The Phantom 'rickshaw

Scary Books: The Best Ghost Stories
: RUDYARD KIPLING

"May no ill dreams disturb my rest,

Nor Powers of Darkness me molest."

--_Evening Hymn._





One of the few advantages that India has over England is a certain great

Knowability. After five years' service a man is directly or indirectly

acquainted with the two or three hundred Civilians in his Province, all

the Messes of ten or twelve Regiments nd Batteries, and some fifteen

hundred other people of the non-official castes. In ten years his

knowledge should be doubled, and at the end of twenty he knows, or knows

something about, almost every Englishman in the Empire, and may travel

anywhere and everywhere without paying hotel-bills.



Globe-trotters who expect entertainment as a right, have, even within my

memory, blunted this open-heartedness, but, none the less, to-day if you

belong to the Inner Circle and are neither a bear nor a black sheep all

houses are open to you and our small world is very kind and helpful.



Rickett of Kamartha stayed with Polder of Kumaon, some fifteen years

ago. He meant to stay two nights only, but was knocked down by rheumatic

fever, and for six weeks disorganized Polder's establishment, stopped

Polder's work, and nearly died in Polder's bed-room. Polder behaves as

though he had been placed under eternal obligation by Rickett, and

yearly sends the little Ricketts a box of presents and toys. It is the

same everywhere. The men who do not take the trouble to conceal from you

their opinion that you are an incompetent ass, and the women who blacken

your character and misunderstand your wife's amusements, will work

themselves to the bone in your behalf if you fall sick or into serious

trouble.



Heatherlegh, the Doctor, kept, in addition to his regular practice, a

hospital on his private account--an arrangement of loose-boxes for

Incurables, his friends called it--but it was really a sort of

fitting-up shed for craft that had been damaged by stress of weather.

The weather in India is often sultry, and since the tale of bricks is a

fixed quantity, and the only liberty allowed is permission to work

overtime and get no thanks, men occasionally break down and become as

mixed as the metaphors in this sentence.



Heatherlegh is the nicest doctor that ever was, and his invariable

prescription to all his patients is "lie low, go slow, and keep cool."

He says that more men are killed by overwork than the importance of this

world justifies. He maintains that overwork slew Pansay who died under

his hands about three years ago. He has, of course, the right to speak

authoritatively, and he laughs at my theory that there was a crack in

Pansay's head and a little bit of the Dark World came through and

pressed him to death. "Pansay went off the handle," says Heatherlegh,

"after the stimulus of long leave at Home. He may or he may not have

behaved like a blackguard to Mrs. Keith-Wessington. My notion is that

the work of the Katabundi Settlement ran him off his legs, and that he

took to brooding and making much of an ordinary P. & O. flirtation. He

certainly was engaged to Miss Mannering, and she certainly broke off the

engagement. Then he took a feverish chill and all that nonsense about

ghosts developed itself. Overwork started his illness, kept it alight,

and killed him, poor devil. Write him off to the System--one man to do

the work of two-and-a-half men."



I do not believe this. I used to sit up with Pansay sometimes when

Heatherlegh was called out to visit patients and I happened to be within

claim. The man would make me most unhappy by describing in a low, even

voice the procession of men, women, children, and devils that was always

passing at the bottom of his bed. He had a sick man's command of

language. When he recovered I suggested that he should write out the

whole affair from beginning to end, knowing that ink might assist him to

ease his mind. When little boys have learned a new bad word they are

never happy till they have chalked it up on a door. And this also is

Literature.



He was in a high fever while he was writing, and the blood-and-thunder

Magazine style he adopted did not calm him. Two months afterwards he was

reported fit for duty, but, in spite of the fact that he was urgently

needed to help an undermanned Commission stagger through a deficit, he

preferred to die; vowing at the last that he was hag-ridden. I secured

his manuscript before he died, and this is his version of the affair,

dated 1885:--





My doctor tells me that I need rest and change of air. It is not

improbable that I shall get both ere long--rest that neither the

red-coated orderly nor the mid-day gun can break, and change of air far

beyond that which any homeward-bound steamer can give me. In the

meantime I am resolved to stay where I am; and, in flat defiance of my

doctor's orders, to take all the world into my confidence. You shall

learn for yourselves the precise nature of my malady; and shall, too,

judge for yourselves whether any man born of woman on this weary earth

was ever so tormented as I.



Speaking now as a condemned criminal might speak ere the drop-bolts are

drawn, my story, wild and hideously improbable as it may appear, demands

at least attention. That it will ever receive credence I utterly

disbelieve. Two months ago I should have scouted as mad or drunk the man

who had dared tell me the like. Two months ago I was the happiest man in

India. To-day, from Peshawar to the sea, there is no one more wretched.

My doctor and I are the only two who know this. His explanation is that

my brain, digestion and eyesight are all slightly affected; giving rise

to my frequent and persistent "delusions." Delusions, indeed! I call him

a fool; but he attends me still with the same unwearied smile, the same

bland professional manner, the same neatly-trimmed red whiskers, till I

begin to suspect that I am an ungrateful, evil-tempered invalid. But you

shall judge for yourselves.



Three years ago it was my fortune--my great misfortune--to sail from

Gravesend to Bombay, on return from long leave, with one Agnes

Keith-Wessington, wife of an officer on the Bombay side. It does not in

the least concern you to know what manner of woman she was. Be content

with the knowledge that, ere the voyage had ended, both she and I were

desperately and unreasoningly in love with one another. Heaven knows

that I can make the admission now without one particle of vanity. In

matters of this sort there is always one who gives and another who

accepts. From the first day of our ill-omened attachment, I was

conscious that Agnes's passion was a stronger, a more dominant, and--if

I may use the expression--a purer sentiment than mine. Whether she

recognized the fact then, I do not know. Afterwards it was bitterly

plain to both of us.



Arrived at Bombay in the spring of the year, we went our respective

ways, to meet no more for the next three or four months, when my leave

and her love took us both to Simla. There we spent the season together;

and there my fire of straw burnt itself out to a pitiful end with the

closing year. I attempt no excuse. I make no apology. Mrs. Wessington

had given up much for my sake, and was prepared to give up all. From my

own lips, in August, 1882, she learnt that I was sick of her presence,

tired of her company, and weary of the sound of her voice. Ninety-nine

women out of a hundred would have wearied of me as I wearied of them;

seventy-five of that number would have promptly avenged themselves by

active and obtrusive flirtation with other men. Mrs. Wessington was the

hundredth. On her neither my openly-expressed aversion, nor the cutting

brutalities with which I garnished our interviews had the least effect.



"Jack, darling!" was her one eternal cuckoo-cry, "I'm sure it's all a

mistake--a hideous mistake; and we'll be good friends again some day.

_Please_ forgive me, Jack, dear."



I was the offender, and I knew it. That knowledge transformed my pity

into passive endurance, and, eventually, into blind hate--the same

instinct, I suppose, which prompts a man to savagely stamp on the spider

he has but half killed. And with this hate in my bosom the season of

1882 came to an end.



Next year we met again at Simla--she with her monotonous face and timid

attempts at reconciliation, and I with loathing of her in every fiber of

my frame. Several times I could not avoid meeting her alone; and on each

occasion her words were identically the same. Still the unreasoning wail

that it was all a "mistake"; and still the hope of eventually "making

friends." I might have seen, had I cared to look, that that hope only

was keeping her alive. She grew more wan and thin month by month. You

will agree with me, at least, that such conduct would have driven any

one to despair. It was uncalled for, childish, unwomanly. I maintain

that she was much to blame. And again, sometimes, in the black,

fever-stricken night watches, I have begun to think that I might have

been a little kinder to her. But that really _is_ a "delusion." I could

not have continued pretending to love her when I didn't; could I? It

would have been unfair to us both.



Last year we met again--on the same terms as before. The same weary

appeals, and the same curt answers from my lips. At least I would make

her see how wholly wrong and hopeless were her attempts at resuming the

old relationship. As the season wore on, we fell apart--that is to say,

she found it difficult to meet me, for I had other and more absorbing

interests to attend to. When I think it over quietly in my sick-room,

the season of 1884 seems a confused nightmare wherein light and shade

were fantastically intermingled--my courtship of little Kitty Mannering;

my hopes, doubts and fears; our long rides together; my trembling avowal

of attachment; her reply; and now and again a vision of a white face

flitting by in the 'rickshaw with the black and white liveries I once

watched for so earnestly; the wave of Mrs. Wessington's gloved hand;

and, when she met me alone, which was but seldom, the irksome monotony

of her appeal. I loved Kitty Mannering, honestly, heartily loved her,

and with my love for her grew my hatred for Agnes. In August Kitty and I

were engaged. The next day I met those accursed "magpie" _jhampanies_ at

the back of Jakko, and, moved by some passing sentiment of pity, stopped

to tell Mrs. Wessington everything. She knew it already.



"So I hear you're engaged, Jack dear." Then, without a moment's pause:

"I'm sure it's all a mistake--a hideous mistake. We shall be as good

friends some day, Jack, as we ever were."



My answer might have made even a man wince. It cut the dying woman

before me like the blow of a whip. "Please forgive me, Jack; I didn't

mean to make you angry; but it's true, it's true!"



And Mrs. Wessington broke down completely. I turned away and left her to

finish her journey in peace, feeling, but only for a moment or two, that

I had been an unutterably mean hound. I looked back, and saw that she

had turned her 'rickshaw with the idea, I suppose, of overtaking me.



The scene and its surroundings were photographed on my memory. The

rain-swept sky (we were at the end of the wet weather), the sodden,

dingy pines, the muddy road, and the black powder-riven cliffs formed a

gloomy background against which the black and white liveries of the

_jhampanies_, the yellow-paneled 'rickshaw and Mrs. Wessington's

down-bowed golden head stood out clearly. She was holding her

handkerchief in her left hand and was leaning back exhausted against the

'rickshaw cushions. I turned my horse up a bypath near the Sanjowlie

Reservoir and literally ran away. Once I fancied I heard a faint call of

"Jack!" This may have been imagination. I never stopped to verify it.

Ten minutes later I came across Kitty on horseback; and, in the delight

of a long ride with her, forgot all about the interview.



A week later Mrs. Wessington died, and the inexpressible burden of her

existence was removed from my life. I went Plainsward perfectly happy.

Before three months were over I had forgotten all about her, except that

at times the discovery of some of her old letters reminded me

unpleasantly of our bygone relationship. By January I had disinterred

what was left of our correspondence from among my scattered belongings

and had burnt it. At the beginning of April of this year, 1885, I was at

Simla--semi-deserted Simla--once more, and was deep in lover's talks and

walks with Kitty. It was decided that we should be married at the end of

June. You will understand, therefore, that, loving Kitty as I did, I am

not saying too much when I pronounce myself to have been, at the time,

the happiest man in India.



Fourteen delightful days passed almost before I noticed their flight.

Then, aroused to the sense of what was proper among mortals

circumstanced as we were, I pointed out to Kitty that an engagement-ring

was the outward and visible sign of her dignity as an engaged girl; and

that she must forthwith come to Hamilton's to be measured for one. Up to

that moment, I give you my word, we had completely forgotten so trivial

a matter. To Hamilton's we accordingly went on the 15th of April, 1885.

Remember that--whatever my doctor may say to the contrary--I was then in

perfect health, enjoying a well-balanced mind and an absolutely tranquil

spirit. Kitty and I entered Hamilton's shop together, and there,

regardless of the order of affairs, I measured Kitty's finger for the

ring in the presence of the amused assistant. The ring was a sapphire

with two diamonds. We then rode out down the slope that leads to the

Combermere Bridge and Peliti's shop.



While my Waler was cautiously feeling his way over the loose shale, and

Kitty was laughing and chattering at my side--while all Simla, that is

to say as much of it as had then come from the Plains, was grouped round

the Reading-room and Peliti's veranda--I was aware that some one,

apparently at a vast distance, was calling me by my Christian name. It

struck me that I had heard the voice before, but when and where I could

not at once determine. In the short space it took to cover the road

between the path from Hamilton's shop and the first plank of the

Combermere Bridge I had thought over half-a-dozen people who might have

committed such a solecism, and had eventually decided that it must have

been some singing in my ears. Immediately opposite Peliti's shop my eye

was arrested by the sight of four _jhampanies_ in black and white

livery, pulling a yellow-paneled, cheap, bazar 'rickshaw. In a moment my

mind flew back to the previous season and Mrs. Wessington with a sense

of irritation and disgust. Was it not enough that the woman was dead and

done with, without her black and white servitors re-appearing to spoil

the day's happiness? Whoever employed them now I thought I would call

upon, and ask as a personal favor to change her _jhampanies'_ livery.

I would hire the men myself, and, if necessary, buy their coats from off

their backs. It is impossible to say here what a flood of undesirable

memories their presence evoked.



"Kitty," I cried, "there are poor Mrs. Wessington's _jhampanies_ turned

up again! I wonder who has them now?"



Kitty had known Mrs. Wessington slightly last season, and had always

been interested in the sickly woman.



"What? Where?" she asked. "I can't see them anywhere."



Even as she spoke, her horse, swerving from a laden mule, threw himself

directly in front of the advancing 'rickshaw. I had scarcely time to

utter a word of warning when, to my unutterable horror, horse and rider

passed _through_ men and carriage as if they had been thin air.



"What's the matter?" cried Kitty; "what made you call out so foolishly,

Jack? If I _am_ engaged I don't want all creation to know about it.

There was lots of space between the mule and the veranda; and, if you

think I can't ride--There!"



Whereupon willful Kitty set off, her dainty little head in the air, at a

hand-gallop in the direction of the Band-stand; fully expecting, as she

herself afterwards told me, that I should follow her. What was the

matter? Nothing, indeed. Either that I was mad or drunk, or that Simla

was haunted with devils. I reined in my impatient cob, and turned round.

The 'rickshaw had turned too, and now stood immediately facing me, near

the left railing of the Combermere Bridge.



"Jack! Jack, darling." (There was no mistake about the words this time:

they rang through my brain as if they had been shouted in my ear.) "It's

some hideous mistake, I'm sure. _Please_ forgive me, Jack, and let's be

friends again."



The 'rickshaw-hood had fallen back, and inside, as I hope and daily pray

for the death I dread by night, sat Mrs. Keith-Wessington, handkerchief

in hand, and golden head bowed on her breast.



How long I stared motionless I do not know. Finally, I was aroused by my

groom taking the Waler's bridle and asking whether I was ill. I tumbled

off my horse and dashed, half fainting, into Peliti's for a glass of

cherry-brandy. There two or three couples were gathered round the

coffee-tables discussing the gossip of the day. Their trivialities were

more comforting to me just then than the consolations of religion could

have been. I plunged into the midst of the conversation at once;

chatted, laughed and jested with a face (when I caught a glimpse of it

in a mirror) as white and drawn as that of a corpse. Three or four men

noticed my condition; and, evidently setting it down to the results of

over many pegs, charitably endeavored to draw me apart from the rest of

the loungers. But I refused to be led away. I wanted the company of my

kind--as a child rushes into the midst of the dinner-party after a

fright in the dark. I must have talked for about ten minutes or so,

though it seemed an eternity to me, when I heard Kitty's dear voice

outside inquiring for me. In another minute she had entered the shop,

prepared to roundly upbraid me for failing so signally in my duties.

Something in my face stopped her.



"Why, Jack," she cried, "what _have_ you been doing? What _has_

happened? Are you ill?" Thus driven into a direct lie, I said that the

sun had been a little too much for me. It was close upon five o'clock of

a cloudy April afternoon, and the sun had been hidden all day. I saw my

mistake as soon as the words were out of my mouth: attempted to recover

it; blundered hopelessly and followed Kitty, in a regal rage, out of

doors, amid the smiles of my acquaintances. I made some excuse (I have

forgotten what) on the score of my feeling faint; and cantered away to

my hotel, leaving Kitty to finish the ride by herself.



In my room I sat down and tried calmly to reason out the matter. Here

was I, Theobald Jack Pansay, a well-educated Bengal Civilian in the year

of grace 1885, presumably sane, certainly healthy, driven in terror from

my sweetheart's side by the apparition of a woman who had been dead and

buried eight months ago. These were facts that I could not blink.

Nothing was further from my thought than any memory of Mrs. Wessington

when Kitty and I left Hamilton's shop. Nothing was more utterly

commonplace than the stretch of wall opposite Peliti's. It was broad

daylight. The road was full of people; and yet here, look you, in

defiance of every law of probability, in direct outrage of Nature's

ordinance, there had appeared to me a face from the grave.



Kitty's Arab had gone _through_ the 'rickshaw: so that my first hope

that some woman marvelously like Mrs. Wessington had hired the carriage

and the coolies with their old livery was lost. Again and again I went

round this treadmill of thought; and again and again gave up baffled and

in despair. The voice was as inexplicable as the apparition. I had

originally some wild notion of confiding it all to Kitty; of begging her

to marry me at once; and in her arms defying the ghostly occupant of the

'rickshaw. "After all," I argued, "the presence of the 'rickshaw is in

itself enough to prove the existence of a spectral illusion. One may see

ghosts of men and women, but surely never of coolies and carriages. The

whole thing is absurd. Fancy the ghost of a hill-man!"



Next morning I sent a penitent note to Kitty, imploring her to overlook

my strange conduct of the previous afternoon. My Divinity was still very

wroth, and a personal apology was necessary. I explained, with a fluency

born of night-long pondering over a falsehood, that I had been attacked

with a sudden palpitation of the heart--the result of indigestion. This

eminently practical solution had its effect; and Kitty and I rode out

that afternoon with the shadow of my first lie dividing us.



Nothing would please her save a canter round Jakko. With my nerves still

unstrung from the previous night I feebly protested against the notion,

suggesting Observatory Hill, Jutogh, the Boileaugunge road--anything

rather than the Jakko round. Kitty was angry and a little hurt, so I

yielded from fear of provoking further misunderstanding, and we set out

together towards Chota Simla. We walked a greater part of the way, and,

according to our custom, cantered from a mile or so below the Convent to

the stretch of level road by the Sanjowlie Reservoir. The wretched

horses appeared to fly, and my heart beat quicker and quicker as we

neared the crest of the ascent. My mind had been full of Mrs. Wessington

all the afternoon; and every inch of the Jakko road bore witness to our

old-time walks and talks. The boulders were full of it; the pines sang

it aloud overhead; the rain-fed torrents giggled and chuckled unseen

over the shameful story; and the wind in my ears chanted the iniquity

aloud.



As a fitting climax, in the middle of the level men call the Ladies'

Mile, the Horror was awaiting me. No other 'rickshaw was in sight--only

the four black and white _jhampanies_, the yellow-paneled carriage, and

the golden head of the woman within--all apparently just as I had left

them eight months and one fortnight ago! For an instant I fancied that

Kitty must see what I saw--we were so marvelously sympathetic in all

things. Her next words undeceived me--"Not a soul in sight! Come along,

Jack, and I'll race you to the Reservoir buildings!" Her wiry little

Arab was off like a bird, my Waler following close behind, and in this

order we dashed under the cliffs. Half a minute brought us within fifty

yards of the 'rickshaw. I pulled my Waler and fell back a little. The

'rickshaw was directly in the middle of the road: and once more the Arab

passed through it, my horse following. "Jack, Jack, dear! _Please_

forgive me," rang with a wail in my ears, and, after an interval: "It's

all a mistake, a hideous mistake!"



I spurred my horse like a man possessed. When I turned my head at the

Reservoir works the black and white liveries were still

waiting--patiently waiting--under the gray hillside, and the wind

brought me a mocking echo of the words I had just heard. Kitty bantered

me a good deal on my silence throughout the remainder of the ride. I had

been talking up till then wildly and at random. To save my life I could

not speak afterwards naturally, and from Sanjowlie to the Church wisely

held my tongue.



I was to dine with the Mannerings that night and had barely time to

canter home to dress. On the road to Elysium Hill I overheard two men

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. Spoilt 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 fullness 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 Dr. 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 spoilt 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 steadily 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, overhanging

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

cliffside--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 drink

badly."



We retraced our way over the Church Ridge, and I arrived at Dr.

Heatherlegh's house shortly after midnight.



His attempts towards 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 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. Now, 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

foreknowledge that I should never more be troubled with It's 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 have 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 center 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. Bring my

horse."



The grooms, 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 or

two of farewell that even now I cannot write down. So I judged, and

judged rightly, that Kitty knew all; and I staggered back to the side of

the 'rickshaw. My face was cut and bleeding, and the blow of the

riding-whip had raised a livid blue weal on it. I had no self-respect.

Just then, Heatherlegh, who must have been following Kitty and me at a

distance, cantered up.



"Doctor," I said, pointing to my face, "here's Miss Mannering's

signature to my order of dismissal and . . . I'll thank you for that

lakh as soon as convenient."



Heatherlegh's face, even in my abject misery, moved me to laugh.



"I'll stake my professional reputation"--he began. "Don't be a fool,"

I whispered. "I've lost my life's happiness and you'd better take me

home."



As I spoke the 'rickshaw was gone. Then I lost all knowledge of what was

passing. The crest of Jakko seemed to heave and roll like the crest of a

cloud and fall in upon me.



Seven days later (on the 7th of May, that is to say) I was aware that

I was lying in Heatherlegh's room as weak as a little child. Heatherlegh

was watching me intently from behind the papers on his writing table.

His first words were not very encouraging; but I was too far spent to

be much moved by them.



"Here's Miss Kitty has sent back your letters. You corresponded a good

deal, you young people. Here's a packet that looks like a ring, and a

cheerful sort of a note from Mannering Papa, which I've taken the

liberty of reading and burning. The old gentleman's not pleased with

you."



"And Kitty?" I asked dully.



"Rather more drawn than her father from what she says. By the same token

you must have been letting out any number of queer reminiscences just

before I met you. Says that a man who would have behaved to a woman as

you did to Mrs. Wessington ought to kill himself out of sheer pity for

his kind. She's a hot-headed little virago, your mash. Will have it too

that you were suffering from _D.T._ when that row on the Jakko road

turned up. Says she'll die before she ever speaks to you again."



I groaned and turned over on the other side.



"Now you've got your choice, my friend. This engagement has to be broken

off; and the Mannerings don't want to be too hard on you. Was it broken

through _D.T._ or epileptic fits? Sorry I can't offer you a better

exchange unless you'd prefer hereditary insanity. Say the word and I'll

tell 'em it's fits. All Simla knows about that scene on the Ladies'

Mile. Come! I'll give you five minutes to think over it."



During those five minutes I believe that I explored thoroughly the

lowest circles of the Inferno which it is permitted man to tread on

earth. And at the same time I myself was watching myself faltering

through the dark labyrinths of doubt, misery, and utter despair.

I wondered, as Heatherlegh in his chair might have wondered, which

dreadful alternative I should adopt. Presently I heard myself answering

in a voice that I hardly recognized:



"They're confoundedly particular about morality in these parts. Give 'em

fits, Heatherlegh, and my love. Now let me sleep a bit longer."



Then my two selves joined, and it was only I (half crazed, devil-driven

I) that tossed in my bed, tracing step by step the history of the past

month.



"But I am in Simla," I kept repeating to myself. "I, Jack Pansay, am in

Simla, and there are no ghosts here. It's unreasonable of that woman to

pretend there are. Why couldn't Agnes have left me alone? I never did

her any harm. It might just as well have been me as Agnes. Only I'd

never have come back on purpose to kill _her_. Why can't I be left

alone--left alone and happy?"



It was high noon when I first awoke: and the sun was low in the sky

before I slept--slept as the tortured criminal sleeps on his rack, too

worn to feel further pain.



Next day I could not leave my bed. Heatherlegh told me in the morning

that he had received an answer from Mr. Mannering, and that, thanks to

his (Heatherlegh's) friendly offices, the story of my affliction had

traveled through the length and breadth of Simla, where I was on all

sides much pitied.



"And that's rather more than you deserve," he concluded pleasantly,

"though the Lord knows you've been going through a pretty severe mill.

Never mind; we'll cure you yet, you perverse phenomenon."



I declined firmly to be cured. "You've been much too good to me already,

old man," said I; "but I don't think I need trouble you further."



In my heart I knew that nothing Heatherlegh could do would lighten the

burden that had been laid upon me.



With that knowledge came also a sense of hopeless, impotent rebellion

against the unreasonableness of it all. There were scores of men no

better than I whose punishments had at least been reserved for another

world and I felt that it was bitterly, cruelly unfair that I alone

should have been singled out for so hideous a fate. This mood would in

time give place to another where it seemed that the 'rickshaw and I were

the only realities in a world of shadows; that Kitty was a ghost; that

Mannering, Heatherlegh, and all the other men and women I knew were all

ghosts and the great, gray hills themselves but vain shadows devised to

torture me. From mood to mood I tossed backwards and forwards for seven

weary days, my body growing daily stronger and stronger, until the

bed-room looking-glass told me that I had returned to everyday life, and

was as other men once more. Curiously enough, my face showed no signs

of the struggle I had gone through. It was pale indeed, but as

expressionless and commonplace as ever. I had expected some permanent

alteration--visible evidence of the disease that was eating me away.

I found nothing.



On the 15th of May I left Heatherlegh's house at eleven o'clock in the

morning; and the instinct of the bachelor drove me to the Club. There

I found that every man knew my story as told by Heatherlegh, and was, in

clumsy fashion, abnormally kind and attentive. Nevertheless I recognized

that for the rest of my natural life I should be among, but not of, my

fellows; and I envied very bitterly indeed the laughing coolies on the

Mall below. I lunched at the Club, and at four o'clock wandered

aimlessly down the Mall in the vague hope of meeting Kitty. Close to the

Band-stand the black and white liveries joined me; and I heard Mrs.

Wessington's old appeal at my side. I had been expecting this ever since

I came out; and was only surprised at her delay. The phantom 'rickshaw

and I went side by side along the Chota Simla road in silence. Close to

the bazaar, Kitty and a man on horseback overtook and passed us. For any

sign she gave I might have been a dog in the road. She did not even pay

me the compliment of quickening her pace; though the rainy afternoon had

served for an excuse.



So Kitty and her companion, and I and my ghostly Light-o'-Love, crept

round Jakko in couples. The road was streaming with water; the pines

dripped like roof-pipes on the rocks below, and the air was full of

fine, driving rain. Two or three times I found myself saying to myself

almost aloud: "I'm Jack Pansay on leave at Simla--_at Simla!_ Everyday,

ordinary Simla. I mustn't forget that--I mustn't forget that." Then I

would try to recollect some of the gossip I had heard at the Club; the

prices of So-and-So's horses--anything, in fact, that related to the

work-a-day Anglo-Indian world I knew so well. I even repeated the

multiplication-table rapidly to myself, to make quite sure that I was

not taking leave of my senses. It gave me much comfort; and must have

prevented my hearing Mrs. Wessington for a time.



Once more I wearily climbed the Convent slope and entered the level

road. Here Kitty and the man started off at a canter, and I was left

alone with Mrs. Wessington. "Agnes," said I, "will you put back your

hood and tell me what it all means?" The hood dropped noiselessly and

I was face to face with my dead and buried mistress. She was wearing

the dress in which I had last seen her alive: carried the same tiny

handkerchief in her right hand; and the same card-case in her left. (A

woman eight months dead with a card-case!) I had to pin myself down to

the multiplication-table, and to set both hands on the stone parapet of

the road to assure myself that that at least was real.



"Agnes," I repeated, "for pity's sake tell me what it all means." Mrs.

Wessington leant forward, with that odd, quick turn of the head I used

to know so well, and spoke.



If my story had not already so madly overleaped the bounds of all human

belief I should apologize to you now. As I know that no one--no, not

even Kitty, for whom it is written as some sort of justification of my

conduct--will believe me, I will go on. Mrs. Wessington spoke and I

walked with her from the Sanjowlie road to the turning below the

Commander-in-Chief's house as I might walk by the side of any living

woman's 'rickshaw, deep in conversation. The second and most tormenting

of my moods of sickness had suddenly laid hold upon me, and like the

prince in Tennyson's poem, "I seemed to move amid a world of ghosts."

There had been a garden-party at the Commander-in-Chief's, and we two

joined the crowd of homeward-bound folk. As I saw them then it seemed

that _they_ were the shadows--impalpable fantastic shadows--that divided

for Mrs. Wessington's 'rickshaw to pass through. What we said during the

course of that weird interview I cannot--indeed, I dare not--tell.

Heatherlegh's comment would have been a short laugh and a remark that I

had been "mashing a brain-eye-and-stomach chimera." It was a ghastly and

yet in some indefinable way a marvelously dear experience. Could it be

possible, I wondered, that I was in this life to woo a second time the

woman I had killed by my own neglect and cruelty?



I met Kitty on the homeward road--a shadow among shadows.



If I were to describe all the incidents of the next fortnight in their

order, my story would never come to an end; and your patience would be

exhausted. Morning after morning and evening after evening the ghostly

'rickshaw and I used to wander through Simla together. Wherever I went,

there the four black and white liveries followed me and bore me company

to and from my hotel. At the theater I found them amid the crowd of

yelling _jhampanies_; outside the club veranda, after a long evening of

whist; at the birthday ball, waiting patiently for my reappearance; and

in broad daylight when I went calling. Save that it cast no shadow, the

'rickshaw was in every respect as real to look upon as one of wood and

iron. More than once, indeed, I have had to check myself from warning

some hard-riding friend against cantering over it. More than once I have

walked down the Mall deep in conversation with Mrs. Wessington to the

unspeakable amazement of the passers-by.



Before I had been out and about a week I learnt that the "fit" theory

had been discarded in favor of insanity. However, I made no change in my

mode of life. I called, rode, and dined out as freely as ever. I had a

passion for the society of my kind which I had never felt before; I

hungered to be among the realities of life; and at the same time I felt

vaguely unhappy when I had been separated too long from my ghostly

companion. It would be almost impossible to describe my varying moods

from the 15th of May up to to-day.



The presence of the 'rickshaw filled me by turns with horror, blind

fear, a dim sort of pleasure, and utter despair. I dared not leave

Simla; and I knew that my stay there was killing me. I knew, moreover,

that it was my destiny to die slowly and a little every day. My only

anxiety was to get the penance over as quietly as might be. Alternately

I hungered for a sight of Kitty and watched her outrageous flirtations

with my successor--to speak more accurately, my successors--with amused

interest. She was as much out of my life as I was out of hers. By day

I wandered with Mrs. Wessington almost content. By night I implored

Heaven to let me return to the world as I used to know it. Above all

these varying moods lay the sensation of dull, numbing wonder that the

seen and the unseen should mingle so strangely on this earth to hound

one poor soul to its grave.







_August 27th._--Heatherlegh has been indefatigable in his attendance on

me; and only yesterday told me that I ought to send in an application

for sick-leave. An application to escape the company of a phantom! A

request that the Government would graciously permit me to get rid of

five ghosts and an airy 'rickshaw by going to England! Heatherlegh's

proposition moved me to almost hysterical laughter. I told him that

I should await the end quietly at Simla; and I am sure that the end is

not far off. Believe me that I dread its advent more than any word can

say; and I torture myself nightly with a thousand speculations as to

the manner of my death.



Shall I die in my bed decently and as an English gentlemen should die;

or, in one last walk on the Mall, will my soul be wrenched from me to

take its place for ever and ever by the side of that ghastly phantasm?

Shall I return to my old lost allegiance in the next world, or shall

I meet Agnes loathing her and bound to her side through all eternity?

Shall we two hover over the scene of our lives till the end of time? As

the day of my death draws nearer, the intense horror that all living

flesh feels towards escaped spirits from beyond the grave grows more and

more powerful. It is an awful thing to go down quick among the dead with

scarcely one half of your life completed. It is a thousand times more

awful to wait as I do in your midst, for I know not what unimaginable

terror. Pity me, at least on the score of my "delusion," for I know you

will never believe what I have written here. Yet as surely as ever a man

was done to death by the Powers of Darkness I am that man.



In justice, too, pity her. For as surely as ever woman was killed by

man, I killed Mrs. Wessington. And the last portion of my punishment is

even now upon me.