“But, Mr. Barton, you must remember,” urged his companion, “that others have suffered as you have done, and——”
“No, no, no,” interrupted he, with irritability—“no, sir, I am not a credulous—far from a superstitious man. I have been, perhaps, too much the reverse—too sceptical, too slow of belief; but unless I were one whom no amount of evidence could convince, unless I were to contemn the repeated, the perpetual evidence of my own senses, I am now—now at last constrained to believe—I have no escape from the conviction—the overwhelming certainty—that I am haunted and dogged, go where I may, by—by a DEMON!”
There was a preternatural energy of horror in Barton’s face, as, with its damp and death-like lineaments turned towards his companion, he thus delivered himself.
“God help you, my poor friend,” said Dr. ——, much shocked, “God help you; for, indeed, you are a sufferer, however your sufferings may have been caused.”
“Ay, ay, God help me,” echoed Barton, sternly; “but will he help me—will he help me?”
“Pray to him—pray in an humble and trusting spirit,” said he.
“Pray, pray,” echoed he again; “I can’t pray—I could as easily move a mountain by an effort of my will. I have not belief enough to pray; there is something within me that will not pray. You prescribe impossibilities—literal impossibilities.”
“You will not find it so, if you will but try,” said Doctor ——.
“Try! I have tried, and the attempt only fills me with confusion; and, sometimes, terror; I have tried in vain, and more than in vain. The awful, unutterable idea of eternity and infinity oppresses and maddens my brain whenever my mind approaches the contemplation of the Creator; I recoil from the effort scared. I tell you, Doctor ——, if I am to be saved, it must be by other means. The idea of an eternal Creator is to me intolerable—my mind cannot support it.”
“Say, then, my dear sir,” urged he, “say how you would have me serve you—what you would learn of me—what I can do or say to relieve you?”