FOR some weeks Vane rested satisfied with the conclusions arrived at in the last chapter. It was so satisfactory to have made such a resolve; and besides, there was no cause for hastening the event. There was singularly little impulse in his inclination. Most certainly, he meant to put his fate to the test; but not at point-blank range. Vane was cool enough to proceed warily; and he still clung sufficiently to the precepts of his French authorities in matters feminine to know better than that. For a repulse always puts the garrison on its guard, and doubles the difficulty of investment; and a woman’s heart should be taken by siege, not assault. Other supplies should be cut off; and then the citadel be undermined and sapped in a quiet way. The attacker should imply boundless admiration, without actually committing himself to a more particular sentiment—flirtation from behind earthworks—and so, without being exposed to rebuff, gradually surround her with such an atmosphere of incense that at last it becomes indispensable to her; and, after one or two futile sallies, she falls before his arms. This is the wisdom of the serpent; but Vane knew that it was never wasted on a woman, however sweet and dovelike; if you wish her to take your attentions seriously, you should make her think they are not serious. And if Vane was willing to marry, he had no mind to be refused. When Vane expounded these theories to John, the latter seemed relieved.
A lover in New York is at no loss for opportunities to win, if he has leisure to woo; but Vane suffered many chances to pass by without improving them. Perhaps he was dissatisfied with his love, with himself, with his life as he found it; he remembered, like all boys, trying to live as if he were the hero of a novel; now it was altogether too difficult not to live like the hero of a comedy. Vane abhorred the eighteenth century, and all its belongings; but it seemed to him that the world around him, and himself as part of it, were subjects apter to a Congreve than a Homer.
All the more, he sought to wind his affections around their object; he would not admit to himself that there was something wanting even in her. But the winter was nearly over before he resolved to take any decisive step; and Miss Thomas had been growing prettier every day. Mrs. Levison Gower was to give a sleigh-ride. They were to drive in a procession of single sleighs, and stop at some one’s country house for an hour’s skating. This opportunity would be most propitious; and Vane decided that Miss Baby Thomas should be his companion.
Miss Thomas seemed really very sorry. Vane admitted this afterwards, when he sought to reason himself out of his consequent ill-humor. But she was already engaged to ride that day in Mr. Wemyss’s sleigh. It was so unfortunate, and she was so much disappointed! Vane, however, decided to postpone his proposal of marriage to some other occasion; so he drove out sedately with the young and beautiful chaperone. With her he made no sufficient effort at flirtation, and Mrs. Gower never forgave him the omission.
The ice was very good; and Vane was disporting himself meditatively in one corner of the pond when Miss Thomas whirled by him on the “outer edge.” Miss Thomas was a beautiful skater; and, as she passed, she stretched out a crooked cane as if inviting him to join her. Vane had no desire to refuse; and in a minute the two were rolling along in strong, sweeping curves, the girl’s blue eyes gleaming with excitement beneath their long black lashes. Her eyes had the still, violet blue of a cleft in a glacier; Vane could not help looking into them once or twice. The ice was broken.
Neither of them had much to say; but for an hour or more they skated together. The crooked stick, proving too long, was soon discarded; and they skated hand in hand. On the shore, Wemyss was devoting himself to the matron. He could not skate.
Finally, the signal of recall was given. Miss Thomas made no movement in the direction of the return, and Vane was naturally too polite to make the first. They could see Mrs. Gower at the other end of the pond, skurrying about, like a young hen after her chickens. Suddenly Miss Thomas discovered that they ought to go back; but when they returned to the shore they were the last of the party, and had the log, which served the purpose of a seat, to themselves. Vane stooped to take off his companion’s skates, and in shaking them free Miss Thomas brought the blade of one across his hand with some force, causing a slight scratch on the back of his finger. She gave a little cry of horror, and then, as the finger bled profusely, pulled out her own handkerchief, and, before Vane could prevent her, bound it around the wound.
“It was my fault,” said she. “You can give the handkerchief to me when we next meet.”
As they walked back, Vane, dropping behind, unwound the handkerchief and put it in an inside pocket, then drew his glove hastily over the scratch, which had already stopped bleeding.
Going home, Mrs. Gower found Vane much more interesting. The heat of the noon had melted the snow, so that the sleighing was not good, and it was dusk before they got into the city. But when Vane left Mrs. Gower’s house for his own dinner, the sleigh which contained Miss Thomas had not returned, though Wemyss was there, having driven back with Miss Bellamy. Coming to his rooms, Vane unfolded the little handkerchief and kissed it; and that night, when he went to sleep, it was in his hand beneath the pillow. In the morning, he looked at it. It was a cheap little thing enough, made of pieces of linen or muslin stuff, looking like dolls’ clothes sewed together, but giving the effect of lace at a distance.
Vane went to a store on Broadway and purchased a handkerchief of the same size, of old point lace, and the same afternoon called upon Miss Thomas. “I have brought you your handkerchief,” said he, giving her the one he had bought, folded up. “I am very much obliged to you for lending to me.”
Miss Thomas took it, looked at it for a moment, then at him and thanked him. “It was of no consequence,” said she. “It was an old one.” Vane went home, much excited, perhaps a trifle disturbed in mind. Such a rapid victory had hardly been foreseen by him. She had taken from him, as a present, a valuable bit of lace; which must certainly mean that she would take him, if he offered himself. And he was not quite sure, now that the prospect was so near, that he really wished to marry Miss Baby Thomas. He liked her immensely, and she certainly amused him more than any other girl he knew; but he was not quite sure that he wished to marry—at all. Now that the prize was within his reach, he shrank back a little from plucking it. Four years ago, in Brittany, Vane had felt himself an old man; but now it seemed that he was “ower young to marry yet.” These thoughts gave him much trouble; and in the meantime he abstained from further complication by not calling on Miss Thomas, and, at the same time, subjected himself to much self-analysis. Could he honestly be content to go through life with this girl by his side? He knew enough of life to know that it mattered very little how often a man made a fool of himself, if he did not do so on the day when he got married. Now Miss Thomas was certainly a very nice, sweet girl—but did he love her enough to marry her? The outcome of his deliberation was in the affirmative; but—another but.
Ten days had elapsed since he gave her the handkerchief, when finally, one Sunday afternoon, he called to see her. He half expected that he should ask her to marry him. But he did not do so. When the call was nearly over, she excused herself for a moment, and, going up-stairs, returned with the handkerchief in her hand. “You have brought back the wrong handkerchief,” said she. Vane started with a shock of surprise he could not repress.
“I—I brought the wrong one?” he said awkwardly.
“Yes.”
“It was the one you gave me.”
“Oh, no! it was not. This one is real lace.”
“The—the washerwoman must have made a mistake.”
Miss Thomas said nothing.
“You must keep it all the same, Miss Thomas.”
“I cannot keep what belongs to other people,” said she unappreciatively.
Vane bit his lips. “I—I will make it right with the washerwoman,” said he clumsily.
Miss Thomas’s look was more hopelessly unsympathetic than ever; and, folding the bit of lace, she laid it on the table by his elbow.
“The fact is,” Vane went on, with a pretended burst of confidence, “the one you lent me was ruined: so I did get this one instead. Please take it.”
“It is much more valuable than mine,” said she coldly.
“Please take it,” said Vane again, with the iteration of a school-boy.
Miss Thomas began to take offence.
“How can you expect me to do such a thing?” said she, rising as if to dismiss him. Evidently a bold push was necessary. He took the bit of lace and threw it quickly into the open fire, counting on the feminine instinct which would not suffer her to see old lace destroyed. With a little cry, Miss Thomas bent down and pulled it from the coals.
“Let it burn,” said he, rising and putting on his gloves. “If you do not want it, I am sure I do not.” And he silently refused to take the handkerchief, pretending to busy his hands with his hat and cane. “Good-by,” said he.
“Good-by,” replied Miss Thomas, coldly, laying the handkerchief back on the centre-table.
When Vane got to the hall he looked at her a moment in turning to open the front door. She was standing before the fire with a heightened color in her face, whether of a blush or anger he could not tell.