Chapter 2

Admission may be had at
any hour up to twelve o'clock at night for the next fortnight, should
parties desire to avoid observation; and the strictest secrecy, as to
all communications intended to be confidential, shall be honourably
observed."

The _Dolphin_, as we have mentioned, was the vessel which Captain Barton
had commanded; and this circumstance, connected with the extraordinary
exertions made by the circulation of hand-bills, etc., as well as by
repeated advertisements, to secure for this strange notice the utmost
possible publicity, suggested to Doctor Richards the idea that Captain
Barton's extreme uneasiness was somehow connected with the individual to
whom the advertisement was addressed, and he himself the author of it.
This, however, it is needless to add, was no more than a conjecture. No
information whatsoever, as to the real purpose of the advertisement
itself, was divulged by the agent, nor yet any hint as to who his
employer might be.

Mr. Barton, although he had latterly begun to earn for himself the
character of a hypochondriac, was yet very far from deserving it.
Though by no means lively, he had yet, naturally, what are termed
"even spirits," and was not subject to continual depressions. He soon,
therefore, began to return to his former habits; and one of the earliest
symptoms of this healthier tone of spirits was his appearing at a grand
dinner of the Freemasons, of which worthy fraternity he was himself a
brother. Barton, who had been at first gloomy and abstracted, drank much
more freely than was his wont--possibly with the purpose of dispelling
his own secret anxieties--and under the influence of good wine, and
pleasant company, became gradually (unlike his usual self) talkative,
and even noisy. It was under this unwonted excitement that he left his
company at about half-past ten o'clock; and as conviviality is a strong
incentive to gallantry, it occurred to him to proceed forthwith to Lady
Rochdale's, and pass the remainder of the evening with her and his
destined bride.

Accordingly, he was soon at ---- Street, and chatting gaily with the
ladies. It is not to be supposed that Captain Barton had exceeded the
limits which propriety prescribes to good fellowship; he had merely
taken enough of wine to raise his spirits, without, however, in the
least degree unsteadying his mind, or affecting his manners. With this
undue elevation of spirits had supervened an entire oblivion or contempt
of those undefined apprehensions which had for so long weighed upon his
mind, and to a certain extent estranged him from society; but as the
night wore away, and his artificial gaiety began to flag, these painful
feelings gradually intruded themselves again, and he grew abstracted and
anxious as heretofore. He took his leave at length, with an unpleasant
foreboding of some coming mischief, and with a mind haunted with a
thousand mysterious apprehensions, such as, even while he acutely felt
their pressure, he, nevertheless, inwardly strove, or affected to
contemn.

It was his proud defiance of what he considered to be his own weakness
which prompted him upon this occasion to the course which brought about
the adventure which we are now about to relate. Mr. Barton might have
easily called a coach, but he was conscious that his strong inclination
to do so proceeded from no cause other than what he desperately
persisted in representing to himself to be his own superstitious
tremors. He might also have returned home by a route different from that
against which he had been warned by his mysterious correspondent; but
for the same reason he dismissed this idea also, and with a dogged and
half desperate resolution to force matters to a crisis of some kind, to
see if there were any reality in the causes of his former suffering, and
if not, satisfactorily to bring their delusiveness to the proof, he
determined to follow precisely the course which he had trodden upon the
night so painfully memorable in his own mind as that on which his
strange persecution had commenced. Though, sooth to say, the pilot who
for the first time steers his vessel under the muzzles of a hostile
battery never felt his resolution more severely tasked than did Captain
Barton, as he breathlessly pursued this solitary path; a path which,
spite of every effort of scepticism and reason, he felt to be, as
respected _him_, infested by a malignant influence.

He pursued his way steadily and rapidly, scarcely breathing from
intensity of suspense; he, however, was troubled by no renewal of the
dreaded footsteps, and was beginning to feel a return of confidence,
as, more than three-fourths of the way being accomplished with impunity,
he approached the long line of twinkling oil lamps which indicated the
frequented streets. This feeling of self-congratulation was, however,
but momentary. The report of a musket at some two hundred yards behind
him, and the whistle of a bullet close to his head, disagreeably and
startlingly dispelled it. His first impulse was to retrace his steps in
pursuit of the assassin; but the road on either side was, as we have
said, embarrassed by the foundations of a street, beyond which extended
waste fields, full of rubbish and neglected lime and brick kilns, and
all now as utterly silent as though no sound had ever disturbed their
dark and unsightly solitude. The futility of attempting, single-handed,
under such circumstances, a search for the murderer, was apparent,
especially as no further sound whatever was audible to direct his
pursuit.

With the tumultuous sensations of one whose life had just been exposed
to a murderous attempt, and whose escape has been the narrowest
possible, Captain Barton turned, and without, however, quickening his
pace actually to a run, hurriedly pursued his way. He had turned, as we
have said, after a pause of a few seconds, and had just commenced his
rapid retreat, when on a sudden he met the well-remembered little man in
the fur cap. The encounter was but momentary. The figure was walking at
the same exaggerated pace, and with the same strange air of menace as
before; and as it passed him, he thought he heard it say, in a furious
whisper, "Still alive, still alive!"

The state of Mr. Barton's spirits began now to work a corresponding
alteration in his health and looks, and to such a degree that it was
impossible that the change should escape general remark. For some
reasons, known but to himself, he took no step whatsoever to bring the
attempt upon his life, which he had so narrowly escaped, under the
notice of the authorities; on the contrary, he kept it jealously to
himself; and it was not for many weeks after the occurrence that he
mentioned it, and then in strict confidence to a gentleman, the torments
of his mind at last compelled him to consult a friend.

Spite of his blue devils, however, poor Barton, having no satisfactory
reason to render to the public for any undue remissness in the
attentions which his relation to Miss Montague required, was obliged
to exert himself, and present to the world a confident and cheerful
bearing. The true source of his sufferings, and every circumstance
connected with them, he guarded with a reserve so jealous, that it
seemed dictated by at least a suspicion that the origin of his strange
persecution was known to himself, and that it was of a nature which,
upon his own account, he could not or dare not disclose.

The mind thus turned in upon itself, and constantly occupied with a
haunting anxiety which it dared not reveal, or confide to any human
breast, became daily more excited; and, of course, more vividly
impressible, by a system of attack which operated through the nervous
system; and in this state he was destined to sustain, with increasing
frequency, the stealthy visitations of that apparition, which from the
first had seemed to possess so unearthly and terrible a hold upon his
imagination.

* * * * *

It was about this time that Captain Barton called upon the then
celebrated preacher, Doctor Macklin, with whom he had a slight
acquaintance; and an extraordinary conversation ensued. The divine was
seated in his chambers in college, surrounded with works upon his
favourite pursuit and deep in theology, when Barton was announced. There
was something at once embarrassed and excited in his manner, which,
along with his wan and haggard countenance, impressed the student with
the unpleasant consciousness that his visitor must have recently
suffered terribly indeed to account for an alteration so striking, so
shocking.

After the usual interchange of polite greeting, and a few commonplace
remarks, Captain Barton, who obviously perceived the surprise which his
visit had excited, and which Doctor Macklin was unable wholly to
conceal, interrupted a brief pause by remarking,--

"This is a strange call, Doctor Macklin, perhaps scarcely warranted by
an acquaintance so slight as mine with you. I should not, under ordinary
circumstances, have ventured to disturb you, but my visit is neither an
idle nor impertinent intrusion. I am sure you will not so account it,
when--"

Doctor Macklin interrupted him with assurances, such as good breeding
suggested, and Barton resumed,--

"I am come to task your patience by asking your advice. When I say your
patience, I might, indeed, say more; I might have said your humanity,
your compassion; for I have been, and am a great sufferer."

"My dear sir," replied the churchman, "it will, indeed, afford me
infinite gratification if I can give you comfort in any distress of
mind, but--but--"

"I know what you would say," resumed Barton, quickly. "I am an
unbeliever, and, therefore, incapable of deriving help from religion,
but don't take that for granted. At least you must not assume that,
however unsettled my convictions may be, I do not feel a deep, a very
deep, interest in the subject. Circumstances have lately forced it upon
my attention in such a way as to compel me to review the whole question
in a more candid and teachable spirit, I believe, than I ever studied it
in before."

"Your difficulties, I take it for granted, refer to the evidences of
revelation," suggested the clergyman.

"Why--no--yes; in fact I am ashamed to say I have not considered even my
objections sufficiently to state them connectedly; but--but there is one
subject on which I feel a peculiar interest."

He paused again, and Doctor Macklin pressed him to proceed.

"The fact is," said Barton, "whatever may be my uncertainty as to the
authenticity of what we are taught to call revelation, of one fact I am
deeply and horribly convinced: that there does exist beyond this a
spiritual world--a system whose workings are generally in mercy hidden
from us--a system which may be, and which is sometimes, partially and
terribly revealed. I am sure, I know," continued Barton, with increasing
excitement, "there is a God--a dreadful God--and that retribution
follows guilt. In ways, the most mysterious and stupendous; by agencies,
the most inexplicable and terrific; there is a spiritual system--great
Heavens, how frightfully I have been convinced!--a system malignant, and
inexorable, and omnipotent, under whose persecutions I am, and have
been, suffering the torments of the damned!--yes, sir--yes--the fires
and frenzy of hell!"

As Barton continued, his agitation became so vehement that the divine
was shocked and even alarmed. The wild and excited rapidity with which
he spoke, and, above all, the indefinable horror which stamped his
features, afforded a contrast to his ordinary cool and unimpassioned
self-possession, striking and painful in the last degree.

"My dear sir," said Doctor Macklin, after a brief pause, "I fear you
have been suffering much, indeed; but I venture to predict that the
depression under which you labour will be found to originate in purely
physical causes, and that with a change of air and the aid of a few
tonics, your spirits will return, and the tone of your mind be once more
cheerful and tranquil as heretofore. There was, after all, more truth
than we are quite willing to admit in the classic theories which
assigned the undue predominance of any one affection of the mind to the
undue action or torpidity of one or other of our bodily organs. Believe
me, that a little attention to diet, exercise, and the other essentials
of health, under competent direction, will make you as much yourself as
you can wish."

"Doctor Macklin," said Barton, with something like a shudder, "I
_cannot_ delude myself with such a hope. I have no hope to cling to but
one, and that is, that by some other spiritual agency more potent than
that which tortures me, _it_ may be combated, and I delivered. If this
may not be, I am lost--now and for ever lost."

"But, Mr. Barton, you must remember," urged his companion, "that others
have suffered as you have done, and--"

"No, no, no," interrupted he with irritability; "no, sir, I am not a
credulous--far from a superstitious man. I have been, perhaps, too much
the reverse--too sceptical, too slow of belief; but unless I were one
whom no amount of evidence could convince, unless I were to contemn the
repeated, the _perpetual_ evidence of my own senses, I am now--now at
last constrained to believe I have no escape from the conviction, the
overwhelming certainty, that I am haunted and dogged, go where I may,
by--by a Demon."

There was an almost preternatural energy of horror in Barton's face, as,
with its damp and death-like lineaments turned towards his companion, he
thus delivered himself.

"God help you, my poor friend!" said Doctor Macklin, much shocked. "God
help you; for, indeed, you _are_ a sufferer, however your sufferings may
have been caused."

"Ay, ay, God help me," echoed Barton sternly; "but _will_ He help me?
will He help me?"

"Pray to Him; pray in an humble and trusting spirit," said he.

"Pray, pray," echoed he again; "I can't pray; I could as easily move a
mountain by an effort of my will. I have not belief enough to pray;
there is something within me that will not pray. You prescribe
impossibilities--literal impossibilities."

"You will not find it so, if you will but try," said Doctor Macklin.

"Try! I _have_ tried, and the attempt only fills me with confusion
and terror. I have tried in vain, and more than in vain. The awful,
unutterable idea of eternity and infinity oppresses and maddens my
brain, whenever my mind approaches the contemplation of the Creator;
I recoil from the effort, scared, confounded, terrified. I tell you,
Doctor Macklin, if I am to be saved, it must be by other means. The idea
of the Creator is to me intolerable; my mind cannot support it."

"Say, then, my dear sir," urged he, "say how you would have me serve
you. What you would learn of me. What can I do or say to relieve you?"

"Listen to me first," replied Captain Barton, with a subdued air, and
an evident effort to suppress his excitement; "listen to me while I
detail the circumstances of the terrible persecution under which my
life has become all but intolerable--a persecution which has made me
fear _death_ and the world beyond the grave as much as I have grown to
hate existence."

Barton then proceeded to relate the circumstances which we have already
detailed, and then continued,--

"This has now become habitual--an accustomed thing. I do not mean the
actual seeing him in the flesh; thank God, _that_ at least is not
permitted daily. Thank God, from the unutterable horrors of that
visitation I have been mercifully allowed intervals of repose, though
none of security; but from the consciousness that a malignant spirit is
following and watching me wherever I go, I have never, for a single
instant, a temporary respite: I am pursued with blasphemies, cries of
despair, and appalling hatred; I hear those dreadful sounds called after
me as I turn the corners of streets; they come in the night-time while I
sit in my chamber alone; they haunt me everywhere, charging me with
hideous crimes, and--great God!--threatening me with coming vengeance
and eternal misery! Hush! do you hear _that_?" he cried, with a horrible
smile of triumph. "There--there, will that convince you?"

The clergyman felt the chillness of horror irresistibly steal over him,
while, during the wail of a sudden gust of wind, he heard, or fancied he
heard, the half articulate sounds of rage and derision mingling in their
sough.

"Well, what do you think of _that_?" at length Barton cried, drawing a
long breath through his teeth.

"I heard the wind," said Doctor Macklin; "what should I think of it?
What is there remarkable about it?"

"The prince of the powers of the air," muttered Barton, with a shudder.

"Tut, tut! my dear sir!" said the student, with an effort to reassure
himself; for though it was broad daylight, there was nevertheless
something disagreeably contagious in the nervous excitement under which
his visitor so obviously suffered. "You must not give way to those wild
fancies: you must resist those impulses of the imagination."

"Ay, ay; 'resist the devil, and he will flee from thee,'" said Barton,
in the same tone; "but _how_ resist him? Ay, there it is: there is the
rub. What--_what_ am I to do? What _can_ I do?"

"My dear sir, this is fancy," said the man of folios; "you are your own
tormentor."

"No, no, sir; fancy has no part in it," answered Barton, somewhat
sternly. "Fancy, forsooth! Was it that made _you_, as well as me, hear,
but this moment, those appalling accents of hell? Fancy, indeed! No,
no."

"But you have seen this person frequently," said the ecclesiastic; "why
have you not accosted or secured him? Is it not somewhat precipitate, to
say no more, to assume, as you have done, the existence of preternatural
agency, when, after all, everything may be easily accountable, if only
proper means were taken to sift the matter."

"There are circumstances connected with this--this _appearance_," said
Barton, "which it were needless to disclose, but which to _me_ are
proofs of its horrible and unearthly nature. I know that the being who
haunts me is not _man_. I say I _know_ this; I could prove it to your
own conviction." He paused for a minute, and then added, "And as to
accosting it, I dare not--I could not! When I see it I am powerless; I
stand in the gaze of death, in the triumphant presence of preterhuman
power and malignity; my strength, and faculties, and memory all forsake
me. Oh, God! I fear, sir, you know not what you speak of. Mercy, mercy!
heaven have pity on me!"

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 the
sentence he had just concluded, again and again.

"Dr. Macklin," he said, abruptly raising himself, and looking full upon
the clergyman with an imploring eye, "I know you will do for me whatever
may be done. You know now fully the circumstances and the nature of the
mysterious agency of which I am the victim. I tell you I cannot help
myself; I cannot hope to escape; I am utterly passive. I conjure you,
then, to weigh my case well, and if anything may be done for me by
vicarious supplication, by the intercession of the good, or by any aid
or influence whatsoever, I implore of you, I adjure you in the name of
the Most High, give me the benefit of that influence, deliver me from
the body of this death! Strive for me; pity me! I know you will; you
cannot refuse this; it is the purpose and object of my visit. Send me
away with some hope, however little--some faint hope of ultimate
deliverance, and I will nerve myself to endure, from hour to hour, the
hideous dream into which my existence is transformed."

Doctor Macklin assured him that all he could do was to pray earnestly
for him, and that so much he would not fail to do. They parted with a
hurried and melancholy valediction. Barton hastened to the carriage
which awaited him at the door, drew the blinds, and drove away, while
Dr. Macklin returned to his chamber, to ruminate at leisure upon the
strange interview which had just interrupted his studies.

It was not to be expected that Captain Barton's changed and eccentric
habits should long escape remark and discussion. Various were the
theories suggested to account for it. Some attributed the alteration to
the pressure of secret pecuniary embarrassments; others to a repugnance
to fulfil an engagement into which he was presumed to have too
precipitately entered; and others, again, to the supposed incipiency of
mental disease, which latter, indeed, was the most plausible, as well as
the most generally received, of the hypotheses circulated in the gossip
of the day.

From the very commencement of this change, at first so gradual in its
advances, Miss Montague had, of course, been aware of it. The intimacy
involved in their peculiar relation, as well as the near interest which
it inspired, afforded, in her case, alike opportunity and motive for the
successful exercise of that keen and penetrating observation peculiar
to the sex. His visits became, at length, so interrupted, and his
manner, while they lasted, so abstracted, strange, and agitated, that
Lady Rochdale, after hinting her anxiety and her suspicions more than
once, at length distinctly stated her anxiety, and pressed for an
explanation. The explanation was given, and although its nature at first
relieved the worst solicitudes of the old lady and her niece, yet the
circumstances which attended it, and the really dreadful consequences
which it obviously threatened as regarded the spirits, and, indeed, the
reason, of the now wretched man who made the strange declaration, were
enough, upon a little reflection, to fill their minds with perturbation
and alarm.

General Montague, the young lady's father, at length arrived. He had
himself slightly known Barton, some ten or twelve years previously,
and being aware of his fortune and connections, was disposed to regard
him as an unexceptionable and indeed a most desirable match for his
daughter. He laughed at the story of Barton's supernatural visitations,
and lost not a moment in calling upon his intended son-in-law.

"My dear Barton," he continued gaily, after a little conversation, "my
sister tells me that you are a victim to blue devils in quite a new and
original shape."

Barton changed countenance, and sighed profoundly.

"Come, come; I protest this will never do," continued the General; "you
are more like a man on his way to the gallows than to the altar. These
devils have made quite a saint of you."

Barton made an effort to change the conversation.

"No, no, it won't do," said his visitor, laughing; "I am resolved to
say out what I have to say about this magnificent mock mystery of
yours. Come, you must not be angry; but, really, it is too bad to see
you, at your time of life, absolutely frightened into good behaviour,
like a naughty child, by a bugaboo, and, as far as I can learn, a very
particularly contemptible one. Seriously, though, my dear Barton, I
have been a good deal annoyed at what they tell me; but, at the same
time, thoroughly convinced that there is nothing in the matter that
may not be cleared up, with just a little attention and management,
within a week at furthest."

"Ah, General, you do not know--" he began.

"Yes, but I do know quite enough to warrant my confidence," interrupted
the soldier. "I know that all your annoyance proceeds from the
occasional appearance of a certain little man in a cap and great-coat,
with a red vest and bad countenance, who follows you about, and pops
upon you at the corners of lanes, and throws you into ague fits. Now,
my dear fellow, I'll make it my business to _catch_ this mischievous
little mountebank, and either beat him into a jelly with my own hands,
or have him whipped through the town at the cart's tail."

"If _you_ knew what I know," said Barton, with gloomy agitation, "you
would speak very differently. Don't imagine that I am so weak and
foolish as to assume, without proof the most overwhelming, the
conclusion to which I have been forced. The proofs are here, locked up
here." As he spoke, he tapped upon his breast, and with an anxious sigh
continued to walk up and down the room.

"Well, well, Barton," said his visitor, "I'll wager a rump and a dozen
I collar the ghost, and convince yourself before many days are over."

He was running on in the same strain when he was suddenly arrested,
and not a little shocked, by observing Barton, who had approached the
window, stagger slowly back, like one who had received a stunning
blow--his arm feebly extended towards the street, his face and his very
lips white as ashes--while he uttered, "There--there--there!"

General Montague started mechanically to his feet, and, from the window
of the drawing-room, saw a figure corresponding, as well as his hurry
would permit him to discern, with the description of the person whose
appearance so constantly and dreadfully disturbed the repose of his
friend. The figure was just turning from the rails of the area upon
which it had been leaning, and without waiting to see more, the old
gentleman snatched his cane and hat, and rushed down the stairs and into
the street, in the furious hope of securing the person, and punishing
the audacity of the mysterious stranger. He looked around him, but in
vain, for any trace of the form he had himself distinctly beheld. He ran
breathlessly to the nearest corner, expecting to see from thence the
retreating figure, but no such form was visible. Back and forward, from
crossing to crossing, he ran at fault, and it was not until the curious
gaze and laughing countenances of the passers-by reminded him of the
absurdity of his pursuit, that he checked his hurried pace, lowered his
walking-cane from the menacing altitude which he had mechanically given
it, adjusted his hat, and walked composedly back again, inwardly vexed
and flurried. He found Barton pale and trembling in every joint; they
both remained silent, though under emotions very different. At last
Barton whispered, "You saw it?"

"It!--him--someone--you mean--to be sure I did," replied Montague,
testily. "But where is the good or the harm of seeing him? The fellow
runs like a lamplighter. I wanted to _catch_ him, but he had stolen away
before I could reach the hall door. However, it is no great matter; next
time, I dare say, I'll do better; and, egad, if I once come within
reach of him, I'll introduce his shoulders to the weight of my cane, in
a way to make him cry _peccavi_."

Notwithstanding General Montague's undertakings and exhortations,
however, Barton continued to suffer from the self-same unexplained
cause. Go how, when, or where he would, he was still constantly dogged
or confronted by the hateful being who had established over him so
dreadful and mysterious an influence; nowhere, and at no time, was he
secure against the odious appearance which haunted him with such
diabolical perseverance. His depression, misery, and excitement became
more settled and alarming every day, and the mental agonies that
ceaselessly preyed upon him began at last so sensibly to affect his
general health, that Lady Rochdale and General Montague succeeded
(without, indeed, much difficulty) in persuading him to try a short tour
on the Continent, in the hope that an entire change of scene would, at
all events, have the effect of breaking through the influences of local
association, which the more sceptical of his friends assumed to be by no
means inoperative in suggesting and perpetuating what they conceived to
be a mere form of nervous illusion. General Montague, moreover, was
persuaded that the figure which haunted his intended son-in-law was by
no means the creation of his own imagination, but, on the contrary,
a substantial form of flesh and blood, animated by a spiteful and
obstinate resolution, perhaps with some murderous object in perspective,
to watch and follow the unfortunate gentleman. Even this hypothesis was
not a very pleasant one; yet it was plain that if Barton could once be
convinced that there was nothing preternatural in the phenomenon, which
he had hitherto regarded in that light, the affair would lose all its
terrors in his eyes, and wholly cease to exercise upon his health and
spirits the baneful influence which it had hitherto done. He therefore
reasoned, that if the annoyance were actually escaped from by mere
change of scene, it obviously could not have originated in any
supernatural agency.

Yielding to their persuasions, Barton left Dublin for England,
accompanied by General Montague. They posted rapidly to London, and
thence to Dover, whence they took the packet with a fair wind for
Calais. The General's confidence in the result of the expedition on
Barton's spirits had risen day by day since their departure from the
shores of Ireland; for, to the inexpressible relief and delight of
the latter, he had not, since then, so much as even once fancied a
repetition of those impressions which had, when at home, drawn him
gradually down to the very abyss of horror and despair. This exemption
from what he had begun to regard as the inevitable condition of his
existence, and the sense of security which began to pervade his mind,
were inexpressibly delightful; and in the exultation of what he
considered his deliverance, he indulged in a thousand happy
anticipations for a future into which so lately he had hardly dared
to look. In short, both he and his companion secretly congratulated
themselves upon the termination of that persecution which had been to
its immediate victim a source of such unspeakable agony.