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 connected space and gloom with solitude and reflection, and felt as
if I could not have sat down before a muslin-draped window, filled
with scarlet geraniums and yellow canariensis, to ponder upon “The
Origin of Dreams,” to save my life. At last I came upon what I wanted.
Down a narrow street, into which the sun seemed never to have
penetrated, I found some tall, irregular, dingy-looking
buildings--most of which appeared to be occupied as insurance, wine,
or law offices,--and in the lower window of one there hung a card with
the inscription, “Apartments for a Single Gentleman.”
It was just the place from which to watch and wait--in which to
ponder, and compare, and compose,--and I ascended its broken steps,
convinced that the birth-place of “The Origin of Dreams” was found. A
middle-aged woman, with an intelligent, pleasing face answered my
summons to the door. The weekly rent she asked for the occupation of
the vacant apartments sounded to me absurdly low, but perhaps that was
due to my experience of the exorbitant demands of London landladies.
But when I explained to her the reason for which I desired her rooms,
namely, that I might sit up at night and write undisturbed, her
countenance visibly fell.
“I’m afraid they won’t suit you, then, sir.”
“Why not? Have you any objection to my studying by night?”
“Oh, no, sir. You could do as you pleased about that!”
“What then? Will your other lodgers disturb me?”
Her face twitched as she answered, “I have no other lodgers, sir.”
“Do you live in this big house, then, by yourself?”
“My husband and I have been in charge of it for years, and are
permitted to occupy the lower floor in consideration of keeping the
upper rooms (which are only used as offices in the day-time) clean and
in order. But the clerks are all gone by five o’clock, so they
wouldn’t interfere with your night-work.”
“What will, then?”
“I’m afraid there are a good many rats about the place, sir. They
_will_ breed in these old houses, and keep up a racket at night.”
“Oh, I don’t mind the rats,” I answered, cheerfully. “I’ll catch as
many as I can for you, and frighten away the others. If that is your
only objection, the rooms are mine. May I see them?”
“Certainly, sir,” she said, as she closed the door behind me and led
the way into two lofty and spacious chambers, connected by folding
doors, which had once formed the dining saloon of a splendid mansion.
“The owners of the house permit us to occupy this floor and the
basement, and as it’s more than we require, we let these rooms to
lodgers. They’re not very grandly furnished, sir, but it’s all neat
and clean.”
She threw open the shutters of the further apartment as she spoke, and
the July sun streamed into the empty room. As its rays fell upon the
unmade bed, my eye followed them and caught sight of a deep
indentation in the mattress. The landlady saw it also, and looked
amazed.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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