The Familiar, Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu [people reading books txt] 📗

CHAPTER II

THE WATCHER

 

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

influence 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 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 unlucky — let him take warning, once for all, for he has 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

scrutinized the handwriting once more. Defeated here, he

turned to the seal; it was nothing but a patch of wax, upon

which the accidental impression of a thumb was imperfectly

visible.

 

There was not the slightest mark, or clue 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 “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 other associations connected

with his 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 I 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 or a trick.

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 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 seen Miss Montague and Lady L–-

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 fully 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 disconcerted him a week

before, and earnestly hoping that he might see some form to

account naturally for the sounds. But the street was

deserted — no one 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 almost 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 irritation of this intangible and unseen pursuit

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 penny 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 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 that

accompanied 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, their

immediate sequence upon the mysterious sounds which had

haunted him, was an odd coincidence.

 

The whole circumstance was, in his own mind, vaguely and

instinctively connected with certain passages in his past

life, which, of all others, he hated to remember.

 

It happened, however, that in addition to his own

approaching nuptials, Captain Barton had just

then — 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 gloom which had for a

time occasionally oppressed him, and in a little while his

spirits had entirely recovered their accustomed tone.

 

During all this time, however, he was, now and then,

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

Member, an acquaintance of his and mine. This was one of

the few occasions upon which I have been in company with

Captain Barton. As we walked down together, I observed that

he became absent and silent, and to a degree that seemed to

argue the pressure of some urgent and absorbing anxiety.

 

I afterwards learned that during the whole of our walk he

had heard the well-known footsteps tracking him as we

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.