“You accursed hag,” said the baronet, whose vexation at meeting her was for the moment beyond any superstitious impression which he felt, “what brought you here? What devil sent you across my path now? Who are you, or what are you, for you look like a libel on humanity?”
“If I don't,” she replied, bitterly, “I know who does. There is not much beauty between us, Thomas Gourlay.”
“What do you mean by Thomas Gourlay, you sorceress?”
“You'll come to know that some day before you die, Thomas; perhaps sooner than you can think or dream of.”
“How can you tell that, you irreverent old viper?”
“I could tell you much more than that, Thomas,” she replied, showing her corpse-like teeth with a ghastly smile of mocking bitterness that was fearful.
The Black Baronet, in spite of himself, began to feel somewhat uneasy, for, in fact, there appeared such a wild but confident significance in her manner and language that he deemed it wiser to change his tactics with the woman, and soothe her a little if he could. In truth, her words agitated him so much that he unconsciously pulled out of his waistcoat pocket the key of Lucy's room, and began to dangle with it as he contemplated her with something like alarm.
“My poor woman, you must be raving,” he replied. “What could a destitute creature like you know about my affairs? I don't remember that I ever saw you before.”
“That's not the question, Thomas Gourlay, but the question is, what have you done with the child of your eldest brother, the lawful heir of the property and title that you now bear, and bear unjustly.”
He was much startled by this allusion, for although aware that the disappearance of the child in question had been for many long years well known, yet, involved, as it was, in unaccountable mystery, still the circumstance had never been forgotten.
“That's an old story, my good woman,” he replied. “You don't charge me, I hope, as some have done, with making away with him? You might as well charge me with kidnapping my own son, you foolish woman, who, you know, I suppose, disappeared very soon after the other.”
“I know he did,” she replied; “but neither I nor any one else ever charged you with that act; and I know there are a great many of opinion that both acts were committed by some common enemy to your house, who wished, for some unknown cause of hatred, to extinguish your whole family. That is, indeed, the best defence you have for the disappearance of your brother's son; but, mark me, Thomas Gourlay—that defence will not pass with God, with me, nor with your own heart. I have my own opinion upon that subject, as well as upon many others. You may ask your own conscience, Thomas Gourlay, but he'll be a close friend of yours that will ever hear its answer.”
“And is this all you had to say to me, you ill-thinking old vermin.” he replied, again losing his temper.
“No,” she answered, “I wish to tell your fortune; and you will do well to listen to me.”
“Well,” said he, in a milder tone, putting at the same time the key of Lucy's door again into his pocket, without being in the slightest degree conscious of it, “if you are, I suppose I must cross your hand with silver as usual; take this.”
“No,” she replied, drawing back with another ghastly smile, the meaning of which was to him utterly undefinable, “from your hand nothing in the shape of money will ever pass into mine; but listen”—she looked at him for some moments, during which she paused, and then added—“I will not do it, I am not able to render good for evil, yet; I will suffer you to run your course. I am well aware that neither warning nor truth would have any effect upon you, unless to enable you to prepare and sharpen your plans with more ingenious villany. But you have a daughter; I will speak to you about her.”
“Do,” said the baronet; “but why not take the silver?”
“You will know that one day before you die, too,” said she, “and I don't think it will smooth your death-bed pillow.”
“Why, you are a very mysterious old lady.”
“I'll now give you a proof of that. You locked in your daughter before you left home.”
Sir Thomas could not for his life prevent himself from starting so visibly that she observed it at once.
“No such thing,” he replied, affecting a composure which he certainly did not feel; “you are an impostor, and I now see that you know nothing.”
“What I say is true,” she replied, solemnly, “and you have stated, Thomas Gourlay, what you know to be a falsehood; I would be glad to discover you uttering truth unless with some evil intention. But now for your daughter; you wish to hear her fate?”
“Certainly I do; but then you know nothing. You charge me with falsehood, but it is yourself that are the liar.”
She waved her hand indignantly.
“Will my daughter's husband be a man of title?” he asked, his mind passing to the great and engrossing object of his ambition.
“He will be a man of title,” she replied, “and he will make her a countess.”
“You must take money,” said he, thrusting his hand into his pocket, and once more pulling out his purse—“that is worth something, surely.”
She waved her hand again, with a gesture of repulse still more indignant and frightful than before, and the bitter smile she gave while doing it again displayed her corpse-like teeth in a manner that was calculated to excite horror itself.
“Very well,” replied the baronet; “I will not press you, only don't make such cursed frightful grimaces. But with respect to my daughter, will the marriage be with her own consent?”
“With her own consent—it will be the dearest wish of her heart.”
“Could you name her husband?”
“I could and will. Lord Dunroe will be the man, and he will make her Countess of Cullamore.”
“Well, now,” replied the other, “I believe you can speak truth, and are somewhat acquainted with the future. The girl certainly is attached to him, and I have no doubt the union will be, as you say, a happy one.”
“You know in your soul,” she replied, “that she detests him; and you know she would sacrifice her life this moment sooner than marry him.”
“What, then, do you mean.” he asked, “and why do you thus contradict yourself?”
“Good-by, Thomas Gourlay,” she replied. “So far as regards either the past or the future, you will hear nothing further from me to-day; but, mark me, we shall meet again—and we have met before.”
“That, certainly, is not true,” he said, “unless it might be accidentally on the highway; but, until this moment, my good woman, I don't remember to have seen your face in my life.”
She looked toward the sky, and pointing her long, skinny finger upwards, said, “How will you be prepared to render an account of all your deeds and iniquities before Him who will judge you there!”
There was a terrible calmness, a dreadful solemnity on her white, ghastly features as she spoke, and pointed to the sky, after which she passed on in silence and took no further notice of the Black Baronet.
It is very difficult to describe the singular variety of sensations which her conversation, extraordinary, wild, and mysterious as it was, caused this remarkable man to experience.