A wind began to sigh in the garden. Through the boxwood maze and barren urns it swept Smiling Flora, sleeping Endymion, and all the fabulous court that had stood there years before the coming of the Knickerbockers grew more humanly colored as the moon passed behind a cloud. Since York had become a queenly city and the wonder of the western world, mute and peacefully passive they had watched the seasons come and go. Countless lovers must have known them. She saw back into the springs, the flower times. Sedan chairs and swaying post-chaises had borne these dainty lovers all away. Oh, strange, sweet thought! She, too, would have to go—with him.
Down by the pale and shivering elms the iron bar of the gate clicked. Dark figures were entering the garden. The gods and goddesses faded before her eyes. No one visited them on Easter eve. Her father did not keep the season.
She steadied her knees on the slippery seat. The spray of arbutus she was wearing over her heart cut her hands as she pressed closer to the pane.
"My aunts! they know!" she whispered to herself.
Terror of her father—of them all—swept over her, chilling the very recesses of her being. As the habiliments of her august relatives became more distinct, she grew calmer. With slow and measured tread they walked, while to their right minced Betty, a small abigail, swaying a lantern.
"It is the march of pride coming to crush me!" she cried.
Then the bells began to peal again—"Pride—pride" they seemed to mock. "Love must die for pride!"
