“The human mind, I take it, must have either comfort in the past or hope in the future,” he continued, “otherwise it is in danger.  To me, sir, the past is intolerably repulsive; one boundless, barren, and hideous Golgotha of dead hopes and murdered opportunities; the future, still blacker and more furious, peopled with dreadful features of horror and menace, and losing itself in utter darkness.  Sir, I do not exaggerate.  Between such a past and such a future I stand upon this miserable present; and the only comfort I still am capable of feeling is, that no human being pities me; that I stand aloof from the insults of compassion and the hypocrisies of sympathetic morality; and that I can safely defy all the respectable scoundrels in Christendom to enhance, by one feather’s weight, the load which I myself have accumulated, and which I myself hourly and unaided sustain.”

Doctor Danvers here introduced a word or two in the direction of their former conversation.

“No, sir, there is no comfort from that quarter either,” said Marston, bitterly; “you but cast your seeds, as the parable terms your teaching, upon the barren sea, in wasting them on me.  My fate, be it what it may, is as irrevocably fixed, as though I were dead and judged a hundred years ago.

“This cursed dream,” he resumed abruptly, “that everyday enslaves me more and more, has reference to that—­that occurrence about Wynston Berkley—­he is the hero of the hellish illusion.  At certain times, sir, it seems to me as if he, though dead, were still invested with a sort of spurious life; going about unrecognized, except by me, in squalor and contempt, and whispering away my fame and life; laboring with the malignant industry of a fiend to involve me in the meshes of that special perdition from which alone I shrink, and to which this emissary of hell seems to have predestined me.  Sir, this is a monstrous and hideous extravagance, a delusion, but, after all, no more than a trick of the imagination; the reason, the judgment, is untouched.  I cannot choose but see all the damned phantasmagoria, but I do not believe it real, and this is the difference between my case and—­and—­madness!”

They were now entering the suburbs of Chester, and Doctor Danvers, pained and shocked beyond measure by this unlooked-for disclosure, and not knowing what remark or comfort to offer, relieved his temporary embarrassment by looking from the window, as though attracted by the flash of the lamps, among which the vehicle was now moving.  Marston, however, laid his hand upon his arm, and thus recalled him, for a moment, to a forced attention.

“It must seem strange to you, Doctor, that I should trust this cursed secret to your keeping,” he said; “and, truth to say, it seems so to myself.  I cannot account for the impulse, the irresistible power of which has forced me to disclose the hateful mystery to you, but the fact is this, beginning like a speck, this one idea has gradually darkened and dilated, until it has filled my entire mind.  The solitary consciousness of the gigantic mastery it has established there had grown intolerable; I must have told it.  The sense of solitude under this aggressive and tremendous delusion was agony, hourly death to my soul.  That is the secret of my talkativeness; my sole excuse for plaguing you with the dreams of a wretched hypochondriac.”