“Tell me then, Sir,” said George, resolved to make the most of the wretch’s terror—“tell me for what purpose it is that you haunt my steps? Tell me plainly, and instantly, else I will throw you from the verge of that precipice.”
“Oh, I will never do it again! I will never do it again! Spare my life, dear, good brother! Spare my life! Sure I never did you any hurt.”
“Swear to me, then, by the God that made you, that you will never henceforth follow after me to torment me with your hellish threatening looks; swear that you will never again come into my presence without being invited. Will you take an oath to this effect?”
“Oh yes! I will, I will!”
“But this is not all: you must tell me for what purpose you sought me out here this morning?”
“Oh, brother! For nothing but your good. I had nothing at heart but your unspeakable profit, and great and endless good.”
“So, then, you indeed knew that I was here?”
“I was told so by a friend, but I did not believe him; a—a—at least I did not know that it was true till I saw you.”
“Tell me this one thing, then, Robert, and all shall be forgotten and forgiven. Who was that friend?”
“You do not know him.”
“How then does he know me?”
“I cannot tell.”
“Was he here present with you today?”
“Yes; he was not far distant. He came to this hill with me.”
“Where then is he now?”
“I cannot tell.”
“Then, wretch, confess that the devil was that friend who told you I was here, and who came here with you. None else could possibly know of my being here.”
“Ah! how little you know of him! Would you argue that there is neither man nor spirit endowed with so much foresight as to deduce natural conclusions from previous actions and incidents but the devil? Alas, brother! But why should I wonder at such abandoned notions and principles? It was foreordained that you should cherish them, and that they should be the ruin of your soul and body, before the world was framed. Be assured of this, however, that I had no aim of seeking you but your good!”
“Well, Robert, I will believe it. I am disposed to be hasty and passionate: it is a fault in my nature; but I never meant, or wished you evil; and God is my witness that I would as soon stretch out my hand to my own life, or my father’s, as to yours.” At these words, Wringhim uttered a hollow exulting laugh, put his hands in his pockets, and withdrew a space to his accustomed distance. George continued: “And now, once for all, I request that we may exchange forgiveness, and that we may part and remain friends.”
“Would such a thing be expedient, think you? Or consistent with the glory of God? I doubt it.”
“I can think of nothing that would be more so. Is it not consistent with every precept of the Gospel? Come, brother, say that our reconciliation is complete.”
“Oh yes, certainly! I tell you, brother, according to the flesh: it is just as complete as the lark’s is with the adder, no more so, nor ever can. Reconciled, forsooth! To what would I be reconciled?”
As he said this, he strode indignantly away. From the moment that he heard his life was safe, he assumed his former insolence and revengeful looks and never were they more dreadful than on parting with his brother that morning on the top of the hill. “Well, go thy way,” said George; “some would despise, but I pity thee. If thou art not a limb of Satan, I never saw one.”
The sun had now dispelled the vapours; and, the morning being lovely beyond description, George sat himself down on the top of the hill, and pondered deeply on the unaccountable incident that had befallen to him that morning. He could in nowise comprehend it; but, taking it with other previous circumstances, he could not get quit of a conviction that he was haunted by some evil genius in the shape of his brother, as well as by that dark and mysterious wretch himself. In no other way could he account for the apparition he saw that morning on the face of the rock, nor for several sudden appearances of the same being, in places where there was no possibility of any foreknowledge that he himself was to be there, and as little that the same being, if he were flesh and blood like other men, could always start up in the same position with regard to him. He determined, therefore, on reaching home, to relate all that had happened, from beginning to end, to his father, asking his counsel and his assistance, although he knew full well that his father was not the fittest man in the world to solve such a problem. He was now involved in party politics, over head and ears; and, moreover, he could never hear the names of either of the Wringhims mentioned without getting into a quandary of disgust and anger; and all that he would deign to say of them was, to call them by all the opprobrious names he could invent.
It turned out as the young man from the first suggested: old Dalcastle would listen to nothing concerning them with any patience. George complained that his brother harassed him with his presence at all times, and in all places. Old Dal asked why he did not kick the dog out of his presence whenever he felt him disagreeable? George said he seemed to have some demon for a familiar. Dal answered that he did not wonder a bit at that, for the young spark was the third in a direct line who had all been children of adultery; and it was well known that all such were born half-deils themselves, and nothing was more likely than that they
