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PART I.
THE FIRST PHANTOM.
Don't tell me that it wasn't a knocker. I had
seen it often enough, and I ought to know. So
ought the three o'clock beer, in dirty high-lows,
swinging himself over the railing, or executing a demoniacal
jig upon the doorstep; so ought the butcher,
although butchers as a general thing are scornful of
such trifles; so ought the postman, to whom knockers
of the most extravagant description were merely
human weaknesses, that were to be pitied and used.
And so ought, for the matter of that, etc., etc., etc.
But then it was such a knocker. A wild, extravagant
and utterly incomprehensible knocker. A
knocker so mysterious and suspicious that Policeman
it instantly in custody, but compromised with his
professional instincts by sharply and sternly noting
it with an eye that admitted of no nonsense, but confidently
expected to detect its secret yet. An ugly
knocker; a knocker with a hard, human face, that
was a type of the harder human face within. A human
face that held between its teeth a brazen rod.
So hereafter, in the mysterious future should be held,
etc., etc.
But if the knocker had a fierce human aspect in
the glare of day, you should have seen it at night,
when it peered out of the gathering shadows and suggested
an ambushed figure; when the light of the
street lamps fell upon it, and wrought a play of sinister
expression in its hard outlines; when it seemed to
wink meaningly at a shrouded figure who, as the night
fell darkly, crept up the steps and passed into the
mysterious house; when the swinging door disclosed
a black passage into which the figure seemed to lose
itself and become a part of the mysterious gloom;
when the night grew boisterous and the fierce wind
made furious charges at the knocker, as if to wrench
it off and carry it away in triumph. Such a night
as this.
It was a wild and pitiless wind. A wind that had
commenced life as a gentle country zephyr, but wandering
through manufacturing towns had become demoralized,
and reaching the city had plunged into
extravagant dissipation and wild excesses. A roy
stering wind that indulged in Bacchanalian shouts on
heads of helpless passengers, and then fulfilled its
duties by speeding away, like all young prodigals—
to sea.
He sat alone in a gloomy library listening to the
wind that roared in the chimney. Around him novels
and story-books were strewn thickly; in his lap
he held one with its pages freshly cut, and turned
the leaves wearily until his eyes rested upon a portrait
in its frontispiece. And as the wind howled the
more fiercely, and the darkness without fell blacker,
a strange and fateful likeness to that portrait appeared
above his chair and leaned upon his shoulder.
The Haunted Man gazed at the portrait and sighed.
The figure gazed at the portrait and sighed too.
“Here again?” said the Haunted Man.
“Here again,” it repeated in a low voice.
“Another novel?”
“Another novel.”
“The old story?”
“The old story.”
“I see a child,” said the Haunted Man, gazing
from the pages of the book into the fire—“a most
unnatural child, a model infant. It is prematurely
old and philosophic. It dies in poverty to slow
music. It dies surrounded by luxury to slow music.
It dies with an accompaniment of golden water and
rattling carts to slow music. Previous to its decease
it makes a will; it repeats the Lord's prayer, it kisses
the `boofer lady.' That child—”
“Is mine,” said the phantom.
“I see a good woman, undersized. I see several
charming women, but they are all undersized. They
are more or less imbecile and idiotic, but always fascinating
and undersized. They wear coquettish caps
and aprons. I observe that feminine virtue is invariably
below the medium height, and that it is always
babyish and infantine. These women—”
“Are mine.”
“I see a haughty, proud, and wicked lady. She
is tall and queenly. I remark that all proud and
wicked women are tall and queenly. That woman—”
“Is mine,” said the phantom, wringing his hands.
“I see several things continually impending. I
observe that whenever an accident, a murder, or
death is about to happen, there is something in the
furniture, in the locality, in the atmosphere that foreshadows
and suggests it years in advance. I cannot
say that in real life I have noticed it—the perception
of this surprising fact belongs—”
“To me!” said the phantom. The Haunted Man
continued, in a despairing tone:
“I see the influence of this in the magazines and
daily papers: I see weak imitators rise up and enfeeble
the world with senseless formula. I am getting
tired of it. It won't do, Charles! it won't do!”
and the Haunted Man buried his head in his hands
and groaned. The figure looked down upon him
sternly: the portrait in the frontispiece frowned as he
gazed.
“Wretched man,” said the phantom, “and how
have these things affected you?”
“Once I laughed and cried, but then I was younger.
Now, I would forget them if I could.”
“Have then your wish. And take this with you,
man whom I renounce. From this day henceforth
you shall live with those whom I displace. Without
forgetting me, 'twill be your lot to walk through life
as if we had not met. But first you shall survey
these scenes that henceforth must be yours. At one
to-night, prepare to meet the phantom I have raised.
Farewell!”
The sound of its voice seemed to fade away with
the dying wind, and the Haunted Man was alone.
But the firelight flickered gayly, and the light danced
on the walls, making grotesque figures of the furniture.
“Ha, ha!” said the Haunted Man, rubbing his
hands gleefully; “now for a whiskey punch and a
cigar.”
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