"Well, sir," began Cornelius, when he had
heard all, "I'm extremely sorry for what has
occurred — grieved, I may say; still you must
remember that we've no reason to despair,
having some good friends among the planets to
espouse our interests. But, sir, you'll allow
me, in the mean time, to make one observation
—I do hope, after this, that you'll not talk again
about guesses."

Lethwaite had opened his mouth to reply,
when there came a low tap at the door, which
was then opened a very little way, and a voice
was heard to pronounce in a hoarse whisper the
dissyllable,

"Smaggsdale."

The gentleman thus appealed to got up from
his place, and, shuffling across the room, went
out for a moment, and, after holding a whispered
conference with some one outside, reappeared,
and, closing the door behind him, uttered these
words:

"It's my wife, sir."

"Well, and what does she want?" asked the
philosopher.

"It's the lady, sir."

"What lady?" asked Cornelius again. He
had hardly collected his faculties.

"The strange lady, sir. Mrs. Smaggsdale
wants to know if she shall send her away?"

"Not by any means not by any means,"
answered the astrologer, getting up and putting
on his coat. "I'll come down directly."

Mr. Vampi stretched and wriggled himself
into his coat with considerable effort, having
previously, out of a feeling of intense deference
to the sex, a member of which he was about to
confront, arranged his scant hair with a pocketcomb
before a scrap of looking-glass which
stood in a corner of the room. Mr.
Lethwaite could not repress a smile as he witnessed
this small ceremonial act; but it must be owned
that, if the smile was meant to be a cynical one,
it was a distinct failure.

CHAPTER XIII. THE STRANGE LADY.

CORNELIUS VAMPI was no ordinary fortuneteller.
The vulgar arts of reading the future
prospects of his clients by means of palmistry,
or by the combinations to be made with a pack
of cards, were altogether beneath him. Indeed,
his feeling with regard to all such practices was
something more than negative. He looked upon
them as sacrilegious — as bringing discredit on
a great cause. "What," he would say, "read
a man's future by consulting the marks upon
his hand! Lines which can be affected by the
habits of his body, by the use he makes of his
limbs, as he grows to maturity. The peasantboy
who handles the plough will, by its use,
acquire one set of lines, while the student, who
is tor ever writing or turning over the leaves
of his beloved volumes, will have another. But
these cannot show the future of his life; while,
as to divination by the cards, it is even more
vile and more vulgar still. An invention of
man — a set of signs put together to please a
foolish king of France; a thing that once was not;
why, it is preposterous! But the stars," quoth
Cornelius, gazing at them through the open
window of his garret, "ah, with them, it is
widely different. Man has had no hand in their
construction, nor can he by his strength or his
wisdom affect their movements by the fraction
of a degree. They can assist him, but he cannot
influence them."

Strange to see that great ponderous creature,
with his bulky frame, his florid countenance,
and his mighty capacity for enjoyment, leaning
against the framework of his open window,
rapt in contemplation of those wondrous bodies
which live in that eternity of space to whose
extremity our gaze tries vainly to penetrate.
That window was to him so much. It seemed
to give him access to another world. Yes, this
house, whose foundation was laid in the dirt,
rose, as it seemed to this strange man, to the
very gates of heaven. Not more superior in his
eyes was a man's head, in which such glorious
thoughts and noble aspirations dwell, to his
feet, that are for ever in contact with the mire,
than was the upper region of that poor dwellingplace
of his to that lower part which came in
contact with the very mud and sewage of the
town.

Who can tell what that window was to
Cornelius Vampi? It was a link between him and
the heavens, between the terrestrial and the
celestial worlds. The town in which our enthusiast
lived, the squalid neighbourhood which
surrounded him, could not spoil his prospect
from that window, nor take away from the
splendour of that scenery which he loved so
well to look upon. That celestial scenery was
everything to this man; and not the Chaldean
peasant, who gazes on the heavenly bodies as
he lies out upon his native plains, had more free
access to the gods of his idolatry than had
Cornelius Vampi in his London garret.

What do we, who are entirely reasonable, know
of such happiness as was enjoyed by this
enthusiast? He had a great faith. He knew no
anxieties. His life was pure. It never crossed
his mind to fear that he should have less to
live upon than his daily wants necessitated.
His business was a good one, and brought
him all that he required. His astrological
studies were outside and beyond it altogether,
for it must never be supposed that these
were profitable to our philosopher. Not one
penny did Vampi gain by his vaticinations.
Not from his richest clients, not from
Lethwaite himself, in his most prosperous days, had
Vampi ever taken money. These things were
too sacred in his eyes to be made subservient
to lucre. When he predicted the events which
the future had in store for a rich man, or cast
the horoscope of a servant-wench, he was
engaging in a solemn act, to associate which with
gain would have been nothing less than a crime.
He would have expected the power which he
believed dwelt in him to have deserted him if
he had thought of such a thing. To believers, to
those who consulted him gravely and in earnest,