A grammatical ghost. There was only one possible objection to the drawing room,
and that was the occasional presence of Miss Carrow, and only one possible objection
to Miss Carrow, and that was that she was dead. She had been
dead twenty years as a matter of fact and record, and to the last
of her life sacredly preserved the treasures and traditions of her family, a family
bound up, as it is quite unnecessary to explain to any one in good
society. With all that is most venerable and heroic in the history of the
Republic, Miss Carrow never relaxed the proverbial hospitality of her house, even when
she remained its sole representative. She continued to preside at her table with dignity
and state, and to set an example of excessive modesty in gentle decorum to
a generation of restless young women. It is not likely that, having lived
a life of such irreproachable gentility as this, Miss Carroll would have the bad
taste to die in any way not pleasant to mention. In fastidious society,
she could be trusted to the last not to outrage those friends who quoted her
as an exemplar of propriety. She died very unobtrusively of an affection of the
heart one June morning, while trimming her rose trellis, and her lavender colored
print was not even rumpled when she fell, nor were more than the tips
of her little bronze slippers visible. Isn't it dreadful? Said the Philadelphians that
the property should go to a very very distant cousin in Iowa, somewhere else
on the frontier, about whom nobody knows anything at all. The Carrow treasures
were packed in boxes and sent away into the Iowa wilderness. The Carrow traditions
were preserved by the Historical Society. The carew property, standing in one of
the most umbrageous and aristocratic suburbs of Philadelphia, was rented to all manner of
folk, anybody who had money enough to pay the rental, And Society entered
its doors no more. But at last, after twenty years, and when
all save the oldest Philadelphians had forgotten, Miss Lydia Carrow, the very very
distant cousins appeared. He was quite in the prime of life, and so
agreeable and unassuming that nothing could be urged against him save his patronymic, which,
being Boggs, did not commend itself to the euphemists. With him were
two maiden sisters, ladies of excellent taste and manners, who restored the carrou
china to its ancient cabinets, and replaced the carrou pictures upon the walls with
additions not out of keeping with the elegance of these heirlooms. Society, with
a magnanimity almost dramatic, overlooked the name of Boggs and called all was well.
At least to an outsider, all seemed to be well. But in
truth there was a certain distress in the old mansion, and in the hearts
of the well behaved Missus Boggs's. It came about most unexpectedly. The sisters
had been sitting upstairs, looking out at the beautiful grounds of the old place,
and marveling at the violets which lifted their heads from every possible cranny about
the house, and talking over the cordiality which they had been receiving by those
upon whom they had no claim, And they were filled with amiable satisfaction.
Life looked attractive. They had often been grateful to Miss Lydia Carrow for leaving
their brother her fortune. Now they felt even more grateful to her. She
had left them a social position, one which, even after twenty years of
desuetude, was fit for use. They descended the stairs together with arms clasped
about each other's waists, and as they did so, presented a placid and
pleasing sight. They entered their drawing room with the intention of brewing a cup
of tea and drinking it in calm sociability in the twilight. But as they
entered the room they became aware of the presence of a lady who was already
seated at their table, regarding their old wedgewood with the air of a connoisseur.
There were a number of peculiarities about this intruder. To begin with,
she was hatless, quite as if she were habitue of the house, and
was costumed at a prim lilac colored lawn of the style of two decades past.
But a greater peculiarity was the resemblance. This lady bore to have faded
Duguerre type. If looked at one way, she was perfectly discernible. If
looked at another, she went out in a sort of blur. Notwithstanding this
comparative invisibility, she exhaled a delicate perfume of sweet lavender, very pleasing to
the nostrils of the missus Boggses, who stood looking at her in gentle and
unprotesting surprise. I beg your pardon, began Missprudence, the younger of the
missus Boggses. But but at this moment the Duguerre type became a blur,
and Missprudence found herself addressing space. The missus Boggses were irritated. They had
never encountered any mysteries in Iowa. They began an impatient search behind doors and
portiers, and even under sofas, though it was quite absurd to suppose that
a lady, recognizing the merits of the carrow Wedgewood, would so far forget
herself as to crawl under a sofa. When they had given up all hope
of discovering the intruder, they saw her standing at the far end of the
drawing room, critically examining a water color marine. The elder miss Boggs started
toward her with stern decision, but the little Daguerre type turned with a shadowy
smile, became a blur and an imperceptibility. Miss Boggs looked at Miss Prudence
Boggs. If there were ghosts, said Miss Prudence Boggs, this would be
the ghost of Lydia Carrou. The twilight was settling into blackness, and Miss
Boggs nervously lit the gas while Miss Prudence ran for other tea cups, preferring
for reason superfluous to mention not to drink out of the carrou china that evening.
The next day, on taking up her embroidery frame, Miss Boggs found
a number of old fashioned cross stitches added to her Kensington. Prudence, she
knew, would never have degraded herself by taking a cross stitch, and the
parlor maid was above taking such a liberty. Miss Boggs mentioned the incident.
That night had a dinner given by an ancient friend of the Carrows. Oh
that's the work of Lydia Carrou without a doubt, cried the hostess. She
visits every new family that moves to the house, but she never remains more
than a week or two with anyone. It must be that she disapproves of
them, suggested Miss Boggs. I think that's it. Said the hostess.
She doesn't like their china or their fiction. I hope she'll disapprove of us,
added miss Prudence. The hostess belonged to a very old Philadelphian family,
and she shook her head. I should say it was a compliment for even
the ghost of Lydia carrou to approve of one, she said severely. The
next morning, when the sisters entered their drawing room, there were numerous evidences
of an occupant. During their absence. The sofa pillows had been rearranged so
that the effect of their grouping was less bizarre than that favor by the Western
women. A horrid little Buddhist idol, with its eyes fixed on its abdomen,
had been chastily hidden behind a Dresden shepherdess as unfit for the scrutiny of
polite eyes. And on the table where Missprudence did work in watercolors after the
fashion of the Impressionists, lay a prim and impossible composition representing a moss rose
and a number of heart's ease, colored with that caution which modest spinster artists
instinctively exercise. Oh, there's no doubt it's the work of miss Lydia Carew,
said Miss Prudence contemptuously. There's no mistaking the drawing of that rigid little
rose. Don't you remember those reason bouquets framed among the pictures we got when
the Carew pictures were sent to us. I gave some of them to an
orphan asylum and burned up the rest. Hush, cried Miss Boggs, involuntarily.
If she heard you, it would hurt her feelings terribly. Of course,
I mean, and she blushed, it might hurt her feelings, But
help, fickly ridiculous, it's impossible, Miss Prudence, held up the sketch
of the moss rose. That may be impossible in an artistic sense, but
it is a palpable thing. Bosh, cried Miss Boggs, but protested Miss
Prudence, How do you explain it? I don't, said Miss Boggs,
and left the room. That evening, the sisters made a point of being
in the drawing room before the dusk came on, and of lighting the gas
at the first hint of twilight. They didn't believe in Miss Lydia Carrow,
but still they meant to be beforehand with her. They talked with unwonted vivacity
and in a louder tone than was their custom. But as they drank their
tea, even their utmost verbosity could not make them oblivious to the fact that
the perfume of sweet lavender was stealing insidiously through the room. They tacitly refused
to recognize this odor and all that it indicated, when suddenly, with a
sharp crash, one of the old Carrow tea cups fell from the tea table
to the floor and was broken. The disaster was followed by what sounded like
a sigh of pain and dismay. I didn't suppose miss Lydia carrou would ever
be as awkward as that, cried the younger Miss Boggs. Petulantly, Prudence
said her sister, with a stern accent. Please try not to be a
fool. Your theory wouldn't be so bad, said Miss Prudence, half laughing
and half crying if there were any sleeves to my dress. But as you
see, there aren't. And then Miss Prudence had something as near hysterics as
a healthy young woman in the West can have. I wouldn't think such a
perfect lady as Lydia Carrow. She ejaculated between her sobs would make herself so
disagreeable. You may talk about good breeding all you please, but I call
such intrusion exceedingly bad taste. I have a horrible idea that she likes us
and means to stay with us. She left those other people because she did
not approve of their habits or their grammar. It would be just our luck
to please her. Well. I like your egotism, said Miss Boggs.
However, the view Miss Prudence took of the case appeared to be the right.
One time went by, and Miss Lydia Carrow still remained. When the
ladies entered their drawing room, they would see the little lady like de Guare
type revolving itself into a blur before one of the family portraits, or they
noticed that the yellow sofa cushion toward which she appeared to feel a peculiar antipathy,
had been dropped behind the sofa upon the floor, or that one of
Jane Austen's novels, which none of the family ever read, had been removed
from the bookshelves and left open upon the table. I cannot be reconciled to
it, complained Miss Boggs to Miss Prudence. I wish we had remained in
Iowa, where we belong. Of course I don't believe in the thing,
No sensible person would. But still I cannot become reconciled. But their liberation
was to come, and in a most unexpected manner, a relative by marriage
visited them from the west. He was a friendly man and had much to
say, so he talked all through dinner, and afterward followed the ladies to
the drawing room to finish his gossip. The gas in the room was turned
very low, and as they entered, Miss Prudence caught sight of Miss Carroll
in company attire, sitting in upright propriety in a stiff backed chair at the
extremity of the apartment. Miss Prudence had a sudden idea. We will not
turn up the gas, she said, with an emphasis intended to convey private
information to a sister. It will be more agreeable to sit here and talk
in this soft light. Neither her brother nor the man from the west made
any objection. Miss Boggs and Miss Prudence, clasping each other's hands, divided
their attention between their corporeal and their incorporeal guests. Miss Boggs was confident that
her sister had an idea and was willing to await its development. As the
guest from Mya was spoke, Miss Carroll bent a politely attentive ear to what
he said. Ever since Richards took sick that time, he said briskly,
it seemed like he shared at all responsibility. The missus Boggs saw the Daguerre
type put up her shadowy head with a movement of doubt and apprehension. The
fact that the matter was Richards didn't seem to scarce a get on the way
he might have been expected to. At this conscienceless split of the infinitive and
misplacing of the preposition, Miss Carroll arose trembling perceptibly. I saw it wasn't
no use for him to count on a quick recovery. The Missus Boggs lost
the rest of the sentence, for at the utterance of the double negative,
Miss Lydia Carroll had flashed out, not in a blur, but with mortal
haste, as when life goes out at a pistol shot. The man from
the West wondered why Missprudence should have cried at so pathetic a part of his
story, Thank goodness, and their brother was amazed to see Miss Boggs kiss
Missprudence with passion and energy. It was the end. Miss Carroll returned no
more. End of a Grammatical Ghost by Elio Wilkinson Peade