The ghost of Charlotte Cray, and other stories
“What roused you, Dawson?”
“Well, sir, I can hardly say; but I fancied I heard some one going up
the stairs a little while ago.”
“You heard me coming down, you mean.”
“No, sir, begging your pardon, it was footsteps going up--lighter than
yours, sir. More like those of a woman.”
Yet, though I privately interrogated the female servants on the
following day, I could not discover that any of them had been out of
their beds; and I forbore to tell my wife what Dawson had said in
corroboration of her statement.
Only I was as much annoyed as astonished when, as I finished my
catechism of Mary, our head nurse, she informed me that she had made
up her mind to leave our service. Mary--my wife’s right hand--who had
been with us ever since the birth of our first child! The announcement
took me completely aback.
“What on earth is your reason for leaving us?” I demanded angrily; for
I knew what a blow her decision would be to Jane. “What have you to
find fault with?”
“Nothing with you or the mistress, sir; but I can’t remain in this
house. I wouldn’t stay in it a night longer, if it were possible to
get away; and I do hope you and Mrs. Delamere will let me go as soon
as ever you can, sir, as it will be the death of me.”
“What will be the death of you?”
“The footsteps, sir, and the voices,” she answered, crying. “I can
hear them about the nurseries all night long, and it’s more than any
mortal can stand--it is, indeed.”
“Are you infected with the same folly?” I exclaimed. “I see what it
is, Dawson has been talking to you. I didn’t know I had such a couple
of fools in my establishment.”
“Mr. Dawson has said nothing to me about nothing, sir,” she answered.
“I hear what I hear with my own ears; and I wouldn’t stay a week
longer in this ’aunted place, not if you was to strew the floor with
golden guineas for me.”
Not possessing either the capability or the inclination to test Mary’s
fidelity by the means she alluded to, and finding her determination
unalterable, I gave her the desired permission to depart; only making
it a stipulation that she should not tell her mistress the real reason
for her leaving us, but ascribe it to bad news from home, or any other
cause.
But though I could not but believe that the woman’s idiotic terrors
had blinded her judgment, I was extremely surprised to find she should
have been so led astray, as I had always considered Mary to possess a
remarkably clear head and good moral sense. The wailing and
lamentation, from both mother and children, at the announcement of her
departure made me still more angry with her obstinacy and folly. But
she continued resolute; and we were driven to try and secure some one
to fulfil her duties from the neighbouring town. But here a strange
difficulty met us. We saw several fresh, rosy-cheeked maidens, who
appeared quite willing to undertake our service, until they heard
where we resided, when by an extraordinary coincidence, one and all
discovered that some insurmountable obstacle prevented their coming at
all. When the same thing had occurred several times in succession, and
Jane appeared worn out with disappointment and fatigue, the landlord
of the inn where we had put up for the day appeared at the door, and
beckoned me out.
“May I make bold enough to ask if you want a servant to go to
Rushmere?” he inquired of me in a whisper.
“Certainly, we do. Our nurse has been obliged to leave us suddenly,
and we want some one to supply her place.”
“Then you may give it up as a bad job, sir; for you’ll never get one
of the country people here about to set a foot in Rushmere--not if you
were to live there till the day of your death.”
“And why not?” I demanded, with affected ignorance.
“What, haven’t you heard nothing since you’ve been there, sir?”
“Heard? What should I have heard, except the ordinary noises of the
household?”
“Well, you’re lucky if you’ve escaped so far,” returned the landlord,
mysteriously; “but it ain’t for long. No one who lives in Rushmere
lives there _alone_. I can tell you the whole story if you like?”
“I have no desire to listen to any such folly,” I replied, testily. “I
am not superstitious, and do not believe in supernatural sights or
sounds. If the people round about here are foolish enough to do so, I
cannot help it; but I will not have the minds of my wife or family
imbued with their nonsense.”
“Very good, sir; I hope you may be able to say as much two months
hence,” said the man, civilly.
And so we parted.
I returned to Janie, and persuaded her he had told me that all the
girls of that town had a strong objection to leave it, which was the
reason they refused to take service in the country. I reminded her
that Susan was quite competent to take charge of the whole flock until
we returned to London; and it would be better after all to put up with
a little inconvenience than to introduce a stranger to the nursery. So
my wife, who was disappointed with the failure of her enterprise, fell
in with my ideas, and we returned to Rushmere, determined to do as
best we could with Susan only.
But I could not forget the landlord’s earnestness, and,
notwithstanding my incredulity, began to wish we were well out of
Rushmere.
For a few days after Mary’s departure we slept in peace; but then the
question of the mysterious footsteps assumed a graver aspect, for my
wife and I were roused from deep slumber one night by a loud knock
upon the bedroom door, and springing up to answer it, I encountered,
on the threshold, Dawson, pale with fright, and trembling in every
limb.
“What do you mean by alarming your mistress in this way?” I inquired,
angrily.
“I’m very sorry, sir,” he replied, with chattering teeth, “but I
thought it my duty to let you know. There’s some one in the house
to-night, sir. I can hear them whispering together at this moment; and
so can you, if you will but listen.”
I advanced at once to the banisters, and certainly heard what seemed
to be the sound of distant voices engaged in altercation; and, light
in hand, followed by Dawson, I dashed down the staircase without
further ceremony, in hopes of trapping the intruders.
But all in vain. Though we entered every room in turn, not a soul was
visible.
I came to the conclusion that the whole alarm was due to Dawson’s
cowardice.
“You contemptible fool, you are as chicken-hearted as a woman!” I
said, contemptuously. “You hear the frogs croaking in the mere, or the
wind blowing through the rushes, and you immediately conclude the
house is full of thieves.”
“I didn’t say it was thieves,” the man interposed, sullenly; but I
took no notice of the muttered remark.
“If you are afraid to sleep downstairs by yourself,” I continued, “say
so; but don’t come alarming your mistress again, in the middle of the
night, for I won’t allow it.”
The man slunk back into his room, with a reiteration that he had not
been mistaken; and I returned to bed, full of complaints at having
been so unnecessarily roused.
“If this kind of thing goes on,” I remarked to my wife,” I shall
regret ever having set eyes on Rushmere. That a pack of silly
maid-servants should see a robber in every bush is only to be
expected; but how a sensible man like Dawson, and a woman of education
like yourself, can permit your imagination to betray you into such
foolish fears, is quite past my comprehension.”
Yet, notwithstanding my dose of philosophy, poor Jane looked so pale
upon the following morning, that I was fain to devise and carry into
execution a little excursion into the neighbouring country before she
regained her usual composure.
Some time passed without any further disturbance, and though upon
several occasions I blamed myself for having brought a family, used to
a populous city like London, to vegetate in so isolated a spot as
Rushmere, I had almost forgotten the circumstances that had so much
annoyed me.
We had now spent a month in our temporary home. The fields and
hedgerows were bright with summer flowers, and the children passed
most of their time tumbling amongst the new-mown hay. Janie had once
more regained courage to sit by herself in the dusk, and to rest with
tolerable security when she went to bed. I was rejoicing in the idea
that all the folly that had marred the pleasure of our arrival at
Rushmere had died a natural death, when it was vividly and painfully
recalled to my mind by its actual recurrence.
Our second girl, a delicate little creature of about six years old,
who, since the departure of her nurse, had slept in a cot in the same
room as ourselves, woke me up in the middle of the night by
exclaiming, in a frightened, plaintive voice, close to my ear,--
“Papa! papa! do you hear the footsteps? Some one is coming up the
stairs!”
The tone was one of terror, and it roused my wife and myself
instantly. The child was cold, and shaking all over with alarm, and I
placed her by her mother’s side before I left the room to ascertain if
there was any truth in her assertion.
“Arthur, Arthur! I hear them as plainly as can be,” exclaimed my wife,
who was as terrified as the child. “They are on the second landing,
There is no mistake about it this time.”
I listened at the half-opened door, and was compelled to agree with
her. From whatever cause they arose, footsteps were to be distinctly
heard upon the staircase--sometimes advancing, and then retreating, as
though afraid to venture farther; but, still, not to be mistaken for
anything but the sound of feet.
With a muttered exclamation, I seized my revolver.
“Don’t be alarmed,” I said, hurriedly; “there is not the slightest
occasion for it. And, whatever happens, do not venture on the landing.
I shall be quite safe.”
And without further preamble, only desirous to settle the business
once for all, and give the intruders on my domains a sharp lesson on
the laws of _meum_ and _tuum_, I sprang down the staircase. I had not
stayed to strike a light; but the moon was shining blandly in at the
uncurtained passage window, and the landing was as bright as day. Yet
I saw no one there. The thief (if thief it were) must have already
taken the alarm, and descended to the lowest regions. I fancied I
could detect the same footsteps, but more distinctly marked, walk by
me with a hurried, frightened movement, accompanied by a quick,
sobbing breath; and, as I paused to consider what such a mystery could
indicate, a pair of heavily-shod feet rushed past me, or seemed to
rush, upon the stairs. I heard an angry shout commingle with a faint
cry of terror below the landing whereon I stood; then, the discharge
of a firearm, followed by a low groan of pain--and all was still.
Dark and mysterious though it appeared to be, I did not dream of
ascribing the circumstance to any but a natural cause. But there was
evidently no time for hesitation, and in another moment I had flown
down the stairs, and stood in the moonlighted hall. It was empty!
Chairs, table, hatstand, stood in their accustomed places; the
children’s garden hats and my fishing tackle were strewn about; but of
animated nature there was not a sign, of the recent scuffle not a
trace!
All was quiet, calm, and undisturbed, and, as I gazed around in mute
bewilderment, the perspiration stood in thick drops upon my brow and
chin.
My first collected thought was for my wife and the best means by which
to prevent her sharing the mystification and dread which I have no
hesitation in confessing that I now experienced; but as I turned to
remount the staircase, I caught sight of some dark mass lying at the
further end of the passage, and going up to it, found to my surprise
the body of Dawson, cold and insensible.
The explanation of the mystery was before me--so I immediately
determined. The man, whom I knew to be replete with superstitious