--The Appearance Woodward.--Valentine Greatrakes.
The Thursday appointed for the dinner at length arrived. The little
village was all alive with stir and bustle, inasmuch as for several
months no such important event had taken place. It was, in fact, a
gala day; and the poorer inhabitants crowded about the inn to watch the
guests arriving, and the paupers to solicit their alms. Twelve or one
was then the usual hour for dinner, but in consequence of the large
scale on which it was to take place and the unusual preparations
necessary, it was not until the hour of two that the guests sat down to
table. Some of the principal names we have already mentioned--all the
males, of course, invalids--but, as we have said, there were a good
number of the surrounding gentry, their wives and daughters, so that the
fete was expected to come off with great eclat. Topertoe was dressed, as
was then the custom, in full canonical costume, with, his silk cassock
and bands, for he was a doctor of divinity; and Manifold was habited in
the usual dress of the day--his falling collar exhibiting a neck whose
thickness took away all surprise as to his tendency to apoplexy. The
lengthy figure of the unsubstantial Pythagorean was cased in linen
garments, almost snow-white, through which his anatomy might be read as
distinctly as if his living skeleton was naked before them. Mrs. Rosebud
was blooming and expanded into full flower, whilst Miss Rosebud was just
in that interesting state when the leaves are apparently in the act of
bursting out and bestowing their beauty and fragrance on the gratified
senses of the beholder. Dr. Doolittle, who was a regular wag--indeed
too much so ever to succeed in his profession--entered the room with his
three-cocked hat under his arm, and the usual gold-headed cane in his
hand; and, after saluting the company, looked about after Manifold,
his patient. He saluted the Pythagorean, and complimented him upon his
philosophy, and the healthful habits engendered by a vegetable diet, and
so primitive a linen dress--a dress, he said, which, in addition to its
other advantages, ought to be generally adopted, if only for the sake of
its capacity for showing off the symmetry of the figure. He was himself
a warm admirer of the principle, and begged to have the honor of shaking
hands with the gentleman who had the courage to carry it out against
all the prejudices of a besotted world. He accordingly seized the
philosopher's hand, which was then in a desperately rheumatic state, as
the little scoundrel well knew, and gave it such a squeeze of respect
and admiration that the Pythagorean emitted a yell which astonished and
alarmed the whole room.
“Death and torture, sir--why did you squeeze my rheumatic hand in such a
manner?”
“Pardon me, Mr. Cooke--respect and admiration for your principles.”
“Well, sir, I will thank you to express what you may feel in plain
language, but not in such damnable squeezes as that.”
“Pardon me, again, sir; I was ignorant that the rheumatism was in your
hand; you know I am not your physician; perhaps if I were you could bear
a friendly shake of it without all that agony. I very much regret the
pain I unconsciously, and from motives of the highest respect, have put
you to.”
“It is gone--do not mention it,” said the benevolent philosopher.
“Perhaps I may try your skill some of these days.”
“I assure you, sir,” said Doolittle, “that I am forcing Mr. Manifold
here to avail himself of your system--a simple vegetable diet.”
“O Lord!” exclaimed Manifold, in a soliloquy--for he was perfectly
unconscious of what was going on--“toast and water, toast and water!
That and a season of famine--what a prospect is before me! Doolittle
is a rat, and I will hire somebody to give him ratsbane. Nothing but a
vegetable diet, and be hanged to him! What's ratsbane an ounce?”
“You hear, sir,” said Doolittle, addressing the Pythagorean; “you
perceive that I am adopting your system?”
“Mr. Doolittle,” replied Cooke, “from this day forth you are my
physician--I intrust you with the management of my rheumatism; but, in
the meantime, I think the room is devilishly cold.”
Captain Culverin now entered, swathed up, and, as was evident, somewhat
tipsy.
“Eh! confound me, philosopher, your hand,” he exclaimed, putting out his
own to shake hands with him.
“I can't, sir,” replied Cooke; “I am afflicted with rheumatism. You seem
unwell, captain; but if you gave up spirituous liquors--such as wine and
usquebaugh--you would find yourself the better for it.”
“What does all this mean?” asked Manifold. “At all events Doolittle's a
rat. A vegetable diet, a year of famine, toast, and water--O Lord!”
Dinner, however, came, and the little waggish doctor could not, for the
life of him, avoid his jokes. Cooke's dish of vegetables was placed for
him at a particular part of the table; but the doctor, taking Manifold
by the hand, placed him in the philosopher's seat, whom he afterwards
set before a magnificent sirloin of beef--for, truth to speak, the
little man acted as a kind of master of the ceremonies to the company at
Ballyspellan.
“What's this?” exclaimed Manifold. “Perdition! here is nothing but a
dish of asparagus before me! What kind of treatment is this? Were we not
to have a great dinner, Topertoe? Alexander the Great!”
“And who placed me before a sirloin of beef?” asked the philosopher;
“I, who follow the principles of the Great Pythagorean. I am nearly sick
already with the fume of it. Good heavens! a sirloin of beef before a
vegetarian.”
Of course Manifold and the philosopher exchanged places, and the dinner
proceeded. Mr. and. Mrs. Goodwin were present, but Alice was unable to
come, although anxious to do so in order to oblige her parents. It is
unnecessary to describe the gastric feats of Manifold and Topertoe. The
voracity of the former was astonishing, nor was that of the latter much
less; and when the dishes were removed and the tables cleared for their
compotations, the faces of both gentlemen appeared as if they were about
to explode. The table was now supplied with every variety of liquor, and
the conversation began to assume that convivial tone peculiar to such
assemblies. The little doctor was placed between Manifold and the
Pythagorean, who, by the way, was exceedingly short-sighted; and on the
other side of him sat Parson Topertoe, who seemed to feel something
like a reprieve from his gout. When the liquor was placed on the table,
after dinner, the Pythagorean got to his feet, filled a large glass of
water, and taking a gulp of it, leaving it about half full, he proceeded
as follows:
“Gentlemen: considering the state of morals in our unfortunate country,
arising as it does from the use of intoxicating liquors and the flesh
of animals, I feel myself called upon to impress upon the consciences
of this respectable auditory the necessity of studying the admirable
principles of the great philosopher whose simplicity of life in food and
drink I humbly endeavor to imitate. Modern society, my friends, is all
wrong, and, of course, is proceeding upon an erroneous and pernicious
system--that of eating the flesh of animals and indulging in the use,
or rather the abuse, of liquors, that heat the blood and intoxicate the
brain into the indulgence of passion and the commission of crime.”
Here the little doctor threw a glass of usquebaugh--now called
whiskey--into the half-emptied cup which stood before Cooke.
“A vegetable diet, gentlemen, is that which was appointed for us by
Providence, and water like this our drink. And, indeed, water like
this is delicious drink. The Spa of Ballyspellan stands unrivalled for
strength and flavor, and its capacity of exhilarating the animal spirits
is extraordinary. You see, gentlemen, how copiously I drink it; servant,
fill my glass again--thank you.”
In the meantime, and before he touched it, the doctor whipped another
glass of whiskey into it--an act which the Pythagorean, who was, as
we have said, unusually tall, and kept his eye upon the company, could
neither suspect nor see.
“It has been ignorantly said that the structure of the human mouth is an
argument against me as to the quality of our food, and that the growth
of grapes is a proof that wine was ordained to be drank by men. It
is perfectly well known that a man may eat a bushel of grapes without
getting drunk; because the pure vegetable possesses no intoxicating
power any more than the water which I am now drinking--and delicious
water it is!”
Here the doctor dug his elbow into the fat ribs of Topertoe, whose face,
in the meantime, seemed in a blaze of indignation.
“I tell you what, philosopher, curse me, but you are an infidel.”
“I have the honor, sir,” he replied, “to be an infidel--as every
philosopher is. The truth of what I am stating to you has been tested
by philosophers, and it has been ascertained, that no quantity of grapes
eaten by an individual could make him drunk.”
The doctor gave the parson another dig, and winked at him to keep quiet.
“Sir,” said the parson, unable, however, to restrain himself, “confound
me if ever I heard such infidel opinions expressed in my life. Damn your
philosophy; it is cursed nonsense, and nothing else.”
“A vegetable diet,” proceeded Cooke, “is a guarantee for health and long
life--O Lord!” he exclaimed, “this accursed rheumatism will be the death
of me.”
“What is he saying?” asked Manifold.
“He is talking philosophy,” replied the doctor, with a comic grin, “and
recommending a vegetable diet and pure water.”
“A devilish scoundrel,” said Manifold. “He's a rat, too. Doolittle's a
rat; but I'll poison him; yes, I'll dose him with ratsbane, and then I
can eat, drink, and swill away. Is the philosopher's wife a cripple?”
“He has no wife,” replied Doolittle.
“And what the devil, then, is he a philosopher for? What on earth
challenges philosophy in a husband so much as a wife,--especially if
she's a cripple and has the use of her tongue?”
“Not being a married man myself,” replied the doctor, “I can give you no
information on the subject; or rather I could if I would; but it would
not be for your comfort:--ask Manifold.”
“Ay; but he says there's something wrong about his head--sprouts
pressing up, or something that way. Ask Mrs. Rosebud will she hob or nob
with me. Mrs. Rosebud,” he proceeded, addressing the widow, “hob or nob?”
Mrs. Rosebud, knowing that he was nothing more nor less than a gouty
old parson, bowed to him very coldly, but accepted his challenge,
notwithstanding.
“Mrs. Rosebud,” he added, “what kind of a man was old Rosebud?”
“His family name,” replied the widow, “was not Rosebud but Yellowboy;
and, indeed, to speak the truth, my dear old Rosebud had all the marks
and tokens of the original family name upon him, for he was as thin as
the philosopher there, and as yellow as saffron. His mother, however,
the night before he was born, dreamed that she was presented with a
rosebud, and the name, being somewhat poetical, was adopted by himself
and the family as a kind of set-off against the duck-foot color of the
ancestral skin.”
The philosopher, in the meantime, finding himself interrupted, stood,
with a complacent countenance, awaiting a pause in which he might
proceed. At length he got an opportunity of resuming.
“The world,” he added, “knows but little of the great founder of so many
systems and theories connected with human life and philosophy. It was
he who invented the multiplication table, and solved the forty-seventh
proposition of the first book of Euclid. It was he who, from his
profound knowledge of music, first discovered the music of the
spheres--a divine harmony, which, from its unbroken continuity, and
incessant play in the heavenly bodies, we are incapable of hearing.”
“Where the deuce, then, is the use of it?” cried Captain Culverin; “it
must be a very odd kind of music which we cannot hear.”
“The great Samian, sir, could hear it; but only in his heart and
intellect, and after he had discovered the truthful doctrine of the
metempsychosis, or transmigration of souls.”
“The transmigration of soles; why, my dear sir, doesn't every fishwoman
understand that?” observed the captain. “Was the fellow a fisherman?”
“His great discovery, however, if mankind would only adopt it, was the
healthful one of a vegetable diet, carried out by a fixed determination
not to wear any dress made up from the skins or fleeces of animals that
have been slain by man, but philosophically to confine himself to
plain linen as I do. O Lord! this rheumatism will be the death of me.
Pythagoras was one of the greatest philosophers.”
Here the doctor threw another glass of usquebaugh into the cup which
stood before the Pythagorean, which act, in consequence of his great
height and short sight, he did not perceive, but imagined that he was
drinking the well water.
“Philosopher,” said Captain Culverin, “hob or nob, a glass with you.”
“With pleasure, captain,” said the Pythagorean, “only I wish you would
adopt my principles--a vegetable diet and _aqua pura_.
“Upon my credit,” observed Father Mulrenin, “I think the _aqua pura_ is
the best of it. It is blessed water, this well water, and it ought to be
so, because the parson consecrated it. Hob or nob with me, Mr. Cooke.”
“With pleasure, sir,” replied Mr. Cooke, again; “and I do assure you,
Father Mulrenin, that I think the parson's consecration has improved the
water.”
“Sorra doubt of it,” replied the friar; “and I am sure the doctor there
will support me in the article of the parson's consecration.”
“The great Samian,” proceeded Cooke, “the great Samian--”
“My dear philosopher,” said the facetious friar, “never mind your great
Samian, but follow up your principles and drink your water.”
The mischievous doctor had thrown another glass into his cup: “Drink
your water, and set us all a philosophical example of sobriety.”
“That I always do,” said the philosopher, staggering a little; “that
I always do: the water is delicious, and I think my rheumatism has
departed from me. Mr. Manifold, hob or nob!”
“No,” replied Manifold, “confound me if I will. You are the fellow that
eats nothing but vegetables, and drinks nothing but water. Do you think
I will hob or nob with a water-drinking rascal like you? Do you think I
will put my wine against your paltry water?”
“Don't call it paltry,” replied the Pythagorean; “it is delicious. You
know not how it elevates the spirits and, so to speak, philosophizes the
whole system of man. I am beginning to feel extremely happy.”
“I think so,” replied the friar; “but wasn't it a fact, as a proof of
your metempsychosis, that the great author of your doctrine was at
the siege of Troy some centuries before he came into the world as the
philosopher Pythagoras?”
“Yes, sir,” replied his follower, “he fought for the Greeks in
the character of Euphorbus, in the Trojan war, was Hermatynus, and
afterwards a fisherman; his next transformation having been into the
body of Pythagoras.”
“What an extraordinary memory he must have had,” said the friar.
“Now, can you yourself remember all the bodies your soul has passed
through?--but before I expect you to answer me,--hob or nob again,--this
is famous water, my dear philosopher.”
“It is famous water, Father Mulrenin; and the parson's consecration has
given it a power of exhilaration which is astonishing.” The doctor had
thrown another glass of usquebaugh into his cup, of course unobserved.
“Why,” said the friar, “if I'm not much mistaken, you will feel
the benefit of it. It is purely philosophical water, and fit for a
philosopher like you to drink.”
The company now were divided into little knots, and the worthy
philosopher found it necessary to take his seat. He felt himself in a
state of mind which he could not understand; but the delicious flavor of
the water still clung to him, and, owing to his shortness of sight,
and the doctor's wicked wit,--if wit it could be called,--he continued
drinking spirits and water until he became perfectly--or, in the
ordinary phrase--blind drunk, and was obliged to be carried to bed.
In the meantime, a new individual had arrived; and, having ascertained
from the servants that there was a great dinner on that day, he inquired
if Mr. Goodwin and his family were present at it. He was informed that
Mr. Goodwin and Mrs. Goodwin were there, but that Miss Goodwin was
unable to come. He asked where Mr. Goodwin and Mrs. Goodwin resided,
and, having been informed on this point, he immediately passed to the
farmer's house where they lodged.
Now, it so happened that there was a neat garden attached to the house,
in which was an arbor of willows where Miss Goodwin was in the habit of
sitting, and amusing herself by the perusal of a book. It contained an
arm-chair, in which she frequently reclined, sometimes after the slight
exertion of walking; it also happened that she occasionally fell
asleep. There were two modes of approach to the farmer's house--one by
the ordinary pathway, and another much shorter, which led by a gate that
opened into the garden. By this last the guide who pointed out the house
to Woodward directed him to proceed, and he did so. On passing through,
his eye caught the summer house, and he saw at a glance that Alice
Goodwin was there, and asleep. She was, indeed, asleep, but it was
a troubled sleep, for the demon gaze of the terrible eye which she
dreaded, and which had almost blasted her out of life, she imagined was
one more fixed upon her. Woodward approached with a stealthy step, and
saw that, even although asleep, she was deeply agitated, as was evident
by her moanings. He contemplated her features for a brief space.
“Ah,” he said to himself, “I have done my work. Although beautiful, the
stamp of death is upon her. One last gaze and it will all be over. I am
before her in her dream. My eye is upon her in her morbid and diseased
imagination, but what will the consequence be when she awakens and finds
it upon her in reality?”
As those thoughts passed through his mind, she gave a scream, and
exclaimed,--
“O, take him away! take him away! he is killing me!” and as she uttered
the words she awoke.
Now, thought he, to secure my twelve hundred a year; now, for one
glance, with the power of hell in its blighting influence, and all is
over; my twelve hundred is safe to me and mine forever.
On awakening from her terrible dream, the first object that presented
itself to her was the fixed gaze of that terrific eye. It was now
wrought up to such a concentration of malignity as surpassed all that
even her imagination had ever formed of it. Fixed--diabolical in its
aspect, and steady as fate itself--it poured upon the weak and alarmed
girl such a flood of venomous and prostrating influence that her shrieks
were too feeble to reach the house when calling for assistance. She
seemed to have been fascinated to her own destruction. There the eye
was fastened upon her, and she felt herself deprived of the power of
removing her own from his.
“O my God!” she exclaimed, “I am lost--help, help; the murderous eye is
upon me!”
“It is enough,” said Woodward; “good by, Miss Goodwin. I was simply
contemplating your beauty, and I am sorry to see that you are in so weak
a state. Present my compliments to your father and mother; and I think
of me as a man whose affection you have indignantly spurned--a man,
however, I whose eye, whatever his heart may be, is not to be trifled
with.”
He then made her a low bow, and took his departure back through the
garden.
“It is over,” said he; “_finitum est_, the property is mine; she cannot
be saved now; I have taken her life; but no one can say that I have shed
her blood. My precious mother will be delighted to hear this. Now, we
will be free to act with old Cockletown and his niece; and if she does
not turn out a good wife--if she crosses me in my amours---for amours I
will have,--I shall let her, too, feel what my eye can do.”
Alice's screams, after his departure from the garden, brought out Sarah
Sullivan, who, aided by another servant, assisted her between them to
reach the house, where she was put to bed in such a state of weakness,
alarm, and terror as cannot be described. Her father and mother were
immediately sent for, and, on arriving at her bedside, found her
apparently in a dying state. All she could find voice to utter was,--
“He was here--his eye was upon me in the summer house. I feel I am
dying.”
Doctor Doolittle and Father Mulrenin were both sent for, but she had
fallen into an exhausted slumber, and it was deemed better not to
disturb her until she might gain some strength by sleep. Her parents,
who felt so anxious about her health, and the faint hopes of her
recovery, now made fainter by the incident which had just occurred, did
not return to the assembly, and the consequence was that Woodward and
they did not meet.
When the hour for the dance, however, arrived, the tables for
refreshments were placed in other and smaller rooms, and the larger one
in which they had dined was cleared out for the ball. The simple-hearted
Pythagorean had slept himself sober, without being aware of the cause of
his break-down at the dinner, and he now appeared among them in a gala
dress of snow-white linen. He was no enemy to healthy amusements, for
he could not forget that the great philosopher whom he followed had won
public prizes at the Olympic games. He consequently frisked about in
the dance with an awkwardness and a disregard of the graces of motion,
which, especially in the jigs, convulsed the whole assembly, nor did
any one among them laugh more loudly than he did himself. He especially
addressed himself too, and danced with, Mrs. Rosebud, who, as she was
short, fat, and plump, exhibited as ludicrous a contrast with the almost
naked anatomical structure which frisked before her as the imagination
could conceive.
“Upon my credit,” observed the Mar, “I see that extremes may meet. Look
at the philosopher, how he trebles and capers it before the widow. Faith,
I should not feel surprised if he made Mrs. Pythagoras of her before
long.”
This, however, was not the worst of it, for what or who but the devil
himself should tempt the parson, with his gout strong upon him, to
select Miss Rosebud for a dance, whilst the philosophic rheumatist was
frisking it as well as he could with her mother? The room was in an
uproar. Miss Rosebud, who possessed much wicked humor, having, as the
lady always has, the privilege, called for one of the liveliest tunes
then known. The parson's attempt to keep time made the uproar still
greater; but at length it ceased, for neither the philosopher nor the
parson could hold out any longer, and each retired in a state of torture
to his seat. The mirth having now subsided, a gentleman entered the
room, admirably dressed, on whom the attention of the whole company
was turned, He was tall, elegantly formed, and at a first glance was
handsome. The expression of his eyes, however, was striking--startling.
It was good--brilliant; it was bad and strange, and, to those who
examined it closely, such as they had never witnessed before. Still he
was evidently a gentleman: there could be no mistake about that. His
manner, his dress, and his whole bearing, made them all feel that he was
entitled to respect and courtesy. Little did they imagine that he was a
murderer, and that he entered the room under the gratifying impression
of his having killed Alice Goodwin. It was Harry Woodward. The evening
was now advanced, but, after his introduction to the company, he joined
in their amusements, and had the pleasure of dancing with both Mrs.
Rosebud and her daughter; and after having concluded his dance with the
latter, some tidings reached the room, which struck the whole company
with a feeling of awe. It was at first whispered about, but it at length
became the general topic of conversation. Alice Goodwin was dying, and
her parents were in a state of distraction. Nobody could tell why, but
it appeared she was at the last gasp, and that there was some mystery in
her malady. Many speculations were broached upon the subject. Woodward
preserved silence for a time, but just as he was about to make some
observations with reference to her illness, a tall, handsome gentleman
entered the room and bowed with much grace to the company.
Father Mulrenin started up, and, shaking hands with him, said,--
“I know now, sir, that you have got my letter.”
“I have got it,” replied the other, “and I am here accordingly.”
As he spoke, his eye glanced around the room, the most distinguished
figure in which, beyond comparison, was that of Woodward, who instantly
recognized him as the gentleman whom he had met on the morning of his
departure from the hospitable roof of Mr. Goodwin, on his return home,
and, we may add, between whom and himself that extraordinary trial of
the power of will, as manifested by the power of the eye, took place so
completely to his own discomfiture. They were both gentlemen, and bowed
to each other very courteously, after which they approached and shook
hands, and whilst the stranger held Woodward's hand in his during their
short but friendly chat, it was observed that Woodward's face got as
pale as death, and he almost immediately tottered towards a seat from
weakness.
“Don't be alarmed,” said the stranger; “you now feel that the principle
of good is always able to overcome the principle of evil.”
“Who or what are you?” asked Woodward, faintly.
“I am a plain country gentleman, sir; and something more, a man of
wealth and distinction; but who, unlike my friend Cooke here, do not
make myself ridiculous by absurd eccentricities, and the adoption of the
nonsensical doctrines of Pythagoras, so utterly at variance with reason
and Christian truth. You know, my dear Cooke, I could have cured you of
your rheumatism had you possessed common-sense; but who could cure any
man who guards his person against the elements by such a ludicrous and
unsubstantial dress as yours?”
“I am in torture,” replied Cooke; “I was tempted to dance with a pretty
woman, and now I am suffering for it.”
“As for me,” exclaimed Topertoe, “I am a match, and more than a match,
for you in suffering. O, this accursed gout!”
“I suppose you brought it on by hard drinking, sir,” said the stranger.
“If that be so, I shall not undertake to cure you unless you give up
hard drinking.”
“I will do anything,” replied Topertoe, “provided you can allay my pain.
I also was tempted to dance as well as the philosopher; and now the
Christian parson and the pagan Pythagorean are both suffering for it.”
“What is all this about?” exclaimed Manifold. “O Lord! is he going to
put them on a vegetable diet, relieved by toast and water--toast and
water?”
The stranger paid but little attention to Manifold, because he saw by
his face and the number of his chins that he was past hope; but turning
towards Topertoe and the Pythagorean, he requested them both to sit
beside each other before him. He then asked Topertoe where his gout
affected him, and having been informed that it was principally in his
great toe and right foot, he deliberately stripped the foot, and having
pressed his hands upon it for about the space of ten minutes, he
desired his patient to rise up and walk. This he did, and to his utter
astonishment, without the slightest symptom or sensation of pain.
“Why, bless my soul!” exclaimed the parson, “I am cured; the pain is
altogether gone. Let me have a bumper of claret.”
“That will do,” observed the stranger. “You are incurable. You will
plunge once more into a life of intemperance and luxury, and once more
your complaint, from which you are now free, will return to you.
You will not deny yourself the gratification of your irrational and
senseless indulgences, and yet you expect to be cured. As for me, I can
only remove the malady of such persons as you for the present, or
time being; but, so long as you return to the exciting cause of it, no
earthly skill or power in man can effect a permanent cure. Now, Cooke, I
will relieve you of your rheumatism; but unless you exchange this flimsy
stuff for apparel suited to your climate and condition, I feel that I am
incapable of rendering you anything but a temporary relief.”
He passed his hands over those parts of his limbs most affected by
his complaint, and in a short time he (the philosopher) found himself
completely free from his pains.
During those two most extraordinary processes Woodward looked on with
a degree of wonder and of interest that might be truly termed intense.
What the operations which took place before him could mean he knew not,
but when the stranger turned round to the friar and said,--“Now bring me
to this unhappy girl,” Woodward seized his hat, feeling a presentiment
that he was going to the relief of Alice Goodwin, and with hasty steps
proceeded to the farm house in which she and her parents lodged. He
was now desperate, and resolved, if courtesy failed, to force one more
annihilating glance upon her before the mysterious stranger should
arrive. We need scarcely inform our readers that he was indignantly
repulsed by the family; but he was furious, and in spite of all
opposition forced his way into her bedroom, to which he was led by her
groans--dying groans they were considered by all around her. He rushed
into her bed-room, and fixed his eye upon her with something like the
fury of hell in it. The poor girl on seeing him a second time fell back
and moaned as if she had expired. The villain stood looking over her in
a spirit of the most malignant triumph.
“It is done now,” said he; “there she lies--a corpse--and I am now
master of my twelve hundred a year.”
He had scarcely uttered the words when he felt a powerful hand grasp him
by the shoulder, and send him with dreadful violence to the other side
of the room. On turning round to see who the person was who had
actually twirled him about like an infant, he found the large, but
benevolent-looking stranger standing at Alice's bedside, his finger
upon the pulse and his eyes intently fixed upon her apparently lifeless
features. He then turned round to Woodward, and exclaimed in a voice of
thunder,--
“She is not dead, villain, and will not die on this occasion: begone,
and leave the room.”
“Villain!” replied Woodward, putting his hand to his sword: “I allow no
man to call me villain unpunished.”
The stranger contemptuously and indignantly waved his hand to him, as
much as to say--presently, presently, but not now. The truth is, the
loud tones of his voice had caused Alice to open her eyes, and instead
of trading the dreaded being before her, there stood the symbol of
benevolence and moral power, with his mild, but clear and benignant eye
smiling upon her.
“My dear child,” said he, “look upon me and give me your hands. You
shall, with the assistance of that God who has so mysteriously gifted
me, soon be well, and free from the evil and diabolical influence which
I has been for such selfish and accursed purposes exercised over you.”
He then took her beautiful but emaciated hands into his own, which were
also soft and beautiful, and keeping his eyes fixed upon hers, he
then, with that necessary freedom which physicians exercise with their
patients, pressed his hands after a time upon her temples, her head, her
eyes, and her heart, the whole family being present, servants and all.
The effect was miraculous. In the course of twenty minutes the girl was
recovered; her spirits--her health had returned to her. Her eyes smiled
as she turned them with delight upon her father and mother.
“O, papa!” she exclaimed, smiling, “O, dear mamma, what can this mean?
I am; cured, and what is more, I am no longer afraid of that vile,
bad man. May the God of heaven be praised for this! but how will we
thank--how can we thank the benevolent gentleman who has rescued me from
death?”
“More thanks are due,” replied the stranger, smiling, “to Father
Mulrenin here, who acquainted me in a letter, not only with your
melancholy condition, but with the supposed cause of it. However, let
your thanks be first returned to God, whose mysterious instrument I only
am. Now, sir,” said he, turning to Woodward, “you laid your hand upon
your sword. I also wear a sword, not for aggression but defence. You
know we met before. I was not then aware of your personal history, but
I am now. I have just returned from London, where I was at the court of
his Majesty Charles the Second. While in London I met your granduncle,
and from him I learned your history, and a bad one it is. Now, sir, I
beg to inform you that your malignant and diabolical influence over the
person of this young lady has ceased forever. As to the future, she is
free from that influence; but if I ever hear that you attempt to intrude
yourself into her presence, or to annoy her family, I will have you
secured in the jail of Waterford in forty-eight hours afterwards, for
other crimes that render you liable to the law.”
“And pray who are you?” asked Woodward, with a blank and crestfallen
countenance, but still with a strong feeling of enmity and bitterness--a
feeling which he could not repress. “Who are you who presume to dictate
to me upon my conduct and course of life?”
“Who am I?” replied the stranger, assuming an air of incredible dignity.
“Sir, my name is VALENTINE GREATRAKES, a person on whom God has bestowed
powers which, apart from inspiration, have seldom for centuries ever
been vouchsafed to man.”
Woodward got pale again. He had heard of his extraordinary powers of
curing almost every description of malady peculiar to the human frame,
and without another word slunk out of the room. On hearing his name
Mr. and Mrs. Goodwin rushed to him, seized his hands, and with the
enthusiasm of grateful hearts each absolutely wept upon his broad and
ample bosom. He was at this period about forty-six; but seeing Alice's
face lit up with joy and delight, he stooped down and kissed her as a
father would a daughter who had recovered from the death struggle. “My
dear child,” he said, “you are now saved; but you must remain here for
some time longer, because I do not wish to part with you until I shall
have completely confirmed the sanative influence with which God
has enabled me to reinvigorate you and others. As for your selfish
persecutor, he will trouble you no more. He knows now what the
consequences would be if he attempt it.”