as if to exclude some image of horror, muttering the last words of the
sentence he had just concluded, again and again.
"Dr. Macklin," he said, abruptly raising himself, and looking full upon
the clergyman with an imploring eye, "I know you will do for me whatever
may be done. You know now fully the circumstances and the nature of the
mysterious agency of which I am the victim. I tell you I cannot help
myself; I cannot hope to escape; I am utterly passive. I conjure you,
then, to weigh my case well, and if anything may be done for me by
vicarious supplication, by the intercession of the good, or by any aid
or influence whatsoever, I implore of you, I adjure you in the name of
the Most High, give me the benefit of that influence, deliver me from
the body of this death! Strive for me; pity me! I know you will; you
cannot refuse this; it is the purpose and object of my visit. Send me
away with some hope, however little--some faint hope of ultimate
deliverance, and I will nerve myself to endure, from hour to hour, the
hideous dream into which my existence is transformed."
Doctor Macklin assured him that all he could do was to pray earnestly
for him, and that so much he would not fail to do. They parted with a
hurried and melancholy valediction. Barton hastened to the carriage
which awaited him at the door, drew the blinds, and drove away, while
Dr. Macklin returned to his chamber, to ruminate at leisure upon the
strange interview which had just interrupted his studies.
It was not to be expected that Captain Barton's changed and eccentric
habits should long escape remark and discussion. Various were the
theories suggested to account for it. Some attributed the alteration to
the pressure of secret pecuniary embarrassments; others to a repugnance
to fulfil an engagement into which he was presumed to have too
precipitately entered; and others, again, to the supposed incipiency of
mental disease, which latter, indeed, was the most plausible, as well as
the most generally received, of the hypotheses circulated in the gossip
of the day.
From the very commencement of this change, at first so gradual in its
advances, Miss Montague had, of course, been aware of it. The intimacy
involved in their peculiar relation, as well as the near interest which
it inspired, afforded, in her case, alike opportunity and motive for the
successful exercise of that keen and penetrating observation peculiar
to the sex. His visits became, at length, so interrupted, and his
manner, while they lasted, so abstracted, strange, and agitated, that
Lady Rochdale, after hinting her anxiety and her suspicions more than
once, at length distinctly stated her anxiety, and pressed for an
explanation. The explanation was given, and although its nature at first
relieved the worst solicitudes of the old lady and her niece, yet the
circumstances which attended it, and the really dreadful consequences
which it obviously threatened as regarded the spirits, and, indeed, the
reason, of the now wretched man who made the strange declaration, were
enough, upon a little reflection, to fill their minds with perturbation
and alarm.
General Montague, the young lady's father, at length arrived. He had
himself slightly known Barton, some ten or twelve years previously,
and being aware of his fortune and connections, was disposed to regard
him as an unexceptionable and indeed a most desirable match for his
daughter. He laughed at the story of Barton's supernatural visitations,
and lost not a moment in calling upon his intended son-in-law.
"My dear Barton," he continued gaily, after a little conversation, "my
sister tells me that you are a victim to blue devils in quite a new and
original shape."
Barton changed countenance, and sighed profoundly.
"Come, come; I protest this will never do," continued the General; "you
are more like a man on his way to the gallows than to the altar. These
devils have made quite a saint of you."
Barton made an effort to change the conversation.
"No, no, it won't do," said his visitor, laughing; "I am resolved to
say out what I have to say about this magnificent mock mystery of
yours. Come, you must not be angry; but, really, it is too bad to see
you, at your time of life, absolutely frightened into good behaviour,
like a naughty child, by a bugaboo, and, as far as I can learn, a very
particularly contemptible one. Seriously, though, my dear Barton, I
have been a good deal annoyed at what they tell me; but, at the same
time, thoroughly convinced that there is nothing in the matter that
may not be cleared up, with just a little attention and management,
within a week at furthest."
"Ah, General, you do not know--" he began.
"Yes, but I do know quite enough to warrant my confidence," interrupted
the soldier. "I know that all your annoyance proceeds from the
occasional appearance of a certain little man in a cap and great-coat,
with a red vest and bad countenance, who follows you about, and pops
upon you at the corners of lanes, and throws you into ague fits. Now,
my dear fellow, I'll make it my business to _catch_ this mischievous
little mountebank, and either beat him into a jelly with my own hands,
or have him whipped through the town at the cart's tail."
"If _you_ knew what I know," said Barton, with gloomy agitation, "you
would speak very differently. Don't imagine that I am so weak and
foolish as to assume, without proof the most overwhelming, the
conclusion to which I have been forced. The proofs are here, locked up
here." As he spoke, he tapped upon his breast, and with an anxious sigh
continued to walk up and down the room.
"Well, well, Barton," said his visitor, "I'll wager a rump and a dozen
I collar the ghost, and convince yourself before many days are over."
He was running on in the same strain when he was suddenly arrested,
and not a little shocked, by observing Barton, who had approached the
window, stagger slowly back, like one who had received a stunning
blow--his arm feebly extended towards the street, his face and his very
lips white as ashes--while he uttered, "There--there--there!"
General Montague started mechanically to his feet, and, from the window
of the drawing-room, saw a figure corresponding, as well as his hurry
would permit him to discern, with the description of the person whose
appearance so constantly and dreadfully disturbed the repose of his
friend. The figure was just turning from the rails of the area upon
which it had been leaning, and without waiting to see more, the old
gentleman snatched his cane and hat, and rushed down the stairs and into
the street, in the furious hope of securing the person, and punishing
the audacity of the mysterious stranger. He looked around him, but in
vain, for any trace of the form he had himself distinctly beheld. He ran
breathlessly to the nearest corner, expecting to see from thence the
retreating figure, but no such form was visible. Back and forward, from
crossing to crossing, he ran at fault, and it was not until the curious
gaze and laughing countenances of the passers-by reminded him of the
absurdity of his pursuit, that he checked his hurried pace, lowered his
walking-cane from the menacing altitude which he had mechanically given
it, adjusted his hat, and walked composedly back again, inwardly vexed
and flurried. He found Barton pale and trembling in every joint; they
both remained silent, though under emotions very different. At last
Barton whispered, "You saw it?"
"It!--him--someone--you mean--to be sure I did," replied Montague,
testily. "But where is the good or the harm of seeing him? The fellow
runs like a lamplighter. I wanted to _catch_ him, but he had stolen away
before I could reach the hall door. However, it is no great matter; next
time, I dare say, I'll do better; and, egad, if I once come within
reach of him, I'll introduce his shoulders to the weight of my cane, in
a way to make him cry _peccavi_."
Notwithstanding General Montague's undertakings and exhortations,
however, Barton continued to suffer from the self-same unexplained
cause. Go how, when, or where he would, he was still constantly dogged
or confronted by the hateful being who had established over him so
dreadful and mysterious an influence; nowhere, and at no time, was he
secure against the odious appearance which haunted him with such
diabolical perseverance. His depression, misery, and excitement became
more settled and alarming every day, and the mental agonies that
ceaselessly preyed upon him began at last so sensibly to affect his
general health, that Lady Rochdale and General Montague succeeded
(without, indeed, much difficulty) in persuading him to try a short tour
on the Continent, in the hope that an entire change of scene would, at
all events, have the effect of breaking through the influences of local
association, which the more sceptical of his friends assumed to be by no
means inoperative in suggesting and perpetuating what they conceived to
be a mere form of nervous illusion. General Montague, moreover, was
persuaded that the figure which haunted his intended son-in-law was by
no means the creation of his own imagination, but, on the contrary,
a substantial form of flesh and blood, animated by a spiteful and
obstinate resolution, perhaps with some murderous object in perspective,
to watch and follow the unfortunate gentleman. Even this hypothesis was
not a very pleasant one; yet it was plain that if Barton could once be
convinced that there was nothing preternatural in the phenomenon, which
he had hitherto regarded in that light, the affair would lose all its
terrors in his eyes, and wholly cease to exercise upon his health and
spirits the baneful influence which it had hitherto done. He therefore
reasoned, that if the annoyance were actually escaped from by mere
change of scene, it obviously could not have originated in any
supernatural agency.
Yielding to their persuasions, Barton left Dublin for England,
accompanied by General Montague. They posted rapidly to London, and
thence to Dover, whence they took the packet with a fair wind for
Calais. The General's confidence in the result of the expedition on
Barton's spirits had risen day by day since their departure from the
shores of Ireland; for, to the inexpressible relief and delight of
the latter, he had not, since then, so much as even once fancied a
repetition of those impressions which had, when at home, drawn him
gradually down to the very abyss of horror and despair. This exemption
from what he had begun to regard as the inevitable condition of his
existence, and the sense of security which began to pervade his mind,
were inexpressibly delightful; and in the exultation of what he
considered his deliverance, he indulged in a thousand happy
anticipations for a future into which so lately he had hardly dared
to look. In short, both he and his companion secretly congratulated
themselves upon the termination of that persecution which had been to
its immediate victim a source of such unspeakable agony.
It was a beautiful day, and a crowd of idlers stood upon the jetty to
receive the packet, and enjoy the bustle of the new arrivals. Montague
walked a few paces in advance of his friend, and as he made his way
through the crowd, a little man touched his arm, and said to him, in a
broad provincial _patois_,--
"Monsieur is walking too fast; he will lose his sick comrade in the
throng, for, by my faith, the poor gentleman seems to be fainting."
Montague turned quickly, and observed that Barton did indeed look deadly
pale. He hastened to his side.
"My poor fellow, are you ill?" he asked anxiously.
The question was unheeded, and twice repeated, ere Barton stammered,--
"I saw him--by ----, I saw him!"
"_Him!_--who?--where?--when did you see him?--where is he?" cried
Montague, looking around him.
"I saw him--but he is gone," repeated Barton, faintly.
"But where--where? For God's sake, speak," urged Montague, vehemently.
"It is but this moment--_here_," said he.
"But what did he look like?--what had he on?--what did he wear?--quick,
quick," urged his excited companion, ready to dart among the crowd, and
collar the delinquent on the spot.
"He touched your arm--he spoke to you--he pointed to me. God be merciful
to me, there is no escape!" said Barton, in the low, subdued tones of
intense despair.
Montague had already bustled away in all the flurry of mingled hope and
indignation; but though the singular _personnel_ of the stranger who had
accosted him was vividly and perfectly impressed upon his recollection,
he failed to discover among the crowd even the slightest resemblance to
him. After a fruitless search, in which he enlisted the services of
several of the bystanders, who aided all the more zealously as they
believed he had been robbed, he at length, out of breath and baffled,
gave over the attempt.
"Ah, my friend, it won't do," said Barton, with the faint voice and
bewildered, ghastly look of one who has been stunned by some mortal
shock; "there is no use in contending with it; whatever it is, the
dreadful association between me and it is now established; I shall never
escape--never, never!"
"Nonsense, nonsense, my dear fellow; don't talk so," said Montague, with
something at once of irritation and dismay; "you must not; never mind, I
say--never mind, we'll jockey the scoundrel yet."
It was, however, but lost labour to endeavour henceforward to inspire
Barton with one ray of hope; he became utterly desponding. This
intangible and, as it seemed, utterly inadequate influence was fast
destroying his energies of intellect, character, and health. His first
object was now to return to Ireland, there, as he believed, and now
almost hoped, speedily to die.
To Ireland, accordingly, he came, and one of the first faces he saw upon
the shore was again that of his implacable and dreaded persecutor.
Barton seemed at last to have lost not only all enjoyment and every hope
in existence, but all independence of will besides. He now submitted
himself passively to the management of the friends most nearly
interested in his welfare. With the apathy of entire despair, he
implicitly assented to whatever measures they suggested and advised;
and, as a last resource, it was determined to remove him to a house of
Lady Rochdale's in the neighbourhood of Clontarf, where, with the advice
of his medical attendant (who persisted in his opinion that the whole
train of impressions resulted merely from some nervous derangement) it
was resolved that he was to confine himself strictly to the house, and
to make use only of those apartments which commanded a view of an
enclosed yard, the gates of which were to be kept jealously locked.
These precautions would at least secure him against the casual
appearance of any living form which his excited imagination might
possibly confound with the spectre which, as it was contended, his
fancy recognized in every figure that bore even a distant or general
resemblance to the traits with which he had at first invested it. A
month or six weeks' absolute seclusion under these conditions, it was
hoped, might, by interrupting the series of these terrible impressions,
gradually dispel the predisposing apprehension, and effectually break up
the associations which had confirmed the supposed disease, and rendered
recovery hopeless. Cheerful society and that of his friends was to be
constantly supplied, and on the whole, very sanguine expectations were
indulged in, that under this treatment the obstinate hypochondria of the
patient might at length give way.
Accompanied, therefore, by Lady Rochdale, General Montague, and his
daughter--his own affianced bride--poor Barton, himself never daring to
cherish a hope of his ultimate emancipation from the strange horrors
under which his life was literally wasting away, took possession of
the apartments whose situation protected him against the dreadful
intrusions from which he shrank with such unutterable terror.
After a little time, a steady persistence in this system began to
manifest its results in a very marked though gradual improvement alike
in the health and spirits of the invalid. Not, indeed, that anything
at all approaching to complete recovery was yet discernible. On the
contrary, to those who had not seen him since the commencement of his
strange sufferings, such an alteration would have been apparent as might
well have shocked them. The improvement, however, such as it was, was
welcomed with gratitude and delight, especially by the poor young lady,
whom her attachment to him, as well as her now singularly painful
position, consequent on his mysterious and protracted illness, rendered
an object of pity scarcely one degree less to be commiserated than
himself.
A week passed--a fortnight--a month--and yet no recurrence of the hated
visitation had agitated and terrified him as before. The treatment had,
so far, been followed by complete success. The chain of association had
been broken. The constant pressure upon the overtasked spirits had been
removed, and, under these comparatively favourable circumstances, the
sense of social community with the world about him, and something of
human interest, if not of enjoyment, began to reanimate his mind.
It was about this time that Lady Rochdale, who, like most old ladies of
the day, was deep in family receipts, and a great pretender to medical
science, being engaged in the concoction of certain unpalatable mixtures
of marvellous virtue, despatched her own maid to the kitchen garden with
a list of herbs which were there to be carefully culled and brought back
to her for the purpose stated. The hand-maiden, however, returned with
her task scarce half-completed, and a good deal flurried and alarmed.
Her mode of accounting for her precipitate retreat and evident agitation
was odd, and to the old lady unpleasantly startling.
It appeared that she had repaired to the kitchen garden, pursuant to
her mistress's directions, and had there begun to make the specified
selection among the rank and neglected herbs which crowded one corner of
the enclosure, and while engaged in this pleasant labour she carelessly
sang a fragment of an old song, as she said, "to keep herself company."
She was, however, interrupted by a sort of mocking echo of the air she
was singing; and looking up, she saw through the old thorn hedge, which
surrounded the garden, a singularly ill-looking, little man, whose
countenance wore the stamp of menace and malignity, standing close to
her at the other side of the hawthorn screen. She described herself as
utterly unable to move or speak, while he charged her with a message for
Captain Barton, the substance of which she distinctly remembered to have
been to the effect that he, Captain Barton, must come abroad as usual,
and show himself to his friends out of doors, or else prepare for a
visit in his own chamber. On concluding this brief message, the stranger
had, with a threatening air, got down into the outer ditch, and seizing
the hawthorn stems in his hands, seemed on the point of climbing through
the fence, a feat which might have been accomplished without much
difficulty. Without, of course, awaiting this result, the girl, throwing
down her treasures of thyme and rosemary, had turned and run, with the
swiftness of terror, to the house. Lady Rochdale commanded her, on pain
of instant dismissal, to observe an absolute silence respecting all that
portion of the incident which related to Captain Barton; and, at the
same time, directed instant search to be made by her men in the garden
and fields adjacent. This measure, however, was attended with the usual
unsuccess, and filled with fearful and indefinable misgivings, Lady
Rochdale communicated the incident to her brother. The story, however,
until long afterwards, went no further, and of course it was jealously
guarded from Barton, who continued to mend, though slowly and
imperfectly.
Barton now began to walk occasionally in the courtyard which we have
mentioned, and which, being surrounded by a high wall, commanded no view
beyond its own extent. Here he, therefore, considered himself perfectly
secure; and, but for a careless violation of orders by one of the
grooms, he might have enjoyed, at least for some time longer, his
much-prized immunity. Opening upon the public road, this yard was
entered by a wooden gate, with a wicket in it, which was further
defended by an iron gate upon the outside. Strict orders had been given
to keep them carefully locked; but, in spite of these, it had happened
that one day, as Barton was slowly pacing this narrow enclosure, in his
accustomed walk, and reaching the further extremity, was turning to
retrace his steps, he saw the boarded wicket ajar, and the face of his
tormentor immovably looking at him through the iron bars. For a few
seconds he stood riveted to the earth, breathless and bloodless, in the
fascination of that dreaded gaze, and then fell helplessly upon the
pavement.
There was he found a few minutes afterwards, and conveyed to his
room, the apartment which he was never afterwards to leave alive.
Henceforward, a marked and unaccountable change was observable in the
tone of his mind. Captain Barton was now no longer the excited and
despairing man he had been before; a strange alteration had passed upon
him, an unearthly tranquillity reigned in his mind; it was the
anticipated stillness of the grave.
"Montague, my friend, this struggle is nearly ended now," he said,
tranquilly, but with a look of fixed and fearful awe. "I have, at last,
some comfort from that world of spirits, from which my _punishment_ has
come. I know now that my sufferings will be soon over."
Montague pressed him to speak on.
"Yes," said he, in a softened voice, "my punishment is nearly ended.
From sorrow perhaps I shall never, in time or eternity, escape; but
my _agony_ is almost over. Comfort has been revealed to me, and what
remains of my allotted struggle I will bear with submission, even with
hope."
"I am glad to hear you speak so tranquilly, my dear fellow," said
Montague; "peace and cheerfulness of mind are all you need to make you
what you were."
"No, no, I never can be that," said he, mournfully. "I am no longer fit
for life. I am soon to die: I do not shrink from death as I did. I am to
see _him_ but once again, and then all is ended."
"He said so, then?" suggested Montague.
"_He?_ No, no; good tidings could scarcely come through him; and these
were good and welcome; and they came so solemnly and sweetly, with
unutterable love and melancholy, such as I could not, without saying
more than is needful or fitting, of other long-past scenes and persons,
fully explain to you." As Barton said this he shed tears.
"Come, come," said Montague, mistaking the source of his emotions, "you
must not give way. What is it, after all, but a pack of dreams and
nonsense; or, at worst, the practices of a scheming rascal that enjoys
his power of playing upon your nerves, and loves to exert it; a sneaking
vagabond that owes you a grudge, and pays it off this way, not daring to
try a more manly one."
"A grudge, indeed, he owes me; you say rightly," said Barton, with a
sullen shudder; "a grudge as you call it. Oh, God! when the justice of
heaven permits the Evil One to carry out a scheme of vengeance, when
its execution is committed to the lost and frightful victim of sin, who
owes his own ruin to the man, the very man, whom he is commissioned to
pursue; then, indeed, the torments and terrors of hell are anticipated
on earth. But heaven has dealt mercifully with me: hope has opened to me
at last; and if death could come without the dreadful sight I am doomed
to see, I would gladly close my eyes this moment upon the world. But
though death is welcome, I shrink with an agony you cannot understand;
a maddening agony, an actual frenzy of terror, from the last encounter
with that--that DEMON, who has drawn me thus to the verge of the chasm,
and who is himself to plunge me down. I am to see him again, once more,
but under circumstances unutterably more terrific than ever."