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!”