9. CHAPTER IX.
BONNYBEL VANE.
The young men entered the familiar old hall and then
passed to the comfortable sitting room, where Tom Alston
subsided languidly into an easy chair.
“Stay here till I return, Tom,” said St. John; “I'm going
to salute my respected aunt, and will announce our arrival
to anybody else I see.”
“Give my compliments to Miss Anybody Else,” said
Tom.
But his friend did not hear him. He ran out, ascended
the broad oaken stair-case, three steps at a time, with the
gayety of a boy, and threw open the door of the chamber
immemoriably the haunt of good Aunt Mabel.
The consequence was a collision with a lovely girl who
had been combing her hair, apparently, before the mirror,
as the profuse brown curls were hanging down on her bare
white shoulders and silken dress,—presenting to the eyes
of Mr. Harry St. John a mass of shadowy, waving gold,
which charmed him.
The girl no sooner caught sight of the young man, or rather
found their faces in collision, than she uttered a scream,
and crying “Good gracious! me!” quickly retreated, and
slammed the door in his face.
St. John burst into a fit of laughter and cried, gayly,
“Let me in, Bonny!”
“I won't!” cried the girl's voice vivaciously, accompanied
by the sound of a key hastily turned in the lock.
Then the following observations ensued, mingled with
laughter:
“I think you might, Bonny; I want to see aunt.”
“She's not here! there, sir!”
“Why, this is her room.”
“It is not! Mamma has moved down stairs.”
“Oh! she has! But I want to see you, too. I think,
after being away so long, you might at least shake hands.”
“Shake hands! humph!” said the girl's voice, very expressively.
“I think kissing me was quite enough, sir!”
“Kissing you!” cried St. John, with well affected surprise.
“Yes! you know you did, and it was just like your presumption!”
“You astonish me! Did I kiss you? If I did it was
wholly accidental. But how long will it be before you come
down? Pray, make haste!”
The girl's smothered laughter was heard.
“You do n't deserve it, you odious fellow!” she said, after
a pause; “but wait! I 'll open in a minute.”
And at the expiration of the appointed time, the key was
turned in the lock, and Miss Bonnybel Vane, for that was
her name, opened the door. She had hastily arranged her
hair, some curls of which were still falling carelessly, however,
on the bare round shoulders. They did not detract
from her beauty.
“Where in the world did you come from?” she said, giving
him her hand. “You frightened me nearly to death,
sir, and you dared to kiss me!”
“Did I? Well, it is not the first time.”
“Humph!” as before, very expressively.
“It was by accident,” said St. John, laughing, “and I will
make you as many apologies as you wish, to say nothing of
as many compliments.”
“Thank you!” cried the girl, pouting satirically as she
made a mock curtsey, “I do n't want any of your compliments.”
“Then you are the first young lady I ever knew who did
not.”
“My Lord Harry is still severe upon our sex, I see—very
smart, indeed!”
“My Lord Harry! How familiar the foolish old nickname
sounds. I love every thing about old times, though.”
“Do you? But when did your lordship arrive?”
“This moment, with Tom Alston.”
“Oh! then we 're to have a double pleasure! The lieutenant
of his Excellency's guards, and the fine gentleman,
above all others, of the colony! And just to think! my
goodness! to appear before such company with my hair
down! Will you wait a minute while I fix it, my lord?”
“Yes, indeed, and look on too.”
The girl did not seem to mind this in the least, but running
back to the mirror, gathered up her curls, and quickly
secured them with a tortoise-shell comb. She then affixed
a bow of scarlet ribbon, added a loop of pearls, and turning
round with a demure air, said,
“How do you like me?”
St. John tried to make a jesting reply, but failed. The
little elf looked so lovely, standing with a vagrant gleam of
sunlight on her head, which was inclined coquettishly over
one shoulder, that her companion's fun disappeared. For a
moment he gazed at her in silence, and we shall embrace
the opportunity to make an outline sketch of the little beauty
—our heroine.
Bonnybel Vane is a sparkling, mischievous little maiden of
about seventeen. She has a slender, but elegantly rounded
figure, a clear white complexion, with two fresh roses blooming
in her cheeks; red, pouting lips, large bright eyes of a
deep violet, which seem ready to melt or fire under the
long dusky lashes, and a profusion of light brown hair, as
soft as silk.
The face is oval, of that pure-blooded Norman type which
fascinated the kings and princes of the middle ages, and led
to so many bitter feuds and bloody wars. The beautiful,
mischievous-looking head is placed upon a swan-like neck,
and inclines toward one of the snowy shoulders.
As to the expression of the girl's features, we can not describe
it. The brilliant violet eyes are ready to dance with
merriment and mischief, or swim in the dews of feeling;
the lips are mobile, prepared to contract, like crumpled rose-leaves,
with demure amusement at some jest, or, half-parted,
to express a world of pity and pathos. Bonnybel is a striking
type of the woman of the South, as opposed to the pale,
calm, statuesque beauty of more northern countries; she is
brimful of feeling, of impulse, mischief, coquettish wildness;
indeed, but for the impropriety of the illustration—
“——it sounds ill,
But there's no wrong at bottom—rather praise”—
we should say that she resembles a “thorough-bred” young
race-horse of the most elegant proportions and the purest
“blood.”
She is clad in a pink dress, looped back with bows of
ribbon, a close-fitting, square-cut bodice; and a frill of rich
lace runs around the neck, and appears beneath the short
sleeves, which leave the arms of the girl bare almost to the
shoulders. She wears red coral bracelets clasped with gold,
and her arms are of dazzling whiteness.
In reply to her question, “How do you like me?” St.
John at last, when he ha recovered from his trance of admiration,
replies that he likes her more than he can tell.
“Your arms are especially beautiful, Bonny,” he says.
“Do you use cosmetics?”
“Cosmetics! indeed! No, sir, I do not!” she cried, with
indignation. “Nature made them as they are!”
“I wish nature had given them to me.”
“To you? Pray, what would you do with them?”
“I would clasp them round my neck,” said the young
man; “though I know about fifty young gentlemen who
would like, in that event, to put an end to my existence.”
“A very pretty speech!” cries Bonnybel, with a dangerous
glance of her coquettish eyes; “please inform me what
romance you have been reading lately.”
“None. I have not had time. I have been thinking.”
“Thinking of what?”
“Of reality—suppose I say of you, Bonny?”
And the young man, losing his tone of jesting satire, almost
sighs. Bonnybel's quick ear catches the sound perfectly,
and the change of tone. But she does not betray the
fact in the least. On the contrary, she laughs carelessly and
says:
“Of me? Good gracious! is it possible you have time
to think of your little country cousin in the midst of your
arduous toils, parading and marching?”
“Yes,” replies St. John, looking with honest fondness
straight into the girl's eyes, “I thought of you often. Ah!
my dear, a young man can not be so much with his `little
cousin,' as you say, when she is as sweet as you, Bonny,
and then master his thoughts. I dream of you sometimes,
and 't is a lovely, laughing little fairy I see in my dreams.”
“Excellent! You have certainly been reading romances!
Gracious! I a fairy. I suppose you'll call me an angel next.
Thank you, sir, but I'm sorry to say I am neither. I am
only a country girl, made of flesh and blood, with a fine appetite,
a quick temper, and a fondness for every thing like a
frolic—there, sir!—and a—”
“Warm, true heart, in spite of your mischievous ways!”
added St. John, returning to his light tone of jest. “Oh,
I know you very well, Bonny—may be too well. I mean
that I had better have not seen so much of you; but let us
go to aunt.”
He took her hand, and Bonnybel, who had rapidly glanced
at his face, yielded it without a word. The little beauty,
with the quick instinct of her sex, had already discovered
the state of her cousin's feelings—the secret of the power
she could exert over him. The further progress of our narrative
will show whether the young lady's calculations were
or were not correct.
They rapidly descended the stair-case, hand in hand, and
Bonnybel, quietly extricating herself, led the way to a room
in the rear, the door of which she opened.
In a moment Mr. St. John found himself affectionately
embraced by a pair of thin arms, and received a kiss. Aunt
Mabel sat in her old chair, thin, erect, clad in black silk, a
snowy handkerchief pinned across her bosom; her scant
gray hair neatly gathered beneath the plaits of her full lace
cap. The old lady was busy knitting, casting from time to
time a glance at a little negro girl, who was taking her first
lessons in coarse sewing, on a cricket at her mistress' feet.
At the distance of six paces, a chambermaid was knitting
rough stockings, and, in the corner, an old negro woman,
with her head tied up in a white cloth, assiduously plied the
shears in cutting out clothes for the household.
Aunt Mabel received her nephew with great affection,
and made him give her all the news.
“Well, well,” she said at last, “I'm glad to see you in
such good health and spirits, nephew. Still, you were best
here attending to your interests.”
“I think so, too, aunt,” said the young man, looking toward
Bonnybel, who was powdering her hair at the mirror,
with a little round cushion of swansdown; “and what does
Miss Bonnybel think on the subject?”
“Sir?” said the young lady, turning round; “did you
speak to me?”
“Yes.”
“What did you say?”
“Then our conversation is inaudible—is it?” he said, with
a smile. “I was only telling aunt that I thought I had best
come back to the old county and remain here. I think
there's nothing like the beauty of our fields in the whole
wide world, aunt. To be a country gentleman after all
seems to me a worthier ambition than to bow my knee before
the grandest royalty of Europe. The sight of the fields
yonder, where I played in boyhood, makes me a boy again;
and,” he added, with a smile, “I have the pleasure of meeting
one of my old playmates.”
“You mean Bonny, I suppose, Harry,” says Aunt Mabel,
knitting busily. “Yes, she often says 't is not so merry
when you are away—your laugh is wanting.”
Miss Bonnybel turned quickly, having suddenly finished
her occupation.
“I said!—mamma!—I only meant—”
“That Columbine did n't enjoy herself without Harlequin!”
said the young man. “I'm glad you've suddenly
found your ears, Miss Columbine!”
“Thank you, sir!” said Bonnybel, curtesying with mock
ceremony, and pouting satirically, “I suppose you think
that's very smart and fine! O! goodness gracious!” suddenly
cried the young lady, relapsing into laughter, “there's
all my hair come down!”
In truth the ardor of the damsel in turning her head had
produced the result indicated, and her snowy shoulders were
again covered by the profuse brown curls.
“Let me assist you,” said St. John, raising a mass of curls
and smiling.
“No, if you please, sir!” cried the girl, drawing back;
“you would make a bad lady's maid, and I'd rather not!”
“Then I'll go see Aunt Seraphina and Cousin Helen,” said
St. John, and with these words he descended to the sitting-room.
It was a large apartment, decorated, after the fashion of
the period, with carved wainscoting, and hung around with
many portraits of old gentlemen in powder, and fair dames
floating in translucent clouds of saffron lace. High-backed
chairs stood about in picturesque disorder, and upon a table,
with crooked legs, were a number of volumes in embossed
leather, tossed about at random. An embroidery frame
stood in one corner, upon which a lady was then working,
the design of her picture being Amyntor, in red stockings,
and a blue hat, with snowy feathers, playing upon a Spanish
mandolin, beneath the window of Amoret. An old sideboard,
with some silver plate on it, a little table, covered with china
figures and grotesque vessels of that hideous description
fashionable at the period, and, between the windows looking
on the lawn, an old harpsichord, tall, stately, and antique
—completed the accessories of the apartment in which Mr.
St. John now found himself.
Miss Seraphina, sister of Colonel Vane, and a lady of uncertain
age, was working at the embroidery frame with sentimental
smiles, as Mr. Tom Alston exchanged compliments;
and Mr. St. John had scarcely gotten through his greetings
when Miss Helen Vane made her appearance, her waist encircled
by the arm of Miss Bonnybel, a pretty picture which
young ladies have affected in all ages. Miss Helen is a
handsome brunette of about twenty, with dark hair, dark
eyes, and an air of serenity which seems incapable of change.
She is erect and somewhat stately in the carriage of her full
and handsome person, clad in rich black, rustling silk, and
the faint smile which wanders from time to time over her
countenance, scarcely relaxes this prevailing expression of
collected calmness.
When Mr. St. John essays to “salute” Miss Helen, she
draws back, turning away her head, and the young man is
obliged to content himself with a salute bestowed upon the
ribband of her head dress.
We have thus attempted to outline two young ladies who
were great toasts in their day—especially the younger
maiden, Miss Bonnybel, whose brilliant eyes, and lovely face,
with those of her companions, illustrated so finely the times
in which they moved. Yet who can paint them? cries our
good author, breaking forth, as is his wont, into raptures.
Who can even so much as outline them truly, those tender
little dames of the Virginia past? They shine upon us
now like stars, glimmering far away on the blue horizon of
the elder day, withdrawing, as we gaze, their ineffectual
fires, and fainting in the garish sunlight of the present. It
is easy to tell of the looped-back gown, and all the rich furbelows
and flounces, with streaming ribbon knots; the red
Spanish shoes, the clocks on the stockings, the lace around
shoulders like the driven snow, or the powder that lies, like
that snow, on the hair—the dark or bright hair, the raven
or the golden! But alas! these are only the externals.
There is something beneath all this which still escapes us,
which we vainly attempt to grasp or describe. Mild and
serene, there was yet something bright and ardent in these
natures which we do not see to-day! The blossom on the
bough, the spray on the wave, the dew on the grass—something
fresh, and natural, and indescribable! A grace which
we can not express, which flits when we try to embrace it
—the shadow of a shadow!
