Originally published in Harper's New Monthly Magazine (Harper and Brothers) vol.19 #110 (Jul 1859).
Just at four o'clock one dazzling afternoon last February, two young persons, opposite genders, took sudden possession of a neat sleigh, muffled themselves together in a manner intended to secure as far as possible the double advantage of comforting protection and engaging appearance, and, after judicious settlement of skirts and robes on the one hand, and hat and furs on the other, darted briskly off, along the smooth and shining roads of Winston. Clear and still, and not at all chilling, was the atmosphere. The sun shed all its splendor from a cloudless sky, and the spotless earth radiantly reflected its glittering beams. The two sleighers with whom we have to do agreed without debate that no other day so favorable for their excursion could have been selected, and in turn went into spasms of rhetorical excitement over the glories of Winter—in its present cheering aspect.
Not having accustomed themselves to the assiduous study of Nature, they failed to exactly interpret certain omens which might otherwise have interfered with their innocent enthusiasm. Of course neither had noticed, the night before, the broad circle of luminous haze that surrounded the moon, giving warning of approaching disorder above. Of course neither considered, as they dashed along heeding only their own pleasant fancies, the light clouds which rapidly rising soon overspread the southern heaven, and gradually threatened to obscure the declining sun. What need had they to anticipate the possible interruption of their sport?
None, certainly. Their aim was pleasure.
Lucy Brandon, nineteen, daintily beautiful, and coquettish by unconquerable feminine instinct, filled the hearts of the youth of Winston, and above all, those hearts gathered within the institution for the wholesale manufacture of clergymen for which Winston is celebrated, with fine frenzies.
The secular youth swore she was an angel. The students, whose destiny was theological, did not swear, but, after investigating the subject, and finding that angels were sometimes imperfect and fallible, proclaimed her divine, and in their orisons remembered her.
In this way they satisfied all the conditions of their college life. Inside the walls they were divinity students; outside, they were students of divinity.
In confidence it may be revealed that Miss Lucy's highest attributes were in fact of a mortal order. She was not a bit of an angel; but she was what is much better for the purposes of this world—a charming girl, with beauty enough to wind golden chains around susceptible young hearts, and wit enough to fasten them with glistening clasps, whenever she chose. At the same time, she was as amiable as could fairly be expected of a spirited young woman who ruled a subservient seminary with a rod more rigid than any the professors could wield; she was, with all her frolicsome coquetry, as discreet as a dowager, and she was not destitute of good sense, a powerful proof of which was that she never wrote her name Lucie. Nevertheless, it is a melancholy truth that many of the maidens of Winston persistently refused to recognize those infatuating qualities which by the ruder creatures were unanimously accorded her.
After a considerable period of supreme sway, Miss Brandon at length sighed, Alexanderwise, for something new to conquer.
She fell in with Mr. Henry (so christened, but popularly denominated Harry) Langford, a fine young fellow with no theological aspirations, who had come up to Winston to look after some long neglected relations. Clever and well-dressed, and with a heavenly curl to his hair, he interested Miss Brandon, who forthwith smiled upon him, and baited her flirtation-hooks with most delicate fascinations. With a shade of surprise, she observed that her intended victim succeeded in reaping the full benefit of the baits, and yet refused to be caught. Upon this, she became shy, and he commenced a promiscuous assault upon the affections of every available young woman he encountered. As soon as it was evident that they understood each other, they began to laugh. Consultation followed. From laughing at one another they turned to laughing at Miss Brandon's troop of suppliant admirers. I am sorry to say that the young lady betrayed confidence. She told him how one especially devout adorer was continually quoting Scriptural puffs to her; and how another, of entomological turn of mind, would insist on comparing her to new and exquisite specimens of bugs. Then he told her, quite maliciously, how precarious her rule was, and cruelly likened her position to that of a keeper in a lunatic asylum, whose strength lies in his confidence that his subordinates, having lost their wits, possess no power of combination among themselves to defeat his plans. Occasionally Miss Brandon was a little tart; sometimes Mr. Langford was a little rude; but they usually kept within amicable bounds, and were understood to be excellent friends—nothing more!
Not one of Miss Lucy's devotees ever thought it worth while to look upon Harry Langford with eyes of green indignation. He was in no degree rapturous about her; she often snubbed him. An infinitesimal quarrel between them had once been detected. Besides, he was not a resident, only a visitor, whose opportunities were thus limited.
Moreover it is a fact that no two persons were more profoundly convinced of their absolute indifference to one another than Miss Brandon and Mr. Langford themselves.
They had given much private thought to the subject (there was the danger!), and had satisfied themselves that they were, as every body understood, excellent friends—nothing more!
Nevertheless it happened that Mr. Langford was suddenly overcome by a sense of shame at his want of family feeling in so long neglecting his Winston relations. So he endeavored to repair old errors by frequent visits, and established an extensive acquaintance in the neighborhood. He grew fond of social gayeties. He cultivated all Winston. At every important gathering he was made welcome.
At last the winter came, and every body knows how delightful the winter is in a New England country town, where the thermometer never by any excess of exaltation gets more than an occasional degree or so above the 0; where frozen noses are to be met at every corner, and are deemed neither uncommon nor unornamental, while frozen toes are accepted almost in the light of a luxury; where ice-cream is indissolubly associated with breakfast, and where for many months life is but a perpetual shiver. Mr. Langford, anxious to experience all these joys, came up to Winston in the middle of February to remain two days, bringing with him baggage sufficient for three weeks, to which term, after much interchange of entreaty and expostulation, he was induced to extend his visit.
The first time he met Miss Brandon, he tempted her with the suggestion of a sleigh-ride. Said he "A sleigh-ride in winter is seldom amiss," and was thereupon sharply criticised for admitting the possibility of such a thing at any other season. However, Miss Brandon consented. She would ride with him the next afternoon.
In the morning Mr. Henry Langford gravely inspected the family stable, but found nothing therein equal to his own idea of the magnitude of the occasion. At the public stable he was more successful. At first he contemplated the luxurious magnificence of a span, but an irresistible impulse subsequently induced him to settle upon a single courser. (One horse may be driven with one hand!) It is difficult to imagine what impelled him to seek with such pertinacity as he did for the narrowest sleigh in the collection.
At four o'clock p.m. the light-hearted young pair dashed away, as full of good-natured glee as the sleigh was full of them—and they fitted very compactly. Miss Brandon, knowing the country more intimately than her companion, undertook to point their way, a manner of proceeding quite agreeable, in view of the male creature's total ignorance of localities. They glided on, turning hither and thither, until ere long they left the clustering cottages of Winston quite a distance behind. For a while both chattered and laughed with a vigor that put them into a precious glow; but by-and-by Mr. Henry stopped short, in an unaccountable manner, and left Miss Lucy to do the declamation, contenting himself with watching the sparkle of her eye, or the pretty curve of her lip, as she threw out incessant little smart sprinkles of feminine wit. Presently he observed with wonder a faint suspicion of a flutter trembling through him, and attributed it to their rapid motion, recollecting similar sensations in earlier youth, caused by swinging.
He must have expressed something odd in his countenance, for, of a sudden, Miss Lucy cut short her fun, and subsided into dim oblivious tranquillity. Just one minute after, it flashed upon Mr. Henry Langford, that he had for the past six months been steadily and uninterruptedly occupied in making a muff of himself; that the notion of "excellent friendship," so far as he and Lucy Brandon were concerned was utterly absurd and degrading to think upon; that the truth was he loved her dearly, and that he ought to have known it long ago, and should, if he had ever before been alone with her, as he now found himself. Having settled all this to his own satisfaction, he took courage and a bold step:
"Miss Lucy" (rather shakily) "are you comfortable?"
"Oh, perfectly."
"Not cold?"
"No, indeed."
Now what he wanted was, that she should say she was cold, and he considered himself a little ill-used because she did not, But he would not be bereft of his idea; so gathering reins in one hand, he cautiously disembarrassed the other, and, sweeping his arm around the back of the sleigh, caused that vagrant member to encircle the big bundle of buffalo bandages which confined the gentle form beside him. Not a word of remonstrance, but a silence dangerously ominous, if he had known it. Incoherently mumbling a repetition of the inquiry concerning comfort, etc., he permitted the Arm to venture upon a faint suggestion of a squeeze. This time the little face, now sadly flushed, came round square upon him, and disconcerted him horribly. But with desperate impudence he remarked quite carelessly, and looking earnestly at a point in the road at the distance of half-a-mile ahead—"Please shut your eyes a minute."
Down went the lids.
! !
The calm was over. First came a torrent of reproaches, very limited as to duration, but of crushing weight; then an intrusive little tear, which had better have stayed away; then a dead silence. Mr. Henry Langford was sorely afflicted. "If she did not want me to kiss her," thought he, "then why did she shut her eyes?" As he could make nothing of it, he endeavored to effect a quiet pacification, but all encouraging response was withheld. Hardly a word was vouchsafed him, and the few he got were by no means of a character to fill him with rapture. In the midst of his anxious argument, there came a cry from the side of the road.
Harry pulled up, and saw a melancholy-looking woman, not well clad, not strongly framed, standing, with a child in her arms, by the sleigh. She asked how far it was to Linville.
"How far to Linville, Miss Brandon?" inquired Harry, in blissful ignorance.
"Four miles"—(rather pettishly).
The woman of melancholy mien furthermore desired to know the direction. Was it straight on?
"Is it straight on, Miss Brandon?"
"Yes"—(stiff and short).
The lugubrious female murmured a thank and the sleigh moved off. In about a minute Mr. Langford clutched the reins savagely, and uttered an exclamation which would have satisfied any listener of his innocence of theological tendencies.
Miss Lucy emitted a high D, head register, staccato.
"I think I am a brute," quietly remarked Mr. Henry Langford.
Miss Brandon now assumed an air of resignation, as if expecting an apologetic explanation of the recent rudeness. She was disappointed, and when the sleigh began to turn about, became perplexed.
"The woman is going to Linville, wherever that is," continued Harry. "Of course she is. She mustn't walk four miles through the snow this weather. And loaded down with a big baby, too!"
Miss Brandon gave out symptoms of uneasiness. "You are not going all the way to Linville," said she.
"Certainly I am, Miss Brandon"—and he drew up beside the pedestrian of dolorous aspect.
"I do not see that there is room," said Miss Brandon, ungraciously; and the poor woman shrunk back at the words.
Harry's eyes flashed in a very uncivil manner, I am afraid, as he said rather roughly, "We will make room," springing out at the moment, and hurriedly lifting the lachrymose traveler and her child into his place. Then, without a word, he quartered himself upon a section of the sleigh's floor, and drove ahead.
In a little while Miss Brandon said, softly—"I think there is room up here, Mr. Langford."
"I am very well down here," he answered; and then, in a low voice, leaning over toward her—"I could not have thought, Miss Brandon, that you would transfer any part of the resentment you felt toward me to this unoffending and unfortunate person.
Lucy began to cry, but this new phenomenon escaped his notice. The woman of woeful countenance, who heard nothing, but saw every thing, sat on thorns.
Now here was a most unhappy misunderstanding, for Lucy really deserved better of this good-natured, but too hasty young knight-errant. The fact was, that just at the moment when the pedestrian episode began to interfere, she had discovered that she was not irreconcilably offended, after all, and was longing for an opportunity to give a fraction of a hint to that effect. Having, after much wavering, heroically resolved to do this unfeminine thing, she was naturally disturbed by the interruption. So the cause of her pique was not at all unflattering to her cavalier.
Presently she bent forward, and said timidly, but with inexpressible sweetness:—
"Won't you forgive me, Mr. Langford?"
Harry looked quickly up, and saw one tear glistening on the end of her nose, and another threatening to freeze upon her cheek. He pushed back something that came uninvited into his throat, and sang out lustily:—"Come now, it is cold here, and I must have a share of the buffaloes!"—and he clambered in, without much disturbing the solemn-visaged passenger.
Lucy got up a small laugh.
Before they reached Linville it was six o'clock, and growing dark. A few snow-flakes, scarcely noticed, rested upon the horse's back. Five minutes more, and they had deposited their passenger at her destination. She flung out a profusion of thanks, flavored by a tear. The reconciled twain started homeward, each a little doubtful as to the exact condition of the other's temper. Preliminarily, they conversed upon very remote topics—agreed that as Linville was eight miles from Winston, they had now about eight miles to overcome; and that as it was already late, it would probably be later before they reached home. The increasing snow furnished a new subject, and this very soon acquired a positive interest, as it steadily gained strength. In a little while gusts of wind came surging along, keen and icy, and impudently whirling the light snow into the faces of the homeward-bound. With any other companion, Mr. Harry Langford would have said disagreeable things. Miss Brandon acknowledged to herself that if she were now under the guidance of any of her professed devotees, there might be words as bitter as the wind.
When they were four miles from Winston, they came to a sudden turn in the road. The new snow had drifted here, and the way was difficult to pass. At a touch of the whip, the horse plunged forward and—a trace snapped!
This was serious. Langford sprang out, and discovered that the difficulty might be temporarily arranged by splicing. For this he needed twine. Together they searched the sleigh, but found no consolation there. Ten cheerless minutes Harry tried a dozen expedients, all unsuccessful. What should be done? There were no houses near. It was becoming very dark.
At last he proposed, not without hesitation, to draw the sleigh to the side of the road, to wrap his fair charge in impenetrable folds, and to start off on foot in search of twine. At this point all trouble vanished in an instant. In a faint voice Miss Lucy unexpectedly chirped forth from her pile of buffalo robes—"Will this do?" and instantly hid herself from human view.
She had let fall something upon the snow that lay like a half-coiled blue snake. In answer to her frightened question she was informed that it did. Harry, laughing himself to pieces internally, but superficially solemn and calm, repaired damages, resumed his place, and drove cautiously onward. After a while he said—"Think, now, Miss Lucy, of a woman walking to Linville in this tempest."
Lucy looked appealingly into his face, and gave signals of great distress.
"You are cold," he said; and as she was silent, he took it for granted that she was!!
As they passed through the long avenue to Mr. Brandon's house, an electrical experiment took place, without the same explosive result as before.
The next evening there was a sewing-circle in Winston. A sewing-circle is a popular needle-and-thread assemblage at which flannels and reputations are pitilessly punctured; at which under-garments for infants and scandal-cloaks for adults are manufactured, and all made to fit. The duties of the occasion having been worried through early in the evening, the masculine element was suffered to mingle socially, and the sport began. Mr. Henry Langford was admitted with the rest of the thitherto excluded. He looked mischievously at the centre of attraction. The centre of attraction smiled at him, and folded its front upper teeth over its lower lip.
Did you ever notice what a depth and variety of meaning is conveyed by that very curious contortion of the female face? It signifies amazement, amusement, grief, anger, reflection,—almost any thing, according to the will of the exhibitor.
This time it meant remonstrance and exhortation.
A divinity student was talking very loudly about the Atlantic cable, and descanting upon the ingenuity of man.
Mr. Langford asserted that the ingenuity of man; and proposed to substantiate his position by a slight narration and a simple apparatus he had in his pocket.
From the centre of attraction there came again a high D, head register, this time staccatissimo. Miss Brandon broke recklessly from her circle, spilling all sorts of work-box treasures as she ran. Spools, needles, pins, bodkins, scissors, hooks were scattered around in inextricable confusion.
"Harry, give it to me," she pleaded very softly—"please do, dear Harry."
The "dear" was of at least ten seconds' duration. Long before the prominent vowel was exhausted, Harry Langford was a lost man.
"There it is," he said, "and what shall I have in return?" (All this very softly.)
"Every thing"—(more softly still, but with a smile that was better than a dozen orations).
In the course of a week, the youth of Winston heard something that took away its appetite. It considered that its confidence had been abused. It regarded Mr. Henry Langford as an intruder who had exceeded the privileges extended by hospitality.
A little while after all this, in the course of a retrospective conversation, Miss Brandon made the following mysterious remark, with all the extravagant emphasis peculiar to young ladies:
"Nothing of the sort, Harry. It was horribly old-fashioned, and it was the merest accident in the world!!"
It seems there are ever so many morals in this story, notwithstanding it is so short, and so true—for it is true, every word, excepting only the names of persons and places. There is a moral of youthful society, a moral of humanity, a moral of feminine apparel, and some more, all of which it is very pleasant to reflect upon, since none of them were intended. But I shall not take the trouble to point them out.