The Macabre Megapack. Lafcadio Hearn

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СКАЧАТЬ power of speech by the total want of sympathy which had been shown him. But the common duty of humanity was not to be misunderstood; and, after addressing to him one or two other questions, to which he seemed unable or unwilling to reply, I gave him my arm. He looked wistfully down upon the chest; it was large, but, upon attempting to raise it, I felt it to be so light that I almost thought it must be empty. So, without making any further difficulties, I took it under my other arm, and, covering his bare head with my hat, we walked away slowly through the wondering people, who gave way as we passed. I was in hopes that my companion was so much absorbed in his own feelings that he did not notice this new gesture of distrust.

      I never felt so totally in the dark as to what I was doing at that moment. He could not or would not speak in answer to my further inquiries, but tottered on, leaning upon my arm. It was nearly an hour before we reached the old house; and he seemed on our arrival to be so much exhausted that I directed my servant to carry him upstairs and lay him upon my bed. I caused a fire to be lighted, and administered to him such cordials as were expedient, without any resistance on his part. The only sign of consciousness that he showed was suddenly rising up and looking round him; his eye lighted upon his chest, and then, as if he were satisfied that his treasure was safe, he sunk back, and in a few moments was quietly asleep.

      For me sleep was out of the question. I sat by his bedside all night, wondering in what strange new adventure I had involved myself, and shaping a thousand conjectures as to what might happen next. My mysterious guest could hardly be a poor man, for his linen was beautifully fine, and he wore a delicate gold ring upon one of his attenuated fingers. He could—but it was useless; anything beyond the wildest castle-building was impossible. And, summoning a faithful physician and clergyman betimes in the morning, I detailed to them the chances which had burdened me with so singular an inmate. I introduced the physician into the old man’s chamber; but to him as to myself was his behavior a riddle: he took no notice of what passed. The medical man pronounced it to be his judgement that the old man was suffering from exhaustion or abstinence, but that otherwise he had no symptom of disease upon him, and recommended me to allow him to lie still, and feed him as often as he would permit with nourishing food. The clergyman promised for our satisfaction to endeavor to collect some further particulars as to his history and habits in the neighborhood where he had resided; and they left me in as little comfortable state as may well be imagined.

      I found no difficulty in following Dr. Richards’ suggestions. The patient was passive, took whatever was offered to him, and seemed to doze almost all the day. I could not make up my mind to leave the house, and spent the greater part of my time in the stranger’s chamber. Any attempt to engage him in conversation, or even to obtain an answer to a question, was in vain; and I can scarcely describe the strange uneasiness which I felt creeping over me when evening set in and my two friends had paid their unsatisfactory visit—I say unsatisfactory, because the physician was entirely at fault as to the state of the invalid, and the clergyman had been unable to discover anything beyond what I had heard on the previous evening. Either would have remained with me all night, but they were called to distant parts of the town by the imperative duties of their profession—and again I was left alone.

      Some will, I am sure, comprehend the feeling of heart-sickness with which I took my seat by the fire. The night was wild and stormy, and I sat for two hours without speaking or moving. At length, to my great amazement, the current of my unpleasant thoughts was interrupted by the first spontaneous speech which my inexplicable guest had yet made. “Come hither,” he said faintly.

      I obeyed, and stood before his bedside, waiting for an instant to see whether he would speak again—but he was silent as before. I then said—“Can I do anything for you?”

      “No,” replied he promptly; “unless you will sit still, and listen to my story.”

      “Anything you wish,” answered I eagerly, wondering what kind of communication I was about to hear.

      “Well then,” said he, raising himself up a little—“and yet I hardly know why even now I should recall the past. Yet I will once more before I go—and it may explain to you what you ought to know. You stepped forward to assist me when I was otherwise deserted, and I am not ungrateful. But I lose time; my tales is long, and I have far to go before midnight.”

      He paused; and I, taking advantage of the moment’s silence, drew my chair close to his side; and, in the midst of a storm without, wilder than I have ever heard before or since, I listened to his story.

      “I have no friend or relation in the world that I know of,” said he. “I am the natural son of a nobleman—but he has long since been dead; and the title, with the estates, has passed to a distant branch of the family. From my cradle my fate was marked out to be a strange one. I was educated and pampered in my father’s house till I was eighteen, without the remotest idea that I was not his legitimate heir. Then, when he married, the veil was torn off, the delusion dissipated, at a moment’s warning. I was told of my origin, but not the name of my mother—and to this day I have no idea who she was. I fancied that she died in giving me birth—perhaps for her folly disowned by her relations, who scarcely ever heard of my existence. I was turned out of doors, with a caution that, if ever I ventured to appear in my father’s presence again, or to bear his name, I should forfeit his favor towards me, which would otherwise be continued in the shape of a liberal annual allowance.

      “I had always been on a delicate frame, with feeble spirits and an imaginative disposition, but with wilder thoughts and passions than ever I had dared to reveal. You may judge how such a message, coarsely delivered to me by my father’s chaplain, a debauched old man, was likely to affect me. My father had never shown any love to me—but I loved, I depended upon, him. And now I remonstrated, I entreated, with all the eloquence of strong and indignant feelings. I begged for an interview with my unnatural parent; it was denied me, with words of opprobrium that are yet ringing in my ears. The curse of their bitterness has clung to me ever since. I left—I will not mention the name of my home—a being marked out for unhappiness—and felt, while I groaned under the load of my misery, that it was laid upon me for life.

      “The world, however, was before me. I was well provided with money, young and handsome; and over the morbid sadness of my heart I threw so thick a mask of gaiety, that even I myself was at times deceived, and fancied that I was happy. I would not stay in England; but spent the next five years in exploring the continent. Italy, Germany, France, all became as homes to me. But I was alone: I had no friends, though many acquaintances; and when any one of these strove to approach nearer to the secrets of my heart than the common intercourse of society permits, he found himself repelled; and refrained from further endeavors, he scarcely knew why.

      “I have no time to trace out the workings of feelings—I will only mention facts. When I was in Paris, in the year 17—, the talk of the circles was entirely of a celebrated Sybil, Madame de Villerac, a woman whose age, for she was known to be no longer young, had not impaired her wit and beauty. Her predictions were said to be astonishingly precise and correct; and she was consulted and believed in by the loftiest and wisest in the land, although there were some, of more scrupulous or timid spirits, who did not speak of her without a shudder. I was resolved to prove her skill. I was presented to her at a grand fete, given by the Spanish ambassador. She was certainly the most striking-looking woman I ever saw. I well remember her imposing appearance. She was seated at a card-table, dressed in rich black velvet, with one solitary feather waving across her brow. ‘You can play at Ecarte,’ said the Chevalier Fleuret to me, rising from his seat; and, after simply naming us to each other, he pointed to the vacant chair, and left us alone together. Before I had time to think, I was engaged in deep play with this extraordinary and commanding woman. But conversation presently stole in, and we slackened our attention to the game. She spoke with astonishing eloquence: our talk was of the world and its ways. Then I endeavored to lead it to topics of graver interest—the past and the future—and, half in badinage, half in earnest, I ventured to ask if there was really any virtue in cards to unravel the secrets of destiny. She СКАЧАТЬ