AFTER they left the place of the dinner, Miss Thomas walked on for some time in silence, and Vane had inwardly resolved not to be the first to break their peace of mind. The woods, being part of a private estate, had received some care. There was no underbrush, and they were walking in a well-kept path. The moon was now high enough to make a play of light among the leafage and to outline with a silver tracery the smooth twigs and trunks of the trees before them.
Vane was silently wondering what Miss Thomas could mean. He became strangely self-possessed and cautious, and it occurred to him that this was the sort of clear-sightedness a man would have who was gambling and playing for a very large amount. He thought to himself that this was just the way fellows usually got married. Vane had been brought up to suppose that the proper way to reach a young lady’s heart, or at least her hand, was through the judgment of her parents; but, somehow, this did not seem to be necessary in New York, certainly not with Miss Thomas; and he felt that there was a danger of his asking Miss Thomas, to-night, to become Mrs. Vane. And, after all, he felt to-night that it was by no means certain that he wished Mrs. Vane to have been Miss Baby Thomas.
The long silence became embarrassing, but Vane did not quite know what to say, and Miss Thomas had apparently no desire to say anything. The path they were in led up to a low stone wall in a sort of clearing on the side of the hill, with a distant view of the Hudson. Vane assisted Miss Thomas over the wall, and then, getting over it himself, sat down upon it. The girl sat down beside him. Both looked at the river.
“What did you have to say to me?” said Vane, at last.
“I wished to tell you that I had forgiven your question,” Miss Thomas answered in a low, quiet voice, looking away from him across the water.
“Entirely?”
“Entirely, from the heart.”
Vane certainly did have a thrill of pleasurable excitement at this speech. It was the sort of glow, the tingling feeling about the waist he had felt when about to mount a strange horse whose temper he had not tested. He looked at the girl. She was half sitting, half leaning, against the wall. Her flowing dress had caught the sheen of the moon, and the white figure shone brightly against the dark leaves. She might have been a naiad or a wood-nymph, and yet there was a subtle feminine presence about her. With some girls you can associate on terms of fellowship, make companions of them, perhaps even sit on the fence in the moonlight and talk to them amicably, as to another man. But you could never forget that Miss Thomas was a woman.
“I was really very much hurt,” she said, “and I think you ought to have begged my pardon.”
“I did,” said Vane, “and I told you I had the best possible excuse.”
“But you never told me what the excuse was.” The young man sat on a lower stone than hers, and, as he looked up to her, the radiance fell full upon her face, and he saw the moon reflected in her eyes.
Why should he doubt this girl? Had he not been deeply in love with her? And, after all, had she not borne herself, in all their relations, as he would have wished her to, as he would have wished her to be, supposing that she cared for him? She had often been right in being offended with him, but she was too gentle to be long angry—she was lovely in forgiving. Had he not plainly let her know what should be the signal for him to declare his love? Was not this as much encouragement as any woman would give? Strangely enough, now that he was sure of her he almost doubted of himself.
“Do you really ask me to tell you of my excuse?” said Vane, and he felt a little ashamed of himself for the prevaricating question. “Do you not know?”
Miss Thomas said nothing, but made a slight motion of her dress. Vane bit his lip, and felt that this was cowardly. The moon had gone into a cloud, but he fancied, from the position of her head, that she was looking at him with her large eyes. Her dress seemed to have a light of its own, which made her form still visible in the darkness. Suddenly he pictured to himself the way his conduct would look to her if she really cared for him, and he felt sure that she did, and he knew that she attracted him more than any woman he had ever met.
“Because I love you, Winifred,” said Vane, and he laid his hand on hers.
“Oh—h,” sighed the girl with a sort of shudder, as if he had given her pain, “I am so sorry.” Vane caught his breath. “Oh, I am so sorry!” Vane pressed her little hand convulsively. “Oh, I never thought it was this. Why did you tell me? Why did you not leave it unsaid? Now I shall lose you for always.” Her voice broke in a sob.
“Do you mean that you will not marry me? Do you mean that you do not love me? You must know how I have loved you.” Vane covered her hand with kisses. Miss Thomas seemed to be unconscious of this, but went on in a sort of cry, asking him to forgive her. “Do you mean that there is no hope?” said he, gravely.
“Oh, no! none. You know how much I like you, but I can never marry you. You will forget all this, will you not?” There was a long silence between them, but her hand still lay in his. Meantime the sky had grown black in front of them. Vane was straining his eyes to see her face. There was a flash of lightning, and he saw that her cheek was wet with tears. Some large drops of rain came pattering down among the leaves.
“We must hurry back,” said Vane suddenly, dropping her hand. She rose silently and followed him along the path. In a few moments they got back to the place of supper. They were the first to arrive, but in a moment they heard voices in the shrubbery.
“You will try and forget this evening, will you not?” said Miss Thomas, hurriedly. “Try and be as if it had never happened. And oh, tell me, are you very unhappy?”
“I am very sorry,” said he, “but I am going to-morrow to France.” Miss Thomas made a movement of surprise, but there was no time for more to be said, as the thunderstorm was really upon them, and every one was hastening to the river. On the boat Vane found Miss Thomas a seat, and then went alone to the bow. He was very unhappy. He had not fancied that he would be so unhappy. He was very much disappointed, and, perhaps, a little angry. Coming up from the wharf in New York he was, as a matter of course, put in the same carriage with Miss Thomas. There were two other people with them, and Vane endeavored to act light comedy, but was not well seconded by the girl herself, who was silent and very pale. They went to Mrs. Gower’s house for supper, but all the women were wet, and most of the men ill-tempered, and the party broke up early. Vane took his leave at once, and went back to his lodgings to finish his packing for the voyage. As soon as he had done he went immediately to bed and fell asleep late in the night, having as a latest waking thought the consciousness that he had for many months been making a fool of himself.