Legends of Lancashire

by Peter Landreth

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.”