A Leap-Year Romance [pp. 211-222]

4APPLETONS' JO URNA~L.
Passionately as she spoke, her face had now
almost a beseeching look, and she stood with her
hands clasped and her eyes cast down.
"If I am so heartless, I can doubtless do nothing
more agreeable than to leave you," said Professor
Moors, as he turned away to chat gayly with a group
of lady students till the party dispersed.
Two weeks passed. Professor Moors had met
Miss Newell several times on the street, but her bows
had been so very distant that he was not a little surprised to find one morning among his letters an invitation, written in a clear, bold hand, to attend
a tea-party at her home, to which was added a request that he would mark out for her and bring with
him a short course of reading in romantic fiction.
She had from principle read very little in that direction, the note went on to state, so that the commonest
stories would probably be new to her. Professor
Moors prepared, with much care, a short list of representative novels, such as could be found in the
college library, and such as he fancied would benefit
and perhaps please her most. It did not occur to
him until he afterward glanced over the list that the
characters most prominently portrayed in every work
he had selected were women, as Romola, Annele,
Irma, Lucille, etc., who had been humbled and at
last sweetened and regenerated by long and painful
tribulation. It was a curious circumstance; he would
mention it to Miss Newell. When the evening came,
notwithstanding his early arrival, he was somewhat
disappointed to find the large old parlors already
quite full of guests. On entering, Miss Newell received him in a cold and, as he was a trifle piqued to
fancy, condescending manner, and turned immediately away to other comers, and it was in vain that
he sought to meet her again. Soon a lap-tea was
served, and he found himself seated between a substantial old shopkeeper and his wife, where he could
not help listening to the harsh voice of Miss Newell's grandmother, who had come up from the city
with one of her daughters for a week's visit. The
old lady was a little hard of hearing, and was speaking in a correspondingly loud voice to Mrs. Elmore.
"What upon airth! You don't say so! Ef I
could b'lieve it, I should feel middlin' kind o' streaked
about it myself. But it just can't be. Why, bless
yer, when she was in pantalettes, she was a'ready
the pertest, sassiest little minx ye ever seed, and so
chuck full o' grit that her big brother darsent pester
her. When she got put out she wouldn't go round
tewin' and takin' on, but she'd just spunk right up
to the biggest on'em. Her gran'ther used to say,
says he,'Won't she wear the britches when she
gets married, though? Won't her man hey to stan'
round lively ef her dander gets up? I tell you,
Beckey,' he used to say,'ef he don't jest toe the
line to a dotted t, she'll skin the poor coot. I kin
see her now,' says he,' a-deaconin' and a-readin' it
off to him.
"'Well,' says I,' there's one thing-she won't
fret her gizzard clean out of her ef she don't git
married, as some gals I knows on, and that is some
comfort anyhow.'
"'All right, Becky,' says he,'but sich gals ez
Josie, they'll either marry some shiftless scaly
gump that comes gallivantin' an' honey-fuglin" round
'em, that they don't really care a bung-town for,
'cause they don't want ter be old maids, and'cause
they want a man to boss'round; or else they'll get
on a new bent, and come and knuckle all under to
some strappin', big, bullyin' feller, who'll tame'em
down like a cosset-lamb.'
"' Well, then,' thinks I,' she'd best lay out to git
along without marryin'.' And so I told her father
afore he died; and when a gal gits to be twentyeight and can bait her hook with such a fortune as
Josie, and hain't had any bite, she'd better stop
fishin'."
Mrs. Elmore said nothing, and the old lady remarking that she was'clean tuckered out,' and solacing herself with a pinch of snuff, went up-stairs to
bed, and the company heard a few blasts as from a
distant fog-horn, as she struck the key-note of the
nasal music that usually soothed her slumbers.
The professor had no opportunity to speak with
Miss Newell till her guests were taking their departure. Then he handed her the list of books
without a word of explanation, as he bade her goodnight.
Exactly at the end of another fortnight he found
another note upon the desk of his recitation-room,
placed there, perhaps, to escape the all-seeing eyes
of the gossipy postmistress:
"Miss Newell's compliments to Professor Moors.
Would he be so kind as to allow her to be the companion of one of his'stupid, lonesome' walks? She
wishes to say something particular to him. She will
be at home after ten o'clock every day this week."
The professor waited several days, and it was not
till late Saturday afternoon that he rang Miss Newell's door-bell. She answered it herself, and left him
standing for a moment in the hall, while she made
ready to accompany him. As they started out, he
almost fancied he heard Mrs. Elmore's merry laugh
within. He might have been mistaken. They
walked rapidly. Each repeatedly accused the other
of trying to keep ahead. Then they would slacken
their pace for a moment, but it was sure to accelerate again till one or the other proposed to go
slower. On and on they walked along the icy glenroad, till the sun went down, and the bright, early
stars of a mid-winter night came out.
"We will turn back, Miss Newell, whenever you
wish," he had said, repeatedly, and she had always
answered:
"I am not at all tired. Walk just as far as you
would without me."
By following the glen round a curve of several
miles, they could reach home by an unfrequented
road over the hill past the spring and the old hotel,
without any sudden turn about, and this course they
both at last seemed resolved upon. Their talk was
mainly of objects by the way, the club, and other
indifferent topics. Each felt that the other was
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