THE GHOST OF CHARLOTTE CRAY AND OTHER STORIES. BY FLORENCE MARRYAT (MRS. FRANCIS LEAN), AUTHOR OF “LOVE’S CONFLICT,” “FACING THE FOOTLIGHTS,” ETC., ETC. _COPYRIGHT EDITION._ LEIPZIG BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ 1883. _The Right of Translation is reserved._ CONTENTS. THE GHOST OF CHARLOTTE CRAY THE INVISIBLE TENANTS OF RUSHMERE AMY’S LOVER LITTLE WHITE SOULS STILL WATERS CHIT-CHAT FROM ANDALUSIA THE SECRET OF ECONOMY “MOTHER” IN THE HEART OF THE ARDENNES A MIDSUMMER’S NIGHTMARE THE GHOST OF CHARLOTTE CRAY. Mr. Sigismund Braggett was sitting in the little room he called his study, wrapped in a profound--not to say a mournful--reverie. Now, there was nothing in the present life nor surroundings of Mr. Braggett to account for such a demonstration. He was a publisher and bookseller; a man well to do, with a thriving business in the city, and the prettiest of all pretty villas at Streatham. And he was only just turned forty; had not a grey hair in his head nor a false tooth in his mouth; and had been married but three short months to one of the fairest and most affectionate specimens of English womanhood that ever transformed a bachelor’s quarters into Paradise. What more could Mr. Sigismund Braggett possibly want? Nothing! His trouble lay in the fact that he had got rather more than he wanted. Most of us have our little peccadilloes in this world--awkward reminiscences that we would like to bury five fathoms deep, and never hear mentioned again, but that have an uncomfortable habit of cropping up at the most inconvenient moments; and no mortal is more likely to be troubled with them than a middle-aged bachelor who has taken to matrimony. Mr. Sigismund Braggett had no idea what he was going in for when he led the blushing Emily Primrose up to the altar, and swore to be hers, and hers only, until death should them part. He had no conception a woman’s curiosity could be so keen, her tongue so long, and her inventive faculties so correct. He had spent whole days before the fatal moment of marriage in burning letters, erasing initials, destroying locks of hair, and making offerings of affection look as if he had purchased them with his own money. But it had been of little avail. Mrs. Braggett had swooped down upon him like a beautiful bird of prey, and wheedled, coaxed, or kissed him out of half his secrets before he knew what he was about. But he had never told her about Charlotte Cray. And now he almost wished that he had done so, for Charlotte Cray was the cause of his present dejected mood. Now, there are ladies _and_ ladies in this world. Some are very shy, and will only permit themselves to be wooed by stealth. Others, again, are the pursuers rather than the pursued, and chase the wounded or the flying even to the very doors of their stronghold, or lie in wait for them like an octopus, stretching out their tentacles on every side in search of victims.