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 mediæval 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 naïvely 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.