THE PHANTOM COACH: Collected Ghost Stories Read online

  At this moment, I saw a monk standing in an attitude of meditation upon a little knoll of rising ground some fifty yards ahead. His back was turned towards me; his cowl was up, his arms were folded across his breast. Neither the splendour of the heavens, nor the tender beauty of the earth, was anything to him. He seemed unconscious even of the sunset.

  I hurried forward, eager to inquire my nearest path along the woods that skirt the lake; and my shadow lengthened out fantastically before me as I ran. The monk turned abruptly. His cowl fell. He looked at me face to face. There were not more than eighteen yards between us. I saw him as plainly as I now see the page on which I write. Our eyes met . . . My God! shall I ever forget those eyes?

  He was still young, still handsome, but so lividly pale, so emaciated, so worn with passion, and penance, and remorse, that I stopped involuntarily, like one who finds himself on the brink of a chasm. We stood thus for a few seconds—both silent, both motionless. I could not have uttered a syllable, had my life depended on it. Then, as abruptly as he had turned towards me, he turned away and disappeared among the trees. I remained for some minutes gazing after him. My heart throbbed painfully. I shuddered, I knew not why. The very air seemed to have grown thick and oppressive; the very sunset, so golden a moment since, had turned suddenly to blood.

  I went on my way, disturbed and thoughtful. The livid face and lurid eyes of the monk haunted me. I dreaded every turn of the path, lest I should again encounter them. I started when a twig fell, or a dead leaf fluttered down beside me. I was almost ashamed of the sense of relief with which I heard the sound of voices some few yards in advance, and, emerging upon an open space close against the convent, saw some half dozen friars strolling to and fro in the sunset. I inquired my way to Albano, and learned that I was still more than two miles distant.

  ‘It will be quite dark before the Signore arrives,’ said one, courteously. ‘The Signore would do well to accept a cell at Palazzuola for the night.’

  I remembered the monk, and hesitated.

  ‘There is no moon now,’ suggested another; ‘and the paths are unsafe for those who do not know them.’

  While I was yet undecided, a bell rang, and three or four of the loiterers went in.

  ‘It is our supper hour,’ said the first speaker. ‘The Signore will at least condescend to share our simple fare; and afterwards, if he still decides to sleep at Albano, one of our younger brethren shall accompany him as far as the Cappucini, at the entrance to the town.’

  I accepted this proposition gratefully, followed my entertainers through the convent gates, and was ushered into a stone hall, furnished with a long dining table, a pulpit, a clock, a double row of deal benches, and an indifferent copy of the ‘Last Supper’ of Leonardo da Vinci. The Superior advanced to welcome me.

  ‘You have come among us, Signore,’ he said, ‘on an evening when our table is but poorly provided. Although this is not one of the appointed fast-days of the Church, we have been abstaining at Palazzuola in memory of certain circumstances connected with our own brotherhood. I hope, however, that our larder may be found to contain something better suited to a traveller’s appetite than the fare you now see before you.’

  Saying thus, he placed me at his right hand at the upper end of the board, and there stood till the monks were all in their places. He then repeated a Latin grace; after which each brother took his seat and began. They were twenty-three in number, twelve on one side, and eleven on the other; but I observed that a place was left vacant near the foot of the table, as if the twelfth man were yet to come. The twelfth, I felt sure, was he whom I had encountered on the way. Once possessed with this conviction, I could not keep from watching the door. Strange! I so dreaded and loathed his coming, that I almost felt as if his presence would be less intolerable than the suspense in which I awaited it!

  In the meantime the monks ate in silence; and even the Superior, whose language and address were those of a well-informed man, seemed constrained and thoughtful. Their supper was of the most frugal description, and consisted of only bread, salad, grapes, and macaroni. Mine was before long reinforced with a broiled pigeon and a flask of excellent Orvieto. I enjoyed my fare, however, as little as they seemed to enjoy theirs. Fasting as I was, I had no appetite. Weary as I was, I only longed to push my plate aside, and resume my journey.

  ‘The Signore will not think of going farther tonight,’ said the Superior, after an interval of prolonged silence.

  I muttered something about being expected at Albano.

  ‘Nay, but it is already dusk, and the sky hath clouded over suddenly within the last fifteen minutes,’ urged he. ‘I fear much that we have a storm approaching. What sayest thou, brother Antonio?’

  ‘It will be a wild night,’ replied the brother with whom I had first spoken.

  ‘Aye, a wild night,’ repeated an old monk, lower down the table; ‘like this night last year—like this night two years ago!’

  The superior struck the table angrily with his open hand.

  ‘Silence!’ he exclaimed authoritatively. ‘Silence there; and let brother Anselmo bring lights.’

  It was now so dark that I could scarcely distinguish the features of the last speaker, or those of the monk who rose and left the room. Again the profoundest silence fell upon all present. I could hear the footsteps of brother Anselmo echo down the passage, till they died away; and I remember listening vaguely to the ticking of the clock at the farther end of the refectory, and comparing it in my own mind to the horrible beating of an iron heart. Just at that moment a sharp gust of wind moaned past the windows, bearing with it a prolonged reverberation of distant thunder.

  ‘Our storms up here in the mountain are severe and sudden,’ said the Prior, resuming our conversation at the point where it had been interrupted; ‘and even the waters of yonder placid lake are sometimes so tempestuous that no boat dare venture across. I fear, Signore, that you will find it impossible to proceed to Albano.’

  ‘Should the tempest come up, reverend father,’ I replied, ‘I will undoubtedly accept your hospitality, and be grateful for it; but if . . .’

  I broke off abruptly. The words failed on my lips, and I pushed away the flask from which I was about to fill my glass.

  Brother Anselmo had brought in the lamps, and there, in the twelfth seat at the opposite side of the table, sat the monk. I had not seen him take his place. I had not heard him enter. Yet there he sat, pale and deathlike, with his burning eyes fixed full upon me! No one noticed him. No one spoke to him. No one helped him to the dishes on the table. He neither ate, nor drank, nor held companionship with any of his fellows; but sat among them like an excommunicated wretch, whose penance was silence and fasting.

  ‘You do not eat, Signore,’ said the prior.

  ‘I—I thank you, reverend father,’ I faltered. ‘I have dined.’

  ‘I fear, indifferently. Would you like some other wine? Our cellar is not so ill-furnished as our larder.’

  I declined by a gesture.

  ‘Then we will retire to my room, and take coffee.’

  And the superior rose, repeated a brief Latin thanksgiving, and ushered me into a small well-lighted parlour, opening off a passage at the upper end of the hall, where there were some half-dozen shelves of books, a couple of easy chairs, a bright wood fire, and a little table laden with coffee and cakes. We had scarcely seated ourselves when a tremendous peal of thunder seemed to break immediately over the convent, and was followed by a cataract of rain.

  ‘The Signore is safer here than on the paths between Palazzuola and Albano,’ said the Superior, sipping his coffee.

  ‘I am, indeed,’ I replied. ‘Do I understand that you had a storm here on the same night last year, and the year before?’

  The Prior’s face darkened.

  ‘I cannot deny the coincidence,’ he said, reluctantly; ‘but it is a mere coincidence, after all. The—the fact is that a very grievous and terrible catastrophe happened to our community on this day two year
s ago; and the brethren believe that heaven sends the tempest in memory of that event. Monks, Signore, are superstitious; and if we consider their isolated lives, it is not surprising that they should be so.’

  I bowed assent. The Prior was evidently a man of the world.

  ‘Now, with regard to Palazzuola,’ continued he, disregarding the storm, and chatting on quite leisurely; ‘here are twenty-three brethren, most of them natives of the small towns among the mountains hereabout; and of that twenty-three, not ten have been so far as Rome in their lives.’

  ‘Twenty-three,’ I repeated. ‘Twenty-four, surely, mio padre!’

  ‘I did not include myself,’ said the Prior, stiffly.

  ‘Neither did I include you,’ I replied; ‘but I counted twenty-four of the order at the table, just now.’

  The Prior shook his head.

  ‘No, no, Signore,’ said he. ‘Twenty-three only.’

  ‘But I am positive,’ said I.

  ‘And so am I,’ rejoined he, politely but firmly.

  I paused. I was certain. I could not be mistaken.

  ‘Nay, mio padre,’ I said; ‘they were twenty-three at first; but the brother who came in afterwards made the twenty-fourth.’

  ‘Afterwards!’ echoed the Prior. ‘I am not aware that any brother came in afterwards.’

  ‘A sickly, haggard-looking monk,’ pursued I, ‘with singularly bright eyes—eyes which, I confess, produced on me a very unpleasant impression. He came in just before the lights were brought.’

  The Prior moved uneasily in his chair, and poured out another cup of coffee.

  ‘Where did you say he sat, Signore?’ said he.

  ‘In the vacant seat at the lower end of the table, on the opposite side to myself.’

  The Prior set down his coffee untasted, and rose in great agitation.

  ‘For God’s sake, Signore,’ stammered he, ‘be careful what you say! Did you—did you see this? Is this true?’

  ‘True?’ I repeated, trembling I knew not why, and turning cold from head to foot. ‘As true as that I live and breathe! Why do you ask?’

  ‘Sickly and haggard-looking, with singularly bright eyes,’ said the Prior, looking very pale himself. ‘Had it—had it the appearance of a young man?’

  ‘Of a young man worn with suffering and remorse,’ I replied. ‘But—but it was not the first time, mio padre! I saw him before—this afternoon—down near the chestnut-woods, on a knoll of rising ground, overlooking the lake. He was standing with his back to the sunset.’

  The Prior fell on his knees before a little carved crucifix that hung beside the fireplace.

  ‘Requiem æternum dona eis, Domine; et lux perpetua luceat eis,’ said he, brokenly.

  The rest of his prayer was inaudible, and he remained for some minutes with his face buried in his hands.

  ‘I implore you to tell me the meaning of this,’ I said, when he at length rose, and sank, still pale and agitated, into his chair.

  ‘I will tell what I may, Signore,’ he replied; ‘but I must not tell you all. It is a secret that belongs to our community, and none of us are at liberty to repeat it. Two years ago, one of our brethren was detected in the commission of a great crime. He had suffered, struggled against it, and at last, urged by a terrible opportunity, committed it. His life paid for the offence. One who was deeply wronged by the deed, met him as he was flying from the spot, and slew him as he fled. Signore, the name of that monk was the Fra Geronimo. We buried him where he fell, on a knoll of rising ground close against the chestnut woods that border the path to Marino. We had no right to lay his remains in consecrated ground; but we fast, and say masses for his soul, on each anniversary of that fearful day.’

  The Prior paused and wiped his brow.

  ‘But, mio padre . . .’ I began.

  ‘This day last year,’ interrupted he, ‘one of the woodcutters yonder took a solemn oath that he met the Fra Geronimo on that very knoll, at sunset. Our brethren believed the man—but I, heaven forgive me! was incredulous. Now, however . . .’

  ‘Then—then you believe,’ faltered I, ‘you believe that I have seen . . .’

  ‘Brother Geronimo,’ said the Prior, solemnly.

  And I believe it too. I am told, perhaps, that it was an illusion of the senses. Granted; but, is not such an illusion, in itself, a phenomenon as appalling as the veriest legend that superstition evokes from the world beyond the grave? How shall we explain the nature of the impression? Whence comes it? By what material agency is it impressed upon the brain? These are questions leading to abysses of speculation before which the sceptic and the philosopher alike recoil—questions which I am unable to answer. I only know that these things came within the narrow radius of my own experience; that I saw them with my own eyes; and that they happened just forty years ago, on the eleventh of March, Anno Domini eighteen hundred and twenty six.

  Number Three

  I AM A PLAIN MAN, and you may not dislike to hear a plain statement of facts from me. Some of those facts lie beyond my understanding. I do not pretend to explain them. I only know that they happened as I relate them, and that I pledge myself for the truth of every word of them.

  I began life roughly enough, down among the Worcestershire Potteries. I was an orphan; and my earliest recollections are of a great porcelain manufactory, where I helped about the yard, picked up what halfpence fell in my way, and slept in a harness-loft over the stable. Those were hard times; but things bettered themselves as I grew older and stronger, especially after George Barnard had come to be foreman of the yard.

  George Barnard was a Wesleyan—we were mostly dissenters in the Potteries—sober, clear-headed, somewhat sulky and silent, but a good fellow every inch of him, and my best friend at the time when I most needed one. He took me out of the yard, and set me to the furnace-work. He entered me on the books at a fixed rate of wages. He helped me to pay for a little cheap schooling four nights a week; and he led me to go with him on Sundays to the chapel down by the river-side, where I first saw Leah Payne. She was his sweetheart, and so pretty that I used to forget the preacher and everybody else when I looked at her. When she joined in the singing, I heard no voice but hers. If she asked me for the hymn-book, I used to blush and tremble. I believe I worshipped her, in my stupid ignorant way; and I think I worshipped Barnard almost as blindly, though after a different fashion. I felt I owed him everything. I knew that he had saved me, body and mind; and I looked up to him as a savage might look up to a missionary.

  Leah was the daughter of a plumber, who lived close by the chapel. She was twenty, and George about seven- or eight-and-thirty. Some captious folks said there was too much difference in their ages; but she was so serious-minded, and they loved each other so earnestly and quietly, that, if nothing had come between them during their courtship, I don’t believe the question of disparity would ever have troubled the happiness of their married lives. Something did come, however; and that something was a Frenchman, called Louis Laroche. He was a painter on porcelain, from the famous works at Sèvres; and our master, it was said, had engaged him for three years certain, at such wages as none of our own people, however skilful, could hope to command. It was about the beginning or middle of September when he first came among us. He looked very young, was small, dark, and well-made; had little white soft hands, and a silky moustache; and spoke English nearly as well as I do. None of us liked him; but that was only natural, seeing how he was put over the head of every Englishman in the place. Besides, though he was always smiling and civil, we couldn’t help seeing that he thought himself ever so much better than the rest of us; and that was not pleasant. Neither was it pleasant to see him strolling about the town, dressed just like a gentleman, when working hours were over; smoking good cigars, when we were forced to be content with a pipe of common tobacco; hiring a horse on Sunday afternoons, when we were trudging afoot; and taking his pleasure as if the world was made for him to enjoy, and us to work in.

  ‘Ben, boy,’ said George, ‘the
re’s something wrong about that Frenchman.’

  It was on a Saturday afternoon, and we were sitting on a pile of empty seggars against the door of my furnace-room, waiting till the men should all have cleared out of the yard. Seggars are deep earthen boxes in which the pottery is put, while being fired in the kiln.

  I looked up inquiringly.

  ‘About the Count?’ said I; for that was the nickname by which he went in the pottery.

  George nodded, and paused for a moment with his chin resting on his palms.

  ‘He has an evil eye,’ said he, ‘and a false smile. Something wrong about him.’

  I drew nearer, and listened to George as if he had been an oracle.

  ‘Besides,’ added he, in his slow quiet way, with his eyes fixed straight before him as if he was thinking aloud, ‘there’s a young look about him that isn’t natural. Take him just at sight, and you’d think he was almost a boy; but look close at him—see the little fine wrinkles under his eyes, and the hard lines about his mouth, and then tell me his age, if you can! Why, Ben, boy he’s as old as I am, pretty near; ay, and as strong, too. You stare; but I tell you that, slight as he looks, he could fling you over his shoulder as if you were a feather. And as for his hands, little and white as they are, there are muscles of iron inside them, take my word for it.’