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 My wish was very easily gratified, for no one competed in the bidding for such an out-of-date piece of property.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