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.