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“Pretty woman! That's just like a man. Pretty chromo, you mean, Tom.”
“Well,” in a hearty, pleasant voice, “maybe you are the better judge;
but I don't believe she's 'made up,' and if I wasn't the most henpecked
man on earth I'd say she was the loveliest creature I ever saw. As for
her hair, it's----”
“Blondined! And so utterly impossible in color that it couldn't for
a moment fool anybody but a man,” interrupted the first speaker, with
deliciously spiteful emphasis on the very common noun man.
“Eyebrows stencilled, eyelashes darkened; lips, ears and finger tips
tinged with carmine--don't you know? Complexion enamel, vinegar rouge
and brunette powder--pshaw! The way the men go on about her makes me
positively ill. If you fall in love with her, Harry, you are no brother
of mine. I don't care to be sister-in-law to a lithograph in _fast_
colors.”
“You make me curious to see her, Nell, dear. By Jove, she must be either
a monster or a paragon! Have the spirit of a man, Tom, and tell me
which.”
“Don't try to extract any more information from me, old man; my teeth
are positively chattering with terror. You can decide for yourself this
evening, if your ferocious sister will allow you to leave your room. By
the way,” with an amused laugh, “what do you suppose Nell and the rest
of her charitable sex up here have dubbed the poor girl? 'The lady in
rouge!'”
“Yes, and she ought to have a sign, 'Paint, don't touch.' I believe
she is a divorcée or a widow, and I know she's thirty in spite of her
sickening affectation of youth.”
“Oh, come, Nell, you are absolutely vicious. She is not a day over
twenty, and she has the prettiest name I ever heard, Violante Solander;
accent on the second syllable, Harry, not on the first, to rhyme with
Hollander, as the bride of my bosom insists on pronouncing it.”
“Sounds like a combination of Spanish and Scandinavian,” the younger man
answers.
“It is,” returns his brother-in-law. “I have met her father several
times at the Cosmos Club in Washington. He is a Norwegian, a wonderfully
handsome man, of the purest blonde type, with charming old-time manners
and a voice as deep and sonorous as a fine bell. Jack Kendricks, who
knows him quite well, told me something of his history. As a young man
he traveled pretty much all over the world, and in South America met and
married Miss Viola's mother. She was an Ecuadorean of Spanish descent,
and so beautiful that she was called, in reference to her name, which
was the same as her daughter's, 'The Violet of Quito.' It is really a
case of the Arctic zone wedding the Equator.”
“Or of a walrus committing matrimony with a llama. No wonder she is
neither fish, flesh nor fowl,” added madame, with a malicious emphasis
that made both men laugh.
This conversation floated up to me as I sat smoking my cigar on the
forward edge of the hurricane deck of the little steamer that carried
passengers from the railroad station at the foot of a beautiful and
well-known lake in the Adirondacks to the village at the head of it,
whither we were all bound.
The party of three had crossed from the other side of the boat and Were
leaning against the guards immediately under me. Later on I came to
know them all well. The lady was a delightful little bundle of
inconsistencies, sharp of tongue, quick of temper and jealous of all
that belonged to her, but as generous as an Arab, very warm hearted,
perfectly fearless and honest and a loyal friend when won. She was born
Miss Eleanor Van Zandt, a family with a tree and traditions, pride,
possessions and position; but the fact that she belonged in the top
layer of the Four Hundred did not prevent her, some ten years before,
refusing a scion of the English nobility (a very wealthy one, too, if
you'll believe me), to her mother's Infinite disgust, and giving her
dimpled little hand, where she had already given her heart, to
big, kindly, genial Thomas Northrup, who was every inch a man and a
gentleman, but who was third in direct descent (and gloried in it, too)
from old John Northrup, saddle and harness maker, of whom I have heard
it told by one that saw it that he died on his sixtieth birthday in
the battle of Gettysburg, from some twenty bullet wounds received while
carrying the colors of his regiment, and that his last words were:
“Don't let the Johnnies get the flag!”
I feel it to be my painful duty to relate that Madame Nell, when
remonstrated with by her family upon the plebeian nature of the match
she was about to make, flew into a violent rage and said she would
gladly trade a baker's dozen of her eminently high and wellborn
Knickerbocker ancestors for “that grand old saddler.” The Van Zandt
crest is a lion rampant gardant, and shortly after the wedding an aunt,
who had declined to be present, received a spirited sketch of the family
beast, leaning upon a musket in the position of parade rest, carrying a
flag in his mouth and bearing upon his lordly back a monstrous saddle,
the motto in the surrounding heraldic belt being, “Don't let the
Johnnies get the flag!” This cheerful device was accompanied by a very
deferential and affectionate note from the bride, asking her aunt if she
did not think it a pretty way of combining the Northrup family (saddle)
tree with the crest of the Van Zandts, or if she thought the “dear old
lion” would appear to better advantage under a saddle that would conceal
him entirely from the gaze of the vulgar herd.
The old lady declined to receive Mrs. Northrup from that time until the
day of her death, about four years later, but when her will was opened
it was found that she had left $200,000 to her niece, Eleanor Van Zandt,
“as a mark of respect for her truth, courage and _artistic ability_,”
and $10,000 for a monument “to that gallant soldier and true gentleman,
John Northrup, who died on the field of Gettysburg in the defense of his
country's flag.” Nell designed the monument, and every Decoration Day
she puts a saddle made of flowers on the old lady's grave. But to my
tale.
Harry Van Zandt, at the time of which I write, was about twenty-six,
tall, broad shouldered, athletic, brown as to eyes, hair, skin and
pointed beard, an engineer and architect by profession, an advanced and
liberal thinker for so young a man, full of high spirits, though with
a depth and earnestness of purpose very refreshing in these days when
selfish indifference is the rule, and altogether a manly, honorable,
self reliant and energetic young fellow. He had charming manners,
reverenced all women, rich or poor, proud or humble, and treated old
people with an affectionate deference that won him many friends.
The steamer had changed her course to the left rather sharply, heading
for her wharf, when a Long Lake boat, with a woman at the sculls and
a young man holding the tiller ropes, crossed our bow and floated by
within fifteen feet of us. I did not need the quick, “There she is!
Look, Harry!” from Mr. Northrup to know that it was Miss Solander. She
had turned her head slightly toward them to bow, and the setting sun
shone squarely in her face, making the wonderful amber hair seem
a nimbus of golden light against the dark background of her huge
Gainsborough hat.
A more perfectly, harmoniously, radiantly beautiful girl I have
never seen. Her coloring was simply marvelous, and I inclined to Mrs.
Northrup's opinion that it must be artificial. It is impossible to give
an adequate description of her--the wonderful child-woman. A face of
rounded and exquisite contours, the skin of that warmest, richest,
brunette type that is almost dusky; cheeks that had the soft, tender,
velvety bloom of a sun-kissed peach; a charming mouth, scarlet as a
flower, ripe, luscious, sensitive, ready to curve with sweet, swift
laughter or to droop with grief. Her eyes, in the glimpse I had of her,
I took to be black or a very dark brown, but later I found they were
of that rare deep blue that becomes violet by an artificial light, and,
indeed, owing to the length and thickness of the dark lashes, it was not
easy at any time to determine their exact color, much less shade. Well,
she was more nearly perfect than any other human thing I ever hope to
see.
From her gold-flax curls' most marvelous shine,
Down to her lithe and delicate feet,