University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

The very day my sister and I left Satanstoe, there was
an interesting interview between my grandmother and myself,
that it may be well to relate. It took place in the cool
of the morning, before breakfast, indeed, and previously to
the appearance of any of the rest of the party; for Tom
Bayard and his sister had again ridden across the country
to pass the night, and see us off. My grandmother had requested
me to meet her thus early, in a sort of little piazza,
that modern improvements had annexed to one end of the
old buildings, and in which we both appeared accordingly
with the utmost punctuality. I saw by a certain sort of
importance that my good grandmother wore in her countenance,
that she had weighty matters on her mind, and took
the chair she had set for me with some little curiosity to
learn what was to follow. The chairs were placed side by
side, or nearly so, but looking different ways, and so close
together that, when seated, we were quite face to face. My
grandmother had on her spectacles, and she gazed wistfully
through them at me, parting the curls on my forehead, as
had been her wont when I was a boy. I saw tears rolling
out from behind the glasses, and felt apprehensive I might
have said or done something to have wounded the spirit of
that excellent and indulgent parent.

“For heaven's sake, grandmother, what can this mean?”
I cried. “Have I done anything amiss?”

“No, my child, no; but much to the contrary. You
are, and ever have been, a good and dutiful son, not only
to your real parents, but to me. But your name ought to
have been Hugh — that I will maintain, long as I live. I

told your father as much when you were born; but he was
Mordaunt-mad then, as, indeed, he has remained pretty
much ever since. Not that Mordaunt is not a good name,
and a respectable name, and they say it is a noble name in
England; but it is a family name, and family names are
not fit for christian names, at the best. Hugh should have
been your name, if I could have had my way; and, if not
Hugh, Corny. Well, it is too late for that now, as Mordaunt
you are, and Mordaunt you must live and die. Did any one
ever tell you, my child, how very, very like you are to your
honoured grandfather?”

“My mother, frequently—I have seen the tears start into
her eyes as she gazed at me, and she has often told me my
family name ought to have been Mordaunt, so much do I
resemble her father.”

“Her father! — Well, Anneke does get some of the
strangest conceits into her head! A better woman, or a
dearer, does not breathe — I love your mother, my child,
quite as much as if she had been born my own daughter;
but I must say she does get some of the strangest notions
into her head that mortal ever imagined. You like Herman
Mordaunt! You are the very image of your grandfather
Littlepage, and no more like Herman Mordaunt than you
are like the king!”

The revolution was then, and is now still too recent to
prevent these constant allusions to royalty, notwithstanding
my grandfather had been as warm a whig as there was in
the colonies, from the commencement of the struggle. As
for the resemblance spoken of, I have always understood I
was a mingled repetition of the two families, as so often
happens, a circumstance that enables my different relatives
to trace such resemblances as best suit their respective
fancies. This was quite convenient, and may have been a
reason, in addition to the fact of my being an only son, that
I was so great a favourite with the females of my family.
My dear old grandmother, who was then in her sixty-ninth
year, was so persuaded of my likeness to her late husband,
the “old general,” as he was now called, that she would not
proceed in her communications until she had wiped her eyes,
and gratified her affections with another long and wistful
gaze.

“Oh! those eyes!” she murmured — “and that forehead!—The
mouth too, and the nose, to say nothing of the
smile, which is as much alike as one pea is like another!”

This left very little for the Mordaunts, it must be owned;
the chin and ears being pretty much all that were not claimed
for the direct line. It is true, my eyes were blue, and
the “old general's” had been as black as coals; my nose
was Grecian, and his a most obtrusive Roman; and, as for
the mouth, I can only say mine was as like that of my mother's
as a man's could well be like a woman's. The last,
I had heard my father say, a thousand times. But, no
matter; age, and affection, and the longings of the parent,
caused my grandmother to see things differently.

“Well, Mordaunt,” the good old lady at length continued,
“how do you like this choice of your sister Kate's? Mr.
Bayard is a charming young man, is he not?”

“Is it then a choice, grandmother? Has Kate actually
made up her mind?”

“Pshaw!” answered my grandmother, smiling as archly
as if she were sixteen herself—“that was done long ago—
and papa approved, and mamma was anxious, and I consented,
and sister Anneke was delighted, and everything
was as smooth as the beach at the end of the Neck, but
waiting for your approbation. `It would not be right, grandmother,
for me to engage myself, while Mordaunt is away,
and without his even knowing the gentleman; so I will not
answer until I get his approbation too,' said Kate. That
was very pretty in her, was it not, my child? All your
father's children have a sense of propriety!”

“Indeed it was, and I shall not forget it soon. But, suppose
I had disapproved, what would have followed, grandmother?”

“You should never ask unpleasant questions, saucy
fellow; though I dare to say Kate would, at least, have
asked Mr. Bayard to wait until you had changed your mind.
Giving him up altogether would be out of the question, and
unreasonable; but she might have waited a few months or
so, until you changed your mind; and I would have advised
her so to do. But, all that is unnecessary, as matters
are; for you have expressed your approbation, and Kate is
perfectly happy. The last letter from Lilacsbush, which

Jaap brought, gives the formal consent of your dear parents
— and what parents you have, my child! — so Kate wrote
an acceptance yesterday, and it was as prettily expressed a
note as I have seen in many a day. Your own mother
could not have done it better in her young days; and Anneke
Mordaunt worded a note as genteelly as any young
woman I ever knew.”

“I am glad everything has gone right, and am sure no
one can wish the young couple more happiness than I do
myself. Kate is a dear, good girl, and I love her as much
as a brother can love a sister.”

“Is she not? and as thorough a Littlepage as ever was
born! I do hope she will be happy. All the marriages in
our family have proved so hitherto, and it would be strange
if this should turn out differently. Well, now, Mordaunt,
when Kate is married, you will be the only one left.”

“That is true, grandmother; and you must be glad to find
there will be one of us left to come and see you, without
bringing nurses and children at his heels.”

“I! — I glad of anything of the sort! No, indeed, my
child; I should be sorry enough did I think, for a moment,
you would not marry as soon as is prudent, now the war is
over. As for children, I dote on them; and I have ever
thought it a misfortune that the Littlepages have had so
few, especially sons. Your grandfather, my general, was
an only son; your father was an only son; and you are an
only son; that is, so far as coming to men's estates are, or
were concerned. No, Mordaunt, my child, it is the warmest
wish of my heart to see you properly married, and to hold
the Littlepages of the next generation in my arms. Two
of you I have had there already, and I shall have lived the
life of the blessed to be able to hold the third.”

“My dear, good grandmother! — What am I to understand
by all this?”

“That I wish you to marry, my child, now that the war
is ended; that your father wishes you to marry; that your
mother wishes you to marry; and that your sister wishes
you to marry.”

“And all of you wish me to marry the same person? Is
it not so?”

My grandmother smiled, but she fidgeted; fancying, as
I suspected, that she had been pushing matters a little too
fast. It was not easy, however, for one of her truth and
simplicity of character to recede after having gone so far;
and she wisely determined to have no reserves with me on
the subject.

“I believe you are right, Mordaunt,” she answered, after
a short pause. “We do all wish you to fall in love as soon
as you can; to propose as soon as you are in love; and to
marry Priscilla Bayard, the instant she will consent to have
you.”

“This is honest, and like yourself, my dear grandmother;
and now we both know what is intended, and can
speak plainly. In the first place, do you not think one connection
of this sort, between families, quite sufficient? If
Kate marry the brother, may I not be excused for overlooking
the attractions of the sister?”

“Priscilla Bayard is one of the loveliest girls in York
Colony, Mordaunt Littlepage!”

“We call this part of the world York State, now, dearest
grandmother. I am far from denying the truth of what you
say;—Priscilla Bayard is very lovely.”

“I do not know what more you can wish, than to get
such a girl.”

“I shall not say that the time will not come when I may
be glad to obtain the consent of the young lady to become
my wife; but that time has not yet arrived. Then, I question
the expediency, when friends greatly desire any particular
match, of saying too much about it.”

My poor grandmother looked quite astounded, like one
who felt she had innocently done mischief; and she sat
gazing fondly at me, with the expression of a penitent child
painted in her venerated countenance.

“Nevertheless, Mordaunt, I had a great share in bringing
about the union between your own dear parents,” she
at length answered; “and that has been one of the happiest
marriages I have ever known!”

I had often heard allusions of this nature, and I had several
times observed the quiet smile of my mother, as she
listened to them; smiles that seemed to contradict the opinion

to which my grandmother's mistaken notions of her own
influence had given birth. On one occasion (I was still
quite a boy), I remember to have asked my mother how the
fact was, when the answer was, “I married your father
through the influence of a butcher's boy;” a reply that had
some reference to a very early passage in the lives of my
parents. But, I well know that neither Cornelius Littlepage,
nor Anneke Mordaunt, was a person to be coaxed into
matrimony; and I resolved on the spot, their only son
should manifest an equal independence. I might have answered
my grandmother to this effect, and in language
stronger than was my practice when addressing that reverend
parent, had not the two girls appeared on the piazza
at that moment, and broke up our private conference.

Sooth to say, Priscilla Bayard came forth upon me, that
morning, with something like the radiance of the rising sun.
Both the girls had that fresh, attractive look, that is apt to
belong to the toilettes of early risers of their sex, and which
probably renders them handsomer at that hour, than at any
other part of the day. My own sister was a very charming
girl, as any one would allow; but her friend was decidedly
beautiful. I confess I found it a little difficult not to give in
on the spot, and to whisper my anxious grandmother that I
would pay proper attention to the young lady, and make an
offer at the suitable time, as she advanced towards us, exchanging
the morning salutations, with just enough of ease
to render her perfectly graceful, and yet with a modesty
and retenue that were infinitely winning.

“Mordaunt is about to quit me, for the whole summer,
Miss Bayard,” said my grandmother, who would be doing
while there was a chance; “and I have had him out here,
to converse a little together, before we part. Kate I shall
see often during the pleasant season, I trust; but this is to
be the last of Mordaunt, until the cold weather return.”

“Is Mr. Littlepage going to travel?” inquired the young
lady, with just as much interest as good breeding demanded,
and not a particle more; “for Lilacsbush is not so distant
but he might ride over once a week, at least, to inquire
how you do.”

“Oh! He is going a great, great distance, and to a part
of the world I dread to think of!”

Miss Bayard now looked really startled, and a good deal
astonished, questioning me with her very fine eyes, though
she said nothing with her tongue.

“It is time I explain, lest Miss Bayard fancy my destination
to be China; whither all American adventurers now
seem bent on going. I shall not quit the State, however.”

“As the State is of some size,” answered Priscilla, “a
grandmother may think an only grandson far enough distant
who is at the other end of it. Perhaps you visit Niagara,
major Littlepage? I have heard of several gentlemen
who have such an excursion in view; and glad enough shall
I be when the roads are in such a state that ladies can be
of the party.”

“And you would have the spirit to be of such a party?”
asked my grandmother, seizing with avidity everything, even
to the least, that might encourage her wishes.

Pris. Bayard seemed fearful she had gone too far; for
she blushed very charmingly, ere she answered.

“I am not aware, Mrs. Littlepage, that any very great
spirit would be required,” she said. “It is true, there are
Indians by the way, and a vast wilderness between us and
the end of the journey; but ladies have made it, I have been
told, and in safety. One hears such wonders of the Falls,
that it would be a strong temptation to hazard something,
in order to see them.”

I look back with wonder over the short interval of time
that interposes, when I remember how we used to regard
the Falls of Niagara in my youth. A voyage to Europe
seemed little less hazardous and serious; and voyages to
Europe were not then what they are to-day.[1]

“Nothing would make me happier,” I cried, gallantly,
to my poor grandmother's ill-concealed delight, “than to be
the protector of Miss Bayard on the excursion.”

“You really think, then, of undertaking the journey,
major Littlepage?”

“Not this season, though I hold the hope in reserve, for
some future day. My destination, at present, is Ravensnest,
a place less than fifty miles distant from Albany.”

“Ravensnest!—That is a pretty name, though one might
like it better, I think, Kate, were it Dovesnest, or Robinsnest,
or Wrensnest. What is this Ravensnest, Mr. Littlepage?”

“An estate of a good deal of land, but of no great value
as yet, whatever it may turn out to be hereafter, that was
once the property of my grandfather Mordaunt, and which
he bequeathed to me. My father and colonel Dirck have
also an estate adjoining it, which is called Mooseridge. I
am to visit both; as the owner of one, and as the agent of
the owners of the other. It is time the several properties
were looked to, the late troubles having almost thrown them
out of our view.”

“They tell me that a great deal is doing in the way of
settling the wild lands of the interior this summer,” continued
Priscilla, with an interest in the subject that was
much more obvious to me, than explicable — “and that a
great many settlers are pouring in upon us from the adjoining
New England States. I have heard, also, that the vast
possessions of the Patroon are fast filling up, and that the
heart of the State will soon be peopled.”

“You are more conversant with such matters than it is
usual to find young ladies, Miss Bayard. I ascribe this to
your being so good a whig, which is but another name for a
patriot.”

Pris. blushed again, and she now seemed disposed to be
silent; though I could still detect an interest in the subject

that to me was quite unaccountable. Kate probably saw
this too, for she continued to converse about my journey,
even after her friend had drawn a little on one side; and
that, too, in a manner which seemed to say she was done.

“Who is the queer old man of whom I have heard you
speak, Mordaunt,” my sister demanded, “and with whom
you have lately had some correspondence about these
lands?”

“I suppose you mean my former comrade, the `Chainbearer.'
There was a captain in our regiment of the name
of Coejemans, who bears this appellation, and who has contracted
to get the necessary surveys made, though he fills
the humble post of a `Chainbearer' himself, not being competent
to make the calculations.”

“How can a mere Chainbearer contract for a full survey?”
asked Tom Bayard, who had joined the party, and
had been listening to the discourse. “The Chainbearers,
in general, are but common labourers, and are perfectly
irresponsible.”

“That is true, as a rule; but my old friend forms an
exception. He set out for a surveyor, but having no head
for sines, and co-sines, and tangents, he was obliged to
lower his pretensions to the humbler duty he now discharges.
Still, he has long contracted for jobs of this nature,
and gets as much as he can do, hiring surveyors
himself, the owners of property having the utmost confidence
in his measurements. Let me tell you, the man who
carries chain is not the least important member of a surveying
party in the woods. Old Andries is as honest as
noon-day, and everybody has faith in him.”

“His true name is Coejemans, I think you said, major
Littlepage?” asked Priscilla, as it struck me assuming an
air of indifference.

“It is, Andries Coejemans; and his family is reputable,
if not absolutely of a high caste. But the old man is so inveterate
a woodsman, that nothing but patriotism, and his
whig propensities, could have drawn him out into the open
country. After serving most gallantly through the whole
war, he has gone back to his chains; and many is the joke
he has about remaining still in chains, after fighting so long
and so often in the cause of liberty.”

Priscilla appeared to hesitate — I thought her colour increased
a little — then she asked the question that was apparently
uppermost in her thoughts, with surprising steadiness.

“Did you ever see the `Chainbearer's' niece, Dus Malbone?”

This question not a little surprised me; for, though I had
never seen Ursula, the uncle had talked so much to me of
his ward, that I almost fancied she was an intimate acquaintance.
It often happens that we hear so much of certain
persons, that we think and speak of them as of those we
know; and had Miss Bayard questioned me of one of my
late comrades in the service, I should not have been a whit
more startled than I was at hearing her pronounce the familiar
name of Dus Malbone.

“Where, in the name of all that is curious, did you ever
hear of such a person!” I exclaimed, a little inconsiderately,
since the world was certainly wide enough to admit of two
young women's being acquainted, without my consent; more
especially as one of them I had never seen, and the other I
had met, for the first time, only a fortnight before. “Old
Andries was always speaking to me of his niece; but I could
not suppose she was an acquaintance of one of your position
in life!”

“Notwithstanding, we were something more than school-fellows;—for
we were, and I trust are still, very, very good
friends. I like Dus exceedingly, though she is quite as
singular, in her way, as I have heard her uncle described to
be, in his.”

“This is odd!—Will you allow me to ask one question?
—You will think it singular, perhaps, after what you have
just told me — but curiosity will get the better of my manners—is
Dus Malbone a lady—the equal and companion of
such a person as Miss Priscilla Bayard?”

“That is a question not so easily answered, perhaps;
since, in some respects, she is greatly the superior of any
young woman I know. Her family, I have always heard,
was very good on both sides; she is poor, poor even to
poverty, I fear, now” — Here Pris. paused; there was a tremour
in her voice, even, and I detected tears starting to her
eyes. “Poor Dus!” she continued — “she had much to

support, in the way of poverty, even while at school; where
she was, indeed, as a dependant, rather than as a boarder;
but no one, among us all, could presume to offer her favours.
I was afraid even to ask her to accept a ribbon, as I should
not hesitate to do to Kate here, or any other young lady
with whom I was intimate. I never knew a nobler-minded
girl than Ursula Malbone, though few persons understand
her, I think.”

“This is old Andries over again! He was poor enough,
heaven knows; and I have known him actually suffer, in
order to do his duty by this girl, and to make a proper appearance
at the same time, as a captain in the New York
line; yet none of us, not even my father, could ever induce
him to borrow a single dollar. He would give, but he would
not receive.”

“I can believe this readily, it is so like Dus! If she has
her peculiarities, she has noble qualities enough to redeem
a thousand foibles. Still, I would not have you think Ursula
Malbone is not an excellent creature in all respects, though
she certainly has her peculiarities.”

“Which, doubtless, she has inherited from the Coejemans,
as her uncle, the Chainbearer, has his peculiarities too.”

“The Malbones have none of the blood of the Coejemans,”
answered the lady, quickly; “though it is respectable,
and not to be ashamed of. Dus Malbone's mother was
only half-sister to captain Coejemans, and they had different
fathers.”

I thought Pris. looked a little confused, and as if she were
sorry she had said so much on the subject at all, the instant
she had betrayed so much intimacy with the Malbone
genealogy; for she shrunk back, plucked a rose, and walked
away smelling the flower, like one who was indisposed to
say any more on the subject. A summons to breakfast,
however, would otherwise have interrupted us, and no more
was said about the Chainbearer, and his marvellous niece,
Dus Malbone. As soon as the meal was ended, our horses
were brought round, and Kate and I took our leave, Jaap
having preceded us as usual, an hour or more, with our
luggage. The reader is not to suppose that we always
moved in the saddle, in that day; on the contrary, my mother
had a very neat chaise, in which she used to drive

about the country, with a mounted position; my father had
a phaeton, and in town we actually kept a chariot; for the
union of the Mordaunt and Littlepage properties had made
us very comfortable, and comfortably we lived. But young
ladies liked the saddle twenty-five years ago, more than they
do to-day; and Kate, being a capital horsewoman, like her
mother before her, we were often out together. It was
choice, then, and not necessity, a little aided by bad roads,
perhaps, that induced us to ride across to Satanstoe so often,
when we wished to visit our grandmother.

I kissed my dear old parent very affectionately at parting,
for I was to see her no more that summer; and I got
her blessing in return. As for Tom Bayard, a warm, brotherly
shake of the hand sufficed, inasmuch as it was pretty
certain I should see him at Lilacsbush before I left home.
Approaching his sister, who held out her hand to me, in a
friendly manner, I said as I took it—

“I hope this is not the last time I am to see you, before
I start for the new countries, Miss Bayard. You owe my
sister a visit, I believe, and I shall trust to that debt for another
opportunity of saying the unpleasant word `farewell.”'

“This is not the way to win a lady's heart, Mordaunt,”
cried Kate, gaily. “It is only fifteen miles from your
father's door to the Hickories, you ought to know, sir; and
you have a standing invitation to darken its door with your
military form.”

“From both my father and brother”—put in Priscilla, a
little hastily. “They will always be happy to see major
Littlepage, most certainly.”

“And why not from yourself, Miss Prude,” added Kate,
who seemed bent on causing her friend some confusion.
“We are not, now, such total strangers to each other, as to
render that little grace improper.”

“When I am mistress of a house of my own, should that
day ever arrive, I shall take care not to lose my reputation
for hospitality,” answered Pris., determined not to be caught,
“by neglecting to include all the Littlepage family in my
invitations. Until then, Tom's and papa's welcomes must
suffice.”

The girl looked amazingly lovely all this time, and stood

the smiles of those around her with a self-possession that
showed me she knew perfectly well what she was about. I
was never more at a loss how to understand a young woman,
and it is very possible, had I remained near her for a
month longer, the interest such uncertainty is apt to awaken
might have sent me away desperately in love. But Providence
had determined otherwise.

During our ride towards the 'Bush, my sister, with proper
blushes and a becoming hesitation, let me into the secret
of her having accepted Tom Bayard. They were not to be
married until after my return from the north, an event that
was expected to take place in the ensuing autumn.

“Then I am to lose you, Kate, almost as soon as I find
you,” I said, a little despondingly.

“Not lose me, brother; no, no, not lose me, but find me,
more than ever. I am to be transplanted into a family
whither you will soon be coming to seek a wife, yourself.”

“Were I to come, what reason have I for supposing it
would be successful?”

“That is a question you have no right to ask. Did I
even know of any particular reason for believing your reception
would be favourable, you cannot believe me sufficiently
treacherous to betray my friend. Young ladies are
not of the facility of character you seem to suppose, sir;
and no method but the direct one will succeed. I have no
other reason for believing you would succeed, than the facts
that you are an agreeable, good-looking youth, however,
of unexceptionable family and fortune, living quite near the
Hickories, and of a suitable age, temper, habits, character,
&c. &c. &c. Are not these reasons sufficient to encourage
you to persevere, my brave major?”

“Perseverance implies commencement, and I have not
yet commenced. I scarcely know what to make of your
friend, child; she is either the perfection of nature and simplicity,
or the perfection of art.”

“Art! Pris. Bayard artful! Mordaunt, you never did a
human being greater injustice; a child cannot have greater
truth and sincerity than Tom's sister.”

“Ay, that 's just it; Tom's sister is ex officio perfect;
but, you will please to remember that some children are

very artful. All I can say on the subject at present is, that
I like Tom, and I like his parents; but I do not know what
to think of your friend.”

Kate was a little offended, so she made me no answer.
Her good-humour returned, however, before we had gone
far, and the rest of our ride passed pleasantly enough, no
allusions being made to any of the name of Bayard; though,
I dare say, my companion thought a great deal of a certain
Tom, of that name, as I certainly did of his handsome and
inexplicable sister.

At the Kingsbridge Inn, we had another short brush with
that untiring gossip, its landlady.

“A pleasant time it has been over at the 'Toe, I dares to
say,” exclaimed Mrs. Light, the instant she thrust her head
out of the door; “a most agreeable and amusing time both
for the young gentleman and for the young lady. Mr.
Thomas Bayard and Miss Pris. Bayard have been with you,
days and days, and old Madam Littlepage is delighted. Oh!
the 'Toe has always been a happy house, and happy faces
have I long been used to see come out of it, and happy faces
do I see to-day! Yes, yes; the 'Toe has always sent happy,
contented faces down the road; and a happy roof it has
been, by all accounts, these hundred years.”

I dare say this was all true enough. I have always heard
that the old place contained contented hearts; and contented
hearts make happy faces. Kate's face was happiness itself,
as she sat in the saddle listening to the crone; and my countenance
is not one of ill-nature. The “'Toe was ever a
happy house!” It recalls old times, to hear a house thus
familiarly spoken of; for a set is rising up among us which
is vastly too genteel to admit that any one, man, woman,
child, or Satan, ever had a member so homely as a 'Toe.