CHAPTER XXX.

  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.

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. 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 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 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 Lilacs bush 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 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 fork. 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 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 cottage-like dwelling, placed beneath the 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 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. 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?”

“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.

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 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 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 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 couté—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.”

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 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 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.

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.