WEBVTT

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A grammatical ghost. There was only
one possible objection to the drawing room,

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and that was the occasional presence of
Miss Carrow, and only one possible objection

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to Miss Carrow, and that was
that she was dead. She had been

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dead twenty years as a matter of
fact and record, and to the last

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of her life sacredly preserved the treasures
and traditions of her family, a family

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bound up, as it is quite
unnecessary to explain to any one in good

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society. With all that is most
venerable and heroic in the history of the

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Republic, Miss Carrow never relaxed the
proverbial hospitality of her house, even when

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she remained its sole representative. She
continued to preside at her table with dignity

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and state, and to set an
example of excessive modesty in gentle decorum to

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a generation of restless young women.
It is not likely that, having lived

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a life of such irreproachable gentility as
this, Miss Carroll would have the bad

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taste to die in any way not
pleasant to mention. In fastidious society,

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she could be trusted to the last
not to outrage those friends who quoted her

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as an exemplar of propriety. She
died very unobtrusively of an affection of the

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heart one June morning, while trimming
her rose trellis, and her lavender colored

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print was not even rumpled when she
fell, nor were more than the tips

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of her little bronze slippers visible.
Isn't it dreadful? Said the Philadelphians that

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the property should go to a very
very distant cousin in Iowa, somewhere else

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on the frontier, about whom nobody
knows anything at all. The Carrow treasures

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were packed in boxes and sent away
into the Iowa wilderness. The Carrow traditions

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were preserved by the Historical Society.
The carew property, standing in one of

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the most umbrageous and aristocratic suburbs of
Philadelphia, was rented to all manner of

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folk, anybody who had money enough
to pay the rental, And Society entered

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its doors no more. But at
last, after twenty years, and when

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all save the oldest Philadelphians had forgotten, Miss Lydia Carrow, the very very

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distant cousins appeared. He was quite
in the prime of life, and so

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agreeable and unassuming that nothing could be
urged against him save his patronymic, which,

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being Boggs, did not commend itself
to the euphemists. With him were

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two maiden sisters, ladies of excellent
taste and manners, who restored the carrou

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china to its ancient cabinets, and
replaced the carrou pictures upon the walls with

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additions not out of keeping with the
elegance of these heirlooms. Society, with

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a magnanimity almost dramatic, overlooked the
name of Boggs and called all was well.

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At least to an outsider, all
seemed to be well. But in

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truth there was a certain distress in
the old mansion, and in the hearts

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of the well behaved Missus Boggs's.
It came about most unexpectedly. The sisters

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had been sitting upstairs, looking out
at the beautiful grounds of the old place,

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and marveling at the violets which lifted
their heads from every possible cranny about

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the house, and talking over the
cordiality which they had been receiving by those

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upon whom they had no claim,
And they were filled with amiable satisfaction.

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Life looked attractive. They had often
been grateful to Miss Lydia Carrow for leaving

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their brother her fortune. Now they
felt even more grateful to her. She

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had left them a social position,
one which, even after twenty years of

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desuetude, was fit for use.
They descended the stairs together with arms clasped

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about each other's waists, and as
they did so, presented a placid and

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pleasing sight. They entered their drawing
room with the intention of brewing a cup

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of tea and drinking it in calm
sociability in the twilight. But as they

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entered the room they became aware of
the presence of a lady who was already

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seated at their table, regarding their
old wedgewood with the air of a connoisseur.

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There were a number of peculiarities about
this intruder. To begin with,

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she was hatless, quite as if
she were habitue of the house, and

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was costumed at a prim lilac colored
lawn of the style of two decades past.

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But a greater peculiarity was the resemblance. This lady bore to have faded

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Duguerre type. If looked at one
way, she was perfectly discernible. If

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looked at another, she went out
in a sort of blur. Notwithstanding this

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comparative invisibility, she exhaled a delicate
perfume of sweet lavender, very pleasing to

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the nostrils of the missus Boggses,
who stood looking at her in gentle and

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unprotesting surprise. I beg your pardon, began Missprudence, the younger of the

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missus Boggses. But but at this
moment the Duguerre type became a blur,

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and Missprudence found herself addressing space.
The missus Boggses were irritated. They had

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never encountered any mysteries in Iowa.
They began an impatient search behind doors and

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portiers, and even under sofas,
though it was quite absurd to suppose that

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a lady, recognizing the merits of
the carrow Wedgewood, would so far forget

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herself as to crawl under a sofa. When they had given up all hope

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of discovering the intruder, they saw
her standing at the far end of the

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drawing room, critically examining a water
color marine. The elder miss Boggs started

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toward her with stern decision, but
the little Daguerre type turned with a shadowy

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smile, became a blur and an
imperceptibility. Miss Boggs looked at Miss Prudence

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Boggs. If there were ghosts,
said Miss Prudence Boggs, this would be

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the ghost of Lydia Carrou. The
twilight was settling into blackness, and Miss

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Boggs nervously lit the gas while Miss
Prudence ran for other tea cups, preferring

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for reason superfluous to mention not to
drink out of the carrou china that evening.

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The next day, on taking up
her embroidery frame, Miss Boggs found

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a number of old fashioned cross stitches
added to her Kensington. Prudence, she

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knew, would never have degraded herself
by taking a cross stitch, and the

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parlor maid was above taking such a
liberty. Miss Boggs mentioned the incident.

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That night had a dinner given by
an ancient friend of the Carrows. Oh

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that's the work of Lydia Carrou without
a doubt, cried the hostess. She

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visits every new family that moves to
the house, but she never remains more

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than a week or two with anyone. It must be that she disapproves of

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them, suggested Miss Boggs. I
think that's it. Said the hostess.

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She doesn't like their china or their
fiction. I hope she'll disapprove of us,

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added miss Prudence. The hostess belonged
to a very old Philadelphian family,

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and she shook her head. I
should say it was a compliment for even

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the ghost of Lydia carrou to approve
of one, she said severely. The

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next morning, when the sisters entered
their drawing room, there were numerous evidences

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of an occupant. During their absence. The sofa pillows had been rearranged so

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that the effect of their grouping was
less bizarre than that favor by the Western

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women. A horrid little Buddhist idol, with its eyes fixed on its abdomen,

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had been chastily hidden behind a Dresden
shepherdess as unfit for the scrutiny of

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polite eyes. And on the table
where Missprudence did work in watercolors after the

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fashion of the Impressionists, lay a
prim and impossible composition representing a moss rose

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and a number of heart's ease,
colored with that caution which modest spinster artists

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instinctively exercise. Oh, there's no
doubt it's the work of miss Lydia Carew,

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said Miss Prudence contemptuously. There's no
mistaking the drawing of that rigid little

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rose. Don't you remember those reason
bouquets framed among the pictures we got when

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the Carew pictures were sent to us. I gave some of them to an

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orphan asylum and burned up the rest. Hush, cried Miss Boggs, involuntarily.

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If she heard you, it would
hurt her feelings terribly. Of course,

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I mean, and she blushed,
it might hurt her feelings, But

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help, fickly ridiculous, it's impossible, Miss Prudence, held up the sketch

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of the moss rose. That may
be impossible in an artistic sense, but

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it is a palpable thing. Bosh, cried Miss Boggs, but protested Miss

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Prudence, How do you explain it? I don't, said Miss Boggs,

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and left the room. That evening, the sisters made a point of being

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in the drawing room before the dusk
came on, and of lighting the gas

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at the first hint of twilight.
They didn't believe in Miss Lydia Carrow,

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but still they meant to be beforehand
with her. They talked with unwonted vivacity

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and in a louder tone than was
their custom. But as they drank their

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tea, even their utmost verbosity could
not make them oblivious to the fact that

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the perfume of sweet lavender was stealing
insidiously through the room. They tacitly refused

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to recognize this odor and all that
it indicated, when suddenly, with a

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sharp crash, one of the old
Carrow tea cups fell from the tea table

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to the floor and was broken.
The disaster was followed by what sounded like

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a sigh of pain and dismay.
I didn't suppose miss Lydia carrou would ever

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be as awkward as that, cried
the younger Miss Boggs. Petulantly, Prudence

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said her sister, with a stern
accent. Please try not to be a

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fool. Your theory wouldn't be so
bad, said Miss Prudence, half laughing

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and half crying if there were any
sleeves to my dress. But as you

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see, there aren't. And then
Miss Prudence had something as near hysterics as

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a healthy young woman in the West
can have. I wouldn't think such a

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perfect lady as Lydia Carrow. She
ejaculated between her sobs would make herself so

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disagreeable. You may talk about good
breeding all you please, but I call

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such intrusion exceedingly bad taste. I
have a horrible idea that she likes us

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and means to stay with us.
She left those other people because she did

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not approve of their habits or their
grammar. It would be just our luck

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to please her. Well. I
like your egotism, said Miss Boggs.

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However, the view Miss Prudence took
of the case appeared to be the right.

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One time went by, and Miss
Lydia Carrow still remained. When the

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ladies entered their drawing room, they
would see the little lady like de Guare

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type revolving itself into a blur before
one of the family portraits, or they

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noticed that the yellow sofa cushion toward
which she appeared to feel a peculiar antipathy,

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had been dropped behind the sofa upon
the floor, or that one of

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Jane Austen's novels, which none of
the family ever read, had been removed

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from the bookshelves and left open upon
the table. I cannot be reconciled to

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it, complained Miss Boggs to Miss
Prudence. I wish we had remained in

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Iowa, where we belong. Of
course I don't believe in the thing,

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No sensible person would. But still
I cannot become reconciled. But their liberation

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was to come, and in a
most unexpected manner, a relative by marriage

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visited them from the west. He
was a friendly man and had much to

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say, so he talked all through
dinner, and afterward followed the ladies to

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the drawing room to finish his gossip. The gas in the room was turned

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very low, and as they entered, Miss Prudence caught sight of Miss Carroll

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in company attire, sitting in upright
propriety in a stiff backed chair at the

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extremity of the apartment. Miss Prudence
had a sudden idea. We will not

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turn up the gas, she said, with an emphasis intended to convey private

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information to a sister. It will
be more agreeable to sit here and talk

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in this soft light. Neither her
brother nor the man from the west made

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any objection. Miss Boggs and Miss
Prudence, clasping each other's hands, divided

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their attention between their corporeal and their
incorporeal guests. Miss Boggs was confident that

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her sister had an idea and was
willing to await its development. As the

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guest from Mya was spoke, Miss
Carroll bent a politely attentive ear to what

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he said. Ever since Richards took
sick that time, he said briskly,

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it seemed like he shared at all
responsibility. The missus Boggs saw the Daguerre

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type put up her shadowy head with
a movement of doubt and apprehension. The

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fact that the matter was Richards didn't
seem to scarce a get on the way

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he might have been expected to.
At this conscienceless split of the infinitive and

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misplacing of the preposition, Miss Carroll
arose trembling perceptibly. I saw it wasn't

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no use for him to count on
a quick recovery. The Missus Boggs lost

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the rest of the sentence, for
at the utterance of the double negative,

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Miss Lydia Carroll had flashed out,
not in a blur, but with mortal

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haste, as when life goes out
at a pistol shot. The man from

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the West wondered why Missprudence should have
cried at so pathetic a part of his

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story, Thank goodness, and their
brother was amazed to see Miss Boggs kiss

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Missprudence with passion and energy. It
was the end. Miss Carroll returned no

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more. End of a Grammatical Ghost
by Elio Wilkinson Peade