A Grammatical Ghost
by Elia W. Peattie
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 any one 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 and
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 Carew 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 or 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 cousin 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 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 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 Misses Boggs. It came about most
unexpectedly. The sisters had been sitting upstairs, looking out at the
beautiful grounds of the old place, and marvelling 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 intentions 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 tea-table, regarding their old Wedgewood with the air of
There were a number of peculiarities about this
intruder. To begin with, she was hatless, quite as if she were a
habituate 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 daguerreotype. 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 Misses Boggs, who stood looking at her in gentle and
“I beg your pardon,” began Miss Prudence, the younger
of the Misses Boggs, “but ”
But at this moment the Daguerreotype became a blur,
and Miss Prudence found herself addressing space. The Misses Boggs were
irritated. They had never encountered any mysteries in Iowa. They began
an impatient search behind doors and porticoes, 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
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 Daguerreotype turned with
a shadowy smile, became a blur and an imperceptibility.
Miss Boggs looked at Miss Prudence Boggs.
“If there were ghosts,” she said, “this would be one.”
were ghosts,” said Miss Prudence Boggs, “this would be the ghost of
The twilight was settling into blackness, and Miss
Boggs nervously lit the gas while Miss Prudence ran for other tea-cups,
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 oldfashioned 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 Carews.
“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 any one.
“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.
should say it was a compliment for even the ghost of Miss 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 favored by the Western women; a horrid little Buddhist
idol with its eyes fixed on its abdomen, had been chastely 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 heartsease, 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 wreaths and
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
“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!
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
“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 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.
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. You brushed the cup off with the sleeve of your dress.”
“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 from 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 Daguerro- 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 book
shelves and left open upon the table.
“I cannot become 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 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.
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 Iowa spoke, Miss Carew bent a politely attentive ear to what he said.
“Ever since Richards took sick that time,” he said
briskly, “it seemed like he shed all responsibility.” (The Misses Boggs
saw the Daguerreotype put up her shadowy head with a movement of doubt and
apprehension.) “The fact of the matter was, Richards didn’t seem to
scarcely get on the way he might have been expected to.” (At this
conscienceless split to the infinitive and misplacing of the preposition,
Miss Carew arose trembling perceptibly.)
The Misses 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!
man from the West wondered why Miss Prudence should have cried at so
pathetic a part of his story:
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.