“Which means, Mr. Bulstrode,” said Mary Wallace, with one of her sweet smiles, and one that was as open and natural as childhood itself, “that you are Mahomet, and we are the mountain. Ladies can neither travel, with comfort, in a wilderness, nor visit a camp, with propriety, if they would.”
“They tell me, I shall not be in a camp at all,” answered the soldier; “but in good, comfortable log-barracks, that have been built for us by the battalion we relieve. I am not without hopes, they will be such as even ladies will not disdain to use, on an emergency. There ought to be no Mahomet, and no mountain, between such old and intimate friends.”
The conversation then turned on the plans and expectations of the respective parties; and the usual promises were made, of being sociable and good neighbours, as had just been suggested. Herman Mordaunt evidently wished to consider Bulstrode as one of his family; a feeling that might excuse itself to the world, on the score of consanguinity; but which, it was easy enough, for me, to see, had its origin in a very different cause. When Bulstrode rose to take his leave, I wished myself away, on account of the exhibition of concern it produced; while the desire to watch the effect on Anneke, would have kept me rooted to the floor, even had it been proper that I should retire.
Bulstrode was more affected than I could have thought possible. He took one of Herman Mordaunt’s hands into his own, and pressed it warmly, for some little time, before he could speak at all.
“God only knows what this summer is to see, and whether we are ever to meet again, or not,” he then said, “but, come what may, the past, the happy past, is so much gained from the commonplace. If you never hear of me again, my dear kinsman, my letters to England will give you a better account of my gratitude, than anything I can say in words. They have been written as your kindnesses have been bestowed; and they faithfully pourtray the feelings to which your hospitality and friendship have given rise. In a possible event, I have requested that every one of them may be sent to America, for your special perusal—”
“Nay, my dear Harry, this is foreboding the very worst,” interrupted Herman Mordaunt, dashing a tear from his eye, “and is making a very short separation, a more serious matter than one ought—”
“Nay, sir, a soldier, who is about to be posted within striking distance of his enemy, can never speak, with confidence, of separations that are to be short. This campaign will be decisive, for me,”—glancing towards Anneke—“I must return a conqueror, in one sense, or I do not wish to return at all. But, God bless you, Herman Mordaunt, as your own countrymen call you; a thousand years could not efface from my heart, the remembrance of all your kindness.”
This was handsomely expressed; and the manner in which it was uttered, was as good as the language. Bulstrode hesitated a moment—looked at the two girls in doubt—and first approached Mary Wallace.
“Adieu, excellent Mary Wallace,” he said, taking her offered hand, and kissing it with a freedom from emotion, that denoted it was only friendship and respect which induced the act—“I believe, you are a severe critic on Catos and Scrubs; but, I forgive all your particular backbitings, on account of your general indulgence and probity. You may meet with a thousand mere acquaintances, before you find another who shall have the same profound respect for your many virtues, as myself.”
This was handsomely said, too; and it caused Mary Wallace to remove the handkerchief from her eyes, and to utter her adieus cordially, and with some emotion. Strangers say that our women want feeling—passion; or, if they have it, that it is veiled behind a mask of coldness, that takes away from its loveliness and warmth; that they are girlish and familiar, where they might better be reserved; and distant, and unnatural, where feeling and nature ought to assert their sway. That they have less manner, in all respects, in that of self-control, and perhaps of self-respect, in their ordinary intercourse, and in that of acting, where it may seem necessary so to do, I believe to be true; buts he who denies an American girl a heart, knows nothing about her. She is all heart; and the apparent coldness is oftener the consequence of not daring to trust her feelings, and her general dislike to everything artificial, than to any want of affections. Two girls, educated, however, as had been Anneke and Mary Wallace, could not but acquit themselves better, in such a scene, than those who had been less accustomed to the usages of polite life, which are always more or less, the usages of convention.
On the present occasion, Mary Wallace was strongly affected; it would not have been possible, for one of her gentle nature and warm affections, to be otherwise, when an agreeable companion, one she had now known intimately near two years, was about to take his leave of her, on an errand that he himself either thought, or affected so well to seem to think, might lead to the most melancholy issue. She shook hands with Bulstrode, warmly; wished him good fortune, and various other pleasant things; thanked him for his good opinion, and expressed her hope, as well as her belief, that they should all meet again before the summer was over, and again be happy in each other’s society.
Anneke’s turn came next. Her handkerchief was at her eyes; and, when it was removed, the face was pale, and the cheeks were covered with tears. The smile that followed, was sweetness itself; and, I will own, it caused me a most severe pang. To my surprise, Bulstrode said nothing. He took Anneke’s hand, pressed it to his heart, kissed it, left a note in it, bowed, and moved away. I felt ashamed to watch the countenance of Miss Mordaunt, under such circumstances, and turned aside, that observation might not increase the distress and embarrassment she evidently felt. I saw enough, notwithstanding, to render me more uncertain than ever, as to the success of my own suit. Anneke’s colour had come and gone, as Bulstrode stood near her, acting his dumb-show of leave-taking; and, to me, she seemed far more affected than Mary Wallace had been. Nevertheless, her feelings were always keener and more active than those of her friend; and, that which my sensitiveness took for the emotion of tenderness, might be nothing more than ordinary womanly feeling and friendship. Besides, Bulstrode was actually her relative.
We men all attended Bulstrode to his horse. He shook us cordially by the hand; and, after he had got into the saddle, he said—“This summer will be warmer than is usual, even in your warmy-cold climate. My letters from home give me reason to think that there is, at last, a man of talents at the head of affairs; and the British empire is likely to feel the impulse he will give it, at its most remote extremities. I shall expect you three young men to join the ——th, as volunteers, as soon as you hear of our moving in advance. I wish I had a thousand like you; for that affair of the river tells where a man will be found when the time comes. God bless you, Corny!” leaning forward in his saddle, to give me another shake of the hand; “we must remain friends, coute qui couté.”
There was no withstanding this frankness, and so much good-temper. We shook hands most cordially; Bulstrode raised his hat and bowed; after which he rode away, as I fancied, at a slow, thoughtful, reluctant pace. Notwithstanding the kindness of this parting, I had more cause than ever to regret Bulstrode had appeared among us; and the scenes of that morning only confirmed me in a resolution, previously adopted, not to urge Anneke to any decision, in my case, at a moment when I felt there might be so much danger it would be adverse.
Chapter XX
“Come, let a proper text be read,
An’ touch it aff wi’ vigour,
How graceless Ham leugh at his dad,
Which made Canaan a nigger.”
—Burns
Ten days after the departure of the ——th, Herman Mordaunt and his family, with our own party, left Albany, on the summer’s business. In that interval, however, great changes had taken place in the military aspect of things. Several regiments of King’s troops ascended the Hudson, most of the sloops on the river, of which there could not have been fewer than thirty or forty, having been