shelidonDecember 11, 2024Leave a Comment

Marie Corelli, born Mary Mackay in 1855 in London, was an English novelist known for her romantic and melodramatic fiction. She adopted her pen name early in her career, claiming a Venetian heritage to enhance her literary persona, and her first novel, A Romance of Two Worlds (1886), established her as a bestselling author introducing themes of mysticism and psychic experiences she’ll carry on throughout her career. Her works often explored spiritualism, reincarnation, and moral dilemmas, resonating with a wide audience despite criticism for their sentimentality and melodrama. She published over 20 novels, with notable titles including Barabbas: A Dream of the World’s Tragedy (1893) and The Sorrows of Satan (1895), the latter being one of the first modern bestsellers.

The story below is taken from a book called A Christmas Greeting, published in New York in 1901.

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 My wish was very easily gratified, for no one competed in the bidding for such an out-of-date piece of property.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?”

I laughed and shook my head in the negative.

“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!