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,
There was not a curve nor a waving line
But moved in a harmony firm and sweet.
As she passed from view I looked down at the trio below me. Mrs. Northrup was regarding her brother curiously, and I don't think either she or I was at all surprised when he turned, his face aglow with enthusiasm, and said: “What a lovely girl!” Then, with quick change of tone, “Who is that man with her?”
“Lovely as a Prang,” remarked my lady, dryly. “The man is your hated rival, of whom you are already madly jealous. He is young, beautiful and rich, dances divinely, speaks real English and has very nearly a tablespoonful of brains—not that he needs such a preponderance of brain, for he has enough money to make a social success of a jibbering idiot. His name is Francis Floyd-Jones, but we speak of him affectionately as 'Fluggeon,' and those that know him best sometimes lovingly refer to him as 'Balaam's Ass'—but you'll like him, Harry.”