I.
John Jennings was not one of those men who go to a donation party with fifty cents' worth of potatoes and eat and carry away two dollars' worth of turkey and jelly-cake. When he drove his team around to the front door for Mrs. Jennings, he had a sack of flour and a quarter of a fine fat beef in his sleigh and a five-dollar bill in his pocket-book, a contribution to Elder Wheat's support.
Milton, his twenty-year-old son, was just driving out of the yard, seated in a fine new cutter, drawn by a magnificent gray four-year-old colt. He drew up as Mr. Jennings spoke.
"Now be sure and don't never leave him a minute untied. And see that the harness is all right. Do you hear, Milton?"
"Yes, I hear!" answered the young fellow, rather impatiently, for he thought himself old enough and big enough to look out for himself.
"Don't race, will y', Milton?" was his mother's anxious question from the depth of her shawls.
"Not if I can help it," was his equivocal response as he chirruped to Marc Antony. The grand brute made a rearing leap that brought a cry from the mother and a laugh from the young driver, and swung into the road at a flying pace. The night was clear and cold, the sleighing excellent, and the boy's heart was full of exultation.
It was a joy just to control such a horse as he drew rein over that night. Large, with the long, lithe body of a tiger and the broad, clear limbs of an elk, the gray colt strode away up the road, his hoofs flinging a shower of snow over the dasher. The lines were like steel rods; the sleigh literally swung by them; the traces hung slack inside the thills. The bells clashed out a swift clamor; the runners seemed to hiss over the snow as the duck-breasted cutter swung round the curves and softly rose and fell along the undulating road.
On either hand the snow stood billowed against the fences and amid the wide fields of corn-stalks bleached in the wind. Over in the east, above the line of timber skirting Cedar Creek, the vast, slightly gibbous moon was rising, sending along the crusted snow a broad path of light. Other sleighs could be heard through the still, cold air. Far away a party of four or five were singing a chorus as they spun along the road.
Something sweet and unnamable was stirring in the young fellow's brain as he spun along in the marvelously still and radiant night. He wished Eileen were with him. The vast and cloudless blue vault of sky glittered with stars, which even the radiant moon could not dim. Not a breath of air was stirring save that made by the swift, strong stride of the horse.
It was a night for youth and love and bells, and Milton felt this consciously, and felt it by singing:
"Stars of the summer night,
Hide in your azure deeps,—
She sleeps—my lady sleeps."
He was on his way to get Bettie Moss, one of his old sweethearts, who had become more deeply concerned with the life of Edwin Blackler. He had taken the matter with sunny philosophy even before meeting Eileen Deering at the Seminary, and he was now on his way to bring about peace between Ed and Bettie, who had lately quarreled. Incidentally he expected to enjoy the sleigh-ride.
"Stiddy, boy! Ho, boy! Stiddy, old fellow," he called soothingly to Marc, as he neared the gate and whirled up to the door. A girl came to the door as he drove up, her head wrapped in a white hood, a shawl on her arms. She had been waiting for him.
"Hello, Milt. That you?"
"It's me. Been waiting?"
"I should say I had. Begun t' think you'd gone back on me. Everybody else's gone."
"Well! Hop in here before you freeze; we'll not be the last ones there. Yes, bring the shawl; you'll need it t' keep the snow off your face," he called, authoritatively.
"'Tain't snowin', is it?" she asked as she shut the door and came to the sleigh's side.
"Clear as a bell," he said as he helped her in.
"Then where'll the snow come from?"
"From Marc's heels."
"Goodness sakes! you don't expect me t' ride after that wild-headed critter, do you?"
His answer was a chirp which sent Marc half-way to the gate before Bettie could catch her breath. The reins stiffened in his hands. Bettie clung to him, shrieking at every turn in the road.
"Milton Jennings, if you tip us over, I'll"——
Milton laughed, drew the colt down to a steady, swift stride, and Bettie put her hands back under the robe.
"I wonder who that is ahead?" he asked after a few minutes, which brought them in sound of bells.
"I guess it's Cy Hurd; it sounded like his bells when he went past. I guess it's him and Bill an' Belle an' Cad Hines."
"Expect to see Ed there?" asked Milton after a little pause.
"I don't care whether I ever see him again or not," she snapped.
"Oh, yes, you do!" he answered, feeling somehow her insincerity.
Milton didn't care to push the peace-making any further. However, he had curiosity enough to ask, "What upset things 'tween you 'n Ed?"
"Oh, nothing."
"You mean none o' my business?"
"I didn't say so."
"No, you didn't need to," he laughed, and she joined in.
"Yes, that's Cy Hurd. I know that laugh of his far's I c'n hear it," said Bettie as they jingled along. "I wonder who's with him?"
"We'll mighty soon see," said Milton, as he wound the lines around his hands and braced his feet, giving a low whistle, which seemed to run through the colt's blood like fire. His stride did not increase in rate, but its reach grew majestic as he seemed to lengthen and lower. His broad feet flung great disks of hard-packed snow over the dasher, and under the clash of his bells the noise of the other team grew plainer.
"Get out of the way," sang Milton, as he approached the other team. There was challenge and exultation in his tone.
"Hello! In a hurry?" shouted those in front, without increasing their own pace.
"Ya-as, something of a hurry," drawled Milton in a disguised voice.
"Wa-al? Turn out an' go by if you are."
"No, thankee, I'll just let m' nag nibble the hay out o' your box an' take it easy."
"Sure o' that?"
"You bet high I am." Milton nudged Bettie, who was laughing with delight. "It's Bill an' his bays. He thinks there isn't a team in the country can keep up with him. Get out o' the way there!" he shouted again. "I'm in a hurry."
"Let 'em out! Let 'em out, Bill," they heard Cy say, and the bays sprang forward along the level road, the bells ringing like mad, the snow flying, the girls screaming at every lurch of the sleighs. But Marc's head still shook haughtily above the end-gate; still the foam from his lips fell upon the hay in the box ahead.
"Git out o' this! Yip!" yelled Bill to his bays, but Marc merely made a lunging leap and tugged at the lines as if asking for more liberty. Milton gave him his head and laughed to see the great limbs rise and fall like the pistons of an engine. They swept over the weeds like a hawk skimming the stubble of a wheat field.
"Get out o' the way or I'll run right over your back," yelled Milton again.
"Try it," was the reply.
"Grab hold of me, Bettie, and lean to the right. When we turn this corner I'm going to take the inside track and pass 'em."
"You'll tip us over"——
"No, I won't! Do as I tell you."
They were nearing a wide corner, where the road turned to the right and bore due south through the woods. Milton caught sight of the turn, gave a quick twist of the lines around his hands, leaned over the dasher and spoke shrilly:
"Git out o' this, Marc!"
The splendid brute swerved to the right and made a leap that seemed to lift the sleigh and all into the air. The snow flew in such stinging showers Milton could see nothing. The sleigh was on one runner, heeling like a yacht in a gale; the girl was clinging to his neck; he could hear the bells of the other sleigh to his left; Marc was passing them; he heard shouts and the swish of a whip. Another convulsive effort of the gray, and then Milton found himself in the road again, in the moonlight, where the apparently unwearied horse, with head out-thrust, nostril wide-blown and body squared, was trotting like a veteran on the track. The team was behind.
"Stiddy, boy!"
Milton soothed Marc down to a long, easy pace; then turned to Bettie, who had uncovered her face again.
"How d' y' like it?"
"My sakes! I don't want any more of that. If I'd 'a' known you was goin' t' drive like that I wouldn't 'a' come. You're worse'n Ed. I expected every minute we'd be down in the ditch. But, oh! ain't he jest splendint?" she added, in admiration of the horse.
"Don't y' want to drive him?"
"Oh, yes; let me try. I drive our teams."
She took the lines, and at Milton's suggestion wound them around her hands. She looked very pretty with the moon shining on her face, her eyes big and black with excitement, and Milton immediately put his arm around her and laid his head on her shoulder.
"Milton Jennings, you don't"——
"Look out," he cried in mock alarm, "don't you drop those lines!" He gave her a severe hug.
"Milton Jennings, you let go me!"
"That's what you said before."
"Take these lines."
"Can't do it," he laughed; "my hands are cold. Got to warm them, see?" He pulled off his mitten and put his icy hand under her chin. The horse was going at a tremendous pace again.
"O-o-o-oh! If you don't take these lines I'll drop 'em, so there!"
"Don't y' do it," he called warningly, but she did, and boxed his ears soundly while he was getting Marc in hand again. Bettie's rage was fleeting as the blown breath from Marc's nostrils, and when Milton turned to her again all was as if his deportment had been grave and cavalier.
The stinging air made itself felt, and they drew close under their huge buffalo robes as Marc strode steadily forward. The dark groves fell behind, the clashing bells marked the rods and miles and kept time to the songs they hummed.
"Jingle, bells! Jingle, bells!
Jingle all the way.
Oh, what joy it is to ride
In a one-horse open sleigh."
They overtook another laughing, singing load of young folks—a great wood sleigh packed full with boys and girls, two and two—hooded girls, and boys with caps drawn down over their ears. A babel of tongues arose from the sweeping, creaking bob-sleigh, and rose into the silent air like a mighty peal of laughter.