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
“We can so very seldom persuade Mary to stay with us; and when she
does come, her visits are so brief that we are obliged to make a great
deal of them whilst they last,” was part of Justina’s introduction
speech; and on that hint I commenced to speak of the charms of the
country and my wonder that Mrs. Benson did not oftener take occasion
to enjoy them. But barely an answer, far less an idea, could I extract
from my niece’s valued friend. Mrs. Benson’s brown eyes were not once
raised to meet mine, and the replies which I forced from her lips came
in monosyllables. I tried another theme, but with no better success;
and had just decided that she was as stupid as she looked, when, to my
great relief, the professor arrived with a message from Lady Trevor,
and bore his wife off into another room.
Several days passed without bringing forth much incident. The
gentlemen spent most of their time in the shooting-covers or
hunting-field, and did not meet the ladies until evening re-assembled
them in the drawing-room; on which occasions I used to get as far as I
could from Lady Trevor and the professor’s wife, and in consequence
generally found myself in the vicinity of Sir Harry and Lady Amabel.
Yet, free and intimate as seemed their intercourse with one another,
and narrowly as, in Justina’s interest, I watched them, I could
perceive nothing in their conduct which was not justified by their
relationship, and treated it as a matter of the smallest consequence,
until one afternoon about a fortnight after my arrival at Durham Hall.
With the exception of Sir Harry himself, who had business to transact
with his bailiff, we had all been out shooting, and as, after a hard
day’s work, I was toiling up to my bedroom to dress for dinner, I had
occasion to pass the study appropriated to the master of the house,
and with a sudden desire to give him an account of our sport,
incontinently turned the handle of the door. As I did so I heard an
exclamation and the rustle of a woman’s dress, which were sufficient
to make me halt upon the threshold of the half-opened door, and ask if
I might enter.
“Come in, by all means,” exclaimed Sir Harry. He was lying back
indolently in his arm-chair beside a table strewn with books and
papers,--a little flushed, perhaps, but otherwise himself, and, to my
astonishment, quite alone. Yet I was positive that I had heard the
unmistakable sound of a woman’s dress sweeping the carpet.
Involuntarily I glanced around the room; but there was no egress.
Sir Harry caught my look of inquiry, and seemed annoyed. “What are you
staring at, Wilmer?” he demanded, in the curtest tone I had yet heard
from him.
“May I not glance round your den?” I replied courteously. “I have not
had the honour of seeing it before.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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