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 chatt
ed 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.
Presently, through the clouds of dust and tobacco-smoke that fouled the air, a steeple and cottages became visible; and then, quite suddenly, we found ourselves in the midst of the fair.
Here a compact, noisy, smoking, staring, laughing, steaming crowd circulated among the booths; some pushing one way, some another—some intent on buying—some on eating and drinking—some on love-making and dancing. In one place we came upon rows of little open stalls for the sale of every commodity under heaven. In another, we peeped into a great restaurant-booth full of country folks demolishing pyramids of German sausage and seas of Bairische beer. Yonder, on a raised stage in front of a temporary theatre, strutted a party of strolling players in their gaudy tinsels and ballet-dresses. The noise, the smell, the elbowing, the braying of brass bands, the insufferable heat and clamour, made us glad to push our way through as fast as possible, and take refuge in the village inn. But even here we could scarcely get a moment’s attention. There were parties dining and drinking in every room in the house—even in the bedrooms; while the passages, the bar, and the little gardens, front and back, were all full of soldiers, free-shooters, and farmers.
Having with difficulty succeeded in capturing a couple of platters of bread and meat and a measure of beer, we went round to the stable-yard, which was crowded with charrettes, ein-spänner, and country carts of all kinds. The drivers of some of these were asleep in their vehicles; others were gambling for kreutzers on the ground; none were willing to put their horses to for the purpose of driving us to Rotheskirche-on-the-Neckar.
‘Ach, Herr Gott!’ said one. ‘I brought my folks from Frühlingsfeld—near upon ten stunden—and shall have to take them back by-and-by. That’s as much as my beasts can do in one day, and they shouldn’t do more for the king!’
‘I’ve just refused five florins to go less than half that distance,’ said another.
At last one fellow, being somewhat less impracticable than the rest, consented to drive us as far as a certain point where four roads met, on condition that we shared his vehicle with two other travellers, and that the two other travellers consented to let us do so.
‘And even so,’ he added, ‘I shall have to take them two miles out of their way—but, perhaps, being fair-time, they won’t mind that.’
As it happened, they were not in a condition to mind that or anything very much, being a couple of free-shooters from the Black Forest, wild with fun and frolic, and somewhat the worse for many potations of Lager-bier. One of them, it seemed, had won a prize at some shooting-match that same morning, and they had been celebrating this triumph all day. Having kept us waiting, with the horses in, for at least three-quarters-of-an-hour, they came, escorted by a troop of their comrades, all laughing, talking, and wound up to the highest pitch of excitement. Then followed a scene of last health-drinkings, last hand-shakings, last embracements. Finally, we drove off just as it was getting dusk, followed by many huzzahs, and much waving of grey and green caps.
For the first quarter-of-an-hour they were both very noisy, exchanging boisterous greetings with every passer-by, singing snatches of songs, and laughing incessantly. Then, as the dusk deepened and we left the last stragglers behind, they sank into a tipsy stupor, and ended by falling fast asleep. Meanwhile the driver lit his pipe and let his tired horses choose their own pace; the stars came out one by one overhead; and the road, leaving the dead level of the plain, wound upwards through a district that became more hilly with every mile.
Then I also fell asleep—I cannot tell for how long—to be waked by-and-by by the stopping of the charrette, and the voice of the driver, saying:
‘This is the nearest point to which I can take these Herren. Will you be pleased to alight?’
I sat up and rubbed my eyes. It was bright starlight. Bergheim was already leaning out, and opening the door. Our fellow-travellers were still sound asleep. We were in the midst of a wild, hilly country, black with bristling pine-woods; and had drawn up at an elevated point where four roads meet.
‘Which of these are we to take?’ asked Bergheim, as he pulled out his purse and counted the stipulated number of florins into the palm of the driver.
The man pointed with his whip in a direction at right angles to the road by which he was himself driving.
‘And how far shall we have to walk?’
‘To Rotheskirche?’
‘Yes—to Rotheskirche.’
He grunted doubtfully. ‘Ugh!’ he said, ‘I can’t be certain to a mile or so. It may be twelve or fourteen.’
‘A good road?’
‘Yes—a good road; but hilly. These Herren have only to keep straight forward. They cannot miss the way.’
And so he drives off, and leaves us standing in the road. The moon is now rising behind a slope of dark trees—the air is chill—an owl close by utters its tremulous, melancholy cry. Place and hour considered, the prospect of twelve or fourteen miles of a strange road, in a strange country, is anything but exhilarating. We push on, however, briskly; and Bergheim, whose good spirits are invincible, whistles and chatters, and laughs away as gaily as if we were just starting on a brilliant May morning.
‘I wonder if you were ever tired in your life!’ I exclaim by-and-by, half peevishly.
‘Tired!’ he echoes. ‘Why, I am as tired at this moment as a dog; and would gladly lie down by the roadside, curl myself up under a tree, and sleep till morning. I wonder, by-the-way, what o’clock it is.’
I pulled out my fusee-box, struck a light, and looked at my watch. It was only ten o’clock.
‘We have been walking,’ said Bergheim, ‘about half-an-hour, and I don’t believe we have done two miles in the time. Well, it can’t go on uphill like this all the way!’
‘Impossible,’ I replied. ‘Rotheskirche is on the level of the river. We must sooner or later begin descending towards the valley of the Neckar.’
‘I wish it might be sooner, then,’ laughed my companion, ‘for I had done a good twenty miles today before you overtook me.’
‘Well, perhaps we may come upon some place half-way. If so, I vote that we put up for the night, and leave Rotheskirche till the morning.’
‘Ay, that would be capital!’ said he. ‘If it wasn’t that I am as hungry as a wolf, I wouldn’t say no to the hut of a charcoal-burner tonight.’
And now, plodding on more and m
ore silently as our fatigue increased, we found the pine-forests gradually drawing nearer, till by-and-by they enclosed us on every side, and our road lay through the midst of them. Here in the wood, all was dark—all was silent—not a breath stirred. The moon was rising fast; but the shadows of the pines lay long and dense upon the road, with only a sharp silvery patch breaking through here and there. By-and-by we came upon a broad space of clearing, dotted over with stacks of brushwood and great symmetrical piles of barked trunks. Then followed another tract of close forest. Then our road suddenly emerged into the full moonlight, and sometimes descending abruptly, sometimes keeping at a dead level for half a mile together, continued to skirt the forest on the left.
‘I see a group of buildings down yonder,’ said Bergheim, pointing to a spot deep in the shadow of the hill-side.
I could see nothing resembling buildings, but he stuck to his opinion.
‘That they are buildings,’ he said, ‘I am positive. More I cannot tell by this uncertain light. It may be a mere cluster of cottages, or it may be a farmhouse, with stacks and sheds close by. I think it is the latter.’
Animated by this hope, we now pushed on more rapidly. For some minutes our road carried us out of sight of the spot; but when we next saw it, a long, low, white-fronted house and some other smaller buildings were distinctly visible.
‘A mountain farmstead, by all the gods of Olympus!’ exclaimed Bergheim, joyously. ‘This is good fortune! And they are not gone to bed yet, either.’
‘How do you know that?’ I asked.
‘Because I saw a light.’
‘But suppose they do not wish to take us in?’ I suggested.
‘Suppose an impossibility! Who ever heard of inhospitality among our Black Forest folk?’
‘Black Forest!’ I repeated. ‘Do you call this the Black Forest?’
‘Undoubtedly. All these wooded hills south of Heidelberg and the Odenwald are outlying spurs and patches of the old legendary Schwartzwald—now dwindling year by year. Hark! the dogs have found us out already!’
As he spoke, a dog barked loudly in the direction of the farm; and then another, and another. Bergheim answered them with a shout. Suddenly a bright light flashed across the darkness—flitted vaguely for a moment to and fro, and then came steadily towards us; resolving itself presently into a lanthorn carried by a man.
THE PHANTOM COACH: Collected Ghost Stories Page 30
