Littlepage Manuscripts: Satanstoe, The Chainbearer & The Redskins (Complete Edition). James Fenimore Cooper
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like the name exceedingly, Mr. Littlepage, and I feel certain I should like your good, old, honest, Anglo-Saxon grandfather. But, pardon me, it is his wish you should remain at Satansfoot?”
“Satanstoe, sir; we do not aspire to the whole foot. It is my grandfather’s wish that I remain at home until of age, which will not be now for some months.”
“By way of keeping you out of Satan’s footsteps, I suppose. Well, these old gentlemen are often right. Should you alter your views, however, my dear Littlepage, do not forget me, but remember you can count on one who has some little influence, and who will ever be ready to exert it in the behalf of one who has proved so serviceable to Miss Mordaunt. Sir Harry is a martyr to the gout, and talks of letting me stand in his place at the dissolution. In that case my wishes will naturally carry more weight. I like that name of Satanstoe amazingly!”
“I am infinitely obliged to you, Mr. Bulstrode, though I will confess I have never looked forward to rising in the world by taxing my friends. One may own that he has had some hopes founded on merit and honesty—”
“Poh! poh!—my dear Littlepage, honesty is a very pretty thing to talk about, but I suppose you remember what Juvenal says on that interesting subject—”probitas laudatur et alget.” I dare say you are fresh enough from college to remember that comprehensive sentiment.”
“I have never read Juvenal, Mr. Bulstrode, and never wish to, if such be the tendency of what he teaches—”
“Juvenal was a satirist, you know,” interrupted Bulstrode a little hastily, for by this time he too had ascertained that Anneke was listening, and he betrayed some eagerness to get rid of so flagitious a sentiment; “and satirists speak of things as they are, rather than as they ought to be. I dare say Rome deserved all she got, for the moralists give a very sad account of her condition. Of all the large capitals of which we have any account, London is the only town of even tolerable manners.”
What young Bulstrode would have ventured to say next, it is out of my power to guess; for a certain Miss Warren, who was of the company, and who particularly affected the youth, luckily called out at this critical instant—
“Your attention one moment, if you please, Mr. Bulstrode; is it true that the gentlemen of the army have been getting the new theatre in preparation, and that they intend to favour us with some representations? A secret something like this has just leaked out, from Mr. Harris, who even goes so far as to add that you can tell us all about it.”
“Mr. Harris must be put under an arrest for this, though I hear the colonel let the cat out of the bag, at the Lt. Governor’s table, as early as last week.”
“I can assure you, Mr. Bulstrode,” Anneke observed calmly, “that I have heard rumours to this effect for quite a fortnight. You must not blame Mr. Harris solely, for your whole regiment has been hinting to the same purpose far and near.”
“Then the delinquent will escape, this time. I confess the charge; we have hired the new theatre, and do intend to solicit the honour of the ladies coming to hear me murder Cato, and Scrub; a pretty climax of characters, you will admit, Miss Mordaunt?”
“I know nothing of Scrub, though I have read Mr. Addison’s play, and think you have no need of being ashamed of the character of Cato. When is the theatre to open?”
“We follow the sable gentry. As soon as St. Pinkster has received his proper share of attention, we shall introduce Dom-Cato and Mr. Scrub to your acquaintance.”
All the young ladies, but Anneke and her friend Mary Wallace, laughed, two or three repeating the words ‘St. Pinkster,’ as if they contained something much cleverer than it was usual to hear. A general burst of exclamations, expressions of pleasure, and of questions and answers followed, in which two or three voices were heard at the same moment, during which time Anneke turned to me, who was standing near her, at the spot occupied by Bulstrode a minute before, and seemed anxious to say something.
“Do you seriously think of the army, Mr. Littlepage?” she asked, changing colour at the freedom of her own question.
“In a war like this, no one can say when he may be called on to go out,” I answered. “But, only as a defender of the soil, if at all.”
I thought Anneke Mordaunt seemed pleased with this answer. After a short pause, she resumed the dialogue.
“Of course you understand Latin, Mr. Littlepage, although you have not been at the universities?”
“As it is taught in our own colleges, Miss Mordaunt.”
“And that is sufficient to tell me what Mr. Bulstrode’s quotation means—if it be proper for me to hear.”
“He would hardly presume to use even a Latin saying in your presence, that is unfit for your ear. The maxim which Mr. Bulstrode attributes to Juvenal, simply means ‘that honesty is praised and starves.’”
I thought that something like displeasure settled on the fair, polished, brow of Miss Mordaunt, who, I could soon see, possessed much character and high principles for one of her tender years. She said nothing, however, though she exchanged a very meaning glance with her friend Mary Wallace. Her lips were moved, and I fancied I could trace the formation of the sounds “honesty is praised and starves!”
“And you are to be Cato I hear, Mr. Bulstrode,” cried one of the young ladies, who thought more of a scarlet coat, I fancy, than was for her own good. “How very charming! Will you play the character in regimentals or in mohair—in a modern or in an ancient dress?”
“In my robe de chambre, a little altered for the occasion, Unless St. Pinkster and his sports should suggest some more appropriate costume,” answered the young man lightly.
“Are you quite aware what feast Pinkster is?” asked Anneke, a little gravely.
Bulstrode actually changed colour, for it had never crossed his mind to inquire into the character of the holiday; and, to own the truth, the manner in which it is kept by the negroes of New York, never would enlighten him much on the subject.
“That is information for which I perceive I am now about to be indebted to Miss Mordaunt.”
“Then you shall not be disappointed, Mr. Bulstrode; Pinkster is neither more nor less than the Festival of Whit-sunday, or the Feast of Pentecost. I suppose we shall now hear no more of your saint.”
Bulstrode took this little punishment, which was very sweetly but quite steadily uttered, with perfect good-humour, and with a manner so rebuked as to prove that Anneke possessed great control over him. He bowed in submission, and she smiled so kindly, that I wished the occasion for the little pantomime had not occurred.
“Our ancestors, Miss Mordaunt, never heard of any Pinkster, you will remember, and that must explain my ignorance,” he said meekly.
“But some of mine have long understood it, and observed the festival,” answered Anneke.
“Ay, on the side of Holland—but when I presume to speak of our ancestors, I mean those which I can claim the honour of boasting as belonging to me in common with yourself.”
“Are you and Mr. Bulstrode, then, related?” I asked, as it might be involuntarily and almost too abruptly.
Anneke replied, however, in a way to show that she thought the question natural for the circumstances, and not in the least out of place.
“My grandfather’s mother, and Mr. Bulstrode’s grandfather, were brother and sister,” was the quiet answer.
“This makes us a sort of cousins, according to those Dutch notions which he so much despises, though I fancy it would not count for much at home.”
Bulstrode protested to the contrary, stating that he knew his father valued his relationship to Mr. Mordaunt, by the earnest manner in which he had commanded him to cultivate the acquaintance of the family the instant he reached New York.