The Second Macabre Megapack

by Various Writers

  Yes, those were happy days indeed, that I passed with her!—and the pictures they have left upon the tablets of memory, clear, bright, unsullied, though preserved through years whose changes might well have dimmed them—these pictures are all that remain to give me comfort! Happy were the days that ended at length so fatally!

  It was a favorite fancy of mine to instruct the mind of Mary, and to expand her tastes; and in our morning and evening rambles, I delighted to pour from the full treasury of my own knowledge, wealth that she was eager to receive. Always she listened with pleased attention, but when my warm imagination and fervid eloquence at times out-sped the pace of sober sense, her quiet smile, or arch comment, generally restored me to the mood of real and every-day life. I know not how it was, but even this occasional contradiction of my humor had its fascination. Confidence was established between us, and by degrees I began to consider the reserve even of my own thoughts injurious to one who concealed from me neither thought nor deed. And when, in the scenes of natural beauty which we sought together, I became aware of the presence of my spirit-friends, I longed to communicate to her the knowledge and the spells which they had imparted. I longed to display to her charmed consciousness, the spirit-circulation through the hues of heaven, the spirit-breathings in the music of earth, the spirit-mingling with all the brightest sources of enjoyment. Oh! that, even then, when I was rapt in the contemplation of such existences as blend with the sun’s rays, and the lustre of the stars, I had rather raised my thoughts to the solemn revolutions of unnumbered worlds, and the wondrous order of the sublime universe, and given up my heart to the worship of the One Great Cause, Support, and Governor of all. Day by day, grew in my mind the wish to confide to Mary Howard all my own sources of knowledge and delight. Never did we dwell together upon the tincture of a flower, never pause upon the sigh of the night-wind that seemed to breathe only to hush the world to deeper repose, or upon the rustle of scarcely-waving leaves, but I felt the communication rise to my lips, and the almost irresistible desire to discuss with my own dear Mary the subjects first in interest to me. Yet did I long withstand the temptation.

  At length, one evening in early summer, when we had been roaming together through the rich mazes of many a green woodland, we stood at sunset upon the sloping lawn which spread along the western front of Mr. Howard’s dwelling. Full foliaged groups of stately trees interposed their screen between the house and the spot on which we purposely delayed. There were none to break in upon our conference. Never had my feelings towards Mary Howard been more tender. Never had my sense of nature’s loveliness been more rapt than at this moment, when we gazed together upon the shining clouds, and watched their capricious forms, and shifting hues. Mary’s eyes were raised to a snowy pile that floated towards the sunset.

  Suddenly it assumed first a faint, and then a deeper rose-tint.

  “How suddenly the color increases,” said Mary.

  “The spirit mingles with the cloud,” I replied, unconsciously.

  “The spirit!” said Mary with surprise, as she encountered my serious and quiet expression. “Of what are you speaking?” Quickly something almost of alarm was glassed upon her countenance. I recollected myself at once; but it was now too late. Could I refuse to her confiding heart the knowledge which was so intimately connected with my destiny? Could I answer her with falsehood? A thousand such thoughts rushed swiftly as light through my brain, and under their influence I began, though in faltering tones, the history of my intercourse with unseen agents. The color left Mary’s cheek—her affright was impressed upon her face. But at this instant, with the tale but just begun hanging trembling upon my lips, I became aware of the regard of one invisible, except his stern and piercing eyes, which were fixed upon me full of wrath. I felt that I grew pale—the words I was uttering died upon my tongue. I could only point to the cause of my agitation, and call the attention of my companion to—

  “Those terrible eyes!”

  Her startled exclamation brought me a little to myself. In another moment, the spirit-gaze had vanished, and unmanned as I was, I drew the arm of Mary through my own, and hurried her homewards without an attempt at explanation. I felt that in the revelation I had begun I had offended the spirits with whom I dealt, and it was easy, even in the midst of the terror and confusion created by this conviction, to perceive from the altered manner of Miss Howard, that I had filled her mind with doubts of my sanity. Timid, almost distrustful, she walked beside me in silence. I could discern that she was alarmed and distressed, and everyway I felt upon the verge of ruin. When we reached the house, Miss Howard immediately left me, and when, alone, I had time to collect my thoughts, I reflected upon the extraordinary nature of the communication I had begun, and upon that of its sudden interruption. I saw that the one, so far from commanding belief, could only appear to Mary a madman’s dream, and that the other must confirm such a suspicion. Should this impression remain upon her mind, who could limit its consequences? I might lose her affections—I must excite the apprehensions of her father. Our engagement would end disastrously, and so would every hope that could light my way through the world. I cursed my own imprudence. I wondered I had not foreseen how it would be. I considered the possibilities of undoing all that folly so unutterable had done. At length I devised a plan to cover my error. It was far from truth, but, though I felt the shame of this, I resolved to abide by it.

  When Mary returned to the drawing-room, the family circle was formed, with the addition of some visitors. I found, however, an opportunity to approach her, and to rally her on her want of courage.

  “I did but apply the slightest test this evening,” I said, laughing, “and I frightened you so much, that really I was alarmed myself at the effect. Was it not excellent acting?”

  “What! then you were jesting?” Mary’s eyes grew bright, and she added unconsciously the words,

  “Thank Heaven!”

  “Jesting? You have not fancied me in earnest all this time?”

  “I knew not what to think,” answered Mary, now fully reassured. “I really almost feared you had ’tint your reason a’thegither.”

  “Exactly,” I answered gaily. “I guessed as much, and hastened to undeceive you—I thought I could not misinterpret your solemnity when you came in.”

  This paltry falsehood was sufficient for the occasion, for Miss Howard was now indeed deceived. I felt how much it imported me to keep up the illusion, and during the whole evening I remained up on my guard. Gaily did that evening pass in light, and song and feast! It was the last bright evening of my life. The image of Mary Howard, as I then saw her, is still fresh upon my heart, and its beauty, its grace, its hues, would put to scorn the efforts of human art. Rich flowers glowed in her hair. Life, and light, and love were in her smile. In gazing upon her, in following the spirit of the social hour, I forgot the peril of my own condition. When I laid my head that night upon my pillow, my heart, still flushed from the scene I had left, was filled with a thousand glad images. Whence then came the dreams that followed? Restless, gloomy, and wild, they presented to my struggling fancy now a lonely landscape, chilled by the sullen breath of winter and over-arched by the expanse of heavy and moisture-laden clouds; and now they pent me in a black cell, girt with serpents and pervaded by the presence of Death, and then, through the livid gloom, appeared the pale and tortured features of my own young Mary Howard, and the spirit laughed to scorn her agonies. I asked the cause of all this misery, and silence answered me. I stretched my arms to draw that beautiful sufferer to the shelter of no unpitying breast. Alas! further—further—receding into the depths of the surrounding darkness—my Mary, still writhing and tormented, and pursued by the scoffing spirit, gradually and finally faded from my sight! I awoke—the beaded drops thick on my cold brow and quivering limbs—the blackness of night was faintly diminished by a paly and unnatural light, and through it gazed, intent and stern, the hard eyes of the spirit.

  Was not this enough of terror? Not enough for my miserable
destiny!

  “Speak not!”—said the spirit. “Remonstrance will be vain. Remember the terms of our compact. It is just that you endure the penalty it secures to your offence! The fool who dared to penetrate mysteries beyond his nature, without strength of purpose to preserve him fortunate, deserves to suffer in silence.”

  “What is my sentence?” I trembled as I demanded it.

  “I had hoped—and they who are of my order, hoped with me—to find in your will and intellect exemption from the weakness, the folly, of your kind; and in making you our instrument, we designed to protect and strengthen your fate. And I—I loved you—not as your perishing clay loves, but with the favor of a loftier being. I sought your companionship, I made your wishes mine, and, could you have sustained the high part assigned you, your life should have left a shining trace upon the course of ages. But all—all is forfeited!-and for what?”

  “For what, indeed? How have I offended.”

  “You have broken faith with immortals. You have attempted to confide their secrets to a creature of earth, scarce wakened into thought, who has yet been powerful enough to control your fate. You—the future statesman, the future guardian and idol of your country—you have betrayed immortals—you have sacrificed high fortunes—you have laid aside the obligations of truth and gratitude; and all for a boy’s fondness for a being endowed with scarcely common comprehension!”

  “Name her not!” I exclaimed, thrilling with anger. “She is above both your destiny and mine, as the child—the protected—of Heaven.”

  “Be it so,” answered the spirit. “Heaven’s she will be, but never yours. Your eyes shall behold her departure for that hallowed realm, where only, if ever, your being can be associated with hers. On earth shall your course be lonely—your fortunes desolate. The spirit-world forsakes you. Men shall shrink from you. I leave with you the curse of a spell that shall be shaken off only with the clay that covers you!”

  The eyes gazed no longer, the voice was gone. There was silence.

  Then grew the very walls vocal with scoffs and laughter. Darkness grew thick even to heaviness; and then I felt the cold and crawling touch of reptiles, the hiss, yea, the breath of serpents, and saw the faces of grinning fiends, and the gliding and successive exhibitions of all aspects of human agony. Thus was the night filled up; whether my waking soul yielded itself to the rack of such impressions, or sleep for a moment surrendered my nerves to the influence of yet wilder terrors.

  But day—thanks be to God!—day breaks again, and again, and always over the deadliest excess of nightly anguish, and brings action, and light, and beauty, to mingle with all of suffering that human existence can comprehend! Day stole upon my life once more, and I rose to the world, and strove to shake off the terrors that hung upon me, and unnerved a frame not naturally feeble. I drew around me, like a mantle to exclude the rigors of winter, the consolations which still seemed to belong to my changed and miserable lot. Mary, in spite of the spirit’s threatenings, was still my own. Time and submission might abate the severity of my sentence. I resolved to hope. Much was still in my power; and life, even should I depend upon my own resources, still offered me enough to satisfy a reasonable heart. I looked into the mirror before I left my chamber. True I did look pale, and wretchedly ill, and shaken; but this would—it must—wear off. I descended to the drawing-room. To the natural inquiries excited by my looks, I replied by feigning indisposition, and after a short interview with Mary, filled with the usual protestations on my side, and assurances on hers, not less sincere, I left the house of her father, oppressed by indefinite apprehensions.

  Business demanded my attention in the capital of my native state. I was, as I have before said, a member of the bar, and distinguished in my profession. At this time I was counsel for a criminal in a case which had attracted much of the public interest, and it was to prepare my defence that I was now compelled to leave Miss Howard. A few days only remained before the trial would come on, but these sufficed to complete my preparations. But when these were all made, my mind turned upon itself, and so miserable were my reflections, that when the day arrived which was to decide the fate of my client, I felt so ill, and so unnerved, that I doubted my power to plead his cause.

  The hour drew near. I hurried along the streets, in vain endeavoring to curb my own emotions. I represented to myself the need I had of perfect self-government, at a time when a league of the most potent spirits was strong to destroy me. Alas! my safety was not in myself. Had I, even then, after my presumptuous search into mysteries which the Almighty veils in mercy from mankind, appealed to his protection, perhaps my fate, and the allied fate of one better and holier than I, might have found even upon earth safety and shelter. But I, who seem blindly to have rushed into every peril that could beset my path, I had been used to rest upon myself, and the pride of my soul overlooked this certain refuge. I spent an hour in fruitless endeavors to master myself. Alas!—what ever argument or effort I could bring to strengthen my enfeebled mind and shattered nerves, was opposed by deadly realities, which could neither be argued down nor controlled by force of will. The court bell rang. The habitual associations, with its sound, did more to break the spell that was upon me, than all the powers of reason had achieved. I hastened to the court. I took my place. There was a crowd in the house. The case was far from a desperate one—at least there were extenuating circumstances which marked it strongly, and it was full of interest. Nevertheless, the general sentiment was against the prisoner, for the charge was a grave one—it was that of murder. The prosecution was ably conducted, the evidence had arrested universal attention, my own reputation was high—every thing contributed to awaken and excite the crowd and when I rose to give the criminal his last chance, I could hear a suppressed murmur, I could perceive a sort of simultaneous thrill of painful interest, agitate the assembly. I became roused and warmed by the accustomed scene, and its requisitions. I felt my own adequacy to fulfil them, and my miserable thoughts being for the time excluded by the sense of responsibility and the glow of humanity, I continued self-poised and collected. I proceeded naturally, and as if without effort. I touched upon all the portions of the evidence, direct and circumstantial, which were calculated to exculpate my unhappy client. I was in the midst of my argument, the jury were evidently interested in my view of the case, the judge’s countenance spoke against his will, when, Oh! irresistible Fate!—the form—the face of Mary Howard, in the struggle and grasp of Death, glided before my sight, and a voice whispered at my ear—

  “Behold and tremble!”

  I did behold this horrible vision. Every instant exaggerated its terrors. The next sentence I uttered was half a scream, and mingled some wretched allusion to the predominant impression with the words which had the previous moment been formed in my mind. The effect was as startling as it was absurd, and I sat down quelled and overwhelmed and perfectly unable to command another syllable. My evident agitation, my excessive paleness and hastily alleged illness, were all that saved me. As it was, it became apparent that I could not proceed, and pity took the place of contempt. One person offered me water; another observed, that when I entered the court, he had “noticed that I was colorless and feeble”; a third—a physician—,recommended some restorative; and a fourth, administered to human vanity its most effectual cordial—a compliment upon the extraordinary strength of my defence as far as it had gone, and a caution “not to sacrifice the body to the mind.” A friend advised me to leave the court, and seek repose. But though fully alive to all that was passing, I could not move away. I was physically unable to make so great an exertion, and declining assistance I sat still, whilst another member of the bar, who had previously been engaged on the same side, took up the argument where I had left it. Even in the midst of my distress, I foresaw that he must lose the cause. All my strong points were thrown away; my clear statements, my touching eloquence, were unsupplied, and I had the anguish to find that all was over for the criminal. I attempted to rise—to make one more effort in
his behalf—but I was now really too ill to speak. I heard the verdict—I heard the sentence—and, as I left the court supported by a legal brother, I caught the despairing glance of the condemned. I had myself thought his guilt greatly extenuated by the circumstances under which it was incurred, and that stony gaze passed from my soul no more. It became a perpetual reproach, and I felt as if his blood were on my head. I staggered forward, more weak and helpless than a child. Often, often did scenes, of less importance to others, but of like issue to myself, occur. At length suspicions that I “was not myself,” began to find language among my legal friends and in society, and assuredly they were justified by the sudden, unaccountable, and sometimes violent agitation, and incoherent expressions, caused by my singular and always inopportune vlsitings. Yet the general conduct of my affairs seemed hardly to warrant so harsh a conclusion, and I continued to be regarded as the representative of my district. The time drew near when I was to take my seat in the Congress of the United States, and I still possessed the unchallenged right to it, although even I often heard in society intimations, not intended for my ear, which assured me of a general doubt of my sanity. Here then was ruin—unless I could command sufficient strength of mind to guard, under all circumstances my manner and deportment. This, however, seemed impossible. I could not wholly control my own emotions, though perfectly conscious of the tendency of my inexplicable conduct. In the torturings of my fate and enemies, I suffered inflictions worse than those of the malady under which I was supposed to labor. I could find no relief—neither could I foresee any—and I would have resigned my seat in Congress, and with it every hope of political distinction, but that I desperately clung to the chances afforded by change of place and occupation.