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 rememberin
g 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.
The Valancourt Book of Horror Stories Page 19
