Legends of Lancashire 29

Legends of Lancashire 29

It was May day, towards sunset, as she took her seat on the

terrace. She was engaged in working a piece of embroidery,--a

history of the family, and of her childhood; and the last rays fell

sweetly upon the names of those she loved. An unusual buoyancy

had been imparted to her spirits, and she leaned over to view the

sports of children, as crowned with the first flowers of summer,

they gaily and enthusiastically tripped about the door. They all

departed, save one beautiful boy, who sat down beside an old

statue, on the grass plot, and by turns, for very happiness, sung,

clapped his hands, and shouted. He started as he heard footsteps

near, and seeing Elizabeth, ran up the outer flight of stairs,

leading to the terrace. She came down to meet him, when a stranger

appeared. He suddenly halted, and became deadly pale. He turned

round, for a moment, to conceal his agitation, when he heard a

half-suppressed shriek.

 

“Arthur Govenloch!”

 

Although many, many years had elapsed, and foreign climes had

embrowned his features, Elizabeth recognized him. She had loved

the boy, and when he was absent her imagination had pictured the

man, and there stood the living resemblance, unchanged. On hearing

his own name pronounced, he rushed forward. There was a beautiful

lady in mourning. Could it be his own Elizabeth? There was the same

slight figure, which he had so often clasped, as a boyish dream,

and the deep light of her soft blue eyes, which he had so often

braved for hours, when lying on the grass, and could he forget it?

 

“My own Elizabeth!” he exclaimed, “in mourning? But hast thou been

faithful and true, as I have been? There, there, that boy again.--A

shudder passed over me, as I first beheld him here. Art thou the

wife of another? That boy,”--

 

“Arthur, I know him not, he is the child of a neighbour. Oh! hast

thou come at last! Arthur, I am alone. My brother is--”

 

“Hush, dearest, _now_ thou art not alone. But let us enter the

house, where I have been so happy, and tell me all.”

 

Their love had been preserved through many years. It had commenced

early, and was hallowed by memory, as well as brightened by hope.

Innocence had lighted it, and the daring boy, and the gentle

girl, would leave their task to romp with each other, but not for

romping’s sake; for when the sport was ended, then came the soft

look, the soft touch, and the soft confession. Boys and girls are

the quickest, the warmest, the holiest, and the most successful

lovers. The God of love plays best with children; and,--mischievous

urchin--when the little scholars are rambling about, or seated,

teaching each other their tasks, taking hold of fingers, to

point out letters, or words, figures, or sums, then he lets fly

the arrow, touching their young and pure blood. Such lovers had

Elizabeth Woodville and Arthur Govenloch been, and their affection

was preserved, warm and strong, until the present. Both wept

over the death of their old companion, and all his books were,

once more, affectionately handled and looked at. They walked out

together upon the terrace, and brightly did the stars shine upon

them, like the glorious and happy types of that future, concerning

which they spoke. Happy were they now in each other, and long ere

Arthur left her, Elizabeth’s face was beautiful with smiles. She

accompanied him to the garden gate, leaning confidingly upon his

arm.

 

“Elizabeth--I must introduce the custom of the country which I have

left; and the square is so retired, and the nights, of late, have

been so beautiful, that I must come and serenade you beneath your

window. But arise not; only for a moment awake to listen to my

lute, and then, dearest, dream of me.”

 

He looked upon her, and saw that she was pale. Her slight frame

trembled. He pressed his hand against her heart, and it beat

violently.

 

“Nay, Arthur, do not.”

 

“I will not disturb your rest. No, Elizabeth; but the night is so

beautiful, that I cannot refrain from coming to the house where my

own love dwells, and serenading, in company with the angels, the

abode of the beautiful Orphan. You know that I won’t serenade you,

when you are my dear little wife. Henry, your brother, will thank

and bless me for coming.”

 

She became still paler, and leaned for support on the gate.

 

“You are not well. Walk back to the house. Come. Now, farewell

dearest,” and he fondly embraced her. Her brow was cold as he

kissed it, and she softly said,--

 

“Oh! Arthur, come not to night.”

 

But he thought that, although he might not serenade her, there

could be no harm in passing, at the hour of midnight, and looking

at the house, as it lay in the pale moonshine. For, be it observed,

that lovers are not so very unreasonable as some represent; and the

mere sight of the house where the adored one lives, can satisfy

them.

 

A little before midnight, Arthur was once more in the street, on

his way to the abode of his mistress. All was silent and lonely.

The glare of lamps was feeble and sickly, mingling with, while

yet distinguishable from, the light of the moon. The breezes

blew gently, and carried perfumes, as tranquilizing as they were

sweet. Few persons were abroad: and save the light dress of

the unfortunate and the guilty, revealing itself occasionally,

at a corner of the street, as he passed, and the song of the

bachanalian, coming from cellars, and greeting him, Arthur found

nothing to turn his attention from the thoughts and love which he

cherished to the fair Orphan. All boyish feelings, save one, had

been forgotten, and, as he trod his native town, he felt that in it

he was a stranger. But the brother shared his thoughts, as well as

the sister, and he wished that he had enquired of Elizabeth where

his grave was, that even there he might pay an early visit, after

his return, to the friend and companion of his boyhood. He reached

the lane which opened into the square. It was a dark, close, and

filthy way. Trees were on every side, but the leaves appeared to

be beds of worms and reptiles, and a sharp breeze coming from the

harbour, blew some of them against Arthur’s cheek, and they were

damp and polluting to the touch.

 

Suddenly he heard shouts of revelry behind, and the sound of a

coach starting. The whip was loudly urging on the steeds, and

their hoofs clattered fast and furious. He looked back, and to his

astonishment and terror, saw nothing. Still the noise came near and

nearer, and at length he distinctly heard a coach dash past him.

At that moment a loud shout was heard, and the whip was cracked

close to his ears. The blood curdled within him. He could not be

deceived. He ran on, and the nearer he came, he heard the rolling

of the wheels, the pawing and breathing of the horses, the cracking

of the whip, and even the oaths and tones of those who sat in it,

with greater assurance. He seemed close upon it, when all at once

it stopped, and then he found himself at the house of Elizabeth

Woodville, and there, horrible to think, the Spectre Coach was

waiting, unseen! He moved backwards and forwards, and fancied that

he heard whispers near the place, and occasionally the stroke of a

hoof, on the flinty road. A flavour of wine and tobacco was in the

air around. In a little, the door of the house was half opened:

a light and merry step was on the pavement, and instantly a loud

holloo, in the tones of one, quite familiar to his ear, arose, and

once more the coach dashed away. Arthur stood motionless, what

could this awful prodigy mean? He looked at the door, and there

stood Elizabeth! He rushed forward. Her eyes fell upon his form,

enveloped in a cloak, and shrieking, she fell. He raised her from

the earth, bleeding and senseless. He shouted for the domestics,

and committed her to their care. He entered another room. In a

short time, one of them returned, and announced that her mistress

had recovered, and was desirous of speaking with him.

 

“My young lady,” she added “every night watches for that coach.

It comes for her brother regularly, as usual. Oh! Sir, would you

persuade her to retire before the hour? It renews her grief.”

 

Arthur started at these words: and truths of an awful nature

flashed across his mind. But he heard Elizabeth’s voice, and he

hurried into her apartment. She sat, reclining on a sofa; her

countenance was pale; her eyes bright, but an __EXPRESSION__ of horror

and wildness in them.

 

“Did you not, Arthur,” she exclaimed, as she wrung her hands, and

with them covered her face, “did you not hear Henry’s voice, so

free and merry. What an awful apparition of his last ghost! I have

gazed for months, and hoped that I would see him, but in vain. The

tale is one of horror, and one which I have realized.”

 

She paused, and leaving her seat, went to the window, and listened

eagerly.

 

“It comes not yet--no--it is not the appointed time, and I may

proceed with the relation. But for God’s sake, Arthur, if you hear

a noise, if you hear the rolling of the coach, interrupt me not! I

must answer his call. Nay, rise not. I am calm, dear Arthur. You

knew my brother Henry--None could be more innocent and happy. But

after you left us, he listened to wicked men, and imbibed their

poisonous doctrines, and Henry Woodville, the beautiful and the

good, became a dark infidel! In place of the Holy book, from which

you read to us--was the accursed text book of the wretch, Paine.

You knew that when he read, he placed a chair for me, and with his

cheek against mine, invited me, laughingly, to examine whether he

read correctly. One evening, out on the terrace,--thus we sat

down to read, and mine eyes fell upon the words before he uttered

them; “There is no God, and christianity is all priests’ fables.”

I warmly told him to throw away such blasphemy. He laughed, and

added that it was his bible, and that he would sell the old one for

a penny! From step to step he went on, and became a drunkard and

a debauchee. He was so entangled with companions, that he would

not abandon their society. Still he loved me, wept as I wept, and

said that he was sorry for his conduct, and then laughed like a

fiend. Every night his associates came, in a coach, and took him

away to their foul orgies. In the outskirts of the town,--for,

Arthur, I have followed, though concealed--they lighted a fire,

burned the Bible, and then drove to the haunts of depravity.

Henry’s handsome form became emaciated, and almost loathsome; but

I embraced him more fondly than ever. His full bright eyes were

sunk and bloodshot. One night, he promised to stay with me at home,

and all my hopes revived. What happy hours we spent! He led me to

my apartment, and kissed me. He even implored God’s blessing upon

me. I saw him kneel before his Maker. I heard him plead love for

his sister, aye, and forgiveness for himself. I sank to sleep,

overpowered with a delirium of joy! And yet, Arthur, he deceived

me. He joined his companions, and in the coach, they repaired to a

vale, and there began to make a sacrament to the devil! Prayers and

praises to him were made in the midst of mirth and wine; and they

literally took the cup of damnation in their hands, and quaffed

it off. They invoked the enemy. The inhabitants of the suburbs

were aroused from their repose by awful noises. They went to the

place whence they seemed to proceed, and my brother, and two of

his associates, were found dead, and horribly mangled. A black

form was said to hover near them. What a corpse Henry was! And

yet, I watched every minute beside it, kissed the hideous lips,

until he was taken to the grave. Every night that coach comes for

him as usual. It is a Phantom Coach. On a beautiful night, it has the sound of a light coach;