I reminded him that we had sat and rested in the same spot the very last time we walked together.
‘Ay,’ he replied, with a sigh. ‘I was stronger then.’
‘You will get strong again, now that you are free,’ I said.
‘Perhaps—if liberty, like most earthly blessings, has not come too late.’
‘Too late for what?’
‘For enjoyment—for use—for everything. My friends believe me dead; my place in the life of the world is filled up; my very name is by this time forgotten. I am as one shipwrecked on the great ocean, and cast upon a foreign shore.’
‘Are you—are you going away soon?’ I said, almost in a whisper.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I go tomorrow.’
‘And you will—never—come back again?’ I faltered.
‘Heaven forbid!’ he said quickly. Then, remembering how that answer would grieve me, he added; ‘but I will never forget thee, petite. Never, while I live.’
‘But—but if I never see you any more——’
Monsieur Maurice drew my head to his shoulder, and kissed my wet eyes.
‘Tush! that cannot, shall not be,’ he said, caressingly. ‘Some day, perhaps, I may win back that old home by the sea of which I have so often told thee, little one; and then thou shalt come and visit me.’
‘Shall I?’ I said, wistfully. ‘Shall I indeed?’
And he said—‘Ay, indeed.’
But I felt, somehow, that it would never come to pass.
After this, we got up and walked on again, very silently; he thinking of the new life before him; I, of the sorrow of parting. By-and-by, a sudden recollection flashed upon me.
‘But, Monsieur Maurice,’ I exclaimed, ‘who was the brown man that stood behind your chair last night, and what has become of him?’
Monsieur Maurice turned his face away.
‘My dear little Gretchen,’ he said, hastily, ‘there was no brown man. He existed in your imagination only.’
‘But I saw him!’
‘You fancied you saw him. The room was dark. You were half asleep in the easy chair—half asleep, and half dreaming.’
‘But Hartmann saw him!’
‘A wicked man fears his own shadow,’ said Monsieur Maurice, gravely. ‘Hartmann saw nothing but the reflection of his crime upon the mirror of his conscience.’
I was silenced, but not convinced. Some minutes later, having thought it over, I returned to the charge.
‘But, Monsieur Maurice,’ I said, ‘it is not the first time he has been here.’
‘Who? The king?’
‘No—the brown man.’
Monsieur Maurice frowned.
‘Nay, nay,’ he said, impatiently, ‘prithee, no more of the brown man. ’Tis a folly, and I dislike it.’
‘But he was here in the park the night you tried to run away,’ I said, persistently. ‘He saved your life by knocking up the musket that was pointed at your head!’
Pale as he always was, Monsieur Maurice turned paler still at these words of mine. His very lips whitened.
‘What is that you say?’ he asked, stopping short and laying his hand upon my shoulder.
And then I repeated, word for word, all that I had heard the soldiers saying that night under the corridor window. When I had done, he took off his hat and stood for a moment as if in prayer, silent and bareheaded.
‘If it be so,’ he said presently, ‘if such fidelity can indeed survive the grave—then not once, but thrice—— Who knows? Who can tell?’
He was speaking to himself. I heard the words, and I remembered them; but I did not understand them till long after.
The king left Brühl that same afternoon en route for Ehrenbreitstein, and Monsieur Maurice went away the next morning in a post-chaise and pair, bound for Paris. He gave me, for a farewell gift, his precious microscope and all his boxes of slides, and he parted from me with many kisses; but there was a smile on his face as he got into the carriage, and something of triumph in the very wave of his hand as he drove away.
Alas! how could it be otherwise? A prisoner freed, an exile returning to his country, how should he not be glad to go, even though one little heart should be left to ache or break in the land of the stranger?
I never saw him again; never—never—never. He wrote now and then to my father, but only for a time; perhaps as many as six letters during three or four years—and then we heard from him no more. To these letters he gave us no opportunity of replying, for they contained no address; and although we had reason to believe that he was a man of family and title, he never signed himself by any other name than that by which we had known him.
We did hear, however (I forget now through what channel), of the sudden disgrace and banishment of His Majesty’s Minister of War, the Baron von Bulow. Respecting the causes of his fall there were many vague and contradictory rumours. He had starved to death a prisoner of war and forced his widow into a marriage with himself. He had sold State secrets to the French. He had been over to Elba in disguise, and had there held treasonable intercourse with the exiled emperor, before his return to France in 1818. He had attempted to murder, or caused to be murdered, the witnesses of his treachery. He had forged the king’s signature. He had tampered with the king’s servants. He had been guilty, in short, of every crime, social and political, that could be laid to the charge of a fallen favourite.
Knowing what we knew, it was not difficult to disentangle a thread of truth here and there, or to detect under the most extravagant of these fictions, a substratum of fact. Among other significant circumstances, my father, chancing one day to see a portrait of the late minister in a shop-window at Cologne, discovered that his former visitor, the Count von Rettel, and the Baron von Bulow were one and the same person. He then understood why the king had questioned him so minutely with regard to this man’s appearance, and shuddered to think how deadly that enmity must have been which could bring him in person upon so infamous an errand.
And here all ended. The guilty and the innocent vanished alike from the scene, and we at least, in our remote home on the Rhenish border, heard of them no more.
Monsieur Maurice never knew that I had been in any way instrumental in bringing his case before the king. He took his freedom as the fulfillment of a right, and dreamed not that his little Gretchen had pleaded for him. But that he should know it, mattered not at all. He had his liberty, and was not that enough?
Enough for me, for I loved him. Ay, child as I was, I loved him; loved him deeply and passionately—to my cost—to my loss—to my sorrow. An old, old wound; but I shall carry the scar to my grave!
And the brown man?
Hush! a strange feeling of awe and wonder creeps upon me to this day, when I remember those bright eyes glowing through the dusk, and the swift hand that seized the poisoned draught and dashed it on the ground. What of that faithful Ali, who went forth to meet the danger alone, and was snatched away to die horribly in the jungle? I can but repeat his master’s words. I can but ask myself, ‘Does such fidelity indeed survive the grave?’ Who knows? Who can tell?
Was It an Illusion?
A Parson’s Story
THE FACTS WHICH I am about to relate happened to myself some sixteen or eighteen years ago, at which time I served Her Majesty as an Inspector of Schools. Now, the Provincial Inspector is perpetually on the move; and I was still young enough to enjoy a life of constant travelling. There are, indeed, many less agreeable ways in which an unbeneficed parson may contrive to scorn delights and live laborious days. In remote places where strangers are scarce, his annual visit is an important event; and though at the close of a long day’s work he would sometimes prefer the quiet of a country inn, he generally finds himself the destined guest of the rector or the squire. It rests with himself to turn these opportunities to account. If he makes himself pleasant, he forms agreeable friendships and sees English home-life under one of its most attractive aspects; and sometimes, even in these days of universal common-placenes
s, he may have the luck to meet with an adventure.
My first appointment was to a West of England district largely peopled with my personal friends and connections. It was, therefore, much to my annoyance that I found myself, after a couple of years of very pleasant work, transferred to what a policeman would call ‘a new beat’, up in the North. Unfortunately for me, my new beat—a rambling, thinly populated area of something under 1,800 square miles—was three times as large as the old one, and more than proportionately unmanageable. Intersected at right angles by two ranges of barren hills and cut off to a large extent from the main lines of railway, it united about every inconvenience that a district could possess. The villages lay wide apart, often separated by long tracts of moorland; and in place of the well-warmed railway compartment and the frequent manor-house, I now spent half my time in hired vehicles and lonely country inns.
I had been in possession of this district for some three months or so, and winter was near at hand, when I paid my first visit of inspection to Pit End, an outlying hamlet in the most northerly corner of my county, just twenty-two miles from the nearest station. Having slept overnight at a place called Drumley, and inspected Drumley schools in the morning, I started for Pit End, with fourteen miles of railway and twenty-two of hilly cross-roads between myself and my journey’s end. I made, of course, all the enquiries I could think of before leaving; but neither the Drumley schoolmaster nor the landlord of the Drumley Feathers knew much more of Pit End than its name. My predecessor, it seemed, had been in the habit of taking Pit End ‘from the other side’, the roads, though longer, being less hilly that way. That the place boasted some kind of inn was certain; but it was an inn unknown to fame, and to mine host of The Feathers. Be it good or bad, however, I should have to put up at it.
Upon this scant information I started. My fourteen miles of railway journey soon ended at a place called Bramsford Road, whence an omnibus conveyed passengers to a dull little town called Bramsford Market. Here I found a horse and ‘trap’ to carry me on to my destination; the horse being a raw-boned grey with a profile like a camel, and the trap a ricketty high gig which had probably done commercial travelling in the days of its youth. From Bramsford Market the way lay over a succession of long hills, rising to a barren, high-level plateau. It was a dull, raw afternoon of mid-November, growing duller and more raw as the day waned and the east wind blew keener.
‘How much further now, driver?’ I asked, as we alighted at the foot of a longer and a stiffer hill than any we had yet passed over.
He turned a straw in his mouth, and grunted something about ‘fower or foive mile by the rooad’.
And then I learned that by turning off at a point which he described as ‘t’owld tollus’, and taking a certain footpath across the fields, this distance might be considerably shortened. I decided, therefore, to walk the rest of the way; and, setting off at a good pace, I soon left driver and trap behind. At the top of the hill I lost sight of them, and coming presently to a little road-side ruin which I at once recognised as the old toll-house, I found the footpath without difficulty. It led me across a barren slope divided by stone fences, with here and there a group of shattered sheds, a tall chimney, and a blackened cinder-mound, marking the site of a deserted mine. A light fog, meanwhile, was creeping up from the east, and the dusk was gathering fast.
Now, to lose one’s way in such a place and at such an hour would be disagreeable enough, and the footpath—a trodden track already half obliterated—would be indistinguishable in the course of another ten minutes. Looking anxiously ahead, therefore, in the hope of seeing some sign of habitation, I hastened on, scaling one stone stile after another, till I all at once found myself skirting a line of park-palings. Following these, with bare boughs branching out overhead and dead leaves rustling underfoot, I came presently to a point where the path divided; here continuing to skirt the enclosure, and the other striking off yonder across a space of open meadow.
Which should I take?
By following the fence, I should be sure to arrive at a lodge where I could enquire my way to Pit End; but then the park might be of any extent, and I might have a long distance to go before I came to the nearest lodge. Again, the meadow-path, instead of leading to Pit End, might take me in a totally opposite direction. But there was no time to be lost in hesitation; so I chose the meadow, the further end of which was lost to sight in a fleecy bank of fog.
Up to this moment I had not met a living soul of whom to ask my way; it was, therefore, with no little sense of relief that I saw a man emerging from the fog and coming along the path. As we neared each other—I advancing rapidly; he slowly—I observed that he dragged the left foot, limping as he walked. It was, however, so dark and so misty, that not till we were within half a dozen yards of each other could I see that he wore a dark suit and an Anglican felt hat, and looked something like a dissenting minister. As soon as we were within speaking distance, I addressed him.
‘Can you tell me,’ I said, ‘if I am right for Pit End, and how far I have to go?’
He came on, looking straight before him; taking no notice of my question; apparently not hearing it.
‘I beg your pardon,’ I said, raising my voice; ‘but will this path take me to Pit End, and if so——’
He had passed on without pausing; without looking at me; I could almost have believed, without seeing me!
I stopped, with the words on my lips; then turned to look after—perhaps, to follow—him.
But instead of following, I stood bewildered.
What had become of him? And what lad was that going up the path by which I had just come—that tall lad, half-running, half-walking, with a fishing-rod over his shoulder? I could have taken my oath that I had neither met nor passed him. Where then had he come from? And where was the man to whom I had spoken not three seconds ago, and who, at his limping pace, could not have made more than a couple of yards in the time?
My stupefaction was such that I stood quite still, looking after the lad with the fishing-rod till he disappeared in the gloom under the park-palings.
Was I dreaming?
Darkness, meanwhile, had closed in apace, and, dreaming or not dreaming, I must push on, or find myself benighted. So I hurried forward, turning my back on the last gleam of daylight, and plunging deeper into the fog at every step. I was, however, close upon my journey’s end. The path ended at a turnstile; the turnstile opened upon a steep lane; and at the bottom of the lane, down which I stumbled among stones and ruts, I came in sight of the welcome glare of a blacksmith’s forge.
Here, then, was Pit End. I found my trap standing at the door of the village inn; the raw-boned grey stabled for the night; the landlord watching for my arrival.
The Greyhound was a hostelry of modest pretensions, and I shared its little parlour with a couple of small farmers and a young man who informed me that he ‘travelled in’ Thorley’s Food for Cattle. Here I dined, wrote my letters, chatted awhile with the landlord, and picked up such scraps of local news as fell in my way.
There was, it seemed, no resident parson at Pit End; the incumbent being a pluralist with three small livings, the duties of which, by the help of a rotary curate, he discharged in a somewhat easy fashion. Pit End, as the smallest and furthest off, came in for but one service each Sunday, and was almost wholly relegated to the curate. The squire was a more confirmed absentee than even the vicar. He lived chiefly in Paris, spending abroad the wealth of his Pit End coal-fields. He happened to be at home just now, the landlord said, after five years’ absence; but he would be off again next week, and another five years might probably elapse before they should again see him at Blackwater Chase.
Blackwater Chase!—the name was not new to me; yet I could not remember where I had heard it. When, however, mine host went on to say that, despite his absenteeism, Mr Wolstenholme was ‘a pleasant gentleman and a good landlord’, and that, after all, Blackwater Chase was ‘a lonesome sort of world-end place for a young man to bury himself in’
, then I at once remembered Phil Wolstenholme of Balliol, who, in his grand way, had once upon a time given me a general invitation to the shooting at Blackwater Chase. That was twelve years ago, when I was reading hard at Wadham, and Wolstenholme—the idol of a clique to which I did not belong—was boating, betting, writing poetry, and giving wine parties at Balliol.
Yes; I remembered all about him—his handsome face, his luxurious rooms, his boyish prodigality, his utter indolence, and the blind faith of his worshippers, who believed that he had only ‘to pull himself together’ in order to carry off every honour which the University had to bestow. He did take the Newdigate; but it was his first and last achievement, and he left college with the reputation of having narrowly escaped a plucking. How vividly it all came back upon my memory—the old college life, the college friendships, the pleasant time that could never come again! It was but twelve years ago; yet it seemed like half a century. And now, after these twelve years, here were Wolstenholme and I as near neighbours as in our Oxford days! I wondered if he was much changed, and whether, if changed, it were for the better or the worse. Had his generous impulses developed into sterling virtues, or had his follies hardened into vices? Should I let him know where I was, and so judge for myself? Nothing would be easier than to pencil a line upon a card tomorrow morning, and send it up to the big house. Yet, merely to satisfy a purposeless curiosity, was it worthwhile to reopen the acquaintanceship?
Thus musing, I sat late over the fire, and by the time I went to bed, I had well nigh forgotten my adventure with the man who vanished so mysteriously and the boy who seemed to come from nowhere.
Next morning, finding I had abundant time at my disposal, I did pencil that line upon my card—a mere line, saying that I believed we had known each other at Oxford, and that I should be inspecting the National Schools from nine till about eleven. And then, having dispatched it by one of my landlord’s sons, I went off to my work. The day was brilliantly fine. The wind had shifted round to the north, the sun shone clear and cold, and the smoke-grimed hamlet, and the gaunt buildings clustered at the mouths of the coalpits round about, looked as bright as they could look at any time of the year. The village was built up a long hill-side; the church and schools being at the top, and The Greyhound at the bottom. Looking vainly for the lane by which I had come the night before, I climbed the one rambling street, followed a path that skirted the churchyard, and found myself at the schools. These, with the teachers’ dwellings, formed three sides of a quadrangle; the fourth side consisting of an iron railing and a gate. An inscribed tablet over the main entrance-door recorded how ‘These school-houses were re-built by Philip Wolstenholme, Esquire: AD 18——.’
THE PHANTOM COACH: Collected Ghost Stories Page 39
