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The Watcher, and other weird stories

by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu · English · Gutenberg #40510 · 377,936 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Watcher, and other weird stories

Author: Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu

Illustrator: Brinsley Le Fanu


        
Release date: August 15, 2012 [eBook #40510]
                Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WATCHER, AND OTHER WEIRD STORIES ***

  [Illustration: AS IT PASSED HIM HE THOUGHT HE HEARD IT SAY IN A
  FURIOUS WHISPER, "STILL ALIVE!"--Page 25.
                                             [_Frontispiece._]




  [Illustration]

  The Watcher
  And Other Weird Stories

  by
  J. Sheridan Le Fanu

  With Twenty-one Illustrations
  by
  Brinsley Sheridan Le Fanu

  [Illustration]

  LONDON
  DOWNEY & CO.
  12, York Street, Covent Garden




  LONDON:
  PRINTED BY GILBERT AND RIVINGTON, LD.,
  ST. JOHN'S HOUSE, CLERKENWELL, E.C.




PREFACE.


Most of the tales in this volume were written prior to the publication
of "Uncle Silas," which is, perhaps, the novel by which my father is
best known. All the stories, with the exception of "The Watcher," were
included in "The Purcell Papers," edited by Mr. Alfred Perceval Graves
after my father's death, and published by Messrs. Bentley.

It may be of interest to point out that the central idea in the story
entitled "Passage in the Secret History of an Irish Countess" is
embodied in "Uncle Silas."

When "The Purcell Papers" were appearing in _The Dublin University
Magazine_ my father supplied the following note, which was reproduced by
Mr. Graves in his edition of the book:--

  "The residuary legatee of the late Francis Purcell, who has the
  honour of selecting such of his lamented old friend's manuscripts as
  may appear fit for publication, in order that the lore which they
  contain may reach the world before scepticism and utility have
  robbed our species of the precious gift of credulity, and scornfully
  kicked before them, or trampled into annihilation those harmless
  fragments of picturesque superstition which it is our object to
  preserve, has been subjected to the charge of dealing too largely
  in the marvellous; and it has been half insinuated that such is his
  love for _diablerie_, that he is content to wander a mile out of his
  way in order to meet a fiend or a goblin, and thus to sacrifice all
  regard for truth and accuracy to the idle hope of affrighting the
  imagination, and thus pandering to the bad taste of his reader. He
  begs leave, then, to take this opportunity of asserting his perfect
  innocence of all the crimes laid to his charge, and to assure his
  reader that he never pandered to his bad taste, nor went one inch
  out of his way to introduce witch, fairy, devil, ghost, or any other
  of the grim fraternity of the redoubted Raw-head-and-bloody-bones.
  His province touching these tales has been attended with no
  difficulty and little responsibility; indeed, he is accountable for
  nothing more than an alteration in the names of persons mentioned
  therein, when such a step seemed necessary, and for an occasional
  note, whenever he conceived it possible innocently to edge in a
  word. These tales have been _written down_ by the Rev. Francis
  Purcell, P.P., of Drumcoolagh; and in all the instances, which are
  many, in which the present writer has had an opportunity of
  comparing the manuscript of his departed friend with the actual
  traditions current amongst the families whose fortunes they pretend
  to illustrate, he has uniformly found that whatever of supernatural
  occurred in the story, so far from being exaggerated by him, had
  been rather softened down, and, wherever it could be attempted,
  accounted for."

      BRINSLEY LE FANU.

  _London,
    November, 1894._




CONTENTS.


                                                     PAGE
  THE WATCHER                                           1

  PASSAGE IN THE SECRET HISTORY OF AN IRISH COUNTESS   65

  STRANGE EVENT IN THE LIFE OF SCHALKEN THE PAINTER   126

  THE FORTUNES OF SIR ROBERT ARDAGH                   169

  THE DREAM                                           185

  A CHAPTER IN THE HISTORY OF A TYRONE FAMILY         208




[Illustration]

The Watcher.


It is now more than fifty years since the occurrences which I am about
to relate caused a strange sensation in the gay society of Dublin. The
fashionable world, however, is no recorder of traditions; the memory of
selfishness seldom reaches far; and the events which occasionally
disturb the polite monotony of its pleasant and heartless progress,
however stamped with the characters of misery and horror, scarcely
outlive the gossip of a season, and (except, perhaps, in the remembrance
of a few more directly interested in the consequences of the
catastrophe) are in a little time lost to the recollection of all. The
appetite for scandal, or for horror, has been sated; the incident can
yield no more of interest or novelty; curiosity, frustrated by
impenetrable mystery, gives over the pursuit in despair; the tale has
ceased to be new, grows stale and flat; and so, in a few years, inquiry
subsides into indifference.

Somewhere about the year 1794, the younger brother of a certain baronet,
whom I shall call Sir James Barton, returned to Dublin. He had served in
the navy with some distinction, having commanded one of his Majesty's
frigates during the greater part of the American war. Captain Barton was
now apparently some two or three-and-forty years of age. He was an
intelligent and agreeable companion, when he chose it, though generally
reserved, and occasionally even moody. In society, however, he deported
himself as a man of the world and a gentleman. He had not contracted any
of the noisy brusqueness sometimes acquired at sea; on the contrary, his
manners were remarkably easy, quiet, and even polished. He was in person
about the middle size, and somewhat strongly formed; his countenance was
marked with the lines of thought, and on the whole wore an expression of
gravity and even of melancholy. Being, however, as we have said, a man
of perfect breeding, as well as of affluent circumstances and good
family, he had, of course, ready access to the best society of the
metropolis, without the necessity of any other credentials. In his
personal habits Captain Barton was economical. He occupied lodgings in
one of the then fashionable streets in the south side of the town, kept
but one horse and one servant, and though a reputed free-thinker, he
lived an orderly and moral life, indulging neither in gaming, drinking,
nor any other vicious pursuit, living very much to himself, without
forming any intimacies, or choosing any companions, and appearing to mix
in gay society rather for the sake of its bustle and distraction, than
for any opportunities which it offered of interchanging either thoughts
or feelings with its votaries. Barton was therefore pronounced a saving,
prudent, unsocial sort of a fellow, who bid fair to maintain his
celibacy alike against stratagem and assault, and was likely to live to
a good old age, die rich and leave his money to a hospital.

It was soon apparent, however, that the nature of Captain Barton's plans
had been totally misconceived. A young lady, whom we shall call Miss
Montague, was at this time introduced into the fashionable world of
Dublin by her aunt, the Dowager Lady Rochdale. Miss Montague was
decidedly pretty and accomplished, and having some natural cleverness,
and a great deal of gaiety, became for a while the reigning toast. Her
popularity, however, gained her, for a time, nothing more than that
unsubstantial admiration which, however pleasant as an incense to
vanity, is by no means necessarily antecedent to matrimony, for,
unhappily for the young lady in question, it was an understood thing,
that, beyond her personal attractions, she had no kind of earthly
provision. Such being the state of affairs, it will readily be believed
that no little surprise was consequent upon the appearance of Captain
Barton as the avowed lover of the penniless Miss Montague.

His suit prospered, as might have been expected, and in a short time it
was confidentially communicated by old Lady Rochdale to each of her
hundred and fifty particular friends in succession, that Captain Barton
had actually tendered proposals of marriage, with her approbation, to
her niece, Miss Montague, who had, moreover, accepted the offer of his
hand, conditionally upon the consent of her father, who was then upon
his homeward voyage from India, and expected in two or three months
at furthest. About his consent there could be no doubt. The delay,
therefore, was one merely of form; they were looked upon as absolutely
engaged, and Lady Rochdale, with a vigour of old-fashioned decorum with
which her niece would, no doubt, gladly have dispensed, withdrew her
thenceforward from all further participation in the gaieties of the
town. Captain Barton was a constant visitor as well as a frequent guest
at the house, and was permitted all the privileges and intimacy which a
betrothed suitor is usually accorded. Such was the relation of parties,
when the mysterious circumstances which darken this narrative with
inexplicable melancholy first began to unfold themselves.

Lady Rochdale resided in a handsome mansion at the north side of
Dublin, and Captain Barton's lodgings, as we have already said, were
situated at the south. The distance intervening was considerable, and it
was Captain Barton's habit generally to walk home without an attendant,
as often as he passed the evening with the old lady and her fair charge.
His shortest way in such nocturnal walks lay, for a considerable space,
through a line of streets which had as yet been merely laid out, and
little more than the foundations of the houses constructed. One night,
shortly after his engagement with Miss Montague had commenced, he
happened to remain unusually late, in company only with her and Lady
Rochdale. The conversation had turned upon the evidences of revelation,
which he had disputed with the callous scepticism of a confirmed
infidel. What were called "French principles" had, in those days, found
their way a good deal into fashionable society, especially that portion
of it which professed allegiance to Whiggism, and neither the old lady
nor her charge was so perfectly free from the taint as to look upon
Captain Barton's views as any serious objection to the proposed union.
The discussion had degenerated into one upon the supernatural and the
marvellous, in which he had pursued precisely the same line of argument
and ridicule. In all this, it is but true to state, Captain Barton was
guilty of no affectation; the doctrines upon which he insisted were, in
reality, but too truly the basis of his own fixed belief, if so it
might be called; and perhaps not the least strange of the many strange
circumstances connected with this narrative, was the fact that the
subject of the fearful influences we are about to describe was himself,
from the deliberate conviction of years, an utter disbeliever in what
are usually termed preternatural agencies.

It was considerably past midnight when Mr. Barton took his leave, and
set out upon his solitary walk homeward. He rapidly reached the lonely
road, with its unfinished dwarf walls tracing the foundations of the
projected rows of houses on either side. The moon was shining mistily,
and its imperfect light made the road he trod but additionally dreary;
that utter silence, which has in it something indefinably exciting,
reigned there, and made the sound of his steps, which alone broke it,
unnaturally loud and distinct. He had proceeded thus some way, when on
a sudden he heard other footsteps, pattering at a measured pace, and,
as it seemed, about two score steps behind him. The suspicion of being
dogged is at all times unpleasant; it is, however, especially so in a
spot so desolate and lonely: and this suspicion became so strong in
the mind of Captain Barton, that he abruptly turned about to confront
his pursuers, but, though there was quite sufficient moonlight to
disclose any object upon the road he had traversed, no form of any
kind was visible.

The steps he had heard could not have been the reverberation of his
own, for he stamped his foot upon the ground, and walked briskly up
and down, in the vain attempt to wake an echo. Though by no means a
fanciful person, he was at last compelled to charge the sounds upon
his imagination, and treat them as an illusion. Thus satisfying
himself, he resumed his walk, and before he had proceeded a dozen
paces, the mysterious footfalls were again audible from behind, and
this time, as if with the special design of showing that the sounds
were not the responses of an echo, the steps sometimes slackened
nearly to a halt, and sometimes hurried for six or eight strides to
a run, and again abated to a walk.

Captain Barton, as before, turned suddenly round, and with the same
result; no object was visible above the deserted level of the road. He
walked back over the same ground, determined that, whatever might have
been the cause of the sounds which had so disconcerted him, it should
not escape his search; the endeavour, however, was unrewarded. In spite
of all his scepticism, he felt something like a superstitious fear
stealing fast upon him, and, with these unwonted and uncomfortable
sensations, he once more turned and pursued his way. There was no
repetition of these haunting sounds, until he had reached the point
where he had last stopped to retrace his steps. Here they were resumed,
and with sudden starts of running, which threatened to bring the unseen
pursuer close up to the alarmed pedestrian. Captain Barton arrested his
course as formerly; the unaccountable nature of the occurrence filled
him with vague and almost horrible sensations, and, yielding to the
excitement he felt gaining upon him, he shouted, sternly, "Who goes
there?"

The sound of one's own voice, thus exerted, in utter solitude, and
followed by total silence, has in it something unpleasantly exciting,
and he felt a degree of nervousness which, perhaps, from no cause had
he ever known before. To the very end of this solitary street the
steps pursued him, and it required a strong effort of stubborn pride
on his part to resist the impulse that prompted him every moment to
run for safety at the top of his speed. It was not until he had
reached his lodging, and sat by his own fireside, that he felt
sufficiently reassured to arrange and reconsider in his own mind the
occurrences which had so discomposed him: so little a matter, after
all, is sufficient to upset the pride of scepticism, and vindicate the
old simple laws of nature within us.

Mr. Barton was next morning sitting at a late breakfast, reflecting upon
the incidents of the previous night, with more of inquisitiveness than
awe--so speedily do gloomy impressions upon the fancy disappear under
the cheerful influences of day--when a letter just delivered by the
postman was placed upon the table before him. There was nothing
remarkable in the address of this missive, except that it was written in
a hand which he did not know--perhaps it was disguised--for the tall
narrow characters were sloped backward; and with the self-inflicted
suspense which we so often see practised in such cases, he puzzled over
the inscription for a full minute before he broke the seal. When he did
so, he read the following words, written in the same hand:--


"Mr. Barton, late Captain of the _Dolphin_, is warned of _danger_. He
will do wisely to avoid ---- Street--(here the locality of his last
night's adventure was named)--if he walks there as usual, he will meet
with something bad. Let him take warning, once for all, for he has good
reason to dread

    "THE WATCHER."


Captain Barton read and re-read this strange effusion; in every light
and in every direction he turned it over and over. He examined the paper
on which it was written, and closely scrutinized the handwriting.
Defeated here, he turned to the seal; it was nothing but a patch of wax,
upon which the accidental impression of a coarse thumb was imperfectly
visible. There was not the slightest mark, no clue or indication of any
kind, to lead him to even a guess as to its possible origin. The
writer's object seemed a friendly one, and yet he subscribed himself as
one whom he had "good reason to dread." Altogether, the letter, its
author, and its real purpose, were to him an inexplicable puzzle, and
one, moreover, unpleasantly suggestive, in his mind, of associations
connected with the last night's adventure.

In obedience to some feeling--perhaps of pride--Mr. Barton did not
communicate, even to his intended bride, the occurrences which we have
just detailed. Trifling as they might appear, they had in reality most
disagreeably affected his imagination, and he cared not to disclose,
even to the young lady in question, what she might possibly look upon
as evidences of weakness. The letter might very well be but a hoax,
and the mysterious footfall but a delusion of his fancy. But although
he affected to treat the whole affair as unworthy of a thought, it yet
haunted him pertinaciously, tormenting him with perplexing doubts, and
depressing him with undefined apprehensions. Certain it is, that for a
considerable time afterwards he carefully avoided the street indicated
in the letter as the scene of danger.

It was not until about a week after the receipt of the letter which I
have transcribed, that anything further occurred to remind Captain
Barton of its contents, or to counteract the gradual disappearance from
his mind of the disagreeable impressions which he had then received. He
was returning one night, after the interval I have stated, from the
theatre, which was then situated in Crow Street, and having there handed
Miss Montague and Lady Rochdale into their carriage, he loitered for
some time with two or three acquaintances. With these, however, he
parted close to the College, and pursued his way alone. It was now about
one o'clock, and the streets were quite deserted. During the whole of
his walk with the companions from whom he had just parted, he had been
at times painfully aware of the sound of steps, as it seemed, dogging
them on their way. Once or twice he had looked back, in the uneasy
anticipation that he was again about to experience the same mysterious
annoyances which had so much disconcerted him a week before, and
earnestly hoping that he might _see_ some form from whom the sounds
might naturally proceed. But the street was deserted; no form was
visible. Proceeding now quite alone upon his homeward way, he grew
really nervous and uncomfortable, as he became sensible, with increased
distinctness, of the well-known and now absolutely dreaded sounds.

By the side of the dead wall which bounded the College Park, the sounds
followed, recommencing almost simultaneously with his own steps. The
same unequal pace, sometimes slow, sometimes, for a score yards or so,
quickened to a run, was audible from behind him. Again and again he
turned, quickly and stealthily he glanced over his shoulder almost at
every half-dozen steps; but no one was visible. The horrors of this
intangible and unseen persecution became gradually all but intolerable;
and when at last he reached his home his nerves were strung to such a
pitch of excitement that he could not rest, and did not attempt even to
lie down until after the daylight had broken.

He was awakened by a knock at his chamber-door, and his servant
entering, handed him several letters which had just been received by
the early post. One among them instantly arrested his attention; a
single glance at the direction aroused him thoroughly. He at once
recognized its character, and read as follows:--


"You may as well think, Captain Barton, to escape from your own shadow
as from me; do what you may, I will see you as often as I please, and
you shall see me, for I do not want to hide myself, as you fancy. Do not
let it trouble your rest, Captain Barton; for, with a _good conscience_,
what need you fear from the eye of

    "THE WATCHER?"


It is scarcely necessary to dwell upon the feelings elicited by a
perusal of this strange communication. Captain Barton was observed to
be unusually absent and out of spirits for several days afterwards;
but no one divined the cause. Whatever he might think as to the
phantom steps which followed him, there could be no possible illusion
about the letters he had received; and, to say the least of it, their
immediate sequence upon the mysterious sounds which had haunted him
was an odd coincidence. The whole circumstance, in his own mind, was
vaguely and instinctively connected with certain passages in his past
life, which, of all others, he hated to remember.

It so happened that just about this time, in addition to his approaching
nuptials, Captain Barton had fortunately, perhaps, for himself, some
business of an engrossing kind connected with the adjustment of a
large and long-litigated claim upon certain properties. The hurry and
excitement of business had its natural effect in gradually dispelling
the marked gloom which had for a time occasionally oppressed him, and in
a little while his spirits had entirely resumed their accustomed tone.

During all this period, however, he was occasionally dismayed by
indistinct and half-heard repetitions of the same annoyance, and that
in lonely places, in the day time as well as after nightfall. These
renewals of the strange impressions from which he had suffered so
much were, however, desultory and faint, insomuch that often he really
could not, to his own satisfaction, distinguish between them and the
mere suggestions of an excited imagination. One evening he walked down
to the House of Commons with a Mr. Norcott, a Member. As they walked
down together he was observed to become absent and silent, and to a
degree so marked as scarcely to consist with good breeding; and this,
in one who was obviously in all his habits so perfectly a gentleman,
seemed to argue the pressure of some urgent and absorbing anxiety. It
was afterwards known that, during the whole of that walk, he had heard
the well-known footsteps dogging him as he proceeded. This, however,
was the last time he suffered from this phase of the persecution of
which he was already the anxious victim. A new and a very different
one was about to be presented.

Of the new series of impressions which were afterwards gradually to work
out his destiny, that evening disclosed the first; and but for its
relation to the train of events which followed, the incident would
scarcely have been remembered by any one. As they were walking in at the
passage, a man (of whom his friend could afterwards remember only that
he was short in stature, looked like a foreigner, and wore a kind of
travelling-cap) walked very rapidly, and, as if under some fierce
excitement, directly towards them, muttering to himself fast and
vehemently the while. This odd-looking person proceeded straight toward
Barton, who was foremost, and halted, regarding him for a moment or two
with a look of menace and fury almost maniacal; and then turning about
as abruptly, he walked before them at the same agitated pace, and
disappeared by a side passage. Norcott distinctly remembered being a
good deal shocked at the countenance and bearing of this man, which
indeed irresistibly impressed him with an undefined sense of danger,
such as he never felt before or since from the presence of anything
human; but these sensations were far from amounting to anything so
disconcerting as to flurry or excite him--he had seen only a singularly
evil countenance, agitated, as it seemed, with the excitement of
madness. He was absolutely astonished, however, at the effect of this
apparition upon Captain Barton. He knew him to be a man of proved
courage and coolness in real danger, a circumstance which made his
conduct upon this occasion the more conspicuously odd. He recoiled a
step or two as the stranger advanced, and clutched his companion's arm
in silence, with a spasm of agony or terror; and then, as the figure
disappeared, shoving him roughly back, he followed it for a few paces,
stopped in great disorder, and sat down upon a form. A countenance more
ghastly and haggard it was impossible to fancy.

"For God's sake, Barton, what is the matter?" said Norcott, really
alarmed at his friend's appearance. "You're not hurt, are you? nor
unwell? What is it?"

"What did he say? I did not hear it. What was it?" asked Barton, wholly
disregarding the question.

"Tut, tut, nonsense!" said Norcott, greatly surprised; "who cares what
the fellow said? You are unwell, Barton, decidedly unwell; let me call a
coach."

"Unwell! Yes, no, not exactly unwell," he said, evidently making an
effort to recover his self-possession; "but, to say the truth, I am
fatigued, a little overworked, and perhaps over anxious. You know I have
been in Chancery, and the winding up of a suit is always a nervous
affair. I have felt uncomfortable all this evening; but I am better now.
Come, come, shall we go on?"

"No, no. Take my advice, Barton, and go home; you really do need rest;
you are looking absolutely ill. I really do insist on your allowing me
to see you home," replied his companion.

It was obvious that Barton was not himself disinclined to be persuaded.
He accordingly took his leave, politely declining his friend's offered
escort. Notwithstanding the few commonplace regrets which Norcott had
expressed, it was plain that he was just as little deceived as Barton
himself by the extempore plea of illness with which he had accounted for
the strange exhibition, and that he even then suspected some lurking
mystery in the matter.

Norcott called next day at Barton's lodgings, to inquire for him, and
learned from the servant that he had not left his room since his return
the night before; but that he was not seriously indisposed, and hoped to
be out again in a few days. That evening he sent for Doctor Richards,
then in large and fashionable practice in Dublin, and their interview
was, it is said, an odd one.

He entered into a detail of his own symptoms in an abstracted and
desultory kind of way, which seemed to argue a strange want of interest
in his own cure, and, at all events, made it manifest that there was
some topic engaging his mind of more engrossing importance than his
present ailment. He complained of occasional palpitations, and headache.
Doctor Richards asked him, among other questions, whether there was any
irritating circumstance or anxiety to account for it. This he denied
quickly and peevishly; and the physician thereupon declared his opinion,
that there was nothing amiss except some slight derangement of the
digestion, for which he accordingly wrote a prescription, and was about
to withdraw, when Mr. Barton, with the air of a man who suddenly
recollects a topic which had nearly escaped him, recalled him.

"I beg your pardon, doctor, but I had really almost forgot; will you
permit me to ask you two or three medical questions?--rather odd ones,
perhaps, but as a wager depends upon their solution, you will, I hope,
excuse my unreasonableness."

The physician readily undertook to satisfy the inquirer.

Barton seemed to have some difficulty about opening the proposed
interrogatories, for he was silent for a minute, then walked to his
book-case and returned as he had gone; at last he sat down, and said,--

"You'll think them very childish questions, but I can't recover my wager
without a decision; so I must put them. I want to know first about
lock-jaw. If a man actually has had that complaint, and appears to have
died of it--so that in fact a physician of average skill pronounces him
actually dead--may he, after all, recover?"

Doctor Richards smiled, and shook his head.

"But--but a blunder may be made," resumed Barton. "Suppose an ignorant
pretender to medical skill; may _he_ be so deceived by any stage of the
complaint, as to mistake what is only a part of the progress of the
disease, for death itself?"

"No one who had ever seen death," answered he, "could mistake it in the
case of lock-jaw."

Barton mused for a few minutes. "I am going to ask you a question,
perhaps still more childish; but first tell me, are not the regulations
of foreign hospitals, such as those of, let us say, Lisbon, very lax and
bungling? May not all kinds of blunders and slips occur in their entries
of names, and so forth?"

Doctor Richards professed his inability to answer that query.

"Well, then, doctor, here is the last of my questions. You will probably
laugh at it; but it must out nevertheless. Is there any disease, in all
the range of human maladies, which would have the effect of perceptibly
contracting the stature, and the whole frame--causing the man to shrink
in all his proportions, and yet to preserve his exact resemblance to
himself in every particular--with the one exception, his height and
bulk; _any_ disease, mark, no matter how rare, how little believed in,
generally, which could possibly result in producing such an effect?"

The physician replied with a smile, and a very decided negative.

"Tell me, then," said Barton, abruptly, "if a man be in reasonable fear
of assault from a lunatic who is at large, can he not procure a warrant
for his arrest and detention?"

"Really, that is more a lawyer's question than one in my way," replied
Doctor Richards; "but I believe, on applying to a magistrate, such a
course would be directed."

The physician then took his leave; but, just as he reached the
hall-door, remembered that he had left his cane upstairs, and returned.
His reappearance was awkward, for a piece of paper, which he recognized
as his own prescription, was slowly burning upon the fire, and Barton
sitting close by with an expression of settled gloom and dismay. Doctor
Richards had too much tact to appear to observe what presented itself;
but he had seen quite enough to assure him that the mind, and not the
body, of Captain Barton was in reality the seat of his sufferings.

A few days afterwards, the following advertisement appeared in the
Dublin newspapers:--

"If Sylvester Yelland, formerly a foremast man on board his Majesty's
frigate _Dolphin_, or his nearest of kin, will apply to Mr. Robery
Smith, solicitor, at his office, Dame Street, he or they may hear of
something greatly to his or their advantage. Admission may be had at
any hour up to twelve o'clock at night for the next fortnight, should
parties desire to avoid observation; and the strictest secrecy, as to
all communications intended to be confidential, shall be honourably
observed."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                 *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Illustration: "THE PRINCE OF THE POWERS OF THE AIR!" MUTTERED BARTON.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

It was a beautiful day, and a crowd of idlers stood upon the jetty to
receive the packet, and enjoy the bustle of the new arrivals. Montague
walked a few paces in advance of his friend, and as he made his way
through the crowd, a little man touched his arm, and said to him, in a
broad provincial _patois_,--

"Monsieur is walking too fast; he will lose his sick comrade in the
throng, for, by my faith, the poor gentleman seems to be fainting."

Montague turned quickly, and observed that Barton did indeed look deadly
pale. He hastened to his side.

"My poor fellow, are you ill?" he asked anxiously.

The question was unheeded, and twice repeated, ere Barton stammered,--

"I saw him--by ----, I saw him!"

"_Him!_--who?--where?--when did you see him?--where is he?" cried
Montague, looking around him.

"I saw him--but he is gone," repeated Barton, faintly.

"But where--where? For God's sake, speak," urged Montague, vehemently.

"It is but this moment--_here_," said he.

"But what did he look like?--what had he on?--what did he wear?--quick,
quick," urged his excited companion, ready to dart among the crowd, and
collar the delinquent on the spot.

"He touched your arm--he spoke to you--he pointed to me. God be merciful
to me, there is no escape!" said Barton, in the low, subdued tones of
intense despair.

Montague had already bustled away in all the flurry of mingled hope and
indignation; but though the singular _personnel_ of the stranger who had
accosted him was vividly and perfectly impressed upon his recollection,
he failed to discover among the crowd even the slightest resemblance to
him. After a fruitless search, in which he enlisted the services of
several of the bystanders, who aided all the more zealously as they
believed he had been robbed, he at length, out of breath and baffled,
gave over the attempt.

"Ah, my friend, it won't do," said Barton, with the faint voice and
bewildered, ghastly look of one who has been stunned by some mortal
shock; "there is no use in contending with it; whatever it is, the
dreadful association between me and it is now established; I shall never
escape--never, never!"

"Nonsense, nonsense, my dear fellow; don't talk so," said Montague, with
something at once of irritation and dismay; "you must not; never mind, I
say--never mind, we'll jockey the scoundrel yet."

It was, however, but lost labour to endeavour henceforward to inspire
Barton with one ray of hope; he became utterly desponding. This
intangible and, as it seemed, utterly inadequate influence was fast
destroying his energies of intellect, character, and health. His first
object was now to return to Ireland, there, as he believed, and now
almost hoped, speedily to die.

To Ireland, accordingly, he came, and one of the first faces he saw upon
the shore was again that of his implacable and dreaded persecutor.
Barton seemed at last to have lost not only all enjoyment and every hope
in existence, but all independence of will besides. He now submitted
himself passively to the management of the friends most nearly
interested in his welfare. With the apathy of entire despair, he
implicitly assented to whatever measures they suggested and advised;
and, as a last resource, it was determined to remove him to a house of
Lady Rochdale's in the neighbourhood of Clontarf, where, with the advice
of his medical attendant (who persisted in his opinion that the whole
train of impressions resulted merely from some nervous derangement) it
was resolved that he was to confine himself strictly to the house, and
to make use only of those apartments which commanded a view of an
enclosed yard, the gates of which were to be kept jealously locked.
These precautions would at least secure him against the casual
appearance of any living form which his excited imagination might
possibly confound with the spectre which, as it was contended, his
fancy recognized in every figure that bore even a distant or general
resemblance to the traits with which he had at first invested it. A
month or six weeks' absolute seclusion under these conditions, it was
hoped, might, by interrupting the series of these terrible impressions,
gradually dispel the predisposing apprehension, and effectually break up
the associations which had confirmed the supposed disease, and rendered
recovery hopeless. Cheerful society and that of his friends was to be
constantly supplied, and on the whole, very sanguine expectations were
indulged in, that under this treatment the obstinate hypochondria of the
patient might at length give way.

Accompanied, therefore, by Lady Rochdale, General Montague, and his
daughter--his own affianced bride--poor Barton, himself never daring to
cherish a hope of his ultimate emancipation from the strange horrors
under which his life was literally wasting away, took possession of
the apartments whose situation protected him against the dreadful
intrusions from which he shrank with such unutterable terror.

After a little time, a steady persistence in this system began to
manifest its results in a very marked though gradual improvement alike
in the health and spirits of the invalid. Not, indeed, that anything
at all approaching to complete recovery was yet discernible. On the
contrary, to those who had not seen him since the commencement of his
strange sufferings, such an alteration would have been apparent as might
well have shocked them. The improvement, however, such as it was, was
welcomed with gratitude and delight, especially by the poor young lady,
whom her attachment to him, as well as her now singularly painful
position, consequent on his mysterious and protracted illness, rendered
an object of pity scarcely one degree less to be commiserated than
himself.

A week passed--a fortnight--a month--and yet no recurrence of the hated
visitation had agitated and terrified him as before. The treatment had,
so far, been followed by complete success. The chain of association had
been broken. The constant pressure upon the overtasked spirits had been
removed, and, under these comparatively favourable circumstances, the
sense of social community with the world about him, and something of
human interest, if not of enjoyment, began to reanimate his mind.

It was about this time that Lady Rochdale, who, like most old ladies of
the day, was deep in family receipts, and a great pretender to medical
science, being engaged in the concoction of certain unpalatable mixtures
of marvellous virtue, despatched her own maid to the kitchen garden with
a list of herbs which were there to be carefully culled and brought back
to her for the purpose stated. The hand-maiden, however, returned with
her task scarce half-completed, and a good deal flurried and alarmed.
Her mode of accounting for her precipitate retreat and evident agitation
was odd, and to the old lady unpleasantly startling.

It appeared that she had repaired to the kitchen garden, pursuant to
her mistress's directions, and had there begun to make the specified
selection among the rank and neglected herbs which crowded one corner of
the enclosure, and while engaged in this pleasant labour she carelessly
sang a fragment of an old song, as she said, "to keep herself company."
She was, however, interrupted by a sort of mocking echo of the air she
was singing; and looking up, she saw through the old thorn hedge, which
surrounded the garden, a singularly ill-looking, little man, whose
countenance wore the stamp of menace and malignity, standing close to
her at the other side of the hawthorn screen. She described herself as
utterly unable to move or speak, while he charged her with a message for
Captain Barton, the substance of which she distinctly remembered to have
been to the effect that he, Captain Barton, must come abroad as usual,
and show himself to his friends out of doors, or else prepare for a
visit in his own chamber. On concluding this brief message, the stranger
had, with a threatening air, got down into the outer ditch, and seizing
the hawthorn stems in his hands, seemed on the point of climbing through
the fence, a feat which might have been accomplished without much
difficulty. Without, of course, awaiting this result, the girl, throwing
down her treasures of thyme and rosemary, had turned and run, with the
swiftness of terror, to the house. Lady Rochdale commanded her, on pain
of instant dismissal, to observe an absolute silence respecting all that
portion of the incident which related to Captain Barton; and, at the
same time, directed instant search to be made by her men in the garden
and fields adjacent. This measure, however, was attended with the usual
unsuccess, and filled with fearful and indefinable misgivings, Lady
Rochdale communicated the incident to her brother. The story, however,
until long afterwards, went no further, and of course it was jealously
guarded from Barton, who continued to mend, though slowly and
imperfectly.

Barton now began to walk occasionally in the courtyard which we have
mentioned, and which, being surrounded by a high wall, commanded no view
beyond its own extent. Here he, therefore, considered himself perfectly
secure; and, but for a careless violation of orders by one of the
grooms, he might have enjoyed, at least for some time longer, his
much-prized immunity. Opening upon the public road, this yard was
entered by a wooden gate, with a wicket in it, which was further
defended by an iron gate upon the outside. Strict orders had been given
to keep them carefully locked; but, in spite of these, it had happened
that one day, as Barton was slowly pacing this narrow enclosure, in his
accustomed walk, and reaching the further extremity, was turning to
retrace his steps, he saw the boarded wicket ajar, and the face of his
tormentor immovably looking at him through the iron bars. For a few
seconds he stood riveted to the earth, breathless and bloodless, in the
fascination of that dreaded gaze, and then fell helplessly upon the
pavement.

There was he found a few minutes afterwards, and conveyed to his
room, the apartment which he was never afterwards to leave alive.
Henceforward, a marked and unaccountable change was observable in the
tone of his mind. Captain Barton was now no longer the excited and
despairing man he had been before; a strange alteration had passed upon
him, an unearthly tranquillity reigned in his mind; it was the
anticipated stillness of the grave.

"Montague, my friend, this struggle is nearly ended now," he said,
tranquilly, but with a look of fixed and fearful awe. "I have, at last,
some comfort from that world of spirits, from which my _punishment_ has
come. I know now that my sufferings will be soon over."

Montague pressed him to speak on.

"Yes," said he, in a softened voice, "my punishment is nearly ended.
From sorrow perhaps I shall never, in time or eternity, escape; but
my _agony_ is almost over. Comfort has been revealed to me, and what
remains of my allotted struggle I will bear with submission, even with
hope."

"I am glad to hear you speak so tranquilly, my dear fellow," said
Montague; "peace and cheerfulness of mind are all you need to make you
what you were."

"No, no, I never can be that," said he, mournfully. "I am no longer fit
for life. I am soon to die: I do not shrink from death as I did. I am to
see _him_ but once again, and then all is ended."

"He said so, then?" suggested Montague.

"_He?_ No, no; good tidings could scarcely come through him; and these
were good and welcome; and they came so solemnly and sweetly, with
unutterable love and melancholy, such as I could not, without saying
more than is needful or fitting, of other long-past scenes and persons,
fully explain to you." As Barton said this he shed tears.

"Come, come," said Montague, mistaking the source of his emotions, "you
must not give way. What is it, after all, but a pack of dreams and
nonsense; or, at worst, the practices of a scheming rascal that enjoys
his power of playing upon your nerves, and loves to exert it; a sneaking
vagabond that owes you a grudge, and pays it off this way, not daring to
try a more manly one."

"A grudge, indeed, he owes me; you say rightly," said Barton, with a
sullen shudder; "a grudge as you call it. Oh, God! when the justice of
heaven permits the Evil One to carry out a scheme of vengeance, when
its execution is committed to the lost and frightful victim of sin, who
owes his own ruin to the man, the very man, whom he is commissioned to
pursue; then, indeed, the torments and terrors of hell are anticipated
on earth. But heaven has dealt mercifully with me: hope has opened to me
at last; and if death could come without the dreadful sight I am doomed
to see, I would gladly close my eyes this moment upon the world. But
though death is welcome, I shrink with an agony you cannot understand;
a maddening agony, an actual frenzy of terror, from the last encounter
with that--that DEMON, who has drawn me thus to the verge of the chasm,
and who is himself to plunge me down. I am to see him again, once more,
but under circumstances unutterably more terrific than ever."

As Barton thus spoke, he trembled so violently that Montague was really
alarmed at the extremity of his sudden agitation, and hastened to lead
him back to the topic which had before seemed to exert so tranquillizing
an effect upon his mind.

"It was not a dream," he said, after a time; "I was in a different
state, I felt differently and strangely; and yet it was all as real, as
clear and vivid, as what I now see and hear; it was a reality."

"And what _did_ you see and hear?" urged his companion.

"When I awakened from the swoon I fell into on seeing _him_," said
Barton, continuing, as if he had not heard the question, "it was slowly,
very slowly; I was reclining by the margin of a broad lake, surrounded
by misty hills, and a soft, melancholy, rose-coloured light illuminated
it all. It was indescribably sad and lonely, and yet more beautiful than
any earthly scene. My head was leaning on the lap of a girl, and she was
singing a strange and wondrous song, that told, I know not how, whether
by words or harmony, of all my life, all that is past, and all that is
still to come. And with the song the old feelings that I thought had
perished within me came back, and tears flowed from my eyes, partly
for the song and its mysterious beauty, and partly for the unearthly
sweetness of her voice; yet I know the voice, oh! how well; and I was
spell-bound as I listened and looked at the strange and solitary scene,
without stirring, almost without breathing, and, alas! alas! without
turning my eyes toward the face that I knew was near me, so sweetly
powerful was the enchantment that held me. And so, slowly and softly,
the song and scene grew fainter, and ever fainter, to my senses, till
all was dark and still again. And then I wakened to this world, as you
saw, comforted, for I knew that I was forgiven much." Barton wept again
long and bitterly.

From this time, as we have said, the prevailing tone of his mind was one
of profound and tranquil melancholy. This, however, was not without its
interruptions. He was thoroughly impressed with the conviction that
he was to experience another and a final visitation, illimitably
transcending in horror all he had before experienced. From this
anticipated and unknown agony he often shrunk in such paroxysms of
abject terror and distraction, as filled the whole household with dismay
and superstitious panic. Even those among them who affected to discredit
the supposition of preternatural agency in the matter, were often in
their secret souls visited during the darkness and solitude of night
with qualms and apprehensions which they would not have readily
confessed; and none of them attempted to dissuade Barton from the
resolution on which he now systematically acted, of shutting himself up
in his own apartment. The window-blinds of this room were kept jealously
down; and his own man was seldom out of his presence, day or night, his
bed being placed in the same chamber.

This man was an attached and respectable servant; and his duties, in
addition to those ordinarily imposed upon _valets_, but which Barton's
independent habits generally dispensed with, were to attend carefully
to the simple precautions by means of which his master hoped to exclude
the dreaded intrusion of the "Watcher," as the strange letter he had
at first received had designated his persecutor. And, in addition to
attending to these arrangements, which consisted merely in anticipating
the possibility of his master's being, through any unscreened window
or opened door, exposed to the dreaded influence, the valet was never
to suffer him to be for one moment alone: total solitude, even for a
minute, had become to him now almost as intolerable as the idea of going
abroad into the public ways; it was an instinctive anticipation of what
was coming.

It is needless to say, that, under these mysterious and horrible
circumstances, no steps were taken toward the fulfilment of that
engagement into which he had entered. There was quite disparity enough
in point of years, and indeed of habits, between the young lady and
Captain Barton, to have precluded anything like very vehement or
romantic attachment on her part. Though grieved and anxious, therefore,
she was very far from being heart-broken; a circumstance which, for the
sentimental purposes of our tale, is much to be deplored. But truth must
be told, especially in a narrative whose chief, if not only, pretensions
to interest consist in a rigid adherence to facts, or what are so
reported to have been.

Miss Montague, nevertheless, devoted much of her time to a patient but
fruitless attempt to cheer the unhappy invalid. She read for him, and
conversed with him; but it was apparent that whatever exertions he made,
the endeavour to escape from the one constant and ever-present fear that
preyed upon him was utterly and miserably unavailing.

Young ladies, as all the world knows, are much given to the cultivation
of pets; and among those who shared the favour of Miss Montague was a
fine old owl, which the gardener, who caught him napping among the ivy
of a ruined stable, had dutifully presented to that young lady.

The caprice which regulates such preferences was manifested in the
extravagant favour with which this grim and ill-favoured bird was at
once distinguished by his mistress; and, trifling as this whimsical
circumstance may seem, I am forced to mention it, inasmuch as it is
connected, oddly enough, with the concluding scene of the story.
Barton, so far from sharing in this liking for the new favourite,
regarded it from the first with an antipathy as violent as it was
utterly unaccountable. Its very vicinity was insupportable to him. He
seemed to hate and dread it with a vehemence absolutely laughable, and
to those who have never witnessed the exhibition of antipathies of
this kind, his dread would seem all but incredible.

With these few words of preliminary explanation, I shall proceed to
state the particulars of the last scene in this strange series of
incidents. It was almost two o'clock one winter's night, and Barton
was, as usual at that hour, in his bed; the servant we have mentioned
occupied a smaller bed in the same room, and a candle was burning. The
man was on a sudden aroused by his master, who said,--

"I can't get it out of my head that that accursed bird has escaped
somehow, and is lurking in some corner of the room. I have been dreaming
of him. Get up, Smith, and look about; search for him. Such hateful
dreams!"

The servant rose, and examined the chamber, and while engaged in so
doing, he heard the well-known sound, more like a long-drawn gasp than a
hiss, with which these birds from their secret haunts affright the quiet
of the night. This ghostly indication of its proximity, for the sound
proceeded from the passage upon which Barton's chamber-door opened,
determined the search of the servant, who, opening the door, proceeded a
step or two forward for the purpose of driving the bird away. He had,
however, hardly entered the lobby, when the door behind him slowly swung
to under the impulse, as it seemed, of some gentle current of air; but
as immediately over the door there was a kind of window, intended in the
daytime to aid in lighting the passage, and through which the rays of
the candle were then issuing, the valet could see quite enough for
his purpose. As he advanced he heard his master (who, lying in a
well-curtained bed had not, as it seemed, perceived his exit from the
room) call him by name, and direct him to place the candle on the table
by his bed. The servant, who was now some way in the long passage, did
not like to raise his voice for the purpose of replying, lest he should
startle the sleeping inmates of the house, began to walk hurriedly and
softly back again, when, to his amazement, he heard a voice in the
interior of the chamber answering calmly, and the man actually saw,
through the window which over-topped the door, that the light was slowly
shifting, as if carried across the chamber in answer to his master's
call. Palsied by a feeling akin to terror, yet not unmingled with a
horrible curiosity, he stood breathless and listening at the threshold,
unable to summon resolution to push open the door and enter. Then came
a rustling of the curtains, and a sound like that of one who in a low
voice hushes a child to rest, in the midst of which he heard Barton say,
in a tone of stifled horror--"Oh, God--oh, my God!" and repeat the same
exclamation several times. Then ensued a silence, which again was broken
by the same strange soothing sound; and at last there burst forth, in
one swelling peal, a yell of agony so appalling and hideous, that, under
some impulse of ungovernable horror, the man rushed to the door, and
with his whole strength strove to force it open. Whether it was that, in
his agitation, he had himself but imperfectly turned the handle, or that
the door was really secured upon the inside, he failed to effect an
entrance; and as he tugged and pushed, yell after yell rang louder and
wilder through the chamber, accompanied all the while by the same
hushing sounds. Actually freezing with terror, and scarce knowing what
he did, the man turned and ran down the passage, wringing his hands in
the extremity of horror and irresolution. At the stair-head he was
encountered by General Montague, scared and eager, and just as they met
the fearful sounds had ceased.

"What is it?--who--where is your master?" said Montague, with the
incoherence of extreme agitation. "Has anything--for God's sake, is
anything wrong?"

"Lord have mercy on us, it's all over," said the man, staring wildly
towards his master's chamber. "He's dead, sir; I'm sure he's dead."

Without waiting for inquiry or explanation, Montague, closely followed
by the servant, hurried to the chamber-door, turned the handle, and
pushed it open. As the door yielded to his pressure, the ill-omened bird
of which the servant had been in search, uttering its spectral warning,
started suddenly from the far side of the bed, and flying through the
doorway close over their heads, and extinguishing, in its passage, the
candle which Montague carried, crashed through the skylight that
overlooked the lobby, and sailed away into the darkness of the outer
space.

"There it is, God bless us!" whispered the man, after a breathless
pause.

"Curse that bird!" muttered the general, startled by the suddenness of
the apparition, and unable to conceal his discomposure.

"The candle was moved," said the man, after another breathless pause;
"see, they put it by the bed!"

"Draw the curtains, fellow, and don't stand gaping there," whispered
Montague, sternly.

The man hesitated.

"Hold this, then," said Montague, impatiently, thrusting the candlestick
into the servant's hand; and himself advancing to the bedside, he drew
the curtains apart. The light of the candle, which was still burning at
the bedside, fell upon a figure huddled together, and half upright, at
the head of the bed. It seemed as though it had shrunk back as far as
the solid panelling would allow, and the hands were still clutched in
the bed-clothes.

[Illustration: EXTINGUISHING IN ITS PASSAGE THE CANDLE WHICH MONTAGUE
CARRIED.]

"Barton, Barton, Barton!" cried the general, with a strange mixture of
awe and vehemence.

He took the candle, and held it so that it shone full upon his face.
The features were fixed, stern and white; the jaw was fallen, and the
sightless eyes, still open, gazed vacantly forward toward the front of
the bed.

"God Almighty, he's dead!" muttered the general, as he looked upon this
fearful spectacle. They both continued to gaze upon it in silence for a
minute or more. "And cold, too," said Montague, withdrawing his hand
from that of the dead man.

"And see, see; may I never have life, sir," added the man, after another
pause, with a shudder, "but there was something else on the bed with
him! Look there--look there; see that, sir!"

As the man thus spoke, he pointed to a deep indenture, as if caused by a
heavy pressure, near the foot of the bed.

Montague was silent.

"Come, sir, come away, for God's sake!" whispered the man, drawing close
up to him, and holding fast by his arm, while he glanced fearfully
round; "what good can be done here now?--come away, for God's sake!"

At this moment they heard the steps of more than one approaching, and
Montague, hastily desiring the servant to arrest their progress,
endeavoured to loose the rigid grip with which the fingers of the dead
man were clutched in the bed-clothes, and drew, as well as he was able,
the awful figure into a reclining posture. Then closing the curtains
carefully upon it, he hastened himself to meet those who were
approaching.

                 *       *       *       *       *

It is needless to follow the personages so slightly connected with this
narrative into the events of their after lives; it is enough for us to
remark that no clue to the solution of these mysterious occurrences was
ever afterwards discovered; and so long an interval having now passed,
it is scarcely to be expected that time can throw any new light upon
their inexplicable obscurity. Until the secrets of the earth shall be no
longer hidden these transactions must remain shrouded in mystery.

The only occurrence in Captain Barton's former life to which reference
was ever made, as having any possible connection with the sufferings
with which his existence closed, and which he himself seemed to regard
as working out a retribution for some grievous sin of his past life, was
a circumstance which not for several years after his death was brought
to light. The nature of this disclosure was painful to his relatives and
discreditable to his memory.

It appeared, then, that some eight years before Captain Barton's final
return to Dublin, he had formed, in the town of Plymouth, a guilty
attachment, the object of which was the daughter of one of the ship's
crew under his command. The father had visited the frailty of his
unhappy child with extreme harshness, and even brutality, and it was
said that she had died heart-broken. Presuming upon Barton's implication
in her guilt, this man had conducted himself towards him with marked
insolence, and Barton resented this--and what he resented with still
more exasperated bitterness, his treatment of the unfortunate girl--by
a systematic exercise of those terrible and arbitrary severities with
which the regulations of the navy arm those who are responsible for its
discipline. The man had at length made his escape, while the vessel was
in port at Lisbon, but died, as it was said, in an hospital in that
town, of the wounds inflicted in one of his recent and sanguinary
punishments.

Whether these circumstances in reality bear or not upon the occurrences
of Barton's after-life, it is of course impossible to say. It seems,
however, more than probable that they were, at least in his own mind,
closely associated with them. But however the truth may be as to the
origin and motives of this mysterious persecution, there can be no
doubt that, with respect to the agencies by which it was accomplished,
absolute and impenetrable mystery is like to prevail until the day of
doom.




[Illustration]

Passage in the Secret History of an Irish Countess.


The following paper is written in a female hand, and was no doubt
communicated to my much regretted friend by the lady whose early history
it serves to illustrate, the Countess D----. She is no more--she long
since died, a childless and a widowed wife, and, as her letter sadly
predicts, none survive to whom the publication of this narrative can
prove "injurious, or even painful." Strange! two powerful and wealthy
families, that in which she was born, and that into which she had
married, are utterly extinct.

To those who know anything of the history of Irish families, as they
were less than a century ago, the facts which immediately follow will
at once suggest the names of the principal actors; and to others
their publication would be useless--to us, possibly, if not probably
injurious. I have therefore altered such of the names as might, if
stated, get us into difficulty; others, belonging to minor characters in
the strange story, I have left untouched.

                 *       *       *       *       *

MY DEAR FRIEND,--You have asked me to furnish you with a detail of
the strange events which marked my early history, and I have, without
hesitation, applied myself to the task, knowing that, while I live, a
kind consideration for my feelings will prevent you giving publicity to
the statement; and conscious that, when I am no more, there will not
survive one to whom the narrative can prove injurious, or even painful.

My mother died when I was quite an infant, and of her I have no
recollection, even the faintest. By her death, my education and habits
were left solely to the guidance of my surviving parent; and, so far as
a stern attention to my religious instruction, and an active anxiety
evinced by his procuring for me the best masters to perfect me in those
accomplishments which my station and wealth might seem to require, could
avail, he amply discharged the task.

My father was what is called an oddity, and his treatment of me, though
uniformly kind, flowed less from affection and tenderness than from a
sense of obligation and duty. Indeed, I seldom even spoke to him except
at meal-times, and then his manner was silent and abrupt; his leisure
hours, which were many, were passed either in his study or in solitary
walks; in short, he seemed to take no further interest in my happiness
or improvement than a conscientious regard to the discharge of his own
duty would seem to claim.

Shortly before my birth, a circumstance had occurred which had
contributed much to form and to confirm my father's secluded habits--it
was the fact that a suspicion of murder had fallen upon his younger
brother, a suspicion not sufficiently definite to lead to an indictment,
yet strong enough to ruin him in public opinion.

This disgraceful and dreadful doubt cast upon the family name my father
felt deeply and bitterly, and not the less so that he himself was
thoroughly convinced of his brother's innocence. The sincerity and
strength of this impression he shortly afterwards proved in a manner
which produced the dark events which follow. Before, however, I enter
upon the statement of them, I ought to relate the circumstances which
had awakened the suspicion; inasmuch as they are in themselves somewhat
curious, and, in their effects, most intimately connected with my after
history.

My uncle, Sir Arthur T----n, was a gay and extravagant man, and,
among other vices, was ruinously addicted to gaming; this unfortunate
propensity, even after his fortune had suffered so severely as to render
inevitable a reduction in his expenses by no means inconsiderable,
nevertheless continued to actuate him, almost to the exclusion of all
other pursuits. He was a proud, or rather a vain man, and could not bear
to make the diminution of his income a matter of gratulation and triumph
to those with whom he had hitherto competed; and the consequence was
that he frequented no longer the expensive haunts of dissipation, and
retired from the gay world, leaving his coterie to discover his reasons
as best they might.

He did not, however, forego his favourite vice, for, though he could not
worship his divinity in the costly temples where it was formerly his
wont to take his stand, yet he found it very possible to bring about him
a sufficient number of the votaries of chance to answer all his ends.
The consequence was that Carrickleigh, which was the name of my uncle's
residence, was never without one or more of such reckless visitors.

It happened that upon one occasion he was visited by one Hugh Tisdall--a
gentleman of loose habits but of considerable wealth--who had, in early
youth, travelled with my uncle upon the Continent. The period of his
visit was winter, and, consequently, the house was nearly deserted
except by its regular inmates; Mr. Tisdall was therefore highly
acceptable, particularly as my uncle was aware that his visitor's tastes
accorded exactly with his own.

Both parties seemed determined to avail themselves of their suitability
during the brief stay which Mr. Tisdall had promised; the consequence
was that they shut themselves up in Sir Arthur's private room for nearly
all the day and the greater part of the night, during the space of
nearly a week. At the end of this period the servant having one morning,
as usual, knocked at Mr. Tisdall's bedroom door repeatedly, received no
answer, and, upon attempting to enter, found that it was locked. This
appeared suspicious, and the inmates of the house having been alarmed,
the door was forced open, and, on proceeding to the bed, they found the
body of its occupant perfectly lifeless, and hanging half-way out, the
head downwards, and near the floor. One deep wound had been inflicted
upon the temple, apparently with some blunt instrument, which had
penetrated the brain; and another blow less effective, probably the
first aimed, had grazed the head, removing some of the scalp, but
leaving the skull untouched. The door had been double-locked upon the
inside, in evidence of which the key still lay where it had been placed
in the lock.

The window, though not secured on the interior, was closed--a
circumstance not a little puzzling, as it afforded the only other mode
of escape from the room; it looked out, too, upon a kind of courtyard,
round which the old buildings stood, formerly accessible by a narrow
doorway and passage lying in the oldest side of the quadrangle, but
which had since been built up, so as to preclude all ingress or egress.
The room was also upon the second story, and the height of the window
considerable. Near the bed were found a pair of razors belonging to the
murdered man, one of them upon the ground and both of them open. The
weapon which had inflicted the mortal wound was not to be found in
the room, nor were any footsteps or other traces of the murderer
discoverable.

At the suggestion of Sir Arthur himself, a coroner was instantly
summoned to attend, and an inquest was held; nothing, however, in any
degree conclusive was elicited. The walls, ceiling, and floor of the
room were carefully examined, in order to ascertain whether they
contained a trap-door or other concealed mode of entrance--but no such
thing appeared.

Such was the minuteness of investigation employed that although the
grate had contained a large fire during the night, they proceeded to
examine even the very chimney, in order to discover whether escape
by it were possible; but this attempt, too, was fruitless, for the
chimney, built in the old fashion, rose in a perfectly perpendicular
line from the hearth to a height of nearly fourteen feet above the roof,
affording in its interior scarcely the possibility of ascent, the flue
being smoothly plastered, and sloping towards the top like an inverted
funnel. Even if the summit of the chimney were attained, it promised,
owing to its great height, but a precarious descent upon the sharp and
steep-ridged roof. The ashes, too, which lay in the grate, and the soot,
as far as it could be seen, were undisturbed, a circumstance almost
conclusive.

Sir Arthur was of course examined; his evidence was given with a
clearness and unreserve which seemed calculated to silence all
suspicion. He stated that up to the day and night immediately preceding
the catastrophe, he had lost to a heavy amount, but that, at their last
sitting, he had not only won back his original loss, but upwards of
four thousand pounds in addition; in evidence of which he produced
an acknowledgment of debt to that amount in the handwriting of the
deceased, and bearing the date of the fatal night. He had mentioned the
circumstance to his lady, and in presence of some of the domestics;
which statement was supported by their respective evidence.

One of the jury shrewdly observed that the circumstance of Mr. Tisdall's
having sustained so heavy a loss might have suggested to some
ill-minded persons, accidentally hearing it, the plan of robbing him,
after having murdered him, in such a manner as might make it appear that
he had committed suicide; a supposition which was strongly supported by
the razors having been found thus displaced, and removed from their
case. Two persons had probably been engaged in the attempt, one watching
by the sleeping man, and ready to strike him in case of his awakening
suddenly, while the other was procuring the razors and employed in
inflicting the fatal gash, so as to make it appear to have been the act
of the murdered man himself. It was said that while the juror was making
this suggestion Sir Arthur changed colour.

Nothing, however, like legal evidence appeared against him, and the
consequence was that the verdict was found against a person or persons
unknown; and for some time the matter was suffered to rest, until, after
about five months, my father received a letter from a person signing
himself Andrew Collis, and representing himself to be the cousin of the
deceased. This letter stated that Sir Arthur was likely to incur not
merely suspicion, but personal risk, unless he could account for certain
circumstances connected with the recent murder, and contained a copy of
a letter written by the deceased, and bearing date--the day of the
week, and of the month--upon the night the deed of blood had been
perpetrated. Tisdall's note ran as follows:--


"DEAR COLLIS,--I have had sharp work with Sir Arthur; he tried some of
his stale tricks, but soon found that _I_ was Yorkshire too; it would
not do--you understand me. We went to the work like good ones, head,
heart and soul; and, in fact, since I came here, I have lost no time.
I am rather fagged, but I am sure to be well paid for my hardship; I
never want sleep so long as I can have the music of a dice-box, and
wherewithal to pay the piper. As I told you, he tried some of his queer
turns, but I foiled him like a man, and, in return, gave him more than
he could relish of the genuine _dead knowledge_.

"In short, I have plucked the old baronet as never baronet was plucked
before; I have scarce left him the stump of a quill; I have got
promissory notes in his hand to the amount of--if you like round
numbers, say, thirty thousand pounds, safely deposited in my portable
strong-box, _alias_ double-clasped pocket-book. I leave this ruinous old
rat-hole early on to-morrow, for two reasons--first, I do not want to
play with Sir Arthur deeper than I think his security, that is, his
money, or his money's worth, would warrant; and, secondly, because I am
safer a hundred miles from Sir Arthur than in the house with him. Look
you, my worthy, I tell you this between ourselves--I may be wrong, but,
by G----, I am as sure as that I am now living, that Sir A---- attempted
to poison me last night. So much for old friendship on both sides!

"When I won the last stake, a heavy one enough, my friend leant his
forehead upon his hands, and you'll laugh when I tell you that his
head literally smoked like a hot dumpling. I do not know whether his
agitation was produced by the plan which he had against me, or by his
having lost so heavily--though it must be allowed that he had reason to
be a little funked, whichever way his thoughts went; but he pulled
the bell, and ordered two bottles of champagne. While the fellow was
bringing them he drew out a promissory note to the full amount, which he
signed, and, as the man came in with the bottles and glasses, he desired
him to be off; he filled out a glass for me, and, while he thought my
eyes were off, for I was putting up his note at the time, he dropped
something slyly into it, no doubt to sweeten it; but I saw it all, and
when he handed it to me, I said, with an emphasis which he might or
might not understand:

"'There is some sediment in this; I'll not drink it.'

"'Is there?' said he, and at the same time snatched it from my hand and
threw it into the fire. What do you think of that? have I not a tender
chicken to manage? Win or lose, I will not play beyond five thousand
to-night, and to-morrow sees me safe out of the reach of Sir Arthur's
champagne. So, all things considered, I think you must allow that you
are not the last who have found a knowing boy in

    "Yours to command,
      "HUGH TISDALL."


Of the authenticity of this document I never heard my father express a
doubt; and I am satisfied that, owing to his strong conviction in favour
of his brother, he would not have admitted it without sufficient
inquiry, inasmuch as it tended to confirm the suspicions which already
existed to his prejudice.

Now, the only point in this letter which made strongly against my
uncle was the mention of the "double-clasped pocket-book" as the
receptacle of the papers likely to involve him, for this pocket-book
was not forthcoming, nor anywhere to be found, nor had any papers
referring to his gaming transactions been found upon the dead man.
However, whatever might have been the original intention of this
Collis, neither my uncle nor my father ever heard more of him; but he
published the letter in Faulkner's Newspaper, which was shortly
afterwards made the vehicle of a much more mysterious attack. The
passage in that periodical to which I allude appeared about four years
afterwards, and while the fatal occurrence was still fresh in public
recollection. It commenced by a rambling preface, stating that "a
_certain person_ whom _certain_ persons thought to be dead, was not
so, but living, and in full possession of his memory, and moreover
ready and able to make _great_ delinquents tremble." It then went on
to describe the murder, without, however, mentioning names; and in
doing so, it entered into minute and circumstantial particulars of
which none but an _eye-witness_ could have been possessed, and by
implications almost too unequivocal to be regarded in the light of
insinuation, to involve the "_titled gambler_" in the guilt of the
transaction.

My father at once urged Sir Arthur to proceed against the paper in an
action of libel; but he would not hear of it, nor consent to my father's
taking any legal steps whatever in the matter. My father, however, wrote
in a threatening tone to Faulkner, demanding a surrender of the author
of the obnoxious article. The answer to this application is still in
my possession, and is penned in an apologetic tone: it states that
the manuscript had been handed in, paid for, and inserted as an
advertisement, without sufficient inquiry, or any knowledge as to whom
it referred.

No step, however, was taken to clear my uncle's character in the
judgment of the public; and as he immediately sold a small property,
the application of the proceeds of which was known to none, he was said
to have disposed of it to enable himself to buy off the threatened
information. However the truth might have been, it is certain that no
charges respecting the mysterious murder were afterwards publicly made
against my uncle, and, as far as external disturbances were concerned,
he enjoyed henceforward perfect security and quiet.

A deep and lasting impression, however, had been made upon the public
mind, and Sir Arthur T----n was no longer visited or noticed by the
gentry and aristocracy of the county, whose attention and courtesies
he had hitherto received. He accordingly affected to despise these
enjoyments which he could not procure, and shunned even that society
which he might have commanded.

This is all that I need recapitulate of my uncle's history, and I now
recur to my own. Although my father had never, within my recollection,
visited, or been visited by, my uncle, each being of sedentary,
procrastinating, and secluded habits, and their respective residences
being very far apart--the one lying in the county of Galway, the other
in that of Cork--he was strongly attached to his brother, and evinced
his affection by an active correspondence, and by deeply and proudly
resenting that neglect which had marked Sir Arthur as unfit to mix in
society.

When I was about eighteen years of age, my father, whose health had been
gradually declining, died, leaving me in heart wretched and desolate,
and, owing to his previous seclusion, with few acquaintances, and almost
no friends.

The provisions of his will were curious, and when I had sufficiently
come to myself to listen to or comprehend them, surprised me not a
little: all his vast property was left to me, and to the heirs of my
body, for ever; and, in default of such heirs, it was to go after my
death to my uncle, Sir Arthur, without any entail.

At the same time, the will appointed him my guardian, desiring that I
might be received within his house, and reside with his family, and
under his care, during the term of my minority; and in consideration of
the increased expense consequent upon such an arrangement, a handsome
annuity was allotted to him during the term of my proposed residence.

The object of this last provision I at once understood: my father
desired, by making it the direct, apparent interest of Sir Arthur that
I should die without issue, while at the same time placing me wholly
in his power, to prove to the world how great and unshaken was his
confidence in his brother's innocence and honour, and also to afford
him an opportunity of showing that this mark of confidence was not
unworthily bestowed.

It was a strange, perhaps an idle scheme; but as I had been always
brought up in the habit of considering my uncle as a deeply-injured man,
and had been taught, almost as a part of my religion, to regard him as
the very soul of honour, I felt no further uneasiness respecting the
arrangement than that likely to result to a timid girl of secluded
habits from the immediate prospect of taking up her abode for the first
time in her life among total strangers. Previous to leaving my home,
which I felt I should do with a heavy heart, I received a most tender
and affectionate letter from my uncle, calculated, if anything could do
so, to remove the bitterness of parting from scenes familiar and dear
from my earliest childhood, and in some degree to reconcile me to the
change.

It was during a fine autumn that I approached the old domain of
Carrickleigh. I shall not soon forget the impression of sadness and of
gloom which all that I saw produced upon my mind; the sunbeams were
falling with a rich and melancholy tint upon the fine old trees, which
stood in lordly groups, casting their long, sweeping shadows over rock
and sward. There was an air of desolation and decay about the spot,
which amounted almost to desolation; the symptoms of this increased in
number as we approached the building itself, near which the ground
had been originally more artificially and carefully cultivated than
elsewhere, and the neglect consequently more immediately and strikingly
betrayed itself.

As we proceeded, the road wound near the beds of what had been formerly
two fish-ponds--now nothing more than stagnant swamps, overgrown with
rank weeds, and here and there encroached upon by the straggling
underwood. The avenue itself was much broken, and in many places the
stones were almost concealed by grass and nettles; the loose stone
walls which had here and there intersected the broad park were, in
many places, broken down, so as no longer to answer their original
purpose as fences; piers were now and then to be seen, but the gates
were gone. And, to add to the general air of dilapidation, some huge
trunks were lying scattered through the venerable old trees, either
the work of the winter storms, or perhaps the victims of some extensive
but desultory scheme of denudation, which the projector had not capital
or perseverance to carry into full effect.

After the carriage had travelled a mile of this avenue, we reached the
summit of rather an abrupt eminence, one of the many which added to the
picturesqueness, if not to the convenience of this rude passage. From
the top of this ridge the grey walls of Carrickleigh were visible,
rising at a small distance in front, and darkened by the hoary
wood which crowded around them. It was a quadrangular building of
considerable extent, and the front which lay towards us, and in which
the great entrance was placed, bore unequivocal marks of antiquity; the
time-worn, solemn aspect of the old building, the ruinous and deserted
appearance of the whole place, and the associations which connected
it with a dark page in the history of my family, combined to depress
spirits already predisposed for the reception of sombre and dejecting
impressions.

When the carriage drew up in the grass-grown courtyard before the hall
door, two lazy-looking men, whose appearance well accorded with that of
the place which they tenanted, alarmed by the obstreperous barking of a
great chained dog, ran out from some half-ruinous out-houses, and took
charge of the horses; the hall door stood open, and I entered a gloomy
and imperfectly lighted apartment, and found no one within. However, I
had not long to wait in this awkward predicament, for before my luggage
had been deposited in the house--indeed, before I had well removed my
cloak and other wraps, so as to enable me to look around--a young girl
ran lightly into the hall, and kissing me heartily, and somewhat
boisterously, exclaimed:

"My dear cousin, my dear Margaret, I am so delighted, so out of breath.
We did not expect you till ten o'clock; my father is somewhere about the
place; he must be close at hand. James, Corney--run out and tell your
master--my brother is seldom at home, at least at any reasonable
hour--you must be so tired, so fatigued, let me show you to your room.
See that Lady Margaret's luggage is all brought up, you must lie down
and rest yourself. Deborah, bring some coffee-- Up these stairs! We are
so delighted to see you, you cannot think how lonely I have been. How
steep these stairs are, are they not? I am so glad you are come; I could
hardly bring myself to believe that you were really coming; how good of
you, dear Lady Margaret."

There was real good nature and delight in my cousin's greeting, and a
kind of constitutional confidence of manner which placed me at once at
ease, and made me feel immediately upon terms of intimacy with her. The
room into which she ushered me, although partaking in the general air of
decay which pervaded the mansion and all about it, had nevertheless been
fitted up with evident attention to comfort, and even with some dingy
attempt at luxury; but what pleased me most was that it opened, by a
second door, upon a lobby which communicated with my fair cousin's
apartment; a circumstance which divested the room, in my eyes, of the
air of solitude and sadness which would otherwise have characterized
it, to a degree almost painful to one so dejected in spirits as I was.

After such arrangements as I found necessary were completed, we both
went down to the parlour, a large wainscoted room, hung round with grim
old portraits, and, as I was not sorry to see, containing in its ample
grate a large and cheerful fire. Here my cousin had leisure to talk more
at ease; and from her I learned something of the manners and the habits
of the two remaining members of her family, whom I had not yet seen.

On my arrival I had known nothing of the family among whom I was come
to reside, except that it consisted of three individuals, my uncle,
and his son and daughter, Lady T----n having been long dead. In
addition to this very scanty stock of information, I shortly learned
from my communicative companion that my uncle was, as I had suspected,
completely reserved in his habits, and besides that, having been
so far back as she could well recollect, always rather strict (as
reformed rakes frequently become), he had latterly been growing more
gloomily and sternly religious than heretofore.

Her account of her brother was far less favourable, though she did not
say anything directly to his disadvantage. From all that I could gather
from her, I was led to suppose that he was a specimen of the idle,
coarse-mannered, profligate, low-minded "squire-archy"--a result which
might naturally have flowed from the circumstance of his being, as it
were, outlawed from society, and driven for companionship to grades
below his own; enjoying, too, the dangerous prerogative of spending much
money.

However, you may easily suppose that I found nothing in my cousin's
communication fully to bear me out in so very decided a conclusion.

I awaited the arrival of my uncle, which was every moment to be
expected, with feelings half of alarm, half of curiosity--a sensation
which I have often since experienced, though to a less degree, when upon
the point of standing for the first time in the presence of one of whom
I have long been in the habit of hearing or thinking with interest.

It was, therefore, with some little perturbation that I heard, first a
light bustle at the outer door, then a slow step traverse the hall, and
finally witnessed the door open, and my uncle enter the room. He was a
striking-looking man; from peculiarities both of person and of garb, the
whole effect of his appearance amounted to extreme singularity. He was
tall, and when young his figure must have been strikingly elegant; as it
was, however, its effect was marred by a very decided stoop. His dress
was of a sober colour, and in fashion anterior to anything which I could
remember. It was, however, handsome, and by no means carelessly put on.
But what completed the singularity of his appearance was his uncut
white hair, which hung in long, but not at all neglected curls, even
so far as his shoulders, and which combined with his regularly classic
features and fine dark eyes, to bestow upon him an air of venerable
dignity and pride which I have never seen equalled elsewhere. I rose as
he entered, and met him about the middle of the room; he kissed my cheek
and both my hands, saying:

"You are most welcome, dear child, as welcome as the command of this
poor place and all that it contains can make you. I am most rejoiced to
see you--truly rejoiced. I trust that you are not much fatigued--pray
be seated again." He led me to my chair, and continued: "I am glad to
perceive you have made acquaintance with Emily already; I see, in your
being thus brought together, the foundation of a lasting friendship. You
are both innocent, and both young. God bless you--God bless you, and
make you all that I could wish!"

[Illustration: I ROSE AS HE ENTERED.]

He raised his eyes, and remained for a few moments silent, as if in
secret prayer. I felt that it was impossible that this man, with
feelings so quick, so warm, so tender, could be the wretch that public
opinion had represented him to be. I was more than ever convinced of his
innocence.

His manner was, or appeared to me, most fascinating; there was a mingled
kindness and courtesy in it which seemed to speak benevolence itself. It
was a manner which I felt cold art could never have taught; it owed most
of its charm to its appearing to emanate directly from the heart; it
must be a genuine index of the owner's mind. So I thought.

My uncle having given me fully to understand that I was most welcome,
and might command whatever was his own, pressed me to take some
refreshment; and on my refusing, he observed that previously to bidding
me good-night, he had one duty further to perform, one in whose
observance he was convinced I would cheerfully acquiesce.

He then proceeded to read a chapter from the Bible; after which he took
his leave with the same affectionate kindness with which he had greeted
me, having repeated his desire that I should consider everything in his
house as altogether at my disposal. It is needless to say that I was
much pleased with my uncle--it was impossible to avoid being so; and I
could not help saying to myself, if such a man as this is not safe from
the assaults of slander, who is? I felt much happier than I had done
since my father's death, and enjoyed that night the first refreshing
sleep which had visited me since that event.

My curiosity respecting my male cousin did not long remain
unsatisfied--he appeared the next day at dinner. His manners, though not
so coarse as I had expected, were exceedingly disagreeable; there was an
assurance and a forwardness for which I was not prepared; there was less
of the vulgarity of manner, and almost more of that of the mind, than I
had anticipated. I felt quite uncomfortable in his presence; there was
just that confidence in his look and tone which would read encouragement
even in mere toleration; and I felt more disgusted and annoyed at the
coarse and extravagant compliments which he was pleased from time to
time to pay me, than perhaps the extent of the atrocity might fully
have warranted. It was, however, one consolation that he did not often
appear, being much engrossed by pursuits about which I neither knew nor
cared anything; but when he did appear, his attentions, either with
a view to his amusement or to some more serious advantage, were so
obviously and perseveringly directed to me, that young and inexperienced
as I was, even _I_ could not be ignorant of his preference. I felt more
provoked by this odious persecution than I can express, and discouraged
him with so much vigour, that I employed even rudeness to convince him
his assiduities were unwelcome; but all in vain.

This had gone on for nearly a twelvemonth, to my infinite annoyance,
when one day as I was sitting at some needlework with my companion
Emily, as was my habit, in the parlour, the door opened, and my cousin
Edward entered the room. There was something, I thought, odd in his
manner; a kind of struggle between shame and impudence--a kind of flurry
and ambiguity which made him appear, if possible, more than ordinarily
disagreeable.

"Your servant, ladies," he said, seating himself at the same time;
"sorry to spoil your _tête-à-tête_, but never mind! I'll only take
Emily's place for a minute or two; and then we part for a while,
fair cousin. Emily, my father wants you in the corner turret. No
shilly-shally; he's in a hurry." She hesitated. "Be off--tramp, march!"
he exclaimed, in a tone which the poor girl dared not disobey.

She left the room, and Edward followed her to the door. He stood there
for a minute or two, as if reflecting what he should say, perhaps
satisfying himself that no one was within hearing in the hall.

At length he turned about, having closed the door, as if carelessly,
with his foot; and advancing slowly, as if in deep thought, he took his
seat at the side of the table opposite to mine.

There was a brief interval of silence, after which he said:

"I imagine that you have a shrewd suspicion of the object of my early
visit; but I suppose I must go into particulars. Must I?"

"I have no conception," I replied, "what your object may be."

"Well, well," said he, becoming more at his ease as he proceeded,
"it may be told in a few words. You know that it is totally
impossible--quite out of the question--that an off-hand young fellow
like me, and a good-looking girl like yourself, could meet continually,
as you and I have done, without an attachment--a liking growing up on
one side or other; in short, I think I have let you know as plain as if
I spoke it, that I have been in love with you almost from the first time
I saw you."

He paused; but I was too much horrified to speak. He interpreted my
silence favourably.

"I can tell you," he continued, "I'm reckoned rather hard to please, and
very hard to _hit_. I can't say when I was taken with a girl before; so
you see fortune reserved me----"

Here the odious wretch wound his arm round my waist. The action at
once restored me to utterance, and with the most indignant vehemence I
released myself from his hold, and at the same time said:

"I have not been insensible, sir, of your most disagreeable
attentions--they have long been a source of much annoyance to me; and
you must be aware that I have marked my disapprobation--my disgust--as
unequivocally as I possibly could, without actual indelicacy."

I paused, almost out of breath from the rapidity with which I had
spoken; and, without giving him time to renew the conversation, I
hastily quitted the room, leaving him in a paroxysm of rage and
mortification.

As I ascended the stairs, I heard him open the parlour-door with
violence, and take two or three rapid strides in the direction in which
I was moving. I was now much frightened, and ran the whole way until I
reached my room; and having locked the door, I listened breathlessly,
but heard no sound. This relieved me for the present; but so much had
I been overcome by the agitation and annoyance attendant upon the scene
which I had just gone through, that when Emily knocked at my door, I was
weeping in strong hysterics.

[Illustration: LEAVING HIM IN A PAROXYSM OF RAGE AND MORTIFICATION.]

You will readily conceive my distress, when you reflect upon my strong
dislike to my cousin Edward, combined with my youth and extreme
inexperience. Any proposal of such a nature must have agitated me; but
that it should have come from the man whom of all others I most loathed
and abhorred, and to whom I had, as clearly as manner could do it,
expressed the state of my feelings, was almost too overwhelming to be
borne. It was a calamity, too, in which I could not claim the sympathy
of my cousin Emily, which had always been extended to me in my minor
grievances. Still I hoped that it might not be unattended with good; for
I thought that one inevitable and most welcome consequence would result
from this painful _eclaircissement_, in the discontinuance of my
cousin's odious persecution.

When I arose next morning, it was with the fervent hope that I might
never again behold the face, or even hear the name, of my cousin Edward;
but such a consummation, though devoutly to be wished, was hardly likely
to occur. The painful impressions of yesterday were too vivid to be at
once erased; and I could not help feeling some dim foreboding of coming
annoyance and evil.

To expect on my suitor's part anything like delicacy or consideration
for me was out of the question. I saw that he had set his heart upon
my property, and that he was not likely easily to forego such an
acquisition--possessing what might have been considered opportunities
and facilities almost to compel my compliance.

I now keenly felt the unreasonableness of my father's conduct in placing
me to reside with a family of all whose members, with one exception,
he was wholly ignorant, and I bitterly felt the helplessness of my
situation. I determined, however, in case of my cousin's persevering in
his addresses, to lay all the particulars before my uncle (although
he had never in kindness or intimacy gone a step beyond our first
interview), and to throw myself upon his hospitality and his sense of
honour for protection against a repetition of such scenes.

My cousin's conduct may appear to have been an inadequate cause for
such serious uneasiness; but my alarm was caused neither by his acts
nor words, but entirely by his manner, which was strange and even
intimidating to excess. At the beginning of yesterday's interview there
was a sort of bullying swagger in his air, which towards the close gave
place to the brutal vehemence of an undisguised ruffian--a transition
which had tempted me into a belief that he might seek even forcibly
to extort from me a consent to his wishes, or by means still more
horrible, of which I scarcely dared to trust myself to think, to possess
himself of my property.

I was early next day summoned to attend my uncle in his private room,
which lay in a corner turret of the old building; and thither I
accordingly went, wondering all the way what this unusual measure might
prelude. When I entered the room, he did not rise in his usual courteous
way to greet me, but simply pointed to a chair opposite to his own. This
boded nothing agreeable. I sat down, however, silently waiting until he
should open the conversation.

"Lady Margaret," at length he said, in a tone of greater sternness than
I had thought him capable of using, "I have hitherto spoken to you as a
friend, but I have not forgotten that I am also your guardian, and that
my authority as such gives me a right to control your conduct. I shall
put a question to you, and I expect and will demand a plain, direct
answer. Have I rightly been informed that you have contemptuously
rejected the suit and hand of my son Edward?"

I stammered forth with a good deal of trepidation:

"I believe--that is, I have, sir, rejected my cousin's proposals; and my
coldness and discouragement might have convinced him that I had
determined to do so."

"Madam," replied he, with suppressed, but, as it appeared to me,
intense anger, "I have lived long enough to know that coldness and
discouragement, and such terms, form the common cant of a worthless
coquette. You know to the full, as well as I, that _coldness and
discouragement_ may be so exhibited as to convince their object that he
is neither distasteful nor indifferent to the person who wears this
manner. You know, too, none better, that an affected neglect, when
skilfully managed, is amongst the most formidable of the engines which
artful beauty can employ. I tell you, madam, that having, without one
word spoken in discouragement, permitted my son's most marked attentions
for a twelvemonth or more, you have no right to dismiss him with no
further explanation than demurely telling him that you had always looked
coldly upon him; and neither your wealth nor your _ladyship_" (there was
an emphasis of scorn on the word, which would have become Sir Giles
Overreach himself) "can warrant you in treating with contempt the
affectionate regard of an honest heart."

I was too much shocked at this undisguised attempt to bully me into an
acquiescence in the interested and unprincipled plan for their own
aggrandizement, which I now perceived my uncle and his son to have
deliberately entered into, at once to find strength or collectedness to
frame an answer to what he had said. At length I replied, with some
firmness:

"In all that you have just now said, sir, you have grossly misstated my
conduct and motives. Your information must have been most incorrect as
far as it regards my conduct towards my cousin; my manner towards him
could have conveyed nothing but dislike; and if anything could have
added to the strong aversion which I have long felt towards him, it
would be his attempting thus to trick and frighten me into a marriage
which he knows to be revolting to me, and which is sought by him only as
a means for securing to himself whatever property is mine."

As I said this, I fixed my eyes upon those of my uncle, but he was too
old in the world's ways to falter beneath the gaze of more searching
eyes than mine; he simply said:

"Are you acquainted with the provisions of your father's will?"

I answered in the affirmative; and he continued:

"Then you must be aware that if my son Edward were--which God
forbid--the unprincipled, reckless man you pretend to think him"--(here
he spoke very slowly, as if he intended that every word which escaped
him should be registered in my memory, while at the same time the
expression of his countenance underwent a gradual but horrible change,
and the eyes which he fixed upon me became so darkly vivid, that I
almost lost sight of everything else)--"if he were what you have
described him, think you, girl, he could find no briefer means than
wedding contracts to gain his ends? 'twas but to gripe your slender neck
until the breath had stopped, and lands, and lakes, and all were his."

[Illustration: "TWAS BUT TO GRIPE YOUR SLENDER NECK UNTIL THE BREATH HAD
STOPPED."]

I stood staring at him for many minutes after he had ceased to speak,
fascinated by the terrible serpent-like gaze, until he continued with a
welcome change of countenance:

"I will not speak again to you upon this topic until one month has
passed. You shall have time to consider the relative advantages of the
two courses which are open to you. I should be sorry to hurry you to
a decision. I am satisfied with having stated my feelings upon the
subject, and pointed out to you the path of duty. Remember this day
month--not one word sooner."

He then rose, and I left the room, much agitated and exhausted.

This interview, all the circumstances attending it, but most
particularly the formidable expression of my uncle's countenance while
he talked, though hypothetically, of murder, combined to arouse all my
worst suspicions of him. I dreaded to look upon the face that had so
recently worn the appalling livery of guilt and malignity. I regarded it
with the mingled fear and loathing with which one looks upon an object
which has tortured them in a nightmare.

In a few days after the interview, the particulars of which I have just
related, I found a note upon my toilet-table, and on opening it I read
as follows:


"MY DEAR LADY MARGARET,

"You will be perhaps surprised to see a strange face in your room
to-day. I have dismissed your Irish maid, and secured a French one to
wait upon you--a step rendered necessary by my proposing shortly to
visit the Continent, with all my family.

    "Your faithful guardian,
      "ARTHUR T----N."


On inquiry, I found that my faithful attendant was actually gone, and
far on her way to the town of Galway; and in her stead there appeared
a tall, raw-boned, ill-looking, elderly Frenchwoman, whose sullen and
presuming manners seemed to imply that her vocation had never before
been that of a lady's maid. I could not help regarding her as a creature
of my uncle's, and therefore to be dreaded, even had she been in no
other way suspicious.

Days and weeks passed away without any, even a momentary doubt upon my
part, as to the course to be pursued by me. The allotted period had at
length elapsed; the day arrived on which I was to communicate my
decision to my uncle. Although my resolution had never for a moment
wavered, I could not shake off the dread of the approaching colloquy;
and my heart sank within me as I heard the expected summons.

I had not seen my cousin Edward since the occurrence of the grand
_eclaircissement_; he must have studiously avoided me--I suppose from
policy, it could not have been from delicacy. I was prepared for a
terrific burst of fury from my uncle, as soon as I should make known my
determination; and I not unreasonably feared that some act of violence
or of intimidation would next be resorted to.

Filled with these dreary forebodings, I fearfully opened the study door,
and the next minute I stood in my uncle's presence. He received me with
a politeness which I dreaded, as arguing a favourable anticipation
respecting the answer which I was to give; and after some slight delay,
he began by saying:

"It will be a relief to both of us, I believe, to bring this
conversation as soon as possible to an issue. You will excuse me, then,
my dear niece, for speaking with an abruptness which, under other
circumstances, would be unpardonable. You have, I am certain, given the
subject of our last interview fair and serious consideration; and I
trust that you are now prepared with candour to lay your answer before
me. A few words will suffice--we perfectly understand one another."

He paused, and I, though feeling that I stood upon a mine which might in
an instant explode, nevertheless answered with perfect composure:

"I must now, sir, make the same reply which I did upon the last
occasion, and I reiterate the declaration which I then made, that I
never can nor will, while life and reason remain, consent to a union
with my cousin Edward."

This announcement wrought no apparent change in Sir Arthur, except that
he became deadly, almost lividly pale. He seemed lost in dark thought
for a minute, and then with a slight effort said:

"You have answered me honestly and directly; and you say your
resolution is unchangeable. Well, would it had been otherwise--would it
had been otherwise; but be it as it is, I am satisfied."

He gave me his hand--it was cold and damp as death; under an assumed
calmness, it was evident that he was fearfully agitated. He continued
to hold my hand with an almost painful pressure, while, as if
unconsciously, seeming to forget my presence, he muttered:

"Strange, strange, strange, indeed! fatuity, helpless fatuity!" there
was here a long pause. "Madness indeed to strain a cable that is rotten
to the very heart--it must break--and then--all goes."

There was again a pause of some minutes, after which, suddenly changing
his voice and manner to one of wakeful alacrity, he exclaimed:

"Margaret, my son Edward shall plague you no more. He leaves this
country on to-morrow for France--he shall speak no more upon this
subject--never, never more--whatever events depended upon your answer
must now take their own course; but, as for this fruitless proposal, it
has been tried enough; it can be repeated no more."

At these words he coldly suffered my hand to drop, as if to express
his total abandonment of all his projected schemes of alliance; and
certainly the action, with the accompanying words, produced upon my mind
a more solemn and depressing effect than I believed possible to have
been caused by the course which I had determined to pursue; it struck
upon my heart with an awe and heaviness which _will_ accompany the
accomplishment of an important and irrevocable act, even though no doubt
or scruple remains to make it possible that the agent should wish it
undone.

"Well," said my uncle, after a little time, "we now cease to speak upon
this topic, never to resume it again. Remember you shall have no further
uneasiness from Edward; he leaves Ireland for France on to-morrow; this
will be a relief to you. May I depend upon your honour that no word
touching the subject of this interview shall ever escape you?"

I gave him the desired assurance; he said:

"It is well--I am satisfied; we have nothing more, I believe, to say
upon either side, and my presence must be a restraint upon you, I shall
therefore bid you farewell."

I then left the apartment, scarcely knowing what to think of the strange
interview which had just taken place.

On the next day my uncle took occasion to tell me that Edward had
actually sailed, if his intention had not been interfered with by
adverse circumstances; and two days subsequently he actually produced a
letter from his son, written, as it said, on board, and despatched while
the ship was getting under weigh. This was a great satisfaction to me
and as being likely to prove so, it was no doubt communicated to me by
Sir Arthur.

During all this trying period, I had found infinite consolation in the
society and sympathy of my dear cousin Emily. I never in after-life
formed a friendship so close, so fervent, and upon which, in all its
progress, I could look back with feelings of such unalloyed pleasure,
upon whose termination I must ever dwell with so deep, yet so
unembittered regret. In cheerful converse with her I soon recovered my
spirits considerably, and passed my time agreeably enough, although
still in the strictest seclusion.

Matters went on sufficiently smooth, although I could not help sometimes
feeling a momentary, but horrible uncertainty respecting my uncle's
character; which was not altogether unwarranted by the circumstances of
the two trying interviews whose particulars I have just detailed. The
unpleasant impression which these conferences were calculated to leave
upon my mind was fast wearing away, when there occurred a circumstance,
slight indeed in itself, but calculated irresistibly to awaken all my
worst suspicions, and to overwhelm me again with anxiety and terror.

I had one day left the house with my cousin Emily, in order to take a
ramble of considerable length, for the purpose of sketching some
favourite views, and she had walked about half a mile, when I perceived
that we had forgotten our drawing materials, the absence of which
would have defeated the object of our walk. Laughing at our own
thoughtlessness, we returned to the house, and leaving Emily without, I
ran upstairs to procure the drawing-books and pencils, which lay in my
bedroom.

As I ran up the stairs I was met by the tall, ill-looking Frenchwoman,
evidently a good deal flurried.

"Que veut, madame?" said she, with a more decided effort to be polite
than I had ever known her make before.

"No, no--no matter," said I, hastily running by her in the direction of
my room.

"Madame," cried she, in a high key, "restez ici, s'il vous plait; votre
chambre n'est pas faite--your room is not ready for your reception yet."

I continued to move on without heeding her. She was some way behind me,
and feeling that she could not otherwise prevent my entrance, for I was
now upon the very lobby, she made a desperate attempt to seize hold of
my person: she succeeded in grasping the end of my shawl, which she drew
from my shoulders; but slipping at the same time upon the polished oak
floor, she fell at full length upon the boards.

A little frightened as well as angry at the rudeness of this strange
woman, I hastily pushed open the door of my room, at which I now stood,
in order to escape from her; but great was my amazement on entering to
find the apartment occupied.

The window was open, and beside it stood two male figures; they appeared
to be examining the fastenings of the casement, and their backs were
turned towards the door. One of them was my uncle; they both turned on
my entrance, as if startled. The stranger was booted and cloaked, and
wore a heavy broad-leafed hat over his brows. He turned but for a
moment, and averted his face; but I had seen enough to convince me that
he was no other than my cousin Edward. My uncle had some iron instrument
in his hand, which he hastily concealed behind his back; and, coming
towards me, said something as if in an explanatory tone; but I was too
much shocked and confounded to understand what it might be. He said
something about "repairs--window-frames--cold, and safety."

I did not wait, however, to ask or to receive explanations, but hastily
left the room. As I went down the stairs I thought I heard the voice of
the French woman in all the shrill volubility of excuse, which was met,
however, by suppressed but vehement imprecations, or what seemed to me
to be such, in which the voice of my cousin Edward distinctly mingled.

I joined my cousin Emily quite out of breath. I need not say that my
head was too full of other things to think much of drawing for that day.
I imparted to her frankly the cause of my alarms, but at the same time
as gently as I could; and with tears she promised vigilance, and
devotion, and love. I never had reason for a moment to repent the
unreserved confidence which I then reposed in her. She was no less
surprised than I at the unexpected appearance of her brother, whose
departure for France neither of us had for a moment doubted, but which
was now proved by his actual presence to be nothing more than an
imposture, practised, I feared, for no good end.

The situation in which I had found my uncle had removed completely all
my doubts as to his designs. I magnified suspicions into certainties,
and dreaded night after night that I should be murdered in my bed. The
nervousness produced by sleepless nights and days of anxious fears
increased the horrors of my situation to such a degree, that I at length
wrote a letter to a Mr. Jefferies, an old and faithful friend of my
father's, and perfectly acquainted with all his affairs, praying him,
for God's sake, to relieve me from my present terrible situation, and
communicating without reserve the nature and grounds of my suspicions.

This letter I kept sealed and directed for two or three days always
about my person--for discovery would have been ruinous--in expectation
of an opportunity which might be safely trusted, whereby to have it
placed in the post-office. As neither Emily nor I was permitted to pass
beyond the precincts of the demesne itself, which was surrounded by high
walls formed of dry stone, the difficulty of procuring such an
opportunity was greatly enhanced.

At this time Emily had a short conversation with her father, which she
reported to me instantly.

After some indifferent matter, he had asked her whether she and I were
upon good terms, and whether I was unreserved in my disposition. She
answered in the affirmative; and he then inquired whether I had been
much surprised to find him in my chamber on the other day. She answered
that I had been both surprised and amused.

"And what did she think of George Wilson's appearance?"

"Who?" inquired she.

"Oh, the architect," he answered, "who is to contract for the repairs of
the house; he is accounted a handsome fellow."

"She could not see his face," said Emily, "and she was in such a hurry
to escape that she scarcely noticed him."

Sir Arthur appeared satisfied, and the conversation ended.

This slight conversation, repeated accurately to me by Emily, had the
effect of confirming, if indeed anything was required to do so, all
that I had before believed as to Edward's actual presence; and I
naturally became, if possible, more anxious than ever to despatch the
letter to Mr. Jefferies. An opportunity at length occurred.

As Emily and I were walking one day near the gate of the demesne, a man
from the village happened to be passing down the avenue from the house;
the spot was secluded, and as this person was not connected by service
with those whose observation I dreaded, I committed the letter to his
keeping, with strict injunctions that he should put it without delay
into the receiver of the town post-office; at the same time I added a
suitable gratuity, and the man, having made many protestations of
punctuality, was soon out of sight.

He was hardly gone when I began to doubt my discretion in having trusted
this person; but I had no better or safer means of despatching the
letter, and I was not warranted in suspecting him of such wanton
dishonesty as an inclination to tamper with it; but I could not be quite
satisfied of its safety until I had received an answer, which could not
arrive for a few days. Before I did, however, an event occurred which a
little surprised me.

I was sitting in my bedroom early in the day, reading by myself, when I
heard a knock at the door.

"Come in," said I; and my uncle entered the room.

"Will you excuse me?" said he. "I sought you in the parlour, and thence
I have come here. I desire to say a word with you. I trust that you have
hitherto found my conduct to you such as that of a guardian towards his
ward should be."

I dared not withhold my assent.

"And," he continued, "I trust that you have not found me harsh or
unjust, and that you have perceived, my dear niece, that I have sought
to make this poor place as agreeable to you as may be."

I assented again; and he put his hand in his pocket, whence he drew a
folded paper, and dashing it upon the table with startling emphasis, he
said,--

"Did you write that letter?"

The sudden and fearful alteration of his voice, manner, and face, but,
more than all, the unexpected production of my letter to Mr. Jefferies,
which I at once recognized, so confounded and terrified me that I felt
almost choking.

I could not utter a word.

"Did you write that letter?" he repeated, with slow and intense
emphasis. "You did, liar and hypocrite! You dared to write this foul and
infamous libel; but it shall be your last. Men will universally believe
you mad, if I choose to call for an inquiry. I can make you appear so.
The suspicions expressed in this letter are the hallucinations and
alarms of moping lunacy. I have defeated your first attempt, madam; and
by the holy God, if ever you make another, chains, straw, darkness, and
the keeper's whip shall be your lasting portion!"

With these astounding words he left the room, leaving me almost
fainting.

I was now almost reduced to despair; my last cast had failed; I had no
course left but that of eloping secretly from the castle and placing
myself under the protection of the nearest magistrate. I felt if this
were not done, and speedily, that I should be _murdered_.

No one, from mere description, can have an idea of the unmitigated
horror of my situation--a helpless, weak, inexperienced girl, placed
under the power and wholly at the mercy of evil men, and feeling that
she had it not in her power to escape for a moment from the malignant
influences under which she was probably fated to fall; and with a
consciousness that if violence, if murder were designed, her dying
shriek would be lost in void space; no human being would be near to aid
her, no human interposition could deliver her.

I had seen Edward but once during his visit, and, as I did not meet with
him again, I began to think that he must have taken his departure--a
conviction which was to a certain degree satisfactory, as I regarded
his absence as indicating the removal of immediate danger.

Emily also arrived circuitously at the same conclusion, and not without
good grounds, for she managed indirectly to learn that Edward's black
horse had actually been for a day and part of a night in the castle
stables, just at the time of her brother's supposed visit. The horse had
gone and, as she argued, the rider must have departed with it.

This point being so far settled, I felt a little less uncomfortable;
when, being one day alone in my bedroom, I happened to look out from the
window, and, to my unutterable horror, I beheld, peering through an
opposite casement, my cousin Edward's face. Had I seen the evil one
himself in bodily shape, I could not have experienced a more sickening
revulsion.

I was too much appalled to move at once from the window, but I did so
soon enough to avoid his eye. He was looking fixedly into the narrow
quadrangle upon which the window opened. I shrank back unperceived, to
pass the rest of the day in terror and despair. I went to my room early
that night, but I was too miserable to sleep.

At about twelve o'clock, feeling very nervous, I determined to call my
cousin Emily, who slept, you will remember, in the next room, which
communicated with mine by a second door. By this private entrance I
found my way into her chamber, and without difficulty persuaded her to
return to my room and sleep with me. We accordingly lay down together,
she undressed, and I with my clothes on, for I was every moment walking
up and down the room, and felt too nervous and miserable to think of
rest or comfort.

Emily was soon fast asleep, and I lay awake, fervently longing for the
first pale gleam of morning; reckoning every stroke of the old clock
with an impatience which made every hour appear like six.

It must have been about one o'clock when I thought I heard a slight
noise at the partition-door between Emily's room and mine, as if caused
by somebody turning the key in the lock. I held my breath, and the same
sound was repeated at the second door of my room--that which opened upon
the lobby--the sound was here distinctly caused by the revolution of the
bolt in the lock, and it was followed by a slight pressure upon the door
itself, as if to ascertain the security of the lock.

The person, whoever it might be, was probably satisfied, for I heard the
old boards of the lobby creak and strain, as if under the weight of
somebody moving cautiously over them. My sense of hearing became
unnaturally, almost painfully acute. I suppose my imagination added
distinctness to sounds vague in themselves. I thought that I could
actually hear the breathing of the person who was slowly returning down
the lobby. At the head of the staircase there appeared to occur a pause;
and I could distinctly hear two or three sentences hastily whispered;
the steps then descended the stairs with apparently less caution. I now
ventured to walk quickly and lightly to the lobby door, and attempted to
open it; it was indeed fast locked upon the outside, as was also the
other.

I now felt that the dreadful hour was come; but one desperate expedient
remained--it was to awaken Emily, and by our united strength to attempt
to force the partition-door, which was slighter than the other, and
through this to pass to the lower part of the house, whence it might be
possible to escape to the grounds, and forth to the village.

I returned to the bedside and shook Emily, but in vain. Nothing that
I could do availed to produce from her more than a few incoherent
words--it was a deathlike sleep. She had certainly drunk of some
narcotic, as had I probably also, spite of all the caution with which
I had examined everything presented to us to eat or drink.

I now attempted, with as little noise as possible, to force first one
door, then the other; but all in vain. I believe no strength could have
effected my object, for both doors opened inwards. I therefore collected
whatever movables I could carry thither, and piled them against the
doors, so as to assist me in whatever attempts I should make to
resist the entrance of those without. I then returned to the bed and
endeavoured again, but fruitlessly, to awaken my cousin. It was not
sleep, it was torpor, lethargy, death. I knelt down and prayed with an
agony of earnestness; and then seating myself upon the bed, I awaited my
fate with a kind of terrible tranquillity.

I heard a faint clanking sound from the narrow court which I have
already mentioned, as if caused by the scraping of some iron instrument
against stones or rubbish. I at first determined not to disturb the
calmness which I now felt by uselessly watching the proceedings of those
who sought my life; but as the sounds continued, the horrible curiosity
which I felt overcame every other emotion, and I determined, at all
hazards, to gratify it. I therefore crawled upon my knees to the window,
so as to let the smallest portion of my head appear above the sill.

The moon was shining with an uncertain radiance upon the antique grey
buildings, and obliquely upon the narrow court beneath, one side of
which was therefore clearly illuminated, while the other was lost in
obscurity; the sharp outlines of the old gables, with their nodding
clusters of ivy, being at first alone visible.

Whoever or whatever occasioned the noise which had excited my curiosity,
was concealed under the shadow of the dark side of the quadrangle. I
placed my hand over my eyes to shade them from the moonlight, which was
so bright as to be almost dazzling, and, peering into the darkness, I
first dimly, but afterwards gradually almost with full distinctness,
beheld the form of a man engaged in digging what appeared to be a rude
hole close under the wall. Some implements, probably a shovel and
pickaxe, lay beside him, and to these he every now and then applied
himself as the nature of the ground required. He pursued his task
rapidly, and with as little noise as possible.

"So," thought I, as, shovelful after shovelful, the dislodged rubbish
mounted into a heap, "they are digging the grave in which, before two
hours pass, I must lie, a cold, mangled corpse. I am _theirs_--I cannot
escape."

I felt as if my reason was leaving me. I started to my feet, and in mere
despair I applied myself again to each of the two doors alternately. I
strained every nerve and sinew, but I might as well have attempted, with
my single strength, to force the building itself from its foundation. I
threw myself madly upon the ground, and clasped my hands over my eyes as
if to shut out the horrible images which crowded upon me.

The paroxysm passed away. I prayed once more, with the bitter, agonized
fervour of one who feels that the hour of death is present and
inevitable. When I arose, I went once more to the window and looked out,
just in time to see a shadowy figure glide stealthily along the wall.
The task was finished. The catastrophe of the tragedy must soon be
accomplished.

I determined now to defend my life to the last; and that I might be able
to do so with some effect, I searched the room for something which might
serve as a weapon; but either through accident, or from an anticipation
of such a possibility, everything which might have been made available
for such a purpose had been carefully removed. I must then die tamely,
and without an effort to defend myself.

A thought suddenly struck me--might it not be possible to escape through
the door, which the assassin must open in order to enter the room? I
resolved to make the attempt. I felt assured that the door through which
ingress to the room would be effected was that which opened upon the
lobby. It was the more direct way, besides being, for obvious reasons,
less liable to interruption than the other. I resolved, then, to place
myself behind a projection of the wall, whose shadow would serve fully
to conceal me, and when the door should be opened, and before they
should have discovered the identity of the occupant of the bed, to
creep noiselessly from the room, and then to trust to Providence for
escape.

In order to facilitate this scheme, I removed all the lumber which I had
heaped against the door; and I had nearly completed my arrangements,
when I perceived the room suddenly darkened by the close approach of
some shadowy object to the window. On turning my eyes in that direction,
I observed at the top of the casement, as if suspended from above, first
the feet, then the legs, then the body, and at length the whole figure
of a man present himself. It was Edward T----n.

He appeared to be guiding his descent so as to bring his feet upon the
centre of the stone block which occupied the lower part of the window;
and, having secured his footing upon this, he kneeled down and began to
gaze into the room. As the moon was gleaming into the chamber, and the
bed-curtains were drawn, he was able to distinguish the bed itself and
its contents. He appeared satisfied with his scrutiny, for he looked up
and made a sign with his hand, upon which the rope by which his descent
had been effected was slackened from above, and he proceeded to
disengage it from his waist; this accomplished, he applied his hands to
the window-frame, which must have been ingeniously contrived for the
purpose, for, with apparently no resistance, the whole frame, containing
casement and all, slipped from its position in the wall, and was by him
lowered into the room.

The cold night wind waved the bed-curtains, and he paused for a moment;
all was still again, and he stepped in upon the floor of the room.
He held in his hand what appeared to be a steel instrument, shaped
something like a hammer, but larger and sharper at the extremities. This
he held rather behind him, while, with three long, tip-toe strides, he
brought himself to the bedside.

I felt that the discovery must now be made, and held my breath in
momentary expectation of the execration in which he would vent his
surprise and disappointment. I closed my eyes--there was a pause, but it
was a short one. I heard two dull blows, given in rapid succession: a
quivering sigh, and the long-drawn, heavy breathing of the sleeper was
for ever suspended. I unclosed my eyes, and saw the murderer fling the
quilt across the head of his victim: he then, with the instrument of
death still in his hand, proceeded to the lobby door, upon which he
tapped sharply twice or thrice. A quick step was then heard approaching,
and a voice whispered something from without. Edward answered, with a
kind of chuckle, "Her ladyship is past complaining; unlock the door, in
the devil's name, unless you're afraid to come in, and help me to lift
the body out of the window."

The key was turned in the lock--the door opened, and my uncle entered
the room.

I have told you already that I had placed myself under the shade of a
projection of the wall, close to the door. I had instinctively shrunk
down, cowering towards the ground, on the entrance of Edward through the
window. When my uncle entered the room, he and his son both stood so
very close to me that his hand was every moment upon the point of
touching my face. I held my breath, and remained motionless as death.

"You had no interruption from the next room?" said my uncle.

"No," was the brief reply.

"Secure the jewels, Ned; the French harpy must not lay her claws upon
them. You're a steady hand, by G----! not much blood--eh?"

"Not twenty drops," replied his son, "and those on the quilt."

"I'm glad it's over," whispered my uncle again. "We must lift the--the
_thing_ through the window and lay the rubbish over it."

They then turned to the bedside, and, winding the bed-clothes round the
body, carried it between them slowly to the window, and, exchanging
a few brief words with some one below, they shoved it over the
window-sill, and I heard it fall heavily on the ground underneath.

"I'll take the jewels," said my uncle; "there are two caskets in the
lower drawer."

He proceeded, with an accuracy which, had I been more at ease, would
have furnished me with matter of astonishment, to lay his hand upon the
very spot where my jewels lay; and having possessed himself of them, he
called to his son:

"Is the rope made fast above?"

"I'm not a fool--to be sure it is," replied he.

They then lowered themselves from the window. I now rose lightly and
cautiously, scarcely daring to breathe, from my place of concealment,
and was creeping towards the door, when I heard my cousin's voice, in
a sharp whisper, exclaim: "Scramble up again! G--d d----n you, you've
forgot to lock the room-door!" and I perceived, by the straining of the
rope which hung from above, that the mandate was instantly obeyed.

Not a second was to be lost. I passed through the door, which was only
closed, and moved as rapidly as I could, consistently with stillness,
along the lobby. Before I had gone many yards, I heard the door through
which I had just passed double-locked on the inside. I glided down the
stairs in terror, lest, at every corner, I should meet the murderer or
one of his accomplices.

I reached the hall, and listened for a moment, to ascertain whether all
was silent around; no sound was audible. The parlour windows opened on
the park, and through one of them I might, I thought, easily effect my
escape. Accordingly, I hastily entered; but, to my consternation, a
candle was burning in the room, and by its light I saw a figure seated
at the dinner-table, upon which lay glasses, bottles, and the other
accompaniments of a drinking-party. Two or three chairs were placed
about the table irregularly, as if hastily abandoned by their occupants.

A single glance satisfied me that the figure was that of my French
attendant. She was fast asleep, having probably drunk deeply. There was
something malignant and ghastly in the calmness of this bad woman's
features, dimly illuminated as they were by the flickering blaze of the
candle. A knife lay upon the table, and the terrible thought, struck
me--"Should I kill this sleeping accomplice, and thus secure my
retreat?"

Nothing could be easier--it was but to draw the blade across her
throat--the work of a second. An instant's pause, however, corrected me.
"No," thought I, "the God who has conducted me thus far through the
valley of the shadow of death, will not abandon me now. I will fall into
their hands, or I will escape hence, but it shall be free from the stain
of blood. His will be done!"

I felt a confidence arising from this reflection, an assurance of
protection which I cannot describe. There was no other means of escape,
so I advanced, with a firm step and collected mind, to the window. I
noiselessly withdrew the bars and unclosed the shutters--I pushed open
the casement, and, without waiting to look behind me, I ran with my
utmost speed, scarcely feeling the ground under me, down the avenue,
taking care to keep upon the grass which bordered it.

I did not for a moment slacken my speed, and I had now gained the centre
point between the park-gate and the mansion-house. Here the avenue made
a wider circuit, and in order to avoid delay, I directed my way across
the smooth sward round which the pathway wound, intending, at the
opposite side of the flat, at a point which I distinguished by a group
of old birch-trees, to enter again upon the beaten track, which was from
thence tolerably direct to the gate.

I had, with my utmost speed, got about half way across this broad flat,
when the rapid treading of a horse's hoofs struck upon my ear. My heart
swelled in my bosom as though I would smother. The clattering of
galloping hoofs approached--I was pursued--they were now upon the sward
on which I was running--there was not a bush or a bramble to shelter
me--and, as if to render escape altogether desperate, the moon, which
had hitherto been obscured, at this moment shone forth with a broad
clear light, which made every object distinctly visible.

The sounds were now close behind me. I felt my knees bending under me,
with the sensation which torments one in dreams. I reeled--I stumbled--I
fell--and at the same instant the cause of my alarm wheeled past me at
full gallop. It was one of the young fillies which pastured loose about
the park, whose frolics had thus all but maddened me with terror. I
scrambled to my feet, and rushed on with weak but rapid steps, my
sportive companion still galloping round and round me with many a frisk
and fling, until, at length, more dead than alive, I reached the
avenue-gate, and crossed the stile, I scarce knew how.

I ran through the village, in which all was silent as the grave, until
my progress was arrested by the hoarse voice of a sentinel, who cried,
"Who goes there?" I felt that I was now safe. I turned in the direction
of the voice, and fell fainting at the soldier's feet. When I came to
myself, I was sitting in a miserable hovel, surrounded by strange faces,
all bespeaking curiosity and compassion.

Many soldiers were in it also: indeed, as I afterwards found, it was
employed as a guard-room by a detachment of troops quartered for that
night in the town. In a few words I informed their officer of the
circumstances which had occurred, describing also the appearance of the
persons engaged in the murder; and he, without loss of time, proceeded
to the mansion-house of Carrickleigh, taking with him a party of his
men. But the villains had discovered their mistake, and had effected
their escape before the arrival of the military.

The Frenchwoman was, however, arrested in the neighbourhood upon the
next day. She was tried and condemned upon the ensuing assizes; and
previous to her execution, confessed that "_she had a hand in making
Hugh Tisdall's bed_." She had been a housekeeper in the castle at the
time, and a kind of _chère amie_ of my uncle's. She was, in reality,
able to speak English like a native, but had exclusively used the French
language, I suppose, to facilitate her disguise. She died the same
hardened wretch she had lived, confessing her crimes only, as she
alleged, that her doing so might involve Sir Arthur T----n, the great
author of her guilt and misery, and whom she now regarded with
unmitigated detestation.

With the particulars of Sir Arthur's and his son's escape, as far as
they are known, you are acquainted. You are also in possession of their
after fate--the terrible, the tremendous retribution which, after long
delays of many years, finally overtook and crushed them. Wonderful and
inscrutable are the dealings of God with His creatures.

Deep and fervent as must always be my gratitude to Heaven for my
deliverance, effected by a chain of providential occurrences, the
failing of a single link of which must have ensured my destruction, I
was long before I could look back upon it with other feelings than those
of bitterness, almost of agony. The only being that had ever really
loved me, my nearest and dearest friend, ever ready to sympathize, to
counsel, and to assist--the gayest, the gentlest, the warmest heart; the
only creature on earth that cared for me--_her_ life had been the price
of my deliverance; and I then uttered the wish, which no event of my
long and sorrowful life has taught me to recall, that she had been
spared, and that, in her stead, _I_ were mouldering in the grave,
forgotten and at rest.




[Illustration]

Strange Event in the Life of Schalken the Painter.


You will no doubt be surprised, my dear friend, at the subject of the
following narrative. What had I to do with Schalken, or Schalken with
me? He had returned to his native land, and was probably dead and buried
before I was born; I never visited Holland, nor spoke with a native of
that country. So much I believe you already know. I must, then, give you
my authority, and state to you frankly the ground upon which rests the
credibility of the strange story which I am about to lay before you.

I was acquainted, in my early days, with a Captain Vandael, whose father
had served King William in the Low Countries, and also in my own unhappy
land during the Irish campaigns. I know not how it happened that I
liked this man's society, spite of his politics and religion: but so it
was; and it was by means of the free intercourse to which our intimacy
gave rise that I became possessed of the curious tale which you are
about to hear.

I had often been struck, while visiting Vandael, by a remarkable
picture, in which, though no _connoisseur_ myself, I could not fail to
discern some very strong peculiarities, particularly in the distribution
of light and shade, as also a certain oddity in the design itself, which
interested my curiosity. It represented the interior of what might be a
chamber in some antique religious building--the foreground was occupied
by a female figure, arrayed in a species of white robe, part of which
was arranged so as to form a veil. The dress, however, was not strictly
that of any religious order. In its hand the figure bore a lamp, by
whose light alone the form and face were illuminated; the features were
marked by an arch smile, such as pretty women wear when engaged in
successfully practising some roguish trick; in the background, and
(excepting where the dim red light of an expiring fire serves to define
the form) totally in the shade, stood the figure of a man equipped in
the old fashion, with doublet and so forth, in an attitude of alarm, his
hand being placed upon the hilt of his sword, which he appeared to be in
the act of drawing.

"There are some pictures," said I to my friend, "which impress one, I
know not how, with a conviction that they represent not the mere ideal
shapes and combinations which have floated through the imagination of
the artist, but scenes, faces, and situations which have actually
existed. When I look upon that picture, something assures me that I
behold the representation of a reality."

Vandael smiled, and, fixing his eyes upon the painting musingly, he
said,--

"Your fancy has not deceived you, my good friend, for that picture is
the record, and I believe a faithful one, of a remarkable and mysterious
occurrence. It was painted by Schalken, and contains, in the face of the
female figure which occupies the most prominent place in the design, an
accurate portrait of Rose Velderkaust, the niece of Gerard Douw, the
first and, I believe, the only love of Godfrey Schalken. My father knew
the painter well, and from Schalken himself he learned the story of the
mysterious drama, one scene of which the picture has embodied. This
painting, which is accounted a fine specimen of Schalken's style, was
bequeathed to my father by the artist's will, and, as you have observed,
is a very striking and interesting production."

I had only to request Vandael to tell the story of the painting in order
to be gratified; and thus it is that I am enabled to submit to you a
faithful recital of what I heard myself, leaving you to reject or to
allow the evidence upon which the truth of the tradition depends--with
this one assurance, that Schalken was an honest, blunt Dutchman, and, I
believe, wholly incapable of committing a flight of imagination; and
further, that Vandael, from whom I heard the story, appeared firmly
convinced of its truth.

There are few forms upon which the mantle of mystery and romance could
seem to hang more ungracefully than upon that of the uncouth and
clownish Schalken--the Dutch boor--the rude and dogged, but most cunning
worker in oils, whose pieces delight the initiated of the present day
almost as much as his manners disgusted the refined of his own; and yet
this man, so rude, so dogged, so slovenly, I had almost said so savage
in mien and manner, during his after successes, had been selected by the
capricious goddess, in his early life, to figure as the hero of a
romance by no means devoid of interest or of mystery.

Who can tell how meet he may have been in his young days to play the
part of the lover or of the hero? who can say that in early life he had
been the same harsh, unlicked, and rugged boor that, in his maturer age,
he proved? or how far the neglected rudeness which afterwards marked his
air, and garb, and manners, may not have been the growth of that
reckless apathy not unfrequently produced by bitter misfortunes and
disappointments in early life?

These questions can never now be answered.

We must content ourselves, then, with a plain statement of facts,
leaving matters of speculation to those who like them.

When Schalken studied under the immortal Gerard Douw, he was a young
man; and in spite of the phlegmatic constitution and excitable manner
which he shared, we believe, with his countrymen, he was not incapable
of deep and vivid impressions, for it is an established fact that the
young painter looked with considerable interest upon the beautiful niece
of his wealthy master.

Rose Velderkaust was very young, having, at the period of which we
speak, not yet attained her seventeenth year; and, if tradition
speaks truth, she possessed all the soft dimpling charms of the fair,
light-haired Flemish maidens. Schalken had not studied long in the
school of Gerard Douw when he felt this interest deepening into
something of a keener and intenser feeling than was quite consistent
with the tranquillity of his honest Dutch heart; and at the same time he
perceived, or thought he perceived, flattering symptoms of a reciprocal
attachment, and this was quite sufficient to determine whatever
indecision he might have heretofore experienced, and to lead him to
devote exclusively to her every hope and feeling of his heart. In short,
he was as much in love as a Dutchman could be. He was not long in
making his passion known to the pretty maiden herself, and his
declaration was followed by a corresponding confession upon her part.

Schalken, howbeit, was a poor man, and he possessed no counterbalancing
advantages of birth or position to induce the old man to consent to a
union which must involve his niece and ward in the strugglings and
difficulties of a young and nearly friendless artist. He was, therefore,
to wait until time had furnished him with opportunity, and accident with
success; and then, if his labours were found sufficiently lucrative, it
was to be hoped that his proposals might at least be listened to by her
jealous guardian. Months passed away, and, cheered by the smiles of the
little Rose, Schalken's labours were redoubled, and with such effect and
improvement as reasonably to promise the realization of his hopes, and
no contemptible eminence in his art, before many years should have
elapsed.

The even course of this cheering prosperity was, unfortunately, destined
to experience a sudden and formidable interruption, and that, too, in a
manner so strange and mysterious as to baffle all investigation, and
throw upon the events themselves a shadow of almost supernatural horror.

Schalken had one evening remained in the master's studio considerably
longer than his more volatile companions, who had gladly availed
themselves of the excuse which the dusk of evening afforded to withdraw
from their several tasks, in order to finish a day of labour in the
jollity and conviviality of the tavern.

But Schalken worked for improvement, or rather for love. Besides, he was
now engaged merely in sketching a design, an operation which, unlike
that of colouring, might be continued as long as there was light
sufficient to distinguish between canvas and charcoal. He had not then,
nor, indeed, until long after, discovered the peculiar powers of
his pencil; and he was engaged in composing a group of extremely
roguish-looking and grotesque imps and demons, who were inflicting
various ingenious torments upon a perspiring and pot-bellied St.
Anthony, who reclined in the midst of them, apparently in the last stage
of drunkenness.

The young artist, however, though incapable of executing, or even of
appreciating, anything of true sublimity, had nevertheless discernment
enough to prevent his being by any means satisfied with his work; and
many were the patient erasures and corrections which the limbs and
features of saint and devil underwent, yet all without producing in
their new arrangement anything of improvement or increased effect.

The large, old-fashioned room was silent, and, with the exception
of himself, quite deserted by its usual inmates. An hour had
passed--nearly two--without any improved result. Daylight had already
declined, and twilight was fast giving way to the darkness of night.
The patience of the young man was exhausted, and he stood before his
unfinished production, absorbed in no very pleasing ruminations, one
hand buried in the folds of his long dark hair, and the other holding
the piece of charcoal which had so ill executed its office, and which he
now rubbed, without much regard to the sable streaks which it produced,
with irritable pressure upon his ample Flemish inexpressibles.

"Pshaw!" said the young man aloud, "would that picture, devils, saint,
and all, were where they should be--in hell!"

A short, sudden laugh, uttered startlingly close to his ear, instantly
responded to the ejaculation.

The artist turned sharply round, and now for the first time became aware
that his labours had been overlooked by a stranger.

Within about a yard and a half, and rather behind him, there stood what
was, or appeared to be, the figure of an elderly man: he wore a short
cloak, and broad-brimmed hat with a conical crown, and in his hand,
which was protected with a heavy, gauntlet-shaped glove, he carried a
long ebony walking-stick, surmounted with what appeared, as it glittered
dimly in the twilight to be a massive head of gold; and upon his
breast, through the folds of the cloak, there shone the links of a rich
chain of the same metal.

The room was so obscure that nothing further of the appearance of the
figure could be ascertained, and the face was altogether overshadowed by
the heavy flap of the beaver which overhung it, so that no feature could
be clearly discerned. A quantity of dark hair escaped from beneath this
sombre hat, a circumstance which, connected with the firm, upright
carriage of the intruder, proved that his years could not yet exceed
threescore or thereabouts.

There was an air of gravity and importance about the garb of this
person, and something indescribably odd--I might say awful--in the
perfect, stone-like movelessness of the figure, that effectually checked
the testy comment which had at once risen to the lips of the irritated
artist. He therefore, as soon as he had sufficiently recovered the
surprise, asked the stranger, civilly, to be seated, and desired to know
if he had any message to leave for his master.

"Tell Gerard Douw," said the unknown, without altering his attitude in
the smallest degree, "that Mynher Vanderhausen, of Rotterdam, desires to
speak with him to-morrow evening at this hour, and, if he please, in
this room, upon matters of weight; that is all. Good-night."

The stranger, having finished this message, turned abruptly, and, with
a quick but silent step quitted the room before Schalken had time to say
a word in reply.

The young man felt a curiosity to see in what direction the burgher of
Rotterdam would turn on quitting the studio, and for that purpose he
went directly to the window which commanded the door.

A lobby of considerable extent intervened between the inner door of the
painter's room and the street entrance, so that Schalken occupied the
post of observation before the old man could possibly have reached the
street.

He watched in vain, however. There was no other mode of exit.

Had the old man vanished, or was he lurking about the recesses of the
lobby for some bad purpose? This last suggestion filled the mind of
Schalken with a vague horror, which was so unaccountably intense as to
make him alike afraid to remain in the room alone and reluctant to pass
through the lobby.

However, with an effort which appeared very disproportioned to the
occasion, he summoned resolution to leave the room, and, having
double-locked the door, and thrust the key in his pocket, without
looking to the right or left, he traversed the passage which had so
recently, perhaps still, contained the person of his mysterious
visitant, scarcely venturing to breathe till he had arrived in the open
street.

"Mynher Vanderhausen," said Gerard Douw, within himself, as the
appointed hour approached; "Mynher Vanderhausen, of Rotterdam! I never
heard of the man till yesterday. What can he want of me? A portrait,
perhaps, to be painted; or a younger son or a poor relation to be
apprenticed; or a collection to be valued; or--pshaw! there's no one in
Rotterdam to leave me a legacy. Well, whatever the business may be, we
shall soon know it all."

It was now the close of day, and every easel, except that of Schalken,
was deserted. Gerard Douw was pacing the apartment with the restless
step of impatient expectation, every now and then humming a passage from
a piece of music which he was himself composing; for, though no great
proficient, he admired the art; sometimes pausing to glance over the
work of one of his absent pupils, but more frequently placing himself at
the window, from whence he might observe the passengers who threaded the
obscure by-street in which his studio was placed.

"Said you not, Godfrey," exclaimed Douw, after a long and fruitless gaze
from his post of observation, and turning to Schalken--"said you not the
hour of appointment was at about seven by the clock of the Stadhouse?"

"It had just told seven when I first saw him, sir," answered the
student.

"The hour is close at hand, then," said the master, consulting a
horologe as large and as round as a full-grown orange. "Mynher
Vanderhausen, from Rotterdam--is it not so?"

"Such was the name."

"And an elderly man, richly clad?" continued Douw.

"As well as I might see," replied his pupil. "He could not be young, nor
yet very old neither, and his dress was rich and grave, as might become
a citizen of wealth and consideration."

At this moment the sonorous boom of the Stadhouse clock told, stroke
after stroke, the hour of seven; the eyes of both master and student
were directed to the door; and it was not until the last peal of the old
bell had ceased to vibrate, that Douw exclaimed,--

"So, so; we shall have his worship presently--that is, if he means to
keep his hour; if not, thou mayst wait for him, Godfrey, if you court
the acquaintance of a capricious burgomaster. As for me, I think our old
Leyden contains a sufficiency of such commodities, without an
importation from Rotterdam."

Schalken laughed, as in duty bound; and, after a pause of some minutes,
Douw suddenly exclaimed,--

"What if it should all prove a jest, a piece of mummery got up by
Vankarp, or some such worthy! I wish you had run all risks, and
cudgelled the old burgomaster, stadholder, or whatever else he may be,
soundly. I would wager a dozen of Rhenish, his worship would have
pleaded old acquaintance before the third application."

"Here he comes, sir," said Schalken, in a low, admonitory tone; and
instantly, upon turning towards the door, Gerard Douw observed the same
figure which had, on the day before, so unexpectedly greeted the vision
of his pupil Schalken.

There was something in the air and mien of the figure which at once
satisfied the painter that there was no mummery in the case, and that he
really stood in the presence of a man of worship; and so, without
hesitation, he doffed his cap, and courteously saluting the stranger,
requested him to be seated.

The visitor waved his hand slightly, as if in acknowledgment of the
courtesy, but remained standing.

"I have the honour to see Mynher Vanderhausen, of Rotterdam?" said
Gerard Douw.

"The same," was the laconic reply.

"I understand your worship desires to speak with me," continued Douw,
"and I am here by appointment to wait your commands."

"Is that a man of trust?" said Vanderhausen, turning towards Schalken,
who stood at a little distance behind his master.

"Certainly," replied Gerard.

"Then let him take this box and get the nearest jeweller or goldsmith to
value its contents, and let him return hither with a certificate of the
valuation."

At the same time he placed a small case, about nine inches square, in
the hands of Gerard Douw, who was as much amazed at its weight as at the
strange abruptness with which it was handed to him.

In accordance with the wishes of the stranger, he delivered it into the
hands of Schalken, and repeating _his_ directions, despatched him upon
the mission.

Schalken disposed his precious charge securely beneath the folds of his
cloak, and rapidly traversing two or three narrow streets, he stopped at
a corner house, the lower part of which was then occupied by the shop of
a Jewish goldsmith.

Schalken entered the shop, and calling the little Hebrew into the
obscurity of its back recesses, he proceeded to lay before him
Vanderhausen's packet.

On being examined by the light of a lamp, it appeared entirely cased
with lead, the outer surface of which was much scraped and soiled, and
nearly white with age. This was with difficulty partially removed, and
disclosed beneath a box of some dark and singularly hard wood; this,
too, was forced, and after the removal of two or three folds of linen,
its contents proved to be a mass of golden ingots, close packed, and,
as the Jew declared, of the most perfect quality.

Every ingot underwent the scrutiny of the little Jew, who seemed to feel
an epicurean delight in touching and testing these morsels of the
glorious metal; and each one of them was replaced in the box with the
exclamation,--

"_Mein Gott_, how very perfect! not one grain of alloy--beautiful,
beautiful!"

The task was at length finished, and the Jew certified under his hand
that the value of the ingots submitted to his examination amounted to
many thousand rix-dollars.

With the desired document in his bosom, and the rich box of gold
carefully pressed under his arm, and concealed by his cloak, he retraced
his way, and, entering the studio, found his master and the stranger in
close conference.

Schalken had no sooner left the room, in order to execute the commission
he had taken in charge, than Vanderhausen addressed Gerard Douw in the
following terms:

"I may not tarry with you to-night more than a few minutes, and so I
shall briefly tell you the matter upon which I come. You visited the
town of Rotterdam some four months ago, and then I saw in the church of
St. Lawrence your niece, Rose Velderkaust. I desire to marry her, and if
I satisfy you as to the fact that I am very wealthy--more wealthy than
any husband you could dream of for her--I expect that you will forward
my views to the utmost of your authority. If you approve my proposal,
you must close with it at once, for I cannot command time enough to wait
for calculations and delays."

Gerard Douw was, perhaps, as much astonished as anyone could be by the
very unexpected nature of Mynher Vanderhausen's communication; but he
did not give vent to any unseemly expression of surprise. In addition to
the motives supplied by prudence and politeness, the painter experienced
a kind of chill and oppressive sensation--a feeling like that which
is supposed to affect a man who is placed unconsciously in immediate
contact with something to which he has a natural antipathy--an undefined
horror and dread--while standing in the presence of the eccentric
stranger, which made him very unwilling to say anything that might
reasonably prove offensive.

"I have no doubt," said Gerard, after two or three prefatory hems, "that
the connection which you propose would prove alike advantageous and
honourable to my niece; but you must be aware that she has a will of her
own, and may not acquiesce in what _we_ may design for her advantage."

"Do not seek to deceive me, Sir Painter," said Vanderhausen; "you are
her guardian--she is your ward. She is mine if _you_ like to make her
so."

The man of Rotterdam moved forward a little as he spoke, and Gerard
Douw, he scarce knew why, inwardly prayed for the speedy return of
Schalken.

"I desire," said the mysterious gentleman, "to place in your hands at
once an evidence of my wealth, and a security for my liberal dealing
with your niece. The lad will return in a minute or two with a sum in
value five times the fortune which she has a right to expect from a
husband. This shall lie in your hands, together with her dowry, and you
may apply the united sum as suits her interest best; it shall be all
exclusively hers while she lives. Is that liberal?"

Douw assented, and inwardly thought that fortune had been
extraordinarily kind to his niece. The stranger, he deemed, must be
most wealthy and generous, and such an offer was not to be despised,
though made by a humorist, and one of no very prepossessing presence.

Rose had no very high pretensions, for she was almost without dowry;
indeed, altogether so, excepting so far as the deficiency had been
supplied by the generosity of her uncle. Neither had she any right to
raise any scruples against the match on the score of birth, for her own
origin was by no means elevated; and as to other objections, Gerard
resolved, and, indeed, by the usages of the time was warranted in
resolving, not to listen to them for a moment.

"Sir," said he, addressing the stranger, "your offer is most liberal,
and whatever hesitation I may feel in closing with it immediately,
arises solely from my not having the honour of knowing anything of your
family or station. Upon these points you can, of course, satisfy me
without difficulty?"

"As to my respectability," said the stranger, drily, "you must take that
for granted at present; pester me with no inquiries; you can discover
nothing more about me than I choose to make known. You shall have
sufficient security for my respectability--my word, if you are
honourable; if you are sordid, my gold."

"A testy old gentleman," thought Douw; "he must have his own way. But,
all things considered, I am justified in giving my niece to him. Were
she my own daughter, I would do the like by her. I will not pledge
myself unnecessarily, however."

"You will not pledge yourself unnecessarily," said Vanderhausen,
strangely uttering the very words which had just floated through the
mind of his companion; "but you will do so if it _is_ necessary, I
presume; and I will show you that I consider it indispensable. If the
gold I mean to leave in your hands satisfies you, and if you desire that
my proposal shall not be at once withdrawn, you must, before I leave
this room, write your name to this engagement."

Having thus spoken, he placed a paper in the hands of Gerard, the
contents of which expressed an engagement entered into by Gerard Douw,
to give to Wilken Vanderhausen, of Rotterdam, in marriage, Rose
Velderkaust, and so forth, within one week of the date hereof.

While the painter was employed in reading this covenant, Schalken, as we
have stated, entered the studio, and having delivered the box and the
valuation of the Jew into the hands of the stranger, he was about to
retire, when Vanderhausen called to him to wait; and, presenting the
case and the certificate to Gerard Douw, he waited in silence until he
had satisfied himself by an inspection of both as to the value of the
pledge left in his hands. At length he said:

"Are you content?"

The painter said "he would fain have another day to consider."

"Not an hour," said the suitor, coolly.

"Well, then," said Douw, "I am content; it is a bargain."

"Then sign at once," said Vanderhausen; "I am weary."

At the same time he produced a small case of writing materials, and
Gerard signed the important document.

"Let this youth witness the covenant," said the old man; and Godfrey
Schalken unconsciously signed the instrument which bestowed upon another
that hand which he had so long regarded as the object and reward of all
his labours.

The compact being thus completed, the strange visitor folded up the
paper, and stowed it safely in an inner pocket.

"I will visit you to-morrow night, at nine of the clock, at your house,
Gerard Douw, and will see the subject of our contract. Farewell." And so
saying, Wilken Vanderhausen moved stiffly, but rapidly out of the room.

Schalken, eager to resolve his doubts, had placed himself by the window
in order to watch the street entrance; but the experiment served only to
support his suspicions, for the old man did not issue from the door.
This was very strange, very odd, very fearful. He and his master
returned together, and talked but little on the way, for each had his
own subjects of reflection, of anxiety, and of hope.

Schalken, however, did not know the ruin which threatened his cherished
schemes.

Gerard Douw knew nothing of the attachment which had sprung up between
his pupil and his niece; and even if he had, it is doubtful whether he
would have regarded its existence as any serious obstruction to the
wishes of Mynher Vanderhausen.

Marriages were then and there matters of traffic and calculation; and
it would have appeared as absurd in the eyes of the guardian to make a
mutual attachment an essential element in a contract of marriage, as it
would have been to draw up his bonds and receipts in the language of
chivalrous romance.

The painter, however, did not communicate to his niece the important
step which he had taken in her behalf, and his resolution arose not from
any anticipation of opposition on her part, but solely from a ludicrous
consciousness that if his ward were, as she very naturally might do, to
ask him to describe the appearance of the bridegroom whom he destined
for her, he would be forced to confess that he had not seen his face,
and, if called upon, would find it impossible to identify him.

Upon the next day, Gerard Douw having dined, called his niece to him,
and having scanned her person with an air of satisfaction, he took her
hand, and looking upon her pretty, innocent face with a smile of
kindness, he said:

"Rose, my girl, that face of yours will make your fortune." Rose blushed
and smiled. "Such faces and such tempers seldom go together, and, when
they do, the compound is a love-potion which few heads or hearts can
resist. Trust me, thou wilt soon be a bride, girl. But this is trifling,
and I am pressed for time, so make ready the large room by eight
o'clock to-night, and give directions for supper at nine. I expect
a friend to-night; and observe me, child, do thou trick thyself out
handsomely. I would not have him think us poor or sluttish."

With these words he left the chamber, and took his way to the room to
which we have already had occasion to introduce our readers--that in
which his pupils worked.

When the evening closed in, Gerard called Schalken, who was about to
take his departure to his obscure and comfortless lodgings, and asked
him to come home and sup with Rose and Vanderhausen.

The invitation was of course accepted, and Gerard Douw and his pupil
soon found themselves in the handsome and somewhat antique-looking room
which had been prepared for the reception of the stranger.

A cheerful wood-fire blazed in the capacious hearth; a little at
one side an old-fashioned table, with richly-carved legs, was
placed--destined, no doubt, to receive the supper, for which
preparations were going forward; and ranged with exact regularity
stood the tall-backed chairs whose ungracefulness was more than
counterbalanced by their comfort.

The little party, consisting of Rose, her uncle, and the artist, awaited
the arrival of the expected visitor with considerable impatience.

Nine o'clock at length came, and with it a summons at the street-door,
which, being speedily answered, was followed by a slow and emphatic
tread upon the staircase; the steps moved heavily across the lobby, the
door of the room in which the party which we have described were
assembled slowly opened, and there entered a figure which startled,
almost appalled, the phlegmatic Dutchmen, and nearly made Rose scream
with affright; it was the form, and arrayed in the garb, of Mynher
Vanderhausen; the air, the gait, the height was the same, but the
features had never been seen by any of the party before.

The stranger stopped at the door of the room, and displayed his form and
face completely. He wore a dark-coloured cloth cloak, which was short
and full, not falling quite to the knees; his legs were cased in dark
purple silk stockings, and his shoes were adorned with roses of the same
colour. The opening of the cloak in front showed the under-suit to
consist of some very dark, perhaps sable material, and his hands were
enclosed in a pair of heavy leather gloves which ran up considerably
above the wrist, in the manner of a gauntlet. In one hand he carried his
walking-stick and his hat, which he had removed, and the other hung
heavily by his side. A quantity of grizzled hair descended in long
tresses from his head, and its folds rested upon the plaits of a stiff
ruff, which effectually concealed his neck.

So far all was well; but the face!--all the flesh of the face was
coloured with the bluish leaden hue which is sometimes produced by the
operation of metallic medicines administered in excessive quantities;
the eyes were enormous, and the white appeared both above and below the
iris, which gave to them an expression of insanity, which was heightened
by their glassy fixedness; the nose was well enough, but the mouth was
writhed considerably to one side, where it opened in order to give
egress to two long, discoloured fangs, which projected from the upper
jaw, far below the lower lip; the hue of the lips themselves bore the
usual relation to that of the face, and was consequently nearly black.
The character of the face was malignant, even satanic, to the last
degree; and, indeed, such a combination of horror could hardly be
accounted for, except by supposing the corpse of some atrocious
malefactor, which had long hung blackening upon the gibbet, to have at
length become the habitation of a demon--the frightful sport of satanic
possession.

It was remarkable that the worshipful stranger suffered as little as
possible of his flesh to appear, and that during his visit he did not
once remove his gloves.

Having stood for some moments at the door, Gerard Douw at length found
breath and collectedness to bid him welcome, and, with a mute
inclination of the head, the stranger stepped forward into the room.

There was something indescribably odd, even horrible about all his
motions, something undefinable, something unnatural, unhuman--it was as
if the limbs were guided and directed by a spirit unused to the
management of bodily machinery.

The stranger said hardly anything during his visit, which did not exceed
half an hour; and the host himself could scarcely muster courage enough
to utter the few necessary salutations and courtesies: and, indeed, such
was the nervous terror which the presence of Vanderhausen inspired, that
very little would have made all his entertainers fly bellowing from the
room.

They had not so far lost all self-possession, however, as to fail to
observe two strange peculiarities of their visitor.

During his stay he did not once suffer his eyelids to close, nor even to
move in the slightest degree; and further, there was a death-like
stillness in his whole person, owing to the total absence of the heaving
motion of the chest caused by the process of respiration.

These two peculiarities, though when told they may appear trifling,
produced a very striking and unpleasant effect when seen and observed.
Vanderhausen at length relieved the painter of Leyden of his
inauspicious presence; and with no small gratification the little party
heard the street door close after him.

"Dear uncle," said Rose, "what a frightful man! I would not see him
again for the wealth of the States!"

"Tush, foolish girl!" said Douw, whose sensations were anything but
comfortable. "A man may be as ugly as the devil, and yet if his heart
and actions are good, he is worth all the pretty-faced, perfumed puppies
that walk the Mall. Rose, my girl, it is very true he has not thy pretty
face, but I know him to be wealthy and liberal; and were he ten times
more ugly--"

"Which is inconceivable," observed Rose.

"These two virtues would be sufficient," continued her uncle, "to
counterbalance all his deformity; and if not of power sufficient
actually to alter the shape of the features, at least of efficacy enough
to prevent one thinking them amiss."

"Do you know, uncle," said Rose, "when I saw him standing at the door,
I could not get it out of my head that I saw the old, painted, wooden
figure that used to frighten me so much in the church of St. Laurence at
Rotterdam."

Gerard laughed, though he could not help inwardly acknowledging the
justness of the comparison. He was resolved, however, as far as he
could, to check his niece's inclina

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