Tales of the Wild and the Wonderful by Mary Diana Dods

Author:Mary Diana Dods [Dods, Mary Diana]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Good Press
Published: 2022-02-26T00:00:00+00:00

“This was the tale of Agatha! thou wilt doubt its truth, nor can I wonder at thy most natural incredulity: yet I would now give my few short hours of life, precious as they may be, that thou hadst been present and seen her tell this story; I can give thee her words, her form of expression, but what language of mine can portray her looks as she spoke, or describe the harrowing tones of her voice as she cried to me for protection? I doubted not; for these powerful witnesses would have carried conviction to my mind, had I not already beheld the shadowy thing she spoke of.

“What could I offer in consolation? We wept bitter tears together, and mingled our tender grief. If we indulged a momentary hope that it was but an illusion of the brain, and would return no more, we were quickly undeceived at the approach of night. Again came the ghastly shadow, and again was the spirit of Agatha chained by the sleep of death in his presence. Nor were his visitations confined to the dark and silent hour of night; when we met in the morning, to lament our fate and weep from our stuffed bosoms the weight that pressed upon our hearts, then, with a hideous familiarity, he would stand between us, mocking, with his menacing grin and uplifted finger, the agony his presence created.

“Another night came; we sat alone, solitary, speechless, motionless; hour after hour passed, and we moved not, except to cast stern regards towards the door, or listen with repressed impatience to every sound in the castle. Slowly, at last, came the step of the dead, heavily ascending the stairs;—he entered—I rushed to meet him, and the long pent up agony of my soul burst forth in madness uncontrolled. ‘Monster!—murderer!—destroyer of thy father and thy brother! why comest thou thus to torture and not kill? why is thy bloody hand for ever raised, and yet forbearing to fall? If thine aim be vengeance, strike—strike—strike—thou blood-bespotted horror! and rend from hope and from life those who dared to make thee what thou art!—Strike, thou silent, sullen thing! that we may be as thou art, and learn to fear thee not!’

“I darted towards him, but was arrested by some invisible barrier ere I had traversed half the distance between us; I could not reach him, but sunk, as if felled by an unseen blow, helpless and almost senseless, to the ground: he did not even look upon me, but again sternly summoned Agatha from the chamber, as nightly he had done before. I—but wherefore dwell upon these agonies? Suffice it to say, that these accumulated horrors at length drove me from the side of Agatha to solitude and reflection: sorrow came upon my soul—a sorrow less for my crime than for its fatal consequences. ‘Alas!’ I said, ‘perhaps the tormentor is himself more keenly punished by these hauntings than either of his shrinking victims: said he not, in the hour of

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