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 Carew, and only one possible objection

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to Miss Carew, 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 anyone in good society.

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With all that is most venerable and
heroic in the history of the Republic,

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Miss Carew never relaxed the proverbial hospitality
of her house, even when she

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

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

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

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life of such a reproachable gentility as
this, Miss carrou 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 Carew treasures

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were packed in boxes and sent away
into the Iowa wilderness. The Carew 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 Carew, the very very distant

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

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

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being Bogs, did not commend itself
to the Euphemists. With him were two

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maiden sisters, ladies of excellent taste
and manners, who restored the Carew china

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to its ancient cabinets, and replaced
the Carew pictures upon the walls with additions

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

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

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

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

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the well behaved Missus Boggses. It
came about most unexpectedly. The ciss had

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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 the

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

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

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looked attractive. They had often been
grateful to Miss Lydia Carew for leaving their

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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costumed in 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 a faded daguer type.

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

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another, she went out in a
sort of blur. Notwithstanding this comparative invisibility.

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She exhaled a delicate perfume of sweet
lavender, very pleasing to the nostrils

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of the missus Boggses, who stood
looking at her in gentle and unprotesting surprise.

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I beg your pardon, began Miss
Prudence, the younger of the missus

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Boggses. But but at this moment
the Daguer type became a blur, and

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Miss Prudence found herself addressing space.
The missus Bogses were irritated. They had

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never encountered any mysteries in Iowa.
They began an impatient search, be behind

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doors and portieres, and even under
sofas, though it was quite absurd to

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suppose that a lady, recognizing the
merits of the carew Wedgewood, would so

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far forget herself as to crawl under
a sofa. When they had given up

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

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of the drawing room, critically examining
a water color marine. The elder miss

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Boggs started toward her with stern decision, but the little daguare type turned with

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

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at Miss Prudence Bogs. If there
were ghosts, said Miss Prudence Bogs,

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this would be the ghost of Lydia
Caeru. The twilight was settling into blackness,

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and Miss Boggs nervously lit the gas
while Miss Prudence ran for other teacups,

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preferring for reasons superfluous to mention not
to drink out of the Carew China

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that evening. The next day,
on taking up her embroidery frame, Miss

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

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

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

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incident that night at a dinner given
by an ancient friend of the Carew's.

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Oh, that's the work of Lydia
Carew without a doubt, cried the hostess.

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

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remains more than a week or two
with anyone. It must be that she

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disapproves of them, suggested Miss Boggs. I think that's it, said the

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hostess. She doesn't like the china
or their fiction. I hope she'll disapprove

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of us, added Miss Prudence.
The hostess belonged to a very old Philadelphian

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family, and she shook her head. I should say it was a compliment

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for even the ghost of Lydia Carew
to approve of one, she said severely.

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

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numerous evidences of an occupant. During
their absence. The sofa pillows had been

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

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

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its abdomen, had been chastily hidden
behind a Dresden shepherdess, as unfit for

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the scrutiny of polite eyes. And
on the table where Miss Prudence did work

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in water colors after the fashion of
the Impressionists, lay a prim and impossible

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composition representing a moss rose and a
number of heart's ease, colored with that

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caution which modest spinster artists instinctively exercise. Oh there's no doubt it's the work

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of miss Lydia Carew, said Miss
Prudence contemptuously. There's no mistaking the drawing

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of that rigid little rose. Don't
you remember those reason bouquets framed among the

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pictures we got when the Careu pictures
were sent to us. I gave some

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of them to an orphan asylum and
burned up the rest. Hush, cried

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Miss Boggs, involuntarily. If she
heard you, it would hurt her feelings

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terribly. Of course, I mean, and she blushed. It might hurt

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her feelings, But how perfectly ridiculous. It's impossible, Miss Prudence held up

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the sketch of the moss rows.
That may be impossible in an artistic sense,

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

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

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

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

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

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Carew, but still they meant to
be beforehand with her. They talked with

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unwonted vivacity, and in a louder
tone than was their custom. But as

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they drank their tea, even their
utmost verbosity could not make them oblivious to

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the fact that the perfume of sweet
lavender was stealing insidiously through the room.

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They tacitly refused to recognize this odor
and all that it indicated, when suddenly,

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with a sharp crash, one of
the old Carew teacups fell from the

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tea table to the floor and was
broken. The disaster was followed by what

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sounded like a sigh of pain and
dismay. I didn't suppose miss Lydia Carew

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

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

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

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

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

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

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such a perfect lady as Lydia Carew, she ejaculated between her sobs, would

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make herself so disagreeable. You may
talk about good breeding all you please,

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but I call such intrusion exceedingly bad
taste. I have a horrible idea that

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

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because she did not approve of their
habits or their grammar. It would be

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just our luck to please her.
Well. I like your egotism, said

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

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be the right. One time went
by, and Miss Lydia Carew still remained.

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When the ladies entered their drawing room, they would see the little lady

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like de Guerre type revolving itself into
a blur before one of the family portraits,

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or they noticed that the yellow sofa
cushion toward which she appeared to feel

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a peculiar antipathy, had been dropped
behind the sofa upon the floor, or

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that one of Jane Austen's novels,
which none of the family ever read,

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had been removed from the bookshelves and
left open upon the table. I cannot

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be reconciled to it, complain Miss
Boggs to Miss Prudence. I wish we

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had remained in Iowa, where we
belong. Of course I don't believe in

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the thing, No sensible person would. But still I cannot become reconciled.

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But their liberation was to come,
and in a most unexpected manner, a

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relative by marriage visited them from the
west. He was a friendly man and

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had much to say, so he
talked all through dinner, and afterward followed

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them ladies to the drawing room to
finish his gossip. The gas in the

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room was turned very low, and
as they entered, Miss Prudence caught sight

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of Miss Carew in company attire,
sitting in upright propriety in a stiff backed

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chair at the extremity of the apartment. Miss Prudence had a sudden idea.

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We will not turn up the gas, she said, with an emphasis intended

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to convey private information to her sister. It will be more agreeable to sit

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here and talk in this soft light. Neither her brother nor the man from

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the west made any objection. Miss
Boggs and Miss Prudence, clasping each other's

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hands, divided their attention between their
corporeal and their incorporeal guests. Miss Boggs

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was confident that her sister had an
idea and was willing to await its development.

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As the guest from Ayleway spoke,
Miss Carew bent a politely attentive vear

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to what he said. Ever since
Richard's took sick that time, he said

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briskly, it seemed like his shared
We had all responsibility. The missus Boggs

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saw the Daguerre type put up her
shadowy head with a movement of doubt and

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apprehension. The fact that the matter
was Richards didn't seem to scarce to get

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on the way he might have been
expected to. At this conscienceless split of

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the infinitive and misplacing of the preposition, Miss Carew arose trembling perceptibly. I

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saw it wasn't no use for him
to count on a quick recovery. The

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missus Boggs lost the rest of the
sentence, for at the utterance of the

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double negative, Miss Lydia Carew had
flashed out, not in a blur,

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but with mortal haste, as when
life goes out at a pistol shot.

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The man from the West wondered why
Miss Prudence should have cried at so pathetic

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a part of his story. Thank
Goodness, and their brother was amazed to

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see Miss Boggs kiss Miss Prudence with
passion and energy. It was the end.

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Miss Carew returned no more. End
of a Grammatical Ghost by Elliot Wilkinson, Pete