XXXIICUPID ON RUNNERS
L
Littlewood Phillips had been in love with Mildred Farrington for two years, ever since he first met her at the Hollowells’ card-party. He had no good reason to doubt that his love was returned, yet so fearful was he that he had misread her feelings that he had never hinted that she was more to him than any of the girls he met at the church sociables and card-parties in Newington.
So matters stood when a snowfall that brought sleighing in its wake visited Newington, and Littlewood became conscious of the fact that he had actually asked Miss Farrington to take a ride with him. Ofcourse he must perforce bring matters to a crisis now.
The evening was soon at hand. A crescent moon shone in the west, and the stars were cold and scintillating. He walked to the livery-stable and asked for the cutter, and a few moments later he was driving a handsome chestnut to the house where his thought spent most of the time.
Miss Farrington kept him waiting a good half-hour, but he reflected that it was the privilege of her glorious sex, and it only made him love her the more. If she had come out and placed her dainty foot upon his neck he would have been overcome with rapture.
It was cold waiting, so he got out and hitched his horse and paced in front of her house, her faithful sentinel until death—if need be. Not that there was any reason to think that his services would be required, but it pleased his self-love to imagine himself dying for this lovely being of whom his tongue stood in such awe that it could scarce loose itself in her presence.
At last she appears. The restive horse slants his ears at her and paws the ground in admiration of her beauty, for Mildred was as pretty as regular features, a fair skin, and melting eyes could make her.
Littlewood handed her into the sleigh, stepped in himself, tucked in the robes, and chirruped to the horse.
That intelligent animal did not move. A flush of mortification overspread the face of the would-be amorous swain. A balky horse, and at the start! What chance would he have to deliver his precious message that was to make two hearts happy? He clicked again to the horse, but again the horse continued to stand still.
“You might unhitch him, Mr. Phillips. That would help,” said Mildred, in her sweet voice.
“Oh, yes—t-to be sure! I must have tied him. I mean I—er—I di—I think I did hitch—er—”
“There seems to have been a hitch somewhere,” she answered.
He stepped out of the sleigh and lookedover his shoulder at her in a startled way. Could she mean anything? Was this encouragement? Oh, no! It was too soon. (Too soon, and he had been in love two years!) He unhitched the horse and once more placed himself beside his loved one.
The frosty night seemed to have set a seal upon her lips, for as they sped over the crunching snow and left the town behind them she was silent.
“I must have offended her. I’ve probably made a break of some kind,” said Littlewood to himself. “How unfortunate! But I must tell her to-night. It is now or never. She knows I never took anybody but my mother sleigh-riding before.”
Then began a process of nerving himself to the avowal. He ground his knees together until the bones ached. His breathing was feverish.
Finally he made bold to say: “Mildewed.” And then he stopped. He had never called her Mildred before. He hadnever called her Mildewed either, but that was accidental, and he hoped that she had not noticed the slip.
“I have something of the greatest importance to say to you.”
Did he imagine it, or did she nestle closer to him? He must have been mistaken, and to show that he was quite sure he edged away from her asmuch as the somewhat narrow confines of the sleigh would allow.
“What do you wish to say, Mr. Phillips?”
“Mr.” Phillips! Ah, then she was offended. To be sure, she had always called him that, but after his last remark it must have an added significance.
“I—er—do you like sleigh-riding?”
“Why, of course, or else I shouldn’t have come.”
Did she mean that as a slap at him? Was it only for the ride, and not for his company, that she had come? Oh, he could never make an avowal of love after that! He knew his place. This beautiful girl was not for a faint-hearted caitiff like himself.
“Nun—nun—no, to be sure not. I—er—thought that was why you came.”
Mildred turned her gazelle-like eyes upon him. “I’m afraid I don’t understand you.”
That settled it. If she didn’t understand him when he talked of nothing in particular, he must be very blind in hisutterance, and he could never trust his tongue to carry such a heavy freight as a declaration of love. No, there was nothing to do but postpone it.
Mildred drank in the beauty of the scenes, and wished that it were decorous for women to propose.
Under the influence of sweet surroundings, Mildred at last said pointedly: “Is it so that more people get engaged in winter than in summer?”
She blushed as she spoke. It was unmaidenly, but he was such a dear gump. Now he would declare himself. But she did not know the capabilities for self-repression of her two-year admirer.
He said to himself: “What a slip! What a delightful slip! If I were unprincipled I would take advantage of it and propose, but I would bitterly reproach myself forever, whatever her answer was.”
So he said in as matter-of-fact tone as he could master when his heart was beating his ribs like a frightened cageling: “I really can’t answer offhand, but I’ll look it up for you.”
“Do. Write a letter to the newspaper.”
Her tones were as musical as ever, but Littlewood thought he detected a sarcastic ring in them, and he thanked his stars that he had not yielded to his natural desire to propose at such an inauspicious time.
“What was that important thing you wanted to say?” asked Miss Farrington, after several minutes of silence, save for the hoofs and the runners and the bells.
“Oh, it wasn’t of any importance! I mean it will keep. I—er—I was thinking of something else.”
“I think you have gone far enough,” said she, innocently, looking over her shoulder in the direction of home. Maybe the return would loosen his obdurate tongue.
His heart stopped beating and lay a leaden thing in his breast. Had he, then, gone too far? What had he said? Oh, why had he come out with this lovely being, the mere sight of whom was enough to make one cast all restraint to the windsand declare in thunderous tones that he loved her?
“I think that we’d better go back,” he said, and turned so quickly that he nearly upset the sleigh. “Your mother will be anxious.”
“Yes; when one is accountable to one’s mother one has to remember time. I suppose it is different when one is accountable to a—”
“Father?” said Littlewood, asininely.
“No; that wasn’t the word I wanted.”
“A-a-aunt?”
Could Mildred love him if he gave many more such proofs of being an abject idiot?
“No; husband is what I want.”
Littlewood’s brain swam. He had been tempted once too often. This naïve girl had innocently played into his hands, and now the Rubicon must be crossed, even if its angry waters engulfed him.
“Pardon me, Miss—er—Mildred,”—he did not say Mildewed this time,—“if I twist your words into another meaning, but if you—er—want a husband—do you think I would do?”
A head nestled on his shoulder, a little hand was in his, and when he passed the Farrington mansion neither he nor she knew it.