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Miss Harriet’s “Extravagance”
The Century Magazine 69:1 (November 1904) : 149-151
Ohio State U copy/scan (via hathitrust) : link
U Pittsburgh copy/scan (via archive.org) : link
 

      “I’m glad we got dressed early. Now we can walk to church real slow.”
      “My sciatica’s awful bad, Harriet.”
      “Yes? I’m right sorry. I don’t see what’s to be done —”
      “You’ve got the nickel for the contribution-box, I suppose?”
      “Oh, yes, I ain’t forgot it.”
      Miss Harriet, the elder, the one with the unexpected dimple, rustled down the walk, followed by her sister, Miss Lucy. They held their skirts in both hands in that marvelous fashion that gives even the meekest little lady the appearance of shooing all mankind off the face of the earth. As they reached the front gate there was a whirr, a great deal of dust, and Miss Harriet whispered in quite the way she would have spoken of a friend of the family who had taken to skirt-dancing:
      “There’s that electric car.”
      “Thank Heaven, it’s empty; if folks would just refuse to ride in it the company would, most likely, take the thing away.”
      A little farther up the road Miss Lucy stopped.
      “Harriet, I don’t know but what it would be better to ride than to get so petered out walkin’. My limb’s just awful.”
      “I’m really sorry, but we’ve only got the nickel for the collection, and —"
      “Oh, I suppose I can stand it; I’ve been standin’ most of my sorrows for the past thirty-three years.”
      “Why, Lucy, you didn’t have sorrows when you were a child.”
“Perhaps I didn’t, but I didn’t know that I didn’t have ’em, so I can’t see what good it did me.” “Why, Lucy, you did n’t have sorrows when you were a child.”
      “Perhaps I did n’t, but I did n’t know that I did n’t have ’em, so I can’t see what good it did me.”
      Another car bumped by, and Miss Harriet looked looked guilty. Who was most deserving of that nickel, the minister or Lucy? Both asked, and to him who asketh — Oh, she did n’t know. For the first ten minutes in church Miss Lucy tried every position known to a prim New England spinster, and then decided that no comfort was possible with a throbbing sciatic nerve and a pew much too narrow — a decision which she confided to Miss Harriet with a good deal of firmness at the beginning of the opening hymn.
      Then came the prayer, and poor Miss Harriet’s mind would do nothing but reproach her with, “Lucy is n’t able to walk”; then again, “I never refused the collection before,” until the nickel weighed so heavily upon her mind that at the end of the prayer, instead of murmuring, with the rest of the congregation, “Amen,” she said quite loud and very plaintively, “It would n’t be right.”
      The only thing that saved her from being considered a heretic by the entire village was a determined change of position on the part of Miss Lucy, with a resultant squeak from the pew, so loud that it even topped the “Amen.”
      At last came the sermon, a long one, that gave Miss Harriet much time to watch the fight between her habit of helping the heathen and her tender heart that pleaded so sturdily to help Miss Lucy. Under cover of the bustle that always comes with the advent of the contribution-box, Miss Lucy murmured resignedly, “My limb’s painin’ terrible.” Miss Harriet’s hand that held the nickel crept nearer to her black silk bag; the contribution-box was only two pews away.
      “Mrs. Falconer put in five cents more than she ever has before,” came in an excited whisper from Miss Lucy, and, [150] thankful that her mind had been made up for her, Miss Harriet dropped the nickel into her bag and closed it firmly.
      At the end of the service the heads of families, attended by all their respectable relatives, filed down the aisle. At the door Miss Harriet gasped with excitement as a man, a presentable and eligible man, spoke to Miss Lucy. A critical eye might have blinked at his necktie — a blue and yellow plaid tied in a cocky little bow with two long ends that had a vicious habit of flying into their wearer’s eyes and quite depriving him of his sight for the moment. His clothes seemed to have been argued on, and though they had submitted to be worn, it was under protest. But after thirty-three years of waiting, Miss Lucy was not critical His clothes seemed to have been argued on, and though they had submitted to be worn, it was under protest. But after thirty-three years of waiting, Miss Lucy was not critical, and Miss Harriet was rapidly thinking, “Lucy will be the first person in this village to ride in the electric cars, and he’ll see her do it. Mebbe it will stop right in front of the church door; that might look forward, though,” and then, horror of horrors! her thoughts were pulled up short with, “Harriet, I’m going to walk home with Mr. Crane,” and off Miss Lucy started, smiling, or, to be quite truthful, giggling just exactly as if cars had never been invented.
      While Miss Harriet was quieting her disappointment, — for it is a trying thing to have a sacrifice wasted, — a car was stopped directly in front of the door. Not to take any one on, — oh, dear, no; no villager had yet acquired sufficient courage for that, — but to let the numerous carryalls and wagons full of church-goers get themselves untangled.
      And then, at that moment, with the eyes of the village upon her, Miss Harriet walked straight to the steps of the car and clambered up.
      Quintius Curtius himself had not a prouder air nor a more awe-struck audience.
      The joy of it, the beautiful slippery seats, the giving of her nickel to the very handsome man in the elegant uniform — oh, it was wonderful!
      As Miss Harriet saw her house approaching, and knew it was n’t yet time to have the car stopped, her excitement grew so great that when the car was opposite her gate she had quite lost her voice, only recovering it when the end of the village street was reached. Then it occurred to her that she had not seen her south field since Jim Falconer set it out in buckwheat. She really ought to go as far as that, and the walk back would be real pleasant. Before the shimmering buckwheat had loosed its hold upon her that wonderful man who always seemed to know just what bell to ring was asking her if she wanted a transfer.
      “A transfer? I don’t know. What would I do with it? What! clear to Green’s Corner for that same nickel? Yes, I guess I may as well have a transfer.” She was frightened, of course. Who is not at such vital moments? But she could n’t go back yet: she must see more trees fly by; she must slide up and down on these shiny, slippery seats just a little longer. And oh, she must know what the machine with the bell and numbers was called.
      When she had been safely piloted into the next car, the thought came to her that James had probably been in electric cars a number of times — James, who had brought fame to his sisters by giving the college yell at one of their sewing meetings, then making a Welsh rabbit, which Miss Harriet alone managed to eat. The ladies decided that this last performance was much nearer black art than cookery, but they respected him for it. James had lived in the city so long now that he almost ceased to be regarded as a near relative, but more as a halo to be worn gracefully. James wrote Miss Harriet could n’t say just what; she had once started to read the only product of his pen that they had, a long column in a city newspaper, headed “Modern Tendencies...” James wrote Miss Harriet could n’t say just what; she had once started to read the only product of his pen that they had, a long column in a city newspaper, headed “Modern Tendencies,” when Miss Lucy discovered her. It had been a disconcerting moment for Miss Harriet. Reading James’s works implied that she thought she knew as much as James himself, but she had really never meant any such impertinence. The first line was recalled with fresh interest: “The happiness that is expressed by extravagance.” Now she understood perfectly what the word meant: a fluttering of the heart together with a shortness of breath and a general happy feeling; that was it, of course — just her own symptoms, in fact; James’s insight had always been remarkable.
      After the first transfer she quite lost control, and went on and on, receiving in her mad career three more transfers, all different colors. But at last another man, in a uniform quite as elegant, but with a face not half so nice, demanded eight cents fare. [151] Miss Harriet felt just as Eve must have when she was told to leave the garden. There was no use objecting; she had had a very beautiful time: still, it was hard.
      “No, I have n’t any more money, and of course I’ll get off; but, please, will you tell me where I am, first?”
      “Two miles out of Stocket,” grunted the man.
      “Stocket, Stocket. Why, Cousin Will Halpin lives at Stocket. Oh, stop the car right away, please.”
      And poor Miss Harriet, in the afternoon sun, with a stomach woefully empty, tramped the two miles back to Stocket. She was happy, though, oh! so happy, for she had had an adventure! With the restful assurance that Cousin Will had sent word to Lucy, she sighed and rested in her laurels. The next afternoon she walked proudly up her front walk, and in answer to Miss Lucy’s cry of “Harriet, what have you been doing?” cried gaily, “Lucy, Lucy, I’ve been extravagant!”
 

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