Ever since the night of the bonfire Woodward's character became
involved more or less in a mystery that was peculiar to the time and
the superstitions of the period. That he possessed, the Evil Eye was
whispered about; and what was still more strange, it was not his wish
that such rumors should be suppressed. They had not yet, however,
reached either Alice Goodwin or her parents. In the meantime the
feelings of the two families were once more suspended in a kind of
neutral opposition, each awaiting the other to make the first advance.
Poor Alice, however, appeared rather declining in health and spirits,
for, notwithstanding her firm and generous defence of Charles Lindsay,
his brother, to a certain extent, succeeded in shaking her confidence
in his attachment. Her parents; frequently asked her the cause of her
apparent melancholy, but she only gave them evasive replies, and stated
that she had not felt herself very well since Henry Woodward's last
interview with her.
They now urged her to take exercise--against which, indeed, she always
had a constitutional repugnance--and not to sit so much in her own room
as she did; and in order to comply with their wishes in this respect,
she forced herself to walk a couple of hours each day in the lawn, where
she generally read a book, for the purpose, if possible, of overcoming
her habitual melancholy. It was upon one of these occasions that she saw
the fortune-teller, Caterine Collins, approach her, and as her spirits
were unusually depressed for the moment, she felt no inclination to
enter into any conversation with her. Naturally courteous, however, and
reluctant to give offence, she allowed the woman to advance, especially
as she could perceive from the earnestness of her manner that she was
anxious to speak with her.
“Well, Caterine,” said she, “I hope you are not coming to tell my
fortune to-day; I am not in spirits to hear much of the future, be
it good or bad. Will you not go up to the house? They will give you
something to eat.”
“Thank you, Miss Alice, I will go up by and by; but in the manetime,
what fortune could any one tell you but good fortune? There's nothin'
else before you; and if there is, I'm come to put you on your guard
against it, as I will, plaise goodness. I heard what I'm goin' to
mention to you on good autority, and, as I know it's true, I think
it's but right you should know of it, too.” Alice immediately became
agitated; but mingled with that agitation was a natural wish--perhaps
it might be a pardonable curiosity, under the circumstances--to hear
how what the woman had to disclose could affect herself. Being nervous,
restless, and depressed, she was just in the very frame of mind to
receive such an impression as might be deeply prejudicial to the ease of
her heart--perhaps her happiness, and consequently her health.
“What is it that you think I should know, Caterine?”
Caterine, who looked about her furtively, as if to satisfy herself that
there was no one present but themselves, said,--
“Now, Miss Goodwin, everything depends on whether you'll answer me one
question truly, and you needn't be afeard to spake the truth to me.”
“Is it concerning myself?”
“It is, Miss Goodwin, and another, too, but principally yourself.”
“But what right have you, Caterine, to question me upon my own affairs?”
“No right, miss; but I wish to prevent you from, harm.”
“I thank you for your good wishes, Caterine; but what is it you would
say?”
“Is it true, Miss Alice, that you and Mr. Woodward are coortin'?”
“It is not, Caterine,” replied Alice, uttering the disavowal with a good
deal of earnestness; “there is no truth whatsoever in it; nothing can
be more false and groundless--I wonder how such a rumor could have got
abroad; it certainly could not proceed from Mr. Woodward.”
“It did not, indeed, Miss Alice; but it did from his brother, who, it
seems, is very fond of him, and said he was glad of it; but indeed,
miss, it delights my heart to hear that there is no truth in it. Mr.
Woodward, God save us! is no fit husband for any Christian! woman.”
“Why so?” asked Alice, laboring under, some vague sense of alarm.
“Why, Heavenly Father! Miss Alice, sure it's well known he has the Evil
Eye; it's in the family upon his mother's side.”
“My God!” exclaimed Alice, who became instantly as pale as death, “if
that be true, Caterine, it's shocking.”
“True,” replied Caterine; “did you never I observe his eyes?”
“Not particularly.”
“Did you remark that they're of different colors? that one of them is as
black as the devil's, and the other a gray?”
“I never observed that,” replied Alice, who really never had.
“Yes, and I could tell you more than that about him,” proceeded
Caterine; “they say he's connected wid what's not good. Sure, when they
got up a bonfire for him, doesn't all the world know that it was put out
by a shower of blood; and that's a proof that he's a favorite wid the
devil and the fairies.”
“I believe,” replied Alice, “that there is no doubt whatsoever about the
shower of blood; but I should not consider that fact as proof that he is
a favorite with either the devil or the fairies.”
“Ay, but you don't know, miss, that this is the way they have of showin'
it. Then, ever since he has come to the country, Bet Harramount, the
witch, in the shape of a white hare, is come back to the neighborhood,
and the _Shawn-dhinne-dhuv_ is now seen about the Haunted House, oftener
than he ever was. It's well known that the white hare plays about Mr.
Woodward like a dog, and that she goes into the Haunted House, too,
every night.”
“And what brought you to tell me all this, Caterine?” asked Alice.
“Why, miss, to put you on your guard; afraid you might get married to a
man that, maybe, has sould himself to the devil. It's well known by his
father's sarvints that he's out two or three nights in the week, and
nobody can tell where he goes.”
“Are the servants your authority for that?”
“Indeed they are; Barney Casey knows a great deal about him. Now, Miss
Alice, you're on your guard; have nothing to do wid him as a sweetheart;
but above all things don't fall out wid him, bekaise, if you did, as
sure as I stand here he'd wither you off o' the earth. And above all
things again watch his eyes; I mane the black one, but don't seem to do
so; and now good-by, miss; I've done my duty to you.”
“But about his brother, Caterine? He has not the Evil Eye, I hope?”
“Ah, miss, I could tell you something about him, too. They're a bad
graft, these Lindsays; there's Mr. Charles, and it's whispered he's
goin' to make a fool of himself and disgrace his family.”
“How is that, Caterine?”
“I don't know rightly; I didn't hear the particulars; but I'll be on the
watch, and when I can I'll let you know it.”
“Take no such trouble, Caterine,” said Alice; “I assure you I feel no
personal interest whatsoever in any of the family except Miss Lindsay.
Leave me, Caterine, leave me; I must finish my book; but I thank you
for your good wishes. Go up, and say I desired them to give you your
dinner.”
Alice soon felt herself obliged to follow; and it was, indeed, with some
difficulty she was able to reach the house. Her heart got deadly sick;
an extraordinary weakness came over her; she became alarmed, frightened,
distressed; her knees tottered under her, and she felt on reaching
the hall-door as if she were about to faint. Her imagination became
disturbed; a heavy, depressing gloom descended upon her, and darkened
her flexible and unresisting spirit, as if it were the forebodings of
some terrible calamity.
The diabolical wretch who had just left her took care to perform her
base and heartless task with double effect. It was not merely the
information she had communicated concerning Woodward that affected her
so deeply, although she felt, as it were, in the Inmost recesses of her
soul, that it was true, but that which went at the moment with greater
agony to her heart was the allusion to Charles Lindsay, and the
corroboration it afforded to the truth of the charge which Woodward had
brought, with so much apparent reluctance, against him--the charge of
having neglected and abandoned her for another, and that other a person
of low birth, who, by relinquishing her virtue, had contrived to gain
such an artful and selfish ascendancy over him. How could she doubt
it? Here was a woman ignorant of the communication Woodward had made to
her,--ignorant of the vows that had passed between them,--who had heard
of his falsehood and profligacy, and who never would have alluded to
them had she not been questioned. So far, then, Woodward, she felt,
stood without blame with respect to his brother. And how could she
suspect Caterine to have been the agent of that gentleman, when she knew
now that her object in seeking an interview with herself was to put her
on her guard against him? The case was clear, and, to her, dreadful
as it was clear. She felt herself now, however, in that mood which no
sympathy can alleviate or remove. She experienced no wish to communicate
her distress to any one, but resolved to preserve the secret in her
own bosom. Here, then, was she left to suffer the weight of a twofold
affliction--the dread of Woodward, with which Caterine's intelligence
had filled her heart, feeble, and timid, and credulous as it was upon
any subject of a superstitious tendency--and the still deeper distress
which weighed her down in consequence of Charles Lindsay's treachery and
dishonor. Alas! poor Alice's heart was not one for struggles,
nurtured and bred up, as she had been, in the very wildest spirit of
superstition, in all its degrading ramifications. There was something
in the imagination and constitution of the poor girl which generated and
cherished the superstitions which prevailed in her day. She could not
throw them off her mind, but dwelt upon them with a kind of fearful
pleasure which we can understand from those which operated upon our
own fancies in our youth. These prepare the mind for the reception of a
thousand fictions concerning ghosts, witches, fairies, apparitions, and
a long catalogue of nonsense, equally disgusting and repugnant to reason
and common-sense. It is not surprising, then, that poor Alice's mind on
that night was filled with phantasms of the most feverish and excited
description. As far as she could, however, she concealed her agitation
from her parents, but not so successfully as to prevent them from
perceiving that she was laboring under some extraordinary and
unaccountable depression. This unfortunately was too true. On that night
she experienced a series of such wild and frightful visions as, when she
was startled out of them, made her dread to go again to sleep. The white
hare, the Black Spectre, but, above all, the fearful expression her
alarmed fancy had felt in Woodward's eye, which was riveted upon her,
she thought, with a baleful and demoniacal glance, that pierced and
prostrated her spirit with its malignant and supernatural power; all
these terrible images, with fifty other incoherent chimeras, flitted
before the wretched girl's imagination during her feverish slumbers.
Towards morning she sank into a somewhat calmer state of rest, but still
with occasional and flitting glimpses of the same horrors.
So far the master-spirit had set, at least, a portion of his machinery
in motion, in order to work out his purposes; but we shall find that his
designs became deeper and blacker as he proceeded in his course.
In a few days Alice became somewhat relieved from the influence of these
tumultuous and spectral phantasms which had run riot in her terrified
fancy; and this was principally owing to the circumstance of her having
prevailed upon one of the maid-servants, a girl named Bessy Mangan,
Barney Casey's sweetheart, to sleep privately in her room. The attack
had reduced and enfeebled her very much, but still she was slightly
improved and somewhat relieved in her spirits. The shock, and the
nervous paroxysm that accompanied it, had nearly passed away, and she
was now anxious, for the sake of her health, to take as much exercise
as she could. Still--still--the two leading thoughts would recur
to her--that of Charles's treachery, and the terrible gift of curse
possessed by his brother Henry; and once more her heart would sink to
the uttermost depths of distress and terror. The supernatural, however,
in the course of a little time, prevailed, as it was only reasonable
to suppose it would in such a temperament as hers; and as her mind
proceeded to struggle with the two impressions, she felt that her dread
of Woodward was gradually gaining upon and absorbing the other. Her
fear of him, consequently, was deadly; that terrible and malignant
eye--notwithstanding its dark brilliancy and awful beauty, alas! too,
significant of its power--was constantly before her imagination, gazing
upon her with a fixed, determined, and mysterious look, accompanied by
a smile of triumph, which deepened its satanity, if we may be allowed to
coin a word, at every glance. It was not mere antipathy she felt for him
now, but dread and horror. How, then, was she to act? She had pledged
herself to receive his visits upon one condition, and to permit him
to continue a friendly intimacy altogether apart from love. How, then,
could she violate her word, or treat him with rudeness, who had always
not only treated her with courtesy, but expressed an interest in her
happiness which she had every reason to believe sincere? Thus was the
poor girl entangled with difficulties on every side without possessing
any means of releasing herself from them.
In a few days after this she was sitting in the drawing-room when
Woodward unexpectedly entered it, and saluted her with great apparent
good feeling and politeness. The surprise caused her to become as pale
as death; she felt her very limbs relax with weakness, and her breath
for a few moments taken away from her; she looked upon him with an
expression of alarm and fear which she could not conceal, and it was
with some difficulty that she was at length enabled to speak.
“You will excuse me, sir,” she said, “for not rising; I am very nervous,
and have not been at all well for the last week or upwards.”
“Indeed, Miss Goodwin, I am very sorry to hear this; I trust it is only
a mere passing indisposition; I think the complaint is general, for my
sister has also been ailing much the same way for the last few days.
Don't be alarmed, Miss Goodwin, it is nothing, and won't signify. You
should mingle more in society; you keep too much alone.”
“But I do not relish society; I never mingle in it that I don't feel
exhausted and depressed.”
“That certainly makes a serious difference; in such a case, then, I
imagine society would do you more harm than good. I should not have
intruded on you had not your mother requested me to come up and try to
raise your spirits--a pleasure which I would gladly enjoy if I could.”
“I am much obliged to you, Mr. Woodward,” she replied; “I hope a short
time will remove this unusual depression, and I must only have a little
patience.”
“Just so, Miss Goodwin; a little time, as you say, will restore you to
yourself.”
Now all this was very courteous and kind of Mr. Woodward, and might have
raised her spirits were it not for the eye. From the moment he entered
the apartment that dreaded instrument of his power was fixed upon her
with a look so concentrated, piercing, and intense, that it gave a
character of abstraction to all he said. In other words, she felt as
if his language proceeded out of his lips unconsciously, and that some
mysterious purport of his heart emanated from his eye. It appeared to
her that he was thinking of something secret connected with herself, to
which his words bore no reference whatsoever. She neither knew what to
do nor what to say under this terrible and permeating gaze; it was in
vain she turned away her eyes; she knew--she felt--that his was upon
her--that it was drinking up her strength--that, in fact, the evil
influence was; mingling with and debilitating her frame, and operating
upon all her faculties. There was still, however, a worse symptom, and
one which gave that gaze a significance that appalled her--this was
the smile of triumph which she had seen playing coldly but triumphantly
about his lips in her dreams. That smile was the feather to the arrow
that pierced her, and that was piercing her at that moment--it was the
cold but glittering glance of the rattlesnake, when breaking down by the
poison of his eyes the power of resistance in his devoted victim.
“Mr. Woodward,” said she, after a long pause, “I am unable to bear an
interview--have the goodness to withdraw, and when you go down-stairs
send my mother up. Excuse me, sir; but you must perceive how very ill I
have got within a few minutes.”
“I regret it exceedingly, Miss Goodwin. I had something to mention to
you respecting that unfortunate brother of mine; but you are not now in
a condition to hear anything unpleasant and distressing; and, indeed,
it is better, I think, now that I observe your state of health, that you
should not even wish to hear it.”
“I never do wish to hear it, sir; but have the goodness to leave me.”
“I trust my next visit will find you better. Good-by, Miss Goodwin! I
shall send your mother up.”
[Illustration: PAGE 697-- One long, dark, inexplicable gaze]
He withdrew very much after the etiquette of a subject leaving a crowned
head--that is, nearly backwards; but when he came to the door he paused
a moment, turning upon her one long, dark, inexplicable gaze, whilst
the muscles of his hard, stony mouth were drawn back with a smile
that contained in its expression a spirit that might be considered
complacent, but which Alice interpreted as derisive and diabolical.
“Mamma,” said she, when her mother joined her, “I am ill, and I know not
what to do.”
“I know you are not well, my love,” replied her mother, “but I hope
you're not worse; how do you feel?”
“Quite feeble, utterly without strength, and dreadfully depressed and
alarmed.”
“Alarmed, Alley! Why, what could alarm you? Does not Mr. Woodward always
conduct himself as a gentleman?”
“He does, ma'am; but, nevertheless, I never wish to see him again.”
“Why, dear me! Alice, is it reasonable that you should give way to such
a prejudice against that gentleman? Indeed I believe you absolutely hate
him.”
“It is not personal hatred, mother; it is fear and terror. I do not,
as I said, hate the man personally, because I must say that he never
deserved such a feeling at my hands, but, in the meantime, the sight of
him sickens me almost to death. I am not aware that he is or ever was
immoral, or guilty of any act that ought to expose him to hatred; but,
notwithstanding that, my impression, when conversing with him, is, that
I am in the presence of an evil spirit, or of a man who is possessed of
one. Mamma, he must be excluded the house, and forbidden to visit here
again, otherwise my health will be destroyed, and my very life placed
in danger.”
“My dear Alice, that is all very strange,” replied her mother,
now considerably alarmed at her language, but still more so at her
appearance; “why, God bless me, child! now that I look at you, you
certainly do seem to be in an extraordinary state. You are the color of
death, and then you are all trembling! Why is this, I ask again?”
“The presence of that man,” she replied, in a faint voice; “his presence
simply and solely. That is what has left me as you see me.”
“Well, Alice, it is very odd and very strange, and it seems as if there
was some mystery in it. I will, however, talk to your father about it,
and we will hear what he shall say. In the meantime, raise your spirits,
and don't be so easily alarmed. You are naturally nervous and timid, and
this is merely a poor, cowardly conceit that has got into your head; but
your own good sense will soon show you the folly of yielding to a mere
fancy. Amuse yourself on the spinet, and play some brisk music that will
cheer your spirits; it is nothing but the spleen.”
Woodward, in the meantime, having effected his object, and satisfied
himself of his power over Alice, pursued his way home in high spirits.
To his utter astonishment, however, he found the family in an uproar,
the cause of which we will explain. His mother, whose temper neither she
herself nor any other human being, unless her husband, when provoked
too far, could keep under anything like decent restraint, had got into a
passion, while he, Woodward, was making his visit; and while in a blaze
of resentment against the Goodwins she disclosed the secret of
his rejection by Alice, and dwelt with bitter indignation upon the
attachment she had avowed for Charles--a secret which Henry had most
dishonorably intrusted to her, but which, as the reader sees, she had
neither temper nor principle to keep.
On entering the house he found his; mother and step-father at high feud.
The I brows of the latter were knit, as was always the case when he
found himself bent upon mischief. He was calm, however, which was
another bad sign, for in him the old adage was completely reversed,
“After a storm comes a calm,” whilst in his case it uniformly preceded
it.
Woodward looked about him with amazement; his step-father was standing
with his back to the parlor fire, holding the skirts of his coat divided
behind, whilst his wife stood opposite to him, her naturally red face
still naming more deeply with a tornado of indignation.
“And you dare to tell me that you'll consent to Charles's marriage with
her?”
“Yes, my dear, I dare to tell you so. You have no objection that she
should marry your son Harry there. You forgot or dissembled your scorn
and resentment against her, when you thought you could make a catch of
her property: a very candid and disinterested proceeding on your part,
Well, what's the consequence? That's all knocked up; the girl won't have
him, because she is attached to his brother, and because his brother is
attached to her. Now that is just as it ought to be, and, please God,
we'll have them married. And I now I take the liberty of asking you both
to the wedding.”
“Lindsay, you're an offensive old dog, sir.”
“I might retort the compliment by changing the sex, my dear,” he
replied, laughing! and nodding at her, with a face, from the nose down,
rather benevolent than otherwise, but still the knit was between the
brows.
“Lindsay, you're an unmanly villain, and a coward to boot, or you
wouldn't use such language to a woman.”
“Not to a woman; but I'm sometimes forced to do so to a termagant.”
“What's the cause of all this?” inquired Woodward; “upon my honor, the
language I hear is very surprising, as coming from a justice of quorum
and his lady. Fie! fie! I am ashamed of you both. In what did it
originate?”
“Why, the fact is, Harry, she has told us that Alice Goodwin, in the
most decided manner, has rejected your addresses, and confided to you an
avowal of her attachment to Charles here. Now, when I heard this, I felt
highly delighted at it, and said we should have them married, and so
we shall. Then your mother, in flaming indignation at this, enacted
Vesuvius in a blaze, and there she stands ready for another eruption.”
“I wish you were in the bottom of Vesuvius, Lindsay; but you shall not
have your way, notwithstanding.”
“So I am, my dear, every day in my life. I have a little volcano of my
own here, under the very roof with me; and I tell that volcano that I
will have my own way in this matter, and that this marriage must take
place if Alice is willing; and I'm sure she is, the dear girl.”
“Sir,” said Woodward, addressing his step-father calmly, “I feel a good
deal surprised that a thinking man, of a naturalise late temper as you
are,--”
“Yes, Harry, I am so.”
“Of such a sedate temper as you are, should not recollect the
possibility of my mother, who sometimes takes up impressions hastily, if
not erroneously--as the calmest of us too frequently do--of my mother,
I say, considerably mistaking and unconsciously misrepresenting the
circumstances I mentioned to her.”
“But why did you mention them exclusively to her?” asked Charles; “I
cannot see your object in concealing them from the rest of the family,
especially from those who were most interested in the knowledge of
them.”
“Simply because I had nothing actually decisive to mention. I
principally confined myself to my own inferences, which unfortunately
my mother, with her eager habit of snatching at conclusions, in this
instance, mistook for facts. I shall satisfy you, Charles, of this, and
of other matters besides; but we will require time.”
“I assure you, Harry, that if your mother does not keep her temper
within some reasonable bounds, either she or I shall leave the
house--and I am not likely to be the man to do so.”
“This house is mine, Lindsay, and the property is mine--both in my own
right; and you and your family may leave it as soon as you like.”
“But you forget that I have property enough to support myself and them
independently of you.”
“Wherever you go, my dear papa,” said Maria, bursting into tears, “I
will accompany you. I admit it is a painful determination for a daughter
to be forced to make against her own mother; but it is one I should have
died sooner than come to if she had ever treated me as a daughter.”
Her good-natured and affectionate father took her in his arms and kissed
her.
“My own darling Maria,” said he, “I could forgive your mother all her
domestic violence and outrage had she acted with the affection of a
mother towards you. She has a heart only for one individual, and that is
her son Harry, there.”
“As for me,” said Charles, “wherever my father goes, I, too, my dear
Maria, will accompany him.”
“You hear that, Harry,” said Mrs. Lindsay; “you see now they are in a
league--in a conspiracy against your happiness and mine;--but think of
their selfishness and cunning--it is the girl's property they want.”
“Perish the property,” exclaimed Charles indignantly. “I will now
mention a fact which I have hitherto never breathed--Alice Goodwin and I
were, I may say, betrothed before ever she dreamed of possessing it; and
if I held back since that time, I did so from the principles of a man
of honor, lest she might imagine that I renewed our intimacy, after the
alienation of the families, from mercenary motives.”
“You're a fine fellow, Charley,” said his father; “you're a fine fellow,
and you deserve her and her property, if it was ten times what it is.”
“Don't you be disheartened, Harry,” said his mother; “I have a better
wife in my eye for you--a wife that will bring you connection, and that
is Lord Bilberry's niece.”
“Yes,” said her husband, ironically, “a man with fifty thousand acres
of mountain. Faith, Harry, you will be a happy man, and may feed on
bilberries all your life; but upon little else, unless you can pick the
spare bones of an old maid who has run herself into an asthma in the
unsuccessful sport of husband-hunting.”
“She will inherit her uncle's property, Lindsay.”
“Yes, she will inherit the heather and the bilberries. But go in God's
name; work out that project; there is nobody here disposed to hinder
you. Only I hope you will ask us to the wedding.”
“Mother,” said Woodward, affectionately taking her hand and giving it a
significant squeeze; “mother, you must excuse me for what I am about
to say”--another squeeze, and a glance which was very well
understood--“upon my honor, mother, I must give my verdict for the
present”--another squeeze--“against you. You--must be kinder to Charles
and Maria, and you must not treat my father with such disrespect and
harshness. I wish to become a mediator and pacificator in the family. As
for myself, I care not about property; I wish to marry the girl I love.
I am not, I trust, a selfish man--God forbid I should; but for the
present”--another squeeze--“let me entreat you all to forget this little
breeze; urge nothing, precipitate nothing; a little time, perhaps, if
we have patience to wait, may restore us all, and everything else we are
quarrelling about, to peace and happiness. Charles, I wish to have some
conversation with you.”
“Harry,” said Lindsay, “I am glad you have spoken as you did; your words
do you credit, and your conduct is manly and honorable.”
“I do believe, indeed,” said his unsuspecting brother, “that the best
thing we could all do would be to put ourselves under his guidance; as
for my part I am perfectly willing to do so, Harry. After hearing the
good sense you have just uttered, I think you are entitled to every
confidence from us all.”
“You overrate my abilities, Charles; but not, I hope, the goodness of an
affectionate heart that loves you all. Charles, come with me for a few
minutes; and, mother, do you also expect a private lecture from me by
and by.”
“Well,” said the mother, “I suppose I must. If I were only spoken to
kindly I could feel as kindly; however, let there be an end to this
quarrel as the boy says, and I, as well as Charles, shall be guided by
his advice.”
“Now, Charles,” said he, when they had gone to another room, “you know
what kind! of a woman my mother is; and the truth is, until matters get
settled, we will have occasion for a good, deal of patience with her;
let us, therefore, exercise it. Like most hot-tempered women, she has
a bad memory, and wrests the purport of words too frequently to a wrong
meaning. In the account she gave you of what occurred between Alice
Goodwin and me, she entirely did.”
“But what did occur between Alice Goodwin and you, Harry?”
“A very few words will tell it. She admitted that there certainly has
been an attachment between you and her, but--that--that--I will
not exactly repeat her words, although I don't say they were meant
offensively; but it amounted, to this, that she now filled a different
position in the eyes of the world; that she would rather the matter
were not renewed; that if her mind had changed, she had good reason for
justifying the change; and when I, finding that I had no chance myself,
began to plead for you, she hinted to me that, in consequence of the
feud that had taken place between the families, and the slanders that my
mother had cast upon her honor and principles, she was resolved to
have no further connection whatsoever with any one of the blood; her
affections were not now her own.”
“Alas, Harry!” said Charles, “how few can bear the effects of unexpected
prosperity. When she and I were both comparatively poor, she was all
affection; but now that she has become an heiress, see what a change
there is! Well, Harry, if she can be faithless and selfish, I can be
both resolute and proud. She shall have no further trouble from me on
that subject; only I must say, I don't envy her her conscience.”
“Don't be rash, Charles---we should judge of her charitably and
generously; I don't think myself she is so much to blame. O'Connor
Fardour, or Farther, or whatever you call him--”
“O, Ferdora!”
“Yes, Ferdora; that fellow is at the bottom of it all; he has plied her
well during the estrangement, and to some purpose. I never visit them
that I don't find him alone with her. He is, besides, both frank and
handsome, with a good deal of dash and insinuation in his address and
manner, and, besides, a good property, I am told. But, in the meantime,
I have a favor to ask of you; that is, if you think you can place
confidence in me.”
“Every confidence, my dear Harry,” said Charles, clasping his hand
warmly; “every confidence. As I said before, you shall be my guide and
adviser.”
“Thank you, Charles. I may make mistakes, but I shall do all for the
best. Well, then, will you leave O'Connor to me? If you do, I shall not
promise much, because I am not master of future events; but this is all
I ask of you--yes, there is one thing more--to hold aloof from her and
her family for a time.”
“After what you have told me, Harry, that is an unnecessary request now;
but as for O'Connor, I think he ought to be left to myself.”
“And so he shall in due time; but I must place him in a proper position
for you first--a thing which you could not do now, nor even attempt to
do, without meanness. Are you, then, satisfied to leave this matter in
my hands, and to remain quiet until I shall bid you act?”
“Perfectly, Harry, perfectly; I shall be guided by you in everything.”
“Well, now, Charley, we will have a double triumph soon, I hope. All
is not lost that's in danger. The poor girl is surrounded by a clique.
Priests have interfered. Her parents, you know, are Catholics; so, you
know, is O'Connor. Poor Alice, you know, too, is anything but adamant.
And now I will say no more; but in requital for what I have said, go
and send our patient mild mamma, to me. I really must endeavor to try
something with her, in order to save us all from this kind of life she
is leading us.”
When his mother entered he assumed the superior and man of authority;
his countenance exhibited something unpleasant, and in a decisive and
rather authoritative tone he said,--
“Mother, will you be pleased to take a seat?”
“You are angry with me, Harry--I know you are; but I could not restrain
my feelings, nor keep your secret, when I thought of their insolence in
requiting you--you, to whom the property would and ought to have come--”
“Pray, ma'am, take a seat.”
She sat down--anxious, but already subdued, as was evident by her
manner.
“I,” proceeded her son, “to whom the property would and ought to have
come--and I to whom it will come--”
“But are you sure of that?”
“Not, I am afraid, while I have such a mother as you are--a woman in
whom I can place no confidence with safety. Why did you betray me to
this silly family?”
“Because, as I said before, I could not help it; my temper got the
better of me.”
“Ay, and I fear it will always get the better of you. I could now give
you very agreeable information as to that property and the piece of
curds that possesses it; but then, as I said, there is no placing any
confidence in a woman of your temper.”
“If the property is concerned, Harry, you may depend your life on me. So
help me, God, if ever I will betray you again.”
“Well, that's a solemn asseveration, and I will depend on it; but if
you betray me to this family the property is lost to us and our heirs
forever.”
“Do not fear me; I have taken the oath.”
“Well, then, listen; if you could understand Latin, I would give you a
quotation from a line of Virgil--
'_Haeret lateri lethhalis arundo_.'
The girl's doomed--subdued--overcome; I am in the process of killing
her.”
“Of killing her! My God, how? not by violence, surely--that, you know,
would not be safe.”
“I know that; no--not by violence, but by the power of this dark eye
that you see in my head.”
“Heavenly Father! then you possess it?”
“I do; and if I were never to see her again I don't think she could
recover; she will merely wither away very gently, and in due time will
disappear without issue--and then, whose is the property?”
“As to that, you know there can be no doubt about it; there is the
will--the stupid; will, by which she got it.”
“I shall see her again, however--nay, in spite of them I shall see
her time after time, and shall give her the Evil Eye, until the; scene
closes--until I attend her funeral.”
“My mind is somewhat at ease,” replied his mother; “because I was
alarmed lest you should have had recourse to any process that might have
brought you within the operation of the law.”
“Make your mind easy on that point, my dear mother. No law compels a man
to close his eyes; a cat, you know, may look on a king; but of one thing
you may be certain--she dies--the victim is mine.”
“One thing is certain,” replied his mother, “that if she and Charles
should marry, you are ousted from the property.”
“Don't trouble yourself about such a contingency; I have taken steps
which I think will prevent that. I speak in a double sense; but if I
find, after all, that they are likely to fail, I shall take others still
more decisive.”