have seen, but many a Princeton citizen, of a higher social rank than he, came to fear the woman’s flashing eye, sarcastic tongue, and her power to enhance, or damage, one’s social ranking, depending upon her whim. *
Despite the confusion of this incident at the old Craven house, I have managed to piece together, like a skilled, if somewhat eccentric, maker of quilts, a more or less coherent narrative, as follows.
After ascending to the second floor of the house, which was an exertion for one of his girth, Grover Cleveland idled at the rear of the excited little group making their way through the rooms, hoping to catch his breath; while others were elsewhere, marveling at one or another charming feature of the house, Cleveland wandered into an empty room, as it happened, a children’s nursery; he chanced to pass one of the tall windows in this room, that was part-shuttered, and overlooked a steep corner of the roof; there, he saw, or seemed to see, a terrifying sight, there at the very edge of the roof; imagining it at first to be a large, ungainly bird, a great blue heron perhaps, for such prehistoric-looking waterbirds were not uncommon in rural Princeton, the affrighted man literally rubbed his eyes to see a child, a young girl, perched at the edge of the roof; playfully, or prankishly?—the girl was tearing into pieces a handful of calla lilies, letting their torn petals fall to the ground below; her wavy dark hair tumbled loose down her back; her gown long, and white, and curiously soiled; her bare feet ghastly pale—all of her skin ghastly pale, with the unmistakable pallor of the grave. Oblivious to the astonished observer, the child managed to get to her feet, at the edge of the roof, laughing, and tossing the remainder of the calla lilies into the air, as if she were about to step off into space; and how should Cleveland save her?
He shouted—“No! No! Stop! You must not!”
Cleveland was at the window, grunting to raise it, and to push open the shutters, shouting wildly—with the result that, to his further astonishment, and horror, he saw the girl turn to him to reveal herself as his own beloved daughter Ruth —who had died but the previous year, of diphtheria, at the Clevelands’ summer home at Buzzards Bay, Massachusetts.
Ah, what was this? How could it be? Cleveland’s beloved Ruth, of whom he so often dreamt, and for whom he continued to grieve in the privacy of his thoughts—why had she appeared to him here? And what must be done?
It is a fact, though Grover Cleveland suffered from a battery of ailments, beyond even those of Woodrow Wilson, yet he had never suffered from any mental illness, or hallucinations.
Priding himself on being the most commonsensical of men, with scarcely a thought of an “after-life” or a “realm of spirits,” yet Cleveland did not hesitate for a moment, convinced that his daughter had returned to him, in this mysterious way; attired in the very raiments of the grave, and peeking over her shoulder at him, with that look of coquettish mischief that, in life, Ruth had often looked at her dear Pappa, to tease, and to make him laugh.
It is no wonder that Cleveland forgot that Ruth was dead, and had been buried; in a frenzy he shoved the window as high as it would go, leaning out, reaching his arms to her, begging her to come to him. Giving no thought for his own safety and trying, despite the handicaps of age and girth, to force himself through the open window, he cried, “Ruth! Dear Ruth! It is you! Do not step off—your Pappa begs you, darling—here!—here’s Pappa! Come to Pappa! O my poor darling! My little one! My angel! Do not step off! Come to Pappa’s arms, O do— ”
The phantom at the edge of the roof could not be seen by the others, evidently; yet, as they rushed into the room, the situation was instinctively grasped—at least, that Grover Cleveland was suffering a violent hallucination, and was trying to force himself out a narrow window, to
Despite the confusion of this incident at the old Craven house, I have managed to piece together, like a skilled, if somewhat eccentric, maker of quilts, a more or less coherent narrative, as follows.
After ascending to the second floor of the house, which was an exertion for one of his girth, Grover Cleveland idled at the rear of the excited little group making their way through the rooms, hoping to catch his breath; while others were elsewhere, marveling at one or another charming feature of the house, Cleveland wandered into an empty room, as it happened, a children’s nursery; he chanced to pass one of the tall windows in this room, that was part-shuttered, and overlooked a steep corner of the roof; there, he saw, or seemed to see, a terrifying sight, there at the very edge of the roof; imagining it at first to be a large, ungainly bird, a great blue heron perhaps, for such prehistoric-looking waterbirds were not uncommon in rural Princeton, the affrighted man literally rubbed his eyes to see a child, a young girl, perched at the edge of the roof; playfully, or prankishly?—the girl was tearing into pieces a handful of calla lilies, letting their torn petals fall to the ground below; her wavy dark hair tumbled loose down her back; her gown long, and white, and curiously soiled; her bare feet ghastly pale—all of her skin ghastly pale, with the unmistakable pallor of the grave. Oblivious to the astonished observer, the child managed to get to her feet, at the edge of the roof, laughing, and tossing the remainder of the calla lilies into the air, as if she were about to step off into space; and how should Cleveland save her?
He shouted—“No! No! Stop! You must not!”
Cleveland was at the window, grunting to raise it, and to push open the shutters, shouting wildly—with the result that, to his further astonishment, and horror, he saw the girl turn to him to reveal herself as his own beloved daughter Ruth —who had died but the previous year, of diphtheria, at the Clevelands’ summer home at Buzzards Bay, Massachusetts.
Ah, what was this? How could it be? Cleveland’s beloved Ruth, of whom he so often dreamt, and for whom he continued to grieve in the privacy of his thoughts—why had she appeared to him here? And what must be done?
It is a fact, though Grover Cleveland suffered from a battery of ailments, beyond even those of Woodrow Wilson, yet he had never suffered from any mental illness, or hallucinations.
Priding himself on being the most commonsensical of men, with scarcely a thought of an “after-life” or a “realm of spirits,” yet Cleveland did not hesitate for a moment, convinced that his daughter had returned to him, in this mysterious way; attired in the very raiments of the grave, and peeking over her shoulder at him, with that look of coquettish mischief that, in life, Ruth had often looked at her dear Pappa, to tease, and to make him laugh.
It is no wonder that Cleveland forgot that Ruth was dead, and had been buried; in a frenzy he shoved the window as high as it would go, leaning out, reaching his arms to her, begging her to come to him. Giving no thought for his own safety and trying, despite the handicaps of age and girth, to force himself through the open window, he cried, “Ruth! Dear Ruth! It is you! Do not step off—your Pappa begs you, darling—here!—here’s Pappa! Come to Pappa! O my poor darling! My little one! My angel! Do not step off! Come to Pappa’s arms, O do— ”
The phantom at the edge of the roof could not be seen by the others, evidently; yet, as they rushed into the room, the situation was instinctively grasped—at least, that Grover Cleveland was suffering a violent hallucination, and was trying to force himself out a narrow window, to
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