Shawn-na-Middogue Stabs Charles Lindsay in Mistake for his Brother
Shawn-na-Middogue, though uneducated, was a young man of no common
intellect. That he had been selected to head the outlaws, or rapparees,
of that day, was a sufficient proof of this. After parting from Caterine
Collins, on whom the severity of his language fell with such bitterness,
he began to reflect that he had acted with great indiscretion, to say
the least of it. He knew that if there was a woman in the barony who, if
she determined on it, could trace him to his most secret haunts, she was
that woman. He saw, too, that after she had left him, evidently in
deep indignation, she turned her steps towards Rathfillan House, most
probably with an intention of communicating to Harry Woodward the strong
determinations of vengeance which he had expressed against him. Here,
then, by want of temper and common policy, had he created two formidable
enemies against himself. This, he felt, was an oversight for which he
could scarcely forgive himself. He resolved, if possible, to repair the
error he had committed, and, with this object in view, he hung about the
place until her return should afford him an opportunity of making such
an explanation as might soothe her into good humor and a more friendly
feeling towards him. Nay, he even determined to promise her marriage, in
order to disarm her resentment and avert the danger which, he knew,
was to be apprehended from it. He accordingly stationed himself in the
shelter of a ditch, along which he knew she must pass on her way home.
He had not long, however, to wait. In the course of half an hour he saw
her approach, and as she was passing him he said in a low, confidential
voice,--
“Caterine!”
“Who is that?” she asked, but without exhibiting any symptoms of alarm.
“It's me,” he replied, “Shawn.”
“Well,” she replied, “and what is that to me whether it's you or not?”
“I have thought over our discourse a while ago, and I'm sorry for what
I've said;--will you let me see you a part of the way home?”
“I can't prevent you from comin',” she replied, “if you're disposed to
come--the way is as free to you as to me.”
They then proceeded together, and our readers must gather from the
incidents which are to follow what the result was of Shawn's policy
in his conversation with her on the way. It is enough to say that they
parted on the best and most affectionate terms, and that a certain
smack, very delicious to the lips of Caterine, was heard before Shawn
bade her good-night.
Barney Casey, who suspected there was something in the wind, in
consequence of the secret interview which took place between Caterine
Collins and Harry, conscious as he felt that it was for no good purpose,
watched that worthy gentleman's face with keen but quiet observation, in
the hope of being able to draw some inference from its expression.
This, however, was a vain task. The face was impassable, inscrutable; no
symptom of agitation, alarm, or concealed satisfaction could be read in
it, or anything else, in short, but the ordinary expression of the most
perfect indifference. Barney knew his man, however, and felt aware, from
former observations, of the power which Woodward possessed of disguising
his face whenever he wished, even under the influence of the strongest
emotions. Accordingly, notwithstanding all this indifference of manner,
he felt that it was for no common purpose Caterine Collins sought an
interview with him, and with this impression on his mind he resolved to
watch his motions closely.
The next day Harry and Charles went out to course, accompanied by Barney
himself, who, by the way, observed that the former made a point to bring
a case of pistols and a dagger with him, which he concealed so as
that they might not be seen. This discovery was the result of Barney's
vigilance and suspicions, for when Harry was prepared to follow his
brother, who went to put the dogs in leash, he said:
“Barney, go and assist Mr. Charles, and I will join you both on the
lawn.”
Barney accordingly left the room and closed the door after him; but
instead of proceeding, as directed, to join Charles, he deliberately put
his eye to the key-hole, and saw Harry secrete the pistols and dagger
about his person. Each, also, brought his gun at the suggestion of
Harry, who said, that although they went out merely to course, yet it
was not improbable that they might get a random shot at the grouse or
partridge as they went along. Upon all these matters Barney made his
comments, although he said nothing upon the subject even to Charles,
from whom he scarcely ever concealed a secret. That Harry was brave and
intrepid even to rashness he knew; but why he should arm himself with
such secrecy and caution occasioned him much conjecture. His intrigue
with Grace Davoren was beginning to be suspected. _Shawn-na-Middoque_
might have heard of it. Caterine Collins was one of Woodward's
agents--at least it was supposed from their frequent interviews that
she was, to a certain degree, in his confidence; might not her request,
then, to see him on the preceding night proceed from an anxiety, on
her part, to warn him against some danger to be apprehended from that
fearful freebooter? This was well and correctly reasoned on the part of
Barney, and, with those impressions fixed upon his mind, he accompanied
the two brothers on the sporting expedition of the day.
We shall not dwell upon their success, which was even better than they
had expected. Nothing, however, occurred to render either pistols or
dagger necessary; but Barney observed that, on their return home, Harry
made it a point to come by the well where he and Grace Davoren were in
the habit of meeting, and, having taken his brother aside, he pointed
to the little dark clump of alders, which skirted a small grove, and,
having whispered something to him which he could not hear, they passed
on by the old, broken boreen, which we have described, and reached
home loaded with game, but without any particular adventure. Barney's
vigilance, however, was still awake, and he made up his mind to
ascertain, if possible, why Harry had armed himself, for as yet he had
nothing but suspicion on which to rest. He knew that whenever he went
out at night or in the evening he always went armed; and this was only
natural, for the country was in a dangerous and disturbed state, owing,
as the report went, to the outrages against property which were said to
have been committed by Shawn-na-Middogue and his rapparees. During his
sporting excursions in the open day, however, he never knew him to go
armed in this manner before, because, on such occasions he had always
seen his pistols and dagger hanging against the wall, where he usually
kept them. On this occasion, however, Woodward went like a man who felt
apprehensive of some premeditated violence on the part of an enemy.
Judging, therefore, from what he had seen, as well as from what he
conjectured, Barney, as we said, resolved to watch him closely.
In the meantime, the state of poor Alice Goodwin's health was
deplorable. The dreadful image of Harry Woodward, or, rather, the
frightful power of his Satanic spirit, fastened upon her morbid and
diseased imagination with such force, that no effort of her reason could
shake it off. That dreadful eye was perpetually upon her and before her,
both asleep and awake, and, lest she might have any one point on which
to rest for comfort, the idea of Charles Lindsay attachment to Grace
Davoren would come over her, only to supersede one misery by
introducing another. In this wretched state she was when the calamitous
circumstances, which we are about to relate, took place.
Barney Casey was a good deal engaged that evening, for indeed he was a
general servant in his master's family, and was expected to put a hand
to, and superintend, everything. He was, therefore, out of the way for
a time, having gone to Rathfillan on a message for his mistress, whom he
cursed in his heart for having sent him. He lost little time, however,
in discharging it, and was just on his return when he saw Harry Woodward
entering the old boreen we have described; and, as the night was rather
dark, he resolved to ascertain--although he truly suspected--the
object of this nocturnal adventure. He accordingly dogged him at a safe
distance, and, in accordance with his suspicions, he found that Woodward
directed his steps to the clump of alders which he had, on their return
that day, pointed out to his brother. Here he (Barney) ensconced himself
in a close thicket, in order to watch the event. Woodward had not been
many minutes there when Grace Davoren joined him. She seemed startled,
and surprised, and disappointed, as Casey could perceive by her manner,
or rather by the tones of her voice; but, whatever the cause of her
disappointment may have been, there was little time left for either
remonstrances or explanation on the part of her lover. Whilst addressing
her, a young and powerful man bounded forward, and, brandishing a
long dagger--the dreaded middogue--plunged it into his body, and her
companion fell with a groan. The act was rapid as lightning, and the
moment the work of blood and vengeance had been accomplished, the young
fellow bounded away again with the same speed observable in the rapidity
of his approach. Grace's screams and shrieks were loud and fearful.
“Murdherin' villain of hell,” she shouted after Shawn--for it was
he--“you have killed the wrong man--you have murdered the innocent This
is his brother.”
Barney was at her side in a moment.
“Heavenly Father!” he exclaimed, shocked and astounded by her words,
“what means this? Is it Mr. Charles?”
“O, yes,” she replied, not conscious that in the alarm and terror of the
moment she had betrayed herself, or rather her paramour--“innocent Mr.
Charles I'm afeard is murdhered by that revengeful villain; and now,
Barney, what is to be done, and how will we get assistance to bring him
home? But, cheerna above! what will become of me!”
“Mr. Charles,” said Barney, “is it possible that it is you that is
here?”
“I am here, Barney,” he replied, with difficulty, “and, I fear, mortally
wounded.”
“God forbid!” replied his humble but faithful friend--“I hope it is not
so bad as you think.”
“Take this handkerchief,” said Charles, “tie it about my breast, and try
and stop the blood. I feel myself getting weak.”
This Barney proceeded to do, in which operation we shall leave him,
assisted by the unfortunate girl who was indirectly the means of
bringing this dreadful calamity upon him.
Shaivn-na-Middogue. was not out of the reach of hearing when Grace
shouted after him, having paused to ascertain, if possible, whether he
had done his work effectually. That Harry Woodward was Grace's paramour,
he knew; and that Charles was innocent of that guilt, he also knew.
All that Caterine Collins had told him on the preceding night went for
nothing, because he felt that Woodward had coined those falsehoods
with a view to screen himself from his (Shawn's) vengeance. But in the
meantime Grace's words, uttered in the extremity of her terror, assured
him that there had been some mistake, and that one brother might
have come to explain and apologize for the absence of the other. He
consequently crept back within hearing of their conversation, and
ascertained with regret the mistake he had committed. Shawn, at night,
seldom went unattended by several of his gang, and on this occasion
he was accompanied by about a dozen of them. His murderous mistake
occasioned him to feel deep sorrow, for he was perfectly well acquainted
with the amiable and generous character which Charles bore amongst
his father's tenantry. His life had been, not only inoffensive, but
benevolent; whilst that of his brother--short as was the time since
his return to Rathfillan House--was marked by a very licentious
profligacy,--a profligacy which he attempted in vain to conceal. Whilst
Grace Davoren and Casey were attempting to staunch the blood which
issued from the wound, four men, despatched by Shawn for the purpose,
came, as if alarmed by Grace's shrieks, to the scene of the tragedy,
and, after having inquired as to the cause of its occurrence, precisely
as if they had been ignorant of it, they proposed that the only thing
to be done, so as to give him a chance for life, was to carry him
home without a moment's delay. He was accordingly raised upon their
shoulders, and, with more sympathy than could be expected from such men,
was borne to his father's house in apparently a dying state.
It is unnecessary to attempt any description of the alarm which his
appearance there created. His father and Maria were distracted; even his
mother manifested tokens of unusual sorrow, for after all she was his
mother; and nothing, indeed, could surpass the sorrow of the whole
family. The servants were all in tears, and nothing but sobs and
wailings could be heard throughout the house. Harry Woodward himself
put his handkerchief to his eyes, and seemed to feel a deep but
subdued sorrow. Medical aid was immediately sent for, but such was his
precarious condition that no opinion could be formed as to his ultimate
recover+y.
The next morning the town of Rathfillan, and indeed the parish at large,
were in a state of agitation, and tumult, and sorrow, as soon as the
melancholy catastrophe had become known. The neighbors and tenants
flocked in multitudes to learn the particulars, and ascertain his state.
About eleven o'clock Harry mounted his horse, and, in defiance of the
interdict that had been laid upon him, proceeded at a rapid pace to Mr.
Goodwin's house, in order to disclose--with what object the reader may
conjecture--the melancholy event which had happened. He found Goodwin,
his wife, and Sarah Sullivan in the parlor, which he had scarcely
entered when Mr. Goodwin got up, and, approaching him in a state of
great alarm and excitement, exclaimed,--
“Good Heavens, Mr. Woodward! can this dreadful intelligence which we
have heard be true?”
“O, you have heard it, then,” replied Woodward. “Alas! yes, it is too
true, and my unfortunate brother lies with life barely in him, but
without the slightest hope of recovery. As for myself I am in a state of
absolute distraction; and were it not that I possess the consciousness
of having done everything in my power as a friend and brother to
withdraw him from this unfortunate intrigue, I think I should become
fairly crazed. Miss Goodwin has for some time past been aware of my deep
anxiety upon this very subject, because I deemed it a solemn duty on my
part to let her know that ha had degraded himself by this low attachment
to such a girl, and was consequently utterly unworthy of her affection.
I could not see the innocence and purity imposed upon, nor her generous
confidence placed on an unworthy object. This, however, is not a time
to deal harshly by him. He will not be long with us, and is entitled
to nothing but our forbearance and sympathy. Poor fellow! he has paid a
heavy and a fatal penalty for his crime. Alas, my brother! cut down in
the very prime of life, when there was still time enough for reformation
and repentance! O, it is too much!”
He turned towards the window, and, putting his handkerchief to his eyes,
did the pathetic with a very good grace.
“But,” said Mrs. Goodwin, “what were the exact circumstances under which
the deplorable act of vengeance was committed?”
“Alas! the usual thing, Mrs. Goodwin,” replied Harry, attempting to
clear his throat; “they met last night between nine and ten o'clock,
in a clump of alders, near the well from which the inhabitants of the
adjoining hamlet fetch their water. The outlaw, Shawn-na-Middogue,
a rejected lover of the girl's, stung with jealousy and vengeance,
surprised them, and stabbed my unfortunate brother, I fear, to death.”
“And do you think there is no hope?” she added, with tears in her eyes;
“O, if he had only time for repentance!”
“Alas! madam, the medical man who has seen him scarcely holds out any
hope; but, as you say, if he had time even to repent, there would be
much consolation in that.”
“Well,” observed Goodwin, his eyes moist with tears, “after this day,
I shall never place confidence in man. I did imagine that if ever
there was an individual whose heart was the source of honor, truth,
generosity, disinterestedness, and affection, your brother Charles was
that man. I am confounded, amazed--and the whole thing appears to me
like a dream; at all events, thank God, our daughter has had a narrow
escape of him.”
“Pray, by the way, how is Miss Goodwin?” asked. Harry; “I hope she is
recovering.”
“So far from that,” replied her father, “she is sinking fast; in truth
we entertain but little hopes of her.”
“On the occasion of my last visit here you forbade me your house, Mr.
Goodwin,” said Woodward; “but perhaps, now that you are aware of
the steps I have taken to detach your daughter's affections from an
individual whom I knew at the time to be unworthy of them, you may be
prevailed on to rescind that stern and painful decree.”
Goodwin, who was kind-hearted and placable, seemed rather perplexed, and
looked towards his wife, as if to be guided by her decision.
“Well, indeed,” she replied, “I don't exactly know; perhaps we will
think of it.”
“No,” replied Sarah Sullivan, who was toasting a thin slice of bread for
Alice's breakfast. “No; if you allow this man to come about the place,
as God is to judge me, you will both have a hand in your daughter's
death. If the devils from hell were to visit here, she might bear it;
but at the present moment one look from that man would kill her.”
This remonstrance decided them.
“No, Mr. Woodward,” said Goodwin, “the truth is, my daughter entertains
a strong prejudice against you--in fact, a terror of you--and under
these circumstances, and considering, besides, her state of health, we
could not think of permitting your visits, at least,” he added, “until
that prejudice be removed and her health restored--if it ever shall be.
We owe you no ill-will, sir; but under the circumstances we cannot, for
the present, at least, allow you to visit us.”
“Well,” replied Woodward, “perhaps--and I sincerely trust--her health
will be restored, and her prejudices against me removed, and when better
times come about I shall look with anxiety to the privilege of renewing
my intimacy with you all.”
“Perhaps so,” returned Mr. Goodwin, “and then we shall receive your
visits with pleasure.”
Woodward then shook hands with him and his wife, and wished them a good
morning.
On his way home worthy Suil Balor began to entertain reflections upon
his prospects in life that he felt to be rather agreeable. Here was his
brother, whom he had kindly sent to apologize to Grace Davoren for
the impossibility from illness of his meeting her according to their
previous arrangement; yes, we say he feigned illness on that evening,
and prevailed on the unsuspecting young man to go in his stead, in
order, as he said, to give her the necessary explanations for his
absence. Charles undertook this mission the more willingly, as it was
his firm intention to remonstrate with the girl on the impropriety of
her conduct, in continuing a secret and guilty intrigue, which must end
only in her own shame and ruin. But when Harry deputed him upon such a
message he anticipated the very event which had occurred, or, rather,
a more fatal one still, for, despite his hopes of Alice Goodwin's ill
state of health, he entertained strong apprehensions that his stepfather
might, by some accidental piece of intelligence, be restored to his
original impressions on the relative position in which she and Charles
stood. An interview between Mr. Lindsay and her might cancel all he had
done; and if every obstruction which he had endeavored to place between
their union were removed, her health might recover, their marriage take
place, and then what became of his chance for the property? It is
true he had managed his plans and speculations with great ability.
Substituting Charles, like a villain as he was, in his own affair with
Grace Davoren, he contrived to corroborate the falsehood by the tragic
incident of the preceding night. Now, if this would not satisfy Alice
of the truth of his own falsehood, nothing could. That Charles was
the _intrigant_ must be clear and palpable from what had happened, and
accordingly, after taking a serious review of his own iniquity, he felt,
as we said, peculiarly gratified with his prospects. Still, it cannot be
denied that an occasional shadow, not proceeding from any consciousness
of guilt, but from an apprehension of disappointment, would cast its
deep gloom across his spirit. With such terrible states of feeling the
machinations of guilt, no matter how successful its progress may be,
are from time to time attended; and even in his case the torments of the
damned were little short of what he suffered, from a dread of failure,
and its natural consequences--an exposure which would bar him out of
society. Still, his earnest expectation was that the intelligence of
the fate of her lover would, considering her feeble state of health,
effectually accomplish his wishes, and with this consoling reflection he
rode home.
His great anxiety now was, his alarm lest his brother should recover.
On reaching Rathfillan House he proceeded to his bedroom, where he found
his sister watching.
“My dear Maria,” said he, in a low and most affectionate voice, “is he
better?”
“I hope so,” she replied, in a voice equally low; “this is the first
sleep he has got, and I hope it will remove the fever.”
“Well, I will not stop,” said he, “but do you watch him carefully,
Maria, and see that he is not disturbed.”
“O, indeed, Harry, you may rest assured that I shall do so. Poor, dear
Charles, what would become of us all if we lost him--and Alice Goodwin,
too--O, she would die. Now, go, dear Harry, and leave him to me.”
Harry left the room apparently in profound sorrow, and, on going into
the parlor, met Barney Casey in the hall.
“Barney,” said he, “come into the parlor for a moment. My father is out,
and my mother is upstairs. I want to know how this affair happened
last night, and how it occurred that you were present at it. It's a bad
business, Barney.”
“Devil a worser,” replied Barney, “especially for poor Mr. Charles.
I was fortunately goin' down on my _kalie_ to the family of poor
disconsolate Granua (Grace), when, on passing the clump of alders, I
heard screams and shouts to no end. I ran to the spot I heard the skirls
comin' from, and there I found Mr. Charles, lyin' as if dead, and Grace
Davoren with her hands clasped like a mad woman over him. The strange
men then joined us, and carried him home, and that's all I know about
it.”
“But, can you understand it, Barney? As for me, I cannot. Did Grace say
nothing during her alarm?”
“Divil a syllable,” replied Barney, lying without remorse; “she was
so thunderstruck with what happened that she could do nothing nor say
anything but cry out and scream for the bare life of her. They say she
has disappeared from her family, and that nobody knows where she has
gone to. I was at her father's to-day, and I know they are searchin' the
country for her. It is thought she has made away with herself.”
“Poor Charles,” exclaimed his brother, “what an unfortunate business it
has turned out on both sides! I thought he was attached to Miss Goodwin;
but it would appear now that he was deceiving her all along.”
“Well, Mr. Harry,” replied Barney, dryly, or rather with some severity,
“you see what the upshot is; treachery, they say, seldom prospers in
the long run, although it may for a while. God forgive them that makes a
practice of it. As for Master Charles, I couldn't have dreamt of such a
thing.”
“Nor I, Barney. I know not what to say. It perplexes me, from whatever
point I look at it. At all events, I hope he may recover, and if he
does, I trust he will consider what has happened as a warning, and act
upon better principles. May God forgive him!”
And so ended their dialogue, little, indeed, to the satisfaction
of Harry, whom Barney left in complete ignorance of the significant
exclamations by which Grace Davoren, in the alarm of the moment, had
betrayed her own guilt, by stating that Shawn-na-Middogue had stabbed
the wrong man.
Sarah Sullivan--poor, thoughtless, but affectionate girl--on repairing
with the thin toast to her mistress's bedroom, felt so brimful of the
disaster which had befallen Charles, that---now believing in his guilt,
as she did, and with a hope of effectually alienating Alice's affections
from him--she lost not a moment in communicating the melancholy
intelligence to her.
“O, Miss Alice!” she exclaimed, “have you heard what has happened? O,
the false fend treacherous villain! Who would believe it? To lave
a beautiful lady like you, and take up with sich a vulgar vagabone!
However, he has suffered for it. _Shawn-na-Middogue_ did for him.”
“What do you mean, Sarah?” said her mistress, much alarmed by such a
startling-preface; “explain yourself. I do not understand, you.”
“But you soon will, miss. Shawn-na-Middogue found Mr. Charles Lindsay
and Grace Davoren together last night, and has stabbed him to death;
life's only in him; and that's the gentleman that pretended to love you.
Devil's cure to the villain!”
She paused. The expression of her mistress's face was awful. A pallor
more frightful than that of death, because it was associated with life,
overspread her countenance. Her eyes became dim and dull; her features
in a moment were collapsed, and resembled those of some individual
struck by paralysis--they were altogether without meaning. She clasped
and unclasped her hands, like one under the influence of strong
hysterical agony; she laid herself back in bed, where she had been
sitting up expecting her coffee, her eyes closed, for she had not
physical strength even to keep them open, and with considerable
difficulty she said, in a low and scarcely audible voice,--“My mother!”
Poor Sarah felt and saw the mischief she had done, and, with streaming
eyes and loud sobbings, lost not a moment in summoning Mrs. Goodwin.
In truth she feared that her mistress lay dying before her, and was
immediately tortured with the remorseful impression that the thoughtless
and indiscreet communication she had made was the cause of her death.
It is unnecessary to describe the terror and alarm of her mother, nor
of her father, when he saw her lying as it were between life
and dissolution. The physician was immediately sent for, but,
notwithstanding all his remedies, until the end of the second day, there
appeared no change in her. Towards the close of that day an improvement
was perceptible; she was able to speak and take some nourishment, but
it was observed that she never once made the slightest allusion to the
disaster which had befallen Charles Lindsay. She sank into a habitual
silence, and, unless when forced to ask for some of those usual
attentions which her illness required, she never ventured to indulge in
conversation on any subject whatsoever. One thing, however, struck Sarah
Sullivan, which was, that in all her startings, both asleep and awake,
and in all her unconscious ejaculations, that which appeared to press
upon her most was the unceasing horror of the Evil Eye. The name of
Charles Lindsay never escaped her, even in the feverish agitation of her
dreams, nor in those exclamations of terror and alarm which she uttered.
“O, save me!--save me from his eye--he is killing me! Yes, Woodward is a
devil--he is killing me--save me--save me!”
Well had the villain done his work; and how his web of iniquity was
woven out we shall see.
On leaving Barney, that worthy gentleman sought his mother, and thus
addressed her:--
“Mother,” said he, apparently much moved, “this is a melancholy, and I
trust in heaven it may not turn out a fatal, business. I'm afraid poor
Charles's case is hopeless.”
“O, may God forbid, poor boy!” exclaimed Mrs. Lindsay; “for, although he
always joined his father against me, still he was in other respects most
obliging to every one, and inoffensive to all.”
“I know that, and I am sorry that this jade--and she is a handsome jade,
they say--should have gained such a cursed influence over him. That,
however, is not the question. We must think of nothing now but his
recovery. The strictest attention ought to be paid to him; and as it has
occurred to me that there is no female under this roof who understands
the management of a sick bed, we ought, under these circumstances, to
provide a nurse for him.”
“Well, indeed, that is true enough, Harry, and it is very kind and
considerate of you to think of it; but who will we get? The women here
are very ignorant and stupid.”
“I have been making inquiries,” he replied, “and I am told there is a
woman in Rathfillan, named Collins, niece to a religious herbalist or
herb doctor, who possesses much experience in that way. It is just such
a woman we want.”
“Well, then, let her come; do you go and engage her; but see that she
will not extort dishonest terms from you, because there is nothing but
fraud and knavery among these wretches.”
Harry lost little time in seeming the services of Caterine Collins, who
was that very day established as nurse-tender in Charles Lindsay's sick
room.
Alice's illness was now such as left little expectation of her recovery.
She was stated, and with good reason, to be in a condition absolutely
hopeless; and nothing could exceed the regret and sorrow which were felt
for the benevolent and gentle girl. We say benevolent, because, since
her accession to her newly-acquired property, her charities to the poor
and distressed were bountiful and generous, almost beyond belief; and
even during her illness she constituted her father as the agent--and
a willing one he was--of her beneficence. In fact, the sorrow for her
approaching death was deep and general, and the sympathy felt for her
parents such as rarely occurs in life.
Of course it is unnecessary to say that these tidings of her hopeless
illness did not reach the Lindsays. On the second morning after Harry's
visit he asked for a private interview with his mother, which was
accorded to him.
“Mother,” said he, “you must pay the Goodwins another visit--a visit,
mark you, of sympathy and condolence. You forget all the unpleasant
circumstances that have occurred between the families. You forget
everything but your anxiety for the recovery of poor, dear Alice.”
“But,” replied his mother, “I do not wish to go. Why should I go to
express a sympathy which I do not feel? Her death is only a judicial
punishment on them for having inveigled your silly old uncle to leave
them the property which would have otherwise come to you as the natural
heir.”
“Mother,” said her dutiful son, “you have a nose, and beyond that nose
you never yet have been able to look with anything like perspicuity. If
you don't visit them, your good-natured noodle of a husband will, and
perhaps the result of that visit may cut us out of the property forever.
At breakfast this morning you will propose the visit, which, mark
you, is to be made in the name and on behalf of all the family. You,
consequently, being the deputation on this occasion, both your husband
and Maria will not feel themselves called upon to see them. You can,
besides, say that her state of health precludes her from seeing any one
out of her own family, and thus all risk of an explanation will be
avoided. It is best to make everything safe; but that she can't live I
know, because I feel that my power and influence are upon her, and that
the force of this Evil Eye of mine has killed her. I told you this
before, I think.”
“Even so,” said his mother; “it is only what I have said, a judicial
punishment for their villany. Villany, Harry, never prospers.”
“Egad, my dear mother,” he replied, “I know of nothing so prosperous:
look through life and you will see the villain thrive upon his fraud and
iniquity, where the honest man--the man of integrity, who binds himself
by all the principles of what are called honor and morality--is elbowed
out of prosperity by the knave, the swindler, and the hypocrite. O, no,
my dear mother, the two worst passports to independence and success in
life are truth and honesty.”
“Well, Harry, I am a bad logician, and will not dispute it with you; but
I am far from well, and I don't think I shall be able to visit them for
two or three davs at least.”
“But, in the meantime, express your intention to do so--on behalf of
the family, mark; assume your right as the proprietor of this place,
and as its representative, and then your visit will be considered as the
visit of the whole family. In the meantime, mark me, the girl is dead. I
have accomplished that gratifying event, so that, after all, your visit
will be a mere matter of form. When you reach their house you will
probably find it the house of death.”
“And then,” replied his mother, “the twelve hundred a year is yours for
life, and the property of your children after you. Thank God!”
That morning at breakfast she expressed her determination to visit the
Goodwins, making it, she said, a visit from the family in general; such
a visit, she added, as might be proper on their (the Lindsays) part,
but yet such an act of neighborhood that, while it manifested sufficient
respect for them, would preclude all hopes of any future intercourse
between them.
Mr. Lindsay did not relish this much; but as he had no particular wish,
in consequence of Charles's illness, to oppose her motives in making the
visit, he said she might manage it as she wished--he would not raise a
fresh breeze about it. He only felt that he was sincerely, sorry for the
loss which the Goodwins were about to experience.