“I saw her body committed to the earth and her grave sprinkled with early violets; and when all was over, we left the bereaved family to their sorrows. Since that day I have impatiently awaited the approach of death, but my sufferings have not terminated as soon as I wished. At times a dreadful feeling of remorse has seized me, and in agonies that cannot be described have I writhed during many sleepless nights—but I was a mere instrument in the hands of unalterable fate.
“A few days since I came to Richmond to arrange some business. Tomorrow I shall leave this city for New York, where I shall stay for some weeks. After this day I shall never see you again.”
He ceased. I wished to say something, but his recital had made so strong an impression on me, and he seemed so fully fixed in the belief of his approaching death, that I was silent. The shades of evening began to deepen around us, and the full moon rose struggling through a bank of clouds. “Come,” said B——, “go with me to my room; I have something to give you as a memento of me.” We went to his room and he took from a desk a dirk of beautiful workmanship, the handle richly ornamented with gold, and giving it to me said, “take this and keep it. I have been strongly tempted to use it against myself, but have refrained, for it shall not be said that I feared to live. Farewell. I have something to do, and you will excuse me.” I wrung his hand and we parted. I never saw him again; but in the latter part of July I heard that he had returned from New York in a low state of health, having, as was said, wasted rapidly in a consumption. Early in August he died, making it his last request to be buried by the grave of Miss ——. It was complied with, and before he completed the twenty-second year of his age, he slept by the side of her he had loved. Peace to their ashes!
* * * *
PUBLISHER’S NOTE (from 1835): We entertained some doubt about the admission of “The Doom” into our columns, not because of any inferiority in the style and composition, but because of the revolting character of the story. The writer, with apparent sincerity, states it to be founded upon actual occurrences; but we confess that it seems to us a wild and incredible fiction. True or false, however, we derive from it this sound and wholesome moral—that sooner or later wickedness will find its just reward—and that of all the passions which ravage the heart and destroy the peace of society, there is none more detestable than revenge. The hero of the tale, who is described by his friend the writer, as “a light hearted and joyous fellow,” was in truth a remorseless fiend; compared with whom Iago and Zanga were personifications of virtue; nor does the idle phantasy of a supernatural vision, or the pretended influence of fatalism, palliate the deep enormity of his crime. If the writer, who assumes the signature of “Benedict,” really had such a friend, he should have drawn the mantle of oblivion over his dark frailties, and never have recorded them with seeming approbation. He should have avoided too, certain profane and unchaste allusions in his manuscript, which we have been obliged to suppress; for we scarcely deem it necessary to repeat that the “Messenger” shall not be the vehicle of sentiments at war with the interests of virtue and sound morals the only true and solid foundation of human happiness.
THE CURSE OF THE CATAFALQUES, by F. Anstey
I.
Unless I am very much mistaken, until the time when I was subjected to the strange and exceptional experience which I now propose to relate, I had never been brought into close contact with anything of a supernatural description. At least if I ever was, the circumstance can have made no lasting impression upon me, as I am quite unable to recall it. But in the “Curse of the Catafalques” I was confronted with a horror so weird and so altogether unusual, that I doubt whether I shall ever succeed in wholly forgetting it—and I know that I have never felt really well since.
It is difficult for me to tell my story intelligibly without some account of my previous history by way of introduction, although I will to make it as little diffuse as I may.
I had not been a success at home; I was an orphan, and, in my anxiety to please a wealthy uncle upon whom I was practically dependent, I had consented to submit myself to a series of competitive examinations for quite a variety of professions, but in each successive instance I achieved the same disheartening failure. Some explanation of this may, no doubt, be found in the fact that, with a fatal want of forethought, I had entirely omitted to prepare myself by any particular course of study—which, as I discovered too late, is almost indispensable to success in these intellectual contests.
My uncle himself took this view, and conceiving—not without discernment—that I was by no means likely to retrieve myself by any severe degree of application in the future, he had me shipped out to Australia, where he had correspondents and friends who would put things in my way.
They did put several things in my way—and, as might have been expected, I came to grief over every one of them, until at length, having given a fair trial to each opening that had been provided for me, I began to perceive that my uncle had made a grave mistake in believing me suited for a colonial career.
I resolved to return home and convince him of his error, and give him one more opportunity of repairing it; he had failed to discover the best means of utilising my undoubted ability, yet I would not reproach him (nor do I reproach him even now), for I too have felt the difficulty.
In pursuance of my resolution, I booked my passage home by one of the Orient liners from Melbourne to London. About an hour before the ship was to leave her moorings, I went on board and made my way at once to the state-room which I was to share with a fellow passenger, whose acquaintance I then made for the first time.
He was a tall cadaverous young man of about my own age, and my first view of him was not encouraging, for when I came in, I found him rolling restlessly on the cabin floor, and uttering hollow groans.
“This will never do,” I said, after I had introduced myself; “if you’re like this now, my good sir, what will you be when we’re fairly out at sea? You must husband your resources for that. And why trouble to roll? The ship will do all that for you, if you will only have patience.”
He explained, somewhat brusquely, that he was suffering from mental agony, not sea-sickness; and by a little pertinacious questioning (for I would not allow myself to be rebuffed) I was soon in possession of the secret which was troubling my companion, whose name, as I also learned, was Augustus McFadden.
It seemed that his parents had emigrated before his birth, and he had lived all his life in the Colony, where he was contented and fairly prosperous—when an eccentric old aunt of his over in England happened to die.
She left McFadden himself nothing, having given by her will the bulk of her property to the only daughter of a baronet of ancient family, in whom she took a strong interest. But the will was not without its effect upon her existence, for it expressly mentioned the desire of the testatrix that the baronet should receive her nephew Augustus if he presented himself within a certain time, and should afford him every facility for proving his fitness for acceptance as a suitor. The alliance was merely recommended, however, not enjoined, and the gift was unfettered by any conditions.
“I heard of it first,” said McFadden, “from Chlorine’s father (Chlorine is her name, you know). Sir Paul Catafalque wrote to me, informing me of the mention of my name in my aunt’s will, enclosing his daughter’s photograph, and formally inviting me to come over and do my best, if my affections were not pre-engaged, to carry out the last wishes of the departed. He added that I might expect to receive shortly a packet from my aunt’s executors which would explain matters fully, and in which I should find certain directions for my guidance. The photograph decided me; it was so eminently pleasing that I felt at once that my poor aunt’s wishes must be sacred to me. I could not wait for the packet to arrive, and so I wrote at once to Sir Paul accepting the invitation. Yes,” he added, with another of the hollow groans, “miserable wretch that I am, I pledged my honour to present myself as a suitor, and now—now—here I am, actually embarked upon the desperate errand!”<
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He seemed inclined to begin to roll again here, but I stopped him. “Really,” I said, “I think in your place, with an excellent chance—for I presume the lady’s heart is also disengaged—with an excellent chance of winning a baronet’s daughter with a considerable fortune and a pleasing appearance, I should bear up better.”
“You think so,” he rejoined, “but you do not know all! The very day after I had despatched my fatal letter, my aunt’s explanatory packet arrived. I tell you that when I read the hideous revelations it contained, and knew to what horrors I had innocently pledged myself, my hair stood on end, and I believe it has remained on end ever since. But it was too late. Here I am, engaged to carry out a task from which my inmost soul recoils. Ah, if I dared but retract!”
“Then why in the name of common sense, don’t you retract?” I asked. “Write and say that you much regret that a previous engagement, which you had unfortunately overlooked, deprives you of the pleasure of accepting.”
“Impossible,” he said; “it would be agony to me to feel that I had incurred Chlorine’s contempt, even though I only know her through a photograph at present. If I were to back out of it now, she would have reason to despise me, would she not?”
“Perhaps she would,” I said.
“You see my dilemma—I cannot retract; on the other hand, I dare not go on. The only thing, as I have thought lately, which could save me and my honour at the same time would be my death on the voyage out, for then my cowardice would remain undiscovered.”
“Well,” I said, “you can die on the voyage out if you want to—there need be no difficulty about that. All you have to do is just to slip over the side some dark night when no one is looking. I tell you what,” I added (for somehow I began to feel a friendly interest in this poor slack-baked creature): “if you don’t find your nerves equal to it when it comes to the point, I don’t mind giving you a leg over myself.”
“I never intended to go as far as that,” he said, rather pettishly, and without any sign of gratitude for my offer; “I don’t care about actually dying, if she could only be made to believe I had died that would be quite enough for me. I could live on here, happy in the thought that I was saved from her scorn. But how can she be made to believe it?—that’s the point.”
“Precisely,” I said. “You can hardly write yourself and inform her that you died on the voyage. You might do this, though: sail to England as you propose, and go to see her under another name, and break the sad intelligence to her.”
“Why, to be sure, I might do that!” he said, with some animation; “I should certainly not be recognised—she can have no photograph of me, for I have never been photographed. And yet—no,” he added, with a shudder, “it is useless. I can’t do it; I dare not trust myself under that roof! I must find some other way. You have given me an idea. Listen,” he said, after a short pause: “you seem to take an interest in me; you are going to London; the Catafalques live there, or near it, at some place called Parson’s Green. Can I ask a great favour of you—would you very much mind seeking them out yourself as a fellow-voyager of mine? I could not expect you to tell a positive untruth on my account—but if, in the course of an interview with Chlorine, you could contrive to convey the impression that I died on my way to her side, you would be doing me a service I can never repay!”
“I should very much prefer to do you a service that you could repay,” was my very natural rejoinder.
“She will not require strict proof,” he continued eagerly; “I could give you enough papers and things to convince her that you come from me. Say you will do me this kindness!”
I hesitated for some time longer, not so much, perhaps, from scruples of a conscientious kind as from a disinclination to undertake a troublesome commission for an entire stranger—gratuitously. But McFadden pressed me hard, and at length he made an appeal to springs in my nature which are never touched in vain, and I yielded.
When we had settled the question in its financial aspect, I said to McFadden, “The only thing now is—how would you prefer to pass away? Shall I make you fall over and be devoured by a shark? That would be a picturesque end—and I could do myself justice over the shark? I should make the young lady weep considerably.”
“That won’t do at all!” he said irritably; “I can see from her face that Chlorine is a girl of a delicate sensibility, and would be disgusted by the idea of any suitor of hers spending his last cohesive moments inside such a beastly repulsive thing as a shark. I don’t want to be associated in her mind with anything so unpleasant. No, sir; I will die—if you will oblige me by remembering it—of a low fever, of a non-infectious type, at sunset, gazing at her portrait with my fading eyesight and gasping her name with my last breath. She will cry more over that!”
“I might work it up into something effective, certainly,” I admitted; “and, by the way, if you are going to expire in my state-room, I ought to know a little more about you than I do. There is time still before the tender goes; you might do worse than spend it in coaching me in your life’s history.”
He gave me a few leading facts, and supplied me with several documents for study on the voyage; he even abandoned to me the whole of his travelling arrangements, which proved far more complete and serviceable than my own.
And then the “All-ashore” bell rang, and McFadden, as he bade me farewell, took from his pocket a bulky packet. “You have saved me,” he said. “Now I can banish every recollection of this miserable episode. I need no longer preserve my poor aunt’s directions; let them go, then.”
Before I could say anything, he had fastened something heavy to the parcel and dropped it through the cabin-light into the sea, after which he went ashore, and I have never seen nor heard of him since.
During the voyage I had leisure to think seriously over the affair, and the more I thought of the task I had undertaken, the less I liked it.
No man with the instincts of a gentleman can feel any satisfaction at rinding himself on the way to harrow up a poor young lady’s feelings by a perfectly fictitious account of the death of a poor-spirited suitor who could selfishly save his reputation at her expense.
And so strong was my feeling about this from the very first, that I doubt whether, if McFadden’s terms had been a shade less liberal, I could ever have brought myself to consent.
But it struck me that, under judiciously sympathetic treatment, the lady might prove not inconsolable, and that I myself might be able to heal the wound I was about to inflict.
I found a subtle pleasure in the thought of this, for, unless McFadden had misinformed me, Chlorine’s fortune was considerable, and did not depend upon any marriage she might or might not make. On the other hand, I was penniless, and it seemed to me only too likely that her parents might seek to found some objection to me on that ground.
I studied the photograph McFadden had left with me; it was that of a pensive but distinctly pretty face, with an absence of firmness in it that betrayed a plastic nature. I felt certain that if I only had the recommendation, as McFadden had, of an aunt’s dying wishes, it would not take me long to effect a complete conquest.
And then, as naturally as possible, came the thought—why should not I procure myself the advantages of this recommendation? Nothing could be easier; I had merely to present myself as Augustus McFadden, who was hitherto a mere name to them; the information I already possessed as to his past life would enable me to support the character, and as it seemed that the baronet lived in great seclusion, I could easily contrive to keep out of the way of the few friends and relations I had in London until my position was secure.
What harm would this innocent deception do to anyone? McFadden, even if he ever knew, would have no right to complain—he had given up all pretentions himself and if he was merely anxious to preserve his reputation, his wishes would be more than carried out, for I flattered myself that whatever ideal Chlorine might have formed of her destined suitor, I should come much nearer to it than poor McFadden could ever
have done. No, he would gain, positively gain, by my assumption. He could not have counted upon arousing more than a mild regret as it was; now he would be fondly, it might be madly, loved. By proxy, it is true, but that was far more than he deserved.
Chlorine was not injured—far from it; she would have a suitor to welcome, not weep over, and his mere surname could make no possible difference to her. And lastly, it was a distinct benefit to me, for with a new name and an excellent reputation success would be an absolute certainty. What wonder, then, that the scheme, which opened out a far more manly and honourable means of obtaining a livelihood than any I had previously contemplated, should have grown more attractively feasible each day, until I resolved at last to carry it out? Let rigid moralists blame me if they will; I have never pretended to be better than the average run of mankind (though I am certainly no worse), and no one who really knows what human nature is will reproach me very keenly for obeying what was almost an instinct. And I may say this, that if ever an unfortunate man was bitterly punished for a fraud which was harmless, if not actually pious, by a visitation of intense and protracted terror, that person was I!
II.
After arriving in England, and before presenting myself at Parson’s Green in my assumed character, I took one precaution against any danger there might be of my throwing away my liberty in a fit of youthful impulsiveness. I went to Somerset House, and carefully examined the probate copy of the late Miss Petronia McFadden’s last will and testament.
Nothing could have been more satisfactory; a sum of between forty and fifty thousand pounds was Chlorine’s unconditionally, just as McFadden had said. I searched, but could find nothing in the will whatever to prevent her property, under the then existing state of the law, from passing under the entire control of a future husband.
The Second Macabre Megapack Page 8