"You are going to-day, then?" asked Leslie.
"Miss Harris insisted upon my accompanying her, and I half consented to do so," said Miss Bell Crawford, apologetically.
"Fiddlestick!" said the merry riddle. "Don't try to beg out of it, Miss Bell! She sent her carriage home, Mr. Leslie, so that we need not be seen going there with it; and there we were going, two lovely and unprotected females, when providence raised up a champion in the person of our new friend."
"Who hopes yet to be an old friend, and who will go with you, with the greatest pleasure," said Leslie. "At the same time"—reflecting a moment—"at the same time I must be as prudent about myself, for certain reasons, which I will explain some day if you wish it—as Miss Crawford has been about her carriage. Oblige me by remaining at the table here and trifling with some creams, chocolate and a few bon-bons, while I leave you for a few minutes—not more than fifteen or twenty. At the end of that time I shall be ready to accompany you."
Giving the necessary orders and throwing a bill to the waiter, Tom Leslie passed rapidly out into the street and walked quite as rapidly up Broadway, until he turned again down Broome Street, which he had quitted with Harding but a little while before. Had he more to do with the Police?
CHAPTER XII.
Fortune-telling and other Superstitions—The every-day Omens that we half believe—Origins of this Weakness—Fortune-tellers of New York, Boston and Washington.
While Tom Leslie has gone around to Broome Street on his undeclared errand, and while the ladies are making an excuse to while away the time until his return, in the discussion of the after-dinner provocatives to indigestion recommended, let us enter a little more closely upon a subject merely indicated in the foregoing chapter, and then sneered at by at least one of the conversationists—that of the fortune-telling imposition which so largely prevails, especially in the great cities, and the general course of human superstition in connection with it.
It may be set down, as a general principle, that every man is more or less superstitious—that is, impressed with ideas and omens which go beyond the material world and bid utter defiance to reason. Every woman is certainly so. It is not less undeniable, meanwhile, that nearly every man and woman denies this fact of their natures and considers the mere allegation to be an insult. Oftenest from the fear of ridicule, but sometimes, no doubt, because any discussion of the matter is deemed improper,—few acknowledge this peculiarity of nature, even to their most intimate friends: some, who must be aware that they possess it, deny it even to themselves. The subject is set down as contraband, universally, unless when the weakness of a third party is to be ridiculed, or a personal freedom from the superstition asserted; and yet this very silence and the boasting are both suspicious. No man boasts so much over his own wealth as he who has little or none; and no man is so silent, except under the influence of great excitement, as he who has a great thought oppressing him or a great fear continually tugging at his heart-strings. The most hopeless disbelievers in the Divine Being, that can possibly be met, are those who seldom or never enter into a controversy on the subject; and the least assured is he who oftenest enters into controversy, perhaps for the purpose of strengthening his own belief. There are Captain Barecolts, of course, who go bravely into battle after venting boasts that seem to stamp them as arrant cowards, and who come out of the conflict with stories staggering all human comprehension; but these cases are rare, and they do not go beyond the requisite number of exceptions to justify the rule.