decided to carry the war into the enemy's country.
As the night before that day of days died away and clarion cocks made theyoung dawn vocal, eager hands drew back the curtains of four-posters.Above the green-gray of spring-time streets and lanes, the sentineltree-tops pointed to the translucent blue of a smiling sky. "Day's fairand all's well!" bawled the watch as they blew out their smoking lights.Voices cracked and rusted by sleep echoed the cry in the depths of soft,chintz-bound coverlets. "My best ferrandine coat," mumbled Miss Georginato herself, in her delight over a pleasing picture of her entrance intothe Snograss parlor. She let the bolster slip to the floor andprecipitated her head against the carved laurel leaves of the top-board,all unconsciously. Bright were the visions of cherished falafals andgewgaws that came to the members of the Easter Guild as they partedcompany with Morpheus.
Mrs. Rumbell, looking from a casement in the rectory, felt the sweetnessof the season fall upon her. That patch of fresh sky, suggestive of newlife and a swift-footed May, was more to her than a volley of sermons. Thesnow still lay on hill and heath. Father Winter, neglectful of one of hisworlds, was sporting among the northern mountains. Oh, the peace of it!Why should she care if the wealthy Mrs. Snograss had come to York with herTrenton innovations? All her past grievances were forgotten. In herblissful state she felt she could even go the length of sewing whalebonein her second-best silk skirt to conform to the ridiculous fashion ofstiffened skirts, introduced by that lady. Everything was changing! Whatcould she, frail and old, gain by wrestling with the times? Across theway, torn landscape shades blinded the windows of Johnstone House. Robertawas dead and her home awaited a new tenant. Beyond lay the Bowling Green,the background of her long life--witness to all the parts thestage-master, Fate, had dealt out to her. Joys and sorrows marked its wornpaths. The city of her golden time was fading away. No halloos of eagerhuntsmen, ushering in Aurora, greeted her ears as of yore. Only a straythrush, mistaking the season, trilled liquid notes to his lost mates on ahemlock by her chamber.
Soon the daylight's eyes were wide open, and the door-knockers, across thechurch-yard, began to glow like miniature suns. Festivals and holidaysalways brought the housekeepers of York to market, followed by theirfaithful blacks carrying little wicker baskets. They tripped first to Mrs.Sykes's booth, where one could find all the season's delicacies; then tothe wintergreen-berry man, and on through the circle of venders. Themystical joy of Eastertide that flooded the heart of Mrs. Rumbell in thedawn swept through the concourse at the market. The perfume of thesouthern lilies, the merry cries of hucksters, and the shrill calls ofgutter-waifs as they tugged at the skirts of Cock-a-nee-nae Bess were allpermeated with it.
The prattling groups about Mrs. Sykes ofttimes broke away to take slylooks across the green at the distant Broadway. "Will she come?" "Shall weextend our hands to her, or just curtesy?" These and many like questionswent for naught that morning. The blinds of Snograss house were parted; aturbaned negress came out and washed the entry. Once the opening of a doorthrilled the curious dames. But the newcomer was waiting to enjoy her fulltriumph in the afternoon.
No one looked toward the house on Vesey Street. The Knickerbockers neverfrequented the market--Jonathan Knickerbocker forbade his family'sparticipation in such vulgar customs.
Georgina did not descend to her sitting-room in as pleasant a humor as wasto have been expected from her waking contemplations. She jangled her keysso ominously as she strutted through the halls and pantries that Julie wasafraid to venture out. On the day before Easter the little woman was inthe habit of stealing away to a by-lane near the market. From a discreetdistance she directed her purchases. Children would run for her oranges,the cock-a-nee-nae necessary to her happiness, the boxes of Poppletonsweets and foreign nuts. When they were very swift she would reward themwith as much as a dime apiece, so great was the delight she felt inproviding a secret store of goodies.
To-day there was no escaping. The market was sold out and the boothscarried away before she finished helping her sister tie up the Easterpresents. It was a custom among the ladies of York to exchange chaste anduseful gifts of their own handiwork. Worsted hat-bag covers and silkmittens were the favorites. Mrs. Rumbell was the one exception to therule. She still cut up her father's brocade vests into small squares,which she filled with dried rose-geranium leaves and distributed among heracquaintance. Three generations had received these fragrant marks of herregard, and the wits accused her relative of having been a Hollander,addicted to the habit of swarthing himself in superfluous garments.Members of the Scruggins set went further, and hinted maliciously that hewas a dealer in old clothes.
Miss Georgina preferred silk mittens, and gave and received no less than adozen pairs a season. If the ones sent to her were of a color she did notlike, she kept them for a year or two, and then packed them off again.This was quite permissible in York. On one occasion Georgina's own mittenswere returned to her, but far from being angry, she smiled a grim welcomeat them, and remarked to her household that she was glad to see them backfor they were at least fashioned of pure silk, and that was more than shecould say of many pairs that had been sent to her.
Quaint little ladies of Gothamtown--quaint little old-timefigures!--flitting in and out of your ancient homes like shadows!--whocares to-day for your petty gifts, your plans, and jealousies? Only one ortwo remember you. The walks you trod are vanishing, the water-frontgardens where you smiled and languished at sedate gentlemen are mostlyhidden 'neath bricks and mortar, and the very buildings you were born in,that stood so long impervious to the rude hands of progress, are beingdemolished. Those musty garments of Juma's "ole Miss," the friend of Mrs.Rumbell, are now folded in some attic trunk with your own pet vanities.What would the haughty Miss Georgina have said if she could have gazedthrough the door of the future and seen a Scruggins brat grown into aleader of fashion and carrying her own tortoise fan--sold with otherKnickerbocker effects at the last vendue?
If one had loitered in Vesey Street that afternoon before Easter so manyyears past, one would, no doubt, have joined the stragglers about thegates of Snograss House, and watched the members of St. Paul's EasterGuild mince up Broadway, carefully keeping to the pave. The Flying Swanfrom Elizabethtown was due at four o'clock, and those timid ladies of thelong ago knew that the swaying, swaggering bedlam of a coach would enjoyspattering them as it rattled up to the City Hotel. On the porch of thatfine hostelry, where Mr. Clarke once wooed his muse and scores of thirstythroats the wine-cup, stood the host, Davy Juniper, whose very name wassynonymous with cheer. Through the half-opened door came loud gusts ofunceremonious laughter as the portly innkeeper, curveting on tiptoe, swunghis garland of Easter green over the sign-board. Davy's eyes were rivetedon the flashing colors of feminine gear across the street. Now Mrs.Rumbell tottered by and bobbed to him; now a bevy of the Scruggins setpassed the house opposite, and gazed in, like forbidden Peris at the doorof Paradise. Sometimes the street was covered with pedestrians. Thequality abroad affected the good man's spirits. He began to pipe somemerry verses from a tap-room ditty:
Major Macpherson heav'd a sigh, Tol, de diddle, dol, dol; And Major Macpherson didn't know why, Tol, de diddle, dol, dol; But Major Macpherson soon found out, Tol, de diddle, dol, dol; 'Twas all for Miss Lavinia Scout, Tol, de diddle, dol, dol.
The night was creeping on, clear and cold, and there would be full settlesabout his waggish fires. In the sky, puffs of fleecy clouds were hurryingaway like sheep eager to reach the fold of mother-dusk. Off in the west,where twilight parted her curtains, glowed faint streaks of yellow androse color, promises of daffodil meadows and flower-strewn lands to come.
He was turning for a parting survey of the street when his ears caught thetremulous motion of some vehicle. Dashing out of Vesey Street came theKnickerbocker chariot, creaking protestations as it swung up to theSnograss stile.
Out popped Miss Georgina, followed by her sister. Never had Miss Georginaseemed so like a man-of-war's man in a flounce. Miss Julie shr
unk intoinsignificance beside her. Tavern maids, attracted by the noise andheedless of the cold, poked their heads out of dormer windows. Thepassengers on the Flying Swan just turning the pike slipped cautiouslyfrom the seats behind the guard to find out the cause of the excitement.Juma, hurrying home to the mansion, paused for a moment to see the sistersof his master step down. "Ramrods--old Ramrods," jeered Mr. Juniper, as heflung a last defiant "tol, de rol," at the gaping street.
The door of the tavern had no more than swung to when that of SnograssHouse opened. Every inmate of the room eyed Miss Georgina as she greetedthe mistress. There was an element of hostility in their ceremonioushandshake. As the sister of the autocrat of York viewed the richfurnishings of the apartment, the gold-legged piano and the silk-coveredfurniture, her lips straightened into a
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