“They like what they cannot get!” said the Ghost of the Old-Fashioned
Girl emphatically. “They like what is as unlike themselves as possible,
and what will never be like themselves! The woman who is _half_ a
man will never be truly loved by a _whole_ man--remember that!”
Again she settled her pretty muslin skirts, and nodded her fair head,
“sunning over with curls,” well out of the interior of the Sedan-Chair.
“In the old unprogressive days,” she said, “we certainly did not have
much liberty. We were held as too precious and too dear to be allowed
to straggle about by ourselves like unvalued tramps in the highways
and byways. We stayed very much in our own homes, and were proud and
pleased to be there. We helped to make them beautiful. We loved our
old-fashioned gardens. We played ‘battledore and shuttlecock,’ which
is exactly the same as your ‘Ping-Pong’--save that you have a net
in the middle of the table and play with balls--and we tossed our
shuttlecocks up to the blue sky. We walked and rode, and found in these
two exercises quite sufficient relaxation as well as development for
our bodies, which, if you will please to remember, are not intended
to be in the least like the bodies of men, and are by no means fitted
for masculine gymnastics. We had neither cycles nor motors, we did not
smoke, drink, bet, or gamble,--but--we were the models of womanliness,
goodness, and purity for all the world!--and--we were loved!”
“And love was quite sufficient for you?” I asked hesitatingly.
“Of course! Love was sufficient, and is sufficient always for every
woman when it _is_ love;--but you have to be quite sure about it!”
“Ah, yes!” I said, “very sure!”
The Ghost of the Old-Fashioned Girl peered at me with a saucy air.
“Do you know how to make sure?” she asked.
“No!”
Her lips parted in a gay little chuckle of laughter.
“Then you must find out!”
Provoking Old-Fashioned Girl! I sprang up and made a step towards her,
but her fair face seemed to be growing indistinct, as if about to
disappear.
“Oh, don’t go!” I cried, “don’t go away, dear Old-Fashioned Girl! Do
stay a little!”
The pretty eyes sparkled out again, and the winsome features shone
forth once more from the interior of the Sedan-Chair.
“What is the use of my staying?” she demanded. “You live in the age of
progress. I’m not wanted!”
“But you _are_ wanted!” I declared. “The world wants you! Anyhow,
_I_ want you. Come and spend Christmas with me!”
Did ever any Ghost in any legend wear such an enchanting smile as
lighted up the dream-face of the Old-Fashioned Girl as she heard
this impulsive invitation? Stretching out a little hand as white as
milk--and I noticed there was a tiny blue forget-me-not ring on it--she
said,--
“Yes, I _will_ spend Christmas with you! If you will fasten a
bunch of mistletoe on the door of my dear old Sedan-Chair on Christmas
Eve, I will come and bring you a bundle of pleasant thoughts and merry
fancies in exchange! And the best advice I can give you is to be
‘Old-Fashioned’--that is, to love home more than ‘gadding,’--peace more
than strife,--friendship more than ‘society,’--simplicity more than
show,--cheerfulness more than pride,--truth more than distinction,--and
God more than all! Good-night, my dear! Good-bye!”
“Wait, wait!” I exclaimed, loth to lose sight of the pretty face, the
sweet eyes, the happy smile--“Just one thing I want to ask you--only
one thing!”
The Ghost paused, and turned its fair head round in a glamour of soft
radiance like melted moonbeams.
“Well, what is it?”
“Just one thing I want, only one thing!--Oh, dear Old-Fashioned Girl,
tell me!--when you lived in this world, so changed and so much sadder
and colder since your time--who were you?”
The Ghost of the Old-Fashioned Girl laughed musically.
“Why a simple nobody, my dear! Only your great-great-grandmamma!”
The door of the Sedan-Chair shut with a slight bang,--and almost I
expected to see a couple of spectral “bearers” take it up with its
lovely ghostly occupant, and carry it away altogether out of my
drawing-room to some unknown region of faery. But no! The fire burned
up bright and clear, and the flames of the pine logs danced merrily
on the Chair as before, catching at the tarnished gold and gleaming
on the faded crimson lining, but the Old-Fashioned Girl had gone,
as completely as she has vanished from the social world of to-day.
Remembering what she had said about the mysterious secret pocket behind
one of the patterned fleur-de-lys, I advanced cautiously, put my hand
through one of the window-holes, and felt about to see if I could find
it. Yes!--there it was!--and while groping doubtfully in it, my fingers
came in contact with a bit of crumpled paper. Tremblingly I drew it
out,--it brought with it a scent of old rose-leaves and lavender,--and
hurrying back to the hearth I knelt down and examined it by the glow of
the fire. Something was written on it in faded ink, and after poring
over it for a minute or two, I was able to make out the words:
“My own little Sweetheart, I love you for yourself alone, believe me,
and I will always love you till--”
I looked up. I thought I heard the old chair creak! Had my
great-great-grandmamma come back to catch me reading what was perhaps
one of her love-letters? No--she was not there. But I fancy I know
now why she haunts the Sedan-Chair, and as she is a relative of
mine, I shall certainly expect her to stay with me at Christmas and
help me to begin the New Year in a real “Old-Fashioned” way,--with
home-contentment, love, and peace!