CONTENTS.

THE GHOST

OF

CHARLOTTE CRAY

AND OTHER STORIES.

BY

FLORENCE MARRYAT

(MRS. FRANCIS LEAN),

AUTHOR OF “LOVE’S CONFLICT,” “FACING THE FOOTLIGHTS,”

ETC., ETC.

_COPYRIGHT EDITION._

LEIPZIG

BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ

1883.

_The Right of Translation is reserved._

CONTENTS.

THE GHOST OF CHARLOTTE CRAY

THE INVISIBLE TENANTS OF RUSHMERE

AMY’S LOVER

LITTLE WHITE SOULS

STILL WATERS

CHIT-CHAT FROM ANDALUSIA

THE SECRET OF ECONOMY

“MOTHER”

IN THE HEART OF THE ARDENNES

A MIDSUMMER’S NIGHTMARE

THE

GHOST OF CHARLOTTE CRAY.

Mr. Sigismund Braggett was sitting in the little room he called his

study, wrapped in a profound--not to say a mournful--reverie. Now,

there was nothing in the present life nor surroundings of Mr. Braggett

to account for such a demonstration. He was a publisher and

bookseller; a man well to do, with a thriving business in the city,

and the prettiest of all pretty villas at Streatham. And he was only

just turned forty; had not a grey hair in his head nor a false tooth

in his mouth; and had been married but three short months to one of

the fairest and most affectionate specimens of English womanhood that

ever transformed a bachelor’s quarters into Paradise.

What more could Mr. Sigismund Braggett possibly want? Nothing! His

trouble lay in the fact that he had got rather more than he wanted.

Most of us have our little peccadilloes in this world--awkward

reminiscences that we would like to bury five fathoms deep, and never

hear mentioned again, but that have an uncomfortable habit of cropping

up at the most inconvenient moments; and no mortal is more likely to

be troubled with them than a middle-aged bachelor who has taken to

matrimony.

Mr. Sigismund Braggett had no idea what he was going in for when he

led the blushing Emily Primrose up to the altar, and swore to be hers,

and hers only, until death should them part. He had no conception a

woman’s curiosity could be so keen, her tongue so long, and her

inventive faculties so correct. He had spent whole days before the

fatal moment of marriage in burning letters, erasing initials,

destroying locks of hair, and making offerings of affection look as if

he had purchased them with his own money. But it had been of little

avail. Mrs. Braggett had swooped down upon him like a beautiful bird

of prey, and wheedled, coaxed, or kissed him out of half his secrets

before he knew what he was about. But he had never told her about

Charlotte Cray. And now he almost wished that he had done so, for

Charlotte Cray was the cause of his present dejected mood.

Now, there are ladies _and_ ladies in this world. Some are very shy,

and will only permit themselves to be wooed by stealth. Others, again,

are the pursuers rather than the pursued, and chase the wounded or the

flying even to the very doors of their stronghold, or lie in wait for

them like an octopus, stretching out their tentacles on every side in

search of victims.

And to the latter class Miss Charlotte Cray decidedly belonged. Not a

person worth mourning over, you will naturally say. But, then, Mr.

Sigismund Braggett had not behaved well to her. She was one of the

“peccadilloes.” She was an authoress--not an author, mind you, which

term smacks more of the profession than the sex--but an “authoress,”

with lots of the “ladylike” about the plots of her stories and metre

of her rhymes. They had come together in the sweet connection of

publisher and writer--had met first in a dingy, dusty little office at

the back of his house of business, and laid the foundation of their

friendship with the average amount of chaffering and prevarication

that usually attend such proceedings.

Mr. Braggett ran a risk in publishing Miss Cray’s tales or verses, but

he found her useful in so many other ways that he used occasionally to

hold forth a sop to Cerberus in the shape of publicity for the sake of

keeping her in his employ. For Miss Charlotte Cray--who was as old as

himself, and had arrived at the period of life when women are said to

pray “Any, good Lord, any!”--was really a clever woman, and could turn

her hand to most things required of her, or upon which she had set her

mind; and she had most decidedly set her mind upon marrying Mr.

Braggett, and he--to serve his own purposes--had permitted her to

cherish the idea, and this was the Nemesis that was weighing him down

in the study at the present moment. He had complimented Miss Cray, and

given her presents, and taken her out a-pleasuring, all because she

was useful to him, and did odd jobs that no one else would undertake,

and for less than any one else would have accepted; and he had known

the while that she was in love with him, and that she believed he was

in love with her.

He had not thought much of it at the time. He had not then made up his

mind to marry Emily Primrose, and considered that what pleased Miss

Cray, and harmed no one else, was fair play for all sides. But he had

come to see things differently now. He had been married three months,

and the first two weeks had been very bitter ones to him. Miss Cray

had written him torrents of reproaches during that unhappy period,

besides calling day after day at his office to deliver them in person.

This and her threats had frightened him out of his life. He had lived

in hourly terror lest the clerks should overhear what passed at their

interviews, or that his wife should be made acquainted with them.

He had implored Miss Cray, both by word of mouth and letter, to cease

her persecution of him; but all the reply he received was that he was

a base and perjured man, and that she should continue to call at his

office, and write to him through the penny post, until he had

introduced her to his wife. For therein lay the height and depth of

his offending. He had been afraid to bring Emily and Miss Cray

together, and the latter resented the omission as an insult. It was

bad enough to find that Sigismund Braggett, whose hair she wore next

her heart, and whose photograph stood as in a shrine upon her bedroom

mantelpiece, had married another woman, without giving her even the

chance of a refusal, but it was worse still to come to the conclusion

that he did not intend her to have a glimpse into the garden of Eden

he had created for himself.

Miss Cray was a lady of vivid imagination and strong aspirations. All

was not lost in her ideas, although Mr. Braggett _had_ proved false to

the hopes he had raised. Wives did not live for ever; and the chances

and changes of this life were so numerous, that stranger things had

happened than that Mr. Braggett might think fit to make better use of

the second opportunity afforded him than he had done of the first. But

if she were not to continue even his friend, it was too hard. But the

perjured publisher had continued resolute, notwithstanding all Miss

Cray’s persecution, and now he had neither seen nor heard from her for

a month; and, manlike, he was beginning to wonder what had become of

her, and whether she had found anybody to console her for his untruth.

Mr. Braggett did not wish to comfort Miss Cray himself; but he did not

quite like the notion of her being comforted.

After all--so he soliloquised--he had been very cruel to her; for the

poor thing was devoted to him. How her eyes used to sparkle and her

cheek to flush when she entered his office, and how eagerly she would

undertake any work for him, however disagreeable to perform! He knew

well that she had expected to be Mrs. Braggett, and it must have been

a terrible disappointment to her when he married Emily Primrose.

Why had he not asked her out to Violet Villa since? What harm could

she do as a visitor there? particularly if he cautioned her first as

to the peculiarity of Mrs. Braggett’s disposition, and the quickness

with which her jealousy was excited. It was close upon Christmas-time,

the period when all old friends meet together and patch up, if they

cannot entirely forget, everything that has annoyed them in the past.

Mr. Braggett pictured to himself the poor old maid sitting solitary in

her small rooms at Hammersmith, no longer able to live in the

expectation of seeing his manly form at the wicket-gate, about to

enter and cheer her solitude. The thought smote him as a two-edged

sword, and he sat down at once and penned Miss Charlotte a note, in

which he inquired after her health, and hoped that they should soon

see her at Violet Villa.

He felt much better after this note was written and despatched. He

came out of the little study and entered the cheerful drawing-room,

and sat with his pretty wife by the light of the fire, telling her of

the lonely lady to whom he had just proposed to introduce her.

“An old friend of mine, Emily. A clever, agreeable woman, though

rather eccentric. You will be polite to her, I know, for my sake.”

“An _old_ woman, is she?” said Mrs. Braggett, elevating her eyebrows.

“And what do you call ‘old,’ Siggy, I should like to know?”

“Twice as old as yourself, my dear--five-and-forty at the very least,

and not personable-looking, even for that age. Yet I think you will

find her a pleasant companion, and I am sure she will be enchanted

with you.”

“I don’t know that: clever women don’t like me, as a rule, though I

don’t know why.”

“They are jealous of your beauty, my darling; but Miss Cray is above

such meanness, and will value you for your own sake.”

“She’d better not let me catch her valuing me for _yours_,” responded

Mrs. Braggett, with a flash of the eye that made her husband ready to

regret the dangerous experiment he was about to make of bringing

together two women who had each, in her own way, a claim upon him, and

each the will to maintain it.

So he dropped the subject of Miss Charlotte Cray, and took to admiring

his wife’s complexion instead, so that the evening passed

harmoniously, and both parties were satisfied.

For two days Mr. Braggett received no answer from Miss Cray, which

rather surprised him. He had quite expected that on the reception of

his invitation she would rush down to his office and into his arms,

behind the shelter of the ground-glass door that enclosed his chair of

authority. For Miss Charlotte had been used on occasions to indulge in

rapturous demonstrations of the sort, and the remembrance of Mrs.

Braggett located in Violet Villa would have been no obstacle whatever

to her. She believed she had a prior claim to Mr. Braggett. However,

nothing of the kind happened, and the perjured publisher was becoming

strongly imbued with the idea that he must go out to Hammersmith and

see if he could not make his peace with her in person, particularly as

he had several odd jobs for Christmastide, which no one could

undertake so well as herself, when a letter with a black-edged border

was put into his hand. He opened it mechanically, not knowing the

writing; but its contents shocked him beyond measure.

“Honoured Sir,--I am sorry to tell you that Miss Cray died at my

house a week ago, and was buried yesterday. She spoke of you several

times during her last illness, and if you would like to hear any

further particulars, and will call on me at the old address, I shall

be most happy to furnish you with them.--Yours respectfully,

“Mary Thompson.”

When Mr. Braggett read this news, you might have knocked him over with

a feather. It is not always true that a living dog is better than a

dead lion. Some people gain considerably in the estimation of their

friends by leaving this world, and Miss Charlotte Cray was one of

them. Her persecution had ceased for ever, and her amiable weaknesses

were alone held in remembrance. Mr. Braggett felt a positive relief in

the knowledge that his dead friend and his wife would never now be

brought in contact with each other; but at the same time he blamed

himself more than was needful, perhaps, for not having seen nor

communicated with Miss Cray for so long before her death. He came down

to breakfast with a portentously grave face that morning, and imparted

the sad intelligence to Mrs. Braggett with the air of an undertaker.

Emily wondered, pitied, and sympathised, but the dead lady was no more

to her than any other stranger; and she was surprised her husband

looked so solemn over it all. Mr. Braggett, however, could not dismiss

the subject easily from his mind. It haunted him during the business

hours of the morning, and as soon as he could conveniently leave his

office, he posted away to Hammersmith. The little house in which Miss

Cray used to live looked just the same, both inside and outside: how

strange it seemed that _she_ should have flown away from it for ever!

And here was her landlady, Mrs. Thompson, bobbing and curtseying to

him in the same old black net cap with artificial flowers in it, and

the same stuff gown she had worn since he first saw her, with her

apron in her hand, it is true, ready to go to her eyes as soon as a

reasonable opportunity occurred, but otherwise the same Mrs. Thompson

as before. And yet she would never wait upon _her_ again:

“It was all so sudden, sir,” she said, in answer to Mr. Braggett’s

inquiries, “that there was no time to send for nobody.”

“But Miss Cray had my address.”

“Ah! perhaps so; but she was off her head, poor dear, and couldn’t

think of nothing. But she remembered you, sir, to the last; for the

very morning she died, she sprung up in bed and called out,

‘Sigismund! Sigismund!’ as loud as ever she could, and she never spoke

to anybody afterwards, not one word.”

“She left no message for me?”

“None, sir. I asked her the day before she went if I was to say

nothing to you for her (knowing you was such friends), and all her

answer was, ‘I wrote to him. He’s got my letter.’ So I thought,

perhaps, you had heard, sir.”

“Not for some time past. It seems terribly sudden to me, not having

heard even of her illness. Where is she buried?”

“Close by in the churchyard, sir. My little girl will go with you and

show you the place, if you’d like to see it.”

Mr. Braggett accepted her offer and left.

When he was standing by a heap of clods they called a grave, and had

dismissed the child, he drew out Miss Cray’s last letter, which he

carried in his pocket, and read it over.

“You tell me that I am not to call at your office again, except on

business” (so it ran), “nor to send letters to your private address,

lest it should come to the knowledge of your wife, and create

unpleasantness between you; but I _shall_ call, and I _shall_ write,

until I have seen Mrs. Braggett, and, if you don’t take care, I will

introduce myself to her and tell her the reason you have been afraid

to do so.”

This letter had made Mr. Braggett terribly angry at the time of

reception. He had puffed and fumed, and cursed Miss Charlotte by all

his gods for daring to threaten him. But he read it with different

feelings now Miss Charlotte was down there, six feet beneath the

ground he stood on, and he could feel only compassion for her frenzy,

and resentment against himself for having excited it. As he travelled

home from Hammersmith to Streatham, he was a very dejected publisher

indeed.

He did not tell Mrs. Braggett the reason of his melancholy, but it

affected him to that degree that he could not go to office on the

following day, but stayed at home instead, to be petted and waited

upon by his pretty wife, which treatment resulted in a complete cure.

The next morning, therefore, he started for London as briskly as ever,

and arrived at office before his usual time. A clerk, deputed to

receive all messages for his master, followed him behind the

ground-glass doors, with a packet of letters.

“Mr. Van Ower was here yesterday, sir. He will let you have the copy

before the end of the week, and Messrs. Hanley’s foreman called on

particular business, and will look in to-day at eleven. And Mr. Ellis

came to ask if there was any answer to his letter yet; and Miss Cray

called, sir; and that’s all.”

“_Who_ did you say?” cried Braggett.

“Miss Cray, sir. She waited for you above an hour, but I told her I

thought you couldn’t mean to come into town at all, so she went.”

“Do you know what you’re talking about, Hewetson? You said _Miss

Cray!_”

“And I meant it, sir--Miss Charlotte Cray. Burns spoke to her as well

as I.”

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Mr. Braggett, turning as white as a sheet.

“Go at once and send Burns to me.” Burns came.

“Burns, who was the lady that called to see me yesterday?”

“Miss Cray, sir. She had a very thick veil on, and she looked so pale

that I asked her if she had been ill, and she said ‘Yes.’ She sat in

the office for over an hour, hoping you’d come in, but as you didn’t,

she went away again.”

“Did she lift her veil?”

“Not whilst I spoke to her, sir.”

“How do you know it was Miss Cray, then?”

The clerk stared. “Well, sir, we all know her pretty well by this

time.”

“Did you ask her name?”

“No, sir; there was no need to do it.”

“You’re mistaken, that’s all, both you and Hewetson. It couldn’t have

been Miss Cray! I know for certain that she is--is--is--not in London

at present. It must have been a stranger.”

“It was not, indeed, sir, begging your pardon. I could tell Miss Cray

anywhere, by her figure and her voice, without seeing her face. But I

_did_ see her face, and remarked how awfully pale she was--just like

death, sir!”

“There! there! that will do! It’s of no consequence, and you can go

back to your work.”

But any one who had seen Mr. Braggett, when left alone in his office,

would not have said he thought the matter of no consequence. The

perspiration broke out upon his forehead, although it was December,

and he rocked himself backward and forward in his chair with

agitation.

At last he rose hurriedly, upset his throne, and dashed through the

outer premises in the face of twenty people waiting to speak to him.

As soon as he could find his voice, he hailed a hansom, and drove to

Hammersmith. Good Mrs. Thompson opening the door to him, thought he

looked as if he had just come out of a fever.

“Lor’ bless me, sir! whatever’s the matter?”

“Mrs. Thompson, have you told me the truth about Miss Cray? Is she

really dead?”

“_Really dead_, sir! Why, I closed her eyes, and put her in the coffin

with my own hands! If she ain’t dead, I don’t know who is! But if you

doubt my word, you’d better ask the doctor that gave the certificate

for her.”

“What is the doctor’s name?”

“Dodson; he lives opposite.”

“You must forgive my strange questions, Mrs. Thompson, but I have had

a terrible dream about my poor friend, and I think I should like to

talk to the doctor about her.”

“Oh, very good, sir,” cried the landlady, much offended. “I’m not

afraid of what the doctor will tell you. She had excellent nursing and

everything as she could desire, and there’s nothing on my conscience

on that score, so I’ll wish you good morning.” And with that Mrs.

Thompson slammed the door in Mr. Braggett’s face.

He found Dr. Dodson at home.

“If I understand you rightly,” said the practitioner, looking rather

steadfastly in the scared face of his visitor, “you wish, as a friend

of the late Miss Cray’s, to see a copy of the certificate of her

death? Very good, sir; here it is. She died, as you will perceive, on

the twenty-fifth of November, of peritonitis. She had, I can assure

you, every attention and care, but nothing could have saved her.”

“You are quite sure, then, she is dead?” demanded Mr. Braggett, in a

vague manner.

The doctor looked at him as if he were not quite sure if he were sane.

“If seeing a patient die, and her corpse coffined and buried, is being

sure she is dead, _I_ am in no doubt whatever about Miss Cray.”

“It is very strange--most strange and unaccountable,” murmured poor

Mr. Braggett, in reply, as he shuffled out of the doctor’s passage,

and took his way back to the office.

Here, however, after an interval of rest and a strong brandy and soda,

he managed to pull himself together, and to come to the conclusion

that the doctor and Mrs. Thompson _could_ not be mistaken, and that,

consequently, the clerks _must_. He did not mention the subject again

to them, however; and as the days went on, and nothing more was heard

of the mysterious stranger’s visit, Mr. Braggett put it altogether out

of his mind.

At the end of a fortnight, however, when he was thinking of something

totally different, young Hewetson remarked to him, carelessly,--

“Miss Cray was here again yesterday, sir. She walked in just as your

cab had left the door.”

All the horror of his first suspicions returned with double force upon

the unhappy man’s mind.

“Don’t talk nonsense!” he gasped, angrily, as soon as he could speak.

“Don’t attempt to play any of your tricks on me, young man, or it will

be the worse for you, I can tell you.”

“Tricks, sir!” stammered the clerk. “I don’t know what you are

alluding to. I am only telling you the truth. You have always desired

me to be most particular in letting you know the names of the people

who call in your absence, and I thought I was only doing my duty in

making a point of ascertaining them----”

“Yes, yes! Hewetson, of course,” replied Mr. Braggett, passing his

handkerchief over his brow, “and you are quite right in following my

directions as closely as possible; only--in this case you are

completely mistaken, and it is the second time you have committed the

error.”

“Mistaken!”

“Yes!--as mistaken as it is possible for a man to be! Miss Cray

_could_ not have called at this office yesterday.”

“But she did, sir.”

“Am I labouring under some horrible nightmare?” exclaimed the

publisher, “or are we playing at cross purposes? Can you mean the Miss

Cray I mean?”

“I am speaking of Miss Charlotte Cray, sir, the author of ‘Sweet

Gwendoline,’--the lady who has undertaken so much of our compilation

the last two years, and who has a long nose, and wears her hair in

curls. I never knew there was another Miss Cray; but if there are two,

that is the one I mean.”

“Still I _cannot_ believe it, Hewetson, for the Miss Cray who has been

associated with our firm died on the twenty-fifth of last month.”

“_Died_, sir! Is Miss Cray dead? Oh, it can’t be! It’s some humbugging

trick that’s been played upon you, for I’d swear she was in this room

yesterday afternoon, as full of life as she’s ever been since I knew

her. She didn’t talk much, it’s true, for she seemed in a hurry to be

off again, but she had got on the same dress and bonnet she was in

here last, and she made herself as much at home in the office as she

ever did. Besides,” continued Hewetson, as though suddenly remembering

something, “she left a note for you, sir.”

“A note! Why did you not say so before?”

“It slipped my memory when you began to doubt my word in that way,

sir. But you’ll find it in the bronze vase. She told me to tell you

she had placed it there.”

Mr. Braggett made a dash at the vase, and found the three-cornered

note as he had been told. Yes! it was Charlotte’s handwriting, or the

facsimile of it, there was no doubt of that; and his hands shook so he

could hardly open the paper. It contained these words:

“You tell me that I am not to call at your office again, except on

business, nor to send letters to your private address, lest it should

come to the knowledge of your wife, and create unpleasantness between

you; but I _shall_ call, and I _shall_ write until I have seen Mrs.

Braggett, and if you don’t take care I will introduce myself to her,

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.

She stood there, looking Mrs. Emily full in the face, but only for a

moment, for, even as she gazed, the lineaments grew less and less

distinct, with the shape of the figure that supported them, until,

with a crash, the apparition seemed to fall in and disappear, and the

place that had known her was filled with empty air.

“Where is she gone?” exclaimed Mrs. Braggett, in a tone of utter

amazement.

“Where is _who_ gone?” repeated Mr. Braggett, hardly able to

articulate from fear.

“The lady in the chair!”

“There was no one there except in your own imagination. It was my

great-coat that you mistook for a figure,” returned her husband

hastily, as he threw the article in question over the back of the

arm-chair.

“But how could that have been?” said his pretty wife, rubbing her

eyes. “How could I think a coat had eyes, and hair, and features? I am

_sure_ I saw a woman seated there, and that she rose and stared at me.

Siggy! tell me it was true. It seems so incomprehensible that I should

have been mistaken.”

“You must question your own sense. You see that the room is empty now,

except for ourselves, and you know that no one has left it. If you

like to search under the table, you can.”

“Ah! now, Siggy, you are laughing at me, because you know that would

be folly. But there was certainly some one here--only, where can she

have disappeared to?”

“Suppose we discuss the matter at a more convenient season,” replied

Mr. Braggett, as he drew his wife’s arm through his arm. “Hewetson!

you will be able to tell Mr. Hume that he was mistaken. Say, also,

that I shall not be back in the office to-day. I am not so strong as I

thought I was, and feel quite unequal to business. Tell him to come

out to Streatham this evening with my letters, and I will talk with

him there.”

What passed at that interview was never disclosed; but pretty Mrs.

Braggett was much rejoiced, a short time afterwards, by her husband

telling her that he had resolved to resign his active share of the

business, and devote the rest of his life to her and Violet Villa. He

would have no more occasion, therefore, to visit the office, and be

exposed to the temptation of spending four or five hours out of every

twelve away from her side. For, though Mrs. Emily had arrived at the

conclusion that the momentary glimpse she caught of a lady in Siggy’s

office must have been a delusion, she was not quite satisfied by his

assertions that she would never have found a more tangible cause for

her jealousy.

But Sigismund Braggett knew more than he chose to tell Mrs. Emily. He

knew that what she had witnessed was no delusion, but a reality; and

that Charlotte Cray had carried out her dying determination to call at

his office and his private residence, _until she had seen his wife!_

THE INVISIBLE TENANTS OF

RUSHMERE.

“On the banks of the Wye, Monmouthshire.--To be Let, furnished, a

commodious Family Mansion, surrounded with park-like grounds. Stabling

and every convenience. Only two and a-half miles from station, church,

and post-office. Excellent fishing to be procured in the

neighbourhood. Rent nominal to a responsible tenant.”

Such, with a few trifling additions, was the advertisement that caught

my eye in the spring of 18--.

“My dear Jane,” I said, as I handed the paper over to my wife, “this,

I think, is the very thing we want.”

I was a London practitioner, with a numerous family and a large circle

of patients; but the two facts, though blessings in themselves, were

not without their disadvantages.

The hostages which I had given to fortune had made that strenuous

action which attention to my numerous patients supplied incumbent on

me; but the consequent anxiety and want of rest had drawn so largely

on my mental and physical resources, that there was no need for my

professional brethren to warn me of the necessity of change and

country air. I felt myself that I was breaking down, and had already

made arrangements with a friend to take my practice for a few months,

and set me at liberty to attend to my own health. And being

passionately fond of fishing, and all country pleasures and pursuits,

and looking forward with zest to a period of complete quiet, the

residence alluded to (if it fulfilled the promise of its

advertisement) appeared to be all that I could desire.

“Park-like grounds!” exclaimed my wife, with animation. “How the dear

children will enjoy themselves.”

“And two and a-half miles from church or station,” I responded

eagerly. “No neighbours, excellent fishing, and at a nominal rent. It

sounds too good to be true.”

“Oh, Arthur! you must write, and obtain all the particulars this very

day. If you put it off, some one will be sure to take the house before

we have time to do so.”

“I shall go and see the city agents at once,” I replied, resolutely.

“It is too rare an opportunity to be lost. Only, don’t raise your

hopes too high, my dear. Advertisements are apt to be deceptive.”

But when I had seen Messrs. Quibble & Lye on the subject, it really

seemed as though for once they had spoken the truth. Rushmere, the

house in question, had been built and furnished for his own use by an

old gentleman, who died shortly afterwards, and his heirs, not liking

the situation, had placed the property in the agents’ hands for

letting. The owners were wealthy, cared little for money, and had

authorised the agents to let the house on any reasonable terms, and it

was really a bargain to anyone that wanted it. They frankly admitted

that the loneliness of the position of Rushmere was the reason of its

cheapness; but when I heard the rent at which they offered to let me

take it, if approved of, for three months, I was quite ready to agree

with Messrs. Quibble & Lye in their idea of a bargain, and that, for

those who liked solitude, Rushmere offered extraordinary advantages.

Armed with the necessary authority, I found my way down into

Monmouthshire, to inspect the premises on the following day; and when

I saw Rushmere, I felt still more disposed to be surprised at the

opportunity afforded me, and to congratulate myself on the promptitude

with which I had embraced it. I found it to be a good-sized country

house, comfortably furnished, and, to all appearance, well built,

standing in enclosed grounds, and on a healthy elevation; but,

notwithstanding its isolated situation, I was too much a man of the

world to believe, under the circumstances, that its greatest

disadvantage lay in that fact. Accordingly, I peered eagerly about for

damp walls, covered cesspools, unsteady joists, or tottering

foundations, but I could find none.

“The chimneys smoke, I suppose?” I remarked, in a would-be careless

tone, to the old woman whom I found in charge of the house, and who

crept after me wherever I went.

“Chimbleys smoke, sir? Not as I knows of.”

“The roof leaks, perhaps?”

“Deary me, no. You won’t find a spot of damp, look where you may.”

“Then there’s been a fever, or some infectious disorder in the house?”

“A fever, sir? Why, the place has been empty these six months. The

last tenants left at Christmas.”

“Empty for six months!” I exclaimed. “How long is it, then, since the

gentleman who built it died?”

“Old Mr. Bennett, sir? He’s been dead a matter of fifteen years or

more.”

“Indeed! Then why don’t the owners of the place sell it, instead of

letting it stand vacant?” thought I to myself.

But I did not say so to the old woman, who was looking up in my face,

as though anxious to learn what my decision would be.

“No vermin, I hope?” I suggested, as a last resource. “You are not

troubled with rats or mice at night, are you?”

“Oh, I don’t sleep here at night, sir, thank heaven!” she answered in

a manner which appeared to me unnecessarily energetic. “I am only

employed by day to air the house, and show it to strangers. I go home

to my own people at night.”

“And where do your people live?”

“Better than half a mile from here, sir, and ours is the nearest

cottage to Rushmere.”

And then--apprehensive, perhaps, that her information might prove a

drawback to the letting of the property--she added, quickly,--

“Not but what it’s a nice place to live in, is Rushmere, and very

convenient, though a bit lonesome.”

I perfectly agreed with her, the “lonesomeness” of the situation

proving no detraction in my eyes.

On my return to London I gave my wife so glowing a description of the

house and its surroundings, that she urged me to conclude the bargain

at once; and, in the course of a few weeks, I and my family were

transplanted from the purlieus of Bayswater to the banks of the Wye.

It was the middle of May when we took possession, and the country wore

its most attractive garb. The children were wild with delight at being

let loose in the flower-bespangled fields, and, as I watched the

tributaries of the river, and perceived the excellent sport they

promised me, I felt scarcely less excited than the children. Only my

wife, I thought, became inoculated with some of the absurd fears of

the domestics we had brought with us from town, and seemed to consider

the locality more lonely and unprotected than she had expected to find

it.

“It’s a charming place, Arthur,” she acknowledged, “and marvellously

cheap; but it is certainly a long way from other houses. I find we

shall have to send for everything to the town. Not even the country

carts, with butter and poultry, seem to call at Rushmere.”

“My dear Jane, I told you distinctly that it was two and a-half miles

from church or station, and you read it for yourself in the paper. But

I thought we looked out for a retreat where we should run no risk of

being intruded on by strangers.”

“Oh yes, of course; only there are not even any farmhouses or cottages

near Rushmere, you see; and it would be so very easy for anyone to

break in at night, and rob us.”

“Pooh, nonsense! What will you be afraid of next? The locks and bolts

are perfectly secure, and both Dawson and I have firearms, and are

ready to use them. Your fears are childish, Janie.”

But all my arguments were unavailing, and each day my wife grew more

nervous, and less willing to be left alone. So much so, indeed, that I

made a practice of seeing that the house fastenings were properly

secured each night myself, and of keeping a loaded revolver close to

my hand, in case of need. But it damped my pleasure, to find that Jane

was not enjoying herself; and the country looked less beautiful to me

than it had done at first. One night I suddenly awoke, to find that

she was sitting up in bed, and in an attitude of expectation.

“My dear, what is the matter with you?”

“Oh, hush! I am sure that I hear footsteps on the stairs--footsteps

creeping up and down.”