11. CHAPTER XI.
A MAY MORNING IN '74.
Our history will not admit of a detailed description of
the events of the day at Vanely, else should we take pleasure
in relating how the gallants in ruffles and powder paid
assiduous court to the damsels in hoops and furbelows; how
laughter and sighs, bright glances and jests, with incessant
rattling on the old harpsichord, filled the morning.
Many songs were sang, and in truth—says our good author,
full of admiration, as usual, of the damsels—there was
rarest music in those girlish voices caroling the tender or
gay ditties of the past. The ardent love of faithful shepherds
for the dearest shepherdesses sang in their madrigals,
and all was love and sunshine, laughter, merriment and joy.
Sparkling eyes lent point and brilliancy to jests from rosy
lips; and all was May in the old house, whose very portraits
seemed to smile and say, “Be happy while 't is May!”
At last the gay sunshine drew them to the lawn, and soon
they were wandering across the flowery grass, and under
the old century oaks—a merry party, brilliant as the flowers
which the little maidens really resembled in their variegated
dresses, and communicating to the grounds of the old homestead
new attraction.
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The birds sang merrily above their heads, flitting from
tree to tree across the mild blue; the apple blossoms lay
upon the boughs like fragrant snow, and the fresh river
breezes, bearing on their wings the odor of the sea, blew
on the tender foreheads, and made every cheek more rosy,
and ran through the branches overhead, dancing and singing,
and then died away, a musical murmur, mingling with
the carol of the maidens like a symphony from airy harps.
And suddenly in a dell of the forest, or rather beneath
a knoll of the lawn, they came upon a very pleasing device
of Miss Bonnybel's—nothing less than a most tempting
array of edibles scattered in picturesque confusion on the
grass. Heavy slices of fruit-cake piled themselves up or lay
in masses; cut-glass dishes scarcely held the golden mountains
of cool jellies; bottles of the colonel's finest sherry
rolled about, like topers overcome with liquor, in the grass;
and in the center a huge round of beef flanked with cold
fowls and ham, twinkled in light and shadow, as the boughs
of the great oak moved with the breeze.
Laughing like children at the pleasant surprise, the young
men and maidens hasten to the spot, and the attack commences
very vigorously.
It is a scene from “As You Like it,” or of Robin Hood's
day, or such as Watteau liked to place on canvas.
Seated on the emerald sward, in attitudes of careless ease
and graceful abandon, with saffron laces around snowy arms,
and silken dresses emulating tulip beds, and small hands
grasping slender glasses filled with gold, and merry laughter
at a thousand jests—thus scattered over the lawn, beneath
the rustling boughs of the old oak, the party make a little
Arcady for themselves, without a cloud, filled full with sunshine.
“ 'T is really charming,” says Tom Alston, who, having
finished his repast, gently smoothes his ruffles with one hand,
holding a glass of sherry in the other; “ 't is quite a sylvan
scene, from one of the pastorals, of Mr. Pope, say.”
“Or Theocritus,” adds a young gentleman recently from
college.
“Yes,” says Mr. Alston, “and reminds me of a similar
scene, when I was a young fellow, in Effingham woods.”
“When Kate Effingham was your sweetheart,” cries
Bonnybel, laughing.
“Really—ahem!—really now,” replies Mr. Alston, modestly,
“I prefer not alluding to these subjects, but I believe
that most charming young lady did have some regard for
me.”
Mr. Alston looks more modest than ever, and adds,
“I, however, resigned her to my friend, Will Effingham
—sacrificed myself on the altar of friendship—they are now
married.”
General laughter greets this communication, and a smile
even wanders over the countenance of Helen. The laughter
does not embarrass Mr. Alston, who says,
“On that agreeable occasion, Miss Kate sang a charming
song—`I'm o'er young to marry yet;' also another, which
methinks no poet has surpassed—`There lives a lass upon
the green.' ”
Mr. Alston's talent is well known, and he is besieged to
sing. He receives the proposal with surprise, declares he
has a cold—protests he can not. At the end of ten minutes,
however, he is singing in a voice of great melody. This is
his song:
“There lives a lass upon the green;
Could I her picture draw,
A brighter nymph was never seen;
She looks and reigns a little queen,
And keeps the swains in awe.
“Her eyes are Cupid's darts and wings,
Her eyebrows are his bow,
Her silken hair the silver strings,
Which swift and sure destruction brings
To all the vale below.
“If Pastorella's dawn of light
Can warm and wound us so,
Her noon must be so piercing bright
Each glancing beam would kill outright,
And every swain subdue!”
Much applause follows, and Mr. Alston raises his glass—
“I have the honor of drinking the health of our hostess,
Pastorella,” he says, bowing to Bonnybel.
The young lady rises, and makes a low and demure curtesy,
endeavoring to smother her laughter, caused by the
languishing expression of Mr. Alston. It bursts forth, however,
and all join in the merry peal.
At the same moment, a distant cannon booms across the
fields, and every one starts. Bonnybel claps her hands and
cries that it is Captain Fellowes, of the “Charming Sally,”
with all the new London dresses! She has seen his arrival
at York in the Gazette, and he always fires his swivel at the
landings!
Miss Bonnybel's excitement about the new dresses is contagious,
and in fifteen minutes the entire party of young ladies,
accompanied by their cavaliers, are galloping toward
the Vanely wharf.
The “Charming Sally” has gone aground, owing to low
water, at some distance from the piers running out into the
river, but the large boat, always lying below the old warehouse,
is put in requisition, and, propelled by two stalwart
and grinning Africans, the craft plunges her cutwater into
the current, and lands the party on the vessel.
Captain Fellowes is a good-humored old tar, and meets the
young people with the air of an old acquaintance. To Miss
Bonnybel's excited question as to her dresses, the old fellow
replies by lugging down his book of entries, smiling,
and the young lady having come to V, reads aloud hurriedly—
“Colonel Vane—Vanely Landing—Prince George—casks
Canary—boxes Zante currants—oranges Barcelona—Lucca
olives—saddles—harness—volumes in leather, namely—
gowns from Madam Fenton—over against—”
“Here it is!” cries Miss Bonnybel; “look, Helen! every
thing we sent for!”
Helen smiles—she is less enthusiastic.
“O thank you, Captain Fellowes!” cries Bonnybel; “you
must not laugh at me for my noise, for you know I'm not
one of the lords of creation. Please send these boxes at
once to the house, and papa's Canary for dinner, if he comes
back.”
To all this, Captain Fellowes growled a good-humored
assent, and then the party, having scattered themselves over
the vessel, and satisfied their curiosity by inspecting every
thing, reëntered the boat and were rowed back to the
wharf.
But not to the sons or the daughters of men, come days
without a cloud—unalloyed pleasure—the rose without the
obstinate thorn.
Bonnybel and her cousin were the last to leave the boat.
With dancing eyes, and bright cheeks, rosy with pleasure,
the young lady hastened to ascend the wharf. But unhappy
to relate, her slipper was placed much too carelessly upon
the smooth gunwale; the boat swayed, and slipping first
upon her knee, then wholly, Miss Bonnybel was precipitated
into the river.
We need scarcely say that she rose from the waves in the
arms of Mr. St. John, who gallantly rescued her.
A dozen frightened faces and eager hands were immediately
stretched out, and the young lady stood safely upon
the wharf; but with a direful change in her appearance.
Her hair had fallen upon her shoulders, and streamed with
water; her furbelows had disappeared, and a small foot clad
in a white silk stocking, from which the shoe had been lost,
peered from her skirt, from which a flood of moisture descended.
“Oh me!” cried the young lady, leaning upon one of her
companions, “how did I fall into the water?”
“Very gracefully,” replied St. John.
“And you saved me!”
“In the most heroic manner,” replied the young man,
wringing his wet sleeves, “and I know you are too much
of a heroine to mind it.”
“I do n't,” said Miss Bonnybel, laughing and blushing
as she drew back her foot; “but, oh goodness, I've lost my
shoe!”
It was brought as she spoke, by a negro who had fished
it out; and Mr. St. John most gallantly replaced it upon
the foot. It was doubtless owing to the moist state of the
stocking that he consumed about twice as much time as was
necessary.
The ceremony was concluded at last, however, and then
the young man would have sent for a carriage, but Bonnybel
would not hear of it. She declared that the accident
was nothing; she could return upon horseback as she came;
and mounting with laughter into the saddle, she galloped
off with her hair streaming, followed by the other young
ladies, and the gallants, who declared that she was a heroine,
and “full of pluck.”
We shall not pause to discuss the question, but proceed
to relate that they soon reached Vanely; that Miss Bonnybel
was forced to partake largely of artificial spirits by good
Aunt Mabel, and that the young lady thereafter put on one
of the London dresses which punctual Captain Fellowes had
just sent from the vessel, and flirting an enormous fan,
swept up and down the room with all the mincing languor
of a lady of the court, to the great enjoyment of the young
ladies, her companions, who greeted the exhibition with
much laughter.
They had then a great dinner, at which sunset surprised
them; and so the day was done; but not the merry-making.
