“Well, Mary,” he said, “I think as regards my happiness that you know as little of it as I do myself. If you tell me any thing that has passed, I may give you some credit for the future, but not otherwise.”
“Do you wish to have your fortune tould, then,” she asked, “upon them terms?”
“Come, then, I don't care if I do. What has happened me, for instance, within the last forty-eight hours?”
“That has happened you within the last forty-eight hours that will make her you love the pity of the world before her time. I see how it will happen, for the complaint I speak of is in the family. A living death she will have, and you yourself during the same time will have little less.”
“But what has happened me, Mary?”
“I needn't tell you—you know—it. A proud heart, and a joyful heart, and a lovin' heart, you carry now, but it will be a broken heart before long.”
“Why, Mary, this is an evil prophecy; have you nothing good to foretell?”
“If it's a satisfaction to you to know, I will tell you: her love for you is as strong, and stronger, than death itself; and it is the suffering of what is worse than death, Willy Reilly, that will unite you both at last.”
Reilly started, and after a pause, in which he took it for granted that Mary spoke merely from one of those shrewd conjectures which practised impostors are so frequently in the habit of hazarding, replied, “That won't do, Mary; you have told me nothing yet that has happened within the last forty-eight hours. I deny the truth of what you say.”
“It won't be long so, then, Mr. Reilly; you saved the life of the old half-mad squire of Corbo. Yes, you saved his life, and you have taken his daughter's! for indeed it would be better for her to die at wanst than to suffer what will happen to you and her.”