A grammatical ghost. There was only one possible objection to the drawing room,
and that was the occasional presence of Miss Carew, and only one possible objection
to Miss Carew, 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 anyone in good society.
With all that is most venerable and heroic in the history of the Republic,
Miss Carew 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 a reproachable gentility as this, Miss carrou 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 Carew treasures
were packed in boxes and sent away into the Iowa wilderness. The Carew 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 Carew, 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 Bogs, did not commend itself to the Euphemists. With him were two
maiden sisters, ladies of excellent taste and manners, who restored the Carew china
to its ancient cabinets, and replaced the Carew 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 Bogs 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 Boggses. It came about most unexpectedly. The ciss 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 Carew 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 car.
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 in a prim lilac colored lawn of the style of two decades past.
But a greater peculiarity was the resemblance this lady bore to a faded daguer 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 Miss Prudence, the younger of the missus
Boggses. But but at this moment the Daguer type became a blur, and
Miss Prudence found herself addressing space. The missus Bogses were irritated. They had
never encountered any mysteries in Iowa. They began an impatient search, be behind
doors and portieres, and even under sofas, though it was quite absurd to
suppose that a lady, recognizing the merits of the carew 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 daguare type turned with
a shadowy smile, became a blur, and an imperceptibility. Miss Boggs looked
at Miss Prudence Bogs. If there were ghosts, said Miss Prudence Bogs,
this would be the ghost of Lydia Caeru. The twilight was settling into blackness,
and Miss Boggs nervously lit the gas while Miss Prudence ran for other teacups,
preferring for reasons superfluous to mention not to drink out of the Carew 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 at a dinner given by an ancient friend of the Carew's.
Oh, that's the work of Lydia Carew 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 the 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 Carew 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 Miss Prudence did work
in water colors 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 Careu 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 how perfectly ridiculous. It's impossible, Miss Prudence held up
the sketch of the moss rows. 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
Carew, 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 Carew teacups 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 Carew
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 Carew, 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 Carew still remained.
When the ladies entered their drawing room, they would see the little lady
like de Guerre 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, complain 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
them 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 Carew 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 her 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 Ayleway spoke, Miss Carew bent a politely attentive vear
to what he said. Ever since Richard's took sick that time, he said
briskly, it seemed like his shared We had 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 to get
on the way he might have been expected to. At this conscienceless split of
the infinitive and misplacing of the preposition, Miss Carew 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 Carew 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 Miss Prudence should have cried at so pathetic
a part of his story. Thank Goodness, and their brother was amazed to
see Miss Boggs kiss Miss Prudence with passion and energy. It was the end.
Miss Carew returned no more. End of a Grammatical Ghost by Elliot Wilkinson, Pete