The Phantom Coach

[Fanslau]

The Phantom Coach
AMELIA B. EDWARDS

   The circumstances I am about to relate to you have truth to recommend them.
They happened to myself, and my recollection of them is as vivid as if they had
taken place only yesterday Twenty years, however, have gone by since that night.
During those twenty years I have told the story to but one other person. I tell
it now with a reluctance which I find it difficult to overcome. All I entreat,
meanwhile, is that you will abstain from forcing your own conclusions upon me. I
want nothing explained away I desire no arguments. My mind on this subject is
quite made up, and, having the testimony of my own senses to rely upon, I prefer
to abide by it.

[Fanslau]

Well! It was just twenty years ago, and within a day or two of the end of
the grouse season. I had been out all day with my gun, and had no sport to
speak of. The wind was due east; the month, December; the place, a bleak wide
moor in the far north of England. And I had lost my way It was not a pleasant
place in which to lose one's way, with the first feathery flakes of a coming
snowstorm just fluttering down upon the heather, and the leaden evening closing
in all around. I shaded my eyes with my hand, and stared anxiously into the
gathering darkness, where the purple moorland melted into a range of low hills,
some ten or twelve miles distant. Not the faintest smoke-wreath, not the tiniest
cultivated patch, or fence, or sheep-track, met my eyes in any direction. There
was nothing for it but to walk on, and take my chance of finding what shelter I
could, by the way So I shouldered my gun again, and pushed wearily forward; for
I had been on foot since an hour after daybreak, and had eaten nothing since
breakfast.

[Fanslau]

Meanwhile, the snow began to come down with ominous steadiness, and the wind
fell. After this, the cold became more intense, and the night came rapidly up.
As for me, my prospects darkened with the darkening sky, and my heart grew heavy
as I thought how my young wife was already watching for me through the window of
our little inn parlour, and thought of all the suffering in store for her
throughout this weary night. We had been married four months, and, having spent
our autumn in the Highlands, were now lodging in a remote little village
situated just on the verge of the great English moorlands. We were very much in
love, and, of course, very happy This morning, when we parted, she had implored
me to return before dusk, and I had promised her that I would. What would I not
have given to have kept my word!
   Even now, weary as I was, I felt that with a supper, an hour's rest, and a
guide, I might still get back to her before midnight, if only guide and shelter
could be found.

[Fanslau]

And all this time, the snow fell and the night thickened. 1 stopped and
shouted every now and then, but my shouts seemed only to make the silence
deeper. Then a vague sense of uneasiness came upon me, and I began to remember
stories of travellers who had walked on and on in the falling snow until,
wearied out, they were fain to lie down and sleep their lives away Would it be
possible, I asked myself, to keep on thus through all the long dark night? Would
there not come a time when my limbs must fail, and my resolution give way? When
I, too, must sleep the sleep of death. Death! I shuddered. How hard to die just
now, when life lay all so bright before me! How hard for my darling, whose whole
loving heart but that thought was not to be borne! To banish it, I shouted
again, louder and longer, and then listened eagerly. Was my shout answered, or
did I only fancy that I heard a far-off cry? I halloed again, and again the echo
followed. Then a wavering speck of light came suddenly out of the dark,
shifting, disappearing, growing momentarily nearer and brighter. Running towards
it at full speed, I found myself, to my great joy, face to face with an old man
and a lantern.

[Fanslau]

'Thank God!' was the exclamation that burst involuntarily from my lips.
   Blinking and frowning, he lifted his lantern and peered into my face.
   'What for?' growled he, sulkily.
   'Well-for you. I began to fear I should be lost in the snow.
   'Eh, then, folks do get cast away hereabout fra' time to time, an' what's to
hinder you from bein' cast away likewise, if the Lord's so minded?'
   'If the Lord is so minded that you and I shall be lost together, friend, we
must submit,' I replied; 'but I don't mean to be lost without you. How far am I
now from Dwolding?'
   A gude twenty mile, more or less.' And the nearest village?'
   'The nearest village is Wyke, an' that's twelve mile t'other side.'
   'Where do you live, then?'

[Fanslau]

'Out yonder,' said he, with a vague jerk of the lantern.
   'You're going home, I presume?'
   'Maybe I am.'
   'Then I'm going with you.'
   The old man shook his head, and rubbed his nose reflectively with the handle
of the lantern.
   'It ain't o' no use,' growled he. 'He 'ont let you in-not he.'
   'We'll see about that,' I replied, briskly. 'Who is He?'
   'The master.'
   'Who is the master?'
   'That's nowt to you,' was the unceremonious reply.
   'Well, well; you lead the way, and I'll engage that the master shall give me
shelter and a supper tonight.'

[Fanslau]

'Eh, you can try him!' muttered my reluctant guide; and, still shaking his
head, he hobbled, gnome-like, away through the falling snow A large mass loomed
up presently out of the darkness, and a huge dog rushed out, barking furiously.
   'Is this the house?' I asked.
   'Ay, it's the house. Down, Bey!' And he fumbled in his pocket for the key.
   I drew up close behind him, prepared to lose no chance of entrance, and saw
in the little circle of light shed by the lantern that the door was heavily
studded with iron nails, like the door of a prison. In another minute he had
turned the key and I had pushed past him into the house.

[Fanslau]

Once inside, I looked round with curiosity, and found myself in a great
raftered hall, which served, apparently, a variety of uses. One end was piled to
the roof with corn, like a barn. The other was stored with floursacks,
agricultural implements, casks, and all kinds of miscellaneous lumber; while
from the beams overhead hung rows of hams, flitches, and bunches of dried herbs
for winter use. In the centre of the floor stood some huge object gauntly
dressed in a dingy wrapping-cloth, and reaching half way to the rafters. Lifting
a corner of this cloth, I saw, to my surprise, a telescope of very considerable
size, mounted on a rude movable platform, with four small wheels. The tube was
made of painted wood, bound round with bands of metal rudely fashioned; the
speculum, so far as I could estimate its size in the dim light, measured at
least fifteen inches in diameter. While I was yet examining the instrument; and
asking myself whether it was not the work of some self-taught optician, a bell
rang sharply.

[Fanslau]

'That's for you,' said my guide, with a malicious grin. 'Yonder's his room.
   He pointed to a low black door at the opposite side of the hall. I crossed
over, rapped somewhat loudly, and went in, without waiting for an invitation. A
huge, white-haired old man rose from a table covered with books and papers, and
confronted me sternly
   'Who are you?' said he. 'How came you here? What do you want?'
   'James Murray, barrister-at-law On foot across the moor. Meat, drink, and
sleep.'
   He bent his bushy brows into a portentous frown.
   'Mine is not a house of entertainment,' he said, haughtily. 'Jacob, how
dared you admit this stranger?'

[Fanslau]

'I didn't admit him,' grumbled the old man. 'He followed me over the muir,
and shouldered his way in before me. I'm no match for six foot two.'
   'And pray, sir, by what right have you forced an entrance into my house?'
   'The same by which I should have clung to your boat, if I were drowning. The
right of self-preservation.'
   'Self-preservation?'
   'There's an inch of snow on the ground already,' I replied, briefly; 'and it
would be deep enough to cover my body before daybreak.'
   He strode to the window, pulled aside a heavy black curtain, and looked out.
   'It is true,' he said. 'You can stay, if you choose, till morning. Jacob,
serve the supper.'
   With this he waved me to a seat, resumed his own, and became at once
absorbed in the studies from which I had disturbed him.

[Fanslau]

I placed my gun in a corner, drew a chair to the hearth, and examined my
quarters at leisure. Smaller and less incongruous in its arrangements than the
hall, this room contained, nevertheless, much to awaken my curiosity. The floor
was carpetless. The whitewashed walls were in parts scrawled over with strange
diagrams, and in others covered with shelves crowded with philosophical
instruments, the uses of many of which were unknown to me. On one side of the
fireplace, stood a bookcase filled with dingy folios; on the other, a small
organ, fantastically decorated with painted carvings of medieval saints and
devils. Through the half-opened door of a cupboard at the further end of the
room, I saw a long array of geological specimens, surgical preparations,
crucibles, retorts, and jars of chemicals; while on the mantelshelf beside me,
amid a number of small objects, stood a model of the solar system, a small
galvanic battery, and a microscope. Every chair had its burden. Every corner was
heaped high with books. The very floor was littered over with maps, casts,
papers, tracings, and learned lumber of all conceivable kinds.
   I stared about me with an amazement increased by every fresh object upon
which my eyes chanced to rest. So strange a room I had never seen yet seemed it
stranger still, to find such a room in a lone farmhouse amid those wild and
solitary moors! Over and over again, I looked from my host to his surroundings,
and from his surroundings back to my host, asking myself who and what he could
be? His head was singularly fine; but it was more the head of a poet than of a
philosopher. Broad in the temples, prominent over the eyes, and clothed with a
rough profusion of

[Fanslau]

perfectly white hair, it had all the ideality and much of the ruggedness
that characterises the head of Louis von Beethoven. There were the same deep
lines about the mouth, and the same stern furrows in the brow There was the same
concentration of expression. While I was yet observing him, the door opened, and
Jacob brought in the supper. His master then closed his book, rose, and with
more courtesy of manner than he had yet shown, invited me to the table.
   A dish of ham and eggs, a loaf of brown bread, and a bottle of admirable
sherry, were placed before me.
   'I have but the homeliest farmhouse fare to offer you, sir,' said my
entertainer. 'Your appetite, I trust, will make up for the deficiencies of our
larder.'
   I had already fallen upon the viands, and now protested, with the enthusiasm
of a starving sportsman, that I had never eaten anything so delicious.
   He bowed stiffly, and sat down to his own supper, which consisted,
primitively, of a jug of milk and a basin of porridge. We ate in silence, and,
when we had done, Jacob removed the tray. I then drew my chair back to the
fireside. My host, somewhat to my surprise, did the same, and turning abruptly
towards me, said:

[Fanslau]

'Sir, I have lived here in strict retirement for three-and-twenty years.
During that time, I have not seen as many strange faces, and I have not read a
single newspaper. You are the first stranger who has crossed my threshold for
more than four years. Will you favour me with a few words of information
respecting that outer world from which I have parted company so long?'
   'Pray interrogate me,' I replied. 'I am heartily at your service.'
   He bent his head in acknowledgment, leaned forward, with his elbows resting
on his knees and his chin supported in the palms of his hands; stared fixedly
into the fire; and proceeded to question me.

[Fanslau]

His inquiries related chiefly to scientific matters, with the later progress
of which, as applied to the practical purposes of life, he was almost wholly
unacquainted. No student of science myself, I replied as well as my slight
information permitted; but the task was far from easy, and I was much relieved
when, passing from interrogation to discussion, he began pouring forth his own
conclusions upon the facts which I had been attempting to place before him. He
talked, and I listened spellbound. He talked till I believe he almost forgot my
presence, and only thought aloud. I had never heard anything like it then; I
have never heard anything like it since. Familiar with all systems of all
philosophies, subtle in analysis, bold in generalisation, he poured forth his
thoughts in an uninterrupted stream, and, still leaning forward in the same
moody attitude with his eyes fixed upon the fire, wandered from topic to topic,
from speculation to speculation, like an inspired dreamer. From practical
science to mental philosophy; from electricity in the wire to electricity in the
nerve; from Watts to Mesmer, from Mesmer to Reichenbach, from Reichenbach to
Swedenborg, Spinoza, Condillac, Descartes, Berkeley, Aristotle, Plato, and the
Magi and mystics of the East, were transitions which, however bewildering in
their variety and scope, seemed easy and harmonious upon his lips as sequences
in music. 13y-and-by-I forget now by what link of conjecture or illustration-he
passed on to that field which lies beyond the boundary line of even conjectural
philosophy, and reaches no man knows whither. He spoke of the soul and its
aspirations; of the spirit and its powers; of second sight; of prophecy; of
those phenomena which, under the names of ghosts, spectres, and supernatural
appearances, have been denied by the sceptics and attested by the credulous, of
all ages.

[Fanslau]

'The world,' he said, 'grows hourly more and more sceptical of all that lies
beyond its own narrow radius; and our men of science foster the fatal tendency.
They condemn as fable all that resists experiment. They reject as false all that
cannot be brought to the test of the laboratory or the dissecting-room. Against
what superstition have they waged so long and obstinate a war, as against the
belief in apparitions? And yet what superstition has maintained its hold upon
the minds of men so long and so firmly? Show me any fact in physics, in history,
in archeology, which is supported by testimony so wide and so various. Attested
by all races of men, in all ages, and in all climates, by the soberest sages of
antiquity, by the rudest savage of today, by the Christian, the Pagan, the
Pantheist, the Materialist, this phenomenon is treated as a nursery tale by the
philosophers of our century. Circumstantial evidence weighs with them as a
feather in the balance. The comparison of causes with effects, however valuable
in physical science, is put aside as worthless and unreliable. The evidence of
competent witnesses, however conclusive in a court of justice, counts for
nothing. He who pauses before he pronounces, is condemned as a trifler. He who
believes, is a dreamer or a fool.'