







































General Introduction

There are many well-known authors, like Poe and 
Dickens, who contributed to the wide array of ghost 
stories that emerged from the Victorian era. One 
intriguing motif used by a diverse body of authors 
involved representing ghosts as hands. Henry James’s 
“The Romance of Certain Old Clothes,” the story in 
focus within this edition, is a prime example of a famous 
author who utilized ghostly hands within his stories. 
Also included are collected excerpts from other short 
stories employing the ghostly hand motif by the Victorian-
era authors A. T. Quiller-Couch, Mary E. Braddon, and 
Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu. In each of these tales the ghosts 
are portrayed as hands without bodies, and most of them 
are violent except for the complacent hands in Quiller-
Couch’s story. When looking at the way the hands are 
represented throughout the narratives and what drives 
them to haunt and act, we can see how ghostly hands are 
used to represent social issues and limitations within the 
Victorian era.

In her article about W.E. Gladstone and spiritualism, 
Ruth Clayton Windscheffel mentions how spiritualism, 
the “belief centered on the possibility of contact between 
the living and the dead,” rose in popularity in all classes 
during this era while strong religious beliefs waned (3). 
New attitudes about the dead began to emerge, such 
as the idea that those who are dead are not controlled 
by the rules of the living. In Victorian literature, death 
became a way for authors to imagine freedom from 

societal constraints, and the trope of the ghostly hand 
allowed for exploration of a more potent, compelling 
ghost. Jennifer Bann elaborates on this notion in her 
article about the change in the portrayal of ghosts in 
the nineteenth century, explaining that the power given 
to the dead through spiritualism influenced the authors 
within literature to give ghosts more “controlling, 
guiding, or demonstrative” behaviors, which surfaced in 
part through the ghostly hand motif (664). Instead of a 
ghost, Bann continues, that was impotent in compliance 
with the “tradition of the limited dead,” stories began 
to feature one who had more power, exercised through 
the use of its hands within the stories (663). Tales with 
ghostly hands that took property and subverted economic 
and gender roles became popular as authors critiqued the 
society around them.   

The Victorian era was a time in which capitalism 
was truly flourishing. This expansion, in turn, caused 
many to begin questioning and fearing the capitalist 
system (Nunokawa 3-4). Katherine Rowe explains that 
many stories that included the motif of a ghostly hand 
were seen as Marxist critiques in that they looked at 
the “presence of labor behind the ‘invisible hand’ of 
the market … in order to probe the uncanny, alienating 
conditions of labor at home and in the factory” (112). 
This trope was tied up in class struggles as the Victorian 
era economic system relied on a clear division between 
the lower, laboring classes and the upper class. Another 
scholar, Arlene Young, builds on this idea and elaborates 
that what began to change during this time was the 

This edition critically analyzes “The Romance of Certain Old Clothes” by 
Henry James. It is put in context with three other Victorian ghost stories that 
use the similar trope of ghostly hands. The theme of these ghostly hands is 
used to explore Victorian era issues concerning class, property exchange, 
and the roles of women. 

Ghostly Hands: A Critical Edition of Henry James’s 
“The Romance of Certain Old Clothes”

Edited by Morgan Aprill and Lauren Lutz

167

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prevalence of the middle class and its attempts to counter 
the dominance of the upper class (2). Indeed, in her book 
Women	and	Marriage	in	Victorian	Fiction, Jenni Calder 
states that authors during this time “were both critical 
of those institutions and, in varying ways and degrees, 
trapped in them” (9). Bound within these institutions 
was an anxiety towards property. The products the upper 
classes consumed were created by the hands of the lower 
classes. This added a ghostly aspect to class relations 
and property as the items the upper classes consumed 
were put together by hands that were not visible, being 
far removed from the consumer. With the development 
of a voice for the lower-middle and laboring classes, 
many upper-class people feared the overthrowing of 
their power. This anxiety could be seen in some of the 
stories of the day that related all these ideas together. 
Citing George Eliot, Katherine Rowe explains that 
servants, as low-class citizens, were seen as unintelligent 
and difficult to hold a rational conversation with as 
they were prone to flights of imagination and paranoia 
(147). This classism within the domestic sphere was 
probably related to a fear of the lower classes reversing 
or perverting the order of property distribution. 

 As demonstrated by Calder, the class separation 
allowed for authors of the time to examine marriage and 
domestic relationships within their work (9). According 
to Ellen Plante in her book Women	at	Home	in	Victorian	
America:	A	Social	History, in Victorian society there 
were strict roles that each gender was to perform. 
A woman was not allowed to express her feelings 
towards a potential suitor until the man professed 
his own sentiments and proposed, putting her in a 
distinctly passive position. The man would give her an 
engagement ring, which was a newly popular gift in this 
era, then seek family approval, and quickly the couple 
would become betrothed (21-23). Married life became 
a world divided into two separate spheres of the home 
and the world outside of it. Plante describes guidebooks 
that advised women that it was their duty to provide 
a safe, comfortable home for their husbands to retreat 
to upon leaving the stressful business world in fear of 
him becoming a “barbarian if left to himself without 
woman’s influence” (32). Apart from the pressure of 
maintaining a safe haven for their families, women 
were expected to adhere to a set of behaviors that left 
them subverted by the authoritative male figure. In other 
words, a woman was supposed to be the epitome of good 

grace and dignity as well as to avoid any disagreements 
(Plante 29). Acting like a lady entailed, in part, not 
discussing topics that meddled in the man’s public 
sphere, but occupying conversation with subjects that 
had to do with their own roles in the private sphere like 
crafts and fashion (Plante 110). As we examine these 
stringent aspects of a woman’s life in the Victorian era, 
the inclusion of the subject within literary texts of the 
period is understandable. 

With the Industrial Revolution came a way for power 
to be obtained by earning money through the capitalist 
system, which threatened the situation among classes. 
Upper-class people were threatened by the ability of 
middle-class members to encroach upon their power. 
They also feared the power the new economic system 
gave lower-class citizens, who provided goods and 
services the upper classes used or took for granted. 
This economic world was seen as harsh and for men 
only, at least for the middle and upper classes (working-
class women often had no choice but to work outside 
the home). Victorian ideology dictated that it was the 
woman’s role to create a peaceful haven at home for her 
husband. But, according to Young, this establishment 
was being questioned as lower-middle-class men built 
alliances with women in order to try and advance 
themselves (2-3). 

Victorian literature provided a way for some authors 
to show how skewed the dynamics were between men 
and women, and among socioeconomic classes. Calder 
explains, “The egocentric, authoritarian male point of 
view dominated Victorian life[;] what Victorian literature 
demonstrates is both its power and its destructiveness, 
and the fascinating process of reaction against it” (210). 
This understanding of how gender relations operated 
explains why authors often depicted families as perfect 
on the outside, but full of corrupt members and situations 
within (Calder 95). When put into a spectral context, 
authors can represent these reactions by giving females 
more power through their hands, which tie them to the 
social constructs they belong in. Their hands perform 
domestic work, complete crafts like sewing, and wear 
the rings that bind them to the husbands who expect 
those activities from them. The hands are a synecdoche 
for the women themselves, representing the necessity 
for women to know the correct role of their hands in the 
domestic sphere. While their hands directly tie women 
to the uncompromising private sphere, their hands often 

168“The Romance of Certain Old Clothes”



exert more control in death as represented in the popular 
ghostly hand motif of the time. 

The Victorian era was full of rules and traditions, but 
it was also a time of change and questioning, especially 
when it came to the belief in ghosts. Spiritualism 
allowed people to envision a relationship with the dead 
as they contemplated how to communicate with them. 
Ghosts were often represented as more powerful beings 
with human thoughts upon which they acted. This 
representation in turn created a movement towards more 
powerful, expressive ghosts in literary texts. Ghosts and 
ghost stories were a means of escaping from the shackles 
of the Victorian era, and the ghostly hands motif was 
a common theme of the day, representing all of these 
anxieties and giving power to ghosts who reacted against 
societal constraints. 

Introduction to Henry James’s “The Romance 
of Certain Old Clothes”

Known for another ghost story—his novel The	Turn	
of	the	Screw (1898)—Henry James was the second son 
born to a family of Irish Americans. Born on April 15, 
1843, James published his first work, “A Tragedy of 
Error,” in 1864 (Beidler 5). “The Romance of Certain 
Old Clothes,” published four years later, was Henry 
James’s first work of supernatural fiction. According to 
T.J. Lustig, seeing the critiques of other ghost stories of 
his day, James wished to write something that connected 
ghosts with the everyday and ordinary objects (52).  
John Carlos Rowe believes most of what James wrote 
represented the struggles facing “intelligent young 
women in predominantly patriarchal societies on both 
sides of the Atlantic...” (11). However, it could be argued 
that his work, including “The Romance of Certain Old 
Clothes,” reveals James’s conservative views about 
women, portraying them as not quite so intelligent after 
all. This story reflects social issues in the Victorian era 
both by describing hands in scenes between the living, 
and by ending with ghostly hands killing the main 
female character. A close analysis of the scenes where 
hands are involved reveals the themes represented 
that were present in many texts of the time period: 
commentary on Victorian-era gender roles, rules of 
engagement and marriage, anxiety over the acquisition 
of property and social classes, and the jealousy and 
greed each of these evokes.

The story begins with a focus on social and class 
struggles as we are introduced to an eligible, wealthy 
bachelor, Mr. Lloyd, who must choose to marry one of a 
pair of sisters, Perdita and Rosalind. Having come back 
from Europe with their brother, Bernard, Mr. Lloyd tells 
him “that his sisters were fully a match for the most 
genteel young women in the old country.” This relieves 
the women, especially their mother, who is very eager 
to keep up connections with the English class system. 
Mrs. Wingrave is also eager to get them married off. 
The sisters then begin a competition for Mr. Lloyd’s 
affections. This competition is hardly mentioned directly 
between the sisters and is really rather passive as women 
were not allowed to show their affections or encourage 
the opposite sex. However, the women fight over 
possession of traditional gender roles and belongings 
throughout the entire story, suggesting that the women 
channel their aggression through materialistic, familial, 
and intra-gender competition. 

The actions of the men and women in the story 
provide an interesting commentary on the expectations 
of each sex during this time. Mr. Lloyd appears to be 
the model gentleman following decorum by asking for 
Perdita’s hand in marriage. However, he later errs in his 
propriety when he spends excess time with Rosalind as 
his wife is dying. In fact, he ends up marrying Rosalind 
after Perdita’s death. Although the marriages between 
Mr. Lloyd and Perdita and then Mr. Lloyd and Rosalind 
seem to be proper, they are based upon an odd web of 
love, in which two sisters fall in love with the same 
man and each have a turn as his object of affection, 
suggesting the status of “marriage” matters more than 
the identity of the groom. Furthermore, this story 
includes a less than traditional process of engagement 
and marriage, especially when one sister marries the 
widower of her sister in a swift and covert manner. In 
response to Rosalind’s manipulation of Mr. Lloyd in her 
attempt to win him over, the narrator slyly states, “It is 
enough to say that she found means to appear to the very 
best advantage.” The sisters show the proper restraint 
of ladies during the time, but we see how this restraint 
builds up a deadly jealousy between them.

Additionally, how the sisters fit within the expected 
female roles of the time period are referenced at the 
beginning of the story. According to John Carlos Rowe, 
James was an author “concerned with the problems 
facing modern women,” and he chose to write about the 

“The Romance of Certain Old Clothes” 169



issues surrounding women’s lives such as the necessity 
to obtain a prestigious marriage to ensure their own 
security (10). James’s portrayal of the women in this 
story is fairly old-fashioned, however, as he shows them 
fighting each other over who will fulfill their gendered 
role as Mr. Lloyd’s wife and caretaker. This competition 
is apparent as the narrator references Rosalind’s superior 
domestic skills and modest, subdued personality, 
her masterful sewing abilities, and demureness in 
conversation. Therefore, she seems to be the superior 
choice since she exhibits superior femininity. In contrast, 
Perdita is described as a less serious young woman 
who is not as concerned with domestic duties and who 
“gave you your choice of a dozen answers before you 
had uttered half your thought.” Their fighting seems to 
revolve around which sister would be better suited to 
meet Mr. Lloyd’s domestic needs in the private sphere 
as well as more worthy of the possession of clothes 
and other petty things associated with women gaining 
property through marriage. 

Rosalind’s desire for the property acquired by 
becoming a wife plays a huge part in motivating her 
actions. As Perdita is dying from the stress of childbirth, 
we see hands representing the jealousy between the 
sisters in the scene where “she lowered her eyes on her 
white hands, which her husband’s liberality had covered 
with rings” and holds her husband’s hands tightly within 
her own. On her deathbed, Perdita decides her sister’s 
intentions are not based on love, and she says, “He’ll 
[Mr. Lloyd] never forget me. Nor does Rosalind truly 
care for him; she cares only for vanities and finery and 
jewels.” After Perdita dies, Rosalind manipulatively 
works her way into her sister’s old family unit, proving 
that Perdita’s suspicions were correct.  At first it seems 
Rosalind is jealous of Mr. Lloyd’s affection for her sister, 
but it later seems to be that she was jealous of all Perdita 
possessed through her marriage. This tension shows that 
the women—especially Rosalind—were really more 
concerned about possessions than love, characterizing 
the women as superficial and within gender stereotypes. 
The fact that James portrays women who attack each 
other over clothes and belongings brings to light his 
conservative beliefs and shows he was not as forward-
thinking as some might claim.

The first time Rosalind finds out about Perdita and Mr. 

Lloyd’s relationship is by seeing that Perdita has a ring. 
Jealousy between the sisters, then, becomes immediately 
intertwined with hands, a connection sustained 
throughout the narrative. When Rosalind initially notices 
the ring, she stares hard at Perdita’s hands, grasps the 
one with the ring, and demands to know who gave her 
such a nice gift. Her jealousy surfaces as she questions 
Perdita’s position as a proper Victorian lady upon 
accepting Mr. Lloyd’s gift: “‘It means that you are not 
a modest girl!’ cried Rosalind. ‘Pray, does your mother 
know of your intrigue? does Bernard?’” Later, when she 
is watching Perdita prepare her new bridal wardrobe, 
James focuses on how Rosalind takes the perfectly 
blue silk in her hands and then, “her fancy [being] 
stirred,” sets to working on helping Perdita sew. Instead 
of Rosalind being saddened by not being Mr. Lloyd’s 
choice, she focuses on what Perdita is gaining through 
her marriage and seems to mourn what she cannot have: 
silk clothing. 

When Rosalind and Mr. Lloyd marry, she is plagued 
by a yearning to open a chest full of clothes and other 
nice things Perdita had saved for her daughter. Mr. Lloyd 
had promised Perdita on her deathbed that he would 
never let anybody open the chest, but after Rosalind 
constantly pressures him to allow her to open it, she gets 
her way and he gives her the key. However, Perdita’s 
ghost was waiting for Rosalind to acquire access to the 
chest full of possessions she had been jealous of since 
Perdita gained Mr. Lloyd’s hand in marriage. It is in the 
story’s final scene that we see the work of the envious 
hands one last time as Rosalind’s “lips were parted 
in entreaty, in dismay, in agony; and on her blanched 
brow and cheeks there glowed the marks of ten hideous 
wounds from two vengeful ghostly hands.” These were 
Perdita’s vengeful hands, seeking to protect her precious 
clothing from entering the hands of her jealous sister. 

“The Romance of Certain Old Clothes” By 
Henry James, 18851 

Part I

Towards the middle of the eighteenth century there 
lived in the Province of Massachusetts a widowed 
gentlewoman, the mother of three children, by name 

Notes
1. This edition was originally printed in 1868 and comes from an anthology of Victorian ghost stories, Victorian Ghost Stories: An Oxford Anthology, which 
was published in 1991.

“The Romance of Certain Old Clothes” 170



Mrs Veronica Wingrave. She had lost her husband 
early in life, and had devoted herself to the care of her 
progeny. These young persons grew up in a manner 
to reward her tenderness and to gratify her highest 
hopes. The first-born was a son, whom she had called 
Bernard, in remembrance of his father. The others were 
daughters—born at an interval of three years apart. Good 
looks were traditional in the family, and this youthful 
trio were not likely to allow the tradition to perish. The 
boy was of that fair and ruddy complexion and that 
athletic structure which in those days (as in these) were 
the sign of good English descent—a frank, affectionate 
young fellow, a deferential son, a patronising brother, a 
steadfast friend. Clever, however, he was not; the wit of 
the family had been apportioned chiefly to his sisters. 
The late Mr William Wingrave had been a great reader 
of Shakespeare, at a time when this pursuit implied more 
freedom of thought than at the present day, and in a 
community where it required much courage to patronise 
the drama even in the closet; and he had wished to call 
attention to his admiration of the great poet by calling 
his daughters out of his favourite plays. Upon the elder 
he had bestowed the romantic name of Rosalind, and the 
younger he had called Perdita, in memory of a little girl 
born between them, who had lived but a few weeks.

When Bernard Wingrave came to his sixteenth year 
his mother put a brave face upon it and prepared to 
execute her husband’s last injunction. This had been a 
formal command that, at the proper age, his son should 
be sent out to England, to complete his education at the 
university of Oxford, where he himself had acquired 
his taste for elegant literature. It was Mrs Wingrave’s 
belief that the lad’s equal was not to be found in the two 
hemispheres, but she had the old traditions of literal 
obedience. She swallowed her sobs, and made up her 
boy’s trunk and his simple provincial outfit, and sent him 
on his way across the seas. Bernard presented himself 
at his father’s college, and spent five years in England, 
without great honour, indeed, but with a vast deal of 
pleasure and no discredit. On leaving the university he 
made the journey to France. In his twenty-fourth year 
he took ship for home, prepared to find poor little New 
England (New England was very small in those days) a 
very dull, unfashionable residence. But there had been 

changes at home, as well as in Mr Bernard’s opinions. 
He found his mother’s house quite habitable, and his 
sisters grown into two very charming young ladies, 
with all the accomplishments and graces of the young 
women of Britain, and a certain native-grown originality 
and wildness, which, if it was not an accomplishment, 
was certainly a grace the more. Bernard privately 
assured his mother that his sisters were fully a match 
for the most genteel young women in the old country; 
whereupon poor Mrs Wingrave, you may be sure, bade 
them hold up their heads. Such was Bernard’s opinion, 
and such, in a tenfold higher degree, was the opinion 
of Mr Arthur Lloyd. This gentleman was a college-
mate of Mr Bernard, a young man of reputable family, 
of a good person and a handsome inheritance; which 
latter appurtenance he proposed to invest in trade in 
the flourishing colony. He and Bernard were sworn 
friends; they had crossed the ocean together, and the 
young American had lost no time in presenting him at 
his mother’s house, where he had made quite as good an 
impression as that which he had received and of which I 
have just given a hint.

The two sisters were at this time in all the freshness 
of their youthful bloom; each wearing, of course, 
this natural brilliancy in the manner that became her 
best. They were equally dissimilar in appearance and 
character. Rosalind, the elder—now in her twenty-
second year—was tall and white, with calm gray eyes 
and auburn tresses; a very faint likeness to the Rosalind2  
of Shakespeare’s comedy, whom I imagine a brunette (if 
you will), but a slender, airy creature, full of the softest, 
quickest impulses. Miss Wingrave, with her slightly 
lymphatic fairness, her fine arms, her majestic height, 
her slow utterance, was not cut out for adventures. She 
would never have put on a man’s jacket and hose; and, 
indeed, being a very plump beauty, she may have had 
reasons apart from her natural dignity. Perdita, too, 
might very well have exchanged the sweet melancholy 
of her name against something more in consonance with 
her aspect and disposition. She had the cheek of a gipsy3  
and the eye of an eager child, as well as the smallest 
waist and lightest foot in all the country of the Puritans. 
When you spoke to her she never made you wait, as her 
handsome sister was wont to do (while she looked at 

Notes
2. Rosalind is the main character within Shakespeare’s play As You Like It. She is banished from her father’s court and lives in the Forest of Arden, disguised as 
a shepherd named Ganymede. 
3. Since gipsies were known to be wanderers, James could be juxtaposing this comparison with Rosalind being “not cut out for adventures” in the same paragraph.

“The Romance of Certain Old Clothes” 171



you with a cold fine eye), but gave you your choice of a 
dozen answers before you had uttered half your thought.

The young girls were very glad to see their brother 
once more; but they found themselves quite able to 
spare part of their attention for their brother’s friend. 
Among the young men their friends and neighbours, 
the belle	jeunesse4 of the Colony, there were many 
excellent fellows, several devoted swains, and some 
two or three who enjoyed the reputation of universal 
charmers and conquerors. But the homebred arts and 
somewhat boisterous gallantry of these honest colonists 
were completely eclipsed by the good looks, the fine 
clothes, the punctilious courtesy, the perfect elegance, 
the immense information, of Mr Arthur Lloyd. He was 
in reality no paragon; he was a capable, honourable, 
civil youth, rich in pounds sterling, in his health 
and complacency and his little capital of uninvested 
affections. But he was a gentleman; he had a handsome 
person; he had studied and travelled; he spoke French, 
he played on the flute, and he read verses aloud with 
very great taste. There were a dozen reasons why 
Miss Wingrave and her sister should have thought 
their other male acquaintance made but a poor figure 
before such a perfect man of the world. Mr Lloyd’s 
anecdotes told our little New England maidens a great 
deal more of the ways and means of people of fashion 
in European capitals than he had any idea of doing. It 
was delightful to sit by and hear him and Bernard talk 
about the fine people and fine things they had seen. 
They would all gather round the fire after tea, in the 
little wainscoted5 parlour, and the two young men would 
remind each other, across the rug, of this, that and the 
other adventure. Rosalind and Perdita would often have 
given their ears to know exactly what adventure it was, 
and where it happened, and who was there, and what 
the ladies had on; but in those days a well-bred young 
woman was not expected to break into the conversation 
of her elders, or to ask too many questions; and the poor 
girls used therefore to sit fluttering behind the more 
languid—or more discreet—curiosity of their mother.

Part II

That they were both very fine girls Arthur Lloyd was 
not slow to discover; but it took him some time to make 

up his mind whether he liked the big sister or the little 
sister best. He had a strong presentiment—an emotion of 
a nature entirely too cheerful to be called a foreboding—
that he was destined to stand up before the parson with 
one of them; yet he was unable to arrive at a preference, 
and for such a consummation a preference was certainly 
necessary, for Lloyd had too much young blood in his 
veins to make a choice by lot and be cheated of the 
satisfaction of falling in love. He resolved to take things 
as they came—to let his heart speak. Meanwhile he was 
on a very pleasant footing. Mrs Wingrave showed a 
dignified indifference to his ‘intentions’, equally remote 
from a carelessness of her daughter’s honour and from 
that sharp alacrity to make him come to the point, which, 
in his quality of a young man of property, he had too 
often encountered in the worldly matrons of his native 
islands. As for Bernard, all that he asked was that his 
friend should treat his sisters as his own; and as for the 
poor girls themselves, however each may have secretly 
longed that their visitor should do or say something 
‘marked,’ they kept a very modest and contented 
demeanour.

Towards each other, however, they were somewhat 
more on the offensive. They were good friends enough, 
and accommodating bedfellows (they shared the same 
four-poster), betwixt whom it would take more than a 
day for the seeds of jealousy to sprout and bear fruit; 
but they felt that the seeds had been sown on the day 
that Mr Lloyd came into the house. Each made up her 
mind that, if she should be slighted, she would bear 
her grief in silence, and that no one should be any the 
wiser; for if they had a great deal of ambition, they had 
also a large share of pride. But each prayed in secret, 
nevertheless, that upon her the selection, the distinction, 
might fall. They had need of a vast deal of patience, of 
self-control, of dissimulation. In those days a young girl 
of decent breeding could make no advances whatever, 
and barely respond, indeed, to those that were made. She 
was expected to sit still in her chair, with her eyes on the 
carpet, watching the spot where the mystic handkerchief 
should fall. Poor Arthur Lloyd was obliged to carry on 
his wooing in the little wainscoted parlour, before the 
eyes of Mrs Wingrave, her son, and his prospective 
sister-in-law. But youth and love are so cunning that a 
hundred signs and tokens might travel to and fro, and 

Notes
4. This phrase translates to “beautiful youth” in French.
5. Wainscoted here refers to wood paneling lining the lower half of the walls.

“The Romance of Certain Old Clothes” 172



not one of these three pairs of eyes detect them in their 
passage. The two maidens were almost always together, 
and had plenty of chances to betray themselves. That 
each knew she was being watched, however, made not 
a grain of difference in the little offices they mutually 
rendered, or in the various household tasks they 
performed in common. Neither flinched nor fluttered 
beneath the silent battery of her sister’s eyes. The only 
apparent change in their habits was that they had less 
to say to each other. It was impossible to talk about Mr 
Lloyd, and it was ridiculous to talk about anything else. 
By tacit agreement they began to wear all their choice 
finery, and to devise such little implements of conquest, 
in the way of ribbons and top-knots and kerchiefs, as 
were sanctioned by indubitable modesty. They executed 
in the same inarticulate fashion a contract of fair play 
in this exciting game. “Is it better so?” Rosalind would 
ask, tying a bunch of ribbons on her bosom, and turning 
about from her glass to her sister. Perdita would look up 
gravely from her work and examine the decoration. “I 
think you had better give it another loop,” she would say, 
with great solemnity, looking hard at her sister with eyes 
that added, ‘upon my honour!’ So they were for ever 
stitching and trimming their petticoats, and pressing out 
their muslins, and contriving washes and ointments and 
cosmetics, like the ladies in the household of the vicar 
of Wakefield.6 Some three or four months went by; it 
grew to be midwinter, and as yet Rosalind knew that if 
Perdita had nothing more to boast of than she, there was 
not much to be feared from her rivalry. But Perdita by 
this time—the charming Perdita—felt that her secret had 
grown to be tenfold more precious than her sister’s.

One afternoon Miss Wingrave sat alone—that was a 
rare accident—before her toilet-glass, combing out her 
long hair. It was getting too dark to see; she lit the two 
candles in their sockets, on the frame of her mirror, and 
then went to the window to draw her curtains. It was 
a gray December evening; the landscape was bare and 
bleak, and the sky heavy with snow-clouds. At the end 
of the large garden into which her window looked was a 
wall with a little postern door, opening into a lane. The 
door stood ajar, as she could vaguely see in the gathering 
darkness, and moved slowly to and fro, as if someone 
were swaying it from the lane without. It was doubtless 
a servant-maid who had been having a tryst with her 
sweetheart. But as she was about to drop her curtain 

Rosalind saw her sister step into the garden and hurry 
along the path which led to the house. She dropped the 
curtain, all save a little crevice for her eyes. As Perdita 
came up the path she seemed to be examining something 
in her hand, holding it close to her eyes. When she 
reached the house she stopped a moment, looked intently 
at the object, and pressed it to her lips.

Poor Rosalind slowly came back to her chair and sat 
down before her glass, where, if she had looked at it less 
abstractedly, she would have seen her handsome features 
sadly disfigured by jealousy. A moment afterwards the 
door opened behind her and her sister came into the room, 
out of breath, and her cheeks aglow with the chilly air.

Perdita started. “Ah,” said she, “I thought you were 
with our mother.” The ladies were to go to a tea-party, 
and on such occasions it was the habit of one of the 
young girls to help their mother to dress. Instead of 
coming in, Perdita lingered at the door.

“Come in, come in,” said Rosalind. “We have more 
than an hour yet. I should like you very much to give a 
few strokes to my hair.” She knew that her sister wished 
to retreat, and that she could see in the glass all her 
movements in the room. “Nay, just help me with my 
hair,” she said, “and I will go to mamma.”

Perdita came reluctantly, and took the brush. She saw 
her sister’s eyes, in the glass, fastened hard upon her 
hands. She had not made three passes when Rosalind 
clapped her own right hand upon her sister’s left, and 
started out of her chair. “Whose ring is that?” she cried, 
passionately, drawing her towards the light.

On the young girl’s third finger glistened a little gold 
ring, adorned with a very small sapphire. Perdita felt that 
she need no longer keep her secret, yet that she must put 
a bold face on her avowal. “It’s mine,” she said proudly.

“Who gave it to you?” cried the other.
Perdita hesitated a moment. “Mr Lloyd.”
“Mr Lloyd is generous, all of a sudden.”
“Ah no,” cried Perdita, with spirit, “not all of a 

sudden! He offered it to me a month ago.”
“And you needed a month’s begging to take it?” said 

Rosalind, looking at the little trinket, which indeed was 
not especially elegant, although it was the best that the 
jeweller of the Province could furnish. “I wouldn’t have 
taken it in less than two.”

“It isn’t the ring,” Perdita answered, “it’s what it means!”
“It means that you are not a modest girl!” cried 

Notes
6. ”Wakefield” is a character in the 18th-century novel by Oliver Goldsmith, The Vicar of Wakefield.

“The Romance of Certain Old Clothes” 173



Rosalind. “Pray, does your mother know of your 
intrigue? does Bernard?”

“My mother has approved my ‘intrigue’, as you call it. 
Mr Lloyd has asked for my hand, and mamma has given 
it. Would you have had him apply to you, dearest sister?”

Rosalind gave her companion a long look, full of 
passionate envy and sorrow. Then she dropped her lashes 
on her pale cheeks and turned away. Perdita felt that it 
had not been a pretty scene; but it was her sister’s fault. 
However, the elder girl rapidly called back her pride, 
and turned herself about again. “You have my very best 
wishes,” she said, with a low curtsey. “I wish you every 
happiness, and a very long life.”

Perdita gave a bitter laugh. “Don’t speak in that tone!” 
she cried. “I would rather you should curse me outright. 
Come, Rosy,” she added, “he couldn’t marry both of us.”

“I wish you very great joy,” Rosalind repeated, 
mechanically, sitting down to her glass again, “and a 
very long life, and plenty of children.”

There was something in the sound of these words not 
at all to Perdita’s taste. “Will you give me a year to live 
at least?” she said. “In a year I can have one little boy—
or one little girl at least. If you will give me your brush 
again I will do your hair.”

“Thank you,” said Rosalind. “You had better go to 
mamma. It isn’t becoming that a young lady with a 
promised husband should wait on a girl with none.”

“Nay,” said Perdita, good-humouredly, “I have Arthur to 
wait upon me. You need my service more than I need yours.”

But her sister motioned her away, and she left the 
room. When she had gone poor Rosalind fell on her 
knees before her dressing-table, buried her head in her 
arms, and poured out a flood of tears and sobs. She 
felt very much the better for this effusion of sorrow. 
When her sister came back she insisted upon helping 
her to dress—on her wearing her prettiest things. She 
forced upon her acceptance a bit of lace of her own, and 
declared that now that she was to be married she should 
do her best to appear worthy of her lover’s choice. She 
discharged these offices in stern silence; but, such as 
they were, they had to do duty as an apology and an 
atonement; she never made any other.

Now that Lloyd was received by the family as 
an accepted suitor nothing remained but to fix the 
wedding-day. It was appointed for the following April, 

and in the interval preparations were diligently made 
for the marriage. Lloyd, on his side, was busy with 
his commercial arrangements, and with establishing a 
correspondence with the great mercantile house to which 
he had attached himself in England. He was therefore 
not so frequent a visitor at Mrs Wingrave’s as during 
the months of his diffidence and irresolution, and poor 
Rosalind had less to suffer than she had feared from the 
sight of the mutual endearments of the young lovers. 
Touching his future sister-in-law Lloyd had a perfectly 
clear conscience. There had not been a particle of love-
making between them, and he had not the slightest 
suspicion that he had dealt her a terrible blow. He was 
quite at his ease; life promised so well, both domestically 
and financially. The great revolt of the Colonies was 
not yet in the air, and that his connubial felicity should 
take a tragic turn it was absurd, it was blasphemous, 
to apprehend. Meanwhile, at Mrs Wingrave’s, there 
was a greater rustling of silks, a more rapid clicking of 
scissors and flying of needles, than ever. The good lady 
had determined that her daughter should carry from 
home the genteelest outfit that her money could buy 
or that the country could furnish. All the sage women 
in the Province were convened, and their united taste 
was brought to bear on Perdita’s wardrobe. Rosalind’s 
situation, at this moment, was assuredly not to be envied. 
The poor girl had an inordinate love of dress, and the 
very best taste in the world, as her sister perfectly well 
knew. Rosalind was tall, she was stately and sweeping, 
she was made to carry stiff brocade and masses of heavy 
lace, such as belong to the toilet of a rich man’s wife. 
But Rosalind sat aloof, with her beautiful arms folded 
and her head averted, while her mother and sister and 
the venerable women aforesaid worried and wondered 
over their materials, oppressed by the multitude of their 
resources. One day there came in a beautiful piece of 
white silk, brocaded with heavenly blue and silver, sent 
by the bridegroom himself—it not being thought amiss 
in those days that the husband-elect should contribute 
to the bride’s trousseau.7 Perdita could think of no form 
or fashion which would do sufficient honour to the 
splendour of the material.

“Blue’s your colour, sister, more than mine,” she said, 
with appealing eyes. “It’s a pity it’s not for you. You 
would know what to do with it.”

Notes
7. A trousseau was the collection of clothing and other household items that a soon-to-be-bride would prepare to take with her to her new home upon 
marriage.

“The Romance of Certain Old Clothes” 174



Rosalind got up from her place and looked at the great 
shining fabric, as it lay spread over the back of a chair. 
Then she took it up in her hands and felt it—lovingly, as 
Perdita could see—and turned about toward the mirror 
with it. She let it roll down to her feet, and flung the 
other end over her shoulder, gathering it in about her 
waist with her white arm, which was bare to the elbow. 
She threw back her head, and looked at her image, and a 
hanging tress of her auburn hair fell upon the gorgeous 
surface of the silk. It made a dazzling picture. The 
women standing about uttered a little “Look, look!” of 
admiration. “Yes, indeed,” said Rosalind, quietly, “blue 
is my colour.” But Perdita could see that her fancy had 
been stirred, and that she would now fall to work and 
solve all their silken riddles. And indeed she behaved 
very well, as Perdita, knowing her insatiable love of 
millinery,8 was quite ready to declare. Innumerable yards 
of lustrous silk and satin, of muslin, velvet and lace, 
passed through her cunning hands, without a jealous 
word coming from her lips. Thanks to her industry, when 
the wedding-day came Perdita was prepared to espouse 
more of the vanities of life than any fluttering young 
bride who had yet received the sacramental blessing of a 
New England divine.

It had been arranged that the young couple should 
go out and spend the first days of their wedded life at 
the country-house of an English gentleman—a man 
of rank and a very kind friend to Arthur Lloyd. He 
was a bachelor; he declared he should be delighted to 
give up the place to the influence of Hymen.9 After 
the ceremony at church—it had been performed by an 
English clergyman—young Mrs Lloyd hastened back 
to her mother’s house to change her nuptial robes for a 
riding-dress.10 Rosalind helped her to effect the change, 
in the little homely room in which they had spent their 
undivided younger years. Perdita then hurried off to bid 
farewell to her mother, leaving Rosalind to follow. The 
parting was short; the horses were at the door, and Arthur 
was impatient to start. But Rosalind had not followed, 
and Perdita hastened back to her room, opening the door 
abruptly. Rosalind, as usual, was before the glass, but in 
a position which caused the other to stand still, amazed. 
She had dressed herself in Perdita’s cast-off wedding 
veil and wreath, and on her neck she had hung the full 

string of pearls which the young girl had received from 
her husband as a wedding-gift. These things had been 
hastily laid aside, to await their possessor’s disposal on 
her return from the country. Bedizened in this unnatural 
garb Rosalind stood before the mirror, plunging a long 
look into its depths and reading heaven knows what 
audacious visions. Perdita was horrified. It was a hideous 
image of their old rivalry come to life again. She made 
a step toward her sister, as if to pull off the veil and the 
flowers. But catching her eyes in the glass, she stopped.

“Farewell, sweetheart,” she said. “You might at least 
have waited till I had got out of the house!” And she 
hurried away from the room.

Mr Lloyd had purchased in Boston a house which 
to the taste of those days appeared as elegant as it was 
commodious; and here he very soon established himself 
with his young wife. He was thus separated by a distance 
of twenty miles from the residence of his mother-in-
law. Twenty miles, in that primitive era of roads and 
conveyances, were as serious a matter as a hundred at 
the present day, and Mrs Wingrave saw but little of her 
daughter during the first twelvemonth of her marriage. 
She suffered in no small degree from Perdita’s absence; 
and her affliction was not diminished by the fact that 
Rosalind had fallen into terribly low spirits and was 
not to be roused or cheered but by change of air and 
company. The real cause of the young lady’s dejection 
the reader will not be slow to suspect. Mrs Wingrave 
and her gossips, however, deemed her complaint a mere 
bodily ill, and doubted not that she would obtain relief 
from the remedy just mentioned. Her mother accordingly 
proposed, on her behalf, a visit to certain relatives on 
the paternal side, established in New York, who had 
long complained that they were able to see so little of 
their New England cousins. Rosalind was despatched to 
these good people, under a suitable escort, and remained 
with them for several months. In the interval her brother 
Bernard, who had begun the practice of the law, made 
up his mind to take a wife. Rosalind came home to the 
wedding, apparently cured of her heartache, with bright 
roses and lilies in her face and a proud smile on her 
lips. Arthur Lloyd came over from Boston to see his 
brother-in-law married, but without his wife, who was 
expecting very soon to present him with an heir. It was 

Notes
8. Millinery refers to the design and decoration of women’s hats.
9. Hymen is the Greek god of marriage ceremonies. 
10. The appropriate outfit for women to wear when riding horses; also known as riding habits.

“The Romance of Certain Old Clothes” 175



nearly a year since Rosalind had seen him. She was 
glad—she hardly knew why—that Perdita had stayed 
at home. Arthur looked happy, but he was more grave 
and important than before his marriage. She thought 
he looked ‘interesting’—for although the word, in its 
modern sense, was not then invented, we may be sure 
that the idea was. The truth is, he was simply anxious 
about his wife and her coming ordeal. Nevertheless, 
he by no means failed to observe Rosalind’s beauty 
and splendour, and to note how she effaced the poor 
little bride. The allowance that Perdita had enjoyed for 
her dress had now been transferred to her sister, who 
turned it to wonderful account. On the morning after 
the wedding he had a lady’s saddle put on the horse of 
the servant who had come with him from town, and 
went out with the young girl for a ride. It was a keen, 
clear morning in January; the ground was bare and hard, 
and the horses in good condition—to say nothing of 
Rosalind, who was charming in her hat and plume, and 
her dark blue riding coat, trimmed with fur. They rode 
all the morning, they lost their way, and were obliged to 
stop for dinner at a farm-house. The early winter dusk 
had fallen when they got home. Mrs Wingrave met them 
with a long face. A messenger had arrived at noon from 
Mrs Lloyd; she was beginning to be ill, she desired her 
husband’s immediate return. The young man, at the 
thought that he had lost several hours, and that by hard 
riding he might already have been with his wife, uttered 
a passionate oath. He barely consented to stop for a 
mouthful of supper, but mounted the messenger’s horse 
and started off at a gallop.

He reached home at midnight. His wife had been 
delivered of a little girl. “Ah, why weren’t you with 
me?” she said, as he came to her bedside.

“I was out of the house when the man came. I was 
with Rosalind,” said Lloyd, innocently.

Mrs Lloyd made a little moan, and turned away. 
But she continued to do very well, and for a week her 
improvement was uninterrupted. Finally, however, 
through some indiscretion in the way of diet or exposure, 
it was checked, and the poor lady grew rapidly worse. 
Lloyd was in despair. It very soon became evident that 
she was breathing her last. Mrs Lloyd came to a sense 
of her approaching end, and declared that she was 
reconciled with death. On the third evening after the 
change took place she told her husband that she felt 
she should not get through the night. She dismissed her 

servants, and also requested her mother to withdraw—
Mrs Wingrave having arrived on the preceding day. She 
had had her infant placed on the bed beside her, and 
she lay on her side, with the child against her breast, 
holding her husband’s hands. The night-lamp was hidden 
behind the heavy curtains of the bed, but the room was 
illumined with a red glow from the immense fire of logs 
on the hearth.

“It seems strange not to be warmed into life by such 
a fire as that,” the young woman said, feebly trying to 
smile. “If I had but a little of it in my veins! But I have 
given all my fire to this little spark of mortality.” And 
she dropped her eyes on her child. Then raising them 
she looked at her husband with a long, penetrating gaze. 
The last feeling which lingered in her heart was one of 
suspicion. She had not recovered from the shock which 
Arthur had given her by telling her that in the hour of 
her agony he had been with Rosalind. She trusted her 
husband very nearly as well as she loved him; but now 
that she was called away for ever she felt a cold horror 
of her sister. She felt in her soul that Rosalind had never 
ceased to be jealous of her good fortune; and a year of 
happy security had not effaced the young girl’s image, 
dressed in her wedding-garments, and smiling with 
simulated triumph. Now that Arthur was to be alone, 
what might not Rosalind attempt? She was beautiful, 
she was engaging; what arts might she not use, what 
impression might she not make upon the young man’s 
saddened heart? Mrs Lloyd looked at her husband 
in silence. It seemed hard, after all, to doubt of his 
constancy. His fine eyes were filled with tears; his face 
was convulsed with weeping; the clasp of his hands was 
warm and passionate. How noble he looked, how tender, 
how faithful and devoted! ‘Nay,’ thought Perdita, ‘he’s 
not for such a one as Rosalind. He’ll never forget me. 
Nor does Rosalind truly care for him; she cares only 
for vanities and finery and jewels.’ And she lowered her 
eyes on her white hands, which her husband’s liberality 
had covered with rings, and on the lace ruffles which 
trimmed the edge of her night-dress. ‘She covets my 
rings and my laces more than she covets my husband.’

At this moment the thought of her sister’s rapacity 
seemed to cast a dark shadow between her and the 
helpless figure of her little girl. “Arthur,” she said, “you 
must take off my rings. I shall not be buried in them. 
One of these days my daughter shall wear them—my 
rings and my laces and silks. I had them all brought out 

“The Romance of Certain Old Clothes” 176



and shown me to-day. It’s a great wardrobe—there’s 
not such another in the Province; I can say it without 
vanity, now that I have done with it. It will be a great 
inheritance for my daughter when she grows into a 
young woman. There are things there that a man never 
buys twice, and if they are lost you will never again 
see the like. So you will watch them well. Some dozen 
things I have left to Rosalind; I have named them to 
my mother. I have given her that blue and silver; it was 
meant for her; I wore it only once, I looked ill in it. But 
the rest are to be sacredly kept for this little innocent. 
It’s such a providence that she should be my colour; she 
can wear my gowns; she has her mother’s eyes. You know 
the same fashions come back every twenty years. She can 
wear my gowns as they are. They will lie there quietly 
waiting till she grows into them—wrapped in camphor11  
and rose-leaves, and keeping their colours in the sweet-
scented darkness. She shall have black hair, she shall wear 
my carnation satin.12 Do you promise me, Arthur?”

“Promise you what, dearest?”
“Promise me to keep your poor little wife’s old gowns.”
“Are you afraid I shall sell them?”
“No, but that they may get scattered. My mother will 

have them properly wrapped up, and you shall lay them 
away under a double-lock. Do you know the great chest 
in the attic, with the iron bands? There is no end to what 
it will hold. You can put them all there. My mother and 
the housekeeper will do it, and give you the key. And 
you will keep the key in your secretary, and never give it 
to anyone but your child. Do you promise me?”

“Ah, yes, I promise you,” said Lloyd, puzzled at the 
intensity with which his wife appeared to cling to this idea.

“Will you swear?” repeated Perdita.
“Yes, I swear.”
“Well—I trust you—I trust you,” said the poor lady, 

looking into his eyes with eyes in which, if he had 
suspected her vague apprehensions, he might have read 
an appeal quite as much as an assurance. 

Lloyd bore his bereavement rationally and manfully. 
A month after his wife’s death, in the course of business, 
circumstances arose which offered him an opportunity 
of going to England. He took advantage of it, to change 
the current of his thoughts. He was absent nearly a year, 
during which his little girl was tenderly nursed and 

guarded by her grandmother. On his return he had his 
house again thrown open, and announced his intention 
of keeping the same state as during his wife’s lifetime. 
It very soon came to be predicted that he would marry 
again, and there were at least a dozen young women 
of whom one may say that it was by no fault of theirs 
that, for six months after his return, the prediction did 
not come true. During this interval he still left his little 
daughter in Mrs Wingrave’s hands, the latter assuring 
him that a change of residence at so tender an age 
would be full of danger for her health. Finally, however, 
he declared that his heart longed for his daughter’s 
presence and that she must be brought up to town. He 
sent his coach and his housekeeper to fetch her home. 
Mrs Wingrave was in terror lest something should befall 
her on the road; and, in accordance with this feeling, 
Rosalind offered to accompany her. She could return 
the next day. So she went up to town with her little 
niece, and Mr Lloyd met her on the threshold of his 
house, overcome with her kindness and with paternal 
joy. Instead of returning the next day Rosalind stayed 
out the week; and when at last she reappeared, she had 
only come for her clothes. Arthur would not hear of her 
coming home, nor would the baby. That little person 
cried and choked if Rosalind left her; and at the sight 
of her grief Arthur lost his wits, and swore that she was 
going to die. In fine, nothing would suit them but that the 
aunt should remain until the little niece had grown used 
to strange faces.

It took two months to bring this consummation about; 
for it was not until this period had elapsed that Rosalind 
took leave of her brother-in-law. Mrs Wingrave had 
shaken her head over her daughter’s absence; she had 
declared that it was not becoming, that it was the talk 
of the whole country. She had reconciled herself to 
it only because, during the girl’s visit, the household 
enjoyed an unwonted term of peace. Bernard Wingrave 
had brought his wife home to live, between whom and 
her sister-in-law there was as little love as you please. 
Rosalind was perhaps no angel; but in the daily practice 
of life she was a sufficiently good-natured girl, and if 
she quarrelled with Mrs Bernard, it was not without 
provocation. Quarrel, however, she did, to the great 
annoyance not only of her antagonist, but of the two 

Notes
11. Camphor is a white, volatile, crystalline substance with an aromatic smell and bitter taste, occurring in certain essential oils; it is used to repel moths, 
silverfish, and other insects.
12. Refers to the color of the satin resembling a carnation, a flower most commonly of a pinkish color.

“The Romance of Certain Old Clothes” 177



spectators of these constant altercations. Her stay in the 
household of her brother-in-law, therefore, would have 
been delightful, if only because it removed her from 
contact with the object of her antipathy at home. It was 
doubly—it was ten times—delightful, in that it kept 
her near the object of her early passion. Mrs Lloyd’s 
sharp suspicions had fallen very far short of the truth. 
Rosalind’s sentiment had been a passion at first, and a 
passion it remained—a passion of whose radiant heat, 
tempered to the delicate state of his feelings, Mr Lloyd 
very soon felt the influence. Lloyd, as I have hinted, 
was not a modern Petrarch;13 it was not in his nature 
to practise an ideal constancy. He had not been many 
days in the house with his sister-in-law before he began 
to assure himself that she was, in the language of that 
day, a devilish fine woman. Whether Rosalind really 
practised those insidious arts that her sister had been 
tempted to impute to her it is needless to inquire. It is 
enough to say that she found means to appear to the very 
best advantage. She used to seat herself every morning 
before the big fireplace in the dining-room, at work upon 
a piece of tapestry, with her little niece disporting herself 
on the carpet at her feet, or on the train of her dress, and 
playing with her woollen balls. Lloyd would have been 
a very stupid fellow if he had remained insensible to 
the rich suggestions of this charming picture. He was 
exceedingly fond of his little girl, and was never weary 
of taking her in his arms and tossing her up and down, 
and making her crow with delight. Very often, however, 
he would venture upon greater liberties than the young 
lady was yet prepared to allow, and then she would 
suddenly vociferate her displeasure. Rosalind, at this, 
would drop her tapestry, and put out her handsome hands 
with the serious smile of the young girl whose virgin 
fancy has revealed to her all a mother’s healing arts. 
Lloyd would give up the child, their eyes would meet, 
their hands would touch, and Rosalind would extinguish 
the little girl’s sobs upon the snowy folds of the kerchief 
that crossed her bosom. Her dignity was perfect, and 
nothing could be more discreet than the manner in which 
she accepted her brother-in-law’s hospitality. It may 
almost be said, perhaps, that there was something harsh 
in her reserve. Lloyd had a provoking feeling that she 
was in the house and yet was unapproachable. Half-an-
hour after supper, at the very outset of the long winter 

evenings, she would light her candle, make the young 
man a most respectful curtsey, and march off to bed. If 
these were arts, Rosalind was a great artist. But their 
effect was so gentle, so gradual, they were calculated to 
work upon the young widower’s fancy with a crescendo 
so finely shaded, that, as the reader has seen, several 
weeks elapsed before Rosalind began to feel sure that 
her returns would cover her outlay. When this became 
morally certain she packed up her trunk and returned to 
her mother’s house. For three days she waited; on the 
fourth Mr Lloyd made his appearance—a respectful but 
pressing suitor. Rosalind heard him to the end, with great 
humility, and accepted him with infinite modesty. It is 
hard to imagine that Mrs Lloyd would have forgiven 
her husband; but if anything might have disarmed 
her resentment it would have been the ceremonious 
continence of this interview. Rosalind imposed upon her 
lover but a short probation. They were married, as was 
becoming, with great privacy—almost with secrecy—in 
the hope perhaps, as was waggishly remarked at the 
time, that the late Mrs Lloyd wouldn’t hear of it.

The marriage was to all appearance a happy one, and 
each party obtained what each had desired—Lloyd ‘a 
devilish fine woman’, and Rosalind—but Rosalind’s 
desires, as the reader will have observed, had remained 
a good deal of a mystery. There were, indeed, two blots 
upon their felicity, but time would perhaps efface them. 
During the first three years of her marriage Mrs Lloyd 
failed to become a mother, and her husband on his side 
suffered heavy losses of money. This latter circumstance 
compelled a material retrenchment in his expenditure, 
and Rosalind was perforce less of a fine lady than her 
sister had been. She contrived, however, to carry it like 
a woman of considerable fashion. She had long since 
ascertained that her sister’s copious wardrobe had been 
sequestrated for the benefit of her daughter, and that it 
lay languishing in thankless gloom in the dusty attic. 
It was a revolting thought that these exquisite fabrics 
should await the good pleasure of a little girl who sat in a 
high chair and ate bread-and-milk with a wooden spoon. 
Rosalind had the good taste, however, to say nothing 
about the matter until several months had expired. Then, 
at last, she timidly broached it to her husband. Was 
it not a pity that so much finery should be lost?—for 
lost it would be, what with colours fading, and moths 

Notes
13. Petrarch, an Italian poet and predecessor of Shakespeare, was known for his use of the courtly love trope as well as for being a humanist, which James is 
claiming Mr. Lloyd was not.

“The Romance of Certain Old Clothes” 178



eating it up, and the change of fashions. But Lloyd gave 
her so abrupt and peremptory a refusal, that she saw, 
for the present, her attempt was vain. Six months went 
by, however, and brought with them new needs and new 
visions. Rosalind’s thoughts hovered lovingly about her 
sister’s relics. She went up and looked at the chest in which 
they lay imprisoned. There was a sullen defiance in its three 
great padlocks and its iron bands which only quickened 
her cupidity. There was something exasperating in its 
incorruptible immobility. It was like a grim and grizzled old 
household servant, who locks his jaws over a family secret. 
And then there was a look of capacity in its vast extent, and 
a sound as of dense fulness, when Rosalind knocked its 
side with the toe of her little shoe, which caused her to flush 
with baffled longing. “It’s absurd,” she cried; “it’s improper, 
it’s wicked”; and she forthwith resolved upon another attack 
upon her husband. On the following day, after dinner, when 
he had had his wine, she boldly began it. But he cut her 
short with great sternness.

“Once for all, Rosalind,” said he, “it’s out of the 
question. I shall be gravely displeased if you return to 
the matter.”

“Very good,” said Rosalind. “I am glad to learn the 
esteem in which I am held. Gracious heaven,” she cried, 
“I am a very happy woman! It’s an agreeable thing to 
feel one’s self sacrificed to a caprice!” And her eyes 
filled with tears of anger and disappointment.

Lloyd had a good-natured man’s horror of a woman’s 
sobs, and he attempted—I may say he condescended—
to explain. “It’s not a caprice, dear, it’s a promise,” he 
said—“an oath.”

“An oath? It’s a pretty matter for oaths! and to whom, 
pray?”

“To Perdita,” said the young man, raising his eyes for 
an instant, but immediately dropping them.

“Perdita—ah, Perdita!” and Rosalind’s tears broke 
forth. Her bosom heaved with stormy sobs—sobs 
which were the long-deferred sequel of the violent fit 
of weeping in which she had indulged herself on the 
night when she discovered her sister’s betrothal. She 
had hoped, in her better moments, that she had done with 
her jealousy; but her temper, on that occasion, had taken 
an ineffaceable fold. “And pray, what right had Perdita to 
dispose of my future?” she cried. “What right had she to 
bind you to meanness and cruelty? Ah, I occupy a dignified 
place, and I make a very fine figure! I am welcome to what 
Perdita has left! And what has she left? I never knew till 

now how little! Nothing, nothing, nothing.”
This was very poor logic, but it was very good as a 

‘scene.’ Lloyd put his arm around his wife’s waist and 
tried to kiss her, but she shook him off with magnificent 
scorn. Poor fellow! he had coveted a ‘devilish fine 
woman.’ and he had got one. Her scorn was intolerable. 
He walked away with his ears tingling—irresolute, 
distracted. Before him was his secretary, and in it the 
sacred key which with his own hand he had turned in 
the triple lock. He marched up and opened it, and took 
the key from a secret drawer, wrapped in a little packet 
which he had sealed with his own honest bit of blazonry. 
Je garde, said the motto—‘I keep.’ But he was ashamed 
to put it back. He flung it upon the table beside his wife.

“Put it back!” she cried. “I want it not. I hate it!”
“I wash my hands of it,” cried her husband. “God 

forgive me!”
Mrs Lloyd gave an indignant shrug of her shoulders, 

and swept out of the room, while the young man 
retreated by another door. Ten minutes later Mrs Lloyd 
returned, and found the room occupied by her little 
step-daughter and the nursery-maid. The key was not on 
the table. She glanced at the child. Her little niece was 
perched on a chair, with the packet in her hands. She had 
broken the seal with her own small fingers. Mrs Lloyd 
hastily took possession of the key.

At the habitual supper-hour Arthur Lloyd came back 
from his counting-room. It was the month of June, and 
supper was served by daylight. The meal was placed on 
the table, but Mrs Lloyd failed to make her appearance. 
The servant whom his master sent to call her came back 
with the assurance that her room was empty, and that the 
women informed him that she had not been seen since 
dinner. They had, in truth, observed her to have been in 
tears, and, supposing her to be shut up in her chamber, 
had not disturbed her. Her husband called her name in 
various parts of the house, but without response. At last 
it occurred to him that he might find her by taking the 
way to the attic. The thought gave him a strange feeling 
of discomfort, and he bade his servants remain behind, 
wishing no witness in his quest. He reached the foot of 
the staircase leading to the topmost flat, and stood with 
his hand on the banisters, pronouncing his wife’s name. 
His voice trembled. He called again louder and more 
firmly. The only sound which disturbed the absolute 
silence was a faint echo of his own tones, repeating 
his question under the great eaves. He nevertheless felt 

“The Romance of Certain Old Clothes” 179



irresistibly moved to ascend the staircase. It opened upon 
a wide hall, lined with wooden closets, and terminating 
in a window which looked westward, and admitted the 
last rays of the sun. Before the window stood the great 
chest. Before the chest, on her knees, the young man 
saw with amazement and horror the figure of his wife. In 
an instant he crossed the interval between them, bereft 
of utterance. The lid of the chest stood open, exposing, 
amid their perfumed napkins, its treasure of stuffs and 
jewels. Rosalind had fallen backward from a kneeling 
posture, with one hand supporting her on the floor and 
the other pressed to her heart. On her limbs was the 
stiffness of death, and on her face, in the fading light of 
the sun, the terror of something more than death. Her 
lips were parted in entreaty, in dismay, in agony; and on 
her blanched brow and cheeks there glowed the marks of 
ten hideous wounds from two vengeful ghostly hands.

 

Contextual Documents

Excerpts from “A Pair of Hands” by A. T. 
Quiller-Couch14 

“A Pair of Hands,” published within a collection 
of short stories in 1900 by Arthur Thomas Quiller-
Couch, is another story about ghostly hands. Although 
these hands are not malevolent like the hands that kill 
Rosalind in “The Romance of Certain Old Clothes,” they 
are similarly related to the Victorian-era gender roles 
hinted at in the first half of James’s story. The hands in 
Quiller-Couch’s story are helping hands that happen to 
belong to the ghost of a little girl named Margaret. The 
story begins with an older Miss Le Petyt knitting and 
lamenting about a time when she lived in a house with a 
friendly female ghost:

“Well, my dears, I am not quite the coward you take 
me for. And, as it happens, mine was the most harmless 
ghost in the world. In fact”—and here she looked at the 
fire again— “I was quite sorry to lose her.”

“It was a woman, then? Now I think,” said Miss 
Blanche, “that female ghosts are the horridest of all. 
They wear little shoes with high red heels, and go about 

tap, tap, wringing their hands.”
“This one wrung her hands, certainly. But I don’t 

know about the high red heels, for I never saw her feet. 
Perhaps she was like the Queen of Spain, and hadn’t any. 
And as for the hands, it all depends how you wring them. 
There’s an elderly shop-walker at Knightsbridge, for 
instance—”

“Don’t be prosy, dear, when you know that we’re just 
dying to hear the story.”

Miss Le Petyt turned to me with a small deprecating 
laugh. “It’s such a little one.”

“The story, or the ghost?”
“Both.”

The above passage helps to define what type of 
female ghost is acceptable or unacceptable based on how 
they wring their hands. In the eyes of the characters, 
if a female ghost wrings her hands the wrong way she 
is horrid. If she wrings them in another way, she could 
be harmless like the ghost Miss Le Petyt is referring to. 
Also, Miss Le Petyt is using her hands to knit as the story 
begins, which is a very common, if not expected, activity 
for a woman to be doing in this era (Plante 156). This 
detail could be an allusion to the proper types of activities, 
or wringing, a woman’s hands should be doing, setting 
the tone for the rest of the story. Miss Le Petyt learns in 
the next passage that a ghostly pair of little girl hands has 
been doing the housework for her at night:

“Over the porcelain basin and beneath the water 
trickling from the tap I saw two hands. That was all—
two small hands, a child’s hands. I cannot tell you how 
they ended. No: they were not cut off. I saw them quite 
distinctly: just a pair of small hands and the wrists, 
and after that—nothing. They were moving briskly—
washing themselves clean. I saw the water trickle and 
splash over them—not through them—but just as it 
would on real hands. They were the hands of a little girl, 
too. Oh, yes, I was sure of that at once. Boys and girls 
wash their hands differently. I can’t just tell you what the 
difference is, but it’s unmistakable.

“I saw all this before my candle slipped and fell with 
a crash. I had set it down without looking—for my eyes 

Notes
14. This story, originally published within one of the author’s short story collections called Old Fires and Profitable Ghosts: A Book of Stories in 1900, was 
edited and published by Lionel G. Sear in 2006 and cataloged by Project Gutenberg.

“The Romance of Certain Old Clothes” 180



were fixed on the basin—and had balanced it on the edge 
of the nest of drawers. After the crash, in the darkness 
there, with the water running, I suffered some bad 
moments. Oddly enough, the thought uppermost with me 
was that I must shut off that tap before escaping. I had 
to. And after a while I picked up all my courage, so to 
say, between my teeth, and with a little sob thrust out my 
hand and did it. Then I fled.” 

In the Victorian era, a woman’s destiny was to provide 
the perfect domestic sphere to shelter her family from 
the harmful world, and housekeeping was a major part 
of keeping the home running smoothly (Plante 35). 
This theme is evident in both James’s story and Quiller-
Couch’s story. A significant question to raise is: why 
would the ghost of the girl who died in the house only 
come back as a pair of hands? This question could be 
partly answered in the explanation of how she is washing 
her hands: “They were the hands of a little girl, too. Oh 
yes, I was sure of that at once. Boys and girls wash their 
hands differently. I can’t just tell you what the difference 
is, but it’s unmistakable.” As in “The Romance of 
Certain Old Clothes,” these hands were being used to 
represent the work women were expected to do in the 
private sphere. 

Excerpts from “The Cold Embrace” by Mary E. 
Braddon15 

Mary E. Braddon’s story “The Cold Embrace,” 
published in 1860, takes on the ghostly hands motif in 
a similar way to James’s story in that there is a pair of 
hands that kill someone. Braddon’s story is focused on 
a secret engagement of two cousins, Gertrude and an 
unnamed man, that never results in marriage because 
of her cousin’s disregard to his initial promise. This 
engagement is unconventional for the Victorian era 
because Gertrude’s father did not consent and because 
her cousin never followed through with the marriage 
(Plante 23). James’s story is also centered around 
atypical engagement and marriage processes, apparent 
in Mr. Lloyd’s choice between the two sisters and in his 
allowing Rosalind to take over Perdita’s private sphere 
after her death. Thus the hands in both these stories are 

connected to dead females who were wronged within 
their marital commitments. 

This excerpt describes the initial engagement of 
Gertrude and her cousin. Note the detail of Gertrude’s 
hands in this scene:

So they are betrothed; and standing side by side 
when the dying sun and the pale rising moon divide the 
heavens, he puts the betrothal ring upon her finger, the 
white and taper finger whose slender shape he knows 
so well. This ring is a peculiar one, a massive golden 
serpent, its tail in its mouth, the symbol of eternity; it 
had been his mother’s, and he would know it amongst a 
thousand. If he were to become blind tomorrow, he could 
select it from amongst a thousand by the touch alone.

 He places it on her finger, and they swear to be true 
to each other for ever and ever—through trouble and 
danger—sorrow and change—in wealth or poverty. Her 
father must needs be won to consent to their union by 
and by, for they were now betrothed, and death alone 
could part them.

 But the young student, the scoffer at revelation, yet 
the enthusiastic adorer of the mystical, asks:

“Can death part us? I would return to you from the 
grave, Gertrude. My soul would come back to be near 
my love. And you—you, if you died before me—the 
cold earth would not hold you from me; if you loved me, 
you would return, and again these fair arms would be 
clasped round my neck as they are now.”

But she told him, with a holier light in her deep-blue 
eyes than had ever shone in his—she told him that the 
dead who die at peace with God are happy in heaven, 
and cannot return to the troubled earth; and that it is only 
the suicide—the lost wretch on whom sorrowful angels 
shut the door of Paradise—whose unholy spirit haunts 
the footsteps of the living.

After making his promise to Gertrude, he goes 
to Italy to work as an artist, and his communication 
with Gertrude slowly fades until they lose all contact. 
Gertrude kills herself because of his thoughtless actions 
and because of her unwillingness to marry another 
man whom her father has arranged for her to wed. 

Notes
15. This story, originally published in 1860, is from the anthology called Victorian Ghost Stories: By Eminent Women Writers which was edited and published 
by Richard Dalby in 1989. 

“The Romance of Certain Old Clothes” 181



According to Calder, the “helpless female borne off by 
the villainous male or, worse, the susceptible female 
compliant to the false promises of the unscrupulous 
male” was a common theme in Victorian fiction (16). 
Gertrude fits this description, but later in the story her 
ghostly hands and arms seek vengeance and refuse to 
be compliant with the transgressions inflicted by her 
unethical cousin. The hands first appear in both James’ 
and Braddon’s stories when engagement is brought into 
the plot, and the stories end with the hands killing the 
betrayer of their marital promise. However, while Perdita 
retaliates against Rosalind, Gertrude takes her revenge 
out on the man who was unfaithful to her.

In the following scene, Gertrude’s suicide leaves her 
ghost to roam the earth, and she fulfills her cousin’s 
expressed wish from the first excerpt: “if you loved me, 
you would return, and again these fair arms would be 
clasped round my neck as they are now.” 

He is not thinking of his drowned cousin, for he has 
forgotten her and is happy.

Suddenly some one, something from behind him, puts 
two cold arms round his neck, and clasps its hands on his 
breast.

And yet there is no one behind him, for on the 
flags bathed in the broad moonlight there are only 
two shadows, his own and his dog’s. He turns quickly 
round—there is no one—nothing to be seen in the broad 
square but himself and his dog; and though he feels, he 
cannot see the cold arms clasped round his neck.

It is not ghostly, this embrace, for it is palpable to the 
touch—it cannot be real, for it is invisible.

He tries to throw off the cold caress. He clasps the 
hands in his own to tear them asunder, and to cast them 
off his neck. He can feel the long delicate fingers cold 
and wet beneath his touch, and on the third finger of the 
left hand he can feel the ring which was his mother’s—
the golden serpent—the ring which he has always said 
he would know among a thousand by the touch alone. 
He knows it now!

His dead cousin’s cold arms are round his neck—his 
dead cousin’s wet hands are clasped upon his breast. He 
asks himself if he is mad. “Up, Leo!” he shouts. “Up, up, 
boy!” and the Newfoundland leaps to his shoulders—the 
dog’s paws are on the dead hands, and the animal utters 
a terrific howl, and springs away from his master.

The student stands in the moonlight, the dead arms 
around his neck, and the dog at a little distance moaning 
piteously.

The previous scene marks the first time Gertrude’s 
ghostly embrace haunts and threatens her cousin. She 
is a ghost enraged by the actions of an ungentlemanly 
suitor, one who defied the conventions of engagement 
in the Victorian era by not committing properly and 
by not treating Gertrude like a lady because, as Plante 
states, “no true gentleman would pay excessive visits to 
or shower constant attention upon a lady whom he was 
not considering for marriage” (20). The ring that bound 
the couple is on Gertrude’s ghostly hands, tormenting 
her cousin with the reminder of his broken promise, and 
threatening him for breaking it. The next scene marks 
the death of Gertrude’s cousin through her last angry, 
ghostly embrace:

Alone, and, in the terrible silence, he hears the echoes of 
his own footsteps in that dismal dance which has no music.

No music but the beating of his breast. The cold arms 
are round his neck—they whirl him round, they will not 
be flung off, or cast away; he can no more escape from 
their icy grasp than he can escape from death. He looks 
behind him—there is nothing but himself in the great 
empty salle; but he can feel—cold, deathlike, but O, how 
palpable!—the long slender fingers, and the ring which 
was his mother’s.

He tries to shout, but he has no power in his burning 
throat. The silence of the place is only broken by the 
echoes of his own footsteps in the dance from which he 
cannot extricate himself. Who says he has no partner? 
The cold hands are clasped on his breast, and now he 
does not shun their caress. No! One more polka, if he 
drops down dead.

The lights are all out, and, half an hour after, the 
gendarmes come in with a lantern to see that the house 
is empty; they are followed by a great dog that they have 
found seated howling on the steps of the theatre. Near 
the principal entrance they stumble over—

The body of a student, who has died from want of 
food, exhaustion, and the breaking of a blood-vessel.

In James’s story, Perdita’s hands kill Rosalind, who 

“The Romance of Certain Old Clothes” 182



betrayed her by replacing her in every important aspect 
of a Victorian-era female’s life through taking over her 
home, husband, and child; Mr. Lloyd, however, is not 
physically harmed. Braddon’s ghost, by contrast, is 
less petty than the sisters within James’s story.  Instead 
of bickering over possessions or rights to a suitor, 
Braddon’s ghost exacts her revenge upon the man who 
wrongs her by breaking his promise. Braddon’s powerful 
female ghost, strengthened by spiritualist ideals, makes 
a commentary on the patriarchal system that entrapped 
and silenced women from voicing their opinions or 
grievances. In each case, the hands that bound the 
women to commitment are the weapons they use against 
those who wronged them.

Excerpts from “Some Odd Facts About the Tiled 
House—Being an Authentic Narrative of the Ghost of 
a Hand” by J. Sheridan Le Fanu16 

In another Victorian ghost story concerning hands, we 
see a house being haunted by a ghostly hand that tries 
to make its way inside. This chapter, from J. Sheridan 
Le Fanu’s book The	House	by	the	Church-Yard, later 
republished in 1863 as “The Narrative of a Ghost of a 
Hand,” tells a story of a ghostly hand that terrorizes all 
levels of a household, from the servants to the upper-
class family. 

The family within “The Romance of Certain Old 
Clothes” is very concerned with keeping up with a class 
system. Though they are living in America, they are very 
concerned with keeping their allegiance with Europe. 
We see a similar kind of class anxiety in Le Fanu’s story. 
In this tale, a family, the Prossers, rent out a house from 
Mrs. Prosser’s father, Alderman Harper. Upon moving 
in, a mysterious hand begins to haunt the family and 
their servants. The hand first appears to Mrs. Prosser one 
evening as she is sitting in the back parlor of the house, 
looking out into the garden:

“...looking out into the orchard, [she] plainly saw 
a hand stealthily placed upon the stone window-sill 
outside, as if by some one beneath the window, at her 
right side, intending to climb up. There was nothing 

but the hand, which was rather short but handsomely 
formed, and white and plump, laid on the edge of the 
window-sill; and it was not a very young hand, but one 
aged, somewhere about forty, as she conjectured. It was 
only a few weeks before that the horrible robbery at 
Clondalkin had taken place, and the lady fancied that 
the hand was that of one of the miscreants who was 
now about to scale the windows of the Tiled House. She 
uttered a loud scream and an ejaculation of terror, and at 
the same moment the hand was quietly withdrawn.”

It is important to note the description of the hand as 
“white and plump . . . . [and] aged.” This description 
suggests it belongs to someone of higher class as a 
lower-class person’s hand would be tanned and rough 
with work. Indeed, a discussion on class begins to 
develop within this story just as it did in “The Romance 
of Certain Old Clothes.”

Soon the hand begins appearing to the servants, and 
we realize that the hand desperately wishes to come 
inside the house. It raps on windows and doors and tries 
to push its way inside at one point and later succeeds. 
Like the grappling of lower classes for higher status 
in society, the hand wishes to enter where it has been 
forbidden to enter. However, the hand seems to be one of 
an upper-class gentleman, as it is hinted at in the end of 
the story:

The person to whom that hand belonged never once 
appeared: nor was it a hand separated from a body, but 
only a hand so manifested and introduced that its owner 
was always, by some crafty accident, hidden from view.

In the year 1819, at a college breakfast, I met a Mr. 
Prosser—a thin, grave, but rather chatty old gentleman, 
with very white hair drawn back into a pigtail—and he 
told us all, with a concise particularity, a story of his 
cousin, James Prosser, who, when an infant, had slept for 
some time in what his mother said was a haunted nursery 
in an old house near Chapelizod, and who, whenever he 
was ill, over-fatigued, or in anywise feverish, suffered 
all through his life as he had done from a time he could 
scarce remember, from a vision of a certain gentleman, 
fat and pale, every curl of whose wig, every button and 

Notes
16.  This story is a chapter from a book by Le Fanu called The House by the Church-Yard. This particular edition was originally published in 1904 by The 
Macmillan Company and was cataloged by Project Gutenberg in 2006 by Ted Garvin and Janet Blenkinship.

“The Romance of Certain Old Clothes” 183



fold of whose laced clothes, and every feature and line of 
whose sensual, benignant, and unwholesome face, was 
as minutely engraven upon his memory as the dress and 
lineaments of his own grandfather’s portrait, which hung 
before him every day at breakfast, dinner, and supper.-

This hand, then, is the ghost of a previous owner, 
specifically an earl who died with financial troubles. 
After this incident, the hand is seen at other times by 
servants, some of whom die of fright or run off. Mr. 
Prosser becomes very angry that his servants are acting 
so foolishly. Believing his servants are just acting 
like normal, lower-class servants, Mr. Prosser plans 

an investigation into the origin of a handprint within 
the kitchen that has frightened many of his servants 
believing it to be from the ghostly hand. However, as 
Katherine Rowe points out, he does not find the owner 
of the print and soon he and his wife become just as 
hysterically “imaginative” as their servants, reversing 
from the higher class to the stereotypes of the lower 
classes (155). Meanwhile, the hand of the owner goes 
about the house surveying what used to be his property. 
Like the hand of the owner of the house in this story, 
the hands of Perdita in “The Romance of Certain Old 
Clothes,” return to claim what is rightfully hers.

“The Romance of Certain Old Clothes” 184



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