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
With a hasty vote of thanks to Mary for her kind speech, I ran
upstairs to my own bedroom to make the few preparations needful for my
visit. I knew that Mrs. Rodwell would not desire me to dress; but to
arrange my hair anew with a blue ribbon woven in it, and to change my
dark merino body for a clear muslin Garibaldi, made me look fresh and
smart, without taking up too much of the precious time I had to spend
at her house. Besides, were there not to be some gentlemen present? At
that thought my mind reverted to the wonderful news of Amy’s
engagement, and I could scarcely proceed with my toilet for thinking
of it. Little Amy! younger by five years than myself, who had always
appeared so shy and modest and retiring--was it possible she could
have had a lover without my knowing it? And now to be actually
engaged! going to be married at her age! It almost seemed incredible,
until I remembered with a sudden sigh that I had been no older myself
when Bruce Armytage proposed to me, and had been able to keep my
secret very well until the necessity for doing so was over.
But I would not let such thoughts engross me now, for I had no wish to
carry a long face to Mrs. Rodwell’s house; and so I hurried on the
remainder of my things, and wrapping myself up warmly in a dark cloak,
hurried bravely out into the evening air. It was then six o’clock, and
the fog was denser than before; but what cared I for outer dullness
any longer? My imagination ran on before me, vividly picturing the
cheerful scene in which I should so soon mingle, and my feet tripped
after it joyous as my heart. I had not far to go, and my eagerness
shortened the way; so that in a few minutes, I was rapping at Dr.
Rodwell’s hall door and scraping my feet upon his scraper. How quickly
it was opened by little Amy herself! And what a mixture of
bashfulness, pleasure, and self-importance was in her blushing face as
I threw my arms around her neck and warmly congratulated her.
“Come upstairs, Lizzie,” she entreated in a whisper; “come up and take
off your things, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
We were soon in her own room--that cozy room in which she and her
younger sister Mattie slept, and which bore so many evidences of their
mother’s tender care and thought for them.
“And so you are really engaged to be married, Amy?” I exclaimed as the
door closed behind us. “That was a very astounding piece of
intelligence to me, who had never heard the faintest whisper of such a
thing before.”
“You forget you have not been near us for a month,” she answered,
laughing; “but the truth is, Lizzie, it was all so uncertain till this
morning that mamma said it would be very unwise to mention it to
anybody; so that you were the first recipient of the news, after all.”
“Well, I suppose I must be satisfied with that; and when did you meet
him, Amy?”
“Last month, up in London, while I was staying with my Aunt
Charlesworth.”
“And is it a settled thing, then?”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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