The Evil Eye; Or, The Black Spector. William Carleton

long visit to him, and as you say you know the family, I would feel glad to hear what you think of them.”

      “Misther Lindsay, or rather Misther Charles, and you will have a fine time of it, sir. There's delightful fishin' here, and the best of shootin' and huntin' in harvest and winter—that is, if you stop so long.”

      “What kind of a man is Mr. Lindsay?”

      “A fine, clever (*Portly, large, comely) man, sir; six feet in his stockin' soles, and made in proportion.”

      “But I want to know nothing about his figure; is the man reputed good or bad?”

      “Why, just good or bad, sir, according as he's treated.”

      “Is he well liked, then? I trust you understand me now.”

      “By his friends, sir, no man betther—by them that's his enemies, not so well.”

      “You mentioned a son of his, Charles, I think; what kind of a young fellow is he?”

      “Very like his father, sir.”

      “I see; well, I thank you, my friend, for the liberality of your information. Has he any daughters?”

      “Two, sir; but very unlike their mother.”

      “Why, what kind of a woman is their mother?”

      “She's a saint, sir, of a sartin class—ever and always at her prayers,” (sotto voce, “such as they are—cursing her fellow-cratures from mornin' till night.”)

      “Well, at all events, it is a good thing to be religious.”

      “Devil a better, sir; but she, as I said, is a saint from—heaven” (sotto voce, “and very far from it too.) But, sir, there's a lady in this neighborhood—I won't name her—that has a tongue as sharp and poisonous as if she lived on rattlesnakes; and she has an eye of her own that they say is every bit as dangerous.”

      “And who is she, my good fellow?”

      “Why, a very intimate friend of Mrs. Lindsay's, and seldom out of her company. Now, sir, do you see that house wid the tall chimleys, or rather do you see the tall chimleys—for you can't see the house itself? That's where the family we spake of lives, and there you'll see Mrs. Lindsay and the lady I mention.”

      Woodward, in fact, knew not what to make of his guide; he found him inscrutable, and deemed it useless to attempt the extortion of any further intelligence from him. The latter was ignorant that Mrs. Lindsay's son was expected home, as was every member of that gentleman's family. He had, in fact, given them no information of his return. The dishonest fraud which he had practised upon his uncle, and the apprehension that that good old man had transmitted an account of his delinquency to his relatives, prevented him from writing, lest he might, by subsequent falsehoods, contradict his uncle, and thereby involve himself in deeper disgrace. His uncle, however, was satisfied with having got rid of him, and forbore to render his relations unhappy by any complaint of his conduct. His hope was, that Woodward's expulsion from his house, and the withdrawal of his affections from him, might, upon reflection, cause him to turn over a new leaf—an effort which would have been difficult, perhaps impracticable, had he transmitted to them a full explanation of his perfidy and ingratitude.

      A thought now occurred to Woodward with reference to himself. He saw that his guide, after having pointed out his father's house to him, was still keeping him company.

      “Perhaps you are coming out of your way,” said he; “you have been good enough to show me Mr. Lindsay's residence, and I have no further occasion for your services. I thank you: take this and drink my health;”,and as he spoke he offered him some silver.

      “Many thanks, sir,” replied the man, in a far different tone of voice, “many thanks; but I never resave or take payment for an act of civility, especially from any gentleman on his way to the family of Mr. Lindsay. And now, sir, I will tell you honestly and openly that there is not a better gentleman alive this day than he is. Himself, his son, and daughter* are loved and honored by all that know them; and woe betide the man that 'ud dare to crock (crook) his finger at one of them.”

      * His daughter Jane was with a relation in England, and does

       not appear in this romance.

      “You seem to know them very well.”

      “I have a good right, sir, seein' that I have been in the family ever since I was a gorson.”

      “And is Mrs. Lindsay as popular as her husband?”

      “She is his wife, sir—the mother of his children, and my misthress; afther that you may judge for yourself.”

      “Of course, then, you are aware that they have a son abroad.”

      “I am, sir, and a fine young man they say he is. Nothing vexes them so much as that he won't come to see them. He's never off their tongue; and if he's aquil to what they say of him, upon my credit the sun needn't take the trouble of shinin' on him.”

      “Have they any expectation of a visit from him, do you know'?”

      “Not that I hear, sir; but I know that nothing would rise the cockles of their hearts aquil to seein' him among them. Poor fellow! Mr. Hamilton's will was a bad business for him, as it was thought he'd have danced into the property. But then, they say, his other uncle will provide for him, especially as he took him from the family, by all accounts, on that condition.”

      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 circumstances would have felt agitated and excited by his approaching