THE PHANTOM COACH: Collected Ghost Stories (37 page)

Now what with the suspense of knowing him to be so near, and the thought of my little Katrine far away in Rome, and the remembrance of how he—he whom I had honoured and admired above all the world my whole life long—had called down curses on us both the very last time that he and I stood face to face—what with all this, I say, and what with the season and its associations, I had such a great restlessness and anguish upon me that I sat up trying to read my Bible long after mother had gone to bed. But my thoughts wandered continually from the text, and at last the restlessness so gained upon me that I could sit still no longer, and so got up and walked about the room.

And now suddenly, while I was pacing to and fro, I heard, or fancied I heard, a voice in the garden calling me by name. I stopped—I listened—I trembled. My very heart stood still! Then, hearing no more, I opened the window and outer shutters, and instantly there rushed in a torrent of icy cold air and a flood of brilliant moonlight, and there, on the shining snow below, stood Ulrich Finazzer.

Himself, and yet so changed! Worn, haggard, grey.

I saw him, I tell you, as plainly as I see my own hand at this moment. He was standing close, quite close, under the window, with the moonlight full upon him.

‘Ulrich!’ I said, and my own voice sounded strange to me, somehow, in the dead waste and silence of the night—‘Ulrich, are you come to tell me we are friends again?’

But instead of answering me he pointed to a mark on his forehead—a small dark mark, that looked at this distance and by this light like a bruise—cried aloud with a strange wild cry, less like a human voice than a far-off echo, ‘The brand of Cain! The brand of Cain!’ and so flung up his arms with a despairing gesture, and fled away into the night.

The rest of my story may be told in a few words—the fewer the better. Insane with the desire of vengeance, Ulrich Finazzer had tracked the fugitives from place to place, and slain his brother at mid-day in the streets of Rome. He escaped unmolested, and was well-nigh over the Austrian border before the authorities began to inquire into the particulars of the murder. He then, as was proved by a comparison of dates, must have come straight home by way of Mantua, Verona, and Botzen, with no other object, apparently, than to finish the statue that he had designed for an offering to the church. He worked upon it, accordingly, as I have said, for four days and nights incessantly, completed it to the last degree of finish, and then, being in who can tell how terrible a condition of remorse, and horror, and despair, sought to expiate his crime with his blood. They found him shot through the head by his own hand, lying quite dead at the feet of the statue upon which he had been working, probably, up to the last moment; his tools lying close by; the pistol still fast in his clenched hand, and the divine pitying face of the Redeemer whose law he had outraged, bending over him as if in sorrow and forgiveness.

Our mother has now been dead some years; strangers occupy the house in which Ulrich Finazzer came to his dreadful death; and already the double tragedy is almost forgotten. In the sad, faded woman, prematurely grey, who lives with me, ever working silently, steadily, patiently, from morning till night at our hereditary trade, few who had known her in the freshness of her youth would now recognise my beautiful Katrine. Thus from day to day, from year to year, we journey on together, nearing the end.

Did I indeed see Ulrich Finazzer that night of his self-murder? If I did so with my bodily eyes and it was no illusion of the senses, then most surely I saw him not in life, for that dark mark which looked to me in the moonlight like a bruise was the bullet-hole in his brow.

But did I see him? It is a question I ask myself again and again, and have asked myself for years. Ah! who can answer it?

A Night on the Borders

of the Black Forest

MY STORY (if story it can be called, being an episode in my own early life) carries me back to a time when the world and I were better friends than we are likely, perhaps, ever to be again. I was young then. I had good health, good spirits, and tolerably good looks. I had lately come into a snug little patrimony, which I have long since dissipated; and I was in love, or fancied myself in love, with a charming coquette, who afterwards threw me over for a west-country baronet with seven thousand a year.

So much for myself. The subject is not one that I particularly care to dwell upon; but as I happen to be the hero of my own narrative, some sort of self-introduction is, I suppose, necessary.

To begin then—Time: seventeen years ago.

Hour: three o’clock p.m., on a broiling, cloudless September morning.

Scene: a long, straight, dusty road, bordered with young trees; a far-stretching, undulating plain, yellow for the most part with corn-stubble; singularly barren of wood and water; sprinkled here and there with vineyards, farmsteads, and hamlets; and bounded in the extreme distance by a low chain of purple hills.

Place: a certain dull, unfrequented district in the little kingdom of Würtemberg, about twelve miles north of Heilbronn, and six south-east of the Neckar.

Dramatis Personae: myself, tall, sunburnt, dusty; in grey suit, straw hat, knapsack, and gaiters. In the distance, a broad-backed pedestrian wielding a long stick like an old English quarter-staff.

Now, not being sure that I took the right turning at the cross-roads a mile or two back, and having plodded on alone all day, I resolved to overtake this same pedestrian, and increased my pace accordingly. He, meanwhile, unconscious of the vicinity of another traveller, kept on at an easy ‘sling-trot’, his head well up, his staff swinging idly in his hand—a practised pedestrian, evidently, and one not easily out-walked through a long day.

I gained upon him, however, at every step, and could have passed him easily; but as I drew near he suddenly came to a halt, disencumbered himself of his wallet, and stretched himself at full length under a tree by the wayside.

I saw now that he was a fine, florid, handsome fellow of about twenty-eight or thirty years of age—a thorough German to look at; frank, smiling, blue-eyed; dressed in a light holland blouse and loose grey trousers, and wearing on his head a little crimson cap with a gold tassel, such as the students wear at Heidelberg university. He lifted it, with the customary ‘
Guten Abend
’ as I came up, and when I stopped to speak, sprang to his feet with ready politeness, and remained standing.

‘Niedersdorf,
mein Herr?
’ said he, in answer to my inquiry. ‘About four miles further on. You have but to keep straight forward.’

‘Many thanks,’ I said. ‘You were resting. I am sorry to have disturbed you.’

He put up his hand with a deprecating gesture.

‘It is nothing,’ he said. ‘I have walked far, and the day is warm.’

‘I have only walked from Heilbronn, and yet I am tired. Pray don’t let me keep you standing.’

‘Will you also sit,
mein Herr?
’ he asked with a pleasant smile. ‘There is shade for both.’

So I sat down, and we fell into conversation. I began by offering him a cigar; but he pulled out his pipe—a great dangling German pipe, with a flexible tube and a painted china bowl like a small coffee-cup.

‘A thousand thanks,’ he said; ‘but I prefer this old pipe to all the cigars that ever came out of Havannah. It was given to me eight years ago, when I was a student; and my friend who gave it to me is dead.’

‘You were at Heidelberg?’ I said interrogatively.

‘Yes; and Fritz (that was my friend) was at Heidelberg also. He was a wonderful fellow; a linguist, a mathematician, a botanist, a geologist. He was only five-and-twenty when the government appointed him naturalist to an African exploring party; and in Africa he died.’

‘Such a man,’ said I, ‘was a loss to the world.’

‘Ah, yes,’ he replied simply; ‘but a greater loss to me.’

To this I could answer nothing; and for some minutes we smoked in silence.

‘I was not clever like Fritz,’ he went on presently. ‘When I left Heidelberg, I went into business. I am a brewer, and I live at Stuttgard. My name is Gustav Bergheim—what is yours?’

‘Hamilton,’ I replied; ‘Chandos Hamilton.’

He repeated the name after me.

‘You are an Englishman?’ he said.

I nodded.

‘Good. I like the English. There was an Englishman at Heidelberg—such a good fellow! his name was Smith. Do you know him?’

I explained that, in these fortunate islands, there were probably some thirty thousand persons named Smith, of whom, however, I did not know one.

‘And are you a milord, and a member of Parliament?’

I laughed, and shook my head.

‘No, indeed,’ I replied; ‘neither. I read for the bar; but I do not practise. I am an idle man—of very little use to myself, and of none to my country.’

‘You are travelling for your amusement?’

‘I am. I have just been through the Tyrol and as far as the Italian lakes—on foot, as you see me. But tell me about yourself. That is far more interesting.’

‘About myself?’ he said smiling. ‘Ah,
mein Herr
, there is not much to tell. I have told you that I live at Stuttgard. Well, at this time of the year, I allow myself a few weeks’ holiday, and I am now on my way to Frankfort, to see my
Mädchen
, who lives there with her parents.’

‘Then I may congratulate you on the certainty of a pleasant time.’

‘Indeed, yes. We love each other well, my
Mädchen
and I. Her name is Frederika, and her father is a rich banker and wine merchant. They live in the Neue Mainzer Strasse, near the Taunus Gate; but the Herr Hamilton does not, perhaps, know Frankfort?’

I replied that I knew Frankfort very well, and that the Neue Mainzer Strasse, was, to my thinking, the pleasantest situation in the city. And then I ventured to ask if the Fräulein Frederika was pretty.

‘I
think her so,’ he said with his boyish smile; ‘but then, you see, my eyes are in love. You shall judge, however, for yourself.’

And with this he disengaged a locket from his watch-chain, opened it, and showed me the portrait of a golden-haired girl, who, without being actually handsome, had a face as pleasant to look upon as his own.

‘Well?’ he said anxiously. ‘What do you say?’

‘I say that she has a charming expression,’ I replied.

‘But you do not think her pretty?’

‘Nay, she is better than pretty. She has the beauty of real goodness.’

His face glowed with pleasure.

‘It is true,’ he said, kissing the portrait, and replacing it upon his chain. ‘She is an angel! We are to be married in the spring.’

Just at this moment, a sturdy peasant came trudging up from the direction of Niedersdorf, under the shade of a huge red cotton umbrella. He had taken his coat off, probably for coolness, or it might be for economy, and was carrying it, neatly folded up, in a large, new wooden bucket. He saluted us with the usual ‘
Guten Abend
’ as he approached.

To which Bergheim laughingly replied by asking if the bucket was a love-token from his sweetheart.

‘
Nein, nein
,’ he answered stolidly; ‘I bought it at the
Kermess
^*
 up yonder.’

‘So! there is a
Kermess
at Niedersdorf?’

‘
Ach, Himmel!
a famous
Kermess
. All the world is there today.’

And with a nod, he passed on his way.

My new friend indulged in a long and dismal whistle.

‘
Der Teufel!
’ he said, ‘this is awkward. I’ll be bound, now, there won’t be a vacant room at any inn in the town. And I had intended to sleep at Niedersdorf tonight. Had you?’

‘Well, I should have been guided by circumstances. I should perhaps have put up at Niedersdorf, if I had found myself tired and the place comfortable; or I might have dined there, and after dinner taken some kind of light vehicle as far as Rotheskirche.’

‘Rotheskirche!’ he repeated. ‘Where is that?’

‘It is a village on the Neckar. My guide-book mentions it as a good starting-point for pedestrians, and I am going to walk from there to Heidelberg.’

‘But have you not been coming out of your way?’

‘No; I have only taken a short cut inland, and avoided the dull part of the river. You know the Neckar, of course?’

‘Only as far as Neckargemünd; but I have heard that higher up it is almost as fine as the Rhine.’

‘Hadn’t you better join me?’ I said, as we adjusted our knapsacks and prepared to resume our journey.

He shook his head, smiling.

‘Nay,’ he replied, ‘my route leads me by Buchen and Darmstadt. I have no business to go round by Heidelberg.’

‘It would be worth the
détour
.’

‘Ah, yes; but it would throw me two days later.’

‘Not if you made up for lost time by taking the train from Heidelberg.’

He hesitated.

‘I should like it,’ he said.

‘Then why not do it?’

‘Well—yes—I will do it. I will go with you. There! let us shake hands on it, and be friends.’

So we shook hands, and it was settled.

The shadows were now beginning to lengthen; but the sun still blazed in the heavens with unabated intensity. Bergheim, however, strode on as lightly, and chatted as gaily, as if his day’s work was only just beginning. Never was there so simple, so open-hearted a fellow. He wore his heart literally upon his sleeve, and, as we went along, told me all his little history; how, for instance, his elder sister, having been betrothed to his friend Fritz, had kept single ever since for his sake; how he was himself an only son, and the idol of his mother, now a widow; how he had resolved never to leave either her or his maiden sister; but intended when he married to take a larger house, and bring his wife into their common home; how Frederika’s father had at first opposed their engagement for that reason; how Frederika (being, as he had already said, an angel) had won the father’s consent last New Year’s Day; and how happy he was now; and how happy they should be in the good time coming; together with much more to the same effect.

To all this I listened, and smiled, and assented, putting in a word here and there, as occasion offered, and encouraging him to talk on to his heart’s content.

And now with every mile that brought us nearer to Niedersdorf, the signs of fair-time increased and multiplied. First came straggling groups of homeward-bound peasants—old men and women tottering under the burden of newly-purchased household goods; little children laden with gingerbread and toys; young men and women in their holiday-best—the latter with garlands of oak-leaves bound about their hats. Then came an open cart full of laughing girls; then more pedestrians; then an old man driving a particularly unwilling pig; then a roystering party of foot-soldiers; and so on, till not only the road but the fields on either side and every path in sight, swarmed with a double stream of wayfarers—the one coming from the fair—the other setting towards it.