The ghost of Charlotte Cray, and other stories

accepting his proposal) be killing two birds with one stone. So I did accept it, with gratitude, and having obtained all the information possible respecting the mysterious disappearance of Master Julian Cockleboat, I packed up the black-lettered tomes, and, embracing my smiling wife and children, who appeared rather pleased than otherwise at the prospect of getting rid of me for a few weeks, started for Norwich. I have a great respect for old county towns: there is a dignified sobriety and sense of unimpeachable respectability about them that impress me. I like their old-world institutions and buildings--their butter crosses and market steps; their dingy bye streets with kerbstones for pavements; their portentous churches and beadles; their old-fashioned shops and goods and shopmen. I like the quiet that reigns in their streets, the paucity of gas they light them up with, the strange conveyances their citizens ply for hire--in fact, I like everything with which the world in general finds fault. So it was with a sense of pleasure I found myself wandering about the streets of Norwich, on the look-out for some place in which to lay my head. I had rather have been there than at the seaside, although it was bright July weather, and I knew the waves were frothing and creaming over the golden sands beneath a canopy of cloudless blue sky. I preferred the shaded, cloister-like streets of the county town, with its cool flags under my feet, and its unbroken sense of calm. I did not turn into the principal thoroughfares, with their gay shops and gayer passengers, but down the less-frequented bye-ways, where children playing in the road stopped open-mouthed to watch me pass, and women’s heads appeared above the window-blinds, as my footfall sounded on the narrow pavement, as though a stranger were something to be stared at. Many windows held the announcement of “Rooms to Let,” but they were too small--too modern, shall I say--too fresh-looking to take my fancy. I connected space and gloom with solitude and reflection, and felt as if I could not have sat down before a muslin-draped window, filled with scarlet geraniums and yellow canariensis, to ponder upon “The Origin of Dreams,” to save my life. At last I came upon what I wanted. Down a narrow street, into which the sun seemed never to have penetrated, I found some tall, irregular, dingy-looking buildings--most of which appeared to be occupied as insurance, wine, or law offices,--and in the lower window of one there hung a card with the inscription, “Apartments for a Single Gentleman.” It was just the place from which to watch and wait--in which to ponder, and compare, and compose,--and I ascended its broken steps, convinced that the birth-place of “The Origin of Dreams” was found. A middle-aged woman, with an intelligent, pleasing face answered my summons to the door. The weekly rent she asked for the occupation of the vacant apartments sounded to me absurdly low, but perhaps that was due to my experience of the exorbitant demands of London landladies. But when I explained to her the reason for which I desired her rooms, namely, that I might sit up at night and write undisturbed, her countenance visibly fell. “I’m afraid they won’t suit you, then, sir.” “Why not? Have you any objection to my studying by night?” “Oh, no, sir. You could do as you pleased about that!” “What then? Will your other lodgers disturb me?” Her face twitched as she answered, “I have no other lodgers, sir.” “Do you live in this big house, then, by yourself?” “My husband and I have been in charge of it for years, and are permitted to occupy the lower floor in consideration of keeping the upper rooms (which are only used as offices in the day-time) clean and in order. But the clerks are all gone by five o’clock, so they wouldn’t interfere with your night-work.” “What will, then?” “I’m afraid there are a good many rats about the place, sir. They _will_ breed in these old houses, and keep up a racket at night.” “Oh, I don’t mind the rats,” I answered, cheerfully. “I’ll catch as many as I can for you, and frighten away the others. If that is your only objection, the rooms are mine. May I see them?” “Certainly, sir,” she said, as she closed the door behind me and led the way into two lofty and spacious chambers, connected by folding doors, which had once formed the dining saloon of a splendid mansion. “The owners of the house permit us to occupy this floor and the basement, and as it’s more than we require, we let these rooms to lodgers. They’re not very grandly furnished, sir, but it’s all neat and clean.” She threw open the shutters of the further apartment as she spoke, and the July sun streamed into the empty room. As its rays fell upon the unmade bed, my eye followed them and caught sight of a deep indentation in the mattress. The landlady saw it also, and looked amazed. “Some one has been taking a siesta here without your permission,” I said, jestingly; but she did not seem to take my remark as a jest. “It must be my good man,” she answered, hurriedly, as she shook the mattress; “perhaps he came in here to lie down for a bit. This hot weather makes the best feel weak, sir.” “Very true. And now, if you will accept me as a lodger, I will pay you my first week’s rent, and whilst I go back to the railway-station to fetch my valise, you must get me ready a chop or a steak, or anything that is most handy, for my dinner.” All appeared to be satisfactory. My landlady assented to everything I suggested, and in another hour I was comfortably ensconced under her roof, had eaten my steak, and posted a letter to my wife, and felt very much in charity with all mankind. So I sat at the open window thinking how beautifully still and sweet all my surroundings were, and how much good work I should get through without fear of interruption or distraction. The office clerks had long gone home, the upper rooms were locked for the night; only an occasional patter along the wide uncarpeted staircase reminded me that I was not quite alone. Then I remembered the rats, and “The Origin of Dreams;” and thinking it probable that my honest old couple retired to bed early, rang the bell to tell my landlady to be sure and leave me a good supply of candles. “You’re not going to sit up and write to-night, sir, are you?” she inquired. “I am sure your rest would do you more good; you must be real tired.” “Not at all, my good Mrs. Bizzey” (Did I say her name was Bizzey?), “I am as fresh as a daisy, and could not close my eyes. Besides, as your friends, the rats, seem to make so free in the house, I should burn a light any way to warn them they had better not come too near me.” “Oh, I trust nothing will disturb you, sir,” she said, earnestly, as she withdrew to fetch the candles. I unpacked my book-box and piled the big volumes on a side table. How imposing they looked! But I had no intention of poring over them that night. “The Origin of Dreams” required thought--deep and speculative thought; and how could I be better circumstanced to indulge in it than stationed at that open window, with a pipe in my mouth, looking up at the dark blue sky bespangled with stars, and listening (if I may be allowed to speak so paradoxically) to the silence?--for there is silence that can be heard. When Mrs. Bizzey brought me the candles, she asked me if I required anything else, as she and Mr. Bizzey were about to retire to the marital couch, which I afterwards ascertained was erected in the scullery. I answered in the negative, and wished her good-night, hearing her afterwards distinctly close the door at the head of the kitchen stairs and descend step by step to the arms of her lord and master. But Mrs. Bizzey’s intrusion had murdered my reverie. I could not take up the chain of thought where she had severed the links. The night air, too, seemed to have grown suddenly damp and chilly, and I pulled down the window sash with a jerk, and taking out my note-book and writing-case drew a chair up to the table and commenced to think, playing idly with my pen the while. Soon the divine afflatus (the symptoms of which every successful writer knows so well) came down upon me. I ceased to think--or rather to be aware that I was thinking. My pen ran over the paper as though some other hand guided it than my own, and I wrote rapidly, filling page after page with a stream of ideas that seemed to pour out of my brain involuntarily. Time is of no account under such circumstances, and I may have been scribbling for one hour or for three, for aught I knew to the contrary, before I was roused to a sense of my position by hearing a footfall sound through the silent, deserted house. Now, although I have described my condition to be such as to render me impervious to outer impressions, I am certain of one thing--that no noise, however slight, had hitherto broken in upon it. It was the complete absence of sound that had permitted my spirit to have full play irrespective of my body; and directly the silence was outraged, my physical life re-asserted its claims, and my senses became all alive to ascertain the cause of it. In another moment the sound was repeated, and I discovered that it was over my head--not under my feet. It could not, then, proceed from either of the old couple, whom I had heard lock themselves up together down below. Who could it be? My first idea, emanating from my landlady’s information that the noise might proceed from rats, I had already dismissed with contempt. It was the reverberation of a footstep. There could be no doubt about that; and my next thought naturally flew to burglars, who were making an attempt on the safes in the offices above. What could I do? I was utterly unarmed, and to go in pursuit of midnight robbers in so defenceless a condition would be simply delivering myself into their power. I certainly might have shied a couple of Jones’ black-lettered books at their heads, for they were ponderous enough to knock any man down, but I might not take a steady aim, and it is better not to attempt at all than to attempt and fail. Meanwhile, the sounds overhead had increased in number and become continuous, as though some one had commenced to walk up and down the room. Surely no midnight thief would dare to create so much disturbance as that! Detection of his crime would be inevitable. Or did he trust to the sound sleep of the porter and his wife in the kitchen below, not knowing that I, existent and wakeful, intervened between himself and them? In another minute I believe that I should have cast all consequences to the winds, and rushed, not _in_, but _up_ to the rescue, forgetting I was a husband and a father, and armed with Jones’ patent self-acting leveller, alone have ascended to the upper storey to investigate the cause of the midnight disturbance I heard. Only--_I didn’t!_ For before I had had time to shoulder my weapons and screw my courage up to the sticking-point, another sound reached my ears that made the patent levellers drop on the table again with a thump,--the sound, not of a step, but a groan--a deep, hollow, unmistakable groan, that chilled the marrow in my bones to such a degree that it would have been a disgrace to any cook to send them up to table. I knew then that I must have been mistaken in my first theory, and that the sounds I overheard, whether they proceeded from mortals or not, had no connection with the nefarious occupation of housebreakers. But they had become a thousand times more interesting, and I listened attentively. The groan was followed by some muttered words that sounded like a curse, succeeded by louder tones of reproach or anger. Then the footsteps traversed the floor again, and seemed to be chasing someone