The Watcher.
It is now more than fifty years since the occurrences which I am aboutto relate caused a strange sensation in the gay society of Dublin. Thefashionable world, however, is no recorder of traditions; the memory ofselfishness seldom reaches far; and the events which occasionallydisturb the polite monotony of its pleasant and heartless progress,however stamped with the characters of misery and horror, scarcelyoutlive the gossip of a season, and (except, perhaps, in the remembranceof a few more directly interested in the consequences of thecatastrophe) are in a little time lost to the recollection of all. Theappetite for scandal, or for horror, has been sated; the incident canyield no more of interest or novelty; curiosity, frustrated byimpenetrable mystery, gives over the pursuit in despair; the tale hasceased to be new, grows stale and flat; and so, in a few years, inquirysubsides 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 inthe navy with some distinction, having commanded one of his Majesty'sfrigates during the greater part of the American war. Captain Barton wasnow apparently some two or three-and-forty years of age. He was anintelligent and agreeable companion, when he chose it, though generallyreserved, and occasionally even moody. In society, however, he deportedhimself as a man of the world and a gentleman. He had not contracted anyof the noisy brusqueness sometimes acquired at sea; on the contrary, hismanners were remarkably easy, quiet, and even polished. He was in personabout the middle size, and somewhat strongly formed; his countenance wasmarked with the lines of thought, and on the whole wore an expression ofgravity and even of melancholy. Being, however, as we have said, a manof perfect breeding, as well as of affluent circumstances and goodfamily, he had, of course, ready access to the best society of themetropolis, without the necessity of any other credentials. In hispersonal habits Captain Barton was economical. He occupied lodgings inone of the then fashionable streets in the south side of the town, keptbut one horse and one servant, and though a reputed free-thinker, helived an orderly and moral life, indulging neither in gaming, drinking,nor any other vicious pursuit, living very much to himself, withoutforming any intimacies, or choosing any companions, and appearing to mixin gay society rather for the sake of its bustle and distraction, thanfor any opportunities which it offered of interchanging either thoughtsor feelings with its votaries. Barton was therefore pronounced a saving,prudent, unsocial sort of a fellow, who bid fair to maintain hiscelibacy alike against stratagem and assault, and was likely to live toa good old age, die rich and leave his money to a hospital.
It was soon apparent, however, that the nature of Captain Barton's planshad been totally misconceived. A young lady, whom we shall call MissMontague, was at this time introduced into the fashionable world ofDublin by her aunt, the Dowager Lady Rochdale. Miss Montague wasdecidedly pretty and accomplished, and having some natural cleverness,and a great deal of gaiety, became for a while the reigning toast. Herpopularity, however, gained her, for a time, nothing more than thatunsubstantial admiration which, however pleasant as an incense tovanity, 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 earthlyprovision. Such being the state of affairs, it will readily be believedthat no little surprise was consequent upon the appearance of CaptainBarton as the avowed lover of the penniless Miss Montague.
His suit prospered, as might have been expected, and in a short time itwas confidentially communicated by old Lady Rochdale to each of herhundred and fifty particular friends in succession, that Captain Bartonhad actually tendered proposals of marriage, with her approbation, toher niece, Miss Montague, who had, moreover, accepted the offer of hishand, conditionally upon the consent of her father, who was then uponhis homeward voyage from India, and expected in two or three monthsat furthest. About his consent there could be no doubt. The delay,therefore, was one merely of form; they were looked upon as absolutelyengaged, and Lady Rochdale, with a vigour of old-fashioned decorum withwhich her niece would, no doubt, gladly have dispensed, withdrew herthenceforward from all further participation in the gaieties of thetown. Captain Barton was a constant visitor as well as a frequent guestat the house, and was permitted all the privileges and intimacy which abetrothed suitor is usually accorded. Such was the relation of parties,when the mysterious circumstances which darken this narrative withinexplicable melancholy first began to unfold themselves.
Lady Rochdale resided in a handsome mansion at the north side ofDublin, and Captain Barton's lodgings, as we have already said, weresituated at the south. The distance intervening was considerable, and itwas 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, andlittle more than the foundations of the houses constructed. One night,shortly after his engagement with Miss Montague had commenced, hehappened to remain unusually late, in company only with her and LadyRochdale. The conversation had turned upon the evidences of revelation,which he had disputed with the callous scepticism of a confirmedinfidel. What were called "French principles" had, in those days, foundtheir way a good deal into fashionable society, especially that portionof it which professed allegiance to Whiggism, and neither the old ladynor her charge was so perfectly free from the taint as to look uponCaptain Barton's views as any serious objection to the proposed union.The discussion had degenerated into one upon the supernatural and themarvellous, in which he had pursued precisely the same line of argumentand ridicule. In all this, it is but true to state, Captain Barton wasguilty of no affectation; the doctrines upon which he insisted were, inreality, but too truly the basis of his own fixed belief, if so itmight be called; and perhaps not the least strange of the many strangecircumstances connected with this narrative, was the fact that thesubject of the fearful influences we are about to describe was himself,from the deliberate conviction of years, an utter disbeliever in whatare usually termed preternatural agencies.
It was considerably past midnight when Mr. Barton took his leave, andset out upon his solitary walk homeward. He rapidly reached the lonelyroad, with its unfinished dwarf walls tracing the foundations of theprojected 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 ona sudden he heard other footsteps, pattering at a measured pace, and,as it seemed, about two score steps behind him. The suspicion of beingdogged is at all times unpleasant; it is, however, especially so in aspot so desolate and lonely: and this suspicion became so strong inthe mind of Captain Barton, that he abruptly turned about to confronthis pursuers, but, though there was quite sufficient moonlight todisclose any object upon the road he had traversed, no form of anykind was visible.
The steps he had heard could not have been the reverberation of hisown, for he stamped his foot upon the ground, and walked briskly upand down, in the vain attempt to wake an echo. Though by no means afanciful person, he was at last compelled to charge the sounds uponhis imagination, and treat them as an illusion. Thus satisfyinghimself, he resumed his walk, and before he had proceeded a dozenpaces, the mysterious footfalls were again audible from behind, andthis time, as if with the special design of showing that the soundswere not the responses of an echo, the steps sometimes slackenednearly to a halt, and sometimes hurried for six or eight strides toa run, and again abated to a walk.
Captain Barton, as before, turned suddenly round, and with the sameresult; no object was visible above the deserted level of the road. Hewalked back over the same ground, determined that, whatever might havebeen the cause of the sounds which had so disconcerted him, it sho
uldnot escape his search; the endeavour, however, was unrewarded. In spiteof all his scepticism, he felt something like a superstitious fearstealing fast upon him, and, with these unwonted and uncomfortablesensations, he once more turned and pursued his way. There was norepetition of these haunting sounds, until he had reached the pointwhere he had last stopped to retrace his steps. Here they were resumed,and with sudden starts of running, which threatened to bring the unseenpursuer close up to the alarmed pedestrian. Captain Barton arrested hiscourse as formerly; the unaccountable nature of the occurrence filledhim with vague and almost horrible sensations, and, yielding to theexcitement he felt gaining upon him, he shouted, sternly, "Who goesthere?"
The sound of one's own voice, thus exerted, in utter solitude, andfollowed by total silence, has in it something unpleasantly exciting,and he felt a degree of nervousness which, perhaps, from no cause hadhe ever known before. To the very end of this solitary street thesteps pursued him, and it required a strong effort of stubborn prideon his part to resist the impulse that prompted him every moment torun for safety at the top of his speed. It was not until he hadreached his lodging, and sat by his own fireside, that he feltsufficiently reassured to arrange and reconsider in his own mind theoccurrences which had so discomposed him: so little a matter, afterall, is sufficient to upset the pride of scepticism, and vindicate theold simple laws of nature within us.
Mr. Barton was next morning sitting at a late breakfast, reflecting uponthe incidents of the previous night, with more of inquisitiveness thanawe--so speedily do gloomy impressions upon the fancy disappear underthe cheerful influences of day--when a letter just delivered by thepostman was placed upon the table before him. There was nothingremarkable in the address of this missive, except that it was written ina hand which he did not know--perhaps it was disguised--for the tallnarrow characters were sloped backward; and with the self-inflictedsuspense which we so often see practised in such cases, he puzzled overthe inscription for a full minute before he broke the seal. When he didso, he read the following words, written in the same hand:--
"Mr. Barton, late Captain of the _Dolphin_, is warned of _danger_. Hewill do wisely to avoid ---- Street--(here the locality of his lastnight's adventure was named)--if he walks there as usual, he will meetwith something bad. Let him take warning, once for all, for he has goodreason to dread
"THE WATCHER."
Captain Barton read and re-read this strange effusion; in every lightand in every direction he turned it over and over. He examined the paperon 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 imperfectlyvisible. There was not the slightest mark, no clue or indication of anykind, to lead him to even a guess as to its possible origin. Thewriter's object seemed a friendly one, and yet he subscribed himself asone whom he had "good reason to dread." Altogether, the letter, itsauthor, and its real purpose, were to him an inexplicable puzzle, andone, moreover, unpleasantly suggestive, in his mind, of associationsconnected with the last night's adventure.
In obedience to some feeling--perhaps of pride--Mr. Barton did notcommunicate, even to his intended bride, the occurrences which we havejust detailed. Trifling as they might appear, they had in reality mostdisagreeably affected his imagination, and he cared not to disclose,even to the young lady in question, what she might possibly look uponas evidences of weakness. The letter might very well be but a hoax,and the mysterious footfall but a delusion of his fancy. But althoughhe affected to treat the whole affair as unworthy of a thought, it yethaunted him pertinaciously, tormenting him with perplexing doubts, anddepressing him with undefined apprehensions. Certain it is, that for aconsiderable time afterwards he carefully avoided the street indicatedin the letter as the scene of danger.
It was not until about a week after the receipt of the letter which Ihave transcribed, that anything further occurred to remind CaptainBarton of its contents, or to counteract the gradual disappearance fromhis mind of the disagreeable impressions which he had then received. Hewas returning one night, after the interval I have stated, from thetheatre, which was then situated in Crow Street, and having there handedMiss Montague and Lady Rochdale into their carriage, he loitered forsome time with two or three acquaintances. With these, however, heparted close to the College, and pursued his way alone. It was now aboutone o'clock, and the streets were quite deserted. During the whole ofhis walk with the companions from whom he had just parted, he had beenat times painfully aware of the sound of steps, as it seemed, doggingthem on their way. Once or twice he had looked back, in the uneasyanticipation that he was again about to experience the same mysteriousannoyances which had so much disconcerted him a week before, andearnestly hoping that he might _see_ some form from whom the soundsmight naturally proceed. But the street was deserted; no form wasvisible. Proceeding now quite alone upon his homeward way, he grewreally nervous and uncomfortable, as he became sensible, with increaseddistinctness, of the well-known and now absolutely dreaded sounds.
By the side of the dead wall which bounded the College Park, the soundsfollowed, recommencing almost simultaneously with his own steps. Thesame unequal pace, sometimes slow, sometimes, for a score yards or so,quickened to a run, was audible from behind him. Again and again heturned, quickly and stealthily he glanced over his shoulder almost atevery half-dozen steps; but no one was visible. The horrors of thisintangible and unseen persecution became gradually all but intolerable;and when at last he reached his home his nerves were strung to such apitch of excitement that he could not rest, and did not attempt even tolie down until after the daylight had broken.
He was awakened by a knock at his chamber-door, and his servantentering, handed him several letters which had just been received bythe early post. One among them instantly arrested his attention; asingle glance at the direction aroused him thoroughly. He at oncerecognized its character, and read as follows:--
"You may as well think, Captain Barton, to escape from your own shadowas from me; do what you may, I will see you as often as I please, andyou shall see me, for I do not want to hide myself, as you fancy. Do notlet 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 aperusal of this strange communication. Captain Barton was observed tobe unusually absent and out of spirits for several days afterwards;but no one divined the cause. Whatever he might think as to thephantom steps which followed him, there could be no possible illusionabout the letters he had received; and, to say the least of it, theirimmediate sequence upon the mysterious sounds which had haunted himwas an odd coincidence. The whole circumstance, in his own mind, wasvaguely and instinctively connected with certain passages in his pastlife, which, of all others, he hated to remember.
It so happened that just about this time, in addition to his approachingnuptials, Captain Barton had fortunately, perhaps, for himself, somebusiness of an engrossing kind connected with the adjustment of alarge and long-litigated claim upon certain properties. The hurry andexcitement of business had its natural effect in gradually dispellingthe marked gloom which had for a time occasionally oppressed him, and ina little while his spirits had entirely resumed their accustomed tone.
During all this period, however, he was occasionally dismayed byindistinct and half-heard repetitions of the same annoyance, and thatin lonely places, in the day time as well as after nightfall. Theserenewals of the strange impressions from which he had suffered somuch were, however, desultory and faint, insomuch that often he reallycould not, to his own satisfaction, distinguish between them and themere suggestions of an excited imagination. One evening he walked downto the House of Commons with a Mr. Norcott, a Member. As they walkeddown together he was observed to become absent and silent, and to adegree so marked as scarcely to consist with good breeding; and this,in one who was obviously in all his ha
bits so perfectly a gentleman,seemed to argue the pressure of some urgent and absorbing anxiety. Itwas afterwards known that, during the whole of that walk, he had heardthe well-known footsteps dogging him as he proceeded. This, however,was the last time he suffered from this phase of the persecution ofwhich he was already the anxious victim. A new and a very differentone was about to be presented.
Of the new series of impressions which were afterwards gradually to workout his destiny, that evening disclosed the first; and but for itsrelation to the train of events which followed, the incident wouldscarcely have been remembered by any one. As they were walking in at thepassage, a man (of whom his friend could afterwards remember only thathe was short in stature, looked like a foreigner, and wore a kind oftravelling-cap) walked very rapidly, and, as if under some fierceexcitement, directly towards them, muttering to himself fast andvehemently the while. This odd-looking person proceeded straight towardBarton, who was foremost, and halted, regarding him for a moment or twowith a look of menace and fury almost maniacal; and then turning aboutas abruptly, he walked before them at the same agitated pace, anddisappeared by a side passage. Norcott distinctly remembered being agood deal shocked at the countenance and bearing of this man, whichindeed irresistibly impressed him with an undefined sense of danger,such as he never felt before or since from the presence of anythinghuman; but these sensations were far from amounting to anything sodisconcerting as to flurry or excite him--he had seen only a singularlyevil countenance, agitated, as it seemed, with the excitement ofmadness. He was absolutely astonished, however, at the effect of thisapparition upon Captain Barton. He knew him to be a man of provedcourage and coolness in real danger, a circumstance which made hisconduct upon this occasion the more conspicuously odd. He recoiled astep or two as the stranger advanced, and clutched his companion's armin silence, with a spasm of agony or terror; and then, as the figuredisappeared, shoving him roughly back, he followed it for a few paces,stopped in great disorder, and sat down upon a form. A countenance moreghastly and haggard it was impossible to fancy.
"For God's sake, Barton, what is the matter?" said Norcott, reallyalarmed at his friend's appearance. "You're not hurt, are you? norunwell? What is it?"
"What did he say? I did not hear it. What was it?" asked Barton, whollydisregarding the question.
"Tut, tut, nonsense!" said Norcott, greatly surprised; "who cares whatthe fellow said? You are unwell, Barton, decidedly unwell; let me call acoach."
"Unwell! Yes, no, not exactly unwell," he said, evidently making aneffort to recover his self-possession; "but, to say the truth, I amfatigued, a little overworked, and perhaps over anxious. You know I havebeen in Chancery, and the winding up of a suit is always a nervousaffair. 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 meto 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 offeredescort. Notwithstanding the few commonplace regrets which Norcott hadexpressed, it was plain that he was just as little deceived as Bartonhimself by the extempore plea of illness with which he had accounted forthe strange exhibition, and that he even then suspected some lurkingmystery in the matter.
Norcott called next day at Barton's lodgings, to inquire for him, andlearned from the servant that he had not left his room since his returnthe night before; but that he was not seriously indisposed, and hoped tobe out again in a few days. That evening he sent for Doctor Richards,then in large and fashionable practice in Dublin, and their interviewwas, it is said, an odd one.
He entered into a detail of his own symptoms in an abstracted anddesultory kind of way, which seemed to argue a strange want of interestin his own cure, and, at all events, made it manifest that there wassome topic engaging his mind of more engrossing importance than hispresent ailment. He complained of occasional palpitations, and headache.Doctor Richards asked him, among other questions, whether there was anyirritating circumstance or anxiety to account for it. This he deniedquickly and peevishly; and the physician thereupon declared his opinion,that there was nothing amiss except some slight derangement of thedigestion, for which he accordingly wrote a prescription, and was aboutto withdraw, when Mr. Barton, with the air of a man who suddenlyrecollects a topic which had nearly escaped him, recalled him.
"I beg your pardon, doctor, but I had really almost forgot; will youpermit 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 proposedinterrogatories, for he was silent for a minute, then walked to hisbook-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 wagerwithout a decision; so I must put them. I want to know first aboutlock-jaw. If a man actually has had that complaint, and appears to havedied of it--so that in fact a physician of average skill pronounces himactually dead--may he, after all, recover?"
Doctor Richards smiled, and shook his head.
"But--but a blunder may be made," resumed Barton. "Suppose an ignorantpretender to medical skill; may _he_ be so deceived by any stage of thecomplaint, as to mistake what is only a part of the progress of thedisease, for death itself?"
"No one who had ever seen death," answered he, "could mistake it in thecase 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 regulationsof foreign hospitals, such as those of, let us say, Lisbon, very lax andbungling? May not all kinds of blunders and slips occur in their entriesof 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 probablylaugh at it; but it must out nevertheless. Is there any disease, in allthe range of human maladies, which would have the effect of perceptiblycontracting the stature, and the whole frame--causing the man to shrinkin all his proportions, and yet to preserve his exact resemblance tohimself in every particular--with the one exception, his height andbulk; _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 fearof assault from a lunatic who is at large, can he not procure a warrantfor his arrest and detention?"
"Really, that is more a lawyer's question than one in my way," repliedDoctor Richards; "but I believe, on applying to a magistrate, such acourse would be directed."
The physician then took his leave; but, just as he reached thehall-door, remembered that he had left his cane upstairs, and returned.His reappearance was awkward, for a piece of paper, which he recognizedas his own prescription, was slowly burning upon the fire, and Bartonsitting close by with an expression of settled gloom and dismay. DoctorRichards 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 thebody, of Captain Barton was in reality the seat of his sufferings.
A few days afterwards, the following advertisement appeared in theDublin newspapers:--
"If Sylvester Yelland, formerly a foremast man on board his Majesty'sfrigate _Dolphin_, or his nearest of kin, will apply to Mr. RoberySmith, solicitor, at his office, Dame Street, he or they may hear ofsomething greatly to his or their advantage. Admission may be had atany hour up to twelve o'clock at night for the next fortnight, shouldparties desire to avoid observation; and the strictest secrecy, as toall communications intended to be confidential, shall be honourablyobserved.
"
The _Dolphin_, as we have mentioned, was the vessel which Captain Bartonhad commanded; and this circumstance, connected with the extraordinaryexertions made by the circulation of hand-bills, etc., as well as byrepeated advertisements, to secure for this strange notice the utmostpossible publicity, suggested to Doctor Richards the idea that CaptainBarton's extreme uneasiness was somehow connected with the individual towhom the advertisement was addressed, and he himself the author of it.This, however, it is needless to add, was no more than a conjecture. Noinformation whatsoever, as to the real purpose of the advertisementitself, was divulged by the agent, nor yet any hint as to who hisemployer might be.
Mr. Barton, although he had latterly begun to earn for himself thecharacter 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 earliestsymptoms of this healthier tone of spirits was his appearing at a granddinner of the Freemasons, of which worthy fraternity he was himself abrother. Barton, who had been at first gloomy and abstracted, drank muchmore freely than was his wont--possibly with the purpose of dispellinghis own secret anxieties--and under the influence of good wine, andpleasant company, became gradually (unlike his usual self) talkative,and even noisy. It was under this unwonted excitement that he left hiscompany at about half-past ten o'clock; and as conviviality is a strongincentive to gallantry, it occurred to him to proceed forthwith to LadyRochdale's, and pass the remainder of the evening with her and hisdestined bride.
Accordingly, he was soon at ---- Street, and chatting gaily with theladies. It is not to be supposed that Captain Barton had exceeded thelimits which propriety prescribes to good fellowship; he had merelytaken enough of wine to raise his spirits, without, however, in theleast degree unsteadying his mind, or affecting his manners. With thisundue elevation of spirits had supervened an entire oblivion or contemptof those undefined apprehensions which had for so long weighed upon hismind, and to a certain extent estranged him from society; but as thenight wore away, and his artificial gaiety began to flag, these painfulfeelings gradually intruded themselves again, and he grew abstracted andanxious as heretofore. He took his leave at length, with an unpleasantforeboding of some coming mischief, and with a mind haunted with athousand mysterious apprehensions, such as, even while he acutely felttheir pressure, he, nevertheless, inwardly strove, or affected tocontemn.
It was his proud defiance of what he considered to be his own weaknesswhich prompted him upon this occasion to the course which brought aboutthe adventure which we are now about to relate. Mr. Barton might haveeasily called a coach, but he was conscious that his strong inclinationto do so proceeded from no cause other than what he desperatelypersisted in representing to himself to be his own superstitioustremors. He might also have returned home by a route different from thatagainst which he had been warned by his mysterious correspondent; butfor the same reason he dismissed this idea also, and with a dogged andhalf desperate resolution to force matters to a crisis of some kind, tosee if there were any reality in the causes of his former suffering, andif not, satisfactorily to bring their delusiveness to the proof, hedetermined to follow precisely the course which he had trodden upon thenight so painfully memorable in his own mind as that on which hisstrange persecution had commenced. Though, sooth to say, the pilot whofor the first time steers his vessel under the muzzles of a hostilebattery never felt his resolution more severely tasked than did CaptainBarton, as he breathlessly pursued this solitary path; a path which,spite of every effort of scepticism and reason, he felt to be, asrespected _him_, infested by a malignant influence.
He pursued his way steadily and rapidly, scarcely breathing fromintensity of suspense; he, however, was troubled by no renewal of thedreaded 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 thefrequented streets. This feeling of self-congratulation was, however,but momentary. The report of a musket at some two hundred yards behindhim, and the whistle of a bullet close to his head, disagreeably andstartlingly dispelled it. His first impulse was to retrace his steps inpursuit of the assassin; but the road on either side was, as we havesaid, embarrassed by the foundations of a street, beyond which extendedwaste fields, full of rubbish and neglected lime and brick kilns, andall now as utterly silent as though no sound had ever disturbed theirdark 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 hispursuit.
With the tumultuous sensations of one whose life had just been exposedto a murderous attempt, and whose escape has been the narrowestpossible, Captain Barton turned, and without, however, quickening hispace actually to a run, hurriedly pursued his way. He had turned, as wehave said, after a pause of a few seconds, and had just commenced hisrapid retreat, when on a sudden he met the well-remembered little man inthe fur cap. The encounter was but momentary. The figure was walking atthe same exaggerated pace, and with the same strange air of menace asbefore; and as it passed him, he thought he heard it say, in a furiouswhisper, "Still alive, still alive!"
The state of Mr. Barton's spirits began now to work a correspondingalteration in his health and looks, and to such a degree that it wasimpossible that the change should escape general remark. For somereasons, known but to himself, he took no step whatsoever to bring theattempt upon his life, which he had so narrowly escaped, under thenotice of the authorities; on the contrary, he kept it jealously tohimself; and it was not for many weeks after the occurrence that hementioned it, and then in strict confidence to a gentleman, the tormentsof his mind at last compelled him to consult a friend.
Spite of his blue devils, however, poor Barton, having no satisfactoryreason to render to the public for any undue remissness in theattentions which his relation to Miss Montague required, was obligedto exert himself, and present to the world a confident and cheerfulbearing. The true source of his sufferings, and every circumstanceconnected with them, he guarded with a reserve so jealous, that itseemed dictated by at least a suspicion that the origin of his strangepersecution 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 ahaunting anxiety which it dared not reveal, or confide to any humanbreast, became daily more excited; and, of course, more vividlyimpressible, by a system of attack which operated through the nervoussystem; and in this state he was destined to sustain, with increasingfrequency, the stealthy visitations of that apparition, which from thefirst had seemed to possess so unearthly and terrible a hold upon hisimagination.
* * * * *
It was about this time that Captain Barton called upon the thencelebrated preacher, Doctor Macklin, with whom he had a slightacquaintance; and an extraordinary conversation ensued. The divine wasseated in his chambers in college, surrounded with works upon hisfavourite pursuit and deep in theology, when Barton was announced. Therewas something at once embarrassed and excited in his manner, which,along with his wan and haggard countenance, impressed the student withthe unpleasant consciousness that his visitor must have recentlysuffered terribly indeed to account for an alteration so striking, soshocking.
After the usual interchange of polite greeting, and a few commonplaceremarks, Captain Barton, who obviously perceived the surprise which hisvisit had excited, and which Doctor Macklin was unable wholly toconceal, interrupted a brief pause by remarking,--
"This is a strange call, Doctor Macklin, perhaps scarcely warranted byan acquaintance so slight as mine with you. I should not, under ordinarycircumstances, have ventured to disturb you, but my visit is neither anidle nor impertinent intrusion. I am sure you will not so account it,when--"
Doctor Macklin interrupted him with assurances, such as good breedingsuggested, and Barton resumed,--
"I am come to task your patience by asking your advice. When I say yourpatience, 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 meinfinite gratification if I can give you comfort in any distress ofmind, but--but--"
"I know what you would say," resumed Barton, quickly. "I am anunbeliever, 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 verydeep, interest in the subject. Circumstances have lately forced it uponmy attention in such a way as to compel me to review the whole questionin a more candid and teachable spirit, I believe, than I ever studied itin before."
"Your difficulties, I take it for granted, refer to the evidences ofrevelation," suggested the clergyman.
"Why--no--yes; in fact I am ashamed to say I have not considered even myobjections sufficiently to state them connectedly; but--but there is onesubject 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 theauthenticity of what we are taught to call revelation, of one fact I amdeeply and horribly convinced: that there does exist beyond this aspiritual world--a system whose workings are generally in mercy hiddenfrom us--a system which may be, and which is sometimes, partially andterribly revealed. I am sure, I know," continued Barton, with increasingexcitement, "there is a God--a dreadful God--and that retributionfollows guilt. In ways, the most mysterious and stupendous; by agencies,the most inexplicable and terrific; there is a spiritual system--greatHeavens, how frightfully I have been convinced!--a system malignant, andinexorable, and omnipotent, under whose persecutions I am, and havebeen, suffering the torments of the damned!--yes, sir--yes--the firesand frenzy of hell!"
As Barton continued, his agitation became so vehement that the divinewas shocked and even alarmed. The wild and excited rapidity with whichhe spoke, and, above all, the indefinable horror which stamped hisfeatures, afforded a contrast to his ordinary cool and unimpassionedself-possession, striking and painful in the last degree.
"My dear sir," said Doctor Macklin, after a brief pause, "I fear youhave been suffering much, indeed; but I venture to predict that thedepression under which you labour will be found to originate in purelyphysical causes, and that with a change of air and the aid of a fewtonics, your spirits will return, and the tone of your mind be once morecheerful and tranquil as heretofore. There was, after all, more truththan we are quite willing to admit in the classic theories whichassigned the undue predominance of any one affection of the mind to theundue action or torpidity of one or other of our bodily organs. Believeme, that a little attention to diet, exercise, and the other essentialsof health, under competent direction, will make you as much yourself asyou 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 butone, and that is, that by some other spiritual agency more potent thanthat which tortures me, _it_ may be combated, and I delivered. If thismay not be, I am lost--now and for ever lost."
"But, Mr. Barton, you must remember," urged his companion, "that othershave suffered as you have done, and--"
"No, no, no," interrupted he with irritability; "no, sir, I am not acredulous--far from a superstitious man. I have been, perhaps, too muchthe reverse--too sceptical, too slow of belief; but unless I were onewhom no amount of evidence could convince, unless I were to contemn therepeated, the _perpetual_ evidence of my own senses, I am now--now atlast constrained to believe I have no escape from the conviction, theoverwhelming 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, hethus delivered himself.
"God help you, my poor friend!" said Doctor Macklin, much shocked. "Godhelp you; for, indeed, you _are_ a sufferer, however your sufferings mayhave 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 amountain by an effort of my will. I have not belief enough to pray;there is something within me that will not pray. You prescribeimpossibilities--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 confusionand terror. I have tried in vain, and more than in vain. The awful,unutterable idea of eternity and infinity oppresses and maddens mybrain, 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 ideaof the Creator is to me intolerable; my mind cannot support it."
"Say, then, my dear sir," urged he, "say how you would have me serveyou. 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, andan evident effort to suppress his excitement; "listen to me while Idetail the circumstances of the terrible persecution under which mylife has become all but intolerable--a persecution which has made mefear _death_ and the world beyond the grave as much as I have grown tohate existence."
Barton then proceeded to relate the circumstances which we have alreadydetailed, and then continued,--
"This has now become habitual--an accustomed thing. I do not mean theactual seeing him in the flesh; thank God, _that_ at least is notpermitted daily. Thank God, from the unutterable horrors of thatvisitation I have been mercifully allowed intervals of repose, thoughnone of security; but from the consciousness that a malignant spirit isfollowing and watching me wherever I go, I have never, for a singleinstant, a temporary respite: I am pursued with blasphemies, cries ofdespair, and appalling hatred; I hear those dreadful sounds called afterme as I turn the corners of streets; they come in the night-time while Isit in my chamber alone; they haunt me everywhere, charging me withhideous crimes, and--great God!--threatening me with coming vengeanceand eternal misery! Hush! do you hear _that_?" he cried, with a horriblesmile 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 heheard, the half articulate sounds of rage and derision mingling in theirsough.
"Well, what do you think of _that_?" at length Barton cried, drawing along breath through his teeth.
"I heard the wind," said Doctor Macklin; "what should I think of it?What is there remarkable about it?"
"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 reassurehimself; for though it was broad daylight, there was neverthelesssomething disagreeably contagious in the nervous excitement under whichhis visitor so obviously suffered. "You must not give way to those wildfancies: 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 therub. What--_what_ am I to do? What _can_ I do?"
"My dear sir, this is fancy," said the man of folios; "you are your owntormentor."
"No, no, sir; fancy has no part in it," answered Barton, somewhatsternly. "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 frequ
ently," said the ecclesiastic; "whyhave you not accosted or secured him? Is it not somewhat precipitate, tosay no more, to assume, as you have done, the existence of preternaturalagency, when, after all, everything may be easily accountable, if onlyproper means were taken to sift the matter."
"There are circumstances connected with this--this _appearance_," saidBarton, "which it were needless to disclose, but which to _me_ areproofs of its horrible and unearthly nature. I know that the being whohaunts me is not _man_. I say I _know_ this; I could prove it to yourown conviction." He paused for a minute, and then added, "And as toaccosting it, I dare not--I could not! When I see it I am powerless; Istand in the gaze of death, in the triumphant presence of preterhumanpower and malignity; my strength, and faculties, and memory all forsakeme. Oh, God! I fear, sir, you know not what you speak of. Mercy, mercy!heaven have pity on me!"
He leaned his elbow on the table, and passed his hand across his eyes,as if to exclude some image of horror, muttering the last words of thesentence he had just concluded, again and again.
"Dr. Macklin," he said, abruptly raising himself, and looking full uponthe clergyman with an imploring eye, "I know you will do for me whatevermay be done. You know now fully the circumstances and the nature of themysterious agency of which I am the victim. I tell you I cannot helpmyself; 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 byvicarious supplication, by the intercession of the good, or by any aidor influence whatsoever, I implore of you, I adjure you in the name ofthe Most High, give me the benefit of that influence, deliver me fromthe body of this death! Strive for me; pity me! I know you will; youcannot refuse this; it is the purpose and object of my visit. Send meaway with some hope, however little--some faint hope of ultimatedeliverance, and I will nerve myself to endure, from hour to hour, thehideous dream into which my existence is transformed."
Doctor Macklin assured him that all he could do was to pray earnestlyfor him, and that so much he would not fail to do. They parted with ahurried and melancholy valediction. Barton hastened to the carriagewhich awaited him at the door, drew the blinds, and drove away, whileDr. Macklin returned to his chamber, to ruminate at leisure upon thestrange interview which had just interrupted his studies.
It was not to be expected that Captain Barton's changed and eccentrichabits should long escape remark and discussion. Various were thetheories suggested to account for it. Some attributed the alteration tothe pressure of secret pecuniary embarrassments; others to a repugnanceto fulfil an engagement into which he was presumed to have tooprecipitately entered; and others, again, to the supposed incipiency ofmental disease, which latter, indeed, was the most plausible, as well asthe most generally received, of the hypotheses circulated in the gossipof the day.
From the very commencement of this change, at first so gradual in itsadvances, Miss Montague had, of course, been aware of it. The intimacyinvolved in their peculiar relation, as well as the near interest whichit inspired, afforded, in her case, alike opportunity and motive for thesuccessful exercise of that keen and penetrating observation peculiarto the sex. His visits became, at length, so interrupted, and hismanner, while they lasted, so abstracted, strange, and agitated, thatLady Rochdale, after hinting her anxiety and her suspicions more thanonce, at length distinctly stated her anxiety, and pressed for anexplanation. The explanation was given, and although its nature at firstrelieved the worst solicitudes of the old lady and her niece, yet thecircumstances which attended it, and the really dreadful consequenceswhich it obviously threatened as regarded the spirits, and, indeed, thereason, of the now wretched man who made the strange declaration, wereenough, upon a little reflection, to fill their minds with perturbationand alarm.
General Montague, the young lady's father, at length arrived. He hadhimself slightly known Barton, some ten or twelve years previously,and being aware of his fortune and connections, was disposed to regardhim as an unexceptionable and indeed a most desirable match for hisdaughter. 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, "mysister tells me that you are a victim to blue devils in quite a new andoriginal shape."
Barton changed countenance, and sighed profoundly.
"Come, come; I protest this will never do," continued the General; "youare more like a man on his way to the gallows than to the altar. Thesedevils 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 tosay out what I have to say about this magnificent mock mystery ofyours. Come, you must not be angry; but, really, it is too bad to seeyou, 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 veryparticularly contemptible one. Seriously, though, my dear Barton, Ihave been a good deal annoyed at what they tell me; but, at the sametime, thoroughly convinced that there is nothing in the matter thatmay 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," interruptedthe soldier. "I know that all your annoyance proceeds from theoccasional appearance of a certain little man in a cap and great-coat,with a red vest and bad countenance, who follows you about, and popsupon 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 mischievouslittle 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, "youwould speak very differently. Don't imagine that I am so weak andfoolish as to assume, without proof the most overwhelming, theconclusion to which I have been forced. The proofs are here, locked uphere." As he spoke, he tapped upon his breast, and with an anxious sighcontinued to walk up and down the room.
"Well, well, Barton," said his visitor, "I'll wager a rump and a dozenI 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 thewindow, stagger slowly back, like one who had received a stunningblow--his arm feebly extended towards the street, his face and his verylips white as ashes--while he uttered, "There--there--there!"
General Montague started mechanically to his feet, and, from the windowof the drawing-room, saw a figure corresponding, as well as his hurrywould permit him to discern, with the description of the person whoseappearance so constantly and dreadfully disturbed the repose of hisfriend. The figure was just turning from the rails of the area uponwhich it had been leaning, and without waiting to see more, the oldgentleman snatched his cane and hat, and rushed down the stairs and intothe street, in the furious hope of securing the person, and punishingthe audacity of the mysterious stranger. He looked around him, but invain, for any trace of the form he had himself distinctly beheld. He ranbreathlessly to the nearest corner, expecting to see from thence theretreating figure, but no such form was visible. Back and forward, fromcrossing to crossing, he ran at fault, and it was not until the curiousgaze and laughing countenances of the passers-by reminded him of theabsurdity of his pursuit, that he checked his hurried pace, lowered hiswalking-cane from the menacing altitude which he had mechanically givenit, adjusted his hat, and walked composedly back again, inwardly vexedand flurried. He found Barton pale and trembling in every joint; theyboth remained silent, though under emotions very different. At lastBarton 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 fellowruns like a lamplighter. I wanted to _catch_ him, but he had stolen awaybefore I could reach the hall door. However, it is no great matter; n
exttime, I dare say, I'll do better; and, egad, if I once come withinreach of him, I'll introduce his shoulders to the weight of my cane, ina way to make him cry _peccavi_."
Notwithstanding General Montague's undertakings and exhortations,however, Barton continued to suffer from the self-same unexplainedcause. Go how, when, or where he would, he was still constantly doggedor confronted by the hateful being who had established over him sodreadful and mysterious an influence; nowhere, and at no time, was hesecure against the odious appearance which haunted him with suchdiabolical perseverance. His depression, misery, and excitement becamemore settled and alarming every day, and the mental agonies thatceaselessly preyed upon him began at last so sensibly to affect hisgeneral health, that Lady Rochdale and General Montague succeeded(without, indeed, much difficulty) in persuading him to try a short touron the Continent, in the hope that an entire change of scene would, atall events, have the effect of breaking through the influences of localassociation, which the more sceptical of his friends assumed to be by nomeans inoperative in suggesting and perpetuating what they conceived tobe a mere form of nervous illusion. General Montague, moreover, waspersuaded that the figure which haunted his intended son-in-law was byno means the creation of his own imagination, but, on the contrary,a substantial form of flesh and blood, animated by a spiteful andobstinate resolution, perhaps with some murderous object in perspective,to watch and follow the unfortunate gentleman. Even this hypothesis wasnot a very pleasant one; yet it was plain that if Barton could once beconvinced that there was nothing preternatural in the phenomenon, whichhe had hitherto regarded in that light, the affair would lose all itsterrors in his eyes, and wholly cease to exercise upon his health andspirits the baneful influence which it had hitherto done. He thereforereasoned, that if the annoyance were actually escaped from by merechange of scene, it obviously could not have originated in anysupernatural agency.
Yielding to their persuasions, Barton left Dublin for England,accompanied by General Montague. They posted rapidly to London, andthence to Dover, whence they took the packet with a fair wind forCalais. The General's confidence in the result of the expedition onBarton's spirits had risen day by day since their departure from theshores of Ireland; for, to the inexpressible relief and delight ofthe latter, he had not, since then, so much as even once fancied arepetition of those impressions which had, when at home, drawn himgradually down to the very abyss of horror and despair. This exemptionfrom what he had begun to regard as the inevitable condition of hisexistence, and the sense of security which began to pervade his mind,were inexpressibly delightful; and in the exultation of what heconsidered his deliverance, he indulged in a thousand happyanticipations for a future into which so lately he had hardly daredto look. In short, both he and his companion secretly congratulatedthemselves upon the termination of that persecution which had been toits immediate victim a source of such unspeakable agony.
It was a beautiful day, and a crowd of idlers stood upon the jetty toreceive the packet, and enjoy the bustle of the new arrivals. Montaguewalked a few paces in advance of his friend, and as he made his waythrough the crowd, a little man touched his arm, and said to him, in abroad provincial _patois_,--
"Monsieur is walking too fast; he will lose his sick comrade in thethrong, for, by my faith, the poor gentleman seems to be fainting."
Montague turned quickly, and observed that Barton did indeed look deadlypale. 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?" criedMontague, 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, andcollar the delinquent on the spot.
"He touched your arm--he spoke to you--he pointed to me. God be mercifulto me, there is no escape!" said Barton, in the low, subdued tones ofintense despair.
Montague had already bustled away in all the flurry of mingled hope andindignation; but though the singular _personnel_ of the stranger who hadaccosted him was vividly and perfectly impressed upon his recollection,he failed to discover among the crowd even the slightest resemblance tohim. After a fruitless search, in which he enlisted the services ofseveral of the bystanders, who aided all the more zealously as theybelieved 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 andbewildered, ghastly look of one who has been stunned by some mortalshock; "there is no use in contending with it; whatever it is, thedreadful association between me and it is now established; I shall neverescape--never, never!"
"Nonsense, nonsense, my dear fellow; don't talk so," said Montague, withsomething at once of irritation and dismay; "you must not; never mind, Isay--never mind, we'll jockey the scoundrel yet."
It was, however, but lost labour to endeavour henceforward to inspireBarton with one ray of hope; he became utterly desponding. Thisintangible and, as it seemed, utterly inadequate influence was fastdestroying his energies of intellect, character, and health. His firstobject was now to return to Ireland, there, as he believed, and nowalmost hoped, speedily to die.
To Ireland, accordingly, he came, and one of the first faces he saw uponthe shore was again that of his implacable and dreaded persecutor.Barton seemed at last to have lost not only all enjoyment and every hopein existence, but all independence of will besides. He now submittedhimself passively to the management of the friends most nearlyinterested in his welfare. With the apathy of entire despair, heimplicitly assented to whatever measures they suggested and advised;and, as a last resource, it was determined to remove him to a house ofLady Rochdale's in the neighbourhood of Clontarf, where, with the adviceof his medical attendant (who persisted in his opinion that the wholetrain of impressions resulted merely from some nervous derangement) itwas resolved that he was to confine himself strictly to the house, andto make use only of those apartments which commanded a view of anenclosed yard, the gates of which were to be kept jealously locked.These precautions would at least secure him against the casualappearance of any living form which his excited imagination mightpossibly confound with the spectre which, as it was contended, hisfancy recognized in every figure that bore even a distant or generalresemblance to the traits with which he had at first invested it. Amonth or six weeks' absolute seclusion under these conditions, it washoped, might, by interrupting the series of these terrible impressions,gradually dispel the predisposing apprehension, and effectually break upthe associations which had confirmed the supposed disease, and renderedrecovery hopeless. Cheerful society and that of his friends was to beconstantly supplied, and on the whole, very sanguine expectations wereindulged in, that under this treatment the obstinate hypochondria of thepatient might at length give way.
Accompanied, therefore, by Lady Rochdale, General Montague, and hisdaughter--his own affianced bride--poor Barton, himself never daring tocherish a hope of his ultimate emancipation from the strange horrorsunder which his life was literally wasting away, took possession ofthe apartments whose situation protected him against the dreadfulintrusions from which he shrank with such unutterable terror.
After a little time, a steady persistence in this system began tomanifest its results in a very marked though gradual improvement alikein the health and spirits of the invalid. Not, indeed, that anythingat all approaching to complete recovery was yet discernible. On thecontrary, to those who had not seen him since the commencement of hisstrange sufferings, such an alteration would have been apparent as mightwell have shocked them. The improvement, however, such as it was, waswelcomed with gratitude an
d delight, especially by the poor young lady,whom her attachment to him, as well as her now singularly painfulposition, consequent on his mysterious and protracted illness, renderedan object of pity scarcely one degree less to be commiserated thanhimself.
A week passed--a fortnight--a month--and yet no recurrence of the hatedvisitation had agitated and terrified him as before. The treatment had,so far, been followed by complete success. The chain of association hadbeen broken. The constant pressure upon the overtasked spirits had beenremoved, and, under these comparatively favourable circumstances, thesense of social community with the world about him, and something ofhuman interest, if not of enjoyment, began to reanimate his mind.
It was about this time that Lady Rochdale, who, like most old ladies ofthe day, was deep in family receipts, and a great pretender to medicalscience, being engaged in the concoction of certain unpalatable mixturesof marvellous virtue, despatched her own maid to the kitchen garden witha list of herbs which were there to be carefully culled and brought backto her for the purpose stated. The hand-maiden, however, returned withher task scarce half-completed, and a good deal flurried and alarmed.Her mode of accounting for her precipitate retreat and evident agitationwas odd, and to the old lady unpleasantly startling.
It appeared that she had repaired to the kitchen garden, pursuant toher mistress's directions, and had there begun to make the specifiedselection among the rank and neglected herbs which crowded one corner ofthe enclosure, and while engaged in this pleasant labour she carelesslysang 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 shewas singing; and looking up, she saw through the old thorn hedge, whichsurrounded the garden, a singularly ill-looking, little man, whosecountenance wore the stamp of menace and malignity, standing close toher at the other side of the hawthorn screen. She described herself asutterly unable to move or speak, while he charged her with a message forCaptain Barton, the substance of which she distinctly remembered to havebeen 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 avisit in his own chamber. On concluding this brief message, the strangerhad, with a threatening air, got down into the outer ditch, and seizingthe hawthorn stems in his hands, seemed on the point of climbing throughthe fence, a feat which might have been accomplished without muchdifficulty. Without, of course, awaiting this result, the girl, throwingdown her treasures of thyme and rosemary, had turned and run, with theswiftness of terror, to the house. Lady Rochdale commanded her, on painof instant dismissal, to observe an absolute silence respecting all thatportion of the incident which related to Captain Barton; and, at thesame time, directed instant search to be made by her men in the gardenand fields adjacent. This measure, however, was attended with the usualunsuccess, and filled with fearful and indefinable misgivings, LadyRochdale communicated the incident to her brother. The story, however,until long afterwards, went no further, and of course it was jealouslyguarded from Barton, who continued to mend, though slowly andimperfectly.
Barton now began to walk occasionally in the courtyard which we havementioned, and which, being surrounded by a high wall, commanded no viewbeyond its own extent. Here he, therefore, considered himself perfectlysecure; and, but for a careless violation of orders by one of thegrooms, he might have enjoyed, at least for some time longer, hismuch-prized immunity. Opening upon the public road, this yard wasentered by a wooden gate, with a wicket in it, which was furtherdefended by an iron gate upon the outside. Strict orders had been givento keep them carefully locked; but, in spite of these, it had happenedthat one day, as Barton was slowly pacing this narrow enclosure, in hisaccustomed walk, and reaching the further extremity, was turning toretrace his steps, he saw the boarded wicket ajar, and the face of histormentor immovably looking at him through the iron bars. For a fewseconds he stood riveted to the earth, breathless and bloodless, in thefascination of that dreaded gaze, and then fell helplessly upon thepavement.
There was he found a few minutes afterwards, and conveyed to hisroom, the apartment which he was never afterwards to leave alive.Henceforward, a marked and unaccountable change was observable in thetone of his mind. Captain Barton was now no longer the excited anddespairing man he had been before; a strange alteration had passed uponhim, an unearthly tranquillity reigned in his mind; it was theanticipated 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_ hascome. 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; butmy _agony_ is almost over. Comfort has been revealed to me, and whatremains of my allotted struggle I will bear with submission, even withhope."
"I am glad to hear you speak so tranquilly, my dear fellow," saidMontague; "peace and cheerfulness of mind are all you need to make youwhat you were."
"No, no, I never can be that," said he, mournfully. "I am no longer fitfor life. I am soon to die: I do not shrink from death as I did. I am tosee _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 thesewere good and welcome; and they came so solemnly and sweetly, withunutterable love and melancholy, such as I could not, without sayingmore 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, "youmust not give way. What is it, after all, but a pack of dreams andnonsense; or, at worst, the practices of a scheming rascal that enjoyshis power of playing upon your nerves, and loves to exert it; a sneakingvagabond that owes you a grudge, and pays it off this way, not daring totry a more manly one."
"A grudge, indeed, he owes me; you say rightly," said Barton, with asullen shudder; "a grudge as you call it. Oh, God! when the justice ofheaven permits the Evil One to carry out a scheme of vengeance, whenits execution is committed to the lost and frightful victim of sin, whoowes his own ruin to the man, the very man, whom he is commissioned topursue; then, indeed, the torments and terrors of hell are anticipatedon earth. But heaven has dealt mercifully with me: hope has opened to meat last; and if death could come without the dreadful sight I am doomedto see, I would gladly close my eyes this moment upon the world. Butthough death is welcome, I shrink with an agony you cannot understand;a maddening agony, an actual frenzy of terror, from the last encounterwith 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."
As Barton thus spoke, he trembled so violently that Montague was reallyalarmed at the extremity of his sudden agitation, and hastened to leadhim back to the topic which had before seemed to exert so tranquillizingan effect upon his mind.
"It was not a dream," he said, after a time; "I was in a differentstate, I felt differently and strangely; and yet it was all as real, asclear 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_," saidBarton, continuing, as if he had not heard the question, "it was slowly,very slowly; I was reclining by the margin of a broad lake, surroundedby misty hills, and a soft, melancholy, rose-coloured light illuminatedit all. It was indescribably sad and lonely, and yet more beautiful thanany earthly scene. My head was leaning on the lap of a girl, and she wassinging a strange and wondrous song, that told, I know not how, whetherby words or harmony, of all my life, all that is past, and all that isstill to come. And with the song the old feelings that I thought hadperished within me came bac
k, and tears flowed from my eyes, partlyfor the song and its mysterious beauty, and partly for the unearthlysweetness of her voice; yet I know the voice, oh! how well; and I wasspell-bound as I listened and looked at the strange and solitary scene,without stirring, almost without breathing, and, alas! alas! withoutturning my eyes toward the face that I knew was near me, so sweetlypowerful was the enchantment that held me. And so, slowly and softly,the song and scene grew fainter, and ever fainter, to my senses, tillall was dark and still again. And then I wakened to this world, as yousaw, comforted, for I knew that I was forgiven much." Barton wept againlong and bitterly.
From this time, as we have said, the prevailing tone of his mind was oneof profound and tranquil melancholy. This, however, was not without itsinterruptions. He was thoroughly impressed with the conviction thathe was to experience another and a final visitation, illimitablytranscending in horror all he had before experienced. From thisanticipated and unknown agony he often shrunk in such paroxysms ofabject terror and distraction, as filled the whole household with dismayand superstitious panic. Even those among them who affected to discreditthe supposition of preternatural agency in the matter, were often intheir secret souls visited during the darkness and solitude of nightwith qualms and apprehensions which they would not have readilyconfessed; and none of them attempted to dissuade Barton from theresolution on which he now systematically acted, of shutting himself upin his own apartment. The window-blinds of this room were kept jealouslydown; and his own man was seldom out of his presence, day or night, hisbed being placed in the same chamber.
This man was an attached and respectable servant; and his duties, inaddition to those ordinarily imposed upon _valets_, but which Barton'sindependent habits generally dispensed with, were to attend carefullyto the simple precautions by means of which his master hoped to excludethe dreaded intrusion of the "Watcher," as the strange letter he hadat first received had designated his persecutor. And, in addition toattending to these arrangements, which consisted merely in anticipatingthe possibility of his master's being, through any unscreened windowor opened door, exposed to the dreaded influence, the valet was neverto suffer him to be for one moment alone: total solitude, even for aminute, had become to him now almost as intolerable as the idea of goingabroad into the public ways; it was an instinctive anticipation of whatwas coming.
It is needless to say, that, under these mysterious and horriblecircumstances, no steps were taken toward the fulfilment of thatengagement into which he had entered. There was quite disparity enoughin point of years, and indeed of habits, between the young lady andCaptain Barton, to have precluded anything like very vehement orromantic attachment on her part. Though grieved and anxious, therefore,she was very far from being heart-broken; a circumstance which, for thesentimental purposes of our tale, is much to be deplored. But truth mustbe told, especially in a narrative whose chief, if not only, pretensionsto interest consist in a rigid adherence to facts, or what are soreported to have been.
Miss Montague, nevertheless, devoted much of her time to a patient butfruitless attempt to cheer the unhappy invalid. She read for him, andconversed with him; but it was apparent that whatever exertions he made,the endeavour to escape from the one constant and ever-present fear thatpreyed upon him was utterly and miserably unavailing.
Young ladies, as all the world knows, are much given to the cultivationof pets; and among those who shared the favour of Miss Montague was afine old owl, which the gardener, who caught him napping among the ivyof a ruined stable, had dutifully presented to that young lady.
The caprice which regulates such preferences was manifested in theextravagant favour with which this grim and ill-favoured bird was atonce distinguished by his mistress; and, trifling as this whimsicalcircumstance may seem, I am forced to mention it, inasmuch as it isconnected, 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 wasutterly unaccountable. Its very vicinity was insupportable to him. Heseemed to hate and dread it with a vehemence absolutely laughable, andto those who have never witnessed the exhibition of antipathies ofthis kind, his dread would seem all but incredible.
With these few words of preliminary explanation, I shall proceed tostate the particulars of the last scene in this strange series ofincidents. It was almost two o'clock one winter's night, and Bartonwas, as usual at that hour, in his bed; the servant we have mentionedoccupied a smaller bed in the same room, and a candle was burning. Theman was on a sudden aroused by his master, who said,--
"I can't get it out of my head that that accursed bird has escapedsomehow, and is lurking in some corner of the room. I have been dreamingof him. Get up, Smith, and look about; search for him. Such hatefuldreams!"
The servant rose, and examined the chamber, and while engaged in sodoing, he heard the well-known sound, more like a long-drawn gasp than ahiss, with which these birds from their secret haunts affright the quietof the night. This ghostly indication of its proximity, for the soundproceeded from the passage upon which Barton's chamber-door opened,determined the search of the servant, who, opening the door, proceeded astep or two forward for the purpose of driving the bird away. He had,however, hardly entered the lobby, when the door behind him slowly swungto under the impulse, as it seemed, of some gentle current of air; butas immediately over the door there was a kind of window, intended in thedaytime to aid in lighting the passage, and through which the rays ofthe candle were then issuing, the valet could see quite enough forhis purpose. As he advanced he heard his master (who, lying in awell-curtained bed had not, as it seemed, perceived his exit from theroom) call him by name, and direct him to place the candle on the tableby his bed. The servant, who was now some way in the long passage, didnot like to raise his voice for the purpose of replying, lest he shouldstartle the sleeping inmates of the house, began to walk hurriedly andsoftly back again, when, to his amazement, he heard a voice in theinterior of the chamber answering calmly, and the man actually saw,through the window which over-topped the door, that the light was slowlyshifting, as if carried across the chamber in answer to his master'scall. Palsied by a feeling akin to terror, yet not unmingled with ahorrible curiosity, he stood breathless and listening at the threshold,unable to summon resolution to push open the door and enter. Then camea rustling of the curtains, and a sound like that of one who in a lowvoice 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 sameexclamation several times. Then ensued a silence, which again was brokenby the same strange soothing sound; and at last there burst forth, inone swelling peal, a yell of agony so appalling and hideous, that, undersome impulse of ungovernable horror, the man rushed to the door, andwith his whole strength strove to force it open. Whether it was that, inhis agitation, he had himself but imperfectly turned the handle, or thatthe door was really secured upon the inside, he failed to effect anentrance; and as he tugged and pushed, yell after yell rang louder andwilder through the chamber, accompanied all the while by the samehushing sounds. Actually freezing with terror, and scarce knowing whathe did, the man turned and ran down the passage, wringing his hands inthe extremity of horror and irresolution. At the stair-head he wasencountered by General Montague, scared and eager, and just as they metthe fearful sounds had ceased.
"What is it?--who--where is your master?" said Montague, with theincoherence of extreme agitation. "Has anything--for God's sake, isanything wrong?"
"Lord have mercy on us, it's all over," said the man, staring wildlytowards his master's chamber. "He's dead, sir; I'm sure he's dead."
Without waiting for inquiry or explanation, Montague, closely followedby the servant, hurried to the chamber-door, turned the handle, andpushed it open. As the door yielded to his pressure, the ill-omened birdof which the servant had been in search, uttering its spectral warning,started suddenly from the far side of the bed, and flying through thedoorway close over their head
s, and extinguishing, in its passage, thecandle which Montague carried, crashed through the skylight thatoverlooked the lobby, and sailed away into the darkness of the outerspace.
"There it is, God bless us!" whispered the man, after a breathlesspause.
"Curse that bird!" muttered the general, startled by the suddenness ofthe 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," whisperedMontague, sternly.
The man hesitated.
"Hold this, then," said Montague, impatiently, thrusting the candlestickinto the servant's hand; and himself advancing to the bedside, he drewthe curtains apart. The light of the candle, which was still burning atthe bedside, fell upon a figure huddled together, and half upright, atthe head of the bed. It seemed as though it had shrunk back as far asthe solid panelling would allow, and the hands were still clutched inthe bed-clothes.
EXTINGUISHING IN ITS PASSAGE THE CANDLE WHICH MONTAGUECARRIED.]
"Barton, Barton, Barton!" cried the general, with a strange mixture ofawe 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 thesightless eyes, still open, gazed vacantly forward toward the front ofthe bed.
"God Almighty, he's dead!" muttered the general, as he looked upon thisfearful spectacle. They both continued to gaze upon it in silence for aminute or more. "And cold, too," said Montague, withdrawing his handfrom that of the dead man.
"And see, see; may I never have life, sir," added the man, after anotherpause, with a shudder, "but there was something else on the bed withhim! Look there--look there; see that, sir!"
As the man thus spoke, he pointed to a deep indenture, as if caused by aheavy pressure, near the foot of the bed.
Montague was silent.
"Come, sir, come away, for God's sake!" whispered the man, drawing closeup to him, and holding fast by his arm, while he glanced fearfullyround; "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, andMontague, hastily desiring the servant to arrest their progress,endeavoured to loose the rigid grip with which the fingers of the deadman were clutched in the bed-clothes, and drew, as well as he was able,the awful figure into a reclining posture. Then closing the curtainscarefully upon it, he hastened himself to meet those who wereapproaching.
* * * * *
It is needless to follow the personages so slightly connected with thisnarrative into the events of their after lives; it is enough for us toremark that no clue to the solution of these mysterious occurrences wasever afterwards discovered; and so long an interval having now passed,it is scarcely to be expected that time can throw any new light upontheir inexplicable obscurity. Until the secrets of the earth shall be nolonger hidden these transactions must remain shrouded in mystery.
The only occurrence in Captain Barton's former life to which referencewas ever made, as having any possible connection with the sufferingswith which his existence closed, and which he himself seemed to regardas working out a retribution for some grievous sin of his past life, wasa circumstance which not for several years after his death was broughtto light. The nature of this disclosure was painful to his relatives anddiscreditable to his memory.
It appeared, then, that some eight years before Captain Barton's finalreturn to Dublin, he had formed, in the town of Plymouth, a guiltyattachment, the object of which was the daughter of one of the ship'screw under his command. The father had visited the frailty of hisunhappy child with extreme harshness, and even brutality, and it wassaid that she had died heart-broken. Presuming upon Barton's implicationin her guilt, this man had conducted himself towards him with markedinsolence, and Barton resented this--and what he resented with stillmore exasperated bitterness, his treatment of the unfortunate girl--bya systematic exercise of those terrible and arbitrary severities withwhich the regulations of the navy arm those who are responsible for itsdiscipline. The man had at length made his escape, while the vessel wasin port at Lisbon, but died, as it was said, in an hospital in thattown, of the wounds inflicted in one of his recent and sanguinarypunishments.
Whether these circumstances in reality bear or not upon the occurrencesof 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 theorigin and motives of this mysterious persecution, there can be nodoubt that, with respect to the agencies by which it was accomplished,absolute and impenetrable mystery is like to prevail until the day ofdoom.
The Watcher, and other weird stories Page 3
