Ghost

by Louise Welsh

  “Did you,” said Sanderson, slowly, “observe the passes?”

  “Yes,” said Clayton, and seemed to think. “It was tremendously queer,” he said. “There we were, I and this thin vague ghost, in that silent room, in this silent, empty inn, in this silent little Friday-night town. Not a sound except our voices and a faint panting he made when he swung. There was the bedroom candle, and one candle on the dressing-table alight, that was all – sometimes one or other would flare up into a tall, lean, astonished flame for a space. And queer things happened. ‘I can’t,’ he said; ‘I shall never—!’ And suddenly he sat down on a little chair at the foot of the bed and began to sob and sob. Lord! what a harrowing, whimpering thing he seemed!

  “‘You pull yourself together,’ I said, and tried to pat him on the back, and… my confounded hand went through him! By that time, you know, I wasn’t nearly so massive as I had been on the landing. I got the queerness of it full. I remember snatching back my hand out of him, as it were, with a little thrill, and walking over to the dressing-table. ‘You pull yourself together,’ I said to him, ‘and try.’ And in order to encourage and help him I began to try as well.”

  “What!” said Sanderson, “the passes?”

  “Yes, the passes.”

  “But—” I said, moved by an idea that eluded me for a space.

  “This is interesting,” said Sanderson, with his finger in his pipe-bowl. “You mean to say this ghost of yours gave away—”

  “Did his level best to give away the whole confounded barrier? Yes.”

  “He didn’t,” said Wish; “he couldn’t. Or you’d have gone there too.”

  “That’s precisely it,” I said, finding my elusive idea put into words for me.

  “That is precisely it,” said Clayton, with thoughtful eyes upon the fire.

  For just a little while there was silence.

  “And at last he did it?” said Sanderson.

  “At last he did it. I had to keep him up to it hard, but he did it at last rather suddenly. He despaired, we had a scene, and then he got up abruptly and asked me to go through the whole performance, slowly, so that he might see. ‘I believe,’ he said, ‘if I could see I should spot what was wrong at once.’ And he did. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘What do you know?’ said I. ‘I know,’ he repeated. Then he said, peevishly, ‘I can’t do it if you look at me – I really can’t; it’s been that, partly, all along. I’m such a nervous fellow that you put me out.’ Well, we had a bit of an argument. Naturally I wanted to see; but he was as obstinate as a mule, and suddenly I had come over as tired as a dog – he tired me out. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘I won’t look at you,’ and turned towards the mirror, on the wardrobe, by the bed.

  He started off very fast. I tried to follow him by looking in the looking-glass, to see just what it was had hung. Round went his arms and his hands, so, and so, and so, and then with a rush came to the last gesture of all – you stand erect and open out your arms – and so, don’t you know, he stood. And then he didn’t! He didn’t! He wasn’t! I wheeled round from the looking-glass to him. There was nothingl I was alone, with the flaring candles and a staggering mind. What had happened? Had anything happened? Had I been dreaming?… And then, with an absurd note of finality about it, the clock upon the landing discovered the moment was ripe for striking one. So! – Ping! And I was as grave and sober as a judge, with all my champagne and whisky gone into the vast serene. Feeling queer, you know – confoundedly queer! Queer! Good Lord!”

  He regarded his cigar-ash for a moment. “That’s all that happened,” he said.

  “And then you went to bed?” asked Evans.

  “What else was there to do?”

  I looked Wish in the eye. We wanted to scoff, and there was something, something perhaps in Clayton’s voice and manner, that hampered our desire.

  “And about these passes?” said Sanderson.

  “I believe I could do them now.”

  “Oh!” said Sanderson, and produced a penknife and set himself to grub the dottel out of the bowl of his clay.

  “Why don’t you do them now?” said Sanderson, shutting his penknife with a click.

  “That’s what I’m going to do,” said Clayton.

  “They won’t work,” said Evans.

  “If they do—” I suggested.

  “You know, I’d rather you didn’t,” said Wish, stretching out his legs.

  “Why?” asked Evans.

  “I’d rather he didn’t,” said Wish.

  “But he hasn’t got ‘em right,” said Sanderson, plugging too much tobacco in his pipe.

  “All the same, I’d rather he didn’t,” said Wish.

  We argued with Wish. He said that for Clayton to go through those gestures was like mocking a serious matter. “But you don’t believe—?” I said. Wish glanced at Clayton, who was staring into the fire, weighing something in his mind. “I do – more than half, anyhow, I do,” said Wish.

  “Clayton,” said I, “you’re too good a liar for us. Most of it was all right. But that disappearance… happened to be convincing. Tell us, it’s a tale of cock and bull.”

  He stood up without heeding me, took the middle of the hearthrug, and faced me. For a moment he regarded his feet thoughtfully, and then for all the rest of the time his eyes were on the opposite wall, with an intent expression. He raised his two hands slowly to the level of his eyes and so began…

  Now, Sanderson is a Freemason, a member of the lodge of the Four Kings, which devotes itself so ably to the study and elucidation of all the mysteries of Masonry past and present, and among the students of this lodge Sanderson is by no means the least. He followed Clayton’s motions with a singular interest in his reddish eye. “That’s not bad,” he said, when it was done. “You really do, you know, put things together, Clayton, in a most amazing fashion. But there’s one little detail out.”

  “I know,” said Clayton. “I believe I could tell you which.”

  “Well?”

  “This,” said Clayton, and did a queer little twist and writhing and thrust of the hands.

  “Yes.”

  “That, you know, was what he couldn’t get right,” said Clayton. “But how do you—?”

  “Most of this business, and particularly how you invented it, I don’t understand at all,” said Sanderson, “but just that phase – I do.” He reflected. “These happen to be a series of gestures – connected with a certain branch of esoteric Masonry. Probably you know. Or else – how?” He reflected still further. “I do not see I can do any harm in telling you just the proper twist. After all, if you know, you know; if you don’t, you don’t.”

  “I know nothing,” said Clayton, “except what the poor devil let out last night.”

  “Well, anyhow,” said Sanderson, and placed his churchwarden very carefully upon the shelf over the fireplace. Then very rapidly he gesticulated with his hands.

  “So?” said Clayton, repeating.

  “So,” said Sanderson, and took his pipe in hand again.

  “Ah, now,” said Clayton, “I can do the whole thing – right.”

  He stood up before the waning fire and smiled at us all. But I think there was just a little hesitation in his smile. “If I begin—” he said.

  “I wouldn’t begin,” said Wish.

  “It’s all right!” said Evans. “Matter is indestructible. You don’t think any jiggery-pokery of this sort is going to snatch Clayton into the world of shades. Not it! You may try, Clayton, so far as I’m concerned, until your arms drop off at the wrists.”

  “I don’t believe that,” said Wish, and stood up and put his arm on Clayton’s shoulder. “You’ve made me half believe in that story somehow, and I don’t want to see the thing done!”

  “Goodness!” said I, “here’s Wish frightened!”

  “I am,” said Wish, with real or admirably feigned intensity. “I believe that if he goes through these motions right he’ll go.”

  “He’ll not do anything of the sort,” I
cried. “There’s only one way out of this world for men, and Clayton is thirty years from that. Besides… And such a ghost! Do you think—?”

  Wish interrupted me by moving. He walked out from among our chairs and stopped beside the tole and stood there. “Clayton,” he said, “you’re a fool.”

  Clayton, with a humorous light in his eyes, smiled back at him. “Wish,” he said, “is right and all you others are wrong. I shall go. I shall get to the end of these passes, and as the last swish whistles through the air, Presto! – this hearthrug will be vacant, the room will be blank amazement, and a respectably dressed gentleman of fifteen stone will plump into the world of shades. I’m certain. So will you be. I decline to argue further. Let the thing be tried.”

  “No,” said Wish, and made a step and ceased, and Clayton raised his hands once more to repeat the spirit’s passing.

  By that time, you know, we were all in a state of tension – largely because of the behaviour of Wish. We sat all of us with our eyes on Clayton – I, at least, with a sort of tight, stiff feeling about me as though from the back of my skull to the middle of my thighs my body had been changed to steel. And there, with a gravity that was imperturbably serene, Clayton bowed and swayed and waved his hands and arms before us. As he drew towards the end one piled up, one tingled in one’s teeth. The last gesture, I have said, was to swing the arms out wide open, with the face held up. And when at last he swung out to this closing gesture I ceased even to breathe. It was ridiculous, of course, but you know that ghost-story feeling. It was after dinner, in a queer, old shadowy house. Would he, after all—?

  There he stood for one stupendous moment, with his arms open and his upturned face, assured and bright, in the glare of the hanging lamp. We hung through that moment as if it were an age, and then came from all of us something that was half a sigh of infinite relief and half a reassuring “No!” For visibly – he wasn’t going. It was all nonsense. He had told an idle story, and carried it almost to conviction, that was all!… And then in that moment the face of Clayton, changed.

  It changed. It changed as a lit house changes when its lights are suddenly extinguished. His eyes were suddenly eyes that were fixed, his smile was frozen on his lips, and he stood there still. He stood there, very gently swaying.

  That moment, too, was an age. And then, you know, chairs were scraping, things were falling, and we were all moving. His knees seemed to give, and he fell forward, and Evans rose and caught him in his arms…

  It stunned us all. For a minute I suppose no one said a coherent thing. We believed it, yet could not believe it… I came out of a muddled stupefaction to find myself kneeling beside him, and his vest and shirt were torn open, and Sanderson’s hand lay on his heart…

  Well – the simple fact before us could very well wait our convenience; there was no hurry for us to comprehend. It lay there for an hour; it lies athwart my memory, black and amazing still, to this day. Clayton had, indeed, passed into the world that lies so near to, and so far from, our own, and he had gone thither by the only road that mortal man may take. But whether he did indeed pass there by that poor ghost’s incantation, or whether he was stricken suddenly by apoplexy in the midst of an idle tale – as the coroner’s jury would have us believe – is no matter for my judging; it is just one of those inexplicable riddles that must remain unsolved until the final solution of all things shall come. All I certainly know is that, in the very moment, in the very instant, of concluding those passes, he changed, and staggered, and fell down before us – dead!

  THE WIND IN THE ROSE-BUSH

  Mary Wilkins Freeman

  Mary Eleanor Wilkins Freeman (1852–1930) was born in Randolf, Massachusetts and was distantly related to Nathaniel Hawthorne. Her parents were orthodox Congregationalists and many of her stories reflect on puritan repression. Wilkins Freeman’s work often grapples with themes of poverty and domestic servitude. Her best known novel is Pembroke (1894). She was one of the first women ever to be elected to the National Institute for Arts and Letters

  Ford Village has no railroad station, being on the other side of the river from Porter’s Falls, and accessible only by the ford which gives it its name, and a ferry line.

  The ferry-boat was waiting when Rebecca Flint got off the train with her bag and lunch basket. When she and her small trunk were safely embarked she sat stiff and straight and calm in the ferry-boat as it shot swiftly and smoothly across stream. There was a horse attached to a light country wagon on board, and he pawed the deck uneasily. His owner stood near, with a wary eye upon him, although he was chewing, with as dully reflective an expression as a cow. Beside Rebecca sat a woman of about her own age, who kept looking at her with furtive curiosity; her husband, short and stout and saturnine, stood near her. Rebecca paid no attention to either of them. She was tall and spare and pale, the type of a spinster, yet with rudimentary lines and expressions of matronhood. She all unconsciously held her shawl, rolled up in a canvas bag, on her left hip, as if it had been a child. She wore a settled frown of dissent at life, but it was the frown of a mother who regarded life as a froward child, rather than as an overwhelming fate.

  The other woman continued staring at her; she was mildly stupid, except for an over-developed curiosity which made her at times sharp beyond belief. Her eyes glittered, red spots came on her flaccid cheeks; she kept opening her mouth to speak, making little abortive motions. Finally she could endure it no longer; she nudged Rebecca boldly.

  “A pleasant day,” said she.

  Rebecca looked at her and nodded coldly.

  “Yes, very,” she assented.

  “Have you come far?”

  “I have come from Michigan.”

  “Oh!” said the woman, with awe. “It’s a long way,” she remarked presently.

  “Yes, it is,” replied Rebecca, conclusively.

  Still the other woman was not daunted; there was something which she determined to know, possibly roused thereto by a vague sense of incongruity in the other’s appearance. “It’s a long ways to come and leave a family,” she remarked with painful slyness.

  “I ain’t got any family to leave,” returned Rebecca shortly.

  “Then you ain’t—”

  “No, I ain’t.”

  “Oh!” said the woman.

  Rebecca looked straight ahead at the race of the river.

  It was a long ferry. Finally Rebecca herself waxed unexpectedly loquacious. She turned to the other woman and inquired if she knew John Dent’s widow who lived in Ford Village. “Her husband died about three years ago,” said she, by way of detail.

  The woman started violently. She turned pale, then she flushed; she cast a strange glance at her husband, who was regarding both women with a sort of stolid keenness.

  “Yes, I guess I do,” faltered the woman finally.

  “Well, his first wife was my sister,” said Rebecca with the air of one imparting important intelligence.

  “Was she?” responded the other woman feebly. She glanced at her husband with an expression of doubt and terror, and he shook his head forbiddingly.

  “I’m going to see her, and take my niece Agnes home with me,” said Rebecca.

  Then the woman gave such a violent start that she noticed it.

  “What is the matter?” she asked.

  “Nothin’, I guess,” replied the woman, with eyes on her husband, who was slowly shaking his head, like a Chinese toy.

  “Is my niece sick?” asked Rebecca with quick suspicion.

  “No, she ain’t sick,” replied the woman with alacrity, then she caught her breath with a gasp.

  “When did you see her?”

  “Let me see; I ain’t seen her for some little time,” replied the woman. Then she caught her breath again.

  “She ought to have grown up real pretty, if she takes after my sister. She was a real pretty woman,” Rebecca said wistfully.

  “Yes, I guess she did grow up pretty,” replied the woman in a trembling voice.

 
“What kind of a woman is the second wife?”

  The woman glanced at her husband’s warning face. She continued to gaze at him while she replied in a choking voice to Rebecca:

  “I – guess she’s a nice woman,” she replied. “I – don’t know, I – guess so. I – don’t see much of her.”

  “I felt kind of hurt that John married again so quick,” said Rebecca; “but I suppose he wanted his house kept, and Agnes wanted care. I wasn’t so situated that I could take her when her mother died. I had my own mother to care for, and I was school-teaching. Now mother has gone, and my uncle died six months ago and left me quite a little property, and I’ve given up my school, and I’ve come for Agnes. I guess she’ll be glad to go with me, though I suppose her stepmother is a good woman, and has always done for her.”

  The man’s warning shake at his wife was fairly portentous.

  “I guess so,” said she.

  “John always wrote that she was a beautiful woman,” said Rebecca.

  Then the ferry-boat grated on the shore.

  John Dent’s widow had sent a horse and wagon to meet her sister-in-law. When the woman and her husband went down the road, on which Rebecca in the wagon with her trunk soon passed them, she said reproachfully:

  “Seems as if I’d ought to have told her, Thomas.”

  “Let her find it out herself,” replied the man. “Don’t you go to burnin’ your fingers in other folks’ puddin’, Maria.”

  “Do you s’pose she’ll see anything?” asked the woman with a spasmodic shudder and a terrified roll of her eyes.

  “See!” returned her husband with stolid scorn. “Better be sure there’s anything to see.”

  “Oh, Thomas, they say—”

  “Lord, ain’t you found out that what they say is mostly lies?”

  “But if it should be true, and she’s a nervous woman, she might be scared enough to lose her wits,” said his wife, staring uneasily after Rebecca’s erect figure in the wagon disappearing over the crest of the hilly road.

  “Wits that so easy upset ain’t worth much,” declared the man. “You keep out of it, Maria.”

  Rebecca in the meantime rode on in the wagon, beside a flaxen-headed boy, who looked, to her understanding, not very bright. She asked him a question, and he paid no attention. She repeated it, and he responded with a bewildered and incoherent grunt. Then she let him alone, after making sure that he knew how to drive straight.