by Roald Dahl
Tessa closed the book over her fingers and listened. The sounds were crisp, dry, long-drawn-out, and rhythmic. There was an equal pause after each one. It was rather like listening to the leisurely brushing of a woman’s long hair. What was it? An uneven surface being scratched by something crisp and pliant? Then Tessa knew. On the long path behind the house which travelled the whole length of the building somebody was sweeping up the fallen leaves with a stable broom. But what a time to sweep up leaves!
She continued to listen. Now that she had identified the sounds they were quite unmistakable. She would not have had to guess twice had it not been dark outside, and the thought of a gardener showing such devotion to duty as to work at that hour had at first been rejected by her subconscious mind. She looked up, with the intention of making some remark to Miss Ludgate – and she said nothing.
Miss Ludgate sat listening intently, her face half turned towards the windows and slightly raised, her eyes upturned. Her whole attitude was one of strained rigidity, expressive of a tension rather dreadful to see in one so old. Tessa not only listened, she now watched.
There was a movement in the unnaturally silent room. Miss Ludgate had turned her head, and now showed her companion a white face of woe and doom-ridden eyes. Then, in a flash, her expression changed. Tessa knew that Miss Ludgate had caught her listening to the sounds from the path outside, and that for some reason the old lady was annoyed with her for having heard them. But why? And why that look of terror on the poor, white old face?
‘Won’t you play something, Tessa?’
Despite the note of interrogation, the words were an abrupt command, and Tessa knew it. She was to drown the noise of sweeping from outside, because, for some queer reason, Miss Ludgate did not want her to hear it. So, tactfully, she played pieces which allowed her to make liberal use of the loud pedal.
After half an hour Miss Ludgate rose, gathered her shawl tighter about her shoulders, and hobbled to the door, pausing on the way to say good night to Tessa.
Tessa lingered in the room alone and reseated herself before the piano. A minute or two elapsed before she began to strum softly and absent-mindedly. Why did Miss Ludgate object to her hearing that sound of sweeping from the path outside? It had ceased now, or she would have peeped out to see who actually was at work. Had Miss Ludgate some queer distaste for seeing fallen leaves lying about, and was she ashamed because she was keeping a gardener at work at that hour? But it was unlike Miss Ludgate to mind what people thought of her; besides, she rose late in the morning, and there would be plenty of time to brush away the leaves before the mistress of the house could set eyes on them. And then, why was Miss Ludgate so terrified? Had it anything to do with her queer belief that she would die in the autumn?
On her way to bed Tessa smiled gently to herself for having tried to penetrate to the secret places of a warped mind which was over eighty years old. She had just seen another queer phase of Miss Ludgate, and all of such seemed inexplicable.
The night was still calm and promised so to remain.
‘There won’t be many more leaves down tonight,’ Tessa reflected as she undressed.
But when next morning she sauntered out into the garden before breakfast the long path which skirted the rear of the house was still thickly littered with them, and Toy, the second gardener, was busy among them with a barrow and one of those birch stable brooms which, in medieval imaginations, provided steeds for witches.
‘Hullo!’ exclaimed Tessa. ‘What a lot of leaves must have come down last night!’
Toy ceased sweeping and shook his head.
‘No, miss. This ’ere little lot come down with the wind early part o’ the evenin’.’
‘But surely they were all swept up. I heard somebody at work here after nine o’clock. Wasn’t it you?’
The man grinned.
‘You catch any of us at work arter nine o’clock, miss!’ he said. ‘No, miss, nobody’s touched ’em till now. ’Tes thankless work, too. So soon as you’ve swept up one lot there’s another waitin’. Not a hundred men could keep this ’ere garden tidy this time o’ the year.’
Tessa said nothing more and went thoughtfully into the house. The sweeping was continued off and on all day, for more leaves descended, and a bonfire built up on the waste ground beyond the kitchen garden wafted its fragrance over to the house.
That evening Miss Ludgate had a fire made up in the boudoir and announced to Tessa that they would sit there before and after dinner. But it happened that the chimney smoked, and after coughing and grumbling, and rating Mrs Finch on the dilatoriness and inefficiency of sweeps, the old lady went early to bed.
It was still too early for Tessa to retire. Having been left to herself she remembered a book which she had left in the drawing-room, and with which she purposed sitting over the dining-room fire. Hardly had she taken two steps past the threshold of the drawing-room when she came abruptly to a halt and stood listening. She could not doubt the evidence of her ears. In spite of what Toy had told her, and that it was now after half past nine, somebody was sweeping the path outside.
She tiptoed to the window and peeped out between the blinds. Bright moonlight silvered the garden, but she could see nothing. Now, however, that she was near the window, she could locate the sounds more accurately, and they seemed to proceed from a spot farther down the path which was hidden from her by the angle of the window setting. There was a door just outside the room giving access to the garden, but for no reason that she could name she felt strangely unwilling to go out and look at the mysterious worker. With the strangest little cold thrill she was aware of a distinct preference for seeing him – for the first time, at least – from a distance.
Then Tessa remembered a landing window, and after a little hesitation she went silently and on tiptoe upstairs to the first floor, and down a passage on the left of the stairhead. Here moonlight penetrated a window and threw a pale blue screen upon the opposite wall. Tessa fumbled with the window fastenings, raised the sash softly and silently, and leaned out.
On the path below her, but some yards to her left and close to the angle of the house, a man was slowly and rhythmically sweeping with a stable broom. The broom swung and struck the path time after time with a soft, crisp swish, and the strokes were as regular as those of the pendulum of some slow old clock.
From her angle of observation she was unable to see most of the characteristics of the figure underneath. It was that of a working-man, for there was something in the silhouette subtly suggestive of old and baggy clothes. But apart from all else there was something queer, something odd and unnatural, in the scene on which she gazed. She knew that there was something lacking, something that she should have found missing at the first glance, yet for her life she could not have said what it was.
From below some gross omission blazed up at her, and though she was acutely aware that the scene lacked something which she had every right to expect to see, her senses groped for it in vain; although the lack of something which should have been there, and was not, was as obvious as a burning pyre at midnight. She knew that she was watching the gross defiance of some natural law, but what law she did not know. Suddenly sick and dizzy, she withdrew her head.
All the cowardice in Tessa’s nature urged her to go to bed, to forget what she had seen and to refrain from trying to remember what she had not seen. But the other Tessa, the Tessa who despised cowards, and was herself capable under pressure of rising to great heights of courage, stayed and urged. Under her breath she talked to herself, as she always did when any crisis found her in a state of indecision.
‘Tessa, you coward! How dare you be afraid! Go down at once and see who it is and what’s queer about him. He can’t eat you!’
So the two Tessas imprisoned in the one body stole downstairs again, and the braver Tessa was angry with their common heart for thumping so hard and trying to weaken her. But she unfastened the door and stepped out into the moonlight.
The Sweeper was still at
work close to the angle of the house, near by where the path ended and a green door gave entrance to the stable yard. The path was thick with leaves and the girl, advancing uncertainly with her hands to her breasts, saw that he was making little progress with his work. The broom rose and fell and audibly swept the path, but the dead leaves lay fast and still beneath it. Yet it was not this that she had noticed from above. There was still that unseizable Something missing.
Her footfalls made little noise on the leaf-strewn path, but they became audible to the Sweeper while she was still half a dozen yards from him. He paused in his work and turned and looked at her.
He was a tall, lean man with a white cadaverous face and eyes that bulged like huge rising bubbles as they regarded her. It was a foul, suffering face which he showed to Tessa, a face whose misery could – and did – inspire loathing and a hitherto unimagined horror, but never pity. He was clad in the meanest rags, which seemed to have been cast at random over his emaciated body. The hands grasping the broom seemed no more than bones and skin. He was so thin, thought Tessa, that he was almost – and here she paused in thought, because she found herself hating the word which tried to force itself into her mind. But it had its way, and blew in on a cold wind of terror. Yes, he was almost transparent, she thought, and sickened at the word, which had come to have a new and vile meaning for her.
They faced each other through a fraction of eternity not to be measured by seconds; and then Tessa heard herself scream. It flashed upon her now, the strange, abominable detail of the figure which confronted her – the Something missing which she had noticed, without actually seeing, from above. The path was flooded with moonlight, but the visitant had no shadow. And fast upon this vile discovery she saw dimly through it the ivy stirring upon the wall. Then, as unbidden thoughts rushed to tell her that the Thing was not of this world, and that it was not holy, and the sudden knowledge wrung that scream from her, so she was left suddenly and dreadfully alone. The spot where the Thing had stood was empty save for the moonlight and the shallow litter of leaves.
Tessa had no memory of returning to the house. Her next recollection was of finding herself in the hall, faint and gasping and sobbing. Even as she approached the stairs she saw a light dancing on the wall above and wondered what fresh horror was to confront her. But it was only Mrs Finch coming downstairs in a dressing-gown, candle in hand, an incongruous but a very comforting sight.
‘Oh, it’s you, Miss Tessa,’ said Mrs Finch, reassured. She held the candle lower and peered down at the sobbing girl. ‘Why, whatever is the matter? Oh, Miss Tessa, Miss Tessa! You haven’t never been outside, have you?’
Tessa sobbed and choked and tried to speak.
‘I’ve seen – I’ve seen …’
Mrs Finch swiftly descended the remaining stairs, and put an arm around the shuddering girl.
‘Hush, my dear, my dear! I know what you’ve seen. You didn’t ought never to have gone out. I’ve seen it too, once – but only once, thank God.’
‘What is it?’ Tessa faltered.
‘Never you mind, my dear. Now don’t be frightened. It’s all over now. He doesn’t come here for you. It’s the mistress he wants. You’ve nothing to fear, Miss Tessa. Where was he when you saw him?’
‘Close to the end of the path, near the stable gate.’
Mrs Finch threw up her hands.
‘Oh, the poor mistress – the poor mistress! Her time’s shortening! The end’s nigh now!’
‘I can’t bear any more,’ Tessa sobbed; and then she contradicted herself, clinging to Mrs Finch. ‘I must know. I can’t rest until I know. Tell me everything.’
‘Come into my parlour, my dear, and I’ll make a cup of tea. We can both do with it, I think. But you’d best not know. At least not tonight.’
‘I must,’ whispered Tessa, ‘if I’m ever to have any peace.’
The fire was still burning behind a guard in the housekeeper’s parlour, for Mrs Finch had only gone up to bed a few minutes since. There was water still warm in the brass kettle, and in a few minutes the tea was ready. Tessa sipped and felt the first vibrations of her returning courage, and presently looked inquiringly at Mrs Finch.
‘I’ll tell you, Miss Tessa,’ said the old housekeeper, ‘if it’ll make you any easier. But don’t let the mistress know as I’ve ever told you.’
Tessa inclined her head and gave the required promise.
‘You don’t know why,’ Mrs Finch began in a low voice, ‘the mistress gives to every beggar, deserving or otherwise. The reason comes into what I’m going to tell you. Miss Ludgate wasn’t always like that – not until up to about fifteen years ago.
‘She was old then, but active for her age, and very fond of gardenin’. Late one afternoon in the autumn, while she was cutting some late roses, a beggar came to the tradesmen’s door. Sick and ill and starved, he looked – but there, you’ve seen him. He was a bad lot, we found out afterwards, but I was sorry for him, and I was just going to risk givin’ him some food without orders, when up comes Miss Ludgate. “What’s this?” she says.
‘He whined something about not being able to get work.
‘ “Work!” says the mistress. “You don’t want work – you want charity. If you want to eat,” she says, “you shall, but you shall work first. There’s a broom,” she says, “and there’s a path littered with leaves. Start sweeping up at the top, and when you come to the end you can come and see me.”
‘Well, he took the broom, and a few minutes later I heard a shout from Miss Ludgate and come hurryin’ out. There was the man lyin’ at the top of the path where he’d commenced sweeping, and he’d collapsed and fallen down. I didn’t know then as he was dying, but he did, and he gave Miss Ludgate a look as I shall never forget.
‘ “When I’ve swept to the end of the path,” he says, “I’ll come for you, my lady, and we’ll feast together. Only see as you’re ready to be fetched when I come.” Those were his last words. He was buried by the parish, and it gave Miss Ludgate such a turn that she ordered something to be given to every beggar who came, and not one of ’em to be asked to do a stroke of work.
‘But next autumn, when the leaves began to fall, he came back and started sweeping, right at the top of the path, round about where he died. We’ve all heard him and most of us have seen him. Year after year he’s come back and swept with his broom, which just makes a brushing noise and hardly stirs a leaf. But each year he’s been getting nearer and nearer to the end of the path, and when he gets right to the end – well, I wouldn’t like to be the mistress, with all her money.’
It was three evenings later, just before the hour fixed for dinner, that the Sweeper completed his task. That is to say, if one reposes literal belief in Mrs Finch’s story.
The servants heard somebody burst open the tradesmen’s door, and, having rushed out into the passage, two of them saw that the door was open but found no one there. Miss Ludgate was already in the drawing-room, but Tessa was still upstairs, dressing for dinner. Presently Mrs Finch had occasion to enter the drawing-room to speak to her mistress; and her screams warned the household of what had happened. Tessa heard them just as she was ready to go downstairs, and she rushed into the drawing-room a few moments later.
Miss Ludgate was sitting upright in her favourite chair. Her eyes were open, but she was quite dead; and in her eyes there was something that Tessa could not bear to see.
Withdrawing her own gaze from that fixed stare of terror and recognition she saw something on the carpet and presently stooped to pick it up.
It was a little yellow leaf, damp and pinched and frayed, and but for her own experience and Mrs Finch’s tale she might have wondered how it had come to be there. She dropped it, shuddering, for it looked as if it had been picked up by, and had afterwards fallen from, the birch twigs of a stable broom.
Afterward
by Edith Wharton
‘Oh, there is one, of course, but you’ll never know it.’
The assertion, laughingly
flung out six months earlier in a bright June garden, came back to Mary Boyne with a new perception of its significance as she stood, in the December dusk, waiting for the lamps to be brought into the library.
The words had been spoken by their friend Alida Stair, as they sat at tea on her lawn at Pangbourne, in reference to the very house of which the library in question was the central, the pivotal, ‘feature’. Mary Boyne and her husband, in quest of a country place in one of the southern or south-western counties, had, on their arrival in England, carried their problem straight to Alida Stair, who had successfully solved it in her own case; but it was not until they had rejected, almost capriciously, several practical and judicious suggestions, that she threw out: ‘Well, there’s Lyng, in Dorsetshire. It belongs to Hugo’s cousins, and you can get it for a song.’
The reason she gave for its being obtainable on these terms – its remoteness from a station, its lack of electric light, hot-water pipes, and other vulgar necessities – were exactly those pleasing in its favour with two romantic Americans perversely in search of the economic drawbacks which were associated, in their tradition, with unusual architectural felicities.
‘I should never believe I was living in an old house unless I was thoroughly uncomfortable,’ Ned Boyne, the more extravagant of the two, had jocosely insisted; ‘the least hint of “convenience” would make me think it had been bought out of an exhibition, with the pieces numbered, and set up again.’ And they had proceeded to enumerate, with humorous precision, their various doubts and demands, refusing to believe that the house their cousin recommended was really Tudor till they learned it had no heating system, or that the village church was literally in the grounds till she assured them of the deplorable uncertainty of the water-supply.
‘It’s too uncomfortable to be true!’ Edward Boyne had continued to exult as the avowal of each disadvantage was successively wrung from her; but he had cut short his rhapsody to ask, with a relapse to distrust: ‘And the ghost? You’ve been concealing from us the fact that there is no ghost!’