20. CHAPTER XX.
HOW MISS BONNYBEL FAINTED IN THE ARMS OF HER COUSIN.
Although Miss Bonnybel carefully forgot to state the
fact, St. John had accompanied them on the visit to Jordan's
and Cawson's, riding by the old chariot on his fine “Tallyho,”
and adding very much to the zest of the journey by
his wit and humor.
The young man was now quietly domiciled at Vanely;
the fact that he was lieutenant of the Governor's guards
appearing never to cross his mind. He had left his subordinate
in command, and did not trouble himself further.
His whole thoughts were absorbed in the pursuit of the now
“cherished object.”
Day by day, thus lingering at Vanely, he became more
dangerously enthralled. He constantly found, or thought
that he found, in the little maiden, some new and more exquisite
attraction.
Nor was this wholly the result of fancy. Since his last
visit, Bonnybel had greatly changed, and was changing still.
To every maiden comes a time when, opening from bud to
blossom, into the perfect flower of womanhood, she stands
upon the banks of the fast-flowing stream, and sees, in
dreams as it were—dreams full of mysterious loveliness
—an unknown face: and with sighs and smiles, feels in
her pulses a new life before undreamed of. Thus was it
with the careless little witch of Vanely. St. John, when he
came again to the familiar old mansion, saw, in place of a
romping child, a beautiful young lady.
He had left Bonnybel a girl, and found her, all at once, a
woman. The change in her person was even more remarkable
than in her character. Before, her figure was ungracefully
angular, and many of her movements abrupt and awkward.
Now all this had disappeared. Still slender, her
person was yet full and exquisitely rounded; every motion
was gliding and full of grace; the cheek, once too pale, was
now round and blooming like a rose; the large eyes were
brilliant, melting, and full of what the poets have described
as “liquid light.” In a word, that marvelous change which
is so peculiar to the girl just budding into the woman, had
come over the young lady, and with every passing hour the
influence deepened, the rosy cheeks grew rosier, the pouting
lips bloomed with a richer carnation, the dangerous
eyes increased their fatal brilliancy.
Bonnybel possessed that rare and indefinable attraction,
which, in all ages, has brought men to the feet of the women
endowed with it. With far less beauty of feature, her influence
would probably have been nearly as great. Her
mobile and ever changing countenance reflected, as from a
mirror, the ceaseless play of her thoughts and feelings. She
was, by no means, at all times, the wild and coquetish girl,
full of mirth and laughter; at certain moments, every trace
of gaiety disappeared, and the bright eyes swam in tears,
or were fixed upon vacancy with a sad intentness.
She sang delightfully. And here again she was finely endowed.
She not only caroled, with the most contagious
mirth and wild abandon, the “comic” ditties of the period—
“Within a Furlong of Edinborough Town,” “Pretty Betty
Martin, tip-toe fine,” and others; she sang, with a sadness
and pathos equally contagious, the songs of sentiment then
popular—“Flowers of the Forest,” “Grammachree,” “Farewell
to Lochaber,” and that beautiful ditty which is certainly
the pearl of all music, which sounds like the sigh of the autumn
wind through the broom straw, the inexpressibly pathetic
“Katherine Ogie.”
Of these songs, sung by Bonnybel, our worthy author
says—They are the sweetest, I think, of all the Scottish minstrelsy.
But all are sweet, far more so than the ditties of
to-day. They sound for us now with a dim memorial music,
those madrigals which were caroled by our grandmothers
to the murmur of old ghostly harpsichords, while, standing
by the little beauties, our respected grandfathers were captivated,
and for ever after dreamed of those old tunes, and
loved them as the echoes of past happiness and youthful
joys, and all that carnival which glitters and darts onward
in the rosy dawn of youth. I knew an old gentleman who
would often take his book of ancient Scottish songs, and
murmur them to himself for hours; and I've frequently
seen my dear and honored father sit, with wistful smiles,
and pensive eyes, recalling, as he listened to his favorite
“Flowers of the Forest,” youthful hours, and the little
maiden who sang for him, the same song, in the days of silk
stockings and hair powder, early in the century. Kindhearted
and true Virginia gentleman, whose hand has so
often rested on my head in childhood, may you sleep in
peace! O noble father, gone from us to heaven! thinking
of you now, here in the sunshine, and of what was a rarer,
purer sunshine—your sweet smile—the idle words I write
swim as I gaze on them. I lay down my pen and muse, and
am thankful for the blood that flows in my veins, for the noble
sire bestowed upon me by a gracious and kind Heaven!
But let us not listen further to the worthy old gentleman.
The personages of our history demand attention—the scenes
which attended Mr. Harry St. John's visit to Vanely. Let
us return thither for a brief space, before following the current
of the chronicle which glides away to mix itself with
the roar of history. Let us linger in the old domain, and
watch the ripple of that stream of colonial life which has
flown from us, and seems now to murmur from remote and
misty shores. Let us gaze upon the snowy clouds, serenely
floating over emerald fields to the far, mysterious horizon;
hear the whisper of the ocean breeze in the Vanely oaks,
and follow our hero, Mr. Henry St. John, in his gradual approaches
toward the woman whom he loved.
That he had reached this point, his own heart no longer
left him in the least doubt. A new influence seemed to
have descended upon his life; every thing became, as it
were, transfigured. A purer orange shone in the sunset
and the dawn, the waves upon the shore were perfect music,
the songs of birds came to him like a divine harmony
of joy and love. The future, which before he had scarce
given a thought to, opened now a grand, illimitable landscape,
bathed, as it were, in rosy and enchanting sunlight.
The poor, cold, trifling past had disappeared like a dream of
the hours of darkness, and in the marvelous radiance of the
new dawn, the heart of the young man throbbed, his cheeks
glowed like a boy's; the world seemed to him one great field
of flowers, over which wandered slowly, like some fairy
queen of a sinless realm, the figure of the woman whom he
loved. Strange power of ardent and true love! which in
our cold, prosaic age is so often strangled by the dust of
the conflict, or in the inexorable grasp of mammon; which
the dilettanti and the “men of the world” sneer at; which for
that reason, if no other, may demand respect and honor!
Of the endless walks, and talks, and rides, and excursions,
we have no room to speak. Perhaps we are fortunate in
this, since our friends, the sneering philosophers of the new
school, might call the history “love-sick,” and visit us with
their displeasure.
Still, let us go with the young man and his companion
on one of these excursions. Perhaps the ocean breeze
may blow on the page, and that is better than the dust of
streets.
It is a balmy morning, and unloosing a sail-boat from the
Vanely wharf, St. John assists the girl to her seat, and
spreads the white sail, which the wind fills immediately.
Directed by the skillful paddle, the sail-boat plunges its
cutwater into the waves, and, like a waterfowl with outstretched
wings, flies down the broad river.
Little is said by either the young man or his companion
as they float on. The beautiful landscape, the fleecy clouds
serenely drifting across the blue sky, the soft and balmy air,
these seem to discourage idle conversation; an indefinable
feeling steals over Bonnybel, and she is silent and pensive.
Half reclining on the gunwale of the boat, she listens to the
murmur of the waves, surrendering herself wholly to the influence
of the time and scene.
St. John thinks that he never saw her look more lovely,
and, in truth, the picture is attractive. The wide straw hat,
with its fluttering ribbons, has fallen back upon the graceful
neck, and the young lady's profuse brown hair, parted in
the middle of her forehead, lies in a mass of curls upon her
shoulders. The head droops forward in a pensive attitude,
and as the boat runs before the breeze, the fingers of the
wind caress and bring a blush, as it were, to the damsel's
cheeks, blowing her hair in ripples from the white forehead,
and fluttering gayly the gay ribbon knots which decorate
her bodice. The odors of the foliage and flowers along the
banks combine to fill the atmosphere with breaths of fragrant
perfume, and the brilliant sunlight falls in a silver flood upon
the wide expanse, glittering in the ripples, and rejoicing,
so to speak, in its tranquil splendor.
Bonnybel leans lower over the boat's side, and plays with
her fingers in the water, and, with a smile, flirts some drops
toward St. John. Then raising her head, she follows the
flight of a hawk or an eagle, disappearing in the clouds, or
her glance rests upon some white-sailed ship winging its
way like a sea-bird to the ocean; or with half-closed eyes,
in a dreamy reverie, she listens to the song of birds, heard
faintly from the forest, whose rich leaves dance and twinkle
in the sunshine, moved by the balmy wind for ever blowing.
Such idle words as were uttered, the gay breeze bore far
away; those winds of other years still hold the secret.
They came at last opposite the old island of Jamestown,
and in obedience to the young lady's wish, St. John ran the
boat ashore, and they landed.
The old church and a few ruins only remained, with one
or two fishermen's huts near at hand, and lingering among
the ruins, the young man and his companion talked of old
times.
Few spots on earth possess the interest of Jamestown
island. It was here that the New World was born and
cradled, in storm and blood. Here lived and thought, and
fought, and suffered, and triumphed, one of the noblest and
truest gentlemen that ever walked the world—Captain John
Smith. Here Pocahontas was received into the church and
married; the child who had held a hero's head upon her
bosom, to defend it from the savage war-club; who lives yet
in ten thousand hearts, as the impersonation of the highest,
truest womanhood, of love, pity, a devotion which counted
life as nothing if she might save from death a poor, unknown,
disarmed captive! The monumental pride of kings
in hard marble or the stubborn bronze will go to decay, lapse
back to earth, and they and their actions be forgotten. But
the story of Pocahontas shall be known and remembered
by a mighty host of unborn millions, who will love and honor
her.
They spoke of the Indian princess, lingering in the old
ruins, and on the spot where she had so often stood, and
Bonnybel's pensive eyes seemed to wander to the past, as
her companion went on.
“We lead but poor, cold lives compared with her,” she
said at last, with a deep sigh; “we are nothing but butterflies!”
And plucking a flower from the ruins, she added,
“As this bud to the artificial flower of the dressmaker, so
does Pocahontas compare with us. There, it is not worth
while to deny it; it is true, and `pity 'tis, 'tis true.' You
are descended from Pocahontas—there, I present you with
the flower. It is time to go home.”
The tide was favorable, as it was coming in, and taking
in the sail, St. John plied his paddle, and slowly returned to
the Vanely wharf. They had then the new recreation of a
walk through the fields, and, as though for their especial
benefit, the day became even more delightful. The affluent
glory of the morning deepened, a languid pleasure seemed
to brood over the landscape; as St. John walked by Bonnybel's
side, he felt as if he were making a journey through
fairy land.
They were not to reach home without incident, however
—an incident of a nature sufficiently startling.
Their path wound through the meadow, crossed a brook,
skirted with deep grass and flowers, and then ascended the
hill. They paused by the brook side, and Bonnybel requested
her companion to go and get her a bunch of wild honeysuckle
flowers, which was visible fifty yards off, in a clump
of bushes.
St. John left her side, and the young lady was strolling
along the little stream, when her attention was attracted by
a singularly brilliant object, apparently lying in the grass.
It looked like a jewel, and was buried, so to speak, in a
bunch of thick herbage.
Suddenly the bright object moved. Turning deadly pale,
the girl started back, and a stifled cry escaped from her colorless
lips.
It was a rattlesnake of the largest size; and as the girl
gazed toward the horrible object with panting bosom and
charmed eyes, the reptile unrolled his great bulk, and raised
high up above the bunch of grass, his loathsome, but beautiful
crest.
In an instant this crest seemed to swell and expand—
it assumed a hue like topaz—and the small, piercing eyes
burned and glittered with a light which seemed to deprive
the girl of her will.
She stretched out her arms and tried to cry aloud, but her
voice expired in a moan.
The reptile's wide mouth was all at once expanded, and
his sharp teeth, bending backward, glittered in a deadly row.
The forked tongue shook with an angry vibration; the tail
began to move and curl to and fro.
The girl was spell-bound by those glittering and satanic
eyes, which charmed and dazzled her, while they chilled her
heart's blood. She had never for a moment given credit to
the stories of this influence; but she now found a horrible
attraction in those eyes. She felt a mingled desire to fly
and to advance—the eyes of the snake terrified her to death,
yet drew her toward him.
But suddenly this expression of the eye changed. The
rattlesnake seemed to abandon the idea of charming, and
to be mastered by anger. The piercing eyes darted flames
of fire, the crest burned and blazed with a thousand colors,
the forked tongue darted to and fro like lightning, and the
huge folds of the reptile rapidly undulated, writhed about,
and changed into all the colors of the rainbow. At the
same moment the tail was raised and shaken with the rapidity
of a humming bird's wings; the huge mouth opened,
and the deadly rattle rang out in the silence.
The girl knew that this was the signal of the serpent's
spring, and she no longer struggled against her fate. Her
knees bent beneath her, a cold perspiration streamed from
her brow, and with laboring bosom, and head thrown back
like a wounded bird, she closed her eyes and lost consciousness.
She was aroused by the contact of cold water on her brow
and hands, and opening her eyes, found herself lying in the
arms of Mr. St. John.
At two paces from her the rattlesnake lay dead—completely
severed in the middle. St. John had seen her attitude
of horror, had heard the deadly rattle, and arrived just
in time to strike the snake with a pliant stick, and prevent
the girl from falling. She now lay on his bosom, panting
and trembling, and hiding her face. She attempted to draw
back, and half rose to her feet, but her eyes falling on the
reptile, her strength was again paralyzed, and the second
time she fainted in Mr. St. John's arms.
The young man saw that it was absolutely necessary to
remove her from the repulsive object, and doubtless was not
displeased with his duty. He hastily took Bonnybel in his
arms, as if she was a child, and bore her to some distance.
Placing her pale and inanimate form on a bank, he quickly
brought some water in his hat and threw it in her face.
The color came back to her cheeks, she uttered a deep
sigh, and opened her eyes. It was some time before he
could reassure her, and make her understand that there was
no longer any danger. He succeeded at last, however, and
leaning on her cousin's arm, Bonnybel slowly returned
home. We forbear from relating the scene which ensued.
Mr. St. John was the hero of the hour for performing his
duty.
Bonnybel did not recover from her horror for a week, but
at the end of that time her gaiety returned, and as she was
going to retire one night, she told St. John, with an audacious
look, that if he had asked her on the day of the accident,
she would certainly have kissed him.
“It was of no importance,” returned the young man,
laughing. “I had you in my arms and carried you fifty
yards; your cheek lay on my shoulder; it is the softest I
ever felt.”
“Humph!” cried Miss Bonnybel, with a decided pout;
“highly improper in you to take a young lady in your arms!
and I'd like to know what
you know about girls' cheeks!
Well, I won't quarrel with my brave defender! I'm very
glad I'm alive; I'm sure 't is infinitely better than being
dead. Good night, my lord!”
And the little witch slams the door, and runs to her chamber
singing. St. John follows her example and dreams of
her.
