The hurry and
excitement of business had its natural effect in gradually dispelling
the marked gloom which had for a time occasionally oppressed him, and in
a little while his spirits had entirely resumed their accustomed tone. During all this period, however, he was occasionally dismayed by
indistinct and half-heard repetitions of the same annoyance, and that
in lonely places, in the day time as well as after nightfall. These
renewals of the strange impressions from which he had suffered so
much were, however, desultory and faint, insomuch that often he really
could not, to his own satisfaction, distinguish between them and the
mere suggestions of an excited imagination. One evening he walked down
to the House of Commons with a Mr. Norcott, a Member. As they walked
down together he was observed to become absent and silent, and to a
degree so marked as scarcely to consist with good breeding; and this,
in one who was obviously in all his habits so perfectly a gentleman,
seemed to argue the pressure of some urgent and absorbing anxiety. It
was afterwards known that, during the whole of that walk, he had heard
the well-known footsteps dogging him as he proceeded. This, however,
was the last time he suffered from this phase of the persecution of
which he was already the anxious victim. A new and a very different
one was about to be presented. Of the new series of impressions which were afterwards gradually to work
out his destiny, that evening disclosed the first; and but for its
relation to the train of events which followed, the incident would
scarcely have been remembered by any one. As they were walking in at the
passage, a man (of whom his friend could afterwards remember only that
he was short in stature, looked like a foreigner, and wore a kind of
travelling-cap) walked very rapidly, and, as if under some fierce
excitement, directly towards them, muttering to himself fast and
vehemently the while. This odd-looking person proceeded straight toward
Barton, who was foremost, and halted, regarding him for a moment or two
with a look of menace and fury almost maniacal; and then turning about
as abruptly, he walked before them at the same agitated pace, and
disappeared by a side passage. Norcott distinctly remembered being a
good deal shocked at the countenance and bearing of this man, which
indeed irresistibly impressed him with an undefined sense of danger,
such as he never felt before or since from the presence of anything
human; but these sensations were far from amounting to anything so
disconcerting as to flurry or excite him--he had seen only a singularly
evil countenance, agitated, as it seemed, with the excitement of
madness. He was absolutely astonished, however, at the effect of this
apparition upon Captain Barton. He knew him to be a man of proved
courage and coolness in real danger, a circumstance which made his
conduct upon this occasion the more conspicuously odd. He recoiled a
step or two as the stranger advanced, and clutched his companion's arm
in silence, with a spasm of agony or terror; and then, as the figure
disappeared, shoving him roughly back, he followed it for a few paces,
stopped in great disorder, and sat down upon a form. A countenance more
ghastly and haggard it was impossible to fancy. "For God's sake, Barton, what is the matter?" said Norcott, really
alarmed at his friend's appearance. "You're not hurt, are you? nor
unwell? What is it?" "What did he say? I did not hear it. What was it?" asked Barton, wholly
disregarding the question. "Tut, tut, nonsense!" said Norcott, greatly surprised; "who cares what
the fellow said? You are unwell, Barton, decidedly unwell; let me call a
coach." "Unwell! Yes, no, not exactly unwell," he said, evidently making an
effort to recover his self-possession; "but, to say the truth, I am
fatigued, a little overworked, and perhaps over anxious. You know I have
been in Chancery, and the winding up of a suit is always a nervous
affair. I have felt uncomfortable all this evening; but I am better now. Come, come, shall we go on?" "No, no. Take my advice, Barton, and go home; you really do need rest;
you are looking absolutely ill. I really do insist on your allowing me
to see you home," replied his companion. It was obvious that Barton was not himself disinclined to be persuaded. He accordingly took his leave, politely declining his friend's offered
escort. Notwithstanding the few commonplace regrets which Norcott had
expressed, it was plain that he was just as little deceived as Barton
himself by the extempore plea of illness with which he had accounted for
the strange exhibition, and that he even then suspected some lurking
mystery in the matter. Norcott called next day at Barton's lodgings, to inquire for him, and
learned from the servant that he had not left his room since his return
the night before; but that he was not seriously indisposed, and hoped to
be out again in a few days. That evening he sent for Doctor Richards,
then in large and fashionable practice in Dublin, and their interview
was, it is said, an odd one. He entered into a detail of his own symptoms in an abstracted and
desultory kind of way, which seemed to argue a strange want of interest
in his own cure, and, at all events, made it manifest that there was
some topic engaging his mind of more engrossing importance than his
present ailment. He complained of occasional palpitations, and headache. Doctor Richards asked him, among other questions, whether there was any
irritating circumstance or anxiety to account for it. This he denied
quickly and peevishly; and the physician thereupon declared his opinion,
that there was nothing amiss except some slight derangement of the
digestion, for which he accordingly wrote a prescription, and was about
to withdraw, when Mr. Barton, with the air of a man who suddenly
recollects a topic which had nearly escaped him, recalled him. "I beg your pardon, doctor, but I had really almost forgot; will you
permit me to ask you two or three medical questions?--rather odd ones,
perhaps, but as a wager depends upon their solution, you will, I hope,
excuse my unreasonableness." The physician readily undertook to satisfy the inquirer. Barton seemed to have some difficulty about opening the proposed
interrogatories, for he was silent for a minute, then walked to his
book-case and returned as he had gone; at last he sat down, and said,--

"You'll think them very childish questions, but I can't recover my wager
without a decision; so I must put them. I want to know first about
lock-jaw. If a man actually has had that complaint, and appears to have
died of it--so that in fact a physician of average skill pronounces him
actually dead--may he, after all, recover?" Doctor Richards smiled, and shook his head. "But--but a blunder may be made," resumed Barton.