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
The perusal of this little epistle threw me into a perfect whirl of
excitement and delight, which would have appeared extraordinary to any
one who had not been acquainted with the maddening monotony of my
daily existence. These Rodwells, the family of the good old doctor who
attended Lady Cunningham, were my only friends in Rockledge, the only
people with whom I ever caught a glimpse of a happy domestic life,
such as had been once my own. To spend the evening at their large,
old-fashioned house, which rang from basement to attic with the sound
of happy voices, was the only dissipation by which my days were ever
varied, and a relaxation all the more precious because, on account of
Lady Cunningham’s requirements, it came so rarely to me. And on the
afternoon in question, when I had allowed myself to become absorbed by
fanciful thought, the cordial and unexpected invitation warmed my
chilled spirits like a draught of generous wine. All things seemed
changed for me: I no longer saw the grey fog nor remembered my
mournful past, but in their stead pictured to myself the
brightly-lighted, crimson-curtained room at Dr. Rodwell’s house, and
heard the ringing laughter and merry jests of his many boys and girls.
In a moment I had shaken off my despondency--my eyes sparkled, my
heart beat: I was in a flutter of anticipation at the pleasure in
store for me.
“Is there any answer, miss?” demanded the housemaid, who had been
waiting whilst I read my note.
“Yes, yes; I will go, of course. Say I will be there in half-an-hour,”
I replied, for my evening, in consequence of Lady Cunningham’s
absence, was at my own disposal. “And, Mary, please bring me up a jug
of hot water; I am going to take tea with Mrs. Rodwell.”
“Well, I’m very glad of it, miss; it’s a shame you shouldn’t have a
holiday oftener than you do,” returned my sympathising hearer as she
departed with my answer.
I must say that, during my years of servitude, I had nothing to
complain of respecting the treatment I received from the hands of
servants. I have read of needy companions and governesses being
cruelly insulted and trampled on by their inferiors; I never was. From
the first they saw I was a gentlewoman, and to the last they treated
me as such.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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