IT is a very old Sedan-Chair,--“genuine old”--not the manufactured
antiquity of the second-hand dealer. I bought it for very little money
at a sale of the furniture and effects of an historical manor-house,
and though much was told me about the manor-house itself, nobody could
tell me anything about the chair. It might have always belonged to
the manor,--and again it might not. It was cumbrous, and in these
days, said the brisk auctioneer who was entrusted with the sale,
quite useless. True. Yet somehow I took a singular fancy to it. I
did not actually want it,--and yet I felt I must have it. My wish
was very easily gratified, for no one competed in the bidding for
such an out-of-date piece of property. It was knocked down to me at
a small figure, and in the course of a few days took up a corner
in my drawing-room, where, owing to the sixteenth-century style of
that apartment, it looked, and still looks, quite at home. It has
taken kindly to its surroundings, and in Spring-time, when we set the
first blossoms of the almond-tree in a tall vase within it, so that
the sprays push out their pink flowers through the window-holes, it
presents an almost smiling appearance. It is made of polished wood and
leather, and has at one time been somewhat ornately gilded, but the
gold is all tarnished save in one or two small corners at the carved
summit of the door, and the leather is badly rubbed and worn. Inside
it is in somewhat better condition. It is lined with crimson silk
stuff, patterned with gold fleur-de-lys; and the padded cushions are
still comfortable. The door has a wonderfully contrived brass catch and
handle, really worth the attention of a connoisseur in such things, and
when it is shut some skill is required to open it again. In fact you
must “know the trick of it” as they say. There were great ructions one
afternoon when a “smart” man, down for the day from London, entered
the chair, sat down, and banged that door to on himself. He smiled
happily for a few minutes, and waved his hand condescendingly through
the window-holes to a group of admiring friends,--but when he tried
to get out and could not, his smile promptly vanished. His friends
laughed,--and that irritated him; he was being made ridiculous, and
no man can endure a joke which affects his _amour-propre_. I was
hastily called for to set him at liberty, and as I did the old chair
creaked, as much as to say “I told you so! Can’t abide your modern
young man!”
I was thinking of this incident the other evening, when sitting by a
sparkling fire of pine logs, and watching the flames reflected in the
shining copper projections of the open Tudor grate; I presently raised
my eyes and looked towards the chair.
“We must fill it with bright holly for Christmas,” I said to myself
half aloud; “and hang just one little bunch of mistletoe tied with
white ribbon over the door, for the sake of all the pretty women who
may have been carried in it long ago!”
The pine logs spluttered and crackled,--one fell apart and leaped
into a flame, and the gleam and flicker of it caught at the remaining
bits of gold on the carving of the Chair, and lit up its faded
crimson lining, and as I sat quietly looking at it in a sort of idle
abstraction and reverie, it seemed to me as though the sparkling
reflection of the fire on its cushions looked like the bright waves
of a woman’s hair. All at once I jumped up quite startled--some one
laughed!--yes, laughed,--quite close to me,--and a very pretty rippling
laugh it was. My heart beat quickly,--yet scarcely with alarm so much
as surprise. I listened attentively--and again the sweet laughter
echoed on the silence. Surely--surely it came from--yes!--from the
Sedan-Chair! I looked--and rubbed my eyes violently to make sure I
was not dreaming--looked again, and there--there, as distinctly as
the Chair itself, I saw Some-One sitting inside--a very fascinating
Some-One with a fair face, a bewildering tangle of golden curls, blue
eyes, rosy cheeks and dancing dimples, dressed in the most becoming
little low-necked muslin frock imaginable!
“Why!” I stammered. “Who--what--how did you get in there?”
The Some-One smiled, and looked more bewitching than ever.
“I am very often in here,” replied a soft voice, “only I am not
always in the humour to make myself visible. I am the Ghost of an
Old-Fashioned Girl!”
I stared at the lovely spectre, stricken dumb, not by fear, but by
admiration. “If all ghosts are like this one,” I thought, “we really
cannot have too many of them about, especially at Christmas-time!” It
was such a charming ghost! so unlike the usual sort of creeping-shivery
thing which is supposed to haunt old houses and frighten harmless
children! It had such beautiful clear eyes,--such a radiant smile!--and
such a pretty pout came on the rosy lips when, receiving no answer, it
suddenly said with an air of graceful petulance,--
“Dear me! Now I have told you who I am, you don’t seem a bit glad
to see me? You ought to be, you know!--for I am quite a harmless
Ghost--really I am! I wouldn’t frighten you for the world! But you
_would_ buy my Chair!--and of course I like to come and sit in it
now and then, and think about old times!”
I began to recover myself from the shock of surprise the fascinating
appearance had given me, and I said in a faint voice,--
“Oh, is that it! The Sedan-Chair--”
“Is mine!” said the Ghost of the Old-Fashioned Girl; “or rather it used
to be mine when I lived in the world and went about in it to balls
and parties, you know! I can’t help having a little tenderness for it,
because it is so very closely associated with my happy life on earth.
Now please don’t stand looking at me so strangely! Sit down, and let us
have a little chat in the firelight, won’t you?”
What a sweet voice this Ghost had to be sure! What a delightfully
coaxing way of looking and speaking! I could not resist the appealing,
half playful glances of her eyes, so I obeyed her suggestion and went
back to my seat by the fire, whereupon the Ghost of the Old-Fashioned
Girl straightway opened the door of the Sedan-Chair and showed me
her entire self, dressed apparently for a Christmas-party. Her white
muslin frock was simply hemmed at the bottom, and had three little
tucks in it--she wore small low shoes with elastic crossed over fine
openwork white stockings--her pretty rounded arms were veiled, but not
disguised, by black lace mittens, and her waist was quite carelessly
tied in with a narrow strip of blue ribbon. But all this extreme
simplicity only served to show the exquisite beauty of her lovely
neck and shoulders, which rose out of the little muslin bodice like
sculptured snow, and one little wicked knot of violets fastened with
a quaint pearl brooch against the beautiful bosom, was enough to make
the coldest anchorite forget his prayers and compose a love-sonnet
immediately.
“Well!” said the Ghost after a pause, “how do you like me?”
“Very much!” I answered promptly; “I have never seen anyone so pretty
as you are in my life!”
The Ghost of the Old-Fashioned Girl smiled, and drawing out a small
fan with delicate mother-of-pearl sticks, unfurled it and put it
coquettishly before her face.
“That is what all the gentlemen used to say to me when I went about in
this Chair,” she observed, “and then they would put their declarations
in the lining.”
“In the lining?” I echoed. “You mean--”
“The lining of the Chair,” she explained. “There are some little secret
pockets in it--haven’t you found them yet? Oh, you must look for them
when I am gone--there is one very deep pocket just behind my head under
a big golden fleur-de-lys. My first real proposal was put in that!”
“And did you accept it?”
“Yes,” said the Ghost of the Old-Fashioned Girl, smiling, “and he and I
were married, and lived sixty years together!”
“Dear me!” I ejaculated. “And he--”
“He is very well, thank you!” said the Ghost of the Old-Fashioned Girl.
“Quite as young as when I first met him,--and so am I!”
I had no words ready with which to reply to this astonishing statement.
The Ghost of the Old-Fashioned Girl folded up her little fan and
pressed its tip meditatively against her lips.
“You see we _really_ loved each other,” she said with emphasis,
“and so of course we _have_ always loved each other! And as a
natural result we _shall_ always love each other!”
“Yes,--I understand--” I murmured vaguely.
“No, you don’t!” said the Ghost of the Old-Fashioned Girl quickly;
“though perhaps I shouldn’t say that, because it sounds rude,--but I am
afraid, you know, that you _don’t_ quite see the point! The world
has lost a number of good things since I was a girl in it,--and one of
these good things is real, true love!”
“I don’t think you should say that!” I replied warmly; “I am sure
people love each other quite as much as they ever did.”
The Ghost of the Old-Fashioned Girl shook her fan at me.
“Not a bit of it!” she declared. “You know they don’t,--so don’t
pretend they do!”
I was silent. I felt that it was perhaps not advisable to enter into
argument with a visitor who knew the secrets of the next world.
“They _can’t_ love each other as they used to,” went on the Ghost
of the Old-Fashioned Girl; “the modern ways of the world won’t give
them either the time or the opportunity. It is all rush, rush, hurry,
and scramble;--and I’m sorry to see that the men love themselves better
than their sweethearts. In my day it was quite different; men loved
their sweethearts better than themselves!”
“But you had not much liberty in your day, had you?” I asked timidly.
“Quite as much as was good for me, or for any of us,” replied the
Ghost of the Old-Fashioned Girl. “We stayed in the dear old homes of
our childhood content to make them happy by our presence,--till our
destined lovers came and found us and took us away to other homes,
which they had worked for, and which we tried to make as pleasant and
sweet as those we had left. Home was always our happiest and dearest
place. But the girls of to-day don’t care for simple home lives. What
do they know about making the best jams in the country, the finest
elder wine or cider? What do they know about the value of lavendered
linen? What do they care about tidiness, economy, or cleanliness? Pooh!
They want change and excitement all the time!”
“That’s true!” I said. “But then, you see, woman’s education is much
enlarged and improved--”
“Education that makes a woman prefer hotels and restaurants to her own
home is not education at all,” said the Ghost of the Old-Fashioned
Girl, with a decided nod of her pretty head. “Oh dear! What a pity it
is!--what a pity! It makes me quite sad to think of all the happiness
women are losing!”
She gave her little muslin skirts a soft shake, and settled herself
more cosily in the Sedan-Chair.
“I remember,” she said, and her voice was as sweet as that of a bird
in Spring-time--“I remember going in this very Chair to a grand Court
ball in London. I danced with the Royal party in ‘Sir Roger,’ and I was
one of the belles of the evening. I was dressed very much as I am now,
and none of the girls there had anything better or more showy,--but
their admirers were legion, and any of them could have married well
the very next day, not because they were rich, for many of them were
poor, but just because they were sweet, and innocent, and good. None of
them would have thought of spoiling their fresh faces with paint and
powder--that was left to what were called ‘women of the town!’ None of
them ever thought of drinking wines or spirits. None of them ever spoke
or laughed loudly, but comported themselves with gentleness, unselfish
kindness, and grace of manner. And will you tell me that things are
just the same now?”
Her eyes met mine with a penetrating flash.
“No, they are not the same,” I said; “you would not wish the world to
stand still, would you? Girls have progressed since your day!”
She nodded gravely.
“Yes? Tell me how!”
“Well, for instance--” and I sought about desperately in my mind
for examples of woman’s progress--“for instance, they enjoy greater
freedom. They get more open-air exercise. They play tennis and golf and
hockey with the men--”
The Ghost of the Old-Fashioned Girl gave a slight, a very slight and
not unmusical giggle.
“Yes! I have seen them at it, and very ugly they look. But their sports
_do_ develop muscle--very unbecomingly in the neck!--and they
_do_ induce the growth--of horribly large hands and feet! Oh yes!
Let’s have some more Progress!”
A trifle disconcerted, I went on.
“Then they cycle--”
Here the Ghost of the Old-Fashioned Girl put up her fan again.
“Pray!--pray!” she remonstrated--“I really must ask you to consider me
a little, and avoid any conversation that borders on impropriety!”
“Impropriety!” I echoed aghast. “But all the girls cycle--”
“That is to say,” said the Ghost with asperity, “that all the girls
have become shameless enough to sit astride on a couple of wheels and
thus expose themselves to the gaze of the public. A hopeful state of
things, truly! Well! Give me some more Progress!”
“Then,” I said, “there are plenty of girls who smoke and drive
motor-cars, and bet on horse-races and gamble at ‘Bridge.’ _You_
may object to this sort of thing, being so much behind the age,--but
after all you must own that it brings them into free and constant
companionship with the other sex.”
“It does!” said the Ghost of the Old-Fashioned Girl decidedly; “and
such free and constant companionship breeds contempt on both sides! Now
let me tell you something! Do you know what all the best men like most?”