A \ B \ C \ D \ E \ F \ G \ H \ I \ J \ K \ L \ M \ N \ O \ P \ R \ S \ T \ U \ V \ W \Z

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

W >> William Carleton >> The Evil Eye; Or, The Black Spector



THE EVIL EYE;

OR, THE BLACK SPECTOR


By William Carleton





PREFACE.

There is very little to be said about this book in the shape of a
preface. The superstition of the Evil Eye is, and has been, one of the
most general that ever existed among men. It may puzzle philosophers to
ask why it prevails wherever mankind exists. There is not a country on
the face of the earth where a belief in the influence of the Evil Eye
does not prevail. In my own young days it was a settled dogma of belief.
I have reason to know, however, that, like other superstitions, it is
fast fading out of the public mind. Education and knowledge will soon
banish those idle and senseless superstitions: indeed, it is a very
difficult thing to account for their existence at all. I think some of
them have come down to us from the times of the Druids,--a class of men
whom, excepting what is called their human sacrifices, I respect. My
own opinion is, that what we term human sacrifices was nothing but their
habitual mode of executing criminals. Toland has written on the subject
and left us very little the wiser. Who could, after all, give us
information upon a subject which to us is only like a dream?

What first suggested the story of the Evil Eye to me was this: A man
named Case, who lives within a distance of about three or four hundred
yards of my residence, keeps a large dairy; he is the possessor of five
or six and twenty of the finest cows I ever saw, and he told me that
a man who was an enemy of his killed three of them by his overlooking
them,--that is to say, by the influence of the Evil Eye.

The opinion in Ireland of the Evil Eye is this: that a man or woman
possessing it may hold it harmless, unless there is some selfish design
or some spirit of vengeance to call it into operation. I was aware of
this, and I accordingly constructed my story upon that principle. I have
nothing further to add: the story itself will detail the rest.




CHAPTER I. Short and Preliminary.


In a certain part of Ireland, inside the borders of the county of
Waterford, lived two respectable families, named Lindsay and Goodwin,
the former being of Scotch descent. Their respective residences were not
more than three miles distant; and the intimacy that subsisted between
them was founded, for many years, upon mutual good-will and esteem,
with two exceptions only in one of the families, which the reader will
understand in the course of our narrative. Each ranked in the class
known as that of the middle gentry. These two neighbors--one of whom,
Mr. Lindsay, was a magistrate--were contented with their lot in life,
which was sufficiently respectable and independent to secure to them
that true happiness which is most frequently annexed to the middle
station. Lindsay was a man of a kind and liberal heart, easy and passive
in his nature, but with a good deal of sarcastic humor, yet neither
severe nor prejudiced, and, consequently, a popular magistrate as
well as a popular man. Goodwin might be said to possess a similar
disposition; but he was of a more quiet and unobtrusive character than
his cheerful neighbor. His mood of mind was placid and serene, and his
heart as tender and affectionate as ever beat in a human bosom. His
principal enjoyment lay in domestic life--in the society, in fact, of
his wife and one beautiful daughter, his only child, a girl of nineteen
when our tale opens. Lindsay's family consisted of one son and two
daughters; but his wife, who was a widow when he married her, had
another son by her first husband, who had been abroad almost since his
childhood, with a grand-uncle, whose intention was to provide for him,
being a man of great wealth and a bachelor.

We have already said that the two families were upon the most intimate
and friendly terms; but to this there was one exception in the person of
Mrs. Lindsay, whose natural disposition was impetuous, implacable, and
overbearing; equally destitute of domestic tenderness and good temper.
She was, in fact, a woman whom not even her own children, gifted as they
were with the best and most affectionate dispositions, could love as
children ought to love a parent. Utterly devoid of charity, she was
never known to bestow a kind act upon the poor or distressed, or a
kind word upon the absent. Vituperation and calumny were her constant
weapons; and one would imagine, by the frequency and bitterness with
which she wielded them, that she was in a state of perpetual warfare
with society. Such, indeed, was the case; but the evils which resulted
from her wanton and indefensible aggressions upon private character
almost uniformly recoiled upon her own head; for, as far as her name
was known, she was not only unpopular, but odious. Her husband was a man
naturally fond of peace and quietness in his own house and family and,
rather than occasion anything in the shape of domestic disturbance,
he continued to treat her intemperate authority sometimes with
indifference, sometimes with some sarcastic observation or other, and
occasionally with open and undisguised contempt. In some instances,
however, he departed from this apathetic line of conduct, and turned
upon her with a degree of asperity and violence that was as impetuous as
it was decisive. His reproaches were then general, broad, fearful; but
these were seldom resorted to unless when her temper had gone beyond
all reasonable limits of endurance, or in defence of the absent or
inoffensive. It mattered not, however, what the reason may have been,
they never failed to gain their object at the time; for the woman,
though mischievous and wicked, ultimately quailed, yet not without
resistance, before the exasperated resentment of her husband. Those
occasional victories, however, which he gained over her with reluctance,
never prevented her from treating him, in the ordinary business of life,
with a systematic exhibition of abuse and scorn. Much of this he bore,
as we have said; but whenever he chose to retort upon her with her own
weapons in their common and minor skirmishes, she found his sarcasm too
cool and biting for a temper so violent as hers, and the consequence
was, that nothing enraged her more than to see him amuse himself at her
expense.

This woman had a brother, who also lived in the same neighborhood, and
who, although so closely related to her by blood, was, nevertheless, as
different from her in both character and temper as good could be from
evil. He was wealthy and generous, free from everything like a worldly
spirit, and a warm but unostentatious benefactor to the poor, and
to such individuals as upon inquiry he found to be entitled to his
beneficence. His wife had, some years before, died of decline, which,
it seems, was hereditary in her family. He felt her death as a calamity
which depressed his heart to the uttermost depths of affliction, and
from which, indeed, he never recovered. All that remained to him after
her demise was a beautiful little girl, around whom his affections
gathered with a degree of tenderness that was rendered almost painful
by the apprehension of her loss. Agnes, from her eighth or ninth year,
began to manifest slight symptoms of the same fatal malady which had
carried away her mother. These attacks filled his heart with those
fearful forebodings, which, whilst they threw him into a state of terror
and alarm, at the same time rendered the love he bore her such as may
be imagined, but cannot be expressed. It is only when we feel the
probability of losing a beloved object that the heart awakens to a more
exquisite perception of its affections for it, and wonders, when the
painful symptoms of disease appear, why it was heretofore unconscious
of the full extent of its love. Such was the nature of Mr. Hamilton's
feelings for his daughter, whenever the short cough or hectic cheek
happened to make their appearance from time to time, and foreshadow,
as it were, the certainty of an early death; and then he should be
childless--a lonely man in the world, possessing a heart overflowing
with affection, and yet without an object on which he could lavish it,
as now, with happiness and delight. He looked, therefore, upon decline
as upon an approaching foe, and the father's heart became sentinel
for the welfare of his child, and watched every symptom of the dreaded
disease that threatened her, with a vigilance that never slept. Under
such circumstances we need not again assure our readers that his
parental tenderness for this beautiful girl--now his "only one," as
he used to call her--was such as is rare even in the most affectionate
families; but in this case the slight and doubtful tenure which his
apprehensions told him he had of her existence raised his love of her
almost to idolatry. Still she improved in person, grace, and intellect;
and although an occasional shadow, as transient as that which passes
over and makes dim the flowery fields of May or April, darkened her
father's heart for a time, yet it passed away, and she danced on in the
light of youthful happiness, without a single trace of anxiety or care.
Her father's affection for her was not, however, confined to herself;
on the contrary, it passed to and embraced every object that was dear
to her--her favorite books, her favorite playthings, and her favorite
companions. Among the latter, without a single rival, stood her young
friend, Alice Goodwin, who was then about her own age. Never was the
love of sisters greater or more beautiful than that which knit the
innocent hearts of those two girls together. Their affections, in short,
were so dependent upon each other that separation and absence became a
source of anxiety and uneasiness to each. Neither of them had a sister,
and in the fervor of their attachment, they entered into a solemn
engagement that each of them should consider herself the sister of the
other. This innocent experiment of the heart--for such we must consider
it in these two sisterless girls--was at least rewarded by complete
success. A new affinity was superadded to friendship, and the force of
imagination completed what the heart begun.

Next to Agnes was Alice Goodwin awarded a place in Mr. Hamilton's
heart. 'Tis true he had nieces; but in consequence of the bitter and
exasperating temper of their mother, who was neither more nor less than
an incendiary among her relations, he had not spoken to her for
years; and this fast occasioned a comparative estrangement between
the families. Sometimes, however, her nieces and she visited, and were
always upon good terms; but Agnes's heart had been preoccupied; and even
if it had not, the heartless predictions of her aunt, who entertained
her with the cheering and consoling information that "she had death in
her face," and that "she knew from the high color of her cheek that
she would soon follow her mother," would have naturally estranged
the families. Now, of this apprehension, above all others, it was the
father's wish that Agnes should remain ignorant; and when she repeated
to him, with tears in her eyes, the merciless purport of her aunt's
observations, he replied, with a degree of calm resentment which was
unusual to him, "Agnes, my love, let not anything your aunt may say
alarm you in the least; she is no prophetess, my dear child. Your life,
as is that of all his creatures, is in the hands of God who gave it. I
know her avaricious and acrimonious disposition--her love of wealth, and
her anxiety to aggrandize her family. As it is, she will live to regret
the day she ever uttered those cruel words to you, my child. You shall
visit at your uncle's no more. Whenever the other members of her
family may please to come here, we shall receive them with kindness and
affection; but I will not suffer you to run the risk of listening to
such unfeeling prognostications in future."

In the meantime her health continued in a state sufficiently
satisfactory to her father. It is true an occasional alarm was felt from
time to time, as a slight cold, accompanied with its hard and unusual
cough, happened to supervene; but in general it soon disappeared, and
in a brief space she became perfectly recovered, and free from every
symptom of the dreadful malady.

In this way the tenor of her pure and innocent life went on, until she
reached her sixteenth year. Never did a happier young creature enjoy
existence--never lived a being more worthy of happiness. Her inseparable
and bosom friend was Alice Goodwin, now her sister according to their
artless compact of love. They spent weeks and months alternately with
each other; but her father never permitted a day to pass without
seeing her, and every visit filled his happy spirit with more hopeful
anticipations.

At this period it occurred to him to have their portraits drawn, and
on hearing him mention this intention, their young hearts were ecstatic
with delight.

"But, papa," said Agnes, "if you do I have a favor to ask of you."

"Granted, Agnes, if it be possible."

"O, quite possible, papa; it is to get both our portraits painted in
the same frame, for, do you know, I don't think I could feel happy if
Alice's portrait was separated from mine."

"It shall be done, darling--it shall be done."

And it was done, accordingly; for what father could refuse a request
founded upon an affection so tender and beautiful as theirs?

Agnes has now entered her seventeenth year--but how is this? Why does
her cheek begin to get alternately pale and red? And why does the
horizon of the father's heart begin to darken? Alas! it is so--the
spoiler is upon her at last. Appetite is gone--her spirits are gone,
unless in these occasional ebullitions of vivacity which resemble the
lightnings which flash from the cloud that is gathering over her. It
would be painful to dwell minutely upon the history of her illness--upon
her angelic patience and submission to the will of God, and upon the
affection, now consecrated by approaching death into something sacred,
which she exhibited to her father and Alice. The latter was never from
her during the progress of that mournful decline. The poor dying girl
found all the tenderest offices of love and friendship anticipated.
Except heaven she had scarcely anything to wish for. But who can even
imagine the hopeless agony of her father's soul? She had been the single
remaining plank which bore him through a troubled ocean to a calm and
delightful harbor; but now she is going down, leaving him to struggle,
weak and exhausted for a little, and then the same dark waves will cover
them both.

At length the dreadful hour arrived--the last slight spasm of death was
over, and her spotless soul passed into heaven from the bereaved arms
of her hopeless and distracted father, who was reduced by the depth and
wildness of despair to a state of agony which might wring compassion
from a demon.

On the morning of her interment, Alice, completely prostrated by excess
of grief and watching, was assisted to bed, being unable to accomplish
even the short distance to her father's house, and for nearly a
fortnight serious doubts were entertained of her recovery. Her
constitution, however, though not naturally strong, enabled her to
rally, and in three weeks' time she was barely able to go home to her
family. On the day following Mr. Hamilton called to see her--a task to
which, under the dreadful weight of his sorrow, he was scarcely equal.
He said he considered it, however, his duty, and he accordingly went.
His visit, too, was very short, nor had he much to say, and it was
well he had not; for he could by no exertion have summoned sufficient
fortitude for a lengthened conversation on a subject arising from the
loss of a child so deeply beloved.

"Alice," said he, "I know the arrangement entered into between
you--and--and--"

Here he was overcome, and could not for a few minutes maintain
sufficient calmness to proceed, and poor Alice was almost as deeply
affected as himself. At last he strove to go on.

"You know," he resumed, "the agreement I allude to. You were to be
sisters, and you were sisters. Well, my dear Alice, for her sake, as
well as for your own, and as she looked upon you in that affectionate
light, the contract between you, as far as it now can be done, shall be
maintained. Henceforth you are my daughter. I adopt you. All that
she was to have shall be yours, reverting, however, should you
die without-issue, to my nephew, Henry Woodward; and should he die
childless, to his brother, Charles Lindsay; and should he die without
offspring, then to my niece Maria. I have arranged it so, and have to
say that, except the hope of meeting my child in death, it is now the
only consolation left me. I am, I know, fulfilling her wishes; and, my
dear Alice, you will relieve my heart--my broken heart--by accepting
it."

"O, would to God," replied Alice, sobbing bitterly, "that I could give a
thousand times as much to have our beloved Agnes back again! I have now
no sister! Alas! alas! I have now no sister!"

"Ah, my child," he replied, "for now I will call you so, your grief,
though deep and poignant, will pass away in time, but mine will abide
with me whilst I stay here. That period, however, will not be long; the
prop of my existence, the source of my happiness, is gone; and I will
never know what happiness is until I rejoin her and her blessed mother.
Good-by, my daughter; I will have neither reply nor remonstrance, nor
will I be moved by any argument from this my resolution."

He then passed out of the house, entered his carriage with some
difficulty, and proceeded home with a heart considerably relieved by
what he had done.

It was in vain that Alice and her father did subsequently remonstrate
with him upon the subject. He refused to listen to them, and said, his
determination was immovable.

"But," he added, "if it be any satisfaction to you to know it, I have
not forgotten my relations, to whom I have left the legacies originally
intended for them. I would have left it directly to Henry Woodward, were
it not that his grasping mother sent him to another relation, from whom
she calculated that he might have larger expectations; and I hope he
may realize them. At all events, my relatives will find themselves in
exactly the same position as if our beloved Agnes had lived."

Mr. Hamilton, then advanced in years--for Agnes might be termed the
child of his old age--did not survive her death twelve months. That
afflicting event fairly broke him down. Death, however, to him had no
terrors, because he had nothing to detain him here. On the contrary,
he looked to it only as a release from sorrow; an event that would soon
wipe away all tears from his eyes, draw the sting of affliction from
his heart, and restore him once more to his beloved Agnes and her dear
mother. He looked forward only to close his eyes against the world and
sleep with them--and so he did.

When his will was opened, the astonishment and dismay of his
relations may be! easily imagined, as well as the bitterness of
their disappointment. The bequeathal of the bulk of his property to
a stranger, who I could urge no claim of consanguinity upon him,
absolutely astonished them; and their resentment at his caprice--or
rather what they termed his dotage--was not only deep, but loud. To say
the truth, such an unexpected demise of property was strongly calculated
to try their temper. After the death of Agnes--an event which filled the
unfeeling and worldly heart of her aunt with delight--they made many a
domestic calculation, and held many a family council as to the mode in
which their uncle's property might be distributed among them, and many
anticipations were the result, because there was none in the usual
descent of property to inherit it but themselves. Now, in all this, they
acted very naturally--just, perhaps, as you or I, gentle reader, would
act if placed in similar circumstances, and sustained by the same
expectations.

In the meantime matters were not likely to rest in quiet. Murmurs went
abroad, hints were given, and broader assertions advanced, that the old
man had not been capable of making a will, and that his mind had been so
completely disordered and prostrated by excessive grief for the loss of
his daughter, that he became the dupe and victim of undue influence in
the person of a selfish and artful girl--that artful girl being no other
than Alice Goodwin, aided and abetted by her family. Every circumstance,
no matter how trivial, that could be raked up and collected, was now
brought together, and stamped with a character of significance, in order
to establish his dotage and their fraud. It is not necessary to dwell
upon this. In due time the matter came to a trial, for the will had
been disputed, and, after a patient hearing, its validity was completely
established, and all the hopes and expectations of the Lindsays blown
into air.

In the meantime, and while the suit was pending, the conduct of Alice
was both generous and disinterested. She pressed her parents to allow
her, under the peculiar circumstances of the case, to renounce the
bequest, inasmuch as she thought that Mr. Hamilton's relatives had a
stronger and prior claim. This, however, they peremptorily refused to
do.

"I care not for money," said her father, "nor have I much to spare;
but you must consider, my dear Alice, that the act upon the part of Mr.
Hamilton was a spontaneous demise of his own property, as a reward to
you on behalf of his daughter, for the affection which you bore her, and
which subsisted between you. You were her nurse, her friend, her sister;
you tended her night and day during her long illness, even to the injury
of your health, and almost at the risk of your very life. Suppose,
for instance, that Mr. Hamilton had had male heirs; in that case, the
Lindsays would have been just as they are, perhaps not so well; for he
might not have left them even a legacy. Then, they unjustly tax us with
fraud, circumvention, and the practice of undue influence; and, indeed,
have endeavored to stamp an indelible stain upon your character and
honor. Every man, my dear, as the proverb has it, is at liberty to
do what he pleases with his own, according to his free will, and a
reasonable disposition. Let me hear no more of this, then, but enjoy
with gratitude that which God and your kind friend have bestowed upon
you."

We need not assure our readers that the Lindsays henceforth were
influenced by an unfriendly feeling toward the Goodwins, and that
all intercourse between the families terminated. On the part of Mrs.
Lindsay, this degenerated into a spirit of the most intense hatred and
malignity. To this enmity, however, there were exceptions in the family,
and strong ones, too, as the reader will perceive in the course of the
story.

Old Lindsay himself, although he mentioned the Goodwins with moderation,
could not help feeling strongly and bitterly the loss of property which
his children had sustained, owing to this unexpected disposition of it
by their uncle. Here, then, were two families who had lived in mutual
good-will and intimacy, now placed fronting each other in a spirit of
hostility. The Goodwins felt indignant that their motives should
be misinterpreted by what they considered deliberate falsehood and
misrepresentation; and the Lindsays could not look in silence upon
the property which they thought ought to be theirs, transferred to the
possession of strangers, who had wheedled a dotard to make a will
in their favor. Such, however, in thousands of instances, are the
consequences of the

_"Opes irritamenta malorum."_

The above facts, in connection with these two families, and the future
incidents of our narrative, we have deemed it necessary, for I the
better understanding of what follows, to place in a preliminary sketch
before our readers.




CHAPTER II. A Murderer's Wake and the Arrival of a Stranger


It is the month of June, and the sun has gone down amidst a mass of
those red and angry clouds which prognosticate a night of storm and
tempest. The air is felt to be oppressive and sultry, and the whole
sky is overshadowed with gloom. On such a night the spirit sinks,
cheerfulness abandons the heart, and an indefinable anxiety depresses
it. This impression is not peculiar to man, who, on such occasions,
is only subject to the same instinctive apprehension which is known
to influence the irrational animals. The clouds are gathering in black
masses; but there is, nevertheless, no opening between them through
which the sky is visible. The gloom is unbroken, and so is the silence;
and a person might imagine that the great operations of Nature had been
suspended and stood still. The outlying cattle betake them to shelter,
and the very dogs, with a subdued and timid bark, seek the hearth, and,
with ears and tail hanging in terror, lay themselves down upon it as if
to ask protection from man. On such a night as this we will request the
reader to follow us toward a district that trenches upon the foot of
a dark mountain, from whose precipitous sides masses of gray rock,
apparently embedded in heath and fern, protrude themselves in uncouth
and gigantic shapes. 'Tis true they were not then visible; but we wish
the reader to understand the character of the whole scenery through
which we pass. We diverge from the highway into a mountain road, which
resembles the body of a serpent when in motion, going literally up one
elevation, and down another. To the right, deep glens, gullies, and
ravines; but the darkness with which they are now filled is thick and
impervious to the eye, and nothing breaks the silence about us but the
rush of the mountain torrent over some jutting precipice below us. To
the left all is gloom, as it would be even were there light to guide the
sight, because on that side spreads a black, interminable moor. As it is
we can see nothing; yet as we get along we find that we are not alone.
Voices reach our ears; but they are not, as usual, the voices of mirth
and laughter. These which we hear--and they are not far from us--are
grave and serious; the utterance thick and low, as if those from whom
they proceed were expressing a sense of sympathy or horror. We have now
advanced up this rugged path about half a mile from the highway we
have mentioned, and discovered a light which will guide us to our
destination. As we approach the house the people are increasing in point
of numbers; but still their conversation is marked by the same strange
and peculiar character. Perhaps the solemn depth of their voices gains
something by the ominous aspect of the sky; but, be this as it may, the
feeling which it occasions fills one with a different and distinct sense
of discomfort.

Copyright (c) 2007. bestextbooks.com. All rights reserved.

William MacLeod Raine - "A Daughter of the Dons"

Sarah Orne Jewett - "A Country Doctor and Selected Stories and Sketches"

Pierre Corneille - "The Cid"

George Herbert Betts - "How to Teach Religion"