know, after enjoying so much wealth and happiness as you’ve foretold, what sort of an end I am to make of it?”
“An excellent end—full of grace, and hope, and Christian faith. I see here, something that looks like a clergyman’s gown—white sleeves—book under the arm—”
“That can’t be me. Mother, as I’m no lover of forms, but belong to the platform.”
“Oh! I see how it is, now; you dislike Church of England people, and could throw dirt at them. Yes, yes—here you are—a presbyterian deacon, and one that can lead in a private meeting, on an occasion.”
“Come, Dirck, I’m satisfied—let us go; we have kept Mother Doorichaise long enough, and I heard some visiters come in, just now. Thank you, mother—thank you, with all my heart; I think there must be some truth in this fortin-tellin’ after all!”
Jason now arose, and walked out of the house, without even deigning to look at us—and consequently without our being recognised. But Dirck lingered a minute, not yet satisfied with what had been already told him.
“Do you really think I shall never be married, Mother?” he asked, in a tone that sufficiently betrayed the importance he attached to the answer. “I wish to know that particularly, before I go away!”
“Young man,” answered the fortune-teller in an oracular manner; “what has been said, has been said! I cannot make fortunes, but only reveal them. You have heard that Dutch blood is in your veins; but you live in an English colony. Your king is her king; while she is your queen—and you are not her master. If you can find a woman of English blood that has a Dutch heart, and has no English suitors, go forward, and you will succeed; but, if you do not, remain as you are until time shall end. These are my words, and these are my thoughts; I can say no more.”
I heard Dirck sigh—poor fellow! he was thinking of Anneke—and he passed through the outer room without once raising his eyes from the floor. He left Mother Doortje, as much depressed in spirits, as Jason had left her elated; the one looking forward to the future with a selfish and niggardly hope, while the other regarded it with a feeling as forlorn as the destruction of all his youthful fancies could render any view of his after-life. The reader may feel disposed to smile at the idea of Dirck Van Valkenburgh’s possessing youthful fancies—regarding the young man in the quiet, unassuming manner in which he has hitherto been portrayed by me; but it would be doing great injustice to his heart and feelings, to figure him to the mind, as a being without deep sensibilities. I have always supposed that this interview with Mother Doortje had a lasting influence on the fortunes of poor Dirck; nor am I at all certain its effects did not long linger in the temperament of some others that might be named.
As our turns had now come, we were summoned to the presence of this female soothsayer. It is unnecessary to describe the apartment in which we found Mother Doortje. It had nothing unusual in it, with the exception of a raven, that was hopping about the floor, and which appeared to be on the most familiar terms with its mistress. Doortje, herself, was a woman of quite sixty, wrinkled, lean, and hag-like; and, I thought, some care had been taken, in her dress, to increase the effect of this, certainly her natural appearance. Her cap was entirely of black muslin; though her dress itself, was grey. The eye of this woman was of the colour of her gown; and it was penetrating, restless, and deep-seated. Altogether, she looked the character well.
On our entrance, after saluting the fortune-teller, each of us laid a French crown on the table at which she was seated. This coin had become quite current among us, since the French troops had penetrated into our colony; and it was even said they purchased supplies with it, from certain of our own people. As we had paid the highest price ever given, for these glimpses into futurity, we thought ourselves entitled to have the pages of the sealed book freely opened to us.
“Do you wish to see me together; or shall I communicate with one at a time?” demanded Doortje, in her husky, sepulchral voice; which, it struck me, obtained its peculiar tones partly from nature, and partly from art.
It was settled that she should commence with Mr. Worden; but, that all might remain in the room the whole time. While we were talking over this point, Doortje’s eyes were by no means fixed, but, I remarked, that they wandered from person to person; like those of one who was gathering information. Many persons do not believe, at all, in the art of the fortune-teller; but insist that there is nothing more in it than trick and management; pretending that this very woman kept the blacks of the town in pay, to bring her information; and that she never told anything of the past, which was true, that had not been previously communicated to herself. I shall not pretend to affirm that the art goes as far as many imagine; but, it strikes me, that it is very presuming, to deny that there is some truth in these matters. I do not wish to appear credulous; though, at the same time, I hold it to be wrong to deny our testimony to facts that we are convinced are true. 29
Doortje commenced by shuffling an exceedingly dirty pack of cards; which had probably been used five hundred times, on similar duty. She next caused Mr. Worden to cut these cards; when a close and musing examination succeeded. All this time, not a syllable was said; though we were startled by a low whistle, from the woman; which brought the raven upon her shoulder.
“Well, Mother,” cried Mr. Worden, with a little impatience, at what he fancied mummery, “I am dying to hear what has happened, that I may put the more faith in what is to happen. Tell me something of the crop of wheat, I put into the ground, last autumn; how many bushels I sowed, and on how many acres; whether on new land, or on old?”
“Ay, ay, you have sowed!—and you have sowed!” answered the woman, on a high key, for her; “but your seed fell among tares, and on the flinty ground; and you’ll never reap a soul among ‘em all! Broadcast may you sow—but narrow will be your harvest.”
The Rev. Mr. Worden gave a loud hem—placed his arms akimbo—and seemed determined to brazen it out; though, I could easily perceive, that he felt excessively awkward.
“How is it, with my cattle? and shall I send much mutton to market, this season?”
“A wolf, in sheep’s clothing!” muttered Doortje. “No—no—you like hot suppers, and ducks, and lectures to cooks more than gathering in the harvest of the Lord!”
“Come, this is folly, woman!” exclaimed the parson, angrily. “Give me some common sense, for my good French crown. What do you see, in that knave of diamonds, that you study its face so closely?”
“A loping Dominie!—a loping Dominie!” screamed the hag, several times, rather than exclaiming aloud. “See!—he runs, for life; but Beelzebub will overtake him!”
There was a sudden, and dead pause; for the Rev. Mr. Worden had caught up his hat, and darted from the room; quitting the house, as if already busily engaged in the race alluded to. Guert shook his head, and looked serious; but, perceiving that the woman was already tranquil, and was actually shuffling the cards anew, in his behalf, he advanced to learn his fate. I saw the eyes of Doortje fastened keenly on him, as he took his stand near the table, and the corners of her mouth curled in a significant smile. What that meant, exactly, I have never been able to ascertain.
“I suppose, you wish to know something of the past, like all the rest of them,” mumbled the woman, “so that you may have faith in what you hear about the future?”
“Why, Mother,” answered Guert, passing his hand through his own fine head of natural curls, and speaking a little hastily, “I do not know that it is any great matter about the past. What is done, is done; and there is an end of it. A young man may not wish to hear of such things, at
