University of Virginia Library

22. CHAPTER XXII.
AT THE “TRYSTING TREE.”

The highest point in the Vanely “chase,” studded all over
with great trees, which throw their twinkling shadows on
the green sward, is crowned by a mighty oak, from the foot
of which a noble view may be obtained.

Around the base of the tree is arranged a wicker seat, immemorially,
if tradition may be believed, the favorite resort
of lovers. Indeed, the great oak, time out of mind, has
been known as the “Trysting Tree.”

It is a balmy evening, and the sun is about to set. A
thousand birds carol in the orange atmosphere, darting from
tree to tree; the swallows circle on quick wings around the
stacks of chimneys, up above them, crimson now in the sunset.
It is the hour above all others favorable to lovers, and
the two personages, whose fortunes we relate, are sitting on
the wicker seat of the trysting tree.

The attitude of Bonnybel would make an excellent picture.
It is such as we have described, on the morning of

Mr. Lindon's visit, when St. John and herself were reading
from the book of ballads.

The coquettish maiden leans back upon the picturesque
seat. She wears her pink dress, ornamented with ribbon
knots, and her bare white arms are encircled by the red coral
bracelets. A rebellious mass of curls has fallen, by the
purest accident, of course, upon her shoulders, and in the
same accidental way, a pair of exquisite feet appear from beneath
the young lady's skirt. This accident invariably happens
to Miss Bonnybel in spite of her most anxious care.
They are remarkable feet; one of the “minute philosophers,”
gifted with a genius for poesy and exclamation
points, might write a chapter on their expression. They
are slender, with lofty insteps, and seem made to dance over
flowers and sunny sward, in the revels of May. Rich red
rosettes burn on the insteps; the slippers are of blue morocco
with high heels, and pointed toes; they are secured
with ribbons crossed above the delicate ankles. They wrap
themselves around each other as before, and occasionally
move about, in a way that would induce a carping observer
to declare that the little maiden was abundantly aware of
their being visible, and wanted her companion to admire
their beauty.

As she reclines thus in the rich light of the balmy evening,
which pours a flood of joyous splendor on her face, her hair,
her dress, down to the rich rosettes, in bold relief against
the slender little feet, Miss Bonnybel presents a picture
of the most coquettish beauty; at least this is the opinion
of her lover, Mr. Harry St. John.

He has been relating for her entertainment the legend of
the trysting tree; how a lovely little ancestress of the Vanely
family met a youth here, who had lost his heart with her;
how the maiden played with him and amused herself, and
gave him her brightest and most encouraging smiles, and
ended by haughtily discarding him in the flattest and most
surprised way, when he said how madly he loved her. He
had left her without a word, with only a profound, cold inclination

of his head, and for a time the little beauty had
not been able to realize the fact that his pride had been outraged.
She expected him to return, but he did not come.
She met him at public places, and beamed on him with her
most coquettish sunshine; he bowed and passed her without
speaking. She came to love him with a love greater
even than his own former sentiment for her; he did not
come. She wrote him a laughing, jesting note, inviting
him to Vanely; he excused himself. In a fit of rage and
despair she married a wealthy planter, twice her age, and
on the night of her wedding, stole from the company, and
was found, in a fainting fit, on the wicker seat of the trysting
tree.

Ten years afterwards, her lover was slain in the great rebellion
of 1676, and they found, on his dead body, a letter in
the handwriting of a woman, with the words, “I loved you
and am wretched, for I can never see you more. Farewell.”
The ball which tore through his heart had obliterated
the name signed to the epistle, and it was replaced upon
the pale, cold bosom, and buried with the body.

This was the legend of the trysting tree, related by
St. John for his companion's amusement. Bonnybel
listens silently, and at its termination says, with a heavy
sigh,

“That 's just the way with men; they never love truly,
but fly off, at a moment's warning, for a glance or a word
they dislike.”

“Do n't you think he was right?” said her companion.

“Right! who could ever think so?”

“I do.”

“Right to leave the girl he loved, because she did not
yield to his suit at the first word? Forsooth! you lords of
creation are truly very reasonable.”

“I think he was right,” said St. John, “because no man
should suffer his self respect to be invaded even by the woman
he loves. If he do n't respect himself, how can she?
It was thus in the legend. The young gentleman loved the

young lady honestly and truly; she beckoned to him with
her eyes, and held out her hands to him, as 't were, to come
and receive them. Well, he obeys the enticing eyes, and
smiles; he blushes, may be, with the thought that he 's
surely going to be happy; he is an honest gentleman, he
loves her; she says, plainly, `I love you with my whole
heart,' though she does not speak, and on this hint he does
speak. But, instead of yielding, she looks indignant; she
is surprised, bestows a haughty look upon him, repulses
him. Come now, my dear, could he still remain beside her,
much less love her?”

“I'll thank you to keep your `my dears' to yourself, sir!”
says Miss Bonnybel, with a look which says “you may call
me so as much as you please.” “I think the hero of the
legend acted as no true lover could. Humph! to leave her,
and put on his grand airs when she even condescended to
smile, and hold out her hand, and solicit him. I'd have
boxed his ears! No gentleman really in love could have
refused her hand.”

“I could have done it.”

“Ha! ha! I know what you would have done; you
would have taken it! Now, just fancy me the young lady;
I'm only a poor little country maiden, but I shall act her
part.”

And with the most audacious and bewitching glance,
crammed full of coquettish attraction, and caressing blandishment,
Bonnybel held out one of her small white hands
toward her companion.

He put both of his own behind his back, with a laugh.

Bonnybel, thrown suddenly off her guard by the action,
colored to the roots of her hair, and her pouting lips contracted
with anger.

“So your lordship is determined to act the part of
the hero to the life, are you?” she said, with flushed
cheeks.

“Yes.”

Bonnybel turned from him with a toss of the head, and

pouting elaborately, played in a fretful way with the tassels
of her girdle.

St. John quietly waited for her mood to change. He did
not mistake in his calculation. Bonnybel played petulantly
for some moments longer with the tassels, then stole a wary
glance at her lover, writhed the small slippers around each
other, and finally meeting Mr. St. John's smiling eye, colored
slightly, and burst out laughing.

“I suppose you would refuse my hand if I offered it in
my own character, as simple Bonnybel Vane,” she said.

And with a hesitating movement, she released the unfortunate
tassels, and seemed about to give the hand, but drew
it back suddenly.

It was too late.

“Refuse your hand!” said St. John, bestowing upon the
young lady a look so tender that she turned crimson, “I
should refuse it thus then!”

And imprisoning not only one, but both of the soft
hands in his own, the impulsive lover drew Bonnybel
toward him, and seemed about to press his lips to her
own.

The young lady uttered an exclamation, and with a slight
struggle released herself.

“How dare you presume, sir,” she cried, “to try to kiss
me? You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

“Cousins, you know!” laughed the young man, “ 't was
only the cousin's privilege I was about to take!”

“A pretty excuse!” said the young lady, with a rosy
blush, and pouting more than ever, “and just look, sir!
my hair's all tumbled down by your rudeness.”

In truth the beautiful brown hair lay in a brilliant mass
upon her shoulders, and a stray curl wandered down and fell
upon the young man's cheek, as he sat on the projecting
root beside her feet.

“I can testify my contrition in one way only,” he said,
smiling, “but you will not let me.”

“In what way, pray?” said Bonnybel, recovering her

daring self-possession, and bestowing upon him her customary
glance of provoking attraction.

“I will act as your lady's maid,” he said, “I have done so
often, you know.”

And in spite of some slight resistance on the part of the
girl, he gathered up the beautiful locks and set about arranging
them. We are bound to say that the resistance offered
by Miss Bonnybel was such as to make her smiling
companion think she was not really averse to his obliging
proposal. Bonnybel had the most beautiful hair, as soft and
glossy as silk, and she was not unwilling to have it admired.
Then, after all, Mr. Harry St. John was her cousin and playmate,
and in Virginia, ceremony of every sort falls to the
ground before the magical spell of “cousin.”

So Mr. Harry St. John applied himself assiduously, but
not rapidly, to his task. Let not the cynical reader laugh
when we relate that his pulse galloped fast as he took in his
hands the bright, perfumed curls, and touched the rosy
cheek by purest accident. When a young man is as much in
love as was our hero—we would urge upon the critics in his
favor—the cheek will occasionally flush, the heart will beat
—by singular good fortune the hearts of the cynical philosophers
are never known to beat.

“There, sir!” cried Bonnybel, suddenly, “you've had
time enough!”

“What beautiful hair you have!” he said, finishing his
task, “and how I admire it.”

“That's all about me that you admire, then, I suppose.”

“No indeed; I admire every thing. But I need not assure
you on this point. In truth, Bonnybel,” added the
young man, taking his former seat upon the root at her feet,
“I do n't know how I shall get on, when I'm away from
you now.”

And there was so much seriousness in his tone, that the
young lady, this time, did not laugh.

“You know I go to Richmond town to-morrow, and thence
to Williamsburg. When I can come again I don't know.

His Excellency is my master, you see, and I've already
taken an immensely long holiday. I certainly calculated on
being arrested, or at the very least, on a terrific explosion.
But this is not interesting to you. I may escape the storm
of wrath and come back some day.”

“Not interesting to me?” said Bonnybel, passing, as she
often did, from mirth and jest to sadness, and looking at the
young man as she spoke, with her large, sad, serious eyes;
“why do you say that what concerns you can not interest
me?”

St. John sighed.

“I do n't mean, my dear—but you do not like me to call
you, `my dear'—”

“It is nothing,” she said, in a low voice.

“Well, I do n't mean that you 'll not take a certain interest
in my life, dear, for we are of one blood. But I find
myself doubting the reality of any deep sympathy in any
one. You see, Bonnybel, I never knew my father or my
mother, that is, they are mere figures of my early childhood.
It is true that uncle and aunt have been as kind to me as
kind can be, but I have always felt, as it were, alone in the
world.”

“That is not just; you know how much we—all—love
you.”

“Then you will be glad to know that I am well and happy?
You say `we all.' Does that mean that you care any
thing for me?” he whispered, taking her hand and gazing
into her eyes, with a long, fixed look.

With the beautiful head sorrowfully drooping over the
right shoulder, and her large, sad eyes, fixed on his own, the
young girl, not withdrawing her hand, murmured in a low
voice,

“Yes.”

The sweetest hours of evening had descended on them,
as they tarried beneath the old trysting tree, and the orange
west grew fainter as the great orb sank slowly to its couch
in the purple waves. The east began to twinkle with a

million stars, and the balmy breeze of the ocean sighed
through the great boughs above, and died away in a low
murmur. The birds had folded up their wings and gone to
rest, the last lingering rays of sunset rose like golden crowns
from the lofty chimneys of the old hall. The whole landscape
sank, field after field, tint after tint, into warm and
dreamy sleep.

St. John held in his own the unresisting hand of the young
lady, and those words which determine often the fate of a
whole life, were on his lips. As he gazed upon the exquisite
countenance; upon the large eyes swimming in pensive
sadness; upon the graceful head, with its clustering curls
drooping toward the shoulder; upon the pouting lips, half
parted, as in some dreamy reverie, his glance grew more
fixed and tender, his cheek flushed impetuously, and he
drew the hand he held toward him.

Poor St. John! Unfortunate lover! Suddenly a voice
greets him—a voice from behind—and Miss Seraphina, in
capacious sunbonnet, and holding a bunch of May flowers,
is added to the party. She has been out walking, and on
her return, seeing the two young people at the trysting
tree, has determined to bestow her company upon them.
Approaching from behind, she had remained unseen, until
they were in contact almost.

Miss Seraphina does or does not suspect something; but
at least she smiles, and launches forth cheerfully on a variety
of subjects. St. John utters an inaudible sigh, and as Bonnybel
says that it is time for her to go in, accompanies the
ladies to the house.

The young man and Miss Bonnybel seemed both preoccupied
throughout the early part of the evening, but toward
bed-time the young lady's gayety seemed to return,
and she bade farewell to Mr. St. John, who was going with
the Vanely race-horses to Richmond, at an ealy hour, with
her former air of mischief and coquettish satire.

“I trust your lordship will very soon return,” she said;
“the next time, I promise to be in the drawing-room with

my hair elegantly dressed, and you'll kiss me at your peril,
sir! We'll surely meet at the assembly, but I count on
having you come back before that time. Pray do so, if
you think the inducements here sufficient. A pleasant journey!”

And giving him her hand, with an audacious glance from
her dangerous eyes, the young lady dashed up the broad
stair-case, candle in hand, and disappeared.

Mr. St. John was “finished,” but his smile seemed to indicate
that he felt any thing but pain.