Knickerbockers to enter. On closer inspection,many of them proved to be tame sort of animals enough. From a distance onemonster of a woman had given the impression that she was trying to bullyposterity. Perhaps this was due to the long feathers in her head-dress,that nodded maliciously at her most placid motion. As she bowed to herdescendants a plume tickled the tip of Jonathan's nose and he jumped backslightly. "I am Melodia Mudford Makemie," she said, "and I thought youwould like to meet me, as I started the Christmas fashion of givinghot-bag covers in York."
"Hot-bag covers!" reiterated Miss Georgina, astonished. "I have alwayssaid mittens. Why, in my ancestry book it is noted that in the year 1768you gave one hundred pairs of silk mittens to Gruel Hall, the home fortiresome gentlewomen."
"The years play great hoaxes," chuckled the ghost. "Those ancestry booksare a standard joke with us, and I believe they are looked upon with somesuspicion in your own world."
Melodia seemed so friendly, Julie gained courage enough to purse up herlips for a speech, but the shade anticipated her.
"I know what you are going to ask--why did I make such a wide frill aboutthe bottle's neck? 'Tis easy to explain. I never took my bag to church towarm my hands--'twas my stomach!"
"Oh!" said Miss Julie, faltering slightly, fearing that this relativemight become vulgar like the terrible Gobies still dancing about LordCornbury.
"Yes," continued the other, "when William fell asleep during the sermon Iused to sink down well in the pew, put the frill up to my mouth, squeezethe end of the bag, and get as much as a dram of whiskey."
"Oh!" exclaimed Julie, aghast; "a hot-water bag for whiskey!"
"Why not?" said the ghost, angrily. Her manner was that of one who hadexpected commendation for her cleverness. The plumes in her head-dresswere shaking violently.
"Why not, miss?" she asked again. "You are far too nice. At any rate youknow the reason for those tomfool bag-covers. 'Twas to deaden the smell ofliquor. Your generation of Yorkers does not appreciate them as we did."Then her voice broke into derisive sniggers, as she glided away.
And now upon the strange company fell the bellowing of some faithfulpassing watchman.
"Midnight's here and fair weather!"
A sleepy cock crowed in a distant Chelsea barn.
The faces of the shades began to blanch and assume the lack-lustre tint ofashes. The lady of the banished portrait touched Patricia as if giving hera last embrace, and her smile at Richard Sheridan was full of good wishes.
"Do you consent to the marriage," she whispered, bending over Jonathan,"or shall we come to-morrow night?"
"I do," he answered hoarsely.
"Then we go in peace," sighed the ghost.
There was a flutter of garments and the lights vanished suddenly. Only thescents of old-time perfumes remained, sweet as the hearts of vanishedroses.
A cackle of feeble laughter floated back to the room as if the departingKnickerbockers were still making merry on the stairway to the other world.
The song of the weary bells was over. Peace had fallen upon the earth, andin Lady Tyron's mouldering parlor the vials of a foolish pride weredespoiled forever. Through the mystical light the living of the familyseemed to be strangely transfigured. Jonathan Knickerbocker, the autocratof York, walked with his head bowed upon his breast. The hard lineamentsof Georgina's face were softened. Ofttimes she turned uneasily, halfexpecting some awful apparition to emerge before her. As for Miss Julie,she moved like one in a dreamland of her own. The tears of the night hadfallen upon that little flower in her heart and brought it back to life.Henceforth it would fill all her remaining years with fragrance. The threeeldest Knickerbocker daughters clung to her as if she were the guidinglight of their starved souls.
Suddenly she left them, and went to her brother.
"I am glad they came, Jonathan," she faltered; "we had forgotten God madeus all in His own image. He gave us the flowers and the stars, the sweetwinds and the spring-times--the voices of children and the songs of birds.Every man is rich if he but knew it, and those who are only rich in prideare the poorest of the race."
Over by the shimmering casement, the youth and the girl crept nearer toeach other. Softly he drew her to him until her face was close to his. Thenight was dead. Down old Broadway, over the Bowling Green, the Easter dawntiptoed into the silent city.
Transcriber's Note: All apparent printer's errors retained.
The ghosts of their ancestors Page 9