Opening upon the public road, this yard was
entered by a wooden gate, with a wicket in it, which was further
defended by an iron gate upon the outside. Strict orders had been given
to keep them carefully locked; but, in spite of these, it had happened
that one day, as Barton was slowly pacing this narrow enclosure, in his
accustomed walk, and reaching the further extremity, was turning to
retrace his steps, he saw the boarded wicket ajar, and the face of his
tormentor immovably looking at him through the iron bars. For a few
seconds he stood riveted to the earth, breathless and bloodless, in the
fascination of that dreaded gaze, and then fell helplessly upon the
pavement. There was he found a few minutes afterwards, and conveyed to his
room, the apartment which he was never afterwards to leave alive. Henceforward, a marked and unaccountable change was observable in the
tone of his mind. Captain Barton was now no longer the excited and
despairing man he had been before; a strange alteration had passed upon
him, an unearthly tranquillity reigned in his mind; it was the
anticipated stillness of the grave. "Montague, my friend, this struggle is nearly ended now," he said,
tranquilly, but with a look of fixed and fearful awe. "I have, at last,
some comfort from that world of spirits, from which my _punishment_ has
come. I know now that my sufferings will be soon over." Montague pressed him to speak on. "Yes," said he, in a softened voice, "my punishment is nearly ended. From sorrow perhaps I shall never, in time or eternity, escape; but
my _agony_ is almost over. Comfort has been revealed to me, and what
remains of my allotted struggle I will bear with submission, even with
hope." "I am glad to hear you speak so tranquilly, my dear fellow," said
Montague; "peace and cheerfulness of mind are all you need to make you
what you were." "No, no, I never can be that," said he, mournfully. "I am no longer fit
for life. I am soon to die: I do not shrink from death as I did. I am to
see _him_ but once again, and then all is ended." "He said so, then?" suggested Montague. "_He?_ No, no; good tidings could scarcely come through him; and these
were good and welcome; and they came so solemnly and sweetly, with
unutterable love and melancholy, such as I could not, without saying
more than is needful or fitting, of other long-past scenes and persons,
fully explain to you." As Barton said this he shed tears. "Come, come," said Montague, mistaking the source of his emotions, "you
must not give way. What is it, after all, but a pack of dreams and
nonsense; or, at worst, the practices of a scheming rascal that enjoys
his power of playing upon your nerves, and loves to exert it; a sneaking
vagabond that owes you a grudge, and pays it off this way, not daring to
try a more manly one." "A grudge, indeed, he owes me; you say rightly," said Barton, with a
sullen shudder; "a grudge as you call it. Oh, God! when the justice of
heaven permits the Evil One to carry out a scheme of vengeance, when
its execution is committed to the lost and frightful victim of sin, who
owes his own ruin to the man, the very man, whom he is commissioned to
pursue; then, indeed, the torments and terrors of hell are anticipated
on earth. But heaven has dealt mercifully with me: hope has opened to me
at last; and if death could come without the dreadful sight I am doomed
to see, I would gladly close my eyes this moment upon the world. But
though death is welcome, I shrink with an agony you cannot understand;
a maddening agony, an actual frenzy of terror, from the last encounter
with that--that DEMON, who has drawn me thus to the verge of the chasm,
and who is himself to plunge me down. I am to see him again, once more,
but under circumstances unutterably more terrific than ever." As Barton thus spoke, he trembled so violently that Montague was really
alarmed at the extremity of his sudden agitation, and hastened to lead
him back to the topic which had before seemed to exert so tranquillizing
an effect upon his mind. "It was not a dream," he said, after a time; "I was in a different
state, I felt differently and strangely; and yet it was all as real, as
clear and vivid, as what I now see and hear; it was a reality." "And what _did_ you see and hear?" urged his companion. "When I awakened from the swoon I fell into on seeing _him_," said
Barton, continuing, as if he had not heard the question, "it was slowly,
very slowly; I was reclining by the margin of a broad lake, surrounded
by misty hills, and a soft, melancholy, rose-coloured light illuminated
it all. It was indescribably sad and lonely, and yet more beautiful than
any earthly scene. My head was leaning on the lap of a girl, and she was
singing a strange and wondrous song, that told, I know not how, whether
by words or harmony, of all my life, all that is past, and all that is
still to come. And with the song the old feelings that I thought had
perished within me came back, and tears flowed from my eyes, partly
for the song and its mysterious beauty, and partly for the unearthly
sweetness of her voice; yet I know the voice, oh! how well; and I was
spell-bound as I listened and looked at the strange and solitary scene,
without stirring, almost without breathing, and, alas! alas! without
turning my eyes toward the face that I knew was near me, so sweetly
powerful was the enchantment that held me. And so, slowly and softly,
the song and scene grew fainter, and ever fainter, to my senses, till
all was dark and still again. And then I wakened to this world, as you
saw, comforted, for I knew that I was forgiven much." Barton wept again
long and bitterly. From this time, as we have said, the prevailing tone of his mind was one
of profound and tranquil melancholy. This, however, was not without its
interruptions. He was thoroughly impressed with the conviction that
he was to experience another and a final visitation, illimitably
transcending in horror all he had before experienced. From this
anticipated and unknown agony he often shrunk in such paroxysms of
abject terror and distraction, as filled the whole household with dismay
and superstitious panic. Even those among them who affected to discredit
the supposition of preternatural agency in the matter, were often in
their secret souls visited during the darkness and solitude of night
with qualms and apprehensions which they would not have readily
confessed; and none of them attempted to dissuade Barton from the
resolution on which he now systematically acted, of shutting himself up
in his own apartment. The window-blinds of this room were kept jealously
down; and his own man was seldom out of his presence, day or night, his
bed being placed in the same chamber.