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

addressed himself. So much was this the case that when ever he assumed an air of familiarity a dark, strange, and undefinable spirit, which was strongly felt, seemed not only to contradict his apparent urbanity, but to impress his auditors with a sense of uneasiness sometimes amounting to pain—an impression, however, for which they could not at all account.

      “Sir,” said Mr. Goodwin, “I hope you slept well after what you suffered under the tempest of last night?”

      “I assure you, sir, I never enjoyed a rounder night's sleep in my life,” replied their guest; “and were it not for the seasonable shelter of your hospitable roof I know not what would have become of me. I am unacquainted with the country, and having lost my way, I knew not where to seek shelter, for the night was so dreadfully dark that unless by the flashes of the lightning nothing could be seen.”

      “It was certainly an awful—a terrible night,” observed his host; “but come, its severity is now past; let me see you do justice to your fare;—a little more ham?”

      “Thank you, sir,” replied the other; “if you please. Indeed, I cannot complain of my appetite, which is at all times excellent”—and he certainly corroborated the truth of his statement by a sharp and vigorous attack upon the good things before him.

      “Sir,” said Mrs. Goodwin, “we feel happy to have had the satisfaction of opening our doors to you last night; and there is only one other circumstance which could complete our gratification.”

      “The gratification, madam,” he replied, “as well as the gratitude, ought to be all on my side, although I have no doubt, and can have none, that the consciousness of your kindness and hospitality are equally gratifying on yours. But may I ask to what you allude, madam?”

      “You are evidently a gentleman, sir, and a stranger, and we would feel obliged by knowing—”

      “O, I beg your pardon, madam,” he replied, interrupting her; “I presume that you are good enough to flatter me by a wish to know the name of the individual whom your kindness and hospitality have placed under such agreeable obligations. For my part I have reason to bless the tempest I which, I may say, brought me under your roof. 'It is an ill wind,' says the proverb, 'that blows nobody good;' and it is a clear case, my very kind hostess, that at this moment we are mutually ignorant of each other. I assure you, then, madam, that I am not a knight-errant travelling in disguise and in quest of adventure, but a plain gentleman, by name Woodward, step-son to a neighbor of yours, Mr. Lindsay, of Rathfillan House. I need scarcely say that I am Mrs. Lindsay's son by her first husband. And now, madam, may I beg to know the name of the family to whom I am indebted for so much kindness.”

      Mrs. Goodwin and her husband exchanged glances, and something like a slight cloud appeared to overshadow for a moment the expression of their countenances. At length Mr. Goodwin spoke.

      “My name, sir,” he proceeded, “is Goodwin; and until a recent melancholy event, your family and mine were upon the best and most cordial terms; but, unfortunately, I must say that we are not so now—a circumstance which I and mine deeply regret. You must not imagine, however, that the knowledge of your name and connections could make the slightest difference in our conduct toward you on that account. Your family, Mr. Woodward, threw off our friendship and disclaimed all intimacy with us; but I presume you are not ignorant of the cause of it.”

      “I should be uncandid if I were to say so, sir. I am entirely aware of the cause of it; but I cannot see that there is any blame whatsoever to be attached to either you or yours for the act of my poor uncle. I assure you, sir, I am sorry that my family failed to consider it in its proper light; and you will permit me to request that you we not identify my conduct with theirs. So far as I am least am concerned, my uncle's disposition of his property shall make no breach nor occasion any coolness between us. On the contrary, I shall feel honored by being permitted to pay my respects to you all, and to make myself worthy of your good opinions.”

      “That is generously spoken, Mr. Woodward,” replied the old man; “and it will afford us sincere pleasure to reciprocate the sentiments you have just expressed.”

      “You make me quite happy, sir,” replied Woodward, bowing very courteously. “This, I presume, is the young lady to whom my cousin Agnes was so much attached?”

      “She is, sir,” replied her father.

      “Might I hope for the honor of being presented to her, Mr. Goodwin?”

      “With pleasure, sir. Alice, my dear, although you already know who this gentleman is, yet allow me, nevertheless, to present him to you.”

      The formal introduction accordingly took place, after which Woodward, turning to Mrs. Goodwin, said,

      “I am not surprised, madam, at the predilection which my cousin entertained for Miss Goodwin, even from what I see; but I feel that I am restrained by her presence from expressing myself at further length. I have only to say that I wish her every happiness, long life, and health to enjoy that of which she seems, and I am certain is, so worthy.”

      He accompanied those words with a low bow and a very gracious smile, after which, his horse having been brought to the door, he took his leave with a great deal of politeness, and rode, according to the directions received from Mr. Goodwin, toward his father's house.

      After his departure the family began to discuss his character somewhat to the following effect:

      “That is a fine young man,” said Mr. Goodwin, “liberal-minded and generous, or I am much mistaken. What do you think, Martha,” he added, addressing his wife.

      “Upon my word,” replied that lady, “I am much of your opinion—yet I don't know either; although polite and courteous, there is something rather disagreeable about him.”

      “Why,” inquired her husband, “what is there disagreeable about him? I could perceive nothing of the sort; and when we consider that his uncle, who left this property to Alice, was his mother's brother, and that he was nephew by blood as well as by law, and that it was the old man's original intention that the property should go directly to him, or in default of issue, to his brother—I think when we consider this, Martha, that we cannot but entertain a favorable impression of him, considering what he has lost by the unexpected turn given to his prospects in consequence of his uncle's will. Alice, my dear, what is your opinion of him?”

      “Indeed, papa,” she replied, “I have had—as we all have had—but a very slight opportunity to form any opinion of him. As for me, I can judge only by the impressions which his conversation and person have left upon me.”

      “Well, anything favorable or otherwise?”

      “Anything at all but favorable, papa—I experienced something like pain during breakfast, and felt a strong sense of relief the moment he left the room.”

      “Poor child, impressions are nothing. I have met men of whom first impressions were uniformly unfavorable, who, notwithstanding their rough outsides, were persons of sterling worth and character.”

      “Yes, papa, and men of great plausibility and ease of manner, who, on the contrary, were deep, hypocritical and selfish when discovered and their hearts laid open. As regards Mr. Woodward, however, heaven forbid that I should place the impressions of an ignorant girl like myself against the knowledge and experience of a man who has had such opportunities of knowing the world as you. All I can say is, that whilst he seemed to breathe a very generous spirit, my impressions were completely at variance with every sentiment he uttered. Perhaps, however, I do him injustice—and I should regret that very much. I will then, in deference to your opinion, papa, endeavor to control those impressions and think as well of him as I can.”

      “You are right, Alice, and I thank you. We should never, if possible, suffer ourselves to be prematurely ungenerous in our estimate of strangers, especially when we know that this world is filled with the most absurd and ridiculous prejudices. How do you know, my dear child, that yours is not one of them?”

      “Alice, love,” said her mother, “I think, upon reflection,