Mr. Sheridan, like Achilles, had been sulking for a remarkably long
time. It is true that some men and women are able to nurse a grievance
for life; but Mr. Sheridan was too young, and too healthy not to find
himself, at the end of some eight weeks, thoroughly bored, restless and
dissatisfied with himself. He was not ready to admit this yet, however.
He believed that he had proved conclusively that it was in every way the
wisest thing to withdraw in lofty disgust from the arena of human
affairs, and while his present course of life had the charm of novelty,
he was unwilling to admit that he was possibly mistaken. For a time he
rather enjoyed the role of the misanthrope, and cynic. But it was not
his natural character, by any means, and notwithstanding the fact that
he _believed_ that he did not want to have anything to do with anyone,
he found his new role exceedingly tiresome to play day in and day out
without an audience. Peterson, who was as bored as he, and who could not
understand "what had gotten into Mr. Tim," was sour and unsympathetic;
and finding the need of someone as confidant, absolutely imperative, the
embittered recluse of five-and-twenty, resorted to writing long letters
to his one-time boon companion, Philip Blackstone, in which he poured
forth his uncomplimentary opinions of human nature, gave lengthy
descriptions of his states of mind, and accounts of his mode of living.
Phil, a hearty young man, who loved horses and dogs, who was quite
helpless without his friends, and hated writing letters, responded
tersely enough, inquiring what was the matter with him anyway. The
correspondence died out. Mr. Sheridan tried to devote himself to books,
but the long, unbroken hours of silence in the musty old library
depressed him terribly. He took long walks, and long rides for exercise,
but his own thoughts were dull company. He rode through the woods and
the idle, untilled fields of his own estate, and was struck by the
contrast between his own barren, unkempt lands with the thriving farms
of his neighbors. It occurred to him to go in for farming in the spring,
to plant corn and wheat, and to get cows and horses, to build barns and
paddocks, and to rent out part of his land to some of the thrifty,
shrewd young farmers, the newly married ones. The idea delighted him; he
wanted to talk about it, to get the opinions of some of the intelligent
land-owners of the neighborhood, and to air his own notions. But
gradually his enthusiasm waned again. He was getting lazy and listless.
Every effort seemed useless to him. He began to feel very much abused
because no one was interested in him. Miss Abbott had treated him very
badly, even Peterson was as cross with him as the old servant's good
manners would allow, Phil scolded him in his short dry letters, and
finally had stopped writing altogether, and that bright little
red-headed girl had never come to see him again. When he walked through
the town he felt abused because everyone seemed to be having a better
time than he. They all knew each other; the women stopped to chat on
their way to market, the men talked local politics and business in the
doorways of the warehouses; when he passed they touched their hats
respectfully, and stared after him curiously, as if he were something
that had dropped from another planet. He was in a chronically bad humor.
That the world in general had taken him at his word, and left him
entirely alone put him still more at odds with it, and the fact that he
knew he was living idly and uselessly put him at odds with himself. If
he had stopped to consider, he would have discovered very quickly that
he was not heart-broken as he imagined at all; he was simply angry. He
tried to excuse himself for his aimless existence by arguing that no one
cared what he did, and that it was impossible for a man to keep up his
enthusiasm about anything when there was no one to please but himself.
He told himself that everything was the fault of the heartless Miss
Abbott; but as a matter of fact if he thought a great deal about Miss
Abbott's unkind treatment, he thought surprisingly little about Miss
Abbott herself. He was quite shocked one day to discover how blurred her
very features had become in his memory. A lot of fair, curly hair--which
somehow changed to smooth black tresses when he tried to represent it in
his fancy--a rosy, coquettish face, and the arch, self-confident smile
of a girl who had begun to learn when she was less than sixteen that she
was beautiful and irresistible. But all the features of that pretty,
imperious face were indistinct, and when he tried to picture it very
clearly, he found to his dismay and amazement that he wasn't thinking of
_that_ face at all. Another one had replaced it, a shy, demure little
face, the features of which were very distinct indeed, so distinct that
he could not doubt for a moment to whom it belonged. This was rather an
alarming discovery to be made by a young man who had definitely decided
that all women were henceforth to be indignantly and strictly avoided.
And it was with dismay that he found himself repeatedly thinking about a
certain brief accidental conversation that he had had with the timid,
black-haired maiden in the field.
"Dogs are so intelligent,"--and then they had spoken of the relative
intelligence of cats. Not a very brilliant conversation, certainly, and
it piqued him a little to think that he had not been able to say
something more interesting and original; yet the girl had listened as
intently as if every word he had uttered was a mine of wisdom.
On the other hand, it was certainly quite possible that _all_ girls were
not as treacherous as the beautiful Miss Abbott. Here he pulled himself
up short, and displeased at his own weakness, firmly resolved not to
waste another thought on Lily. It was all the fault of that little
red-headed Jane, who had popped in on his solitude, and roused his
interest in Lily Deacon by flattering his vanity.
One morning, early in Christmas week, Peterson brought him a note. Mrs.
Webster had couched her invitation in the ceremonious, courtly style of
her generation, reminding him of the friendship that had existed between
her husband and his uncle, and expressing her hope that he would give
them the pleasure of his company on New Year's Eve.
After the gloomiest Christmas that he had ever spent in his life, Mr.
Sheridan's determination to avoid human society wavered feebly under
this hospitable attack; and after five or ten minutes reflection, this
hardened misanthropist sat down, and accepted Mrs. Webster's invitation
in a tone that fairly overflowed with gratitude.
On New Year's Eve there was a full moon, a huge, silver-white disk that
flooded the whole sky with light, riding high above the happy, festive
little town. New fallen snow glistened on the roofs, lined the black
branches of the trees, and flew up in a sparkling mist from the swift
runners of the sleighs.
All Frederickstown was bound for the Webster's big farm. The streets
were filled with the sounds of laughter, shouts, jovial singing, and the
jingling of sleigh-bells. One horse sleighs and two horse sleighs, old
ones with the straw coming through the worn felt covering of the seats,
and new ones shining with red paint and polished brass, all were crowded
with holiday-makers. All the younger people, and even many of the older
ones were in masquerade, under their burly overcoats and mufflers, and
vast entertainment was derived from trying to guess who was who, as one
sleigh passed another, the occupants waving and shouting. And it was
amusing to see that of the older people, it was usually the most serious
and sedate who wore the most comic disguises, and the most grotesque
masks; evidently bent upon showing for once in the year that they too
had not forgotten how to frolic. There was old Mr. Pyncheon, with green
pantaloons appearing from beneath his great bearskin coat, and a huge
red false nose hiding his own thin, impressive eagle's beak; there was
grave, bearded Professor Dodge with red Mephistophelean tights on his
lean nobby limbs, spryly tucking Miss Clementina into his little
single-seated sleigh. (Miss Clementina, aged fifty-two, was representing
"Spring," in pink tartalan with yards of green cotton vine leaves, and
bunches of pink cotton roses garlanding her spare, bony little figure,
though at present this delightfully symbolical costume was hidden under
piles of cosy-jackets, mufflers, veils and cloaks.) And lastly, there
was Mr. Lambert himself, representing a mediaeval astrologer, with a
black sateen robe ornamented with silver-paper stars and crescents, a
long white beard held in place with black tape, and a great pointed cap
nearly a yard high. The entire Lambert family, by no means excluding
either Granny or the twins was packed into the big three-seated sleigh.
Mr. Lambert mounted in front, with Aunt Gertrude beside him, and Minie
between them, snapped his whip in a positively dashing fashion, and off
lumbered the two fat old horses. Sledges flew out from the side lanes,
joining the lively procession, and of course there were races and near
accidents, and once indeed the Todd's sleigh overturned into a big drift
depositing most of its occupants head downwards into the snow.
"There's Miss Lily, right in front of us!" cried Jane, "and I do believe
that she's wearing her Spanish costume after all!"
The Deacons, mother and daughter, were in fact being driven along by old
Mr. Buchanan, who had gallantly placed its sleigh at the service of the
two ladies. At the same time, to judge from Mrs. Deacon's face, there
seemed to be some reason for uneasiness in the chesterfieldian old man's
very zeal. He was an ardent, if not an exactly comfortable driver; he
shouted to his horses and the two lean, shaggy animals alternately
stopped short, and leapt forward with terrific suddenness and speed; and
at each jolt, Mrs. Deacon groaned in suppressed alarm. She had begun to
suspect that her escort had already been celebrating the coming New
Year, and, indeed, it was not unlikely; for the poor old bachelor was as
noted for his convivial temperament as for his gallantry.
"Pray, Mr. Buchanan, would it not be as well to drive less rapidly?"
suggested Mrs. Deacon, as casually as she could. But Mr. Buchanan would
not hear of this; he felt that she hinted at a veiled doubt as to his
ability for managing his fiery steeds.
"Have no fears, ma'am. You may place entire confidence in me, ma'am. I
may seem reckless--and there's dash of the old Harry in my nature, I
won't deny--but there ain't a man in Frederickstown, I may say in the
whole _county_, ma'am, as understands this team of horses like me. Why I
was drivin' this here Jerry and Tom afore you was born,
Miss--er--ma'am;--it's the living truth. Why, they are like my own
children--they love me, and I l-o-ove them, like they was my own
brothers!" And the tenderness of his emotion so wrought upon Mr.
Buchanan's spirit, that large tears stood in his childish blue eyes. It
cannot be said that even these assurances calmed Mrs. Deacon's fears;
but if to her that five mile drive was a thing of sudden alarms and
constant terrors, to Lily it was an unmixed delight. It was not often
that Lily was able to take part in the various merry-makings of the
town; there always seemed to be so many other things for her to do, and
she was far oftener spending her hours in company with her mother's
serious-minded friends than with the lively boys and girls of her own
age. She attended innumerable meetings of the Ladies' Civic Uplift
Society, she made innumerable red flannel petticoats with
feather-stitched hems for little heathen girls, she prepared innumerable
sandwiches for various parish entertainments, she made innumerable calls
on fretful invalids; but she did not very often find a chance to have
simply a good time.
Now, snuggling down into a corner of the rickety old sleigh, with the
musty moth-eaten old bearskin robe pulled up to her chin, she sat lost
in complete rapture. The fresh, cold air, stinging her cheeks, the
brilliant moon, the sweetly dissonant jingling of the sleigh-bells, and
the scraps of singing carrying back from the jolly groups ahead of her,
the wide, free stretches of snow-covered fields, glistening under
moonlight so bright that one could detect a rabbit track across their
smooth expanse--all filled her with unutterable delight. She was very
glad that she hadn't gone with any of the others; then she would have
had to talk, and she wasn't ready to talk yet. It was too nice just to
be able to sit still, and enjoy it all, and think. Her thoughts must
have been pleasant ones. Pleasant? That is not the word, but then there
is no word that can describe the timid, bold, incoherent, romantic and
beautifully absurd thoughts of an eighteen-year old girl. It is enough
to say that her shining eyes were filled with them, that the dimples
came, and that when she smiled to herself, she bent her head so that no
one would be able to see that smile, and perhaps read its meaning.
Mrs. Deacon had been persuaded to permit the Spanish costume, and under
her scarfs and furs, Lily was very dashing indeed, with the high comb,
and the clocked stockings, the spangled fan, and the scarlet heels. And
she pictured herself naively as the belle of the ball; yes, all the
young men should besiege her--but she didn't care about that in itself.
What she longed for was to appear fascinating and irresistible, just so
that--well, just so that, _he_ could see. Dolly had told her that he
would be there. Would he recognize her? Would he dance with her? Well,
it might be this way; he would see her of course, but she would pretend
not to see him, and he would think that she had forgotten all about him.
Then perhaps he might ask someone to present him, but still she would
pretend to have forgotten all about that day in the field; then he would
ask her to dance with him; but already someone would have claimed that
dance. Then--what if he did not ask her again? Suppose he should just
bow, and go away. There was a possibility.
"What a silly girl I am!" thought Lily, unconsciously shaking her head.
Just then she was flung violently to one side, her mother half tumbling
upon her. At breakneck speed, and with a great flourish of his whip, Mr.
Buchanan had just negotiated the abrupt and difficult turn into the gate
of the Webster's farm.
Once past the gate, a long and rather narrow road descended gradually
between two snake-fences to the hollow where the big, rambling,
comfortable old homestead stood. The road leading from the house to the
barn was illuminated with colored lanterns, which threw weird tints over
the faces of the masqueraders as they sped past.
Already a dozen sleighs had emptied on the wooden platform in front of
the big sliding doors; already the huge room, with its high ceiling
crossed by solid rafters, was half full of people. It was gaily
decorated. Ropes of cedar entwined the rafters, branches of holly were
tacked to the walls, colored lanterns, with sly sprays of mistletoe
hanging from them, dangled from the ceiling. A huge fire blazed in a
great brick fireplace, in front of which the older men had collected to
drink a toast with Mr. Webster. And up in the erstwhile hayloft, which
now did duty as a sort of musicians' gallery, a negro band was already
playing "Old Uncle Ned," with such irresistible liveliness that many
dancers had begun to spin about the floor without having paused to take
off their heavy wraps.
For a New Year's party at the Websters to be anything but
jolly,--superlatively merry--was an unheard of thing. Indeed it could
not have been otherwise. Theirs was quite the merriest family in the
world. To see the four big boys, with their irresistible grins, and the
two rosy-cheeked bright-eyed girls, and Mrs. Webster, a
dignified-looking woman, with a pair of twinkling eyes, and a lively
tongue, and old Mr. Webster, rotund and ruddy, was sufficient to dispose
the most melancholy soul in the world to jocund mirth.
Around the fire the old wags were cracking jokes and recounting their
favorite anecdotes. Then the darkies, grinning from ear to ear, and
showing rows of teeth like ears of corn, struck up a Virginia Reel.
"Ah-ha!" cried Mr. Webster. "Choose your partners, gentlemen!" and
dashing across the room, he singled out Janey.
"Here's my girl!" and executing the most wonderful bow imaginable, he
led "his girl" out onto the floor. The Virginia reel went on at a lively
pace, and Mr. Webster, leading with the laughing and muddled Jane,
introduced the most remarkable figures, turning the dance into a sort of
pot-pourri of all the steps he had learned in his youth, including a
cake-walk and a sailor's horn-pipe. Everyone seemed to want to dance and
no one seemed to have any difficulty in finding a partner; but the two
undisputed belles of the evening were Lily Deacon and--Miss Clementina!
Yes, Miss Clementina, little and wizened and brown as a walnut proved
beyond argument her right to boast of having been once the queen of
hearts in Frederickstown; and although thirty years and more had passed
since her cheeks were rosy, and her sharp little elbows had had dimples
in them, she still had her faithful admirers, grey-haired, portly
gentlemen, a trifle stiff, and a trifle gouty, who still saw in the
wiry, black-eyed little old maid, the charmer of auld lang syne. And how
outrageously she coquetted, and how everyone applauded when she and the
professor danced a schottische together--most gracefully; the professor
spinning about, on his red legs, pointing his toes, skipping and sliding
in the lively dance with all the sprightliness of a stripling of twenty;
and Miss Clementina pirouetting and skipping along beside him, her pink
tartalan skirts swirling around her tiny little feet, and her black eyes
sparkling in her brown little face, as if saying, "Who says that _my_
day is over!"
But Lily held sway over the youth of the gathering. Every moment she was
dancing, light and tireless, as if there were wings on her scarlet
heels. But now and then she lost the thread of what her partner was
saying, and her blue eyes strayed shyly toward the door. Then suddenly,
the bright red color flushed up into her cheeks.
In front of the fire, with a glass of cider in his hand, and talking to
Mr. Webster (who was at last forced to confess himself "a bit winded")
stood Mr. Sheridan.
He seemed quite content to stand there listening to his host's
reminiscences of his uncle and the times they had had together; and to
talk about the various features of country life as compared to life in
the city; and to laugh at the droll yarns of the other old gentlemen;
and to watch the multi-colored swarm of dancers spinning about to the
lively rhythms of the negro music. But as a matter of fact, Mr. Sheridan
had, in a remarkably short time singled out one slim figure, and
followed it through the kaleidoscopic motion of the crowd.
"Well, sir, I hope you have decided to settle down here for good," said
Mr. Webster, heartily.
"I--I haven't exactly decided. But I shall probably be here for some
time."
"You have a fine old place there. You don't happen to be thinking of
getting rid of any of that land of yours?"
"It all depends," replied Mr. Sheridan vaguely.
"Bless me!" exclaimed Mr. Webster suddenly bethinking himself of his
duties. "I'm nearly forgetting that you're not an old fellow like
myself."
And the hospitable old soul took his guest by the arm and dragged him
off to be presented to the young ladies.
First, Mr. Sheridan danced a lively two-step with the plump but agile
Dolly. He enjoyed it, and he enjoyed talking to Dolly, and he enjoyed
the music.
Then Dolly, with a wicked twinkle in her eye, said,
"I want to introduce you to one of my dearest friends." A hopeful, eager
expression came into Mr. Sheridan's face, until Dolly, greatly enjoying
his disappointment (which he hastily concealed under a pleasant smile)
betrayed him into the hands of a pallid young lady, wearing a
wilted-looking Grecian robe, and a wreath of laurel leaves in her long,
scanty, mouse-coloured hair. It was Amelia, the poetess.
These proceedings aroused great interest in a quarter to which none of
the guests had given a thought: namely, in the hayloft, or musicians'
gallery. Here since the early part of the evening, Paul had ensconced
himself, his long legs dangling over the edge, his chin between his
hands, brooding above the jolly turmoil of the dance floor like a large,
thoughtful crow; and here several of the younger folk had joined him,
disdaining the flighty amusements of their elders, and greatly
preferring to spend their time in the more solid enjoyment of devouring
nuts and raisins and oranges.
Jane was the latest addition to this noble company. Having ascended the
wooden ladder, she slid along the edge of the loft to Paul's side.
"Hullo," she said.
"Hullo," responded Paul, "been having a good time?"
"Yes. What are you doing?"
"Watching."
"It's nice up here. It's near the music. You know, I'd like to learn how
to play the bassoon," said Jane.
"Then you probably will. How would the trombone suit you? That seems
more your style."
Jane turned up her nose at him, and then without replying focussed her
attention on the dancers below.
Suddenly, half laughing and half annoyed she exclaimed,
"Oh, that _is_ too mean of Dolly!"
"What's too mean?"
"Why--oh, she is a wicked-hearted girl!--she _knows_, just as well as I
do that the main reason Mr. Sheridan came was so that he might meet Lily
Deacon. And she's gone and tied him up with Mealy Amelia!"
"Huh?" said Paul.
"He'll be with Amelia until the dance is _over_!"
"Is that your friend, Sheridan, down there? He's sort of a nice-looking
fellow," remarked Paul, condescendingly. "I thought he was about ninety.
Seems a bit glum, doesn't he?"
"Well, you'd be, too, if you had Amelia talking about the infinite with
you for a whole evening. I saw Dolly introduce him to her at least half
an hour ago, and he hasn't been rescued yet. Dolly did that on
purpose--just to tease me!"
"To tease you? Humph, you seem to think yourself a pretty important
person, don't you?" observed Paul with a grin.
"Well, I asked Dolly myself please to introduce him to Miss Lily as soon
as she could. I _told_ her he was very sad, and needed cheering up--and
just see what she's done!"
"I must say you aren't very easy on Amelia. You usually seem to like
everyone. What's the matter with her?"
"I _do_ like nearly everyone, but I _do not_ like Amelia. She's a--a
hypocrite," said Jane. "She's a _fake_. That's what I don't like about
her. I don't like people who write about the stars, and then turn around
and say mean, nasty, cattish little things just because they're jealous.
Oh, _poor_ Mr. Sheridan!"
The object of Jane's ardent sympathy really deserved it. He was doing
his duty manfully and gallantly; but every now and then a haunted and
desperate expression came into his face, as he summoned up all his
faculties to respond to Amelia's discourse.
She was trying, by various subtle, melancholy little observations to
make him feel that she understood that he was not a happy man, and that
he might confide in her. His only escape from this harassing
conversation was to dance with her (tripping at every second step on her
Grecian draperies) and--his only escape from the disasters of the dance
was to talk to her.
"Paul!" said Jane in a tone of decision, "something must be done."
"Eh?"
"I'll tell you what. _You_ must go down, and ask Amelia to dance with
you!"
"_What!_"
"Yes. Now, do an unselfish act, and it shall be returned to you a
thousandfold," said Jane, unctuously.
"Not interested in any such bargains," returned Paul.
"Yes. Now, Paul, don't be stubborn. It'll only be for a minute. I'll ask
mother to get Daddy to go and rescue you--or Mr. Webster, or Mr.
Buchanan."
"Can't. Thank heaven, I don't know how to dance anything but a highland
fling."
"Well, teach Amelia how to do that. Come on, now, Paul--like a good,
delicious angel." And with that she began to tug at his arm.
"Jane, you're going to be a horrible, horrible old woman. You're going
to be a matchmaker. You're going to make all your friends hide in ambush
when they see you coming, and you'll probably be assassinated."
"I don't care. Come along, now--ni-ice little Paul, and teach Amelia how
to do the pretty highland fling!" And actually, so irresistible was her
determination, she coaxed the enraged Paul down the ladder, and standing
disinterestedly at a certain distance away, heard him say meekly,
according to her instructions,
"Miss Hartshorn, may I have the pleasure of this waltz?" his voice
fading away to an anguished whisper. Mr. Sheridan, beaming with
satisfaction, professed abysmal regrets at being forced to lose his
charming partner; and then Paul, with the sweetly wan expression of an
early martyr, placed one arm around Amelia's waist, and began the
peculiar, grave capering which in his dazed condition, he believed to be
a waltz.