The Evil Eye; Or, The Black Spector Part 6

This information--if information it could be called--was nothing more nor less than wormwood and gall to the gentleman on whose ears and into whose heart it fell. The consciousness of his present position--discarded by a kind uncle for dishonesty, and deprived, as he thought, by the caprice or mental imbecility, of another uncle, of a property amounting to upwards of twelve hundred per annum--sank upon his heart with a feeling which filled it with a deep and almost blasphemous resentment at every person concerned, which he could scarcely repress from the observation of his guide.

"What is your name?" said he abruptly to him; and as he asked the question he fixed a glance upon him that startled his companion.

The latter looked at him, and felt surprised at the fearful expression of his eye; in the meantime, we must say, that he had not an ounce of coward's flesh on his bones.

"What is my name, sir?" he replied. "Faith, afther that look, if you don't know my name, I do yours; there was your mother's eye fastened on me to the life. However, take it easy, sir; devil a bit I'm afeared. If you're not her son, Misther Woodward, why, I'm not Barney Casey, that's all. Don't deny it, sir; you're welcome home, and I'm glad to see you, as they all will be."

"Harkee, then," said Woodward, "you are right; but, mark me, keep quiet, and allow me to manage matters in my own way; not a syllable of the discovery you have made, or it will be worse for you. I am not a person to be trifled with."

"Troth, and you're right there, sir; it's what I often said, often say, and often will say of myself. Barney Casey is not the boy to be trifled wid."

On arriving at the house, Barney took round the horse--a hired one, by the way--to the stable, and Woodward knocked. On the door being opened, he inquired if Mr. Lindsay was within, and was answered in the affirmative.

"Will you let him know a gentleman wishes to see him for a few minutes?"

"What name, sir, shall I say?"

"O, it doesn't matter--say a gentleman."

"Step into the parlor, sir, and he will be with you immediately."

He did so, and there was but a very short time when his step-father entered. Short, as the time was, however, he could not prevent himself from reverting to the strange equestrian he had met on his way, nor to the extraordinary ascendancy he had gained over him. Another young man placed in his circ.u.mstances would have felt agitated and excited by his approaching interview with those who were so nearly related to him, and whom, besides, he had not seen for such a long period of time. To every such emotion, however, he was absolutely insensible; there was no beating pulse, no heaving of the bosom, not a nerve disturbed by the tremulous vibrations of awakened affection, no tumult of the heart, no starting tear--no! there was nothing of all this--but, on the contrary, a calm, cold, imperturbable spirit, so dead and ignorant of domestic attachment, that the man could neither feel nor understand what it meant.

When his step-father entered, he naturally bowed to the stranger, and motioned him to a seat, which the other accordingly took. Lindsay certainly was, as Barney Casey had said, a very fine-looking man for his years. He was tall, erect, and portly, somewhat inclined to corpulency, of a handsome, but florid countenance, in which might be read a large expression of cheerfulness and good humor, together with that peculiar tinge which results from conviviality. Indeed, there could scarcely be witnessed a more striking contrast than that between his open, kind-looking features, and the sharp, disagreeable symmetry which marked those of his step-son with such a dark and unpleasant character.

"My servant tells me," said Lindsay, courteously, "that you wished to see me."

"I did, sir," replied Woodward; "in that, he spoke correctly; I wished to see you, and I am glad to see you."

"I thank you, sir," replied the other, bowing again; "but--ahem--in the meantime, sir, you have the advantage of me."

"And intend to keep it, sir, for a little," replied Woodward with one of his cold smiles. "I came to speak to you, sir, concerning your son who is abroad, and to ask if you have recently heard from himself or his uncle."

"O, then, I presume, sir," replied Lindsay, "you are an acquaintance or friend of his; if so, allow me to bid you welcome; nothing, I a.s.sure you, could afford either myself or my family greater pleasure than to meet and show attention to any friend of his. Unfortunately, we have heard nothing from him or his uncle for nearly the last year and a half; but, you will be doubly welcome, sir, if you can a.s.sure us that they are both well. His uncle, or rather I should, say his grand-uncle, for in that relation he stands to him, adopted him, and a kinder man does not live."

"I believe Mr. Woodward and his uncle are both well, the former, I think, sir, is your step-son only."

"Don't say only, sir, he is just as much the son of my affection as his brother, and now, sir, may I request to know the name of the gentleman I am addressing?"

"Should you wish to see Henry Woodward himself, sir?"

"Dear sir, nothing would delight me more, and all of us, especially his mother; yet the ungrateful boy would never come near us, although he was pressed and urged to do so a hundred times."

"Well, then, sir," replied that gentleman, rising up, "he now stands before you; I am Henry Woodward, father."

A hug that half strangled him was the first acknowledgment of his ident.i.ty. "Zounds, my dear Harry--Harry, my dear boy, you're welcome a thousand times, ten thousand times. Stand off a little till I look at you; fine young fellow, and your mother's image. Gadzooks, I was stupid as a block not to know you; but who would have dreamed of it. There, I say--hallo, Jenny!--come here, all of you; here is Harry at last. Are you all deaf, or asleep?"

These words he shouted out at the top of his voice, and in a few minutes his mother, Charles, and his sister Maria entered the room, the two latter in a state of transport.

"Here, Jenny, here he is; you have the first claim; confound it, Charley, Maria, don't strangle the boy; ha, ha, ha!"

In fact, the precaution, so far as the affectionate brother and sister were concerned, was anything but needless. His mother, seeing their eagerness to embrace him, which they did with tears of delight, stood calmly by until he was disentangled from their arms, when she approached him and imprinted two kisses upon his lips, with an indifference of manner that, to a stranger, would have been extraordinary, but which, to those who were present, excited no surprise; for she had scarcely, during her life, ever kissed one of her own children. Nothing, indeed, could exceed the tumultuous exultation of spirits with which they received him, nor was honest Lindsay himself less joyously affected. Yet it might be observed that there was a sparkle in the eye of his mother, which was as singular as it was concentrated and intense. Such an expression might be observed in a menagerie when a tigress, indolently dallying with one of her cubs, exhibits, even in repose, those fiery scintillations in the eye which startle the beholders. The light of that eye, though intense, was cold, calculating, and disagreeable to look upon. The frigidity of her manner and reception of him might, to a certain extent, be accounted for from the fact that she had gone to his uncle's several times for the purpose of seeing him, and watching his interests. Let us not, therefore, impute to the coldness of her habits any want of affection for him; on the contrary, his little finger was a thousand times dearer to her than the bodies and souls of all her other children, adding to them her husband himself, put together. Besides, she was perfectly unsusceptible of emotions of tenderness, and, consequently, a woman of powerful will, inflexible determination, and the most inexorable resentments. She was also ambitious, as far as she had scope for it, within her sphere of life, and would have been painfully penurious in her family, were it not that the fiery resolution of her husband, when excited by long and intolerable provocation, was at all times able to subdue her--a superiority over her will and authority which she never forgave him. In fact, she neither loved himself, nor anything in common with him; and the natural affection which he displayed on the return of her son was one reason why she received him with such apparent indifference. To all the rest of the family she had a heart of stone. Since her second marriage they had lost three children; but, so far as she was concerned, each of them went down into a tearless grave. She had once been handsome; but her beauty, like her son's, was severe and disagreeable. There is, however, such a cla.s.s of beauty, and it is princ.i.p.ally successful with men who have a penchant for overcoming difficulties, because it is well known that the fact of conciliating or subduing it is justly considered no ordinary achievement. A great number of our old maids may trace their solitude and their celibacy to the very questionable gift of such beauty, and the dispositions which usually accompany it. She was tall, and had now grown thin, and her features had become sharpened by ill-temper into those of a flesh-less, angular-faced vixen. Altogether she was a faithful exponent of her own evil and intolerable disposition; and it was said that she had inherited that and the "unlucky eye" from a family that was said to have I been deservedly unpopular, and equally unscrupulous in their resentments.

"Well, Harry," said she, after the warmhearted ebullition of feeling produced by his appearance had subsided, "so you have returned to us at last; but indeed, you return now to a blank and dismal prospect. Miss Goodwin's adder tongue has charmed the dotage of your silly old uncle to some purpose for herself."

"Confound it, Jenny," said her husband, "let the young man breathe, at least, before you bring up that eternal subject. Is not the matter over and decided and where is the use of your making both yourself and us unhappy by discussing it?"

"It may be decided, but it is not over, Lindsay," she replied; "don't imagine it: I shall pursue the Goodwins, especially that sorceress, Alice, with a vengeance that will annul the will, and circ.u.mvent those who wheedled him into the making of it. My curse upon them all, as it will be!"

"Harry, when you become better acquainted with your mother," said his step-father, "you will get sick of this. Have you breakfasted; for that is more to the point?"

"I have, sir," replied the other; "and you would scarcely guess where;"

and here he smiled and glanced significantly at his mother.

"Why, I suppose," said Lindsay, "in whatever inn you stopped at."

"No," he replied; "I was obliged to seek shelter from the storm last night, and where do you think I found it?"

"Heaven knows. Where?"

"Why, with your friend and neighbor, Mr. Goodwin."

"No friend, Harry," said his mother; "don't say that."

"I slept there last night," he proceeded, "and breakfasted there this morning, and nothing could exceed the cordiality and kindness of my reception."

"Did they know who you were?" asked his mother, with evident interest.

"Not till this morning, at breakfast."

"Well," said she again, "when they heard it?"

"Why, their attention and kindness even redoubled," replied her son; "and as for Miss Goodwin herself, she's as elegant, as sweet, and as lovely a girl as I ever looked on. Mother, I beg you to entertain no implacable or inveterate enmity against her. I will stake my existence that she never stooped to any fraudulent circ.u.mvention of my poor uncle. Take my word for it, the intent and execution of the will must be accounted for otherwise."

"Well and truly said, Harry," said his step-father--"well and generously said; give me your hand,--my boy; thank you. Now, madam," he proceeded, addressing his wife, "what have you to say to the opinion of a man who has lost so much by the transaction, when you hear that that opinion is given in her favor?"

"Indeed, my dear Harry," observed his sister, "she is all that you have said of her, and much more, if you knew her as we do; she is all disinterestedness and truth, and the most unselfish girl that ever breathed."

Now, there were two persons present who paused upon hearing this intelligence; one of whom listened to it with unexpected pleasure, and the other with mingled emotions of pleasure and pain. The first of these were Mrs. Lindsay, and the other her son Charles. Mrs. Lindsay, whose eyes were not for a moment off her son, understood the significant glance he had given her when he launched forth so heartily in the praise of Alice Goodwin; neither did the same glance escape the observation of his brother Charles, who inferred, naturally enough, from the warmth of the eulogium that had been pa.s.sed upon her, that she had made, perhaps, too favorable an impression upon his brother. Of this, however, the reader shall hear more in due time.

"Well," said the mother slowly, and in a meditating voice, "perhaps, after all, we may have done her injustice. If so, no person would regret it more than myself; but we shall see. You parted from them, Harry, on friendly terms?"

"I did, indeed, my dear mother, and am permitted, almost solicited, to make their further acquaintance, and cultivate a friendly intimacy with them, which I am determined to do."

"Bravo, Harry, my fine fellow; and we will be on friendly terms with them once more. Poor, honest, and honorable old Goodwin! what a pity that either disunion or enmity should subsist between us. No; the families must be once more cordial and affectionate, as they ought to be. Bravo, Harry! your return is prophetic of peace and good feeling; and, confound me, but you shall have a bonfire this night for your generosity that will shame the sun. The tar-barrels shall blaze, and the beer-barrels shall run to celebrate your appearance amongst us. Come, Charley, let us go to Rathfillan, and get the townsfolk to prepare for the fete: we must have fiddlers and pipers, and plenty of dancing.

Barney Casey must go among the tenants, too, and order them all into the town. Mat Mulcahy, the inn-keeper, must give us his best room; and, my life to yours, we will have a pleasant night of it."

"George," exclaimed his wife, in a tone of querulous remonstrance, "you know how expensive--"