CHAPTER VI. “GO NOT, HAPPY DAY, TILL THE MAIDEN YIELDS. ”
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Christmas noon at Dunderbunk. Every skater
was in galloping glee, — as the electric air, and
the sparkling sun, and the glinting ice had a right
to expect that they all should be.
Belle Purtett, skating simply and well, had
never looked so pretty and graceful. So thought
Bill Tarbox.
He had not spoken to her, nor she to him, for
more than six months. The poor fellow was
ashamed of himself and penitent for his past bad
courses. And so, though he longed to have his
old flame recognize him again, and though he was
bitterly jealous and miserably afraid he should
lose her, he had kept away and consumed his heart
like a true despairing lover.
But to-day Bill was a lion, only second to Wade,
the unapproachable lion-in-chief. Bill was reinstated
in public esteem, and had won back his
standing in the Foundry. He had to-day made a
speech which Perry Purtett gave everybody to
understand “none of Senator Bill Seward's could
hold the tallow to.” Getting up the meeting and
presenting Wade with the skates was Bill's own
scheme, and it had turned out an eminent success.
Everything began to look bright to him. His past
life drifted out of his mind like the rowdy tales he
used to read in the Sunday newspapers.
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He had watched Belle Purtett all the morning,
and saw that she distinguished nobody with her
smiles, not even that coq du village, Ringdove.
He also observed that she was furtively watching
him.
By and by she sailed out of the crowd, and went
off a little way to practise.
“Now,” said he to himself, “sail in, Bill Tarbox!”
Belle heard the sharp strokes of a powerful
skater coming after her. Her heart divined who
this might be. She sped away like the swift Camilla,
and her modest drapery showed just enough
and “ne quid nimis” of her ankles.
Bill admired the grace and the ankles immensely.
But his hopes sank a little at the flight, — for he
thought she perceived his chase and meant to drop
him. Bill had not had a classical education, and
knew nothing of Galatea in the Eclogue, — how
she did not hide, until she saw her swain was looking
fondly after.
“She wants to get away,” he thought. “But
she sha'n't, — no, not if I have to follow her to
Albany.”
He struck out mightily. Presently the swift
Camilla let herself be overtaken.
“Good morning, Miss Purtett.” (Dogged air.)
“Good morning, Mr. Tarbox.” (Taken-by-surprise
air.)
“I 've been admiring your skating,” says Bill,
trying to be cool.
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“Have you?” rejoins Belle, very cool and distant.
“Have you been long on the ice?” he inquired,
hypocritically.
“I came on two hours ago with Mr. Ringdove
and the girls,” returned she, with a twinkle which
said, “Take that, Sir, for pretending you did not
see me.”
“You 've seen Mr. Wade skate, then,” Bill said,
ignoring Ringdove.
“Yes; is n't it splendid?” Belle replied, kindling.
“Tip-top!”
“But then he does everything better than anybody.”
“So he does!” Bill said, — true to his friend,
and yet beginning to be jealous of this enthusiasm.
It was not the first time he had been jealous of
Wade; but he had quelled his fears, like a good
fellow.
Belle perceived Bill's jealousy, and could have
cried for joy. She had known as little of her once
lover's heart as he of hers. She only knew that
he stopped coming to see her when he fell, and had
not renewed his visits now that he was risen again.
If she had not been charmingly ruddy with the
brisk air and exercise, she would have betrayed
her pleasure at Bill's jealousy with a fine blush.
The sense of recovered power made her wish to
use it again. She must tease him a little. So she
continued, as they skated on in good rhythm, —
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“Mother and I would n't know what to do without
Mr. Wade. We like him so much,” — said
ardently.
What Bill feared was true, then, he thought.
Wade, noble fellow, worthy to win any woman's
heart, had fascinated his landlady's daughter.
“I don't wonder you like him,” said he. “He
deserves it.”
Belle was touched by her old lover's forlorn
tone.
“He does indeed,” she said. “He has helped
and taught us all so much. He has taken such
good care of Perry. And then” — here she gave
her companion a little look and a little smile —
“he speaks so kindly of you, Mr. Tarbox.”
Smile, look, and words electrified Bill. He gave
such a spring on his skates that he shot far ahead
of the lady. He brought himself back with a
sharp turn.
“He has done kinder than he can speak,” says
Bill. “He has made a man of me again, Miss
Belle.”
“I know it. It makes me very happy to hear
you able to say so of yourself.” She spoke gravely.
“Very happy” — about anything that concerned
him? Bill had to work off his over-joy at this by
an exuberant flourish. He whisked about Belle, —
outer edge backward. She stopped to admire.
He finished by describing on the virgin ice, before
her, the letters B. P., in his neatest style of podography, —
easy letters to make, luckily.
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“Beautiful!” exclaimed Belle. “What are those
letters? Oh! B. P.! What do they stand for?”
“Guess!”
“I 'm so dull,” said she, looking bright as a
diamond. “Let me think! B. P.? British
Poets, perhaps.”
“Try nearer home!”
“What are you likely to be thinking of that
begins with B. P.? — O, I know! Boiler Plates!”
She looked at him, — innocent as a lamb. Bill
looked at her, delighted with her little coquetry.
A woman without coquetry is insipid as a rose
without scent, as Champagne without bubbles, or
as corned beef without mustard.
“It 's something I 'm thinking of most of the
time,” says he; “but I hope it 's softer than
Boiler Plates. B. P. stands for Miss Isabella
Purtett.”
“Oh!” says Belle, and she skated on in silence.
“You came down with Alonzo Ringdove?”
Bill asked, suddenly, aware of another pang after
a moment of peace.
“He came with me and his sisters,” she replied.
Yes; poor Ringdove had dressed himself in his
shiniest black, put on his brightest patent-leather
boots, with his new swan-necked skates newly
strapped over them, and wore his new dove-colored
overcoat with the long skirts, on purpose to be
lovely in the eyes of Belle on this occasion. Alas,
in vain!”
“Mr. Ringdove is a great friend of yours, is
n't he?”
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“If you ever came to see me now, you would
know who my friends are, Mr. Tarbox.”
“Would you be my friend again, if I came, Miss
Belle?”
“Again? I have always been so, — always,
Bill.”
“Well, then, something more than my friend, —
now that I am trying to be worthy of more,
Belle?”
“What more can I be?” she said, softly.
“My wife.”
She curved to the right. He followed. To the
left. He was not to be shaken off.
“Will you promise me not to say walves instead
of valves, Bill?” she said, looking pretty and
saucy as could be. “I know, to say W for V is
fashionable in the iron business; but I don't like
it.”
“What a thing a woman is to dodge!” says
Bill. “Suppose I told you that men brought up
inside of boilers, hammering on the inside against
twenty hammering like Wulcans on the outside,
get their ears so dumfounded that they can't tell
whether they are saying valves or walves, wice or
virtue, — suppose I told you that, — what would
you say, Belle?”
“Perhaps I 'd say that you pronounce virtue so
well, and act it so sincerely, that I can't make any
objection to your other words. If you 'd asked me
to be your vife, Bill, I might have said I did n't
understand; but wife I do understand, and I
say —”
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She nodded, and tried to skate off. Bill stuck
close to her side.
“Is this true, Belle?” he said, almost doubtfully.
“True as truth!”
She put out her hand. He took it, and they
skated on together,— hearts beating to the rhythm
of their movements. The uproar and merriment
of the village came only faintly to them. It
seemed as if all Nature was hushed to listen to
their plighted troth, their words of love renewed,
more earnest for long suppression. The beautiful
ice spread before them, like their life to come, a
pathway untouched by any sorrowful or weary
footstep. The blue sky was cloudless. The keen
air stirred the pulses like the vapor of frozen
wine. The benignant mountains westward kindly
surveyed the happy pair, and the sun seemed created
to warm and cheer them.
“And you forgive me, Belle?” said the lover.
“I feel as if I had only gone bad to make me know
how much better going right is.”
“I always knew you would find it out. I never
stopped hoping and praying for it.”
“That must have been what brought Mr. Wade
here.”
“Oh, I did hate him so, Bill, when I heard of
something that happened between you and him!
I thought him a brute and a tyrant. I never could
get over it, until he told mother that you were the
best machinist he ever knew, and would some time
grow to be a great inventor.”
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“I 'm glad you hated him. I suffered rattle-snakes
and collapsed flues for fear you 'd go and
love him.”
“My affections were engaged,” she said with
simple seriousness.
“Oh, if I 'd only thought so long ago! How
lovely you are!” exclaims Bill, in an ecstasy.
“And how refined! And how good! God bless
you!”
He made up such a wishful mouth, — so wishful
for one of the pleasurable duties of mouths, that
Belle blushed, laughed, and looked down, and as
she did so saw that one of her straps was trailing.
“Please fix it, Bill,” she said, stopping and
kneeling.
Bill also knelt, and his wishful mouth immediately
took its chance.
A manly smack and sweet little feminine chirp
sounded as their lips met.
Boom! twanging gay as the first tap of a marriage-bell,
a loud crack in the ice rang musically
for leagues up and down the river. “Bravo!” it
seemed to say. “Well done; Bill Tarbox! Try
again!” Which the happy fellow did, and the
happy maiden permitted.
“Now,” said Bill, “let us go and hug Mr.
Wade!”
“What! Both of us?” Belle protested. “Mr.
Tarbox, I am ashamed of you!”
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Winthrop, Theodore, 1828-1861 [1863], Life in the open air, and other papers (Ticknor and Fields, Boston) [word count] [eaf754T].
