Alice"s screams, after his departure from the garden, brought out Sarah Sullivan, who, aided by another servant, a.s.sisted 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 a.s.sembly, 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 amus.e.m.e.nts, 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 a.s.sembly, 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 ent.i.tled 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 amus.e.m.e.nts, 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. n.o.body 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 princ.i.p.ally in his great toe and right foot, he deliberately stripped the foot, and having pressed his hands upon it for about the s.p.a.ce 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 b.u.mper 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 pa.s.sed 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 h.e.l.l 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 a.s.sistance of that G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d, 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, a.s.suming an air of incredible dignity.
"Sir, my name is VALENTINE GREATRAKES, a person on whom G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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."
CHAPTER XXII.
History of the Black Spectre.
Woodward returned to the public room, where he was soon followed by Father Mulrenin and Greatrakes, who were shortly joined by Mr. Goodwin; Mrs. Goodwin having remained at home with Alice. The dancing went on with great animation, and when the hour of supper arrived there was a full and merry table. The friar was in great glee, but from time to time kept his eye closely fixed upon Woodward, whose countenance and conduct he watched closely; It might have been about the hour of midnight, if not later, when, after a short lull in the conversation, Father Mulrenin addressed Mr. Goodwin as follows:--
"Mr. Goodwin, is there not a family in your neighborhood named Lindsay?"
"There is," replied Goodwin; "and a very respectable family, too."
"By the way, there is a very curious tradition, or legend, connected with the family of Mr. Lindsay"s wife: have you ever heard of it?"
"That such a tradition, or legend, exists, I believe," he replied, "but there are many versions of it--although I have never heard any of them distinctly; something I did hear about what is termed the _Shan-dhinne-dhuv_, or the Black Spectre."
"Well, then," proceeded the friar, "if the company has no objection to hear an authentic account of this fearful apparition, I will indulge them with a slight sketch of the narrative:
"When Ess.e.x was over here in the Elizabethan wars--and a nice hand he made of them; not, G.o.d knows, that we ought to regret it, but I like a good general whether he is for us or against us--devil a doubt of that: well, when Ess.e.x was over here conducting them (with reverence be it spoken) it so happened that he had a scoundrel with him by name Hamilton--and a thorough scoundrel was he. O Lord! if I had lived in those days, and wasn"t in Orders to tie my hands up--but no matter; this same scoundrel was one of the handsomest vagabonds in the English camp.