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.