--Other Particulars of Importance.
The reader sees that Harry Woodward, having ascertained the mutual
affection which subsisted between his brother and Alice, resorted to
such measures as were likely to place obstructions in the way of their
meeting, which neither of them was likely to remove. He felt, now,
satisfied that Charles, in consequence of the malignant fabrications
which he himself had palmed upon him for truth, would, most assuredly,
make no further attempt to renew their former intimacy. When Alice, too,
stated to him, that if she married not Charles, whether he proved worthy
of her or otherwise, she would never marry another, he felt that she was
unconsciously advancing the diabolical plans which he was projecting and
attempting to carry into effect. If she died without marriage or without
issue, the property, at her death, according to his uncle's will,
reverted, as we have said, to himself. His object, therefore, was to
expedite her demise with as little delay as possible, in order that he
might become master of the patrimony. With this generous principle for
his guide, he made it a point to visit the Goodwins, and to see Alice
as often as was compatible with the ordinary usages of society. Had
Caterine Collins not put the unsuspecting and timid girl on her guard
against the influence of the Evil Eye, as possessed by Woodward, for
whom she acted as agent in the business, that poor girl would not have
felt anything like what this diabolical piece of information occasioned
her to experience. From the moment she heard it her active imagination
took the alarm. An unaccountable terror seized upon her; she felt as if
some dark doom was impending over her. It was in a peculiar degree the
age of superstition; and the terrible influence of the Evil Eye was
one not only of the commonest, but the most formidable of them all. The
dark, significant, but sinister gaze of Harry Woodward was, she thought,
forever upon her. She could not withdraw her imagination from it. It
haunted her; it was fixed upon her, accompanied by a dreadful smile of
apparent courtesy, but of a malignity which she felt as if it penetrated
her whole being, both corporeal and mental. She hurried to bed at night
with a hope that sleep might exclude the frightful vision which followed
her; but, alas! even sleep was no security to her against its terrors.
It was now that in her distempered dreams imagination ran riot. She fled
from him, or attempted to fly, but feared that she had not strength for
the effort; he followed her, she thought, and when she covered her face
with her hands in order to avoid the sight of him, she felt him seizing
her by the wrists, and removing her arms in order that he might pour the
malignant influence of that terrible eye into her very heart. From these
scenes she generally awoke with a shriek, when her maid, Sarah Sullivan,
who of late slept in the same room with her, was obliged to come to her
assistance, and soothe and sustain her as well as she could. She then
lay for hours in such a state of terror and agitation as cannot be
described, until near morning, WHen she generally fell into something
like sound sleep. In fact, her waking moments were easy when compared
with the persecution which the spirit of that man inflicted on her
during her broken and restless slumbers. The dreadful eye, as it rested
upon her, seemed as if its powerful but killing expression proceeded
from the heart and spirit of some demon who sought to wither her by
slow degrees out of life; and she felt that he was succeeding in his
murderous and merciless object. It is not to be wondered at, then,
that she dreaded the state of sleep more than any other condition of
existence in which she could find herself. As night, and the hour of
retiring to what ought to have been a refreshing rest returned, her
alarms also returned with tenfold terror; and such was her apprehension
of those fiend-like and nocturnal visits, that she entreated Sarah
Sullivan to sleep with and awaken her the moment she heard her groan or
shriek. Our readers may perceive that the innocent girl's tenure of life
could not be a long one under such strange and unexampled sufferings.
The state of her health now occasioned her parents to feel the most
serious alarm. She herself disclosed to them the fearful intelligence
which had been communicated to her in such a friendly spirit by Caterine
Collins, to wit, that Harry Woodward possessed the terrible power of the
Evil Eye, and that she felt he was attempting to kill her by it; adding,
that from the state of her mind and health she feared he had succeeded,
and that certainly, if he were permitted to continue his visits, she
knew that she could not long survive.
“I remember well,” said her father, “that when he was a boy of about six
or seven he was called, by way of nickname, _Harry na Suil Glair_; and,
indeed, the common report always has been that his mother possesses the
evil eye against cattle, when she wishes to injure any neighbor that
doesn't treat her with what she thinks to be proper and becoming
respect. If her son Harry has the accursed gift it comes from her blood;
they say there is some old story connected with her family that accounts
for it, but, as I never heard it, I don't know what it is.”
“I agree with you,” said his wife; “if he has it at all, he may thank
her for it. There is, I fear, some bad principle in her; for surely
the fierceness and overbearing spirit of her pride, and the malignant
calumnies of her foul and scandalous tongue, can proceed from nothing
that's good.”
“Well, Martha,” observed her husband, “if the devilish and unaccountable
hatred which she bears her fellow-creatures is violent, she has the
satisfaction of knowing--and well she knows it--that it is returned to
her with compound interest; I question if the devil himself is detested
with such a venomous feeling as she is. Her own husband and children
cannot like a bone in her skin.”
“And yet,” replied Alice, “you would have made this woman my
mother-in-law! Do you think it was from any regard to us that she came
here to propose a marriage between her son and me? No, indeed, dear
papa, it was for the purpose of securing the property, which her brother
left me, for him who would otherwise have inherited it. And do you
imagine for a moment that Harry Woodward himself ever felt one emotion
of personal affection for me? If you do you are quite mistaken. I
knew and felt all along--even while he was assuming the part of the
lover--that he actually hated, not only me, but every one of the family.
His object was the property, and so was that of his mother; but I
absolve all the other members of the family from any knowledge of, or
participation in, their schemes. As it is, if you wish to see yourselves
childless you will allow his, visits, or, if not, you will never permit
his presence under this roof again. I fear, however, that it is now
too late--you see that I am already on the brink of the grave, in
consequence of the evil influence which the dreadful villain has gained
over me, and, indeed,” she added, bursting into tears, “I have, at this
moment, no hopes of recovery. My strength, both bodily and mental, is
gone--I am as weak as an infant, and I see nothing before me but an
early grave. I have also other sorrows, but even to you I will not
disclose them--perhaps on my bed of death I may.”
The last words were scarcely uttered when she fainted. Her parents were
dreadfully alarmed--in a moment both were in tears, but they immediately
summoned assistance. Sarah Sullivan made her appearance, attended by
others of the servants; the usual remedies were applied, and in the
course of about ten or twelve minutes she recovered, and was weeping in
a paroxysm bordering on despair when Harry Woodward entered the room.
This was too much for the unfortunate girl. It seemed like setting the
seal of death to her fate. She caught a glimpse of him. There was the
malignant, but derisive look--one which he meant to be courteous, but
which the bitter feeling within him overshadowed with the gloomy triumph
of an evil spirit. She placed her hands over her eyes, gave one loud
shriek, and immediately fell into strong convulsions.
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Woodward, “what is the matter with Miss
Goodwin? I am sincerely sorry to see this. Is not her health good?”
“Pray, sir,” replied her father, “how did you come to obtrude yourself
here at such a moment of domestic distress?”
“Why, my dear sir,” replied Woodward, “of course you must know that I
was ignorant of all this. The hall-door was open, as it generally is, so
was the door of this room, and I came in accordingly, as I have been in
the habit of doing, to pay my respects to the family.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Goodwin, “the hall-door is generally open, but it shall
not be so in future. Come out of the room, Mr. Woodward; your presence
is not required here.”
“O, certainly,” replied Woodward, “I feel that; and I assure you I
would not by any means have intruded had I known that Miss Goodwin was
unwell.”
“She is unwell,” responded her father; “very unwell; unwell unto death,
I fear. And now, Mr. Woodward,” he proceeded, when they had reached the
hall, “I beg to state peremptorily and decidedly that all intimacy and
intercourse between you and our family must cease from this hour. You
visit here no more.”
“This is very strange language, Mr. Goodwin,” replied the other, “and
I think, as between two gentlemen, I am entitled to an explanation. I
received the permission of yourself, your lady, and your daughter to
visit here. I am not conscious of having done anything unbecoming a
gentleman, that could or ought to deprive me of a privilege which I
looked upon as an honor.”
“Well, then,” replied her father, “look into your own conscience, and
perhaps you will find the necessary explanation there. I am master of my
own house and my own motions, and now I beg you instantly to withdraw,
and to consider this your last visit here.”
“May I not be permitted to call to-morrow to inquire after Miss
Goodwin's health?”
“Assuredly not.”
“Nor to send a messenger?”
“By no means; and now, sir, withdraw; I must go in to my daughter, till
I see what can be done for her, or whether anything can or not.”
Harry Woodward looked upon him steadily for a time, and the old man felt
as if his very strength was becoming relaxed; a sense of faintness and
terror came over him, and, as Woodward took his departure in silence,
the father of Alice began to abandon all hopes of her recovery. He
himself felt the effects of the mysterious gaze which Woodward had
fastened on him, and entered the room, conscious of the fatal power of
the Evil Eye.
Fit after fit succeeded each other for the space of, at least, an hour
and a half, after which they ceased, but left her in such a state of
weakness and terror that she might be said, at that moment, to hover
between life and death. She was carried in her distracted father's
arms to bed, and after they had composed her as well as they could, her
father said,--
“My darling child, you may now summon strength and courage; that man,
that bad man, will never come under this roof again. I have finally
settled the point, and you have nothing further now, nor anything worse,
to dread from him. I have given the villain his _nunc dimittis_ once and
forever, and you will never see him more.”
“But I fear, papa,” she replied, feebly, “that, as I said before, it is
now too late. I feel that he has killed me. I know not how I will
pass this night. I dread the hours of sleep above all conditions of my
unhappy existence. O, no wonder that the entrance of that man-demon to
our house should be heralded by the storms and hurricanes of heaven, and
that the terrible fury of the elements, as indicative of the Almighty's
anger, should mark his introduction to our family. Then the prodigy
which took place when the bonfires were lighted to welcome his accursed
return--the shower of blood! O, may God support me, and, above all
things, banish him from my dreams! Still, I feel some relief by the
knowledge that he is not to come here again. Yes, I feel that it
relieves me; but, alas! I fear that even the consciousness of that
cannot prevent the awful impression that I think I am near death.”
“No, darling,” replied her mother, “don't allow that thought to gain
upon you. We'll get a fairy-man or a fairy-woman, because they know the
best remedies against everything of that kind, when a common leech or
chirurgeon can do nothing.”
“No,” replied her father, “I will allow nothing of the kind under this
roof. It's not a safe thing to have dealings with such people. We know
that the Church forbids it. Perhaps it's a witch we might stumble
on; and would it not be a frightful thing to see one of those who are
leagued with the devil bringing their unconsecrated breaths about us
this week, as it were, and, perhaps, burned the next? No, we will have
a regular physician, who has his own character, as such, to look to and
support by his honesty and skill, but none of those withered classes of
hell that are a curse to the country.”
“Very well,” replied Mrs. Goodwin, “have your own way in it. I dare say
you are right.”
“O, don't bring any fairy-women or fairy-men about me,” said Alice. “The
very sight of them would take away the little life I have left.”
In the meantime Harry Woodward, who had a variety of plans and projects
to elaborate, found himself, as every villain of his kind generally
does, encompassed by doubt and apprehension of their failure. The reader
will understand the condition of his heart and feelings when he advances
further in this narrative. Old Lindsay, who was of a manly and generous
disposition, felt considerable surprise that all intimacy should have
been discontinued between his son Charles and Alice Goodwin. As for
the property which she now possessed, he never once thought of it in
connection with their former affection for each other. He certainly
appreciated the magnanimity and disinterestedness of his son in ceasing
to urge his claims after she had become possessed of such a fortune; and
it struck him that something must have been wrong, or some evil agency
at work, which prevented the Goodwins from reestablishing their former
intimacy with Charles whilst they seemed to court that of his brother.
Here was something strange, and he could not understand it. One.
morning, when they were all seated at breakfast, he spoke as follows:--
“I can't,” he said, “comprehend the conduct of the Goodwins. Their
daughter, if we are to judge from appearances, has discarded her
accepted lover, poor Charles, here. Now, this doesn't look well. There
seems to be something capricious, perhaps selfish, in it. Still, knowing
the goodness of their hearts, as I do, I cannot but feel that there
is something like a mystery in it. I had set my heart upon a marriage
between Charles and Alice before ever she came into the property
bequeathed to her. In this I was not selfish certainly. I looked only to
their happiness. Yes, and my mind is still set upon this marriage, and
it shall go hard with me or I will accomplish it.”
“Father,” said Charles, “if you regard or respect me, I entreat of you
to abandon any such project. Ferdora O'Connor is now the favorite there.
He is rich and I am poor; no, the only favor I ask is that you will
never more allude to the subject in my hearing.”
“But I will allude to it, and I will demand an explanation besides,”
replied Lindsay.
“Father,” observed Harry, “I trust that no member of this family is
capable of an act of unparalleled meanness. I, myself, pleaded my
brother's cause with that heartless and deceitful girl in language which
could not be mistaken. And what was the consequence? Because I ventured
to do so I have been forbidden to visit there again. They told me,
without either preface or apology, that they will have no further
intercourse with our family. Ferdora O'Connor is the chosen man.”
“It is false,” said his sister, her eyes sparkling with indignation as
she spoke; “it is abominably false; and, father, you are right; seek
an explanation from the Goodwins. I feel certain that there are evil
spirits at work.”
“I shall, my dear girl,” replied her father; “it is only an act of
justice to them. And if the matter be at all practicable, I shall have
Charles and her married still.”
“Why not think of Harry?” said his wife; “as the person originally
destined to receive the property, he has the strongest claim.”
“You are talking now in the selfish and accursed principles of the
world,” replied Lindsay. “Charles has the claim of her early affection,
and I shall urge it.”
“Very well,” said his wife; “if you succeed in bringing about a marriage
between her and Charles, I will punish both you and him severely.”
“As how, madam?” asked her husband.
“Are you aware of one fact, Lindsay?”
“I am aware of one melancholy fact,” he replied, sarcastically.
“And, pray, what is it?” she inquired.
“Faith,” he replied, “that I am your husband.”
“O, yes--just so--that is the way I am treated, children; you see it
and you hear it. But, now, listen to me; you know, Lindsay, that the
property I brought you, as your unfortunate wife, was property in my own
right; you know, too, that by our marriage settlement that property was
settled on me, with the right of devising it to any of my children whom
I may select for that purpose. Now, I tell you, that if you press this
marriage between Charles and Alice Goodwin, I shall take this property
into my own hands, shall make my will in favor of Harry, and you and
your children may seek a shelter where you can find one.”
“Me and my children! Why, I believe you think you have no children but
Harry here. Well, you may do as you like with your property; I am not so
poor but I and my children can live upon my own. This house and place,
I grant you, are yours, and, as for myself, I am willing to leave it
to-day; a life of exclusion and solitude will be better than that which
I lead with you.”
“Papa,” said Maria, throwing her arms about his neck and bursting into
tears, “when you go I shall go; and wherever you may go to, I shall
accompany you.”
“Father,” said Charles, in a choking voice, and grasping his hand as he
spoke, “if you leave this house you shall not go alone. Neither I nor
Maria shall separate ourselves from you. We will have enough to live on
with comfort and decency.”
“Mother,” said Harry, rising up and approaching her with a face of
significant severity; “mother, you have forced me to say--and heaven
knows the pain with which I say it--that I am ashamed of you. Why will
you use language that is calculated to alienate from me the affections
of a brother and sister whom I love with so much tenderness? I trust
you understand me when I tell you now that I identify myself with their
feelings and objects, and that no sordid expectation of your property
shall ever induce me to take up your quarrel or separate myself from
them. Dispose of your property as you wish; I for one shall not earn it
by sacrificing the best affections of the heart, nor by becoming a slave
to such a violent and indefensible temper as yours. As for me, I shall
not stand in need of your property--I will have enough of my own.”
They looked closely at each other; but that look was sufficient. The
cunning mother thoroughly understood the freemason glance of his eye,
and exclaimed,--
“Well, I see I am abandoned by all my children; but I will endeavor to
bear it. I now leave you to yourselves--to meditate and put in practice
whatever plot you please against my happiness. Indeed, I know what a
consolation my death would be to you all.”
She then withdrew, in accordance with the significant look which Harry
gave towards the door.
“Harry,” said Lindsay, holding out his hand, “you are not the son of my
blood, but I declare to heaven I love you as well as if you were.
Your conduct is noble and generous; ay, and as a natural consequence,
disinterested; there is no base and selfish principle in you, my dear
boy; and I honor and love you as if I were your father in reality.”
“Harry,” said Maria, kissing him, “I repeat and feel all that dear papa
has said.”
“And so do I,” exclaimed Charles, “and if I ever entertained any other
feeling, I fling it to the winds.”
“You all overrate me,” said Harry; “but, perhaps, if you were aware of
my private remonstrances with my mother upon her unfortunate principles
and temper, you would give me more credit even than you do. My object is
to produce peace and harmony between you, and if I can succeed in that
I shall feel satisfied, let my mother's property go where it may. Of
course, you must now be aware that I separate myself from her and her
projects, and identify myself, as I said, with you all. Still, there is
one request I have to make of you, father, my dear father, for well I
may call you so; and it is that you will not, as an independent man and
a gentleman, attempt to urge this marriage, on which you seem to have
set your heart, between Charles and Goodwin's daughter. You are not
aware of what I know upon this subject. She and Ferdora O'Connor are
about to be married; but I will not mention what I could mention until
after that ceremony shall have taken place.”
“Well,” said his sister, “you appear to speak very sincerely, Harry, but
I know and feel that there is some mistake somewhere.”
“Harry,” said Lindsay, “from what has occurred this morning, I shall be
guided by you. I will not press this marriage, neither shall I stoop to
seek an explanation.”
“Thank you, sir,” replied Harry. “I advise you as I do because I would
not wish to see our whole family insulted in your person.”
Maria and her brother Charles looked at each other, and seemed to
labor under a strange and somewhat mysterious feeling. The confidence,
however, with which Harry spoke evidently depressed them, and, as they
entertained not the slightest suspicion of his treachery, they left the
apartment each with a heavy heart.
Harry, from this time forward, associated more with his brother than he
had done, and seemed to take him more into his confidence. He asked him
out in all his sporting expeditions; and proposed that they should each
procure a shooting dress of the same color and materials, which was
accordingly done; and so strongly did they resemble each other, when
dressed in them, that in an uncertain light, or at a distance, it was
nearly impossible to distinguish the one from the other. In fact, the
brothers were now inseparable, Harry's object being to keep Charles as
much under his eye and control as possible, from an apprehension that,
on cool reflection, he might take it into his head to satisfy himself
by a personal interview with Alice Goodwin as to the incomprehensible
change which had estranged her affection from him.
Still, although the affection of those brothers seemed to increase, the
conduct of Harry was full of mystery. That the confidence he placed
in Charles was slight and partial admitted of no doubt. He was in the
habit, for instance, of going out after the family had gone to bed, as
we have mentioned before; and it was past all doubt that he had been
frequently seen accompanied, in his midnight rambles, by what was known
in the neighborhood as the Black Spectre, or, by the common people, as
the _Shan-dhinne-dhue_, or the dark old man. These facts invested
his character, which, in spite of all his plausibility of manner, was
unpopular, with something of great dread, as involving on his part some
unholy association with the evil and supernatural. This was peculiarly
the age of superstition and of a belief in the connection of both men
and women with diabolical agencies; for such was the creed of the day.
One evening, about this time, Caterine Collins was on her way home to
Rathfillan, I when, on crossing a piece of bleak moor adjacent to the
town, a powerful young fellow, dressed in the truis, cloak, and barrad
of the period, started up from a clump of furze bushes, and addressed
her as follows:--
“Caterine,” said he, “are you in a hurry?”
“Not particularly,” she replied; “but in God's name, Shawn, what brings
you here? Are you mad? or what tempts you to come within the jaws of the
law that are gaping for you as their appointed victim? Don't you know
you are an outlaw?”
“I will answer your first question first,” he replied. “What tempted me
to come here? Vengeance--deep and deadly vengeance. Vengeance upon the
villain who has ruined Grace Davoren. I had intended to take her life
first; but I am an Irishman, and will not visit upon the head of
the innocent girl, whom this incarnate devil has tempted beyond her
strength, the crime for which he is accountable.”
“Well, indeed, Shawn, it would be only serving him right; but, in the
meantime, you had better be on your guard; it is said that he fears
neither God nor devil, and always goes well armed; so be cautious, and
if you take him at all, it must be by treachery.”
“No,” said the outlaw, indignantly, “I'll never take him or any man by
treachery. I know I am an outlaw; but it was the merciless laws of the
country, and their injustice to me and mine, that made me so; I resisted
them openly and like a man; but, bad as I am supposed to be, I will
never stain either my name or my conscience by an act of cowardly
treachery. I will meet this dark villain face to face, and take my
revenge as a brave man ought. You say he goes well armed, and that is a
proof that he feels his own guilt; yes, he goes well armed, you say; so
do I, and it will not be the treacherous murderer that he will meet, but
the open foe.”
“Well,” replied Caterine, “that is just like you, Shawn; and it is no
wonder that the women were fond of you.”
“Yes,” said he, “but the girl that was dearer to me a thousand times
than my own life has proved faithless, because there is a stain upon my
name--a stain, but no crime, Caterine; a stain made by the law, but no
crime. Had her heart been loyal and true, she would have loved me ten
times more in consequence of my very disgrace--if disgrace I ought to
call it; but instead of that--but wait--O, the villain! Well, I shall
meet him, I trust, before long, and then, Caterine, ah, then!”
“Well, Shawn, if she has desalted you, I know one that loves you better
than ever she did, and that would never desart you, as Grace Davoren has
done.”
“Ah, Caterine,” replied the outlaw, sorrowfully, “I am past that now;
my heart is broke--I could never love another. What proof of truth or
affection could any other woman give me after the treachery of her who
once said she loved me so well? She said, indeed, some time ago, that it
was her father forced her to do it, but that was after she had seen him,
for well I know she often told me a different story before the night
of the bonfire and the shower of blood. Well, Caterine, that shower of
blood was not sent for nothing. It came as the prophecy of his fate,
which, if I have life, will be a bloody one.”
“Shawn,” replied Caterine, as if she had not paid much attention to his
words, “Shawn, dear Shawn, there is one woman who would give her life
for your love.”
“Ah,” said Shawn, “it's aisily said, at all events--aisily said; but who
is it Caterine?”
“She is now speaking to you,” she returned. “Shawn, you cannot but
know that I have long loved you; and I now tell you that I love you
still--ay, and a thousand times more than ever Grace Davoren did.”
“You!” said Shawn, recoiling with indignation; “is it you, a spy, a
fortune-teller, a go-between, and, if all be true, a witch; you,
whose life and character would make a modest woman blush to hear them
mentioned? Why, the curse of heaven upon you! how dare you think of
proposing such a subject to me? Do you think because I'm marked by the
laws that my heart has lost anything of its honesty and manhood? Begone,
you hardened and unholy vagabond, and leave my sight.”
“Is that your language, Shawn?”
“It is; and what other language could any man with but a single spark of
honesty and respect for himself use toward you? Begone, I say.”
“Yes, I will begone; but perhaps you may live to rue your words: that is
all.”
“And, perhaps, so may you,” he replied. “Leave my sight. You are a
disgrace to the name of woman.”
She turned upon her heel, and on the instant bent her steps towards
Rathfillan House.
“Shawn-na-Middogue,” she said as she went along, “you talk about
revenge, but wait till you know what the revenge of an insulted woman
is. It is not an aisy thing to know your haunts; but I'll set them upon
your trail that will find you out if you were to hide yourself in the
bowels of the earth, for the words you used to me this night. _Dar
manim_, I will never rest either night or day until I see you swing from
a gibbet.”
Instead of proceeding to the little town of Rathfillan, she changed her
mind and turned her steps to Rathfillan House, the residence, as our
readers are aware, of the generous and kind-hearted Mr. Lindsay.
On arriving there she met our old acquaintance, Barney Casey, on the way
from the kitchen to the stable. Observing that she was approaching the
hall-door with the evident purpose of knocking, and feeling satisfied
that her business could be with none of the family except Harry, he
resolved to have some conversation with her, in order, if possible,
to get a glimpse of its purport. Not, indeed, that he entertained any
expectation of such a result, because he knew the craft and secrecy of
the woman he had to deal with; but, at all events, he thought that he
might still glean something significant even by her equivocations, if
not by her very silence. He accordingly turned, over and met her.
“Well, Caterine, won't this be a fine night when the moon and stars
comes out to show you the road home again afther you manage the affair
you're bent on?”
“Why, what am I bent on?” she replied, sharply.
“Why, to build a church to-night, wid the assistance of Mr. Harry
Woodward.”
“Talk with respect of your masther's stepson,” she replied, indignantly.
“And my sweet misthress's son,” returned Barney, significantly.
“Why, Caterine, I hope you won't lift me till I fall. What did I say
disrespectful of him? Faith, I only know that the wondher is how such
a devil's scald could have so good and kind-hearted a son,” he added,
disentangling himself from her suspicions, knowing perfectly well, as
he did, that any unfavorable expression he might utter against that
vindictive gentleman would most assuredly be communicated to him with
comments much stronger than the text. This would only throw him out of
Harry's confidence, and deprive him of those opportunities of probably
learning, from their casual conversation, some tendency of his
mysterious movements, especially at night; for that he was enveloped in
mystery--was a fact of which he felt no doubt whatsoever. He accordingly
resolved to cancel the consequences even of the equivocal allusion to
him which he had made, and which he saw at a glance that Caterine's keen
suspicions had interpreted into a bad sense.
“So you see, Katty,” he proceeded, “agra-machree that you wor, don't
lift me, as I said, till I fall; but what harm is it to be fond of a
spree wid a purty girl? Sure it's a good man's case; but I'll tell you
more; you must know the misthress's wig took fire this mornin', and she
was within an inch of havin' the house in flames. Ah, it's she that blew
a regular breeze, threatened to make the masther and the other two take
to their travels from about the house and place, and settle the same
house and place upon Mr. Harry.”
“Well, Barney,” said Caterine, deeply interested, “what was the upshot?”
“Why, that Masther Harry--long life to him--parted company wid her on
the spot; said he would take part wid the masther and the other two, and
tould her to her teeth that he did not care a damn about the property,
and that she might leave it as a legacy to ould Nick, who, he said,
desarved it better at her hands than he did.”
“Well, well,” replied Caterine, “I never thought he was such a fool
as all that comes to. Devil's cure to him, if she laves it to some one
else! that's my compassion for him.”
“Well, but, Caterine, what's the news? When will the sky fall, you that
knows so much about futurity?”
“The news is anything but good, Barney. The sky will fall some Sunday
in the middle of next week, and then for the lark-catching. But tell me,
Barney, is Mr. Harry within? because, if he is, I'd thank you to let him
know that I wish to see him. I have a bit of favor to ask of him about
my uncle Solomon's cabin; the masther's threatnin' to pull it down.”
Now, Barney knew the assertion to be a lie, because it was only a day or
two previous to the conversation that he had heard Mr. Lindsay express
his intention of building the old herbalist a new one. He kept his
knowledge of this to himself, however.
“And so you want him to change the masther's mind upon the subject.
Faith and you're just in luck after this mornin's skirmish--skirmish!
no bedad, but a field day itself; the masther could refuse him nothing.
Will I say what you want him for?”
“You may or you may not; but, on second thoughts, I think it will be
enough to say simply that I wish to spake to him particularly.”
“Very well, Caterine,” replied Barney, “I'll tell him so.”
In a few minutes Harry joined her on the lawn, where she awaited him,
and the following dialogue took place between them:
“Well, Caterine, Casey tells me that you have something particular to
say to me.”
“And very particular indeed, it is, Mr. Harry.”
“Well, then, the sooner we have it the better; pray, what is it?”
“I'm afeard, Mr. Woodward, that unless you have some good body's
blessin' about you, your life isn't worth a week's purchase.”
“Some good body's blessing!” he replied ironically; “well, never mind
that, but let me know the danger, if danger there be; at all events, I
am well prepared for it.”
“The danger then is this--and terrible it is--that born devil,
Shawn-na-Middogue, has got hold of what's goin' on between you and Grace
Davoren.”
“Between me and Grace Davoren!” he exclaimed, in a voice of well-feigned
astonishment. “You mean my brother Charles. Why, Caterine, that
soft-hearted and softheaded idiot, for I can call him nothing else, has
made himself a perfect fool about her, and what is worst of all, I am
afraid he will break his engagement with Miss Goodwin, and marry this
wench. Me! why, except that he sent me once or twice to meet her, and
apologize for his not being able to keep his appointment with her, I
know nothing whatsoever of the unfortunate girl, unless that, like a
fool, as she is, it seems to me that she is as fond of him as he, the
fool, on the other hand, is of her. As for my part, I shall deliver his
messages to her no more--and, indeed, it was wrong of me ever to do so.”
The moon had now risen, and Caterine, on looking keenly and
incredulously into his face, read nothing there but an expression of
apparent sincerity and sorrow for the indiscretion and folly of his
brother.
“Well,” she proceeded, “in spite of all you tell me I say that it does
not make your danger the less. It is not your brother but yourself
that he suspects, and whether right or wrong, it is upon you that his
vengeance will fall.”
“Well, but, Caterine,” he replied, “could you not see Shawn-na-Middogue,
and remedy that?”
“How, sir?” she replied.
“Why, by telling him the truth,” said the far-sighted villain, “that it
is my brother, and not I, that was the intriguer with her.”
“Is that generous towards your brother, Mr. Woodward? No, sir; sooner
than bring the vengeance of such a person as Shawn upon him, I would
have the tongue cut out of my mouth, or the right arm off my body.”
“And I, Caterine,” he answered, retrieving himself an well as he could;
“yes, I deserve to have my tongue cut out, and my right arm chopped off,
for what I have said. O, no; if there be danger let me run the risk,
and not poor, good, kind-hearted Charles, who is certainly infatuated
by this girl. He is to meet her to-morrow night at nine o'clock, in the
little clump of alders below the well, but I shall go in his place--that
is, if I can prevail upon him to allow me--and endeavor once for all
to put an end to this business: mark that I said, if he will allow me,
although I scarcely think he will. Now, good-night, and many thanks for
your good wishes towards myself and him. Accept of this, and good-night
again.” As he spoke he placed some money in her unreluctant hand, and
returned on his way home.