The Phantom 'Rickshaw, and Other Ghost Stories
talking together in the dusk.--“It’s a curious thing,” said one, “how
completely all trace of it disappeared. You know my wife was insanely
fond of the woman [‘never could see anything in her myself), and wanted
me to pick up her old ‘rickshaw and coolies if they were to be got for
love or money. Morbid sort of fancy I call it; but I’ve got to do what
the _Memsahib_ tells me. Would you believe that the man she hired it
from tells me that all four of the men--they were brothers--died of
cholera on the way to Hardwar, poor devils, and the ‘rickshaw has been
broken up by the man himself. ‘Told me he never used a dead _Memsahib’s_
‘rickshaw. ‘Spoiled his luck. Queer notion, wasn’t it? Fancy poor little
Mrs. Wessington spoiling any one’s luck except her own!” I laughed
aloud at this point; and my laugh jarred on me as I uttered it. So there
_were_ ghosts of ‘rickshaws after all, and ghostly employments in the
other world! How much did Mrs. Wessington give her men? What were their
hours? Where did they go?
And for visible answer to my last question I saw the infernal Thing
blocking my path in the twilight. The dead travel fast, and by short
cuts unknown to ordinary coolies. I laughed aloud a second time and
checked my laughter suddenly, for I was afraid I was going mad. Mad to
a certain extent I must have been, for I recollect that I reined in my
horse at the head of the ‘rickshaw, and politely wished Mrs. Wessington
“Good-evening.” Her answer was one I knew only too well. I listened
to the end; and replied that I had heard it all before, but should
be delighted if she had anything further to say. Some malignant devil
stronger than I must have entered into me that evening, for I have a dim
recollection of talking the commonplaces of the day for five minutes to
the Thing in front of me.
“Mad as a hatter, poor devil--or drunk. Max, try and get him to come
home.”
Surely _that_ was not Mrs. Wessington’s voice! The two men had overheard
me speaking to the empty air, and had returned to look after me. They
were very kind and considerate, and from their words evidently gathered
that I was extremely drunk. I thanked them confusedly and cantered away
to my hotel, there changed, and arrived at the Mannerings’ ten minutes
late. I pleaded the darkness of the night as an excuse; was rebuked by
Kitty for my unlover-like tardiness; and sat down.
The conversation had already become general; and under cover of it, I
was addressing some tender small talk to my sweetheart when I was aware
that at the further end of the table a short red-whiskered man was
describing, with much broidery, his encounter with a mad unknown that
evening.
A few sentences convinced me that he was repeating the incident of half
an hour ago. In the middle of the story he looked round for applause, as
professional story-tellers do, caught my eye, and straightway collapsed.
There was a moment’s awkward silence, and the red-whiskered man muttered
something to the effect that he had “forgotten the rest,” thereby
sacrificing a reputation as a good story-teller which he had built
up for six seasons past. I blessed him from the bottom of my heart,
and--went on with my fish.
In the fulness of time that dinner came to an end; and with genuine
regret I tore myself away from Kitty--as certain as I was of my
own existence that It would be waiting for me outside the door. The
red-whiskered man, who had been introduced to me as Doctor Heatherlegh,
of Simla, volunteered to bear me company as far as our roads lay
together. I accepted his offer with gratitude.
My instinct had not deceived me. It lay in readiness in the Mall, and,
in what seemed devilish mockery of our ways, with a lighted head-lamp.
The red-whiskered man went to the point at once, in a manner that showed
he had been thinking over it all dinner time.
“I say, Pansay, what the deuce was the matter with you this evening on
the Elysium road?” The suddenness of the question wrenched an answer
from me before I was aware.
“That!” said I, pointing to It.
“_That_ may be either D. T. or Eyes for aught I know. Now you don’t
liquor. I saw as much at dinner, so it can’t be D. T. There’s nothing
whatever where you’re pointing, though you’re sweating and trembling
with fright like a scared pony. Therefore, I conclude that it’s Eyes.
And I ought to understand all about them. Come along home with me. I’m
on the Blessington lower road.”
To my intense delight the ‘rickshaw instead of waiting for us kept
about twenty yards ahead--and this, too whether we walked, trotted, or
cantered. In the course of that long night ride I had told my companion
almost as much as I have told you here.
“Well, you’ve spoiled one of the best tales I’ve ever laid tongue to,”
said he, “but I’ll forgive you for the sake of what you’ve gone through.
Now come home and do what I tell you; and when I’ve cured you,
young man, let this be a lesson to you to steer clear of women and
indigestible food till the day of your death.”
The ‘rickshaw kept steady in front; and my red-whiskered friend seemed
to derive great pleasure from my account of its exact whereabouts.
“Eyes, Pansay--all Eyes, Brain, and Stomach. And the greatest of these
three is Stomach. You’ve too much conceited Brain, too little Stomach,
and thoroughly unhealthy Eyes. Get your Stomach straight and the rest
follows. And all that’s French for a liver pill. I’ll take sole medical
charge of you from this hour! for you’re too interesting a phenomenon to
be passed over.”
By this time we were deep in the shadow of the Blessington lower road
and the ‘rickshaw came to a dead stop under a pine-clad, over-hanging
shale cliff. Instinctively I halted too, giving my reason. Heatherlegh
rapped out an oath.
“Now, if you think I’m going to spend a cold night on the hillside
for the sake of a stomach-_cum_-Brain-_cum_-Eye illusion.... Lord, ha’
mercy! What’s that?”
There was a muffled report, a blinding smother of dust just in front
of us, a crack, the noise of rent boughs, and about ten yards of the
cliff-side--pines, undergrowth, and all--slid down into the road below,
completely blocking it up. The uprooted trees swayed and tottered for a
moment like drunken giants in the gloom, and then fell prone among their
fellows with a thunderous crash. Our two horses stood motionless and
sweating with fear. As soon as the rattle of falling earth and stone had
subsided, my companion muttered:--“Man, if we’d gone forward we should
have been ten feet deep in our graves by now. ‘There are more things
in heaven and earth.’... Come home, Pansay, and thank God. I want a peg
badly.”
We retraced our way over the Church Ridge, and I arrived at Dr.
Heatherlegh’s house shortly after midnight.
His attempts toward my cure commenced almost immediately, and for a week
I never left his sight. Many a time in the course of that week did I
bless the good-fortune which had thrown me in contact with Simla’s best
and kindest doctor. Day by day my spirits grew lighter and more equable.
Day by day, too, I became more and more inclined to fall in with
Heatherlegh’s “spectral illusion” theory, implicating eyes, brain, and
stomach. I wrote to Kitty, telling her that a slight sprain caused by a
fall from my horse kept me indoors for a few days; and that I should be
recovered before she had time to regret my absence.
Heatherlegh’s treatment was simple to a degree. It consisted of liver
pills, cold-water baths, and strong exercise, taken in the dusk or at
early dawn--for, as he sagely observed: “A man with a sprained ankle
doesn’t walk a dozen miles a day, and your young woman might be
wondering if she saw you.”
At the end of the week, after much examination of pupil and pulse, and
strict injunctions as to diet and pedestrianism, Heatherlegh dismissed
me as brusquely as he had taken charge of me. Here is his parting
benediction: “Man, I can certify to your mental cure, and that’s as much
as to say I’ve cured most of your bodily ailments. Now, get your traps
out of this as soon as you can; and be off to make love to Miss Kitty.”
I was endeavoring to express my thanks for his kindness. He cut me
short.
“Don’t think I did this because I like you. I gather that you’ve behaved
like a blackguard all through. But, all the same, you’re a phenomenon,
and as queer a phenomenon as you are a blackguard. No!”--checking me a
second time--“not a rupee, please. Go out and see if you can find the
eyes-brain-and-stomach business again. I’ll give you a lakh for each
time you see it.”
Half an hour later I was in the Mannerings’ drawing-room with
Kitty--drunk with the intoxication of present happiness and the
fore-knowledge that I should never more be troubled with Its hideous
presence. Strong in the sense of my new-found security, I proposed a
ride at once; and, by preference, a canter round Jakko.
Never had I felt so well, so overladen with vitality and mere animal
spirits, as I did on the afternoon of the 30th of April. Kitty was
delighted at the change in my appearance, and complimented me on it in
her delightfully frank and outspoken manner. We left the Mannerings’
house together, laughing and talking, and cantered along the Chota Simla
road as of old.
I was in haste to reach the Sanjowlie Reservoir and there make my
assurance doubly sure. The horses did their best, but seemed all too
slow to my impatient mind. Kitty was astonished at my boisterousness.
“Why, Jack!” she cried at last, “you are behaving like a child. What are
you doing?”
We were just below the Convent, and from sheer wantonness I was making
my Waler plunge and curvet across the road as I tickled it with the loop
of my riding-whip.
“Doing?” I answered; “nothing, dear. That’s just it. If you’d been doing
nothing for a week except lie up, you’d be as riotous as I.”
“‘Singing and murmuring in your feastful mirth,
Joying to feel yourself alive;
Lord over Nature, Lord of the visible Earth,
Lord of the senses five.’”
My quotation was hardly out of my lips before we had rounded the corner
above the Convent; and a few yards further on could see across to
Sanjowlie. In the centre of the level road stood the black and white
liveries, the yellow-paneled ‘rickshaw, and Mrs. Keith-Wessington.
I pulled up, looked, rubbed my eyes, and, I believe must have said
something. The next thing I knew was that I was lying face downward on
the road with Kitty kneeling above me in tears.
“Has it gone, child!” I gasped. Kitty only wept more bitterly.
“Has what gone, Jack dear? what does it all mean? There must be a
mistake somewhere, Jack. A hideous mistake.” Her last words brought me
to my feet--mad--raving for the time being.
“Yes, there is a mistake somewhere,” I repeated, “a hideous mistake.
Come and look at It.”
I have an indistinct idea that I dragged Kitty by the wrist along the
road up to where It stood, and implored her for pity’s sake to speak to
It; to tell It that we were betrothed; that neither Death nor Hell could
break the tie between us; and Kitty only knows how much more to the
same effect. Now and again I appealed passionately to the Terror in the
‘rickshaw to bear witness to all I had said, and to release me from
a torture that was killing me. As I talked I suppose I must have told
Kitty of my old relations with Mrs. Wessington, for I saw her listen
intently with white face and blazing eyes.
“Thank you, Mr. Pansay,” she said, “that’s _quite_ enough. _Syce ghora
láo._”
The syces, impassive as Orientals always are, had come up with the
recaptured horses; and as Kitty sprang into her saddle I caught hold of
the bridle, entreating her to hear me out and forgive. My answer was the
cut of her riding-whip across my face from mouth to eye, and a word