83. CHAPTER LXXXIII.
A GLANCE AT VANELY.
At Vanely, as of old, sleeps the beautiful sunshine of the
tender May, and the flowers bloom as they did on that
morning of '74 when we opened the pages of our chronicle.
Again, as on that morn when Tom Alston and his friend
rode gayly up the hill, the leaves bourgeon and bloom—the
winds laugh and dance onward as though singing, while the
great oaks rustle, the clouds float like white strips on an
ocean of azure, and the grass on the lawn is sprinkled with
forget-me-nots, those stars of the earth in the spring.
That spring, as in old years, has come in rejoicing, and
the domain of Vanely wakes up and smiles, and puts on the
gala costume of the fine season.
Let us enter, for a moment, as we pass onward, and look
around us.
In his old chair, in the library with its oaken book cases
and table covered with volumes, sits our friend the good
colonel, with his gouty foot raised upon a cricket. He reads,
stopping at times to polish his spectacles, for the old gentleman
finds age creeping on him.
By his side sits Bonnybel, engaged at some work, with a
sad smile on her fair face, which is still paler than before.
But this paleness even adds to her beauty. She looks more
like a sweet phantom than a woman of flesh and blood, and,
when she raises her large violet eyes and smiles, her whole
countenance is so spiritual that an old painter might have
taken it for a type of Madonna.
Long hours pass thus, and then Mrs. Vane, Miss Seraphina
and Helen come in, and the family converse and try to
cheer the girl. They evidently affect the merriment of
spirit which they display, and it is meant to enliven her.
The father and daughter sit thus in the cheerful room
every morning, and here Bonnybel receives her visitors.
These visitors are Barry Hunter, Mr. Page, Mr. Ranton
and others, and often Tom Alston and Jack Hamilton come
to Vanely, though the former has, for some time now, been
sick.
Miss Seraphina rather likes to be teased about Mr. Hamilton,
and the color in Helen's cheek, when Mr. Alston is
mentioned, seems to indicate that the fruit has nearly fallen
by the “shaking.”
At times, Bonnybel goes to the harpsichord and sings,
and her voice has the old tenderness and sweetness, but not
the joy. That contagious freshness and merriment which
once characterized it is gone, and it has a sad music in its
faint carol. It is “Katherine Ogie” which she sings most
frequently, and the ditty is so inexpressibly sad and touching
as she sings it, that tears more than once come to the
eyes of the auditors.
Thus the days pass on, and the current flows tranquilly
in the good old mansion from which we have been absent so
long. Political events make small stir there, though they
are spoken of frequently, and often the old colonel suppresses
an outbreak. He does not yield now to these passionate
impulses. He grows old.
One subject alone is never mentioned—one name is never
uttered. But she thinks of him always.
What befell that personage, and, especially, what happened
to the girl, the two letters, which we now lay before
the reader, and the events which followed, will abundantly
show.
The crisis of the family history and the political storm
ripened and rushed into action nearly at the same moment.
