“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.”