The ghost of Charlotte Cray, and other storiesMarryat, Florence
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The ghost of Charlotte Cray, and other stories
Marryat, Florence
English fiction -- 19th century; Ghost stories, English; Short stories, English
I do not suppose a happier nor more peaceful family existed than we
were. No jars nor bickering ever disturbed the quiet of the household;
everything seemed to go as smoothly as though it had been oiled. We
were like the crew of some ship, safely moored within a sunny harbour,
never giving a thought to what tempests might be raging outside the
bar.
Every Saturday when I rode home on my pony, I found my father either
working out of doors if it were summer, or indoors if it were winter,
but always with the same satisfied easy smile upon his countenance, as
though he had no trouble in the world, as indeed he had not; for my
mother warded off the most trifling annoyance from him as though he
were a sick child, that must not be upset; whilst she threaded her
quiet way through the kitchen and bedrooms, with little Violet
clinging to her gown, regulating the household machinery by her own
supervision, that no accident might occur to ruffle her husband’s
temper.
I believed her in those days--I believe her still to be the noblest
woman ever planned. One thing alone puzzled me--or rather, I should
say, seemed strange to me, for I did not allow it to go the length of
puzzlement--and that was why we had so few visitors at Lilyfields.
True, my father had made himself so unsociable in the old days that
strangers might well have been shy of intruding themselves upon him
now; but my mother was so sweet and gentle, I felt it must be their
loss rather than hers, that so few people knew her. When, as a lad of
fifteen, I mentioned this circumstance to her, she put it aside as a
matter of course.
“When I made up my mind, Charlie, to try as far as in me lay, to
render the remainder of your father’s life happy, I was perfectly
aware that I should have to depend for companionship upon him alone.
We have each other, and we have you and Violet. We want no other
society but yours.”
Still, I thought the clergyman and his wife might sometimes have come
to see us, as they did the rest of their parishioners, and I should
have liked an occasional game of play with the sons of Squire Roberts
up at the Hall. But, with the exception of the doctor, who sometimes
came in for a chat with my father, no one but ourselves ever took a
meal at Lilyfields.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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