The Familiar, Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu [people reading books txt] 📗
- Author: Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu
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“I heard the wind,” said Doctor –-. “What should I
think of it — what is there remarkable about it?”
“The prince of the powers of the air,” muttered Barton,
with a shudder.
“Tut, tut! my dear sir,” said the student, with an effort
to reassure himself; for though it was broad daylight there
was nevertheless something disagreeably contagious in the
nervous excitement under which his visitor so miserably
suffered. “You must not give way to these wild fancies; you
must resist these 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! was it that made you, as well as
me, hear, but this moment, those 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 a little 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 is needless to disclose,
but which to me are proofs of its horrible nature. I know
that the being that follows me is not human — 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 infernal
power and malignity. My strength, and faculties, and
memory, all forsake me. O 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.
“Doctor –-,” 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 my affliction. 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 has been
transformed.”
Doctor 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 that awaited him at the
door, drew down the blinds, and drove away, while Doctor
returned to his chamber, to ruminate at leisure upon the
strange interview which had just interrupted his studies.
SEEN AGAIN
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, a like opportunity and motive for the
successful exercise of that keen and penetrating observation
peculiar to her sex.
His visits became, at length, so interrupted, and his
manner, while they lasted, so abstracted, strange, and
agitated, that Lady L–-, 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 indicated,
as regarded the spirits, and indeed the reason of the now
wretched man who made the strange declaration, were enough,
upon 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
connexions, 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 no time 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 what I have to say upon this magnificent
mock mystery of yours. 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 contemptible one.
Seriously, 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 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; “don’t I know that all
your annoyance proceeds from the occasional appearance of a
certain little man in a cap and greatcoat, with a red vest
and a bad face, who follows you about, and pops upon you at
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 to a
jelly with my own hands, or have him whipped through the
town, at the cart’s tail, before a month passes.”
“If you knew what I knew,” said Barton, with gloomy
agitation, “you would speak very differently. Don’t imagine
that I am so weak 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 even you 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 extended toward the
street — his face and his very lips white as ashes — while he
muttered, “There — by heaven! — 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 persistently 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 round him, but in vain, for any trace of the
person he had himself distinctly seen. He ran breathlessly
to the nearest corner, expecting to see from thence the
retiring 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 — some one — 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.”
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
being who had established over him so horrible an influence.
Nowhere and at no time was he secure against the odious
appearance which haunted him with such diabolic
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 health that Lady L–- 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 indeed was persuaded that the figure
which haunted his intended son-in-law was by no means the
creation of his imagination, but, on the contrary, a
substantial form
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