33. CHAPTER XXXIII.
A SLEEPING BEAUTY.
The young man rode so well that before the hour indicated
in Bonnybel's letter, he entered the great gate of
Vanely, and cantered to the door.
No servant was visible, and securing his horse to the rack
beneath one of the great oaks, he entered the mansion.
He opened the door of the library expecting to see Colonel
Vane; his hand was extended to greet the old gentleman,
but suddenly he paused.
In the great leather chair by the table, covered with books
and papers, Miss Bonnybel, overcome, apparently, by the
balmy influence of the May morning, was slumbering tranquilly.
Upon her lap rested an open volume, which seemed
to have escaped from her hand as she fell asleep, for one of
the slender fingers remained between the leaves.
St. John paused for a moment to take in fully the entire
details of the pretty picture.
The great chair had a sloping back, and thus the young
lady's position was almost that of one reclining. The graceful
head was languidly thrown back, and drooped side-wise
towards the rounded shoulder. Her hair had become
unbound and lay in brown masses of curls upon her neck.
Her small feet, with high-heeled slippers, decorated with
rich rosettes, reposed upon a velvet-cushioned cricket, and
the little pointed toes, over which fell the ribbons of the
artificial roses, peeped out gracefully from their hiding
place.
The young man remained for some time silent and motionless,
watching the sleeper. Not a trait of the picture
escaped his brilliant and penetrating glance. His laughing
eye riveted itself upon every detail—on the forehead
bathed in the dews of slumber, the dusky lashes lying
on the rosy cheeks, the glossy curls, which rose and fell with
the tranquil breathing of the maiden. He smiled as his gaze
dwelt upon the little slippers, so prettily arranged even in
sleep; on the hand, glittering with a single diamond which
hung languidly over one arm of the chair; upon the tapering
arms, the countenance filled with maiden sweetness,
and the fawn-colored dress, falling in ample folds around the
wearer's graceful figure.
We doubt if even the most violent advocates of propriety
will blame him, when he cautiously approached, and bending
down, took the disengaged hand and kissed it in a cousinly
way.
But Miss Bonnybel did not awake. He looked at the
volume lying on her lap. It was the book of ballads which
he had been reading to her on the morning when Lindon
interrupted them, and she had opened at the particular
poem they had read together.
A slight color came to the young man's cheek. Let us
pardon him—he was in love. He hesitated what course to
pursue, but, all at once, this hesitation disappeared. His
glance fell, with an audacious smile, upon the coquettish
feet, and he had fixed on his scheme. This scheme was
simply to remove the rosettes, which were secured by small
silver buckles, from the shoes, to go into the hall and make
some noise which should arouse Miss Bonnybel, and then to
enjoy, from his hiding place, the young lady's surprise and
confusion.
He carefully set about his undertaking, and became so
absorbed in it that he did not see the maiden's head rise
with a sudden movement, her eyes open, and fix themselves
upon him. He raised his head, however, to see if the sleeper
was undisturbed, and Miss Bonnybel closed her eyes, and
drew a long, labored breath—smiling, it seemed, in her
sleep! The young man's smile replied to it, and having detached
one of the rosettes, he set about securing the other.
Then it was that he heard suddenly the calm and satirical
words,
“Do n't you think that will do, sir? I should suppose that
one was enough!”
Thus caught in the act, Mr. Harry St. John remained for
a moment dumbfoundered. But recovering his equanimity,
he said, laughing,
“Did you compose yourself in that pretty attitude to receive
me, Bonnybel?”
“Humph! and you suppose I would take the trouble!”
“You said you'd put on your best gown and ruffles.”
“I was speaking satirically, sir! I suppose your vanity
will not believe it—but, pray, what are you doing to my
feet?”
“I was only taking off your rosettes. I should like to examine
them; they're very pretty!”
“I suspect you intended some trick! I know it, sir!
But enough! You'll please let them alone!”
And Miss Bonnybel withdrew her feet, vivaciously, from
sight.
“I feel profound remorse for my presumption,” said Mr.
St. John, in a contrite tone; “let me atone for my offense,
most beautiful lady. The culprit can only make restitution
—though your feet are dangerous things to approach! Hold
them out!”
Bonnybel hesitated, glancing doubtfully at him. But
the young lady had lovely feet, and her obduracy yielded to
her vanity. She thrust out the extreme point of the slipper
deprived of its rosette, and Mr. St. John secured the ornament
in its place. He was so long doing so, however,
that the young lady tapped her foot impatiently, and then
the wide folds of her dress swept over foot and slipper.
“You see,” said her companion, “I've come in obedience
to your command. Where's uncle?”
“They all went over to Maycock's,” returned the young
lady. “Heigho! I've had such a dull time reading that
love-sick ballad. It put me to sleep.”
And she yawned.
“How I should like to take a ride,” she added.
“Would you? Then I'll go order your horse. Mine's
at the door. Where shall we go?”
“Anywhere; say to `Flower of Hundreds.' ”
“My old rattletrap? Well, so be it.”
And the young man went and ordered Miss Bonnybel's
horse.
They were soon galloping over the fields and through
the forest, exchanging a hundred jests, and an hour's ride
brought them to their destination.
“Flower of Hundreds,” Mr. St. John's mansion, stood on
an elevated plateau, near the river. Instead of a “rattletrap,”
it was a fine old country house, with a score of apartments,
stables sufficient to accommodate a hundred horses,
and a servant for every pane in every window.
They entered the fine old grounds, and the gray-haired
African, left as major domo, by his master, came and greeted
them with dignity and respect. Half a dozen negro boys
ran to take their horses, and leaning lightly on the arm of
her cavalier, Miss Bonnybel held up her long skirt, and entered.
Along the walls of the old antler-decorated hall hung the
St. Johns, male and female, of a dozen generations. A number
of fox-hounds rose to welcome the visitors, but, neglecting
the young lady, bestowed their entire caresses upon the
young man.
“See the small discrimination of the canine species,” said
St. John, “they neglect `Beauty' for the notice of the
`Beast.' ”
“I always distrust your mock humility, and especially your
compliments; the dogs like you because they've had nobody
else to like; you're a miserable old bachelor!”
“So I am, but how can I help that?”
“Humph! very easily. That is to say, sir, you can
try!”
And Miss Bonnybel gave her cousin an audacious glance,
shot over her right shoulder, and full of coquettish audacity.
“What's the use of trying?” he said. “ 'T is very easy
to get married, but difficult to get the girl one wants.”
“And she is to marry your lordship without being asked,
I suppose! That's very reasonable indeed!”
St. John looked steadily at his companion, to discover if
the words meant more than was expressed. But she darted
from him, and ran into the great sitting-room.
“O! there's my favorite portrait,” she cried; “the picture
of Sir Arthur St. John, is n't it, of the time of his
Majesty Charles II., who died for love? What a noble
face, with its pointed beard, and long, gay curling `love
locks!' ”
“ 'T is handsome indeed, but do you admire him for dying
of love?”
“Yes—to distraction! I wish he'd courted me! He'd
never have died!”
“Pity you did n't live in his Majesty's times,” said St.
John, with a glance of admiration; “the Arthurs have all
gone, and our hair to-day is cut close. You might marry
a gentleman of the St. Johns somewhere, but he'd be apt
to look far less romantic.”
It was Miss Bonnybel's turn to dart a look of curiosity at
her cousin now, but she read nothing in his face.
With a sudden laugh, the conversation was turned by the
young lady, and then they ran all over the old mansion, prying
into every nook, and laughing at every thing.
An hour passed thus, and then they remounted and returned
to Vanely, where they found the ladies of the family
and the colonel.
St. John related the scene at the Governor's, with many
amusing exaggerations, but he was glad at last to steal away
into a corner with Bonnybel, who drew him toward her with
laughing glances.
Thus passed several days, and, with every passing hour,
the dazzling loveliness of Miss Bonnybel increased in her
lover's eyes, and he found his resolution failing him.
In their rides and walks, the damsel said a hundred careless
things which made his pulse throb, and her dangerous
eyes gave meaning to her mischief.
Who can paint such a compound, as she was, of audacity
and reserve, of feeling and mirth? who could place, in cold
words, the light, and fire, and attraction of her brilliant
eyes? The present chronicler is unequal to the task. He
sees her smiles and coquetries, her pouts and blushes; he
hears her laughter and her sighs, but he can not describe
them.
Of what those days of constant meeting resulted in, he
can tell with ease, however. But even this trouble is spared
him. By good fortune, he has a letter from St. John to his
friend Mr. Alston, and this will tell the tale.
