alarmed at the extremity of his sudden agitation, and hastened to lead
him back to the topic which had before seemed to exert so tranquillizing
an effect upon his mind.
"It was not a dream," he said, after a time; "I was in a different
state, I felt differently and strangely; and yet it was all as real, as
clear and vivid, as what I now see and hear; it was a reality."
"And what _did_ you see and hear?" urged his companion.
"When I awakened from the swoon I fell into on seeing _him_," said
Barton, continuing, as if he had not heard the question, "it was slowly,
very slowly; I was reclining by the margin of a broad lake, surrounded
by misty hills, and a soft, melancholy, rose-coloured light illuminated
it all. It was indescribably sad and lonely, and yet more beautiful than
any earthly scene. My head was leaning on the lap of a girl, and she was
singing a strange and wondrous song, that told, I know not how, whether
by words or harmony, of all my life, all that is past, and all that is
still to come. And with the song the old feelings that I thought had
perished within me came back, and tears flowed from my eyes, partly
for the song and its mysterious beauty, and partly for the unearthly
sweetness of her voice; yet I know the voice, oh! how well; and I was
spell-bound as I listened and looked at the strange and solitary scene,
without stirring, almost without breathing, and, alas! alas! without
turning my eyes toward the face that I knew was near me, so sweetly
powerful was the enchantment that held me. And so, slowly and softly,
the song and scene grew fainter, and ever fainter, to my senses, till
all was dark and still again. And then I wakened to this world, as you
saw, comforted, for I knew that I was forgiven much." Barton wept again
long and bitterly.
From this time, as we have said, the prevailing tone of his mind was one
of profound and tranquil melancholy. This, however, was not without its
interruptions. He was thoroughly impressed with the conviction that
he was to experience another and a final visitation, illimitably
transcending in horror all he had before experienced. From this
anticipated and unknown agony he often shrunk in such paroxysms of
abject terror and distraction, as filled the whole household with dismay
and superstitious panic. Even those among them who affected to discredit
the supposition of preternatural agency in the matter, were often in
their secret souls visited during the darkness and solitude of night
with qualms and apprehensions which they would not have readily
confessed; and none of them attempted to dissuade Barton from the
resolution on which he now systematically acted, of shutting himself up
in his own apartment. The window-blinds of this room were kept jealously
down; and his own man was seldom out of his presence, day or night, his
bed being placed in the same chamber.
This man was an attached and respectable servant; and his duties, in
addition to those ordinarily imposed upon _valets_, but which Barton's
independent habits generally dispensed with, were to attend carefully
to the simple precautions by means of which his master hoped to exclude
the dreaded intrusion of the "Watcher," as the strange letter he had
at first received had designated his persecutor. And, in addition to
attending to these arrangements, which consisted merely in anticipating
the possibility of his master's being, through any unscreened window
or opened door, exposed to the dreaded influence, the valet was never
to suffer him to be for one moment alone: total solitude, even for a
minute, had become to him now almost as intolerable as the idea of going
abroad into the public ways; it was an instinctive anticipation of what
was coming.
It is needless to say, that, under these mysterious and horrible
circumstances, no steps were taken toward the fulfilment of that
engagement into which he had entered. There was quite disparity enough
in point of years, and indeed of habits, between the young lady and
Captain Barton, to have precluded anything like very vehement or
romantic attachment on her part. Though grieved and anxious, therefore,
she was very far from being heart-broken; a circumstance which, for the
sentimental purposes of our tale, is much to be deplored. But truth must
be told, especially in a narrative whose chief, if not only, pretensions
to interest consist in a rigid adherence to facts, or what are so
reported to have been.
Miss Montague, nevertheless, devoted much of her time to a patient but
fruitless attempt to cheer the unhappy invalid. She read for him, and
conversed with him; but it was apparent that whatever exertions he made,
the endeavour to escape from the one constant and ever-present fear that
preyed upon him was utterly and miserably unavailing.
Young ladies, as all the world knows, are much given to the cultivation
of pets; and among those who shared the favour of Miss Montague was a
fine old owl, which the gardener, who caught him napping among the ivy
of a ruined stable, had dutifully presented to that young lady.
The caprice which regulates such preferences was manifested in the
extravagant favour with which this grim and ill-favoured bird was at
once distinguished by his mistress; and, trifling as this whimsical
circumstance may seem, I am forced to mention it, inasmuch as it is
connected, oddly enough, with the concluding scene of the story.
Barton, so far from sharing in this liking for the new favourite,
regarded it from the first with an antipathy as violent as it was
utterly unaccountable. Its very vicinity was insupportable to him. He
seemed to hate and dread it with a vehemence absolutely laughable, and
to those who have never witnessed the exhibition of antipathies of
this kind, his dread would seem all but incredible.
With these few words of preliminary explanation, I shall proceed to
state the particulars of the last scene in this strange series of
incidents. It was almost two o'clock one winter's night, and Barton
was, as usual at that hour, in his bed; the servant we have mentioned
occupied a smaller bed in the same room, and a candle was burning. The
man was on a sudden aroused by his master, who said,--
"I can't get it out of my head that that accursed bird has escaped
somehow, and is lurking in some corner of the room. I have been dreaming
of him. Get up, Smith, and look about; search for him. Such hateful
dreams!"
The servant rose, and examined the chamber, and while engaged in so
doing, he heard the well-known sound, more like a long-drawn gasp than a
hiss, with which these birds from their secret haunts affright the quiet
of the night. This ghostly indication of its proximity, for the sound
proceeded from the passage upon which Barton's chamber-door opened,
determined the search of the servant, who, opening the door, proceeded a
step or two forward for the purpose of driving the bird away. He had,
however, hardly entered the lobby, when the door behind him slowly swung
to under the impulse, as it seemed, of some gentle current of air; but
as immediately over the door there was a kind of window, intended in the
daytime to aid in lighting the passage, and through which the rays of
the candle were then issuing, the valet could see quite enough for
his purpose. As he advanced he heard his master (who, lying in a
well-curtained bed had not, as it seemed, perceived his exit from the
room) call him by name, and direct him to place the candle on the table
by his bed. The servant, who was now some way in the long passage, did
not like to raise his voice for the purpose of replying, lest he should
startle the sleeping inmates of the house, began to walk hurriedly and
softly back again, when, to his amazement, he heard a voice in the
interior of the chamber answering calmly, and the man actually saw,
through the window which over-topped the door, that the light was slowly
shifting, as if carried across the chamber in answer to his master's
call. Palsied by a feeling akin to terror, yet not unmingled with a
horrible curiosity, he stood breathless and listening at the threshold,
unable to summon resolution to push open the door and enter. Then came
a rustling of the curtains, and a sound like that of one who in a low
voice hushes a child to rest, in the midst of which he heard Barton say,
in a tone of stifled horror--"Oh, God--oh, my God!" and repeat the same
exclamation several times. Then ensued a silence, which again was broken
by the same strange soothing sound; and at last there burst forth, in
one swelling peal, a yell of agony so appalling and hideous, that, under
some impulse of ungovernable horror, the man rushed to the door, and
with his whole strength strove to force it open. Whether it was that, in
his agitation, he had himself but imperfectly turned the handle, or that
the door was really secured upon the inside, he failed to effect an
entrance; and as he tugged and pushed, yell after yell rang louder and
wilder through the chamber, accompanied all the while by the same
hushing sounds. Actually freezing with terror, and scarce knowing what
he did, the man turned and ran down the passage, wringing his hands in
the extremity of horror and irresolution. At the stair-head he was
encountered by General Montague, scared and eager, and just as they met
the fearful sounds had ceased.
"What is it?--who--where is your master?" said Montague, with the
incoherence of extreme agitation. "Has anything--for God's sake, is
anything wrong?"
"Lord have mercy on us, it's all over," said the man, staring wildly
towards his master's chamber. "He's dead, sir; I'm sure he's dead."
Without waiting for inquiry or explanation, Montague, closely followed
by the servant, hurried to the chamber-door, turned the handle, and
pushed it open. As the door yielded to his pressure, the ill-omened bird
of which the servant had been in search, uttering its spectral warning,
started suddenly from the far side of the bed, and flying through the
doorway close over their heads, and extinguishing, in its passage, the
candle which Montague carried, crashed through the skylight that
overlooked the lobby, and sailed away into the darkness of the outer
space.
"There it is, God bless us!" whispered the man, after a breathless
pause.
"Curse that bird!" muttered the general, startled by the suddenness of
the apparition, and unable to conceal his discomposure.
"The candle was moved," said the man, after another breathless pause;
"see, they put it by the bed!"
"Draw the curtains, fellow, and don't stand gaping there," whispered
Montague, sternly.
The man hesitated.
"Hold this, then," said Montague, impatiently, thrusting the candlestick
into the servant's hand; and himself advancing to the bedside, he drew
the curtains apart. The light of the candle, which was still burning at
the bedside, fell upon a figure huddled together, and half upright, at
the head of the bed. It seemed as though it had shrunk back as far as
the solid panelling would allow, and the hands were still clutched in
the bed-clothes.
[Illustration: EXTINGUISHING IN ITS PASSAGE THE CANDLE WHICH MONTAGUE
CARRIED.]
"Barton, Barton, Barton!" cried the general, with a strange mixture of
awe and vehemence.
He took the candle, and held it so that it shone full upon his face.
The features were fixed, stern and white; the jaw was fallen, and the
sightless eyes, still open, gazed vacantly forward toward the front of
the bed.
"God Almighty, he's dead!" muttered the general, as he looked upon this
fearful spectacle. They both continued to gaze upon it in silence for a
minute or more. "And cold, too," said Montague, withdrawing his hand
from that of the dead man.
"And see, see; may I never have life, sir," added the man, after another
pause, with a shudder, "but there was something else on the bed with
him! Look there--look there; see that, sir!"
As the man thus spoke, he pointed to a deep indenture, as if caused by a
heavy pressure, near the foot of the bed.
Montague was silent.
"Come, sir, come away, for God's sake!" whispered the man, drawing close
up to him, and holding fast by his arm, while he glanced fearfully
round; "what good can be done here now?--come away, for God's sake!"
At this moment they heard the steps of more than one approaching, and
Montague, hastily desiring the servant to arrest their progress,
endeavoured to loose the rigid grip with which the fingers of the dead
man were clutched in the bed-clothes, and drew, as well as he was able,
the awful figure into a reclining posture. Then closing the curtains
carefully upon it, he hastened himself to meet those who were
approaching.
* * * * *
It is needless to follow the personages so slightly connected with this
narrative into the events of their after lives; it is enough for us to
remark that no clue to the solution of these mysterious occurrences was
ever afterwards discovered; and so long an interval having now passed,
it is scarcely to be expected that time can throw any new light upon
their inexplicable obscurity. Until the secrets of the earth shall be no
longer hidden these transactions must remain shrouded in mystery.
The only occurrence in Captain Barton's former life to which reference
was ever made, as having any possible connection with the sufferings
with which his existence closed, and which he himself seemed to regard
as working out a retribution for some grievous sin of his past life, was
a circumstance which not for several years after his death was brought
to light. The nature of this disclosure was painful to his relatives and
discreditable to his memory.
It appeared, then, that some eight years before Captain Barton's final
return to Dublin, he had formed, in the town of Plymouth, a guilty
attachment, the object of which was the daughter of one of the ship's
crew under his command. The father had visited the frailty of his
unhappy child with extreme harshness, and even brutality, and it was
said that she had died heart-broken. Presuming upon Barton's implication
in her guilt, this man had conducted himself towards him with marked
insolence, and Barton resented this--and what he resented with still
more exasperated bitterness, his treatment of the unfortunate girl--by
a systematic exercise of those terrible and arbitrary severities with
which the regulations of the navy arm those who are responsible for its
discipline. The man had at length made his escape, while the vessel was
in port at Lisbon, but died, as it was said, in an hospital in that
town, of the wounds inflicted in one of his recent and sanguinary
punishments.
Whether these circumstances in reality bear or not upon the occurrences
of Barton's after-life, it is of course impossible to say. It seems,
however, more than probable that they were, at least in his own mind,
closely associated with them. But however the truth may be as to the
origin and motives of this mysterious persecution, there can be no
doubt that, with respect to the agencies by which it was accomplished,
absolute and impenetrable mystery is like to prevail until the day of
doom.
[Illustration]
Passage in the Secret History of an Irish Countess.
The following paper is written in a female hand, and was no doubt
communicated to my much regretted friend by the lady whose early history
it serves to illustrate, the Countess D----. She is no more--she long
since died, a childless and a widowed wife, and, as her letter sadly
predicts, none survive to whom the publication of this narrative can
prove "injurious, or even painful." Strange! two powerful and wealthy
families, that in which she was born, and that into which she had
married, are utterly extinct.
To those who know anything of the history of Irish families, as they
were less than a century ago, the facts which immediately follow will
at once suggest the names of the principal actors; and to others
their publication would be useless--to us, possibly, if not probably
injurious. I have therefore altered such of the names as might, if
stated, get us into difficulty; others, belonging to minor characters in
the strange story, I have left untouched.
* * * * *
MY DEAR FRIEND,--You have asked me to furnish you with a detail of
the strange events which marked my early history, and I have, without
hesitation, applied myself to the task, knowing that, while I live, a
kind consideration for my feelings will prevent you giving publicity to
the statement; and conscious that, when I am no more, there will not
survive one to whom the narrative can prove injurious, or even painful.
My mother died when I was quite an infant, and of her I have no
recollection, even the faintest. By her death, my education and habits
were left solely to the guidance of my surviving parent; and, so far as
a stern attention to my religious instruction, and an active anxiety
evinced by his procuring for me the best masters to perfect me in those
accomplishments which my station and wealth might seem to require, could
avail, he amply discharged the task.
My father was what is called an oddity, and his treatment of me, though
uniformly kind, flowed less from affection and tenderness than from a
sense of obligation and duty. Indeed, I seldom even spoke to him except
at meal-times, and then his manner was silent and abrupt; his leisure
hours, which were many, were passed either in his study or in solitary
walks; in short, he seemed to take no further interest in my happiness
or improvement than a conscientious regard to the discharge of his own
duty would seem to claim.
Shortly before my birth, a circumstance had occurred which had
contributed much to form and to confirm my father's secluded habits--it
was the fact that a suspicion of murder had fallen upon his younger
brother, a suspicion not sufficiently definite to lead to an indictment,
yet strong enough to ruin him in public opinion.
This disgraceful and dreadful doubt cast upon the family name my father
felt deeply and bitterly, and not the less so that he himself was
thoroughly convinced of his brother's innocence. The sincerity and
strength of this impression he shortly afterwards proved in a manner
which produced the dark events which follow. Before, however, I enter
upon the statement of them, I ought to relate the circumstances which
had awakened the suspicion; inasmuch as they are in themselves somewhat
curious, and, in their effects, most intimately connected with my after
history.
My uncle, Sir Arthur T----n, was a gay and extravagant man, and,
among other vices, was ruinously addicted to gaming; this unfortunate
propensity, even after his fortune had suffered so severely as to render
inevitable a reduction in his expenses by no means inconsiderable,
nevertheless continued to actuate him, almost to the exclusion of all
other pursuits. He was a proud, or rather a vain man, and could not bear
to make the diminution of his income a matter of gratulation and triumph
to those with whom he had hitherto competed; and the consequence was
that he frequented no longer the expensive haunts of dissipation, and
retired from the gay world, leaving his coterie to discover his reasons
as best they might.
He did not, however, forego his favourite vice, for, though he could not
worship his divinity in the costly temples where it was formerly his
wont to take his stand, yet he found it very possible to bring about him
a sufficient number of the votaries of chance to answer all his ends.
The consequence was that Carrickleigh, which was the name of my uncle's
residence, was never without one or more of such reckless visitors.
It happened that upon one occasion he was visited by one Hugh Tisdall--a
gentleman of loose habits but of considerable wealth--who had, in early
youth, travelled with my uncle upon the Continent. The period of his
visit was winter, and, consequently, the house was nearly deserted
except by its regular inmates; Mr. Tisdall was therefore highly
acceptable, particularly as my uncle was aware that his visitor's tastes
accorded exactly with his own.
Both parties seemed determined to avail themselves of their suitability
during the brief stay which Mr. Tisdall had promised; the consequence
was that they shut themselves up in Sir Arthur's private room for nearly
all the day and the greater part of the night, during the space of
nearly a week. At the end of this period the servant having one morning,
as usual, knocked at Mr. Tisdall's bedroom door repeatedly, received no
answer, and, upon attempting to enter, found that it was locked. This
appeared suspicious, and the inmates of the house having been alarmed,
the door was forced open, and, on proceeding to the bed, they found the
body of its occupant perfectly lifeless, and hanging half-way out, the
head downwards, and near the floor. One deep wound had been inflicted
upon the temple, apparently with some blunt instrument, which had
penetrated the brain; and another blow less effective, probably the
first aimed, had grazed the head, removing some of the scalp, but
leaving the skull untouched. The door had been double-locked upon the
inside, in evidence of which the key still lay where it had been placed
in the lock.
The window, though not secured on the interior, was closed--a
circumstance not a little puzzling, as it afforded the only other mode
of escape from the room; it looked out, too, upon a kind of courtyard,
round which the old buildings stood, formerly accessible by a narrow
doorway and passage lying in the oldest side of the quadrangle, but
which had since been built up, so as to preclude all ingress or egress.
The room was also upon the second story, and the height of the window
considerable. Near the bed were found a pair of razors belonging to the
murdered man, one of them upon the ground and both of them open. The
weapon which had inflicted the mortal wound was not to be found in
the room, nor were any footsteps or other traces of the murderer
discoverable.
At the suggestion of Sir Arthur himself, a coroner was instantly
summoned to attend, and an inquest was held; nothing, however, in any
degree conclusive was elicited. The walls, ceiling, and floor of the
room were carefully examined, in order to ascertain whether they
contained a trap-door or other concealed mode of entrance--but no such
thing appeared.
Such was the minuteness of investigation employed that although the
grate had contained a large fire during the night, they proceeded to
examine even the very chimney, in order to discover whether escape
by it were possible; but this attempt, too, was fruitless, for the
chimney, built in the old fashion, rose in a perfectly perpendicular
line from the hearth to a height of nearly fourteen feet above the roof,
affording in its interior scarcely the possibility of ascent, the flue
being smoothly plastered, and sloping towards the top like an inverted
funnel. Even if the summit of the chimney were attained, it promised,
owing to its great height, but a precarious descent upon the sharp and
steep-ridged roof. The ashes, too, which lay in the grate, and the soot,
as far as it could be seen, were undisturbed, a circumstance almost
conclusive.
Sir Arthur was of course examined; his evidence was given with a
clearness and unreserve which seemed calculated to silence all
suspicion. He stated that up to the day and night immediately preceding
the catastrophe, he had lost to a heavy amount, but that, at their last
sitting, he had not only won back his original loss, but upwards of
four thousand pounds in addition; in evidence of which he produced
an acknowledgment of debt to that amount in the handwriting of the
deceased, and bearing the date of the fatal night. He had mentioned the
circumstance to his lady, and in presence of some of the domestics;
which statement was supported by their respective evidence.