University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.
HOW MR. LINDON CAME TO AND WENT AWAY FROM
VANELY.

Several days have passed. It is a beautiful May morning.
Bonnybel and St. John are talking together in the sitting-room—a
habit into which they have of late quietly and
tacitly fallen.

Bonnybel sits in the most coquetish attitude upon one of
the old carved-backed sofas, her slender figure supported by
the round, bolster-like pillow. She wears a light blue silk,
and around her bare arms falls a quantity of lace. From
the skirt of her azure silk peep forth in the most accidental
way two delicate little feet, cased in white silk
stockings, and red morocco slippers, with high heels and
rich rosettes. The slender ankles are gracefully crossed—
the beautiful feet seem wrapped around each other, so to
speak—an ill-natured critic might say that Miss Bonnybel
had fixed them thus for her companion's inspection and admiration.

He sits at her side, and is showing her a book of engravings.
One of these is a woman weeping upon the breast
of a steel-clad cavalier—the illustration of some border ballad.

He reads to her, and—for the moment, thoughtful—Bonnybel's
eyes are weighed down with an impulsive pity. It
is a tale of love, devotion and death; and as he reads, she
turns upon him a pair of violet eyes swimming in tears.

No word is uttered—the volume lies on her lap—St. John
holds her unconscious hand, and the beautiful face, with its
large eyes full of tender pity, droops slowly and unconsciously
as it were, toward the picture of the woman weeping
in her husband's arms.

This is the pretty little tableau, when, with a shock which
skakes both windows, the door is thrown open, and a tall,

richly-clad gentleman, the arrival of whose splendid equipage
they had not been aware of, is ushered into the apartment.
Bonnybel rises calmly to her feet—closing the volume
which she holds in her hand—and returns the low salute
of the visitor with a cold and ceremonious inclination.
Mr. Lindon will pray be seated, and if he will excuse her a
moment, she will retire to arrange her somewhat informal
toilette. Mr. Lindon, she believes, is acquainted with her
cousin, Mr. St. John.

With these formal sentences, Miss Bonnybel moves from
the apartment and goes up stairs with the air of a duchess
subjected to an intrusion.

The two men greeted each other with ceremonious coldness;
on the part of Mr. Lindon there seemed even an exhibition
of suppressed and somber rage at the changed
demeanor of the young lady.

He was a tall, powerful man, verging, apparently, on forty,
and his bearing indicated a supercilious and yet uneasy
pride.

In a few moments Colonel Vane entered, and soon afterwards
the ladies appeared. Mr. Lindon did not seem a
great favorite with these, and when he announced his intention
of spending the day and night, as his estates lay at some
distance, the intimation did not appear to cause any one
unusual pleasure. All were scrupulously courteous and polite,
but nothing more.

In Virginia, where cordiality and warmth, in the reception
of visitors, are a standing rule, a greeting of this species
always indicates dislike.

We have heard Miss Bonnybel, under Mr. Alston's teasing,
speak coldly of the visitor; let us endeavor briefly to
exhibit the cause of this coldness.

Mr. Lindon was the only son of an English Catholic of
ancient family, who had purchased lands on the South Side.
These purchases had become a principality, in extent and
value, at the time of his death, and his son found himself the
possessor of a princely estate. Lindon the elder had been a

bigoted Catholic and aristocrat in the worst sense of the
term, and his son inherited the same opinions. He honestly
regarded his family as the best in the colony, and regarded
rebellion against England as a crime of the deepest die.

Early enabled to command large resources, Mr. Lindon
had plunged at once into every species of vice and dissipation.
He had lost immense sums at the card table, and even
had been charged with cheating. More than one humble
family had been brought to misery and ruin by his vices
—and he was liable, at times, to horrible excesses in wine,
which had already greatly impaired his vigorous constitution.
His character was a strange mixture of boldness and
cunning, of reckless courage and hidden treachery, and
the influence of his religious training, in the worst tenets of
the Jesuits, was very discernible. Under an affectation of
chivalric honor, he concealed a powerful tendency toward
secret scheming, and this unfavorable characteristic already
began to be suspected by the gentlemen with whom his position
enabled him to associate.

Mr. Lindon had made the acquaintance of Bonnybel some
months before, and she became the passion of his life. He
paid his addresses to her with a conquering air, however,
and, to his profound surprise, found himself at once discarded.

He had scarcely been able to restrain an explosion of rage
and astonishment; that a man of his family and wealth
should be refused, was wholly incredible to him, and after a
month's reflection, he came to the conclusion that there was
some misunderstanding in the matter.

Let us pass over the events of the morning, and the ceremonious
dinner, so unlike the habitual family reunion, full
of talk and laughter, and come to the afternoon. Perhaps
we shall find if there was such misunderstanding.

The meal had been over for an hour, and as they dined
early in those days, Mr. Lindon solicited the company of
Miss Bonnybel for a walk. The young lady pouted, but
finding it would be discourteous to refuse, consented, hoping

to induce Mr. St. John and Helen to accompany them.
Helen was unwell, however, and so, in no favorable humor
toward her cavalier, Bonnybel was soon walking with Mr.
Lindon on the lawn.

Mr. Lindon's cheeks were somewhat flushed with the wine
he had been drinking; but the Canary of the colonel seemed
only to have added to his habitual ceremony—his uneasy air
of haughty defiance.

“We have a fine evening, Miss Vane,” he said, settling
his chin in his voluminous white cravat, “and this scene reminds
me of that at my estate of `Agincourt.' ”

“Does it, sir?” she said, coldly.

“Yes; it was so called by my father, the name of the
family hall, in England, being similar.”

Mr. Lindon settled his chin deeper in his white cravat,
and added:

“It originated after the great battle of that name. Sir
Howard Lindon, my ancestor, won his spurs there, though
our race came in with William the Conqueror.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The king, in recognition of Sir Howard's services,
created him a Knight of the Bath, which, however, he
did not long enjoy, having fallen on the field some years
after.”

“You do not retain the title, I believe, sir,” Bonnybel
said, coldly, forcing herself to say something.

“I do not, having no right, I fear, madam. It is hard to
be thus deprived of what's honestly my due.”

Bonnybel inclined.

“Like many other noble families,” said Mr. Lindon, raising
his head proudly, “we have suffered misfortune, and of
all our princely possessions, in the mother country, nothing
remains. It is true that my place of `Agincourt' is not
wholly contemptible, consisting as it does of ten or twelve
thousand acres, with three dwellings, besides the manor
house.”

And Mr. Lindon settled his chin again.

“That is a very fine estate, I should think, sir,” said Bonnybel,
coldly.

“Yes, tolerably fine, but my negroes, a thousand in number,
if I do not mistake, are badly managed. Still I can
not complain. My annual income, from numerous sources,
is some fifteen or twenty thousand pounds sterling, and I
find that adequate to my wants.”

“It is a very handsome income, I should suppose, sir.”

“Vanely is not quite so large as Agincourt, I believe,
madam?”

“I am sure 't is not, sir,” said Bonnybel, quite calmly;
“though I do not know the extent of papa's grounds.”

“Vanely is very richly cultivated.”

“Is it, sir?”

“Very—but you will pardon me for saying that I did not
come hither, upon this occasion, to compare plantation views
with Colonel Vane, madam.”

“You did not, sir?”

“No, Miss Vane, and I think you do not misunderstand
me.”

Mr. Lindon's stately ceremony did not melt at all as he
thus spoke. Bonnybel made no reply.

Mr. Lindon was silent for some moments too, then he
said,

“I observed that this scene of hill and meadow, oak forest
and pine, reminded me of `Agincourt,' and I often sit upon
my portico and think of Vanely.”

“Do you, sir?”

“Yes, madam, and I will add, of yourself.”

Bonnybel inclined her head silently, and prepared for the
rest.

“Since I had the misfortune to be deprived for a time
of your society”—this was Mr. Lindon's graceful paraphrase
of his discardal—“I have not been able to banish your
image from my mind, Miss Vane.”

Bonnybel was still silent and cold.

“I have found no one to supply your place,” continued

Mr. Lindon, with a look of increasing condescension, “and
you will thus scarcely be surprised to find that I have returned
to ask if you have not seen reason to change your
determination. Do not speak yet, Miss Vane—you seem
about to—I desire you to ponder before replying. It is
proper that I should repeat that I am the possessor of a great
estate, and this fact can not be destitute of weight with a
young lady of your excellent sense. Of my family, I think,
I need not speak,” he said loftily, “but I should of more
material things. As my wife, you will have, at your command,
every luxury which wealth can purchase, chariots,
plate, fine horses, and assemblies as often as the mistress of
`Agincourt' pleases. I am quite willing, if you desire it, to
settle upon you an annual amount to the extent of one third
of my entire income; one entire third, I say, madam, and
this you may expend in such manner as may seem suitable
to yourself. It is proper to say that I shall require my sons
to embrace the faith of the Catholic Church, unjustly excluded
by the bigots of this colony, but I am willing, if it is
desired, to permit my daughters to become Protestants,
either of the established Church or the new sect of Baptists,
it being quite indifferent to me whether they are of one or
the other persuasion, if they are not of the true church.
With these conditions, I desire to leave my wife wholly to
her own views in every matter, and I will compel all who
are around her to yield to her wishes. If Miss Vane has
any desire to change her former decision, she has now
an opportunity, and I need scarcely add that her affirmative
decision will be a source of much satisfaction to myself.”

Having finished his speech, Mr. Lindon again buried his
chin, in a stately way, in his neckcloth, and was silent.

Bonnybel did not speak for some moments, and then she
merely said, struggling successfully against her anger and
indignant scorn,

“I am surprised, sir, that you should have again renewed
this proposition, and—”

He interrupted her more grandly and ceremoniously than
ever, and said, with a motion of his hand,

“Your surprise is quite natural, Miss Vane. I can understand
that you naturally feared that I would not return,
having treated me, upon our last interview, with a coldness
which I am sure you have regretted. You are right, madam.
Men of my stamp seldom renew a proposition of this description,
and there is room for some astonishment in the present
instance. But I have set my mind upon seeing you preside
at my house of `Agincourt,' and your rebuff has not repelled
me. You, no doubt, regretted it, and I desire to afford
you an opportunity of reconsidering your determination.”

His tone was so insulting with its stately condescension
now, that Bonnybel blushed with speechless indignation.

Mr. Lindon misunderstood the origin of this emotion, and
said, in the same patronizing way,

“Do not permit your agitation to carry you away, Miss
Vane. I can understand that you did not expect this, and
am not desirous of compelling you to declare your regret at
our misunderstanding in any formal manner. We are nearly
at the portico now, and I beg that you will compose yourself.
A simple line, as I depart in the morning, will be sufficient,
and if I may suggest, you might fix as early a day as
is consistent with social propriety. I shall be very happy to
have your cousin, Mr. St. John, as my first groomsman,
though he does not seem well affected toward the government,
and may cause me some trouble with his Excellency.
I beg to assure you that in any such contingency I shall be
most happy to use my influence. We have arrived, madam,
and I regret to see you so much overcome with the natural
and engaging modesty of your sex. But I beg you will
not be flurried. I shall expect your reply when I depart
in the morning, and, meanwhile, shall spare your maiden
blushes, and not renew the subject.”

They had reached the portico as Mr. Lindon concluded
this oration, and were now joined by Helen and Aunt
Mabel.

Bonnybel left her stately admirer, and hastened up stairs,
whether to hide her maiden blushes, or burst into tears of
scorn, and anger, and indignation, we leave the reader to
determine. She did not reappear during the whole evening,
and only came down stairs on the next morning when Mr.
Lindon's fine equipage stood at the door. Her cheeks burnt
with indignant fire, and her little foot almost ground itself
into the carpet with anger as she murmured, “He shall not
think I'm afraid to meet him!”

She restrained her scorn by a violent effort, however, and
when Mr. Lindon invited her into the library, coldly declined.
Her hand held a note tightly, however, and this
note Mr. Lindon took with an expression of condescending
satisfaction.

He bowed ceremoniously, and with his head raised in a
conquering attitude, entered his chariot and drove away,
holding the reins himself.

Bonnybel watched him with the same look of scornful
pride, but suddenly this expression gave way to one almost
of pleasure.

Mr. Lindon turned in his seat almost foaming with rage,
and tore a piece of paper which he held in his hand; after
which he shook his clenched fist at the hall, and lashing his
wild horses, disappeared like lightning.

The torn paper was Bonnybel's note, and this note contained
simply—

“Miss Vane declines, now and for ever, the insulting addresses
of Mr. Lindon. If they are renewed, she will regard
it as an outrage unworthy of a gentleman. She prays
that all personal acquaintance, even, may henceforth cease
between them.”

That was all. And if any reader thinks our little heroine
too fiery, it is because we have not drawn the portrait of
her admirer with sufficient force.

When Helen took leave of Mr. Alston, a kind look of regret

was in her eyes; when Mr. Lindon departed, Bonnybel's
eyes flashed dangerously.

The reason was that Mr. Alston was a gentleman—Mr.
Lindon was not. But the fact made him all the more dangerous,
as this hitory will in due time show.