Speaker 1: 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