Part 2

“_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.