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
“‘If ever she could come, Henry,’ Mrs. Greenslade said, ‘promise me
you won’t speak to her unless you can say words of pity or of
comfort.’
“‘Pity!’ he yelled, ‘what pity has she had for me? If ever she or any
emissary of hers should dare to set foot upon these premises, I shall
treat them as house-breakers, and shoot them down like dogs.’
“‘Oh no! Henry, no!’ screamed the poor woman; ‘think who she is. Think
of her youth, her temptation, and forgive her.’
“‘I’ll never forgive her--I’ll never own her,’ the wretch answered
loudly; ‘but I’ll treat her, or any of the cursed crew she associates
with, as I would treat strangers who forced their way in to rob me by
night. ’Twill be an evil day for them when they attempt to set foot in
my house.’
“Well, sir, I must cut this long story short, or you and your good
lady will never get to bed to-night.
“The conversation I had overheard made me feel very uncomfortable, and
I was certain some great misfortune or disgrace had happened to the
parties I was serving; but I didn’t let it rest upon my mind, till a
few nights after, when I was wakened up by the same sound of creeping
footsteps along the passage. As I sat up in bed and listened to them,
I heard the master leave the parlour and go upstairs. At the same
moment something crouched beside my door, and tried to turn the
handle; but it was locked, and wouldn’t open. I felt very uneasy. I
knew my door stood in the shadow, and that whoever crouched there must
have been hidden from Mr. Greenslade as he walked across the hall.
Presently I heard his footsteps coming downstairs again, as though he
had forgotten something. He used to wear such thick boots, sir, you
might hear his step all over the house. His loaded gun always stood on
the first landing; when he reached there he stopped, I suppose it was
his bad angel made him stop. Anyway, there was a low cry of ‘Father,
father!’--a rush, the report of the gun, a low groan, and then all was
still.
“La! sir, I trembled so in my bed, you might have seen it shake under
me.”
“I’ve seen it shake under you many a time,” said Browser.
“Perhaps you would like to tell the lady and gentleman my exact
weight, though I don’t see what that’s got to do with the story,”
replied his better half, majestically.
“I don’t think I should ever have had the courage to leave my room,
sir, unless I had heard my poor mistress fly down the staircase, with
a loud scream. Then I got up, and joined her. Oh, it was an awful
sight! There, stretched on the floorcloth, lay the dead body of a
young girl; and my mistress had fainted dead away across her, and was
covered with the blood that was pouring from a great hole in her
forehead. On the landing stood my master, white as a sheet, and
shaking like an aspen leaf.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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