“Try!” said Sanderson. “How?”
“Passes,” said Clayton.
“Passes?”
“Complicated series of gestures and passes with the hands. That’s how he had come in and that’s how he had to get out again. Lord, what a business I had!”
“But how could any series of passes—” I began.
“My dear man,” said Clayton, turning on me and putting a great emphasis on certain words, “you want everything clear. I don’t know how. All I know is that you do – that he did, anyhow, at least. After a fearful time, you know, he got his passes right and suddenly disappeared.”
“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 in 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 way—”
“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 nothing! 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 pen-knife 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 pen-knife 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 into 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 church-warden 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 table and stood there. “Clayton,” he said, “you’re a fool.”
Clayton, with a humorous light in his eyes, smiled back to 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!
Sophy Mason Comes Back
E. M. Delafield
Prospectus
Address:
Les Moineaux, near Aix en Provence, France.
Property:
Fashionable summer house in the midi region. A tall, narrow, elegant property with blue shutters. Formerly owned by a small community of monks.
Viewing Date:
July, 1930.
Agent:
Edmee Monica Delafield (1890–1943) was the author of Diary of a Provincial Lady (1930), the story of a disaster-prone woman that earned her the accolade of “a successor to Jane Austen.” Born in Sussex, she was, for a time, a member of a French religious order before returning to England and becoming a prolific writer of magazine stories, books, plays and film scripts. She later added to the success of Provincial Lady with three sequels set in London, America and wartime Britain. Peter Cushing (1913–1994) was the son of a Surrey surveyor’s clerk who took himself to Hollywood to make a career in films, and from the mid-1950s was one of Britain’s most popular horror film stars. A gentle and softly spoken man off-screen, Cushing was a devotee of Delafield’s work. “Her style, her fascinating characters and her wonderful ability to tell a good tale makes ‘Sophy Mason Comes Back’ one of my favourite short stories,” he wrote a few years before his death.
“Have you ever, actually, seen a ghost?”
It wasn’t, as it is so often, a flippant enquiry. One was serious, on that particular subject, with Fenwick. He was keen on psychical research, although it was understood that he took a line of his own, and neither accepted, nor promulgated, arbitrary interpretations of any kind.
He answered cautiously:
“I’ve seen what the French call a revenant, undoubtedly.”
“Was it frightening?” asked one of the women, timidly.
Fenwick shook his head:
“I wasn’t frightened,” he admitted. “Not by the ghost or spirit – whichever you like to call it. Still less have I been so by so-called ‘haunted rooms’ with mysterious noises and unexplained openings of doors, and so on. But once, in the house where I saw the revenant – I was frightened.”
“Do you mean – wasn’t it the ghost that frightened you, then?”
“No,” said Fenwick, and his serious, clever face wore a look of gravity and horror.
We asked if he would tell us about it.
“I’ll try, but I may have to tell the story backwards. You see, when I came into it, everything was over – far away in the forgotten past, not just on the other side of the war, but right back in the late eighties. You know – horse-drawn carriages, and oil-lamps, and the women wearing bonnets, and long, tight skirts, all bunched up at the back . . . In a French provincial town, naturally, things were as much behind the times then, as they are now. (This happened in France by the way – did I tell you?) It isn’t necessary to give you the name of the town. It was somewhere in the midi, where the Latins are – very Latin indeed.
“Well, there was a house – call it Les Moineaux. One of those tall, narrow French houses, white, with blue shutters, and a straight avenue of trees leading to the front steps, and a formal arrangement of standard rose-bushes on either side of the blue frontdoor.
“It was quite a little house, you understand – not a chateau. It had once belonged to a very small community of contemplative monks – they’d made the garden and the avenue, I believe. When the monks became so few in number that they were absorbed into another Order, the house stayed empty for a bit. Then it was bought by a wine merchant, as a gift for his wife, who used it as a country villa for herself and her children every summer. This family lived at – well, in a town about twenty kilometres away. They could either drive out to Les Moineaux, or come by the diligence, that stopped in the village about half a mi
le away from the house. Most of the year, the house remained empty, and no one seems to have thought that a caretaker was necessary. Either the peasants round there were very honest, or there was nothing worth taking in the house. Probably the thrifty madame of the wine merchant brought down whatever they required for their summer visits, and took it all away again when they left. There were big cupboards in the house, too – built into the wall – and she could have locked anything away in those, and taken the key.
“The family consisted of monsieur and madame, three or four children, and an English girl, whom they all called ‘mees,’ who was supposed to look after the children, and make herself generally useful.
“Her name was Sophy Mason; she was about twenty when she came to them, and is said to have been very pretty.
“One imagines that she was kept fully occupied. Madame would certainly have seen to it that she earned her small salary, and her keep; and, as is customary in the French middle-class, each member of the household was prepared to do any job that needed doing, without reference to ‘my work’ or ‘your work.’ Sophy Mason, however, was principally engaged with the children. Quite often, in the spring and early summer, she was sent down with them to Les Moineaux for a few days’ country air, while monsieur and madame remained with the business. They must have been go-ahead people, by the way, far in advance of their time, for ‘the mees’ seems to have been allowed to keep the children out of doors, quite in accordance with the English traditions, and entirely contrary to the usual French fashion of that date and that class.
“The peasants, working in the fields, used to see the English girl, with the children, running races up and down the avenue, or going out into the woods to pick wild strawberries. Sophy Mason could speak French quite well, but she was naturally expected to talk English with the children, and, except for a word or two with the people at the farm, from which milk and butter and eggs were supplied to Les Moineaux, there was in point of fact no one for her to talk to, when monsieur and madame were not there.
The Mammoth Book of Haunted House Stories (Mammoth Books) Page 68