the poor child,” said her mother, “knows nothing about
love--how could she? Sure, my dear Alley, true love never begins until
after marriage. You don't know what a dislike I had to your father,
there, whilst our friends on both sides were making up the courtship.
They literally dragged me into it.”
“Yes, Alley,” added her father, smiling, “and they literally dragged
me into it; and yet, when we came together, Alice, there never was a
happier couple in existence.”
Alice could not help smiling, but the smile soon passed away. “That may
be all very true,” she replied, “but in the meantime, you must not press
me on this subject. Don't entertain it for a moment. I shall never marry
this man. Put an end to it--see his mother, and inform her, without loss
of time, of the unalterable determination I have made. Do not palter
with them, father---do not, mother; and above all things, don't attempt
to sacrifice the happiness of your only daughter. I could make any
sacrifice for your happiness but this; and if, in obedience to your
wishes, I made it, I can tell you that I would soon be with my sister.
You both know that I am not strong, and that I am incapable of severe
struggles. Don't, then, harass me upon this matter.”
She here burst into tears, and for a few minutes wept bitterly.
“We must give it up,” said her father, looking at Mrs. Goodwin.”
“No such thing,” replied his wife; “think of our own case, and how happy
we have been in spite of ourselves.”
“Ay, but we were neither of us fools, Martha; at least you were not, or
you would never have suffered yourself to be persuaded into matrimony,
as you did at last. There was, it is true, an affected frown upon your
brow; but then, again, there was a very sly smile under it. As for me,
I would have escaped the match if I could; but no matter, it was all for
the best, although neither of us anticipated as much. Alice, my child,
think of what we have said to you; reflect upon it. Our object is to
make you happy; our experience of life is much greater than yours. Don't
reply to us now; we will give you a reasonable time to think of it.
Consider that you will add to your mother's happiness and mine by
consenting to such an unobjectionable match. This young man will, of
course, inherit his uncle's property; he will elevate you in life; he is
handsome, accomplished, and evidently knows the world, and you can look
up to him as a husband of whom you will have a just right to feel proud.
Allow the young man to visit you; study him as closely as you may; but
above all things do not cherish an unfounded antipathy against him or
any one.”
Several interviews took place afterwards between Alice and Henry
Woodward; and after each interview her parents sought her opinion
of him, and desired to know whether she was beginning to think more
favorably of him than she had hitherto done. Still, however, came the
same reply. Every interview only increased her repugnance to the match,
and her antipathy to the man. At length she consented to allow him one
last interview--the last, she asserted, which she would ever afford him
on the subject, and he accordingly presented himself to know her
final determination. Not that from what came out from their former
conversations he had any grounds, as a reasonable man, to expect a
change of opinion on her part; but as the property was his object, he
resolved to leave nothing undone to overcome her prejudice against him
if he could. They were, accordingly, left in the drawing-room to discuss
the matter as best they might, but with a hope on the part of her
parents that, knowing, as she did, how earnestly their hearts were fixed
upon her marriage with him, she might, if only for their sakes, renounce
her foolish antipathy, ard be prevailed upon, by his ardor and his
eloquence, to consent at last.
“Well, Miss Goodwin,” said he, when they were left together, “this I
understand, and what is more, I fear, is to be my day of doom. Heaven
grant that it may be a favorable one, for I am badly prepared to see my
hopes blasted, and my affection for you spurned! My happiness, my dear
Miss Goodwin--my happiness for life depends upon the result of this
interview. I know--but I should not say so--for in this instance I must
be guided by hearsay--well, I know from hearsay that your heart is kind
and affectionate. Now I believe this; for who can look upon your face
and doubt it? Believing this, then, how can you, when you know that
the happiness of a man who loves you beyond the power of language to
express, is at stake, depends upon your will--how can you, I say, refuse
to make that individual--who appreciated all your virtues, as I
do--who feels the influence of your extraordinary beauty, as I do--who
contemplates your future happiness as the great object of his life, as I
do--how can you, I say, refuse to make that man happy?”
“Mr. Woodward,” she said, “I will not reply to your arguments; I
simply wish to ask you, Are you a gentleman?--in other words, a man of
integrity and principle?”
“Do you doubt me, Miss Goodwin?” he inquired, as if he felt somewhat
hurt.
“It is very difficult, Mr. Woodward,” she replied, “to know the heart;
I request, however, a direct and a serious answer, for I can assure you
that I am about to place the deepest possible confidence in your faith
and honor.”
“O,” he exclaimed, “that is sufficient; in such a case I feel bound to
respect your confidence as sacred; do not hesitate to confide in me. Let
me perish a thousand times sooner than abuse such a trust. Speak out,
Miss Goodwin.”
“It is necessary that I should,” she replied, “both for your sake and my
own. Know, then, that my heart is not at my own disposal; it is engaged
to another.”
“I can only listen, Miss Goodwin--I can only listen--but--but--excuse
me--proceed.”
“My heart, as I said, is engaged to another--and that other is your
brother Charles.”
Woodward fixed his eyes upon her face--already scarlet with blushes, and
when she ventured to raise hers upon him, she beheld a countenance sunk
apparently in the deepest sorrow.
“Alas! Miss Goodwin,” he replied, “you have filled my heart with a
double grief. I could resign you--of course it would and must be with
the most inexpressible anguish--but to resign you to such a--. O!”
he proceeded, shaking his head sorrowfully, “you know not in what a
position of torture you place me. You said you believed me to be a
gentleman; so I trust--I feel--I am, and what is more, a brother, and
an affectionate brother, if I--O, my God, what am I to do? How, knowing
what I know of that unfortunate young man, could I ever have expected
this? In the meantime I thank you for your confidence, Miss Goodwin; I
hope it was God himself who inspired you to place it in me, and that
it may be the means of your salvation from--but perhaps I am saying
too much; he is my brother; excuse me, I am not just now cool and calm
enough to say what I would wish, and what you, poor child, neither know
nor suspect, and perhaps I shall never mention it; but you must give me
time. Of course, under the circumstances you have mentioned, I resign
all hopes of my own happiness with you; but, so help me Heaven, if I
shall resign all hopes of yours. I cannot now speak at further length;
I am too much surprised, too much agitated, too much shocked at what I
have heard; but I shall see you, if you will allow me, to-morrow; and as
I cannot become your husband, perhaps I may become your guardian angel.
Allow me to see you to-morrow. You have taken me so completely by
surprise that I. am quite incapable of speaking on this subject, as
perhaps--but I know not yet--I must become more cool, and reflect deeply
upon what my conduct ought to be. Alas! my dear Miss Goodwin, little you
suspect how completely your happiness and misery are in my power. Will
you permit me to see you to-morrow?”
“Certainly, sir,” replied Alice, “since it seems that you have something
of more than ordinary importance to communicate to me--something, which,
I suppose, I ought to know. I shall see you.”
He then took his leave with an air of deep melancholy and sorrow, and
left poor Alice in a state of anxiety very difficult to be described.
Her mind became filled with a sudden and unusual alarm; she trembled
like an aspen leaf; and when her mother came to ask her the result of
the interview, she found her pale as death and in tears.
“Why, Alley, my child,” said she, “what is the matter? Why do you look
so much alarmed, and why are you in tears? Has the man been rude or
offensive to you?”
“No, mamma, he has not; but--but--I am to see him again to-morrow,
and until then, mamma, do not ask me anything upon the subject of our
interview to-day.”
Her mother felt rather gratified at this. There was, then, to be another
interview, and that was a proof that Woodward had not been finally
discarded. So far, matters did not seem so disheartening as she had
anticipated. She looked upon Alice's agitation, and the tears she had
been shedding, as the result of the constraint which she had put upon
her inclination in giving him, she hoped, a favorable reception; and
with this impression she went to communicate what she conceived to be
the good intelligence to her husband.
Alice, until the next interview took place, passed a wretched time
of it. As the reader knows, she was constitutionally timid and easily
alarmed, and she consequently anticipated, something very distressing
in the disclosures which Woodward was about to make. That there was
something uncommon and painful in connection with Charles Lindsay to
be mentioned, was quite evident from Woodward's language and his
unaccountable agitation. He was evidently in earnest; and, from the
suddenness with which the confession of her attachment to his brother
came upon him, it was impossible, she concluded, that he could have
had time to concoct the hints which he threw out. Could she have been
mistaken in Charles? And yet, why not? Had he not, as it were, abandoned
her ever since the occurrence of the family feud? and why should he have
done so unless there had been some reason for it? It was quite clear,
she thought, that, whatever revelation Woodward was about to make
concerning him, it was one which would occasion himself great pain
as his brother, and that nothing but the necessity of saving her from
unhappiness could force him to speak out. In fact, her mind was in a
tumult; she felt quite nervous--tremulous--afraid of some disclosure
that might destroy her hopes and her happiness, and make her wretched
for life.
On the next day Woodward made his appearance and found Alice by herself
in the drawing-room, as when he left her the day before. His countenance
seemed the very exponent of suffering and misery.
“Miss Goodwin,” said he, “I have passed a period of the deepest anxiety
since I saw you last. You may, indeed, read what I have suffered, and
am suffering, in my face, for unfortunately it is a tell-tale upon my
heart; but I cannot help that, nor should I wish it to be otherwise.
Believe me, however, that it is not for myself that I suffer, but for
you, and the prospects of your future happiness. You must look upon my
conduct now as perfectly disinterested, for I have no hope. What, then,
should that conduct be in me as a generous man, which I trust I am, but
to promote your happiness as far as I can? and on that I am determined.
You say you love my brother; are you certain that your affection is
reciprocated?”
“I believe your brother certainly did love me,” she replied, with a
tremor in her voice, which she could not prevent,
“Just so, my dear Miss Goodwin; that is well expressed--did love you;
perhaps it may have been so; possessing anything like a heart, I don't
see how it could have been otherwise.”
“I will thank you, Mr. Woodward, to state what you have to say with
as little circumlocution and ambiguity as possible. Take me out of
suspense, and let me know the worst. Do not, I entreat you, keep me in
a state of uncertainty. Although I have acknowledged my love for your
brother, in order to relieve myself from your addresses, which I could
not encourage, still I am not without the pride of a woman who respects
herself.”
“I am aware of that; but before I proceed, allow me to ask, in order
that I may see my way the clearer, to what length did the expression of
my brother's affection go?”
“It went so far,” she replied, blushing, “as an avowal of mutual
attachment; indeed, it might be called an engagement; but ever since the
death of his cousin, and the estrangement of our families, he seems to
have forgotten me. It is very strange; when I was a portionless girl he
was ardent and tender, but, ever since this unfortunate property came
into my hands, he seems to have joined in the hard and unjust feeling of
his family against me. I have certainly met him since at parties, and on
other occasions, but we met almost as strangers; he was not the Charles
Lindsay whom I had known when I was comparatively a poor girl; he
appeared to shrink from me. In the meantime, as I have already confessed
to you, he has my heart; and, so long as he has, I cannot encourage the
addresses of any other man.”
Woodward paused, and looked upon her with well-feigned admiration and
sorrow.
“The man is blind,” he at length said, “not only to the fascinations of
your person and character, but to his own interests. What is he in point
of property? Nothing. He has no rich uncle at his back to establish him
in life upon a scale, almost, of magnificence. Why, it is since you came
into this property that he ought to have urged his suit with greater
earnestness. I am speaking now like a man of the world, Miss Goodwin;
and I am certain that he would have done so but for one fact, of which I
am aware: he has got into a low intrigue with a peasant's daughter,
who possesses an influence over him such as I have never witnessed. She
certainly is very beautiful, it is said; but of that I cannot speak, as
I have not yet seen her; but I am afraid, Miss Goodwin, from all I hear,
that a very little time will disclose her calamity and his guilt. You
will now understand what I felt yesterday when you made me acquainted
with your pure and virtuous attachment to such a man; what shall I say,”
he added, rising, and walking indignantly through the room, “to such a
profligate?”
“Mr. Woodward,” replied Alice, “I can scarcely believe that; you must
have been imposed on by some enemy of his. Depend upon it you are.
I think I know Charles well--too well to deem him capable of such
profligacy; I will not believe it.”
“I don't wish you, my dear Miss Goodwin, to believe it; I only wish you
to suspend your opinion until time shall convince you. I considered it
my duty to mention the fact, and after that to leave you to the exercise
of your own judgment.”
“I will not believe it,” replied Alice, “because I place his
estrangement to a higher and nobler motive, and one more in accordance
with his honorable and generous character. I do believe, Mr. Woodward,
that his apparent coldness to me, of late, proceeds from delicacy, and
a disinterestedness that is honorable to him; at least I will interpret
his conduct in this light until I am perfectly convinced that he is the
profligate you describe him. I do not impute, in the disclosure you have
made, ungenerous motives to you; because, if you attempted to displace
my affections from your brother by groundless slander or deliberate
falsehood, you would be a monster, and as such I would look upon you,
and will, if it appears that you are maligning him for selfish
purposes of your own. I will now tell you to what I impute his apparent
estrangement; I impute it to honor, sir--to an honorable pride. He
knows now that I am rich; at least comparatively so, and that he is
comparatively poor; he hesitates to renew our relations with each
other lest I might suspect him of mingling a selfish principle with his
affection. That is the conduct of a man of honor; and until the facts
you hint at come out broadly, and to public proof, as such I shall
continue to consider him. But, Mr. Woodward, I shall not rest here; I
shall see him, and give him that to which his previous affection and
honorable conduct have entitled him at my hands--that is, an opportunity
of making an explanation to myself. But, at all events, I assure you of
this fact, that, if I do not marry him, I shall never marry another.”
“Great God!” exclaimed Woodward, “what a jewel he has lost. Well, Miss
Goodwin, I have nothing further to say; if I am wrong, time will convict
me. I have mentioned these matters to you, not on my own account but
yours. I have no hope of your affection; and if there were any living
man, except myself, to whom I should wish to see you united, it would
be my brother Charles--that is, if I thought he was worthy of you. All
I ask of you, however, is to wait a little; remain calm and quiet,
and time will tell you which of us feels the deepest interest in your
happiness. In the meantime, aware of your attachment to him, as I am,
I beg you will no longer consider me in any other light than that of a
sincere friend. To seduce innocence, indeed--but I will not dwell upon
it; the love of woman, they say, is generous and forgiving; I hope yours
will be so. But, Miss Goodwin, as I can approach you no longer in
the character of a lover, I trust I may be permitted the privilege of
visiting the family as a friend and acquaintance. Now that your decision
against me is known, it will be contrary to the wishes of our folks at
home; especially of my mother, whose temper, as I suppose you are aware,
is none of the coolest; you will allow me, then, to visit you, but no
longer as claimant for your hand.”
“I shall always be happy to see you, Mr. Woodward, but upon that
condition.”
After he had token his leave, her parents, anxious to hear the result,
came up to the drawing-room, where they found her in a kind of a
reverie, from which their appearance startled her.
“Well, Alley,” said her mother, smiling, “is everything concluded
between you?”
“Yes, mamma,” replied Alice, “everything is concluded, and finally,
too.”
“Did he name the day?” said her father, smiling gravely.
Alice stared at him; then recollecting herself, she replied--
“I thought I told you both that this was a man I could never think
of marrying. I don't understand him; he is either very candid or very
hypocritical; and I feel it painful, and, besides, unnecessary in me to
take the trouble of balancing the character of a person who loses ground
in my opinion on every occasion I see him. Of course, I have discarded
him, and I know very well that his mother will cast fire and sword
between us as she did before; but to do Mr. Woodward justice, he
proposes to stand aloof from her resentments, and wishes to visit us as
usual.”
“Then it's all over between you and him?” said her mother.
“It is; and I never gave you reason to anticipate any other result,
mamma.”
“No, indeed,” said her father, “you never did, Alice; but still I think
it is generous in him to separate himself from the resentments of that
woman, and as a friend we will be always glad to see him.”
“I know not how it is,” replied Alice; “but I felt that the expression
of his eye, during our last interview, oppressed me excessively; it was
never off me. There was a killing--a malignant influence in it, that
thrilled through me with pain; but, perhaps, I can account for that.
As it is, he has asked leave to visit us as usual, and to stand, with
respect to me, in the light of a friend only. So far as I am concerned,
papa, I could not refuse him a common privilege of civility; but,
to tell you both the truth, I shall always meet him not only with
reluctance, but with something almost amounting to fear.”
Woodward, now that he had learned his fate, and was aware that his
brother stood between him and his expectations, experienced a feeling of
vengeance against him and Alice, which he neither could, nor attempted
to, restrain. The rage of his mother, too, when she heard that the
latter had rejected him, and avowed her attachment to Charles, went
beyond all bounds. Her son, however, who possessed a greater restraint
upon his feelings, and was master of more profound hypocrisy and
cunning, requested her to conceal the attachment of Alice to his
brother, as a matter not to be disclosed on any account.
“Leave me to my resources,” said he, “and it will go hard or I will
so manage Charles as to disentangle him from the consequences of her
influence over him. But the families, mother, must not be for the
present permitted to visit again. On the contrary, it is better for our
purposes that they should not see each other as formerly, nor resume
their intimacy. If you suffer your passions to overcome you, even in our
own family, the consequence is that you prevent us both from playing our
game as we ought, and as we shall do. Leave Charles to me; I shall make
O'Connor of use, too; but above all things do not breathe a syllable to
any one of them of my having been thrown off. I think, as it is, I have
damped her ardor for him a little, and if she had not been obstinate and
foolishly romantic, I would have extinguished it completely. As it is,
I told her to leave the truth of what I mentioned to her respecting him,
to time, and if she does I shall rest satisfied. Will you now be guided
by me, my dear mother?”
“I will endeavor to do so,” she replied; “but it will be a terrible
restraint upon me, and I scarcely know how I shall be able to keep
myself calm. I will try, however; the object is worth it. You know if
she dies without issue the property reverts to you.”
“Yes, mother, the object is worth much more than the paltry sacrifice
I ask of you. Keep yourself quiet, then, and we will accomplish our
purposes yet. I shall set instruments to work who will ripen our
projects, and, I trust, ultimately accomplish them.”
“Why, what instruments do you intend to use?”
“I know the girl's disposition and character well. I have learned much
concerning her from Casey, who is often there as a suitor for the fair
hand of her favorite maid. Casey, however, is a man in whom I can place
no confidence; he is too much attached to the rest of the family, and
does not at all relish me. I will make him an unconscious agent of mine,
notwithstanding. In the meantime, let nothing appear in your manner that
might induce them to suspect the present position of affairs between us.
They may come to know it soon enough, and then it will be our business
to act with greater energy and decision.”
And so it was arranged between this precious mother and son.
Woodward who was quick in the conception of his projects, had them
all laid even then; and in order to work them out with due effect, he
resolved to pay a visit to our friend, Sol Donnel, the herb doctor.
This hypocritical old villain was uncle to Caterine Collins, the
fortune-teller, who had prognosticated to him such agreeable tiding's on
the night of the bonfire. She, too, was to be made useful, and, so far
as money could do it, faithful to his designs--diabolical as they were.
He accordingly went one night, about the hour mentioned by Donnel,
to the cabin of that worthy man; and knocking gently at the door, was
replied to in a peevish voice, like that of an individual who had been
interrupted in the performance of some act of piety and devotion.
“Who is there?” said the voice inside.
“A friend,” replied Woodward, in a low, cautious tone; “a friend, who
wishes to speak to you.”
“I can't spake to you to-night,” replied Sol; “you're disturbin' me at
my prayers.”
“But I wish to speak to you on particular business.”
“What business? Let me finish my padereens and go to bed like a vile
sinner, as I am--God help me. Who are you?”
“I don't intend to tell you that just now, Solomon; do you wish me to
shout it out to you, in order that the whole neighborhood may hear it? I
have private business with you.”
“Well,” replied the other, “I think, by your voice and language, you're
not a common man, and, although it's against my rule to open at this time
o' night to any one, still I'll let you in--and sure I must only say my
prayers aftherwards. In the manetime it's a sin for you or any one to
disturb me at them; if you knew what the value of one sinful sowl is in
the sight of God, you wouldn't do it--no, indeed. Wait till I light a
candle.”
He accordingly lighted a candle, and in the course of a few minutes
admitted Woodward to his herbarium. When the latter entered, he looked
about him with a curiosity not unnatural under the circumstances. His
first sensation, however, was one that affected his olfactory nerves
very strongly. A combination of smells, struggling with each other, as
it were, for predominance, almost overpowered him. The good and the bad,
the pleasant and the oppressive, were here mingled up in one sickening
exhalation--for the disagreeable prevailed. The whole cabin was hung
about with bunches of herbs, some dry and withered, others fresh and
green, giving evidence that they had been only newly gathered. A number
of bottles of all descriptions stood on wooden shelves, but without
labels, for the old sinner's long practice and great practical memory
enabled him to know the contents of every bottle with as much accuracy
as if they had been labelled in capitals.
“How the devil can you live and sleep in such a suffocating compound of
vile smells as this?” asked Woodward.
The old man glanced at him keenly, and replied,--
“Practice makes masther, sir--I'm used to them; I feel no smell but
a good smell; and I sleep sound enough, barrin' when I wake o' one
purpose, to think of and repent o' my sins, and of the ungrateful world
that is about me; people that don't thank me for doin' them good--God
forgive them! _amin acheernah!_”
“Why, now,” replied Woodward, “if I had a friend of mine that was
unwell--observe me, a friend of mine--that stood between me and my
own interests, and that I was kind and charitable enough to forget any
ill-will against him, and wished to recover him from his illness through
the means of your skill and herbs, could you not assist me in such a
good and Christian work?”
The old fellow gave him a shrewd look and piercing glance, but
immediately replied--
“Why, to be sure, I could; what else is the business of my whole life
but to cure my fellow-cratures of their complaints?”
“Yes; I believe you are very fortunate in that way; however, for the
present, I don't require your aid, but it is very likely I shall soon.
There is a friend of mine in poor health, and if he doesn't otherwise
recover, I shall probably apply to you; but, then, the party I speak of
has such a prejudice against quacks of all sorts, that I fear we must
substitute one of your draughts, in a private way, for that of the
regular doctor. That, however, is not what I came to speak to you about.
Is not Caterine Collins, the fortune-teller a niece of yours?”
“She is, sir.”
“Where and when could I see her?--but mark me, I don't wish to be seen
speaking to her in public.”
“Why not?--what's to prevent you from chattin' wid her in an aisy
pleasant way in the streets; nobody will obsarve any thing then, or
think it strange that a gentleman should have a funny piece o' discoorse
wid a fortune-teller.”
“I don't know that; observations might be made afterwards.”
“But what can she do for you that I can't? She's a bad graft to have
anything to do wid, and I wouldn't recommend you to put much trust in
her.”
“Why so?”
“Why, she's nothin' else than a schemer.”
Little did old Solomon suspect that he was raising her very highly in
the estimation of his visitor by falling foul of her in this manner.
“At all events,” said Woodward, “I wish to see her; and, as I said, I
came for the express purpose of asking you where and when I could see
her--privately, I mean.”
“That's what I can't tell you at the present spakin',” replied
Solomon. “She has no fixed place of livin', but is here to-day and
away to-morrow. God help you, she has travelled over the whole kingdom
tellin' fortunes. Sometimes she's a dummy, and spakes to them by
signs--sometimes a gypsy--sometimes she's this and sometimes she's
that, but not often the same thing long; she's of as many colors as the
rainbow. But if you do wish to see her, there's a chance that you may
to-morrow. A conjurer has come to town, and he's to open to-morrow, for
both town and country, and she'll surely be here, for that's taking the
bit out of her mouth.”
“A conjurer!”
“Yes, he was here before some time ago, about the night of that bonfire
that was put out by the shower o' blood, but somehow he disappeared from
the place, and he's now come back.”
“A conjurer--well, I shall see the conjurer myself to-morrow; but can
you give me no more accurate information with respect to your niece?”
“Sarra syllable--as I tould you, she's never two nights in the same
place; but, if I should see her, I'll let her know your wishes; and what
might I say, sir, that you wanted her to do for you?”
“That's none of your affair, most sagacious Solomon--I wish to speak
with her myself, and privately, too; and if you see her, tell her to
meet me here to-morrow night about this hour.”
“I'll do so; but God forgive you for disturbin' me in my devotions, as
you did. It's not often I'd give them up for any one; but sure out of
regard for the proprietor o' the town I'd do that, and more for you.”
“Here,” replied Woodward, putting some silver into his hand, “let that
console you; and tell your niece when you see her that I am a good
paymaster; and, if I should stand in need of your skill, you shall find
me so, too. Good-night, and may your prayers be powerful, as I know they
come from a Christian heart, honest Solomon.”