The ghost of Charlotte Cray, and other stories
and tell her the reason you have been afraid to do so.”
Precisely the same words, in the same writing of the letter he still
carried in his breast pocket, and which no mortal eyes but his and
hers had ever seen. As the unhappy man sat gazing at the opened note,
his whole body shook as if he were attacked by ague.
“It is Miss Cray’s handwriting, isn’t it, sir?”
“It looks like it, Hewetson, but it cannot be. I tell you it is an
impossibility! Miss Cray died last month, and I have seen not only her
grave, but the doctor and nurse who attended her in her last illness.
It is folly, then, to suppose either that she called here or wrote
that letter.”
“Then _who could it have been_, sir?” said Hewetson, attacked with a
sudden terror in his turn.
“That is impossible for me to say; but should the lady call again, you
had better ask her boldly for her name and address.”
“I’d rather you’d depute the office to anybody but me, sir,” replied
the clerk, as he hastily backed out of the room.
Mr. Braggett, dying with suspense and conjecture, went through his
business as best he could, and hurried home to Violet Villa.
There he found that his wife had been spending the day with a friend,
and only entered the house a few minutes before himself.
“Siggy, dear!” she commenced, as soon as he joined her in the
drawing-room after dinner; “I really think we should have the
fastenings and bolts of this house looked to. Such a funny thing
happened whilst I was out this afternoon. Ellen has just been telling
me about it.”
“What sort of a thing, dear?”
“Well, I left home as early as twelve, you know, and told the servants
I shouldn’t be back until dinner-time; so they were all enjoying
themselves in the kitchen, I suppose, when cook told Ellen she heard a
footstep in the drawing-room. Ellen thought at first it must be cook’s
fancy, because she was sure the front door was fastened; but when they
listened, they all heard the noise together, so she ran upstairs, and
what on earth do you think she saw?”
“How can I guess, my dear?”
“Why, a lady, seated in this very room, as if she was waiting for
somebody. She was oldish, Ellen says, and had a very white face, with
long curls hanging down each side of it; and she wore a blue bonnet
with white feathers, and a long black cloak, and--”
“Emily, Emily! Stop! You don’t know what you’re talking about. That
girl is a fool: you must send her away. That is, how could the lady
have got in if the door was closed? Good heavens! you’ll all drive me
mad between you with your folly!” exclaimed Mr. Braggett, as he threw
himself back in his chair, with an exclamation that sounded very like
a groan.
Pretty Mrs. Braggett was offended. What had she said or done that her
husband should doubt her word? She tossed her head in indignation, and
remained silent. If Mr. Braggett wanted any further information, he
would have to apologise.
“Forgive me, darling,” he said, after a long pause. “I don’t think I’m
very well this evening, but your story seemed to upset me.”
“I don’t see why it should upset you,” returned Mrs. Braggett. “If
strangers are allowed to come prowling about the house in this way, we
shall be robbed some day, and then you’ll say I should have told you
of it.”
“Wouldn’t she--this person--give her name?”
“Oh! I’d rather say no more about it. You had better ask Ellen.”
“No, Emily! I’d rather hear it from you.”
“Well, don’t interrupt me again, then. When Ellen saw the woman seated
here, she asked her her name and business at once, but she gave no
answer, and only sat and stared at her. And so Ellen, feeling very
uncomfortable, had just turned round to call up cook, when the woman
got up, and dashed past her like a flash of lightning, and they saw
nothing more of her!”
“Which way did she leave the house?”
“Nobody knows any more than how she came in. The servants declare the
hall door was neither opened nor shut--but, of course, it must have
been. She was a tall gaunt woman, Ellen says, about fifty, and she’s
sure her hair was dyed. She must have come to steal something, and
that’s why I say we ought to have the house made more secure. Why,
Siggy! Siggy! what’s the matter? Here, Ellen! Jane! come, quick, some
of you! Your master’s fainted!”
And, sure enough, the repeated shocks and horrors of the day had had
such an effect upon poor Mr. Braggett, that for a moment he did lose
all consciousness of what surrounded him. He was thankful to take
advantage of the Christmas holidays, to run over to Paris with his
wife, and try to forget, in the many marvels of that city, the awful
fear that fastened upon him at the mention of anything connected with
home. He might be enjoying himself to the top of his bent; but
directly the remembrance of Charlotte Cray crossed his mind, all sense
of enjoyment vanished, and he trembled at the mere thought of
returning to his business, as a child does when sent to bed in the
dark.
He tried to hide the state of his feelings from Mrs. Braggett, but she
was too sharp for him. The simple, blushing Emily Primrose had
developed, under the influence of the matrimonial forcing-frame, into
a good watch-dog, and nothing escaped her notice.
Left to her own conjecture, she attributed his frequent moods of
dejection to the existence of some other woman, and became jealous
accordingly. If Siggy did not love her, why had he married her? She
felt certain there was some other horrid creature who had engaged his
affections and would not leave him alone, even now that he was her own
lawful property. And to find out who the “horrid creature” was became
Mrs. Emily’s constant idea. When she had found out, she meant to give
her a piece of her mind, never fear! Meanwhile Mr. Braggett’s evident
distaste to returning to business only served to increase his wife’s
suspicions. A clear conscience, she argued, would know no fear. So
they were not a happy couple, as they set their faces once more
towards England. Mr. Braggett’s dread of re-entering his office
amounted almost to terror, and Mrs. Braggett, putting this and that
together, resolved that she would fathom the mystery, if it lay in
feminine _finesse_ to do so. She did not whisper a word of her
intentions to dear Siggy, you may be sure of that! She worked after
the manner of her amiable sex, like a cat in the dark, or a worm
boring through the earth, and appearing on the surface when least
expected.
So poor Mr. Braggett brought her home again, heavy at heart indeed,
but quite ignorant that any designs were being made against him. I
think he would have given a thousand pounds to be spared the duty of
attending office the day after his arrival. But it was necessary, and
he went, like a publisher and a Briton. But Mrs. Emily had noted his
trepidation and his fears, and laid her plans accordingly. She had
never been asked to enter those mysterious precincts, the house of
business. Mr. Braggett had not thought it necessary that her blooming
loveliness should be made acquainted with its dingy, dusty
accessories, but she meant to see them for herself to-day. So she
waited till he had left Violet Villa ten minutes, and then she dressed
and followed him by the next train to London.
Mr. Sigismund Braggett meanwhile had gone on his way, as people go to
a dentist, determined to do what was right, but with an indefinite
sort of idea that he might never come out of it alive. He dreaded to
hear what might have happened in his absence, and he delayed his
arrival at the office for half-an-hour, by walking there instead of
taking a cab as usual, in order to put off the evil moment. As he
entered the place, however, he saw at a glance that his efforts were
vain, and that something had occurred. The customary formality and
precision of the office were upset, and the clerks, instead of bending
over their ledgers, or attending to the demands of business, were all
huddled together at one end whispering and gesticulating to each
other. But as soon as the publisher appeared, a dead silence fell upon
the group, and they only stared at him with an air of horrid mystery.
“What is the matter now?” he demanded, angrily, for like most men when
in a fright which they are ashamed to exhibit, Mr. Sigismund Braggett
tried to cover his want of courage by bounce.
The young man called Hewetson advanced towards him, with a face the
colour of ashes, and pointed towards the ground-glass doors dumbly.
“What do you mean? Can’t you speak? What’s come to the lot of you,
that you are neglecting my business in this fashion to make fools of
yourselves?”
“If you please, sir, she’s in there.”
Mr. Braggett started back as if he’d been shot. But still he tried to
have it out.
“_She!_ Who’s _she?_”
“Miss Cray, sir.”
“Haven’t I told you already that’s a lie.”
“Will you judge for yourself, Mr. Braggett?” said a grey-haired man,
stepping forward. “I was on the stairs myself just now when Miss Cray
passed me, and I have no doubt whatever but that you will find her in
your private room, however much the reports that have lately reached
you may seem against the probability of such a thing.”
Mr. Braggett’s teeth chattered in his head as he advanced to the
ground-glass doors, through the panes of one of which there was a
little peephole to ascertain if the room were occupied or not. He
stooped and looked in. At the table, with her back towards him, was
seated the well-known figure of Charlotte Cray. He recognised at once
the long black mantle in which she was wont to drape her gaunt
figure--the blue bonnet, with its dejected-looking, uncurled
feather--the lank curls which rested on her shoulders--and the
black-leather bag, with a steel clasp, which she always carried in her
hand. It was the embodiment of Charlotte Cray, he had no doubt of
that; but how could he reconcile the fact of her being there with the
damp clods he had seen piled upon her grave, with the certificate of
death, and the doctor’s and landlady’s assertion that they had watched
her last moments?
At last he prepared, with desperate energy, to turn the handle of the
door. At that moment the attention of the more frivolous of the clerks
was directed from his actions by the entrance of an uncommonly pretty
woman at the other end of the outer office. Such a lovely creature as
this seldom brightened the gloom of their dusty abiding-place. Lilies,
roses, and carnations vied with each other in her complexion, whilst
the sunniest of locks, and the brightest of blue eyes, lent her face a
girlish charm not easily described. What could this
fashionably-attired Venus want in their house of business?
“Is Mr. Braggett here? I am Mrs. Braggett. Please show me in to him
immediately.”
They glanced at the ground-glass doors of the inner office. They had
already closed behind the manly form of their employer.
“This way, madam,” one said, deferentially, as he escorted her to the
presence of Mr. Braggett.
Meanwhile, Sigismund had opened the portals of the Temple of Mystery,
and with trembling knees entered it. The figure in the chair did not
stir at his approach. He stood at the door irresolute. What should he
do or say?
“Charlotte,” he whispered.
Still she did not move.
At that moment his wife entered.
“Oh, Sigismund!” cried Mrs. Emily, reproachfully, “I knew you were
keeping something from me, and now I’ve caught you in the very act.
Who is this lady, and what is her name? I shall refuse to leave the
room until I know it.”
At the sound of her rival’s voice, the woman in the chair rose quickly
to her feet and confronted them. Yes! there was Charlotte Cray,
precisely similar to what she had appeared in life, only with an
uncertainty and vagueness about the lines of the familiar features
that made them ghastly.