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
“When the gentleman as built Rushmere for his own gratification, sir,
died, the house let well enough. But the place proved lonely, and
there was more than one attempt at robbery, and people grew tired of
taking it. And above all, the girls of the village began to refuse to
go to service there. Well, it had been standing empty for some months,
when a gentleman and his wife came to look after it. Browser and I--we
didn’t own this inn at that time, you will understand, sir, but kept a
general shop in the village, and were but poorly off altogether,
although we had the post-office at our place, and did the best
business thereabouts. The key of Rushmere used always to be left in
our keeping, too, and our boy would go up to show folks over the
house. Well, one damp autumn day--I mind the day as if ’twere
yesterday, for Browser had been ailing sadly with the rheumatics for
weeks past, and not able to lift his hand to his head--this gentleman
and lady, who went by the name of Greenslade, came for the keys of
Rushmere. I remember thinking Mr. Greenslade had a nasty, curious look
about his eyes, and that his wife seemed a poor, brow-beaten creature;
but that was no business of mine, and I sent Bill up with them to show
the house. They took it, and entered on possession at once; and then
came the difficulty about the servants. Not a soul would enter the
place at first. Then a girl or two tried it, and came away when their
month was up, saying the house was so lonesome, they couldn’t sleep at
nights, and the master was so queer-spoken and mannered, they were
afraid of him.”
“Don’t forget to say what he was used to do at nights,” here put in
the landlord.
“La, Browser, I’m a-coming to it. Everything in its time. Well, sir,
at last it came to this, that Mrs. Greenslade hadn’t a creature to
help her in anythink, and down she came to ask if I would go to them
for a few days. I stared; for there was the shop to be tended, and the
post-office looked after, and I hadn’t been used to odd jobs like
that. But my husband said that he could do all that was wanted in the
business; and we were very hard drove just then, and the lady offered
such liberal pay, he over-persuaded me to go, if only on trial. So I
put my pride in my pocket, and went out charing. I hadn’t been at
Rushmere many days, sir, before I found something was very wrong
there. Mr. Greenslade hardly ever spoke a word, but shut himself up in
a room all day, or went mooning about the fields and common, where he
couldn’t meet a soul; and as for the poor lady, la! my heart bled for
her, she seemed so wretched and broken-down and hopeless. I used often
to say to her--
“‘Now, ma’am, do let me cook you a bit of something nice, for you’ve
eaten nothing since yesterday, and you’ll bring yourself down to
death’s door at this rate.’
“And she’d answer,--
“‘No, thank you, Mrs. Browser: I couldn’t touch it. I feel sometimes
as if I’d never care to eat or drink again.’
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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