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

you to lurk about, like a spy in the dark? God help me, Ben—I’m half mad. I don’t mean to be harsh to you.’
    ‘I’m sure you don’t,’ I cried, earnestly.
    ‘It’s that cursed Frenchman,’ he went on, in a voice that sounded like a groan of one in pain. ‘He’s a villain. I know he’s a villain; and I’ve had a warning against him ever since the first moment he came among us. He’ll make her miserable, and break her heart some day—my pretty Leah—and I loved her so! But I’ll be revenged—as sure as there’s a God in heaven, I’ll be revenged!’
    His vehemence terrified me. I tried to persuade him to go home; but he would not listen to me.
    ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘Go home yourself, boy, and let me be. My blood is on fire: this rain is good for me, and I am better alone.’
    ‘If I could only do something to help you. . . .’
    ‘You can’t,’ interrupted he. ‘Nobody can help me. I’m a ruined man, and I don’t care what becomes of me. The Lord forgive me! my heart is full of wickedness, and my thoughts are the promptings of Satan. There go—for heaven’s sake, go. I don’t know what I say, or what I do.’
    I went, for I did not dare refuse any longer; but I lingered awhile at the corner of the street, and watched him pacing to and fro, to and fro, in the driving rain. At length I turned reluctantly away, and went home.
    I lay awake that night for hours, thinking over the events of the day, and hating the Frenchman from my very soul. I could not hate Leah. I had worshipped her too long and too faithfully for that; but I looked upon her as a creature given over to destruction. I fell asleep towards morning, and woke again shortly after daybreak. When I reached the pottery, I found George there before me, looking very pale, but quite himself, and setting the men to their work the same as usual. I said nothing about what had happened the day before. Something in his face silenced me; but seeing him so steady and composed, I took heart, and began to hope he had fought through the worst of his trouble. By-and-by the Frenchman came through the yard, gay and off-hand, with his cigar in his mouth, and his hands in his pockets. George turned sharply away into one of the workshops, and shut the door. I drew a deep breath of relief. My dread was to see them come to an open quarrel; and I felt that as long as they kept clear of that all would be well.
    Thus the Monday went by, and the Tuesday; but still George kept aloof from me. I had sense enough not to be hurt by this. I felt he had a good right to be silent, if silence helped him to bear his trial better; and I made up my mind never to breathe another syllable on the subject, unless he began.
    Wednesday came. I had overslept myself that morning, and came to work a quarter after the hour, expecting to be fined; for George was very strict as foreman of the yard, and treated friends and enemies just the same; instead of blaming me, however, he called me up, and said:
    ‘Ben, whose turn is it this week to sit up?’
    ‘Mine, sir,’ I replied. (I always called him ‘Sir’ in working hours.)
    ‘Well, then, you may go home today, and the same on Thursday and Friday; for there’s a large batch of work for the ovens tonight, and there’ll be the same tomorrow night and the night after.’
    ‘All right, sir,’ said I. ‘Then I’ll be here by seven this evening.’
    ‘No, half-past nine will be soon enough. I’ve some accounts to make up, and I shall be here myself till then. Mind you are true to time, though.’
    ‘I’ll be as true as the clock, sir,’ I replied, and was turning away when he called me back again.
    ‘You’re a good lad, Ben,’ said he. ‘Shake hands.’
    I seized his hand and pressed it warmly.
    ‘If I’m good for anything, George,’ I answered with all my heart, ‘it’s you who have made me so. God bless you for it!’
    ‘Amen!’ said he in a troubled voice, putting his hand to his hat.
    And so we parted.
    In