The Familiar - Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu (best summer reads .TXT) 📗
- Author: Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu
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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 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
hushed 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 is moved,” said the man, after another
breathless pause, pointing to the candle that still burned
in the room; “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 slunk back
as far as the solid panelling would allow, and the hands
were still clutched in the bed-clothes.
“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 the 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,” whispered 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 gripe
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 persons
that were approaching.
*
It is needless to follow the personages so slightly
connected with this narrative into the events of their
after-life; it is enough to say, that no clue to the
solution of these mysterious occurrences was ever after
discovered; and so long an interval having now passed since
the event which I have just described concluded this strange
history, it is scarcely to be expected that time can throw
any new lights upon its dark and inexplicable outline.
Until the secrets of the earth shall be no longer hidden,
therefore, these transactions must remain shrouded in their
original obscurity.
The only occurrence in Captain Barton’s former life to
which reference was ever made, as having any possible
connexion 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 that some six 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
toward him with marked insolence; and Barton retaliated
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 which the regulations of the navy placed at the
command of those who are responsible for its discipline.
The man had at length made his escape, while the vessel was
in port at Naples, 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.
POSTSCRIPT BY THE EDITOR
The preceding narrative is given in the ipsissima verba of
the good old clergyman, under whose hand it was delivered to
Doctor Hesselius. Notwithstanding the occasional stiffness
and redundancy of his sentences, I thought it better to
reserve to myself the power of assuring the reader, that in
handing to the printer the MS. of a statement so marvellous,
the Editor has not altered one letter of the original
text — [Ed. Papers of Dr. Hesselius].
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