[Illustration: AS IT PASSED HIM HE THOUGHT HE HEARD IT SAY IN A
FURIOUS WHISPER, "STILL ALIVE!"--Page 25.
[_Frontispiece._]
[Illustration]
The Watcher
And Other Weird Stories
by
J. Sheridan Le Fanu
With Twenty-one Illustrations
by
Brinsley Sheridan Le Fanu
[Illustration]
LONDON
DOWNEY & CO.
12, York Street, Covent Garden
LONDON:
PRINTED BY GILBERT AND RIVINGTON, LD.,
ST. JOHN'S HOUSE, CLERKENWELL, E.C.
PREFACE.
Most of the tales in this volume were written prior to the publication
of "Uncle Silas," which is, perhaps, the novel by which my father is
best known. All the stories, with the exception of "The Watcher," were
included in "The Purcell Papers," edited by Mr. Alfred Perceval Graves
after my father's death, and published by Messrs. Bentley.
It may be of interest to point out that the central idea in the story
entitled "Passage in the Secret History of an Irish Countess" is
embodied in "Uncle Silas."
When "The Purcell Papers" were appearing in _The Dublin University
Magazine_ my father supplied the following note, which was reproduced by
Mr. Graves in his edition of the book:--
"The residuary legatee of the late Francis Purcell, who has the
honour of selecting such of his lamented old friend's manuscripts as
may appear fit for publication, in order that the lore which they
contain may reach the world before scepticism and utility have
robbed our species of the precious gift of credulity, and scornfully
kicked before them, or trampled into annihilation those harmless
fragments of picturesque superstition which it is our object to
preserve, has been subjected to the charge of dealing too largely
in the marvellous; and it has been half insinuated that such is his
love for _diablerie_, that he is content to wander a mile out of his
way in order to meet a fiend or a goblin, and thus to sacrifice all
regard for truth and accuracy to the idle hope of affrighting the
imagination, and thus pandering to the bad taste of his reader. He
begs leave, then, to take this opportunity of asserting his perfect
innocence of all the crimes laid to his charge, and to assure his
reader that he never pandered to his bad taste, nor went one inch
out of his way to introduce witch, fairy, devil, ghost, or any other
of the grim fraternity of the redoubted Raw-head-and-bloody-bones.
His province touching these tales has been attended with no
difficulty and little responsibility; indeed, he is accountable for
nothing more than an alteration in the names of persons mentioned
therein, when such a step seemed necessary, and for an occasional
note, whenever he conceived it possible innocently to edge in a
word. These tales have been _written down_ by the Rev. Francis
Purcell, P.P., of Drumcoolagh; and in all the instances, which are
many, in which the present writer has had an opportunity of
comparing the manuscript of his departed friend with the actual
traditions current amongst the families whose fortunes they pretend
to illustrate, he has uniformly found that whatever of supernatural
occurred in the story, so far from being exaggerated by him, had
been rather softened down, and, wherever it could be attempted,
accounted for."
BRINSLEY LE FANU.
_London,
November, 1894._
CONTENTS.
PAGE
THE WATCHER 1
PASSAGE IN THE SECRET HISTORY OF AN IRISH COUNTESS 65
STRANGE EVENT IN THE LIFE OF SCHALKEN THE PAINTER 126
THE FORTUNES OF SIR ROBERT ARDAGH 169
THE DREAM 185
A CHAPTER IN THE HISTORY OF A TYRONE FAMILY 208
[Illustration]
The Watcher.
It is now more than fifty years since the occurrences which I am about
to relate caused a strange sensation in the gay society of Dublin. The
fashionable world, however, is no recorder of traditions; the memory of
selfishness seldom reaches far; and the events which occasionally
disturb the polite monotony of its pleasant and heartless progress,
however stamped with the characters of misery and horror, scarcely
outlive the gossip of a season, and (except, perhaps, in the remembrance
of a few more directly interested in the consequences of the
catastrophe) are in a little time lost to the recollection of all. The
appetite for scandal, or for horror, has been sated; the incident can
yield no more of interest or novelty; curiosity, frustrated by
impenetrable mystery, gives over the pursuit in despair; the tale has
ceased to be new, grows stale and flat; and so, in a few years, inquiry
subsides into indifference.
Somewhere about the year 1794, the younger brother of a certain baronet,
whom I shall call Sir James Barton, returned to Dublin. He had served in
the navy with some distinction, having commanded one of his Majesty's
frigates during the greater part of the American war. Captain Barton was
now apparently some two or three-and-forty years of age. He was an
intelligent and agreeable companion, when he chose it, though generally
reserved, and occasionally even moody. In society, however, he deported
himself as a man of the world and a gentleman. He had not contracted any
of the noisy brusqueness sometimes acquired at sea; on the contrary, his
manners were remarkably easy, quiet, and even polished. He was in person
about the middle size, and somewhat strongly formed; his countenance was
marked with the lines of thought, and on the whole wore an expression of
gravity and even of melancholy. Being, however, as we have said, a man
of perfect breeding, as well as of affluent circumstances and good
family, he had, of course, ready access to the best society of the
metropolis, without the necessity of any other credentials. In his
personal habits Captain Barton was economical. He occupied lodgings in
one of the then fashionable streets in the south side of the town, kept
but one horse and one servant, and though a reputed free-thinker, he
lived an orderly and moral life, indulging neither in gaming, drinking,
nor any other vicious pursuit, living very much to himself, without
forming any intimacies, or choosing any companions, and appearing to mix
in gay society rather for the sake of its bustle and distraction, than
for any opportunities which it offered of interchanging either thoughts
or feelings with its votaries. Barton was therefore pronounced a saving,
prudent, unsocial sort of a fellow, who bid fair to maintain his
celibacy alike against stratagem and assault, and was likely to live to
a good old age, die rich and leave his money to a hospital.
It was soon apparent, however, that the nature of Captain Barton's plans
had been totally misconceived. A young lady, whom we shall call Miss
Montague, was at this time introduced into the fashionable world of
Dublin by her aunt, the Dowager Lady Rochdale. Miss Montague was
decidedly pretty and accomplished, and having some natural cleverness,
and a great deal of gaiety, became for a while the reigning toast. Her
popularity, however, gained her, for a time, nothing more than that
unsubstantial admiration which, however pleasant as an incense to
vanity, is by no means necessarily antecedent to matrimony, for,
unhappily for the young lady in question, it was an understood thing,
that, beyond her personal attractions, she had no kind of earthly
provision. Such being the state of affairs, it will readily be believed
that no little surprise was consequent upon the appearance of Captain
Barton as the avowed lover of the penniless Miss Montague.
His suit prospered, as might have been expected, and in a short time it
was confidentially communicated by old Lady Rochdale to each of her
hundred and fifty particular friends in succession, that Captain Barton
had actually tendered proposals of marriage, with her approbation, to
her niece, Miss Montague, who had, moreover, accepted the offer of his
hand, conditionally upon the consent of her father, who was then upon
his homeward voyage from India, and expected in two or three months
at furthest. About his consent there could be no doubt. The delay,
therefore, was one merely of form; they were looked upon as absolutely
engaged, and Lady Rochdale, with a vigour of old-fashioned decorum with
which her niece would, no doubt, gladly have dispensed, withdrew her
thenceforward from all further participation in the gaieties of the
town. Captain Barton was a constant visitor as well as a frequent guest
at the house, and was permitted all the privileges and intimacy which a
betrothed suitor is usually accorded. Such was the relation of parties,
when the mysterious circumstances which darken this narrative with
inexplicable melancholy first began to unfold themselves.
Lady Rochdale resided in a handsome mansion at the north side of
Dublin, and Captain Barton's lodgings, as we have already said, were
situated at the south. The distance intervening was considerable, and it
was Captain Barton's habit generally to walk home without an attendant,
as often as he passed the evening with the old lady and her fair charge.
His shortest way in such nocturnal walks lay, for a considerable space,
through a line of streets which had as yet been merely laid out, and
little more than the foundations of the houses constructed. One night,
shortly after his engagement with Miss Montague had commenced, he
happened to remain unusually late, in company only with her and Lady
Rochdale. The conversation had turned upon the evidences of revelation,
which he had disputed with the callous scepticism of a confirmed
infidel. What were called "French principles" had, in those days, found
their way a good deal into fashionable society, especially that portion
of it which professed allegiance to Whiggism, and neither the old lady
nor her charge was so perfectly free from the taint as to look upon
Captain Barton's views as any serious objection to the proposed union.
The discussion had degenerated into one upon the supernatural and the
marvellous, in which he had pursued precisely the same line of argument
and ridicule. In all this, it is but true to state, Captain Barton was
guilty of no affectation; the doctrines upon which he insisted were, in
reality, but too truly the basis of his own fixed belief, if so it
might be called; and perhaps not the least strange of the many strange
circumstances connected with this narrative, was the fact that the
subject of the fearful influences we are about to describe was himself,
from the deliberate conviction of years, an utter disbeliever in what
are usually termed preternatural agencies.
It was considerably past midnight when Mr. Barton took his leave, and
set out upon his solitary walk homeward. He rapidly reached the lonely
road, with its unfinished dwarf walls tracing the foundations of the
projected rows of houses on either side. The moon was shining mistily,
and its imperfect light made the road he trod but additionally dreary;
that utter silence, which has in it something indefinably exciting,
reigned there, and made the sound of his steps, which alone broke it,
unnaturally loud and distinct. He had proceeded thus some way, when on
a sudden he heard other footsteps, pattering at a measured pace, and,
as it seemed, about two score steps behind him. The suspicion of being
dogged is at all times unpleasant; it is, however, especially so in a
spot so desolate and lonely: and this suspicion became so strong in
the mind of Captain Barton, that he abruptly turned about to confront
his pursuers, but, though there was quite sufficient moonlight to
disclose any object upon the road he had traversed, no form of any
kind was visible.
The steps he had heard could not have been the reverberation of his
own, for he stamped his foot upon the ground, and walked briskly up
and down, in the vain attempt to wake an echo. Though by no means a
fanciful person, he was at last compelled to charge the sounds upon
his imagination, and treat them as an illusion. Thus satisfying
himself, he resumed his walk, and before he had proceeded a dozen
paces, the mysterious footfalls were again audible from behind, and
this time, as if with the special design of showing that the sounds
were not the responses of an echo, the steps sometimes slackened
nearly to a halt, and sometimes hurried for six or eight strides to
a run, and again abated to a walk.
Captain Barton, as before, turned suddenly round, and with the same
result; no object was visible above the deserted level of the road. He
walked back over the same ground, determined that, whatever might have
been the cause of the sounds which had so disconcerted him, it should
not escape his search; the endeavour, however, was unrewarded. In spite
of all his scepticism, he felt something like a superstitious fear
stealing fast upon him, and, with these unwonted and uncomfortable
sensations, he once more turned and pursued his way. There was no
repetition of these haunting sounds, until he had reached the point
where he had last stopped to retrace his steps. Here they were resumed,
and with sudden starts of running, which threatened to bring the unseen
pursuer close up to the alarmed pedestrian. Captain Barton arrested his
course as formerly; the unaccountable nature of the occurrence filled
him with vague and almost horrible sensations, and, yielding to the
excitement he felt gaining upon him, he shouted, sternly, "Who goes
there?"
The sound of one's own voice, thus exerted, in utter solitude, and
followed by total silence, has in it something unpleasantly exciting,
and he felt a degree of nervousness which, perhaps, from no cause had
he ever known before. To the very end of this solitary street the
steps pursued him, and it required a strong effort of stubborn pride
on his part to resist the impulse that prompted him every moment to
run for safety at the top of his speed. It was not until he had
reached his lodging, and sat by his own fireside, that he felt
sufficiently reassured to arrange and reconsider in his own mind the
occurrences which had so discomposed him: so little a matter, after
all, is sufficient to upset the pride of scepticism, and vindicate the
old simple laws of nature within us.
Mr. Barton was next morning sitting at a late breakfast, reflecting upon
the incidents of the previous night, with more of inquisitiveness than
awe--so speedily do gloomy impressions upon the fancy disappear under
the cheerful influences of day--when a letter just delivered by the
postman was placed upon the table before him. There was nothing
remarkable in the address of this missive, except that it was written in
a hand which he did not know--perhaps it was disguised--for the tall
narrow characters were sloped backward; and with the self-inflicted
suspense which we so often see practised in such cases, he puzzled over
the inscription for a full minute before he broke the seal. When he did
so, he read the following words, written in the same hand:--
"Mr. Barton, late Captain of the _Dolphin_, is warned of _danger_. He
will do wisely to avoid ---- Street--(here the locality of his last
night's adventure was named)--if he walks there as usual, he will meet
with something bad. Let him take warning, once for all, for he has good
reason to dread
"THE WATCHER."
Captain Barton read and re-read this strange effusion; in every light
and in every direction he turned it over and over. He examined the paper
on which it was written, and closely scrutinized the handwriting.
Defeated here, he turned to the seal; it was nothing but a patch of wax,
upon which the accidental impression of a coarse thumb was imperfectly
visible. There was not the slightest mark, no clue or indication of any
kind, to lead him to even a guess as to its possible origin. The
writer's object seemed a friendly one, and yet he subscribed himself as
one whom he had "good reason to dread." Altogether, the letter, its
author, and its real purpose, were to him an inexplicable puzzle, and
one, moreover, unpleasantly suggestive, in his mind, of associations
connected with the last night's adventure.
In obedience to some feeling--perhaps of pride--Mr. Barton did not
communicate, even to his intended bride, the occurrences which we have
just detailed. Trifling as they might appear, they had in reality most
disagreeably affected his imagination, and he cared not to disclose,
even to the young lady in question, what she might possibly look upon
as evidences of weakness. The letter might very well be but a hoax,
and the mysterious footfall but a delusion of his fancy. But although
he affected to treat the whole affair as unworthy of a thought, it yet
haunted him pertinaciously, tormenting him with perplexing doubts, and
depressing him with undefined apprehensions. Certain it is, that for a
considerable time afterwards he carefully avoided the street indicated
in the letter as the scene of danger.
It was not until about a week after the receipt of the letter which I
have transcribed, that anything further occurred to remind Captain
Barton of its contents, or to counteract the gradual disappearance from
his mind of the disagreeable impressions which he had then received. He
was returning one night, after the interval I have stated, from the
theatre, which was then situated in Crow Street, and having there handed
Miss Montague and Lady Rochdale into their carriage, he loitered for
some time with two or three acquaintances. With these, however, he
parted close to the College, and pursued his way alone. It was now about
one o'clock, and the streets were quite deserted. During the whole of
his walk with the companions from whom he had just parted, he had been
at times painfully aware of the sound of steps, as it seemed, dogging
them on their way. Once or twice he had looked back, in the uneasy
anticipation that he was again about to experience the same mysterious
annoyances which had so much disconcerted him a week before, and
earnestly hoping that he might _see_ some form from whom the sounds
might naturally proceed. But the street was deserted; no form was
visible. Proceeding now quite alone upon his homeward way, he grew
really nervous and uncomfortable, as he became sensible, with increased
distinctness, of the well-known and now absolutely dreaded sounds.
By the side of the dead wall which bounded the College Park, the sounds
followed, recommencing almost simultaneously with his own steps. The
same unequal pace, sometimes slow, sometimes, for a score yards or so,
quickened to a run, was audible from behind him. Again and again he
turned, quickly and stealthily he glanced over his shoulder almost at
every half-dozen steps; but no one was visible. The horrors of this
intangible and unseen persecution became gradually all but intolerable;
and when at last he reached his home his nerves were strung to such a
pitch of excitement that he could not rest, and did not attempt even to
lie down until after the daylight had broken.
He was awakened by a knock at his chamber-door, and his servant
entering, handed him several letters which had just been received by
the early post. One among them instantly arrested his attention; a
single glance at the direction aroused him thoroughly. He at once
recognized its character, and read as follows:--
"You may as well think, Captain Barton, to escape from your own shadow
as from me; do what you may, I will see you as often as I please, and
you shall see me, for I do not want to hide myself, as you fancy. Do not
let it trouble your rest, Captain Barton; for, with a _good conscience_,
what need you fear from the eye of
"THE WATCHER?"
It is scarcely necessary to dwell upon the feelings elicited by a
perusal of this strange communication. Captain Barton was observed to
be unusually absent and out of spirits for several days afterwards;
but no one divined the cause. Whatever he might think as to the
phantom steps which followed him, there could be no possible illusion
about the letters he had received; and, to say the least of it, their
immediate sequence upon the mysterious sounds which had haunted him
was an odd coincidence. The whole circumstance, in his own mind, was
vaguely and instinctively connected with certain passages in his past
life, which, of all others, he hated to remember.
It so happened that just about this time, in addition to his approaching
nuptials, Captain Barton had fortunately, perhaps, for himself, some
business of an engrossing kind connected with the adjustment of a
large and long-litigated claim upon certain properties. The hurry and
excitement of business had its natural effect in gradually dispelling
the marked gloom which had for a time occasionally oppressed him, and in
a little while his spirits had entirely resumed their accustomed tone.
During all this period, however, he was occasionally dismayed by
indistinct and half-heard repetitions of the same annoyance, and that
in lonely places, in the day time as well as after nightfall. These
renewals of the strange impressions from which he had suffered so
much were, however, desultory and faint, insomuch that often he really
could not, to his own satisfaction, distinguish between them and the
mere suggestions of an excited imagination. One evening he walked down
to the House of Commons with a Mr. Norcott, a Member. As they walked
down together he was observed to become absent and silent, and to a
degree so marked as scarcely to consist with good breeding; and this,
in one who was obviously in all his habits so perfectly a gentleman,
seemed to argue the pressure of some urgent and absorbing anxiety. It
was afterwards known that, during the whole of that walk, he had heard
the well-known footsteps dogging him as he proceeded. This, however,
was the last time he suffered from this phase of the persecution of
which he was already the anxious victim. A new and a very different
one was about to be presented.
Of the new series of impressions which were afterwards gradually to work
out his destiny, that evening disclosed the first; and but for its
relation to the train of events which followed, the incident would
scarcely have been remembered by any one. As they were walking in at the
passage, a man (of whom his friend could afterwards remember only that
he was short in stature, looked like a foreigner, and wore a kind of
travelling-cap) walked very rapidly, and, as if under some fierce
excitement, directly towards them, muttering to himself fast and
vehemently the while. This odd-looking person proceeded straight toward
Barton, who was foremost, and halted, regarding him for a moment or two
with a look of menace and fury almost maniacal; and then turning about
as abruptly, he walked before them at the same agitated pace, and
disappeared by a side passage. Norcott distinctly remembered being a
good deal shocked at the countenance and bearing of this man, which
indeed irresistibly impressed him with an undefined sense of danger,
such as he never felt before or since from the presence of anything
human; but these sensations were far from amounting to anything so
disconcerting as to flurry or excite him--he had seen only a singularly
evil countenance, agitated, as it seemed, with the excitement of
madness. He was absolutely astonished, however, at the effect of this
apparition upon Captain Barton. He knew him to be a man of proved
courage and coolness in real danger, a circumstance which made his
conduct upon this occasion the more conspicuously odd. He recoiled a
step or two as the stranger advanced, and clutched his companion's arm
in silence, with a spasm of agony or terror; and then, as the figure
disappeared, shoving him roughly back, he followed it for a few paces,
stopped in great disorder, and sat down upon a form. A countenance more
ghastly and haggard it was impossible to fancy.
"For God's sake, Barton, what is the matter?" said Norcott, really
alarmed at his friend's appearance. "You're not hurt, are you? nor
unwell? What is it?"
"What did he say? I did not hear it. What was it?" asked Barton, wholly
disregarding the question.
"Tut, tut, nonsense!" said Norcott, greatly surprised; "who cares what
the fellow said? You are unwell, Barton, decidedly unwell; let me call a
coach."
"Unwell! Yes, no, not exactly unwell," he said, evidently making an
effort to recover his self-possession; "but, to say the truth, I am
fatigued, a little overworked, and perhaps over anxious. You know I have
been in Chancery, and the winding up of a suit is always a nervous
affair. I have felt uncomfortable all this evening; but I am better now.
Come, come, shall we go on?"
"No, no. Take my advice, Barton, and go home; you really do need rest;
you are looking absolutely ill. I really do insist on your allowing me
to see you home," replied his companion.
It was obvious that Barton was not himself disinclined to be persuaded.
He accordingly took his leave, politely declining his friend's offered
escort. Notwithstanding the few commonplace regrets which Norcott had
expressed, it was plain that he was just as little deceived as Barton
himself by the extempore plea of illness with which he had accounted for
the strange exhibition, and that he even then suspected some lurking
mystery in the matter.
Norcott called next day at Barton's lodgings, to inquire for him, and
learned from the servant that he had not left his room since his return
the night before; but that he was not seriously indisposed, and hoped to
be out again in a few days. That evening he sent for Doctor Richards,
then in large and fashionable practice in Dublin, and their interview
was, it is said, an odd one.
He entered into a detail of his own symptoms in an abstracted and
desultory kind of way, which seemed to argue a strange want of interest
in his own cure, and, at all events, made it manifest that there was
some topic engaging his mind of more engrossing importance than his
present ailment. He complained of occasional palpitations, and headache.
Doctor Richards asked him, among other questions, whether there was any
irritating circumstance or anxiety to account for it. This he denied
quickly and peevishly; and the physician thereupon declared his opinion,
that there was nothing amiss except some slight derangement of the
digestion, for which he accordingly wrote a prescription, and was about
to withdraw, when Mr. Barton, with the air of a man who suddenly
recollects a topic which had nearly escaped him, recalled him.
"I beg your pardon, doctor, but I had really almost forgot; will you
permit me to ask you two or three medical questions?--rather odd ones,
perhaps, but as a wager depends upon their solution, you will, I hope,
excuse my unreasonableness."
The physician readily undertook to satisfy the inquirer.
Barton seemed to have some difficulty about opening the proposed
interrogatories, for he was silent for a minute, then walked to his
book-case and returned as he had gone; at last he sat down, and said,--
"You'll think them very childish questions, but I can't recover my wager
without a decision; so I must put them. I want to know first about
lock-jaw. If a man actually has had that complaint, and appears to have
died of it--so that in fact a physician of average skill pronounces him
actually dead--may he, after all, recover?"
Doctor Richards smiled, and shook his head.
"But--but a blunder may be made," resumed Barton. "Suppose an ignorant
pretender to medical skill; may _he_ be so deceived by any stage of the
complaint, as to mistake what is only a part of the progress of the
disease, for death itself?"
"No one who had ever seen death," answered he, "could mistake it in the
case of lock-jaw."
Barton mused for a few minutes. "I am going to ask you a question,
perhaps still more childish; but first tell me, are not the regulations
of foreign hospitals, such as those of, let us say, Lisbon, very lax and
bungling? May not all kinds of blunders and slips occur in their entries
of names, and so forth?"
Doctor Richards professed his inability to answer that query.
"Well, then, doctor, here is the last of my questions. You will probably
laugh at it; but it must out nevertheless. Is there any disease, in all
the range of human maladies, which would have the effect of perceptibly
contracting the stature, and the whole frame--causing the man to shrink
in all his proportions, and yet to preserve his exact resemblance to
himself in every particular--with the one exception, his height and
bulk; _any_ disease, mark, no matter how rare, how little believed in,
generally, which could possibly result in producing such an effect?"
The physician replied with a smile, and a very decided negative.
"Tell me, then," said Barton, abruptly, "if a man be in reasonable fear
of assault from a lunatic who is at large, can he not procure a warrant
for his arrest and detention?"
"Really, that is more a lawyer's question than one in my way," replied
Doctor Richards; "but I believe, on applying to a magistrate, such a
course would be directed."
The physician then took his leave; but, just as he reached the
hall-door, remembered that he had left his cane upstairs, and returned.
His reappearance was awkward, for a piece of paper, which he recognized
as his own prescription, was slowly burning upon the fire, and Barton
sitting close by with an expression of settled gloom and dismay. Doctor
Richards had too much tact to appear to observe what presented itself;
but he had seen quite enough to assure him that the mind, and not the
body, of Captain Barton was in reality the seat of his sufferings.
A few days afterwards, the following advertisement appeared in the
Dublin newspapers:--
"If Sylvester Yelland, formerly a foremast man on board his Majesty's
frigate _Dolphin_, or his nearest of kin, will apply to Mr. Robery
Smith, solicitor, at his office, Dame Street, he or they may hear of
something greatly to his or their advantage. Admission may be had at
any hour up to twelve o'clock at night for the next fortnight, should
parties desire to avoid observation; and the strictest secrecy, as to
all communications intended to be confidential, shall be honourably
observed."
The _Dolphin_, as we have mentioned, was the vessel which Captain Barton
had commanded; and this circumstance, connected with the extraordinary
exertions made by the circulation of hand-bills, etc., as well as by
repeated advertisements, to secure for this strange notice the utmost
possible publicity, suggested to Doctor Richards the idea that Captain
Barton's extreme uneasiness was somehow connected with the individual to
whom the advertisement was addressed, and he himself the author of it.
This, however, it is needless to add, was no more than a conjecture. No
information whatsoever, as to the real purpose of the advertisement
itself, was divulged by the agent, nor yet any hint as to who his
employer might be.
Mr. Barton, although he had latterly begun to earn for himself the
character of a hypochondriac, was yet very far from deserving it.
Though by no means lively, he had yet, naturally, what are termed
"even spirits," and was not subject to continual depressions. He soon,
therefore, began to return to his former habits; and one of the earliest
symptoms of this healthier tone of spirits was his appearing at a grand
dinner of the Freemasons, of which worthy fraternity he was himself a
brother. Barton, who had been at first gloomy and abstracted, drank much
more freely than was his wont--possibly with the purpose of dispelling
his own secret anxieties--and under the influence of good wine, and
pleasant company, became gradually (unlike his usual self) talkative,
and even noisy. It was under this unwonted excitement that he left his
company at about half-past ten o'clock; and as conviviality is a strong
incentive to gallantry, it occurred to him to proceed forthwith to Lady
Rochdale's, and pass the remainder of the evening with her and his
destined bride.
Accordingly, he was soon at ---- Street, and chatting gaily with the
ladies. It is not to be supposed that Captain Barton had exceeded the
limits which propriety prescribes to good fellowship; he had merely
taken enough of wine to raise his spirits, without, however, in the
least degree unsteadying his mind, or affecting his manners. With this
undue elevation of spirits had supervened an entire oblivion or contempt
of those undefined apprehensions which had for so long weighed upon his
mind, and to a certain extent estranged him from society; but as the
night wore away, and his artificial gaiety began to flag, these painful
feelings gradually intruded themselves again, and he grew abstracted and
anxious as heretofore. He took his leave at length, with an unpleasant
foreboding of some coming mischief, and with a mind haunted with a
thousand mysterious apprehensions, such as, even while he acutely felt
their pressure, he, nevertheless, inwardly strove, or affected to
contemn.
It was his proud defiance of what he considered to be his own weakness
which prompted him upon this occasion to the course which brought about
the adventure which we are now about to relate. Mr. Barton might have
easily called a coach, but he was conscious that his strong inclination
to do so proceeded from no cause other than what he desperately
persisted in representing to himself to be his own superstitious
tremors. He might also have returned home by a route different from that
against which he had been warned by his mysterious correspondent; but
for the same reason he dismissed this idea also, and with a dogged and
half desperate resolution to force matters to a crisis of some kind, to
see if there were any reality in the causes of his former suffering, and
if not, satisfactorily to bring their delusiveness to the proof, he
determined to follow precisely the course which he had trodden upon the
night so painfully memorable in his own mind as that on which his
strange persecution had commenced. Though, sooth to say, the pilot who
for the first time steers his vessel under the muzzles of a hostile
battery never felt his resolution more severely tasked than did Captain
Barton, as he breathlessly pursued this solitary path; a path which,
spite of every effort of scepticism and reason, he felt to be, as
respected _him_, infested by a malignant influence.
He pursued his way steadily and rapidly, scarcely breathing from
intensity of suspense; he, however, was troubled by no renewal of the
dreaded footsteps, and was beginning to feel a return of confidence,
as, more than three-fourths of the way being accomplished with impunity,
he approached the long line of twinkling oil lamps which indicated the
frequented streets. This feeling of self-congratulation was, however,
but momentary. The report of a musket at some two hundred yards behind
him, and the whistle of a bullet close to his head, disagreeably and
startlingly dispelled it. His first impulse was to retrace his steps in
pursuit of the assassin; but the road on either side was, as we have
said, embarrassed by the foundations of a street, beyond which extended
waste fields, full of rubbish and neglected lime and brick kilns, and
all now as utterly silent as though no sound had ever disturbed their
dark and unsightly solitude. The futility of attempting, single-handed,
under such circumstances, a search for the murderer, was apparent,
especially as no further sound whatever was audible to direct his
pursuit.
With the tumultuous sensations of one whose life had just been exposed
to a murderous attempt, and whose escape has been the narrowest
possible, Captain Barton turned, and without, however, quickening his
pace actually to a run, hurriedly pursued his way. He had turned, as we
have said, after a pause of a few seconds, and had just commenced his
rapid retreat, when on a sudden he met the well-remembered little man in
the fur cap. The encounter was but momentary. The figure was walking at
the same exaggerated pace, and with the same strange air of menace as
before; and as it passed him, he thought he heard it say, in a furious
whisper, "Still alive, still alive!"
The state of Mr. Barton's spirits began now to work a corresponding
alteration in his health and looks, and to such a degree that it was
impossible that the change should escape general remark. For some
reasons, known but to himself, he took no step whatsoever to bring the
attempt upon his life, which he had so narrowly escaped, under the
notice of the authorities; on the contrary, he kept it jealously to
himself; and it was not for many weeks after the occurrence that he
mentioned it, and then in strict confidence to a gentleman, the torments
of his mind at last compelled him to consult a friend.
Spite of his blue devils, however, poor Barton, having no satisfactory
reason to render to the public for any undue remissness in the
attentions which his relation to Miss Montague required, was obliged
to exert himself, and present to the world a confident and cheerful
bearing. The true source of his sufferings, and every circumstance
connected with them, he guarded with a reserve so jealous, that it
seemed dictated by at least a suspicion that the origin of his strange
persecution was known to himself, and that it was of a nature which,
upon his own account, he could not or dare not disclose.
The mind thus turned in upon itself, and constantly occupied with a
haunting anxiety which it dared not reveal, or confide to any human
breast, became daily more excited; and, of course, more vividly
impressible, by a system of attack which operated through the nervous
system; and in this state he was destined to sustain, with increasing
frequency, the stealthy visitations of that apparition, which from the
first had seemed to possess so unearthly and terrible a hold upon his
imagination.
* * * * *
It was about this time that Captain Barton called upon the then
celebrated preacher, Doctor Macklin, with whom he had a slight
acquaintance; and an extraordinary conversation ensued. The divine was
seated in his chambers in college, surrounded with works upon his
favourite pursuit and deep in theology, when Barton was announced. There
was something at once embarrassed and excited in his manner, which,
along with his wan and haggard countenance, impressed the student with
the unpleasant consciousness that his visitor must have recently
suffered terribly indeed to account for an alteration so striking, so
shocking.
After the usual interchange of polite greeting, and a few commonplace
remarks, Captain Barton, who obviously perceived the surprise which his
visit had excited, and which Doctor Macklin was unable wholly to
conceal, interrupted a brief pause by remarking,--
"This is a strange call, Doctor Macklin, perhaps scarcely warranted by
an acquaintance so slight as mine with you. I should not, under ordinary
circumstances, have ventured to disturb you, but my visit is neither an
idle nor impertinent intrusion. I am sure you will not so account it,
when--"
Doctor Macklin interrupted him with assurances, such as good breeding
suggested, and Barton resumed,--
"I am come to task your patience by asking your advice. When I say your
patience, I might, indeed, say more; I might have said your humanity,
your compassion; for I have been, and am a great sufferer."
"My dear sir," replied the churchman, "it will, indeed, afford me
infinite gratification if I can give you comfort in any distress of
mind, but--but--"
"I know what you would say," resumed Barton, quickly. "I am an
unbeliever, and, therefore, incapable of deriving help from religion,
but don't take that for granted. At least you must not assume that,
however unsettled my convictions may be, I do not feel a deep, a very
deep, interest in the subject. Circumstances have lately forced it upon
my attention in such a way as to compel me to review the whole question
in a more candid and teachable spirit, I believe, than I ever studied it
in before."
"Your difficulties, I take it for granted, refer to the evidences of
revelation," suggested the clergyman.
"Why--no--yes; in fact I am ashamed to say I have not considered even my
objections sufficiently to state them connectedly; but--but there is one
subject on which I feel a peculiar interest."
He paused again, and Doctor Macklin pressed him to proceed.
"The fact is," said Barton, "whatever may be my uncertainty as to the
authenticity of what we are taught to call revelation, of one fact I am
deeply and horribly convinced: that there does exist beyond this a
spiritual world--a system whose workings are generally in mercy hidden
from us--a system which may be, and which is sometimes, partially and
terribly revealed. I am sure, I know," continued Barton, with increasing
excitement, "there is a God--a dreadful God--and that retribution
follows guilt. In ways, the most mysterious and stupendous; by agencies,
the most inexplicable and terrific; there is a spiritual system--great
Heavens, how frightfully I have been convinced!--a system malignant, and
inexorable, and omnipotent, under whose persecutions I am, and have
been, suffering the torments of the damned!--yes, sir--yes--the fires
and frenzy of hell!"
As Barton continued, his agitation became so vehement that the divine
was shocked and even alarmed. The wild and excited rapidity with which
he spoke, and, above all, the indefinable horror which stamped his
features, afforded a contrast to his ordinary cool and unimpassioned
self-possession, striking and painful in the last degree.
"My dear sir," said Doctor Macklin, after a brief pause, "I fear you
have been suffering much, indeed; but I venture to predict that the
depression under which you labour will be found to originate in purely
physical causes, and that with a change of air and the aid of a few
tonics, your spirits will return, and the tone of your mind be once more
cheerful and tranquil as heretofore. There was, after all, more truth
than we are quite willing to admit in the classic theories which
assigned the undue predominance of any one affection of the mind to the
undue action or torpidity of one or other of our bodily organs. Believe
me, that a little attention to diet, exercise, and the other essentials
of health, under competent direction, will make you as much yourself as
you can wish."
"Doctor Macklin," said Barton, with something like a shudder, "I
_cannot_ delude myself with such a hope. I have no hope to cling to but
one, and that is, that by some other spiritual agency more potent than
that which tortures me, _it_ may be combated, and I delivered. If this
may not be, I am lost--now and for ever lost."
"But, Mr. Barton, you must remember," urged his companion, "that others
have suffered as you have done, and--"
"No, no, no," interrupted he with irritability; "no, sir, I am not a
credulous--far from a superstitious man. I have been, perhaps, too much
the reverse--too sceptical, too slow of belief; but unless I were one
whom no amount of evidence could convince, unless I were to contemn the
repeated, the _perpetual_ evidence of my own senses, I am now--now at
last constrained to believe I have no escape from the conviction, the
overwhelming certainty, that I am haunted and dogged, go where I may,
by--by a Demon."
There was an almost preternatural energy of horror in Barton's face, as,
with its damp and death-like lineaments turned towards his companion, he
thus delivered himself.
"God help you, my poor friend!" said Doctor Macklin, much shocked. "God
help you; for, indeed, you _are_ a sufferer, however your sufferings may
have been caused."
"Ay, ay, God help me," echoed Barton sternly; "but _will_ He help me?
will He help me?"
"Pray to Him; pray in an humble and trusting spirit," said he.
"Pray, pray," echoed he again; "I can't pray; I could as easily move a
mountain by an effort of my will. I have not belief enough to pray;
there is something within me that will not pray. You prescribe
impossibilities--literal impossibilities."
"You will not find it so, if you will but try," said Doctor Macklin.
"Try! I _have_ tried, and the attempt only fills me with confusion
and terror. I have tried in vain, and more than in vain. The awful,
unutterable idea of eternity and infinity oppresses and maddens my
brain, whenever my mind approaches the contemplation of the Creator;
I recoil from the effort, scared, confounded, terrified. I tell you,
Doctor Macklin, if I am to be saved, it must be by other means. The idea
of the Creator is to me intolerable; my mind cannot support it."
"Say, then, my dear sir," urged he, "say how you would have me serve
you. What you would learn of me. What can I do or say to relieve you?"
"Listen to me first," replied Captain Barton, with a subdued air, and
an evident effort to suppress his excitement; "listen to me while I
detail the circumstances of the terrible persecution under which my
life has become all but intolerable--a persecution which has made me
fear _death_ and the world beyond the grave as much as I have grown to
hate existence."
Barton then proceeded to relate the circumstances which we have already
detailed, and then continued,--
"This has now become habitual--an accustomed thing. I do not mean the
actual seeing him in the flesh; thank God, _that_ at least is not
permitted daily. Thank God, from the unutterable horrors of that
visitation I have been mercifully allowed intervals of repose, though
none of security; but from the consciousness that a malignant spirit is
following and watching me wherever I go, I have never, for a single
instant, a temporary respite: I am pursued with blasphemies, cries of
despair, and appalling hatred; I hear those dreadful sounds called after
me as I turn the corners of streets; they come in the night-time while I
sit in my chamber alone; they haunt me everywhere, charging me with
hideous crimes, and--great God!--threatening me with coming vengeance
and eternal misery! Hush! do you hear _that_?" he cried, with a horrible
smile of triumph. "There--there, will that convince you?"
The clergyman felt the chillness of horror irresistibly steal over him,
while, during the wail of a sudden gust of wind, he heard, or fancied he
heard, the half articulate sounds of rage and derision mingling in their
sough.
"Well, what do you think of _that_?" at length Barton cried, drawing a
long breath through his teeth.
"I heard the wind," said Doctor Macklin; "what should I think of it?
What is there remarkable about it?"
[Illustration: "THE PRINCE OF THE POWERS OF THE AIR!" MUTTERED BARTON.]
"The prince of the powers of the air," muttered Barton, with a shudder.
"Tut, tut! my dear sir!" said the student, with an effort to reassure
himself; for though it was broad daylight, there was nevertheless
something disagreeably contagious in the nervous excitement under which
his visitor so obviously suffered. "You must not give way to those wild
fancies: you must resist those impulses of the imagination."
"Ay, ay; 'resist the devil, and he will flee from thee,'" said Barton,
in the same tone; "but _how_ resist him? Ay, there it is: there is the
rub. What--_what_ am I to do? What _can_ I do?"
"My dear sir, this is fancy," said the man of folios; "you are your own
tormentor."
"No, no, sir; fancy has no part in it," answered Barton, somewhat
sternly. "Fancy, forsooth! Was it that made _you_, as well as me, hear,
but this moment, those appalling accents of hell? Fancy, indeed! No,
no."
"But you have seen this person frequently," said the ecclesiastic; "why
have you not accosted or secured him? Is it not somewhat precipitate, to
say no more, to assume, as you have done, the existence of preternatural
agency, when, after all, everything may be easily accountable, if only
proper means were taken to sift the matter."
"There are circumstances connected with this--this _appearance_," said
Barton, "which it were needless to disclose, but which to _me_ are
proofs of its horrible and unearthly nature. I know that the being who
haunts me is not _man_. I say I _know_ this; I could prove it to your
own conviction." He paused for a minute, and then added, "And as to
accosting it, I dare not--I could not! When I see it I am powerless; I
stand in the gaze of death, in the triumphant presence of preterhuman
power and malignity; my strength, and faculties, and memory all forsake
me. Oh, God! I fear, sir, you know not what you speak of. Mercy, mercy!
heaven have pity on me!"