CHAPTER XI.
MR. MOLE VISITS THE WIZARD—THE MAGIC MIRROR AND THE LIFE-LIKE
VISION—THE INCANTATION—THE CHARMED WIG.
"In point of fact, sir," said young Jack to his tutor one morning, "it is about the only thing worth seeing here."
"What is, Jack?"
"The wizard."
Mr. Mole looked very straight at his pupil upon this.
"What wizard, sir?" he said, severely. "What do you mean?"
"I mean the conjuror that Mr. Jefferson, and dad, and Uncle Dick went to see."
"When?"
"The other day. Didn't they tell you about it?"
"No, sir."
When Mr. Mole addressed his pupil as "sir," young Jack knew pretty well that he thought he was being humbugged.
There is an old saying—"Jack was as good as his master."
Putting on a look of injured innocence, he called his comrade Harry to corroborate what he had said.
"That's quite true, Mr. Mole."
"That Mr. Jefferson went with Mr. Harkaway and Harvey to see a necromancer?"
"Yes."
"Preposterous!" quoth Mr. Mole. "Why, whatever is the world coming to next? We shall have them spirit-rapping and table-turning and such-like muck, I suppose."
Jack looked serious.
"Then you don't believe in necromancy—that they can tell the past and the future by the aid of astrology?"
"Pickles!"
It would have astonished Messieurs Crosse and Blackwell themselves, could they have heard what a deal that one word could convey when uttered by an Isaac Mole.
"Well, sir," said Harry Girdwood, seriously, "the wizard told us some very remarkable things indeed."
"What did he tell you?"
"Many things, many very wonderful things; but one of the most wonderful was about you, sir."
Mr. Mole started.
"Don't you try to come the old soldier over me," said Mole.
Harry Girdwood protested that he held Mr. Mole in far too much respect to essay any thing like coming the ancient military, or indeed anything else which might be construed into want of proper feeling.
Mr. Mole looked hard at him.
"And what did he say about me?"
"He said that all the intelligence of our party was centred in one person."
"Well?"
"And that the initials of the person in question were I. M."
"Now, Jack."
"Sir."
"You two boys are conspiring against me."
"You are rather hard upon us, sir," said Harry Girdwood, with an injured look.
"Was I? Dear me, I didn't mean that," said poor Mole. "But I'll go and see this wizard, as you call him."
"It might startle you, sir."
"Stuff and nonsense, Harry; my nerves are iron—iron, I tell you."
"They had need be of steel, if you really mean to go."
"I'll go, and you shall go with me, Harry," said Mr. Mole; "and I'll unmask this wretched impostor before you."
And down came his clenched fist upon the table, with a fierceness and energy which made all the things leap up.
* * * * *
The chamber of mystery was arranged with a keen eye to effect.
The present possessors of the place had preserved all the adjuncts which had looked so effective during the career of the necromancer, who had fled ignominiously.
A huge stuffed alligator swung from the ceiling, and the lighting of the room was effected by means of two or three swinging lamps, that burnt dimly blue, and made the place look sepulchral enough to satisfy the most morbid cravings for the horrible.
At the further end of the room was a "charmed circle," drawn with chalk, and set around it was a row of hideous grinning skulls, which suggested that a hint had been borrowed from Zamiel, in "Der Freyschutz."
Besides these matters, there were several skeletons stuck up in the most alarming attitudes.
Beside the chair was a large oval frame.
Upon the other side of the necromancer's chair was a heavy curtain, or portière of cloth, covered with fantastic figures, and this was drawn aside a minute or so after Mr. Mole and Harry Girdwood appeared.
Then, through the dark aperture thus disclosed, the wizard hobbled in.
Not the wizard that we have seen before, but a little old man bent half double with age, and of whom little was to be seen save a long white beard and an appropriate robe.
He leant heavily upon a staff, and sank into his chair with evident pain and difficulty.
"What would ye with me?" said the necromancer, in feeble, querulous tones. "If ye have come to scoff again, begone ere I summon an evil spirit to blight ye."
Mr. Mole said nothing.
But when Harry Girdwood placed his hand nervously upon the old gentleman's arm, as if for protection, he felt that he was trembling slightly.
"He knows that we are English, you see," whispered Harry.
"Ye-es—ahem!—ye-es."
"Do you hear me?" said the wizard.
"Ye-es, oh, yes, sir," said Mr. Mole, who could not, for the life of him, get his voice above a whisper.
"Then answer."
"By all means! decidedly—quite so, I assure you."
"What? Beware! Do you mean to doubt and mock?"
"Oh, dear; yes."
"Hah!"
"That is, no. I really don't know what I am saying."
"Silence, or the fiends will have your ber-lud ber-lud—Do you hear me?" shrieked the old wizard.
"Quite so. Dear, dear me, Harry," said Mr. Mole in an undertone, "what a very remarkable person, and I don't want to lose my ber-lud."
"What do you say now, sir? Do you feel sure that he is a humbug?"
"Of course not, but—"
At this juncture their conversation was cut short by a low, rumbling noise, that sounded like distant thunder.
As it continued, it increased in strength, until it became absolutely deafening.
Then suddenly upon a sign from the necromancer, it ceased, and the man of mystery arose and pointed menacingly with his wand at Mole.
"Ye have thought well to neglect my warning," he said, in a voice which thrilled poor Mole strangely; "the secrets of your inmost heart are known to me as to my familiar, and the penalty must be enacted."
Mole bounced up.
"Goodness me!"
Harry Girdwood laid a trembling hand upon the unhappy old gentleman, and played the part of Job's comforter once again with considerable effect.
"We are lost."
"Don't, Harry, don't! Pray consider Mrs. Mole and the two babes."
"Try and melt him with a very humble apology."
"I will, I do!" exclaimed Mr. Mole in great excitement. "I really did not mean it, Mr. Conjuror; 'pon my soul, I did not; and pray do not let your vampires take my her-lud."
"Enough," said the wizard, sternly; "for once your ignorance shall excuse you. Now say what you would have with me and begone."
"I think I should like to go," Mole whispered to Harry,
"What for?"
"We have been a long while here," said Mr. Mole in the same tone; "Mrs. M, will be looking for me."
"Perhaps you don't feel quite comfortable here."
"Comfortable," said Mr. Mole with a sickly smile; "oh, dear me, yes, I never was jollier."
"A little nervous perhaps, sir."
"My dear boy," said Mole, positively, "I have nerves of iron, literally iron. Ha! what noise is that?"
"Only the magician's evil spirit, or his familiar, as he calls it."
"Strange," said Mole; "but sheer humbug of course."
"Humbug?"
"Hush!" exclaimed Mr. Mole, very anxiously.
Bang went that deafening thunder again, and Mr. Mole hopped towards the door.
Harry Girdwood followed him closely up.
"You are uncomfortable, Mr. Mole."
"Not at all; nerves of adamant, Harry."
The latter laughed.
Never was there such an audacious humbug as Isaac Mole.
"You see that frame, sir, beside the wizard's chair?" said Girdwood.
"Yes," replied Mr. Mole; "what of it?"
"He showed us some marvels there last time."
"What is it?"
"A magic mirror."
"You must have been thoroughly well cheated; now, what could he have shown you there?"
"Wonders," replied Harry impressively; "you, amongst other marvels."
"Me?"
"Yes."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, sir, that you appeared before us as plainly as I see you now."
Mr. Mole certainly looked serious at this.
"He can show you anyone you may want to see," said Harry.
"Never!"
"Try him."
"I will," said Mr. Mole, with a show of determination, but shaking all over.
"Now, O sceptic, what proof of my lore would ye have? Would ye know something of yourself?"
"No."
"Yes," said Harry Girdwood for him promptly.
The wizard inclined his head gravely, and opened a large volume before him upon the table.
After poring over this for a time, he said the following doggrel in a deep bass voice—
"The doom of Mole is understood,
For ever more to walk on wood;
Though upon macadam or stone
Yet he shall walk on wood alone.
"Let him march out on asphalte—tile,
In orange groves his thoughts beguile;
Where'er he be, the fate of Mole's
To scud through life upon bare poles"
This peculiar incantation had its effect somewhat increased by soft music.
"Ahem!" said Mr. Mole, "it didn't want a wizard to tell me that."
"What, sir?" demanded Harry, innocently.
"About my wooden legs; my infirmity is visible to every body."
"But how could he know?"
"By looking."
"Still sceptical," said the wizard, who had very sharp ears; "shall I consult my book again?"
"No, no," said Mr. Mole, uneasily.
But Harry Girdwood said "Yes."
He did not want to end the scene yet.
"What would you?" demanded the magician sternly.
Harry commenced to whisper to Mr. Mole.
"Come, sir, pluck up your courage, and find out something about yourself. You know the past—why not ask him about the future?"
"He might be rude enough to say something unpleasant, Harry. However, I'll try him."
Then, with a very polite bow, Mr. Mole asked—
"Can you tell me, Mr. Magician, what my ultimate fate is?"
The necromancer took two steps forward and seized Mr. Mole's hand.
"I find that the line of life is tinged with the hue of blood," said he, in solemn tones, after a lengthened inspection of the palm.
"Dear me, how unpleasant—I washed my hands not long ago."
"Man! do you think you can wash away the decrees of fate or sponge out the solemn words written by the stars? You are an Englishman?"
"Certainly."
"Already six Englishman have sought me, and each of the six died a terrible death. What says the book?—
"A terrible death on this green earth,
With never the slightest chance of heaven;
Let him curse the day—the hour of his birth,
The English victim numbered seven."
"And you are Number Seven, Mr. Mole. May all the powers of heaven and earth preserve me from such a terrible doom as yours."
Mr. Mole almost fainted when the magician uttered such fearful words respecting his (Mole's) fate.
Harry Girdwood, however, handed him a rum flask, and a good pull at that restored his nerves.
"Pooh!" said he, "I don't believe a word he uttered."
"Still sceptical?" said the magician. "But to convince you of my power, I will show you any thing you like in my magic mirror."
"Very well, then, I should like to see Harkaway and Harvey at this present moment—just to ascertain what they are doing—that will be a test."
He chuckled as he said this.
But as he spoke the magic mirror grew light, and two figures were seen, set, as it were, in a frame.
Jack Harkaway the elder, was seated in an arm-chair reading; beside him stood his constant companion, Dick Harvey.
The latter's figure was the more remarkable of the two, and the attitude was not merely characteristic, but it was startlingly like life.
One hand was in his pocket; the other was at his face, the thumb pointing at his nose, the fingers outstretched towards the audience.
"What do you think of that?" asked Harry Girdwood, in low tones.
"Marvellous!" cried Mole; "that is Harkaway and Harvey, sure enough. Harvey has got something the matter with his nose."
"No," whispered Harry, "he's taking a sight at you."
"So he is. Just like Harvey. Harvey!" he called out.
The mirror darkened, and the figures faded away from the sight upon the instant.
"Do you desire still another proof of my skill?" asked the wizard.
"Well you can, if you like, tell me something more about myself; but don't put yourself to any trouble."
The wizard leant over his book earnestly for a consider able time.
"I see here," said he, "that you have contrived to keep one important matter secret from your friends."
"What?"
"The hairs of your head are numbered," continued the wizard.
Mr. Mole changed colour.
"How—what?"
"By the barber; you wear a wig."
"Oh, no—no!" exclaimed Harry Girdwood, positively, "You are wrong there, sir, I assure you. Is he not, Mr. Mole?"
"Of course he is."
"Will you see for yourself, unbelieving boy?"
"Yes," said Harry.
"Where—say, where shall my familiar take it?"
"Up to the ceiling."
Mr. Mole groaned.
At the self-same instant out went the lights; a heavy hand was placed upon Mr. Mole's head, and hey, presto! his wig was seen dancing about at the ceiling, glittering with a phosphorescent light upon it.
Mr. Mole looked up, gave one awful yell, then made for the door, and flew away as fast as his wooden legs would carry him.
And his yells continued, for all along his route young Jack had sprinkled a plentiful supply of crackers, which exploded as he ran.
An unearthly chorus, sounding like the discordant laughter of invisible fiends greeted his retreat, and he never stopped until he had got home, panting and gasping for breath.
As soon as he was out of the room Harry Girdwood locked the door.
"Come forth, my merry devils!" he shouted. "Old Mole's gone."
The curtain was drawn back, and in came Dick Harvey and Jack Harkaway, carrying lights.
The wizard threw back his head dress and long horsehair wig, and showed the grinning face of young Jack himself.
"Bravo, Jack," said his comrade, Harry; "you did it ever so much better than the other conjuror did."
"Was he frightened?" inquired young Jack.
"Poor old Mole! I never saw him so alarmed before."
Harvey and old Jack enjoyed the fun every bit as much as the boys.
"My opinion is," said the elder Harkaway, laughing, "that the triumph of the whole job was in the dancing wig."
"It was beautifully done," said Harvey.
"I nearly missed it," said Harry Girdwood laughing, "for you put out the lights so suddenly that I couldn't find the string, and then I nearly dug the hook into his head as well as his wig; and as for the phosphorus, I gave him a dab with it upon the nose."
"Ha, ha, ha!"
Every thing had been carefully arranged beforehand, it need hardly be said, and a cord, with a fish-hook at the end of it, was run over a small wheel fixed in the ceiling.
Harry held the other end of the cord, and as soon as the darkness and confusion came, he drove the hook into poor old Mole's wig, while he rubbed it dexterously with phosphorus, and then with a jerk he hauled it up to the ceiling, where he set it dancing about, to the indescribable horror of Mole.