making way for the other Knickerbockers to enter. On closer inspection,
many of them proved to be tame sort of animals enough. From a distance one
monster of a woman had given the impression that she was trying to bully
posterity. Perhaps this was due to the long feathers in her head-dress,
that nodded maliciously at her most placid motion. As she bowed to her
descendants a plume tickled the tip of Jonathan's nose and he jumped back
slightly. "I am Melodia Mudford Makemie," she said, "and I thought you
would like to meet me, as I started the Christmas fashion of giving
hot-bag covers in York."
"Hot-bag covers!" reiterated Miss Georgina, astonished. "I have always
said mittens. Why, in my ancestry book it is noted that in the year 1768
you gave one hundred pairs of silk mittens to Gruel Hall, the home for
tiresome gentlewomen."
"The years play great hoaxes," chuckled the ghost. "Those ancestry books
are a standard joke with us, and I believe they are looked upon with some
suspicion in your own world."
Melodia seemed so friendly, Julie gained courage enough to purse up her
lips for a speech, but the shade anticipated her.
"I know what you are going to ask--why did I make such a wide frill about
the bottle's neck? 'Tis easy to explain. I never took my bag to church to
warm my hands--'twas my stomach!"
"Oh!" said Miss Julie, faltering slightly, fearing that this relative
might become vulgar like the terrible Gobies still dancing about Lord
Cornbury.
"Yes," continued the other, "when William fell asleep during the sermon I
used to sink down well in the pew, put the frill up to my mouth, squeeze
the 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 had
expected commendation for her cleverness. The plumes in her head-dress
were shaking violently.
"Why not, miss?" she asked again. "You are far too nice. At any rate you
know the reason for those tomfool bag-covers. 'Twas to deaden the smell of
liquor. 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 faithful
passing 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 of
ashes. The lady of the banished portrait touched Patricia as if giving her
a 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 the
scents of old-time perfumes remained, sweet as the hearts of vanished
roses.
A cackle of feeble laughter floated back to the room as if the departing
Knickerbockers 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, and
in Lady Tyron's mouldering parlor the vials of a foolish pride were
despoiled forever. Through the mystical light the living of the family
seemed to be strangely transfigured. Jonathan Knickerbocker, the autocrat
of York, walked with his head bowed upon his breast. The hard lineaments
of Georgina's face were softened. Ofttimes she turned uneasily, half
expecting 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 had
fallen upon that little flower in her heart and brought it back to life.
Henceforth it would fill all her remaining years with fragrance. The three
eldest Knickerbocker daughters clung to her as if she were the guiding
light 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 made
us all in His own image. He gave us the flowers and the stars, the sweet
winds 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 pride
are the poorest of the race."
Over by the shimmering casement, the youth and the girl crept nearer to
each other. Softly he drew her to him until her face was close to his. The
night was dead. Down old Broadway, over the Bowling Green, the Easter dawn
tiptoed into the silent city.
[Illustration]
Transcriber's Note: All apparent printer's errors retained.
End of Project Gutenberg's The ghosts of their ancestors, by Weymer Jay Mills