# Life in the Open Air, and Other Papers/Love and Skates/Chapter 6

CHAPTER VI.
"GO NOT, HAPPY DAY, TILL THE MAIDEN YIELDS."
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.
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. ​
“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; isn’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, —
“Mother and I wouldn’ ​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. ​
“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, isn’t he?” ​
“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 didn’t understand; but wife I do understand, and I say —” ​
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.” ​
“I’m glad you hated him. I suffered rattlesnakes 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!”