The Watcher | Page 2

with a rigour 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 street 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 were so perfectly free from the taint as to
look upon Mr. 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 truth 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 owned 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 had now 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 there.
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 awake an echo; though by no means a
fanciful person, therefore, he was at last fain 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