University of Virginia Library

6. CHAP. VI.

Guy Mannering.

We must now call the attention of our readers to the
miser whom we introduced in our second chapter. A
day or two after the riot in Friezel Court, he was engaged
in earnest conversation with a desperate-looking
man, to whom he was bound by those terribly galling
chains, which link the guilty in unhallowed communion.

In tones of whining entreaty, Mr. Townsend began
by saying, “So, after helping me to these Fitzherbert
papers, and after forging letters to the widow, you say
you will leave me in the lurch, if I get into any trouble
by this deuced East India uncle's coming to life again.
I heard all the name were dead and gone; and my
heart has been at rest about 'em many a year.”

“When it is known that Mrs. Fitzherbert's letters
never reached England, you will be suspected of course,
but there is no witness to prove any thing against you,
but myself,—and you know well enough what will buy
me.”

“I have told you, a thousand times, that you should be
remembered in my will.”

“So the bird promised his wings to the mouse, that
gnawed open the door of his cage; but the first thing
the poor mouse knew, was that his wings had borne him

off to the skies. I don't mean, by the way, that there
is any danger of your taking an upward journey.
Nevertheless, you may die shortly, and what good will
your promises do me then? I want no legacy for
myself. I have already told you that every penny of
your property must be left to the one I shall name to
you, unless you are willing to have your life left at the
mercy of the law.”

The miser groaned in all the various tones of distressed
dotage.

“There is no use in bewailing the matter thus,” said
his rought companion. “The will must be drawn, signed,
and attested, before this night. Else I will tell all.”

“You ha'n't any proof,” rejoined the trembling miser;
“and who is going to believe your word?”

“The devil, I ha'n't!” exclaimed Wilson. “Hav'nt
I all the Captain's papers, and the widow's letters, locked
fast in my chest?”

The features of the old man were convulsed with
rage and fear.

“You told me,” said he, “that you lost them in the
street, the night of the fracas.”

“I lied for sport,” replied Wilson. “Do you think
I would carry such papers in my pocket, when I went
into the midst of a mob.”

“You stole 'em from me, with false keys,” murmured
Townsend.

“That's neither here nor there, so long as I have got
them, and there are marks enough on their white faces
to hang you high and dry.”

“I can prove to the Lieutenant Governor, that you
were among the rioters,” growled the miser.

“And much good may it do him and you. Tell him
to send a warrant after the fly that bites him in harvest
time. Gibbet-making will be a profitable trade, if all
who committed that offence are to be hung. Send him
word that I was in the mob, and as an offset, I will let
him know of the bank notes you picked up in his library,
and thrust into your pocket.”

“The evil one helps you!” exclaimed he. “How
could you know that?”

“If he finds time to help me, it is because you have
learned out,” said Wilson. “I found it out by my eyes,
which have helped me to many a useful thing in my day.
You see I have evidence enough to do what I have a
mind to; and I promise you I will make use of it, if
this day closes without your making a will in favour of
my daughter.”

“Daughter! I never heard you had a wife.”

An agonized expression passed over Wilson's face.
“I have a daughter,” said he,—“as lovely a creature
as man ever looked on. Oh—”

He stooped down and covered his face with his
hands.

Mr. Townsend gazed at him in a perfect stupor of
surprise; for it was long since he had witnessed any
thing like human emotion.

Wilson rose and walked across the room several times.
“Why have I betrayed the sorrows of a bursting heart
to such a wretch as he is?” thought he. He stopped

before Mr. Townsend, and with a mixture of sadness
and decision, said, “I have no earthly hopes or wishes,
but for this child. If you will leave her all your property,
it will be well for you. If not, I put the match to
a mine that will blow you up in its explosion.”

“There an't a charge of powder in the house,” rejoined
the old man. “I never buy things I don't want.”

“Fool!” exclaimed Wilson, “The powder I blow
up, will be your own knavery. Will you, or will you
not, comply with my directions?”

The miser groaned deeply. “It is hard to toil the
best of one's days, and then throw the money away upon
strangers,” said he. “My nephew often sends me a
pretty letter and a bottle of wine, free of expense, and
he is the only one that cares for the poor old man. Besides,
I don't know but I may change my situation.
One of the first ladies in the place did the same as tell
me she would marry me.”

“She would send to the dissection room for a bridegroom,
as soon,” replied Wilson, with a look indicating
the deepest contempt. “Shall I send for a lawyer
about this business?”

“If I could be sure about that box of silver,” said the
old man, hesitatingly.

“You may be sure of it; if you will follow my
directions. I know where it is.”

“And why don't you get it yourself?” asked the
miser, with a look that he intended should be extremely
arch.

“It would be ill work digging that depth alone; and
there must be numbers for the charm, they say.”

“How did you first know about it?” said the old
man, drawing his chair close to the speaker.

“When I was on board the pirate ship, we overtook
a richly freighted vessel a little off Cuba. We boarded
her, and seized all her cargo. A small iron chest,
directed to Halifax, was taken out of the cabin. Two
rolls of parchment were found on the top, containing
the name of the owner, and mentioning the Captain to
whose care it was entrusted, the destination of the
vessel, and so forth. On a strip of canvass were spread
twelve ingots of gold; and beneath this, the Spanish
silver lay in piles. This treasure belonged to Captain
Fitzherbert, who had left it in the care of a friend at
Cuba, with directions to send it to his widow at Halifax,
in case of his death. The Captain and mate took the
strong box to themselves, dividing the remainder of the
prize (and a noble one she was) among us sailors. To
make a long story short, we made for Boston; and
when we came within sight of the island, the Captain
despatched a boat with three men and a negro toward
the castle, about midnight. I heard them whisper,
`Place it where the shadows of the two elms meet at
twelve o'clock.'

`We know how to do the business,' was the answer;
and presently the dead silence was disturbed by the loud
dash of their oars, as they manfully rowed towards land.

`Muffle your oars,' said the mate. `D**n you,
you 'll wake the castle guard, at this rate.'

`Keep in the shade, as you pass the garrison,' said
the Captain.

“The commands were obeyed; and the trickling of
the water was all I heard. The boat swept round to
the back part of the island, and I saw it no more. The
next day, the three men returned; but the negro was
not with them.”

“What had become of him?” asked Mr. Townsend.

“He was sacrificed to the devil. They always put
a corpse under their treasure.”

“And is the box there now?”

“No doubt. It is no easy work to get money that is
left in the grip of Satan, unless one knows how to loosen
his fingers.”

“And can that be done?” eagerly inquired the miser.

“There is a woman, called Molly the Witch, who
they say knows the art. I will go to her for information
if you will pay the men for digging, and give me a hundred
crowns for my trouble; and as for this affair about
the will, if you do as I tell you, the negro buried under
that iron chest could not keep your secret better than
I will.”

“If I was sure there would be the valee of —”

“Not less than ten thousand pounds, I promise you,”
interrupted Wilson.

The old man paused, before he ventured to say,
“I have not long to live; but nobody cares for that. I
shall neither be missed nor moaned. This nephew is
the only being that has a drop of my father's blood in
his veins. I cannot disinherit him.”

“You have been playing a game of selfishness and
guilt all your life,” responded Wilson; “and now that

you are completely in the nine-holes, you will not throw
your knave of trumps on the last lift.”

For the first time, Wilson perceived some emotion
on the face of that lonely mortal. “Old as I am, I must
expect to die soon,” said he; but I would not dangle
from a halter. I should not think you would have the
heart to tumble this old carcass into the grave.”

“I have been familiar with blood,” replied his desperate
associate; “but I don't want your wretched life,
if you will give your bags of gold instead.”

The miser leaned his hands upon his knees, rocked
vehemently from side to side, and heaved his accustomed
groan,—but said nothing.

“Tell me instantly what you will do!” said Wilson,
seizing his shoulder with a fierceness that made him
quake beneath his grasp.

“Shall I go to Hutchinson, and procure a Tyburn
tippet for you? Or will you provide for my daughter?”

Half frightened out of his senses, the old man muttered,
“If the young folks would but marry —”

“A bright thought, by Jove,” exclaimed Wilson;—
and he went on talking to himself, in an under tone,
“Clever fellow too; as much better than this old fool
as Gertrude is better than I am. But,” continued he,
aloud, “what will you do for me, if the young man has
some boyish freak, and chooses to marry another?”

“I will leave something to the young woman. May
be five thousand crowns.”

“The whole, the whole, every farthing of your
money,” exclaimed Wilson. “All that you have, must
you give for your life.”

“Take all, then,” said the miser. “Oh, the day
that I knew you was an unlucky one for me.”

A lawyer and witnesses were immediately called.
Emboldened by their presence, the covetous old man
was about to recant what he had promised; but a glance
from the terrible eye of Wilson intimidated him; and amid
sighs, and groans, and tears, a deed of gift was at length
written, which made Gertrude Wilson heiress to his large
fortune, in case Edward Percival refused to marry her.

A long and earnest conversation respecting the chest
of silver ensued,—and about four o'clock, P. M. an upright
vehicle, studded with brass nails, and adorned with
wings that looked like any thing but flying, conveyed
Mr. Townsend and his accomplice to the dwelling of
the “spae wife.” After travelling a few miles, they
turned into a sequestered path, obviously unfrequented.
They had not proceeded far, when two half-starved
hounds sprung from the thicket, and set up a most
hideous yell.

“Whist, Mars! Down with you, Hecate!” exclaimed
a voice, the shrillness of which alone indicated that it
came from woman.

The travellers looked toward the place whence the
sound proceeded, and saw a tall, athletic female, clearing
the bushes, and coming towards them with rapid
strides. Her masculine figure, of such uncommon
height and rigid outline; the grey hair, that hung in
confused masses about her haggard countenance, and
the frenzied look of her large blue eyes, would have
struck the stoutest heart with something like dread.

When asked where Molly Bradstreet resided, she
answered, “In that hut at the foot of Rattlesnake Hill.
What's your want? I am the woman.”

She looked at Wilson as she spoke, with an expression
that made him shudder. Had he ever known the strange
being, he would have thought it indicated personal hatred,
deep, settled, and rancorous; and though he was sure
she was a stranger, and that he could not of course be
an object of animosity, that look haunted him for days
after, like a frightful dream. Recovering from his momentary
embarrassment, he briefly explained his errand.

“Follow me,” she replied; “but you must leave the
horse here. You'll find no footing for the beast.”

Complying with her directions, they pursued a crooked
path, occasionally intercepted by brake and briar, until
they stood before the wretched hovel.

“Walk in,” said she, lowering her gigantic stature
as she led the way. “What questions would you ask?”
she added, as she seated herself on the bed, and pointed
to a rude stool, that constituted her whole furniture.

“Tell us what we come for,” said the old miser.
“If you don't know that, we won't give you a copper.”

“You are a cunning one,” rejoined she, with a hollow
laugh.

After learning the days of the month on which
they were born, she looked in an almanac, and ascertained
through what sign the sun was then travelling,
marked it down, pressed her hand against her forehead
for a few moments,—and then carefully examined two
large, dirty folios, covered, within and without, with

strange and apparently unintelligible characters. Some
tea-grounds were next deposited in a cup, which Wilson
was ordered silently to whirl round three times three.
This operation being performed with the most portentous
solemnity, she looked alternately at the cup and the
books, till Wilson, weary of the process, exclaimed,
“What answer, woman?”

“There is gold, hidden gold,” responded the oracle.

Mr. Townsend, who had from the beginning been the
personification of extreme fear, now stole toward the
door, muttering, “She has to do with the spirits of
darkness.”

The sybil grinned, and showed her loosened, yellow
teeth.

“What more, witch?” said the impatient Wilson.

“Witch!” echoed she, with a malignant scowl.

“Mrs. Bradstreet, then,” said the inquirer, in a more
soothing tone.

“In your cup, there is crime,” she cried. “Here
is the corpse of a woman, whom you would give worlds
to see alive, and beautiful, and innocent as she was before
she knew you.”

A withering glance accompanied these words, and
Wilson, springing forward, shook her in the intensity of
his anxiety and rage. “Hag! where did you learn
that?” shouted he.

With strength that almost equalled his own, she threw
him from her, and replied with affected calmness,
“I have read to you what the fates have written,—
nothing more.”

Ashamed of having thus betrayed himself, he asked
her to proceed.

“I tell you there is blood in the cup,” said she.
“Your right arm hath been familiar with the sword, and
the pistol has not been quiet in your hand. Good luck
is near you now, and it comes in the form of a wedding
ring; but the circle of fortune is broken before it
reaches the centre of the cup, and tears lie at the bottom.
A death of agony is not far distant.”

Without answering a word, the person to whom she
had spoken, walked to the door, and breathed the fresh
air, as if he needed its strengthening influence; for,
though ashamed of his weakness, he could not but give
his reluctant faith to a being, who had thus unaccountably
read his blood-stained page of life. With a trembling
hand, the miser took the cup, and performed the mystic
ceremony.

“There is but little to tell you, sir,” said the witch.
“You have loved gold, and gained it,—and you will
keep it till you die. A sword hangs over your head;
but it will not drop. Your sand is almost run out, and
until the last grain is shaken through, your deeds will
be kept secret.”

“Let us go hence,” said Mr. Townsend, as he staggered
toward the door; “for if ever the wicked one
was in human shape —.”

“But what of the money?” inquired Wilson.

“There is money hid,” was the laconic answer.

“And how is it to be found?”

“If the sea-robber buried it, let three, or nine, or
fifteen men seek for it. He who bears the witch-hazel
rod, must carry it upright till it bows down in spite of
his strength. At that spot let them dig; and let not a
word be spoken within hearing of it. Perhaps the
meeting of two shadows at twelve o'clock may mark
the place; for the pirates were ever particular about
that. Every man must fasten a Bible on his neck with
a silken cord. If none speak within a circle of nine
yards, you 'll find the treasure.”

Wilson laid two Spanish dollars on the table.

“It is too much,” said the covetous old man, seizing
hold of one of them. “Breath costs nothing.”

“Don't it?” said the wrinkled dame, forcing open
the skinny fingers that had closed over the money.
“You will think it is worth more two months hence.”

“Farewell, witch,” said Wilson, who had recovered
the bold and savage manner most natural to him.

“Farewell,” muttered she, as they plunged into the
thicket; and take an old mother's curse. I know ye
well, though you know not me.”

A savage exultation lighted up her eyes for a moment,
and she shook her head toward them, as she added,
“I 'll have my revenge”