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
One day I met some children bearing a bier, upon which was stretched
the corpse of a little girl clothed in white garments and with a
wreath of flowers placed upon the placid brow. The children,
apparently quite unaware of the reverence due to their sacred burden,
carelessly laughed and chatted as they bore it along the highway,
sometimes sitting down to rest, and then hurrying forward with
unseemly haste, as though to make up for lost time. A tall man,
wrapped in a huge cloak, and who evidently belonged to the little
_cortège_, followed at a distance, but he too performed the duty at
his leisure, and seemed to find nothing extraordinary or out of the
way in the children’s want of decorum.
With the exception of periodical visits to the Church of Consolation
before mentioned, the people of Utrera rarely seemed to leave their
houses. To walk for the sake of walking is an idea which finds little
favour with a Spanish lady, and my friends and myself were looked upon
as very strange beings for taking so much exercise and caring to
explore the surrounding country.
But to our English taste it was pleasant to stroll up the Cadiz road
until we reached a small mound situated thereon, which was belted with
shady trees and amply provided with stone seats. This elevation
commanded the view of a vast extent of country, with the grand
frowning hills of the Sierra Nevada in the far distance, which the
gorgeous sunsets always invested with a strange, unearthly beauty. The
intense solitude of the scene, too, was not without its own peculiar
charm. At intervals the silence would be broken by the approach of a
picturesque-looking peasant bestriding a mule, the silvery jangle of
whose bells had been heard in the calm atmosphere for some time before
he made his personal appearance. These muleteers never failed to
interrupt the monotonous chants they are so fond of singing, to wish
us a friendly “Buenas tardes” (“Good evening”) while proceeding on
their way, and then we would listen to the sound of the mule’s bells
and the low rich voice of his master until both died away in the
distance, and the scene resumed its normal condition of undisturbed
tranquillity.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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