CHAPTER XV.
How slow the day slides on! When we desire
Time's haste, he seems to lose a match with lobsters:
And when we wish him stay, he imps his wings
With feathers plumed with thought.
Albamazar.
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It is unnecessary to dwell on the grief that we all felt for
our loss. That night was necessarily one of watchfulness,
but few were inclined to sleep. The return of light found
us unmolested, however; and an hour or two later, Susquesus
came in, and reported that the enemy had retreated
towards Ticonderoga. There was nothing more to fear
from that quarter, and the settlers soon began to return to
their dwellings, or to such as remained. In the course of a
week the axe again rang in the forest, and rude habitations
began to reappear, in the places of those that had been destroyed.
As Bulstrode could not well be removed, Herman
Mordaunt determined to pass the remainder of the season at
Ravensnest, with the double view of accommodating his
guest, and of encouraging his settlers. The danger was
known to be over for that summer at least, and, ere the approach
of another, it was hoped that the humiliated feelings
of Great Britain would so far be aroused, as to drive the
enemy from the province; as indeed was effectually done.
On consultation, it was decided that the body of Guert
ought to be sent, for interment among his friends, to Albany.
Dirck and myself accompanied it, as the principal attendants,
all that remained of our party going with us. Herman Mordaunt
thought it necessary to remain at Ravensnest, and
Anneke would not quit her father. The Rev. Mr. Worden's
missionary zeal had, by this trial, effectually evaporated, and
he profited by so favourable an occasion to withdraw into
the safer and more peopled districts. I well remember as
we marched after the horse-litter that carried the remains
of poor Guert, the divine's making the following sensible
remarks:—
“You see how it is, on this frontier, Corny,” he said;
“it is premature to think of introducing Christianity.
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Christianity is essentially a civilized religion, and can only be of
use among civilized beings. It is true, my young friend,
that many of the early apostles were not learned, after the
fashion of this world, but they were all thoroughly civilized.
Palestine was a civilized country, and the Hebrews were a
great people; and I consider the precedent set by our blessed
Lord is a command to be followed in all time, and that
his appearance in Judea is tantamount to his saying to his
apostles, `go and preach me and my gospel to all civilized
people.”'
I ventured to remark that there was something like a
direct command to preach it to all nations, to be found in
the bible.
“Ay, that is true enough,” answered Mr. Worden, “but
it clearly means all civilized nations. Then, this was before
the discovery of America, and it is fair enough to presume
that the command referred solely to known nations. The
texts of scripture are not to be strained, but are to be construed
naturally, Corny, and this seems to me to be the natural
reading of that passage. No, I have been rash and
imprudent in pushing duty to exaggeration, and shall confine
my labours to their proper sphere, during the remainder
of my days. Civilization is just as much a means of providence
as religion itself; and it is clearly intended that one
should be built on the other. A clergyman goes quite far
enough from the centre of refinement, when he quits home
to come into these colonies to preach the gospel; letting
alone these scalping devils the Indians, who, I greatly fear,
were never born to be saved. It may do well enough to
have societies to keep them in view, but a meeting in London
is quite near enough ever to approach them.”
Such, ever after, appeared to be the sentiments of the Rev.
Mr. Worden, and I took no pains to change them. I ought,
however, to have alluded to the parting with Anneke, before
I gave the foregoing extract from the parson's homily.
Circumstances prevented my having much private communication
with my betrothed before quitting the Nest; for
Anneke's sympathy with Mary Wallace was too profound
to permit her to think much, just then, of aught but the
latter's sorrows. As for Mary herself, the strength and
depth of her attachment and grief were never fully
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appreciated, until time came to vindicate them. Her seeming
calm was soon restored, for it was only under a tempest of
feeling that Mary Wallace lost her self-command; and the
affliction that was inevitable and irremediable, one of her
regulated temperament and high principles, struggled to
endure with Christian submission. It was only in after-life
that I came to know how intense and absorbing had, in
truth, been her passion for the gay, high-spirited, ill-educated,
and impulsive young Albanian.
Anneke wept for a few minutes in my arms, a quarter of
an hour before our melancholy procession quitted the Nest.
The dear girl had no undue reserve with me; though I found
her a little reluctant to converse on the subject of our own
loves, so soon after the fearful scenes we had just gone
through. Still, she left me in no doubt on the all-important
point of my carrying away with me her whole and entirely
undivided heart. Bulstrode she never had, never could love.
This she assured me, over and over again. He amused her,
and she felt for him some of the affection and interest of
kindred, but not the least of any other interest. Poor Bulstrode!
now I was certain of success, I had very magnanimous
sentiments in his behalf, and could give him credit for
various good qualities that had been previously obscured in
my eyes. Herman Mordaunt had requested nothing might
be said to the major of my engagement; though an early
opportunity was to be taken by himself, to let the suitor
understand that Anneke declined the honour of his hand.
It was thought the information would best come from him.
“I shall be frank with you, Littlepage, and confess I have
been very anxious for the union of my daughter and Mr.
Bulstrode,” added Herman Mordaunt, in the interview we
had before I left the Nest; “and I trust to your own good
sense to account for it. I knew Bulstrode before I had any
knowledge of yourself; and there was already a connection
between us, that was just of a nature to render one that was
closer, desirable. I shall not deny that I fancied Anneke
fitted to adorn the station and circles to which Bulstrode
would have carried her; and, perhaps, it is a natural parental
weakness to wish to see one's child promoted. We talk of
humility and contentment, Corny, though there is much of
the nolo episcopari about it, after all. But you see that the
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preference of the child is so much stronger than that of the
parent, that it must prevail. I dare say, after all, you would
much rather be Anneke's choice, than be mine?”
“I can have no difficulty in admitting that, sir,” I answered;
“and I feel very sensible of the liberal manner in
which you yield your own preferences to our wishes. Certainly,
in the way of rank and fortune, I have little to offer,
Mr. Mordaunt, as an offset to Mr. Bulstrode's claims; but,
in love for your daughter, and in an ardent desire to make
her happy, I shall not yield to him, or any other man,
though he were a king.”
“In the way of fortune, Littlepage, I have very few regrets.
As you are to live in this country, the joint means
of the two families, which, some day, must centre in you
and Anneke, will prove all-sufficient; and, as for posterity,
Ravensnest and Mooseridge will supply ample provisions.
As the colony grows, your descendants will increase, and
your means will increase with both. No, no; I may have
been a little disappointed; that much I will own; but I have
not been, at any time, displeased. God bless you, then, my
dear boy; write us from Albany, and come to us at Lilacsbush
in September. Your reception will be that of a son.”
It is needless to dwell on the melancholy procession we
formed through the woods. Dirck and myself kept near the
body, on foot, until we reached the highway, when vehicles
were provided for the common transportation. On reaching
Albany, we delivered the remains of Guert to his relatives,
and there was a suitable funeral given. The bricked closet
behind the chimney, was opened, as usual, and the six dozen
of Madeira, that had been placed in it twenty-four years
before, or the day the poor fellow was christened, was found
to be very excellent. I remember it was said generally,
that better wine was drunk at the funeral of Guert Ten
Eyck, than had been tasted at the obsequies of any individual
who was not a Van Rensselaer, a Schuyler, or a Ten
Broeck, within the memory of man. I now speak of funerals
in Albany; for I do suppose the remark would scarcely apply
to many other funerals, lower down the river. As a rule,
however, very good wine was given at all our funerals.
The Rev. Mr. Worden officiated, and was universally regarded
with interest, as a pious minister of the gospel, who
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had barely escaped the fate of the person he was now committing
`dust to dust,' while devotedly and ardently employed
in endeavouring to rescue the souls of the very savages
who sought his life, from the fate of the heathen.
I remember there was a very well worded paragraph to
this effect in the New York Gazette, and I had heard it
said, but do not remember to have ever seen it myself, that
in one of the reports of the Society for the Promulgation
of the Gospel in Foreign Parts, the circumstances were alluded
to in a very touching and edifying manner.
Poor Guert! I passed a few minutes at his grave before
we went south. It was all that was left of his fine person,
his high spirit, his lion-hearted courage, his buoyant spirits,
and his unextinguishable love of frolic. A finer physical
man I never beheld, or one who better satisfied the eye, in
all respects. That the noble tenement was not more intellectually
occupied, was purely the consequence of a want
of education. Notwithstanding, all the books in the world
could not have converted Guert Ten Eyck into a Jason
Newcome, or Jason Newcome into a Guert Ten Eyck.
Each owed many of his peculiarities, doubtless, to the province
in which he was bred and born, and to the training
consequent on these accidents; but nature had also drawn
broad distinctions between them. All the wildness of
Guert's impulses could not altogether destroy his feelings,
tone, and tact as a gentleman; while all the soaring, extravagant
pretensions of Jason never could have ended in elevating
him to that character. Alas! Poor Guert! I sincerely
mourned his loss for years, nor has his memory yet
ceased to have a deep interest with me.
Dirck Follock and I would have been a good deal caressed
at Albany, on our return, both on account of what had happened,
and on account of our Dutch connections, had we
been in the mood to profit by the disposition of the people.
But, we were not. The sad events with which we had been
connected were still too recent to indulge in gaieties or company;
and, as soon, as possible after the funeral, we seized
the opportunity of embarking on board a sloop bound to New
York. Our voyage was generally considered a prosperous
one, lasting, indeed, only six days. We took the ground
three times, it is true; but nothing was thought of that, such
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accidents being of frequent occurrence. Among the events
of this sort, one occurred in the Overslaugh, and I passed
a few hours there very pleasantly, as it was so near the
scene of our adventure on the river. Anneke always occupied
much of my thoughts, but pleasing pictures of her
gentle decision, her implicit reliance on myself, her resignation,
her spirit, and her intelligence were now blended, without
any alloy, in my recollections. The dear girl had
confessed to me, that she loved me even on that fearful
night, for her tenderness in my behalf dated much farther
back. This was a great addition to the satisfaction with
which I went over every incident and speech, in recollection,
endeavouring to recall the most minute tone or expression,
to see if I could now connect it with any sign of that
passion, which I was authorized in believing did even then
exist. Thus aided, equally by Anneke's gentle, blushing
admissions, and my own wishes, I had no difficulty in recalling
pictures that were infinitely agreeable to myself,
though possibly not minutely accurate.
In the Tappaan Sea, Dirck left us; proceeding into
Rockland, to join his family. I continued on in the sloop,
reaching port next day. My uncle and aunt Legge were
delighted to see me, and I soon found I should be a lion,
had I leisure to remain in town, in order to enjoy the notoriety
my connection with the northern expedition had created.
I found a deep mortification pervading the capital, in
consequence of our defeat, mingled with a high determination
to redeem our tarnished honour.
Satanstoe, with all its endearing ties, however, called me
away; and I left town, on horseback, leaving my effects to
follow by the first good opportunity, the morning of the day
succeeding that on which I had arrived. I shall not attempt
to conceal one weakness. As usual, I stopped at Kingsbridge
to dine and bait; and while the notable landlady
was preparing my dinner, I ascended the heights to catch
a distant view of Lilacsbush. There lay the pretty cottagelike
dwelling, placed beneath its hill, amid a wilderness of
shrubbery; but its lovely young mistress was far away,
and I found the pleasure with which I gazed at it blended
with regrets.
“You have been north, I hear, Mr. Littlepage,” my
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landlady observed, while I was discussing her lamb, and peas,
and asparagus; “pray, sir, did you hear or see anything
of our honoured neighbours, Herman Mordaunt and his
charming daughter?”
“Much of both, Mrs. Light; and that under trying
circumstances. Mooseridge, my father's property in that
part of the province, is quite near to Ravensnest, Herman
Mordaunt's estate, and I have passed some time at it. Have
no tidings of the family reached you, lately?”
“None, unless it be the report that Miss Anneke will
never return to us.”
“Anneke not return! In the name of wonder, how do
you hear this?”
“Not as Miss Anneke, but as Lady Anneke, or something
of that sort. Isn't there a General Bulstrom, or some
great officer or other, who seeks her hand, and on whom
she smiles, sir?”
“I presume I understand you, now. Well, what do you
learn of him?”
“Only that they are to be married next month—some
say they are married already, and that the old gentleman
gives Lilacsbush, out and out, and four thousand pounds
currency, down, in order to purchase so high an honour for
his child. I tell the neighbours it is too much, Miss Anneke
being worth any lord in England, on her own, sole, account.”
This intelligence did not disturb me, of course, for it was
tavern-tidings and neighbours' news. Neighbours! How
much is that sacred word prostituted! You shall find people
opening their ears with avidity to the gossip of a neighbourhood,
when nineteen times in twenty it is less entitled
to credit than the intelligence which is obtained from a distance,
provided the latter come from persons of the same
class in life as the individuals in question, and are known to
them. What means had this woman of knowing the secrets
of Herman Mordaunt's family, that were one-half as good
as those possessed by friends in Albany, for instance? This
neighbourhood testimony, as it is called, does a vast deal
of mischief in the province, and most especially in those
parts of it where our own people are brought in contact
with their fellow-subjects, from the more eastern colonies.
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In my eyes, Jason Newcome's opinions of Herman Mordaunt,
and his acts, would be nearly worthless, shrewd as
I admit the man to be; for the two have not a distinctive
opinion, custom, and I had almost said principle, in common.
Just appreciation of motives and acts can only proceed
from those who feel and think alike; and this is morally
impossible where there exist broad distinctions in
social classes. It is just for this reason that we attach so
little importance to the ordinary reports, and even to the
sworn evidence, of servants.
Our reception at Satanstoe was just what might have been
expected. My dear mother hugged me to her heart, again
and again, and seemed never to be satisfied with feasting her
eyes on me. My father was affected at seeing me, too; and
I thought there was a very decided moisture in his eyes.
As for old Capt. Hugh Roger, three-score-and-ten had exhausted
his fluids, pretty much; but he shook me heartily
by the hand, and listened to my account of the movements
before Ty with all a soldier's interest, and with somewhat
of the fire of one who had served himself in more fortunate
times. I had to fight my battles o'er and o'er again, as a
matter of course, and to recount the tale of Ravensnest in
all its details. We were at supper, when I concluded my
most laboured narrative, and when I began to hope my
duties, in this respect, were finally terminated. But my dear
mother had heavier matters still, on her mind; and it was
necessary that I should give her a private conference, in her
own little room.
“Corny, my beloved child,” commenced this anxious and
most tender parent, “you have said nothing particular to
me of the Mordaunts. It is now time to speak of that
family.”
“Have I not told you, mother, how we met at Albany,
and of what occurred on the river.” I had not spoken of
that adventure in my letters, because I was uncertain of the
true state of Anneke's feelings, and did not wish to raise
expectations that might never be realized.—“And of our
going to Ravensnest in company, and of all that happened
at Ravensnest after our return from Ty.”
“What is all this to me, child! I wish to hear you speak
of Anneke—is it true that she is going to be married?”
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`It is true. I can affirm that much from her own mouth.”
My dear mother's countenance fell, and I could hardly
pursue my wicked equivoque any further.
“And she has even had the effrontery to own this to you,
Corny?”
“She has, indeed; though truth compels me to add, that
she blushed a great deal while admitting it, and seemed only
half-disposed to be so frank: that is, at first; for, in the
end, she rather smiled than blushed.”
“Well, this amazes me! It is only a proof that vanity,
and worldly rank, and worldly riches, stand higher in the
estimation of Anneke Mordaunt, than excellence and modest
merit.”
“What riches and worldly rank have I, mother, to tempt
any woman to forget the qualities you have mentioned?”
“I was not thinking of you, my son, in that sense, at all.
Of course, I mean Mr. Bulstrode.”
“What has Mr. Bulstrode to do with my marriage with
Anne Mordaunt; or any one else but her own sweet self,
who has consented to become my wife; her father, who
accepts me for a son, my father, who is about to imitate his
example, by taking Anneke to his heart as a daughter, and
you, my dearest, dearest mother, who are the only person
likely to raise obstacles, as you are now doing.”
This was a boyish mode of producing a most delightful
surprise, I am very ready to acknowledge; and, when I
saw my mother burst into tears, I felt both regret and shame
at having practised it. But youth is the season of folly,
and happy is the man who can say he has never trifled more
seriously with the feelings of a parent. I was soon pardoned—
what offence would not that devoted mother have
pardoned her only child!—when I was made to relate all
that was proper to be told, of what had passed between Anneke
and myself. It is scarcely necessary to say, I was
assured of the cheerful acquiescence in my wishes, of all
my own family, from Capt. Hugh Roger, down to the dear
person who was speaking. They had set their minds on
my becoming the husband of this very young lady; and I
could not possibly have made any communication that would
be more agreeable, as I was given to understand from each
and all, that very night.
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My return to Satanstoe occurred in the last half of the
month of July. The Mordaunts were not to be at Lilacsbush
until the middle of September, and I had near two
months to wait for that happy moment. This time was
passed as well as it could be. I endeavoured to interest
myself in the old Neck, and to plan schemes of future happiness
there, that were to be realized in Anneke's society.
It was and is a noble farm; rich, beautifully placed, having
water on more than three of its sides, in capital order, and
well stocked with such apples, peaches, apricots, plums, and
other fruits, as the world can scarcely equal. It is true that
the provinces a little further south, such as New Jersey,
Pennsylvania, Maryland, and Virginia, think they can beat
us in peaches; but I have never tasted any fruit that I thought
would compare with that of Satanstoe. I love every tree,
wall, knoll, swell, meadow, and hummock about the old
place. One thing distresses me. I love old names, such as
my father knew the same places by; and I like to mispronounce
a word, when custom and association render the
practice familiar. I would not call my friend, Dirck Follock,
anything else but Follock, unless it might be in a
formal way, or when asking him to drink a glass of wine
with me, for a great deal. So it is with Satanstoe; the
name is homely, I am willing to allow; but it is strong, and
conveys an idea. It relates also to the usages and notions
of the country; and names ought always to be preserved,
except in those few instances in which there are good reasons
for altering them. I regret to say, that ever since the
appearance of Jason Newcome among us, there has been a
disposition among the ignorant and vulgar, to call the Neck,
Dibbleton; under the pretence I have already mentioned,
that it once belonged to the family of Dibblees; or, as some
think, as a pious diminutive of Devil's-Town. I indignantly
repel this supposition; though, I do believe, that Dibbleton
is only a sneaking mode of pronouncing Devilton; as, I
admit, I have heard the old people laughingly term the Neck.
This belongs to the “Gaul darn ye” school, and it is not to
my taste. I say the ignorant and vulgar, for this is just the
class to be squeamish on such subjects. I have been told—
though I cannot say that I have heard it myself—but I am
told, there have been people from the eastward among us of
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late years, who affect to call “Hell-Gate,” “Hurl-Gate,” or
“Whirl-Gate,” or by some other such sentimental, whirl-a-gig
name; and these are the gentry who would wish to alter
“Satanstoe” into “Dibbleton!” Since the eastern troops
have begun to come among us, indeed, they have commenced
a desperate inroad on many of our old, venerated Dutch
names; names that the English, direct from home, have
generally respected. Indeed, change—change in all things,
seems to be the besetting passion of these people. We, of
New York, are content to do as our ancestors have done
before us; and this they ridicule, making it matter of accusation
against us, that we follow the notions of our fathers.
I shall never complain that they are deserting so many of
their customs; for, I regard the changes as improvements;
but I beg that they may leave us ours.
That there is such a thing as improvement I am willing
enough to admit, as well as that it not only compels, but
excuses changes; but, I am yet to learn it is matter of just
reproach that a man follows in the footsteps of those who
have gone before him. The apothegms of David, and the
wisdom of Solomon, are just as much apothegms and wisdom,
in our own time, as they were the day they were
written, and for precisely the same reason — their truth.
Where there is so much stability in morals, there must be
permanent principles, and something surely is worthy to be
saved from the wreck of the past. I doubt if all this craving
for change has not more of selfishness in it than either of
expediency or of philosophy; and I could wish, at least,
that Satanstoe should never be frittered away into so sneaking
a substitute as Dibbleton.
That was a joyful day, when a servant in Herman Mordaunt's
livery rode in upon our lawn, and handed me a
letter from his master, informing me of the safe arrival of
the family, and inviting me to ride over next day in time to
take a late breakfast at Lilacsbush. Anneke had written
to me twice previously to this; two beautifully expressed,
feminine, yet spirited, affectionate letters, in which the tenderness
and sensibility of her nature were barely restrained
by the delicacy of her sex and situation. On the receipt of
this welcome invitation, I was guilty of the only piece of
romantic extravagance that I can remember having
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committed in the course of my life. Herman Mordaunt's black
was well treated, and dismissed with a letter of acceptance.
One hour after he left Satanstoe — I do love that venerable
name, and hope all the Yankees in Christendom will not be
able to alter it to Dibbleton — but, one hour after the negro
was off, I followed him myself, intending to sleep at the
well-known inn at Kingsbridge, and not present myself at
the Bush, until the proper hour next morning.
I had got to the house of the talkative landlady two hours
before sunset, put up my horse, secured my lodgings, and
was eating a bite myself, when the good housewife entered
the room.
“Your servant, Mr. Littlepage,” commenced this loquacious
person; “how are the venerable Captain Hugh Roger,
and the Major, your honoured father? Well, I see by your
smile. Well, it is a comfortable thing to have our friends
enjoy good health—my own poor man enjoyed most wretched
health all last winter, and is likely to enjoy very much the
same, that which is coming. I should think you had come
to the wedding at Lilacsbush, Mr. Corny, had you not stopped
at my door, instead of going on direct to that of Herman
Mordaunt.”
I started, but supposed that the news of what was to
happen had leaked out, and that this good woman, whose
ears were always open, had got hold of a neighbourhood
truth, for once in her life.
“I am on no such errand, Mrs. Light, but hope to be
married, one of these days, to some one or other.”
“I was not thinking of your marriage, sir, but that of
Miss Anneke, over at the 'Bush, to this Lord Bulstrom. It's
a great connection for the Mordaunts, after all, though Herman
Mordaunt is of good blood, himself, they tell me. The
knight's man often comes here, to taste new cider, which he
admits is as good as English cider, and I believe it is the
only thing which he has found in the colonies that he thinks
is one-half as good; but Thomas tells me all is settled, and
that the wedding must take place right soon. It has only
been put off on account of Miss Wallace, who is in deep
mourning for her own husband, having lost him within the
honey-moon, which is the reason she still bears her own
name. They tell me a widow who loses her husband in
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the honey-moon is obliged to bear her maiden name; otherwise
Miss Mary would be Mrs. Van Goort, or something
like that.”
As it was very clear the neighbourhood knew little about
the true state of things in Herman Mordaunt's family, I took
my hat and proceeded to execute the intention with which
I had left home. I was sorry to hear that Bulstrode was at
Lilacsbush, but had no apprehension of his ever marrying
Anneke. I took the way to the heights, and soon reached
the field where I had once met the ladies, on horseback.
There, seated under a tree, I saw Bulstrode alone, and apparently
in deep contemplation. It was no part of my plan
to be seen, or to have my presence known, and I was retiring,
when I heard my name, discovered that I was recognised,
and joined him.
The first glance at Bulstrode showed me that he knew
the truth. He coloured, bit his lips, forced a smile, and
came forward to meet me, limping just enough to add interest
to his gait, and offered his hand with a frank manliness
that gave him great merit in my eyes. It was no trifle
to lose Anne Mordaunt, and I am afraid I could not have
manifested half so much magnanimity. But, Bulstrode was
a man of the world, and he knew how to command the exhibition
of his feelings, if not to command the feelings themselves.
“I told you, once, Corny,” he said, offering his hand,
“that we must remain friends, coute qui coute — you have
been successful, and I have failed. Herman Mordaunt told
me the melancholy fact before we left Albany; and I can
tell you, his regrets were not so very flattering to you.
Nevertheless, he admits you are a capital fellow, and that
if it were not for Alexander, he could wish to be Diogenes.
So you have only to provide yourself with a lantern and a
tub, marry Anneke, and set up housekeeping. As for the
honest man, I propose saving you some trouble, by offering
myself in that character, even before you light your wick.
Come, take a seat on this bench, and let us chat.”
There was something a little forced in all this, it is true,
but it was manly. I took the seat, and Bulstrode went on.
“It was the river that made your fortune, Corny, and
undid me.”
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I smiled, but said nothing; though I knew better.
“There is a fate in love, as in war. Well, I am as well
off as Abercrombie; we both expected to be victorious, while
each is conquered. I am more fortunate, indeed; for he can
never expect to get another army, while I may get another
wife. I wish you would be frank with me, and confess to
what you particularly ascribe your own success.”
“It is natural, Mr. Bulstrode, that a young woman should
prefer to live in her own country, to living in a strange
land, and among strangers.”
“Ay, Corny, that is both patriotic and modest; but it is
not the real reason. No, sir; it was Scrub, and the theatricals,
by which I have been undone. With most provincials,
Mr. Littlepage, it is a sufficient apology for anything,
that the metropolis approves. So it is with you colonists, in
general; let England say yes, and you dare not say, no.
There is one thing, that persons who live so far from home,
seldom learn; and it is this: There are two sorts of great
worlds; the great vulgar world, which includes all but the
very best in taste, principles, and manners, whether it be in
a capital or a country; and the great respectable world,
which, infinitely less numerous, contains the judicious, the
instructed, the intelligent, and, on some questions, the good.
Now, the first form fashion; whereas the last produce something
far better and more enduring than fashion. Fashion
often stands rebuked, in the presence of the last class, small
as it ever is, numerically. Very high rank, very finished
tastes, very strong judgments, and very correct principles,
all unite, more or less, to make up this class. One, or more
of these qualities may be wanting, perhaps, but the union
of the whole forms the perfection of the character. We
have daily examples of this at home, as well as elsewhere;
though, in our artificial state of society it requires more decided
qualities to resist the influence of fashion, when there
is not positive, social rank to sustain it, perhaps, than it
would in one more natural. That which first struck me,
in Anneke, as is the case with most young men, was her
delicacy of appearance, and her beauty. This I will not
deny. In this respect, your American women have quite
taken me by surprise. In England, we are so accustomed
to associate a certain delicacy of person and air, with high
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rank, that, I will confess, I landed in New York with no
expectation of meeting a single female, in the whole country,
that was not comparatively coarse, and what we are accustomed
to consider common, in physique; yet, I must now
say that, apart from mere conventional finish, I find quite as
large a proportion of aristocratical-looking females among
you, as if you had a full share of dutchesses. The last
thing I should think of calling an American woman, would
be coarse. She may want manner, in one sense; she may
want finish, in a dozen things; she may, and often does,
want utterance, as utterance is understood among the accomplished;
but she is seldom, indeed, coarse or vulgar,
according to our European understanding of the terms.”
“And of what is all this ápropos, Bulstrode?”
“Oh! of your success, and my defeat, of course, Corny,”
answered the major, smiling. “What I mean, is this —
that Anneke is one of your second class, or is better than
what fashion can make her; and Scrub has been the means
of my undoing. She does not care for fashion, in a play,
or a novel, or a dress even, but looks for the proprieties.
Yes, Scrub has proved my undoing!”
I did not exactly believe the last; but, finding Bulstrode
so well disposed to give his rejection this turn, it was not
my part to contradict him. We talked together half an
hour longer, in the most amicable manner, when we parted;
Bulstrode promising not to betray the secret of my presence.
I lingered in sight of the house until evening, when I
ventured nearer, hoping to get a glimpse of Anneke as she
passed some window, or appeared, by the soft light of the
moon, under the piazza that skirted the south front of the
building. Lilacsbush deserved its name, being a perfect
wilderness of shrubbery; and, favoured by the last, I had
got quite near the house, when I heard light footsteps on the
gravel of an adjacent walk. At the next instant, soft, low
voices met my ears, and I was a sort of compelled auditor
of what followed.
“No, Anne, my fate is sealed for this world,” said Mary
Wallace, “and I shall live Guert's widow as faithfully and
devotedly, as if the marriage-vow had been pronounced.
This much is due to his memory, on account of the heartless
doubts I permitted to influence me, and which drove
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him into those terrible scenes that destroyed him. When a
woman really loves, Anneke, it is vain to struggle against
anything but positive unworthiness, I fear. Poor Guert was
not unworthy in any sense; he was erring and impulsive,
but not unworthy. No—no—not unworthy! I ought to
have given him my hand, and he would have been spared
to us. As it is, I can only live his widow in secret, and in
love. You have done well, dearest Anneke, in being so
frank with Corny Littlepage, and in avowing that preference
which you have felt almost from the first day of your
acquaintance.”
Although this was music to my ears, honour would not
suffer me to hear more, and I moved swiftly away, stirring
the bushes in a way to apprize the speaker of the proximity
of a stranger. It was necessary to appear, and I endeavoured
so to do, without creating any alarm.
“It must be Mr. Bulstrode,” said the gentle voice of Anneke,
“who is probably looking for us—see, there he comes,
and we will meet—”
The dear speaker became tongue-tied; for, by this time,
I was near enough to be recognised. At the next instant,
I held her in my arms. Mary Wallace disappeared, how
or when, I cannot say. I place a veil over the happy hour
that succeeded, leaving the old to draw on their experience
for its pictures, and the young to live in hope. At the end
of that time, by Anneke's persuasion, I entered the house,
and had to brave Herman Mordaunt's disposition to rally
me. I was not only mercifully, but hospitably treated, however,
Anneke's father merely laughing at my little adventure,
saying, that he looked upon it favourably, and as a
sign that I was a youth of spirit.
Early in October we were married, the Rev. Mr. Worden
performing the ceremony. Our home was to be Lilacsbush,
which Herman Mordaunt conveyed to me the same day,
leaving it, as it was furnished, entirely in my hands. He
also gave me my wife's mother's fortune, a respectable independence,
and the death of Capt. Hugh Roger, soon after,
added considerably to my means. We made but one family,
between town, Lilacsbush, and Satanstoe, Anneke and
my mother, in particular, conceiving a strong affection for
each other.
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As for Bulstrode, he went home before the marriage, but
keeps up a correspondence with us to this hour. He is still
single, and is a declared old bachelor. His letters, however,
are too light-hearted to leave us any concern on the subject;
though these are matters that may fall to the share of my
son Mordaunt, should he ever have the grace to continue
this family narrative.
THE END.
