The Familiar - Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu (best summer reads .TXT) 📗
- Author: Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu
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especially as no sound, either of retreating steps or any
other kind, was audible to direct his pursuit.
With the tumultuous sensations of one whose life has just
been exposed to a murderous attempt, and whose escape has
been the narrowest possible, Captain Barton turned again;
and without, however, quickening his pace actually to a run,
hurriedly pursued his way.
He had turned, as I 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 steps
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, whom the
torments of his mind at last compelled him to consult.
Spite of his blue devils, however, poor Barton, having no
satisfactory reason to render to the public for any undue
remissness in the attentions exacted by the relation
existing between him and Miss Montague, 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 him, 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 dared 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 terrible a
hold upon his imagination.
It was about this time that Captain Barton called upon the
then celebrated preacher, Dr. –-, 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 — almost shocking.
After the usual interchange of polite greeting, and a few
common-place remarks, Captain Barton, who obviously
perceived the surprise which his visit had excited, and
which Doctor was unable wholly to conceal, interrupted a
brief pause by remarking:
“This is a strange call, Doctor –-, 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 I
tell you how afflicted I am.”
Doctor –- 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 — you know –-”
“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 — not altogether; 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 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, “that 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 God, how I have been convinced! — a system
malignant, and implacable, 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 spoke, 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 that stamped his features, afforded a
contrast to his ordinary cool and unimpassioned
self-possession striking and painful in the last degree.
MR. BARTON STATES HIS CASE
“MY dear sir,” said Doctor –-, after a brief pause, “I
fear you have been very unhappy, 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 –-,” 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 a 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 Dr. –-, 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 –-.
“Try! I have tried, and the attempt only fills me with
confusion: and, sometimes, 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. I tell you, Doctor –-, if I am to be
saved, it must be by other means. The idea of an eternal
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 I can do
or say to relieve you?”
“Listen to me first,” replied Captain Barton; with a
subdued air, and an effort to suppress his excitement,
“listen to me while I detail the circumstances of the
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 I
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
ineffable 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 the 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 a chill of horror 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 the sough.
“Well, what do you think of that?” at length Barton
cried, drawing a long breath through
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