I believe,” replied I; “but I do not believe your last remark to be correct—but Timothy raps at the door.”
Another lady entered the room, and then started back, as if she would retreat, so surprised was she at the appearance of the Great Aristodemus; but as Timothy had turned the key, her escape was impossible. She was unknown to us, which was rather awkward; but Melchior raised his eyes from his book, and waved his hand as before, that she should be seated. With some trepidation she stated that she was a widow, whose dependence was upon an only son now at sea; that she had not heard of him for a long while, and was afraid that some accident had happened; that she was in the greatest distress—“and,” continued she, “I have nothing to offer but this ring. Can you tell me if he is yet alive?” cried she, bursting into tears; “but if you have not the art you pretend to, O do not rob a poor, friendless creature, but let me depart!”
“When did you receive your last letter from him?” said Melchior.
“It is now seven months—dated from Bahia,” replied she, pulling it out of her reticule, and covering her face with her handkerchief.
Melchior caught the address, and then turned the letter over on the other side, as it lay on the table. “Mrs Watson,” said he.
“Heavens! do you know my name?” cried the woman.
“Mrs Watson, I do not require to read your son’s letter—I know its contents.” He then turned over his book, and studied for a few seconds. “Your son is alive.”
“Thank God!” cried she, clasping her hands, and dropping her reticule.
“But you must not expect his return too soon—he is well employed.”
“Oh! I care not—he is alive—he is alive! God bless you—God bless you!”
Melchior made a sign to me, pointing to the five guineas and the reticule; and I contrived to slip them into her reticule, while she sobbed in her handkerchief.
“Enough, madam; you must go, for others require my aid.”
The poor woman rose, and offered the ring.
“Nay, nay, I want not thy money; I take from the rich, that I may distribute to the poor—but not from the widow in affliction. Open thy bag.” The widow took up her bag, and opened it. Melchior dropped in the ring, taking his wand from the table, waved it, and touched the bag. “As thou art honest, so may thy present wants be relieved. Seek, and thou shalt find.”
The widow left the room with tears of gratitude; and I must say, that I was affected with the same. When she had gone, I observed to Melchior, that up to the present he had toiled for nothing.
“Very true, Japhet; but depend upon it, if I assisted that poor woman from no other feelings than interested motives, I did well; but I tell thee candidly, I did it from compassion. We are odd mixtures of good and evil. I wage war with fools and knaves, but not with all the world. I gave that money freely—she required it; and it may be put as a set-off against my usual system of fraud, or it may not—at all events, I pleased myself.”
“But you told her that her son was alive.”
“Very true, and he may be dead; but is it not well to comfort her—even for a short time, to relieve that suspense which is worse than the actual knowledge of his death? Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.”
It would almost have appeared that this good action of Melchior met with its reward, for the astonishment of the widow at finding the gold in her reticule—her narrative of what passed, and her assertion (which she firmly believed to be true), that she had never left her reticule out of her hand, and that Melchior had only touched it with his wand, raised his reputation to that degree, that nothing else was talked about throughout the town, and, to crown all, the next day’s post brought her a letter and remittances from her son; and the grateful woman returned, and laid ten guineas on the black cloth, showering a thousand blessings upon Melchior, and almost worshipped him as a supernatural being. This was a most fortunate occurrence, and as Melchior prophesied, the harvest did now commence. In four days we had received upwards of 200 pounds, and we then thought it time that we should depart. The letters arrived, which were expected; and when we set on in a chaise and four, the crowd to see us was so great, that it was with difficulty we could pass through it.
Part 1—Chapter XIV
In which Melchior talks very much like an Astrologer, and Tim and I return to our old Trade of making up innocent Prescriptions.
We had taken our horses for the next town; but as soon as we were fairly on the road, I stopped the boys, and told them that the Great Aristodemus intended to observe the planets, and, stars that night, and that they were to proceed to a common which I mentioned. The post-boys, who were well aware of his fame, and as fully persuaded of it as everybody else, drove to the common; we descended, took off the luggage, and received directions from Melchior in their presence about the instruments, to which the boys listened with open mouths and wonderment. I paid them well, and told them they might return, which they appeared very glad to do. They reported what had occurred, and this simple method of regaining our camp, added to the astonishment of the good town of —. When they were out of sight we resumed our usual clothes, packed all up, carried away most of our effects, and hid the others in the furze to be sent for the next night, not being more than two miles from the camp. We soon arrived, and were joyfully received by Fleta and Nattée.
As we walked across the common, I observed to Melchior, “I wonder if these stars have any influence upon mortals, as it was formerly supposed?”
“Most assuredly they have,” rejoined Melchior. “I cannot read them, but I firmly believe in them.”
I made the above remark, as I had often thought that such was Melchior’s idea.
“Yes,” continued he, “every man has his destiny—such must be the case. It is known beforehand what is to happen to us by an Omniscient Being, and being known, what is it but destiny which cannot be changed? It is fate,” continued he, surveying the stars with his hand raised up, “and that fate is as surely written there as the sun shines upon us; but the great book is sealed, because it would not add to our happiness.”
“If, then, all is destiny, or fate, what inducement is there to do well or ill?” replied I. “We may commit all acts of evil, and say, that as it was predestined, we could not help it. Besides, would it be just that the Omniscient Being should punish us for those crimes which we cannot prevent, and which are allotted to us by destiny?”
“Japhet, you argue well; but you are in error, because, like most of those of the Christian church, you understand not the sacred writings, nor did I until I knew my wife. Her creed is, I believe, correct; and what is more, adds weight to the truths of the Bible.”
“I thought that gipsies had no religion.”
“You are not the only one who supposes so. It is true that the majority of the tribe are held by the higher castes as serfs, and are not instructed; but with—if I may use the expression—the aristocracy of them it is very different, and their creed I have adopted.”
“I should wish to hear their creed,” replied I.
“Hear it then. Original sin commenced in heaven—when the angels rebelled against their God—not on earth.”
“I will grant that sin originated first in heaven.”
“Do you think
