THE PHANTOM COACH: Collected Ghost Stories by Amelia B. Edwards

my hand off, and stamped with his iron heel till the pavement rang again.
    ‘Don’t ask me,’ said he, roughly. ‘Let me alone. You’ll know soon enough.’
    And with this he turned off down a by-lane leading towards the hills, and left me without another word.
    I had had plenty of hard treatment in my time; but never, until that moment, an angry look or syllable from George. I did not know how to bear it. That day my dinner seemed as if it would choke me; and in the afternoon I went out and wandered restlessly about the fields till the hour for evening prayers came round. I then returned to the chapel, and sat down on a tomb outside, waiting for George. I saw the congregation go in by twos and threes; heard the first psalm-tune echo solemnly through the evening stillness; but no George came. Then the service began, and I knew that, punctual as his habits were, it was of no use to expect him any longer. Where could he be? What could have happened? Why should Leah Payne never come to chapel again? Had she gone over to some other sect, and was that why George seemed so unhappy?
    Sitting there in the little dreary churchyard, with the darkness fast gathering around me, I asked myself these questions over and over again, till my brain ached; for I was not much used to thinking about anything in those times. At last, I could bear to sit quiet no longer. The sudden thought struck me that I would go to Leah, and learn what the matter was, from her own lips. I sprang to my feet, and set off at once towards her home.
    It was quite dark, and a light rain was beginning to fall. I found the garden-gate open, and a quick hope flashed across me that George might be there. I drew back for a moment, hesitating whether to knock or ring, when a sound of voices in the passage, and the sudden gleaming of a bright line of light under the door, warned me that some one was coming out. Taken by surprise, and quite unprepared for the moment with anything to say, I shrank back behind the porch, and waited until those within should have passed out. The door opened, and the light streamed suddenly upon the roses and the wet gravel.
    ‘It rains,’ said Leah, bending forward and shading the candle with her hand.
    ‘And is as cold as Siberia,’ added another voice, which was not George’s, and yet sounded strangely familiar. ‘Ugh! what a climate for such a flower as my darling to bloom in!’
    ‘Is it so much finer in France?’ asked Leah, softly.
    ‘As much finer as blue skies and sunshine can make it. Why, my angel, even your bright eyes will be ten times brighter, and your rosy cheeks ten times rosier, when they are transplanted to Paris. Ah! I can give you no idea of the wonders of Paris—the broad streets planted with trees, the palaces, the shops, the gardens!—it is a city of enchantment.’
    ‘It must be, indeed!’ said Leah. ‘And you will really take me to see all those beautiful shops?’
    ‘Every Sunday, my darling—— Bah! don’t look so shocked. The shops in Paris are always open on Sunday, and everybody makes holiday. You will soon get over these prejudices.’
    ‘I fear it is very wrong to take so much pleasure in the things of this world,’ sighed Leah.
    The Frenchman laughed, and answered her with a kiss.
    ‘Goodnight, my sweet little saint!’ said he, as he ran lightly down the path, and disappeared in the darkness. Leah sighed again, lingered a moment, and then closed the door.
    Stupefied and bewildered, I stood for some seconds like a stone statue, unable to move, scarcely able to think. At length, I roused myself, as it were mechanically, and went towards the gate. At that instant a heavy hand was laid upon my shoulder, and a hoarse voice close beside my ear, said:
    ‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’
    It was George. I knew him at once, in spite of the darkness, and stammered his name. He took his hand quickly from my shoulder.
    ‘How long have you been here?’ said he, fiercely. ‘What right have