Philip Winwood
A Sketch of the Domestic History of an American Captain in the War of Independence; Embracing Events that Occurred between and during the Years 1763 and 1786, in New York and London: written by His Enemy in War, Herbert Russell, Lieuten (2024)

"The bravest are the tenderest."

Bayard Taylor.

Works of ROBERT NEILSON STEPHENS

An Enemy to the King
(Twenty-sixth Thousand)

The Continental Dragoon
(Seventeenth Thousand)

The Road to Paris
(Sixteenth Thousand)

A Gentleman Player
(Thirty-fifth Thousand)

Philip Winwood
(Fiftieth Thousand)

L.C. PAGE AND COMPANY, Publishers (Incorporated)
212 Summer St., Boston, Mass.

CAPTAIN PHILIP WINWOOD

A Sketch of the Domestic History of an American Captain in the War ofIndependence; Embracing Events that Occurred between and during theYears 1763 and 1786, in New York and London: written by His Enemy inWar, Herbert Russell, Lieutenant in the Loyalist Forces.

Presented Anew by

Robert Neilson Stephens

Author of "A Gentleman Player," "An Enemy to the King," "TheContinental Dragoon," "The Road to Paris," etc.

Illustrated by

E. W. D. Hamilton

Boston : L.C. PAGE & COMPANY (Incorporated) Mdcccc

1900

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER

• PHILIP'S ARRIVAL IN NEW YORK
• THE FARINGFIELDS
• WHEREIN 'TIS SHOWN THAT BOYS ARE BUT BOYS
• HOW PHILIP AND I BEHAVED AS RIVALS IN LOVE
• WE HEAR STARTLING NEWS, WHICH BRINGS ABOUT A FAMILY "SCENE"
• NED COMES BACK, WITH AN INTERESTING TALE OF A FORTUNATE IRISHMAN
• ENEMIES IN WAR
• I MEET AN OLD FRIEND IN THE DARK
• PHILIP'S ADVENTURES—CAPTAIN FALCONER COMES TO TOWN
• A FINE PROJECT
• WINWOOD COMES TO SEE HIS WIFE
• THEIR INTERVIEW
• WHEREIN CAPTAIN WINWOOD DECLINES A PROMOTION
• THE BAD SHILLING TURNS UP ONCE MORE IN QUEEN STREET
• IN WHICH THERE IS A FLIGHT BY SEA, AND A DUEL BY MOONLIGHT
• FOLLOWS THE FORTUNES OF MADGE AND NED
• I HEAR AGAIN FROM WINWOOD
• PHILIP COMES AT LAST TO LONDON
• WE MEET A PLAY-ACTRESS THERE
• WE INTRUDE UPON A GENTLEMAN AT A COFFEE-HOUSE
• THE LAST, AND MOST EVENTFUL, OF THE HISTORY

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

CAPTAIN PHILIP WINWOOD

"OUR MOTIONS, AS WE TOUCHED OUR LIPS WITH THEM, WERESO IN UNISON THAT MARGARET LAUGHED"

"SHE WAS INDEED THE TOAST OF THE ARMY"

"'HE IS A—AN ACQUAINTANCE'"

"HE FINALLY DREW BACK TO GIVE HER A MORE EFFECTUAL BLOW"

"IT WAS PHILIP'S CUSTOM, AT THIS TIME, TO ATTEND FIRSTNIGHTS AT THE PLAYHOUSES"

PHILIP WINWOOD.

CHAPTER I.

Philip's Arrival in New York.

'Tis not the practice of writers to choose for biography men who havemade no more noise in the world than Captain Winwood has; nor the actof gentlemen, in ordinary cases, to publish such private matters asthis recital will present. But I consider, on the one hand, thatWinwood's history contains as much of interest, and as good an exampleof manly virtues, as will be found in the life of many a hero morerenowned; and, on the other, that his story has been so partiallyknown, and so distorted, it becomes indeed the duty of a gentleman,when that gentleman was his nearest friend, to put forth that storytruly, and so give the lie for ever to the detractors of a brave andkindly man.

There was a saying in the American army, proceeding first from MajorHarry Lee, of their famous Light Horse, that Captain Winwood was inAmerica, in the smaller way his modesty permitted, what the ChevalierBayard was in France, and Sir Philip Sidney in England. This has beenreceived more than once (such is the malice of conscious inferiority)with derisive smiles or supercilious sneers; and not only by certainof his own countrymen, but even in my presence, when my friendship forWinwood, though I had been his rival in love and his enemy in war, wasnot less known than was my quickness to take offence and avenge it. Idealt with one such case, at the hour of dawn, in a glade near theBowery lane, a little way out of New York. And I might have continuedto vindicate my friend's character so: either with pistols, as atWeehawken across the Hudson, soon after the war, I vindicated themotives of us Englishmen of American birth who stood for the king inthe war of Independence; or with rapiers, as I defended the name ofour admired enemy, Washington, against a certain defamer, one morningin Hyde Park, after I had come to London. But it has occurred to methat I can better serve Winwood's reputation by the spilling of inkwith a quill than of blood with a sword or pistol. This consideration,which is far from a desire to compete with the young gentlemen whostrive for farthings and fame, in Grub Street, is my apology forprofaning with my unskilled hand the implement ennobled by the use ofa Johnson and a Goldsmith, a Fielding and an Addison.

My acquaintance with the Captain's life, from the vantage of aneye-witness and comrade, goes back to the time when all of usconcerned were children; to the very day, in truth, when Philip, apale and slender lad of eleven years, first set foot in New York, andfirst set eye on Margaret Faringfield.

As I think of it, it seems but yesterday, and myself a boy again: butit was, in fact, in the year 1763; and late in the afternoon of asunny Summer day. I remember well how thick and heavy the green leaveshung upon the trees that thrust their branches out over the gardenwalls and fences of our quiet street.

Tired from a day's play, or perchance lazy from the heat, I sprawledupon the front step of our house, which was next the residence of theFaringfields, in what was then called Queen Street. I believe the nameof that, as of many another in New York, has been changed since thewar, having savoured too much of royalty for republican taste.[1] TheFaringfield house, like the family, was one of the finest in New York;and there were in that young city greater mansions than one would havethought to find in a little colonial seaport—a rural-lookingprovincial place, truly, which has been likened to a Dutch town almostwholly transformed into the semblance of some secondary English town,or into a tiny, far-off imitation of London. It lacked, of course, thegrand, gray churches, the palaces and historic places, that tell ofwhat a past has been London's; but it lacked, too, the begriming smokeand fog that are too much of London's present. Indeed, never had anytown a clearer sky, or brighter sunshine, than are New York's.

From the Summer power of this sunshine, our part of Queen Street wassheltered by the trees of gardens and open spaces; maple, oak,chestnut, linden, locust, willow, what not? There was a garden,wherein the breeze sighed all day, between our house and theFaringfield mansion, to which it pertained. That vast house, of redand yellow brick, was two stories and a garret high, and had adoubly-sloping roof pierced with dormer windows. The mansion's lowerwindows and wide front door were framed with carved wood-work, paintedwhite. Its garden gate, like its front door, opened directly to thestreet; and in the garden gateway, as I lounged on our front step thatSummer evening, Madge Faringfield stood, running her fingers throughthe thick white and brown hair of her huge dog at her side.

The dog's head was almost on a level with hers, for she was then buteight years old, a very bright and pretty child. She turned her quickglance down the street as she stood; and saw me lying so lazy; and atonce her gray eyes took on a teasing and deriding light, and I felt Iwas in for some ironical, quizzing speech or other. But just then herlook fell upon something farther down the way, toward Hanover Square,and lingered in a half-amused kind of curiosity. I directed my owngaze to see what possessed hers, and this is what we both beheldtogether, little guessing what the years to come should bring to makethat moment memorable in our minds.

A thin but well-formed boy of eleven; with a pleasant, kindly face,somewhat too white, in which there was a look—as there was evidencein his walk also—of his being tired from prolonged exertion orendurance. He was decently, though not expensively, clad in blackcloth, his three-cornered felt hat, wide-skirted coat, and ill-fittingknee-breeches, being all of the same solemn hue. I was to perceivelater that his clothes were old and carefully mended. His gray silkstockings ill accorded with his poor shoes, of which the buckles wereof steel. He carried in one hand a large, ancient travelling-bag, soheavy that it strained his muscles and dragged him down, thus partlyexplaining the fatigued look in his face; and in his other hand abasket, from the open top of which there appeared, thrust out, thehead of a live gray kitten.

This pretty animal's look of strangeness to its surroundings, as itgazed about with curiosity, would alone have proclaimed that it wasarrived from travel; had not the baggage and appearance of its bearertold the same story. The boy, also, kept an alert eye forward as headvanced up the street, but it was soon evident that he gazed insearch of some particular object. This object, as the lad finallysatisfied himself by scanning it and its neighbours twice over, provedto be the house immediately opposite ours. It was one of a row ofsmall, old brick residences, with Dutch gable ends toward the street.Having made sure of its identity, and having reddened a little at thegaze of Madge and me, the young stranger set down his bag withperceptible signs of physical relief, and, keeping in his grasp thebasket with the cat, knocked with a seemingly forced boldness—as ifhe were conscious of timidity to be overcome—upon the door.

At that, Madge Faringfield could not help laughing aloud.

It was a light, rippling, little laugh, entirely good-natured, lastingbut a moment. But it sufficed to make the boy turn and look at her andblush again, as if he were hurt but bore no resentment.

Then I, who knew what it was to be wounded by a girl's laugh,especially Madge's, thought it time to explain, and called out to thelad:

"There's nobody at home there."

The boy gazed at me at a loss; then, plainly reluctant to believe me,he once more inspected the blank, closed front of the house, fordenial or confirmation of my word. When he next looked back at me, theexpression of inquiring helplessness and vague alarm on his face, asif the earth were giving way beneath his feet, was half comical, halfpitiful to see.

"It is Mr. Aitken's house, is it not?" he asked, in a tone low andcivil, though it seemed to betray a rapid beating of the heart after asudden sinking thereof.

"It was," I replied, "but he has gone back to England, and that houseis empty."

The lad's dismay now became complete, yet it appeared in no other waythan in the forlorn expression of his sharp, pale countenance, and inthe unconscious appeal with which his blue eyes surveyed Madge and mein turn. But in a few moments he collected himself, as if for thenecessary dealing with some unexpected castastrophe, and asked me, alittle huskily still:

"When will he come home?"

"Never, to this house, I think. Another customs officer has come overin his place, but this one lodges at the King's Arms, because he's abachelor."

The lad cast a final hopeless glance at the house, and thenmechanically took a folded letter from an inner pocket, and dismallyregarded the name on the back.

"I had a letter for him," he said, presently, looking again across thestreet at me and Madge, for the curious Miss Faringfield had walkeddown from her gateway to my side, that she might view the strangerbetter. And now she spoke, in her fearless, good-humoured, somewhatforward way:

"If you will give the letter to me, my father will send it to Mr.Aitken in London."

"Thank you, but that would be of no use," said the lad, with adisconsolate smile.

"Why not?" cried Madge promptly, and started forthwith skipping acrossthe dusty street. I followed, and in a moment we two were quite closeto the newcomer.

"You're tired," said Madge, not waiting for his answer. "Why don't yousit down?" And she pointed to the steps of the vacant house.

"Thank you," said the lad, but with a bow, and a gesture that meant hewould not sit while a lady stood, albeit the lady's age was but eightyears.

Madge, pleased at this, smiled, and perched herself on the upper step.Waiting to be assured that I preferred standing, the newcomer thenseated himself on his own travelling-bag, an involuntary sigh ofcomfort showing how welcome was this rest.

"Did you come to visit in New York?" at once began the inquisitiveMadge.

"Yes, I—I came to see Mr. Aitken," was the hesitating and dubiousanswer.

"And so you'll have to go back home without seeing him?"

"I don't very well see how I can go back," said the boy slowly.

"Oh, then you will visit some one else, or stay at the tavern?" Madgewent on.

"I don't know any one else here," was the reply, "and I can't stay atthe tavern."

"Why, then, what will you do?"

"I don't know—yet," the lad answered, looking the picture ofloneliness.

"Where do you live?" I put in.

"I did live in Philadelphia, but I left there the other day by thestage-coach, and arrived just now in New York by the boat."

"And why can't you go back there?" I continued.

"Why, because,—I had just money enough left to pay my way to NewYork; and even if I should walk back, I've no place there to go backto, and no one at all—now—" He broke off here, his voice faltering;and his blue eyes filled with moisture. But he made a swallow, andchecked the tears, and sat gently stroking the head of his kitten.

For a little time none of us spoke, while I stood staring somewhatabashed at the lad's evident emotion. Madge studied his countenanceintently, and doubtless used her imagination to suppose littleTom—her younger and favourite brother—in this stranger's place.Whatever it was that impelled her, she suddenly said to him, "Waithere," and turning, ran back across the street, and disappearedthrough the garden gate.

Instead of following her, the dog went up to the new boy's cat andsniffed at its nose, causing it to whisk back its head and gazespellbound. To show his peaceful mind, the dog wagged his tail, and bydegrees so won the kitten's confidence that it presently put forth itsface again and exchanged sniffs.

"I should think you'd have a dog, instead of a cat," said I,considering the stranger's sex.

He answered nothing to this, but looked quite affectionately at hispet. I set it down as odd that so manly a lad should so openly showliking for a cat. The conduct of the animal in its making acquaintancewith the dog; the good-humoured assurance of the one, and the cautiouscoyness of the other; amused us till presently Madge's voice washeard; and then we saw her coming from the garden, speaking to herfather, who walked bareheaded beside her. Behind, at a littledistance, came Madge's mother and little Tom. All four stopped at thegateway, and looked curiously toward us.

"Come over here, boy," called Madge, and heeded not the reproof hermother instantly gave her in an undertone for her forwardness. For anyone of his children but Madge, reproof would have come from her fatheralso; in all save where she was concerned, he was a singularly correctand dignified man, to the point of stiffness and austerity. His wife,a pretty, vain, inoffensive woman, was always chiding her children fortheir smaller faults, and never seeing the traits that might lead tograver ones.

Mr. and Mrs. Faringfield awaited the effect of Madge's invitation, orrather command, adding nothing to it. The boy's colour showed hisdiffidence, under the scrutiny of so many coldly inquiring eyes; butafter a moment he rose, and I, with greater quickness, seized his bagby the handle and started across the street with it. He called out asurprised and grateful "Thank you," and followed me. I was speedilyglad I had not undertaken to carry the bag as far as he had done;'twas all I could do to bear it.

"How is this, lad?" said Mr. Faringfield, when the boy, with hat off,stood before him. The tone was stern enough, a stranger would havethought, though it was indeed a kindly one for Madge's father. "Youhave come from Philadelphia to visit Mr. Aitken? Is he your relation?"

"No, sir; he was a friend of my father's before my father came toAmerica," replied the lad, in a low, respectful voice.

"Yet your father did not know he was gone back to England? How isthat?"

"My father is dead, sir; he died six years ago."

"Oh, I see," replied Mr. Faringfield, a little taken down from hisseverity. "And the letter my little girl tells me of?"

"If you please, my mother wrote it, sir," said the boy, looking at theletter in his hand, his voice trembling a little. He seemed to think,from the manner of the Faringfields, that he was obliged to give afull account of himself, and so went on. "She didn't know what else todo about me, sir, as there was no one in Philadelphia—that is, Imean, she remembered what a friend Mr. Aitken was to my father—theywere both of Oxford, sir; Magdalen college. And so at last she thoughtof sending me to him, that he might get me a place or something; andshe wrote the letter to tell him who I was; and she saw to it that Ishould have money enough to come to New York,—"

"But I don't understand," interrupted Mr. Faringfield, frowning hisdisapproval of something. "What made it necessary for her to disposeof you? Was she going to marry again?"

"She was going to die, sir," replied the boy, in a reserved tonewhich, despite his bashfulness, both showed his own hurt, and rebukedhis elder's thoughtless question.

"Poor boy!" whispered Mrs. Faringfield, grasping her little Tom'shand.

"Oh," said her husband, slowly, slightly awed from his sternness. "Ibeg your pardon, my lad. I am very sorry, indeed. Your being here,then, means that you are now an orphan?"

"Yes, sir," was the boy's only answer, and he lowered his eyes towardhis kitten, and so sad and lonely an expression came into his facethat no wonder Mrs. Faringfield whispered again, "Poor lad," and evenMadge and little Tom looked solemn.

"Well, boy, something must be done about you, that's certain," saidMr. Faringfield. "You have no money, my daughter says. Spent all youhad for cakes and kickshaws in the towns where the stage-coachstopped, I'll warrant."

The boy smiled. "The riding made me hungry sir," said he. "I'd havesaved my extra shilling if I'd known how it was going to be."

"But is there nothing coming to you in Philadelphia? Did your motherleave nothing?"

"Everything was sold at auction to pay our debts—it took the booksand our furniture and all, to do that."

"The books?"

"We kept a book-shop, sir. My father left it to us. He was abookseller, but he was a gentleman and an Oxford man."

"And he didn't make a fortune at the book trade, eh?"

"No, sir. I've heard people say he would rather read his books thansell them."

"From your studious look I should say you took after him."

"I do like to read, sir," the lad admitted quietly, smiling again.

Here Madge put in, with the very belated query:

"What's your name?"

"Philip Winwood," the boy answered, looking at her pleasantly.

"Well, Master Winwood," said Madge's father, "we shall have to takeyou in overnight, at least, and then see what's to be done."

At this Mrs. Faringfield said hastily, with a touch of alarm:

"But, my dear, is it quite safe? The child might—might have themeasles or something, you know."

Madge tittered openly, and Philip Winwood looked puzzled. Mr.Faringfield answered:

"One can see he is a healthy lad, and cleanly, though he is tired anddusty from his journey. He may occupy the end garret room. 'Tis an oddtravelling companion you carry, my boy. Did you bring the cat fromPhiladelphia?"

"Yes, sir; my mother was fond of it, and I didn't like to leave itbehind."

The kitten drew back from the stately gentleman's attempt to tap itsnose with his finger, and evinced a desire to make the acquaintance ofhis wife, toward whom it put forth its head as far as possible out ofits basket, beginning the while to purr.

"Look, mamma, it wants to come to you," cried little Tom, delighted.

"Cats and dogs always make friends quicker with handsome people," saidPhilip Winwood, with no other intent than merely to utter a fact, ofwhich those who observe the lower animals are well aware.

"There, my dear," said Mr. Faringfield, "there's a compliment for youat my expense."

The lady, who had laughed to conceal her pleasure at so innocent atribute, now freely caressed the kitten; of which she had been shybefore, as if it also might have the measles.

"Well, Philip," she said, a moment later, "come in, and feel that youare at home. You'll have just time to wash, and brush the dust off,before supper. He shall occupy the second spare chamber, William," sheadded, turning to her husband. "How could you think of sending so niceand good-looking a lad to the garret? Leave your travelling-bag here,child; the servants shall carry it in for you."

"This is so kind of you, ma'am, and sir," said Philip, with a lump inhis throat; and able to speak his gratitude the less, because he feltit the more.

"I am the one you ought to thank," said Madge archly, thus callingforth a reproving "Margaret!" from her mother, and an embarrassedsmile—part amusem*nt, part thanks, part admiration—from Philip. Thesmile so pleased Madge, that she gave one in return and then actuallydropped her eyes.

I saw with a pang that the newcomer was already in love with her, andI knew that the novelty of his adoration would make her oblivious ofmy existence for at least a week to come. But I bore him no malice,and as the Faringfields turned toward the rear veranda of the house, Isaid:

"Come and play with me whenever you like. That's where I live, nextdoor. My name is Herbert Russell, but they call me Bert, for short."

"Thank you," said Winwood, and was just about to go down the gardenwalk between Madge and little Tom, when the whole party was stopped bya faint boo-hooing, in a soft and timid voice, a short distance up thestreet.

"'Tis Fanny," cried Mrs. Faringfield, affrightedly, and ran out fromthe garden to the street.

"Ned has been bullying her," said Madge, anger suddenly firing herpretty face. And she, too, was in the street in a moment, followed byall of us, Philip Winwood joining with a ready boyish curiosity andinterest in what concerned his new acquaintances.

Sure enough, it was Fanny Faringfield, Madge's younger sister, comingalong the street, her knuckles in her eyes, the tears streaming downher face; and behind her, with his fists in his coat pockets, and hiscruel, sneering laugh on his bold, handsome face, came Ned, the eldestof the four Faringfield young ones. He and Fanny were returning from achildren's afternoon tea-party at the Wilmots' house in WilliamStreet, from which entertainment Madge had stayed away because she hadhad another quarrel with Ned, whom she, with her self-love and highspirit, had early learned to hate for his hectoring and domineeringnature. I shared Madge's feeling there, and was usually at daggersdrawn with Ned Faringfield; for I never would take any man'sbrowbeating. Doubtless my own quickness of temper was somewhat toblame. I know that it got me into many fights, and had, in fact, keptme too from that afternoon's tea, I being then not on speaking termswith one of the Wilmot boys. As for Madge's detestation of Ned, shemade up for it by her love of little Tom, who then and always deservedit. Tom was a true, kind, honest, manly fellow, from his cradle tothat sad night outside the Kingsbridge tavern. Madge loved Fanny too,but less wholly. As for Fanny, dear girl, she loved them all, evenNed, to whom she rendered homage and obedience; and to save whom fromtheir father's hard wrath, she now, at sight of us all issuing fromthe gateway, suddenly stopped crying and tried to look as if nothingwere the matter.

Ned, seeing his father, paled and hesitated; but the next moment cameswaggering on, his face showing a curious succession of fear,defiance, cringing, and a crafty hope of lying out of his offence.

It was, of course, the very thing Fanny did to shield him, thatcertainly betrayed him; and when I knew from her sudden change ofconduct that he was indeed to blame, I would gladly have attacked him,despite that he was twelve years old and I but ten. But I dared notmove in the presence of our elders, and moreover I saw at once Ned'sfather would deal with him to our complete satisfaction.

"Go to your room, sir," said Mr. Faringfield, in his sternest tone,looking his anger out of eyes as hard as steel. This meant for MasterNed no supper, and probably much worse.

"Please, sir, I didn't do anything," answered Ned, with ill-feignedsurprise. "She fell and hurt her arm."

Fanny did not deny this, but she was no liar, and could not confirmit. So she looked to the ground, and clasped her left wrist with herright hand. But in this latter movement she again exposed her brotherby the very means she took to protect him; for quick-seeing Madge,observing the action, gently but firmly unclasped the younger sister'shand, and so disclosed the telltale marks of Ned's fingers upon thedelicate wrist, by squeezing or wrenching which that tyrant hadevinced his brotherly superiority.

At sight of this, Mrs. Faringfield gave a low cry of horror andmaternal pity, and fell to caressing the bruised wrist; and Madge,raising her arm girl-wise, began to rain blows on her brother, whichfell wherever they might, but where none of them could hurt. Herfather, without reproving her, drew her quietly back, and with acountenance a shade darker than before, pointed out the way for Nedtoward the veranda leading to the rear hall-door.

With a vindictive look, and pouting lips, Ned turned his steps downthe walk. Just then he noticed Philip Winwood, who had viewed everydetail of the scene with wonder, and who now regarded Ned with a kindof vaguely disliking curiosity, such as one bestows on somesinister-looking strange animal. Philip's look was, of course,unconscious, but none the less clearly to be read for that. NedFaringfield, pausing on his way, stared at the unknown lad, with anexpression of insolent inquiry. Not daring to stay for questions, butobserving the valise, he seemed to become aware that the newcomer wasan already accepted guest of the house; and he thereupon surveyedPhilip a moment, inwardly measuring him as a possible comrade orantagonist, but affecting a kind of disdain. A look from his fatherended Ned's inspection, and sent him hastily toward his imprisonment,whither he went with no one's pity but Fanny's—for his mother hadbecome afraid of him, and little Tom took his likes and dislikes fromhis sister Madge.

And so they went in to supper, disappearing from my sight behind thecorner of the parlour wing as they mounted the rear veranda: Mr. andMrs. Faringfield first, the mother leading Fanny by the wounded wrist;the big dog next, wagging his tail for no particular reason; and thenPhilip Winwood, with his cat in his basket, Madge at one side of himand pretending an interest in the kitten while from beneath her lashesshe alertly watched the boy himself, little Tom on the other sideholding Philip's hand. I stood at the gateway, looking after; and withall my young infatuation for Madge, I had no feeling but one ofliking, for this quiet, strange lad, with the pale, kind face. And Iwould to God I might see those three still walking together, as whenchildren, through this life that has dealt so strangely with them allsince that Summer evening.

CHAPTER II.

The Faringfields.

Having shown how Philip Winwood came among us, I ought to tell atonce, though of course I learned it from him afterwards, all that needbe known of his previous life. His father, after leaving Oxford andstudying medicine in Edinburgh, had married a lady of the latter city,and emigrated to Philadelphia to practise as a physician. But whether'twas that the Quaker metropolis was overstocked with doctors eventhen, or for other reasons, there was little call for Doctor Winwood'sministrations. Moreover, he was of so book-loving a disposition thatif he happened to have sat down to a favourite volume, and a requestcame for his services, it irked him exceedingly to respond. This beingnoticed and getting abroad, did not help him in his profession.

The birth of Philip adding to the doctor's expenses, it soon cameabout that, in the land where he had hoped to make a new fortune, heparted with the last of what fortune he had originally possessed. Thenoccurred to him the ingenious thought of turning bookseller, abusiness which, far from requiring that he should ever absent himselffrom his precious volumes, demanded rather that he should always beamong them. But the stock that he laid in, turned out to compriserather such works as a gentleman of learning would choose for company,than such as the people of Philadelphia preferred to read.Furthermore, when some would-be purchaser appeared, it often happenedthat the book he offered to buy was one for which the erudite dealerhad acquired so strong an affection that he would not let it changeowners. Nor did his wife much endeavour to turn him from thisuntradesmanlike course. Besides being a gentle and affectionate woman,she had that admiration for learning which, like excessive warmth ofheart and certain other traits, I have observed to be common betweenthe Scotch (she was of Edinburgh, as I have said) and the best of theAmericans.

Such was Philip's father, and when he died of some trouble of theheart, there was nothing for his widow to do but continue thebusiness. She did this with more success than the doctor had had,though many a time it smote her heart to sell some book of those thather husband had loved, and to the backs of which she had becomeattached for his sake and through years of acquaintance. But thenecessities of her little boy and herself cried out, and so did thedebt her husband had accumulated as tangible result of his businesscareer. By providing books of a less scholarly, more popularcharacter, such as novels, sermons, plays, comic ballads, religiouspoems, and the like; as well as by working with her needle, andsometimes copying legal and other documents, Mrs. Winwood managed tokeep the kettle boiling. And in the bookselling and the copying, shesoon came to have the aid of Philip.

The boy, too, loved books passionately, finding in them consolationfor the deprivations incidental to his poverty. But, being keenlysympathetic, he had a better sense of his mother's necessities thanhis father had shown, and to the amelioration of her condition and hisown, he sacrificed his love of books so far as to be, when occasionoffered, an uncomplaining seller of those he liked, and a dealer inthose he did not like. His tastes were, however, broader than hisfather's, and he joyfully lost himself in the novels and plays hisfather would have disdained.

He read, indeed, everything he could put his hands on, that had, tohis mind, reason, or wit, or sense, or beauty. Many years later, whenwe were in London, his scholarly yet modest exposition of a certainsubject eliciting the praise of a group in a Pall Mall tavern, and hebeing asked "What university he was of," he answered, with a playfulsmile, "My father's bookshop." It was, indeed, his main school ofbook-learning. But, as I afterward told him, he had studied in theuniversity of life also. However, I am now writing of his boyhood inPhiladelphia; and of that there is only this left to be said.

In catering to his mind, he did not neglect bodily skill either. Hisearly reading of Plutarch and other warlike works had filled him withdesire to emulate the heroes of battle. An old copy of Saviolo's bookon honour and fence, written in the reign of Elizabeth, or James, Iforget which, had in some manner found its way to his father'sshelves; and from this Philip secretly obtained some correct ideas ofswordsmanship.[2] Putting them in practice one day in the shop, with astick, when he thought no one was looking, he suddenly heard a cry of"bravo" from the street door, and saw he was observed by a Frenchman,who had recently set up in Philadelphia as a teacher of fencing,dancing, and riding. This expert, far from allowing Philip to beabashed, complimented and encouraged him; entered the shop, and madefriends with him. The lad, being himself as likable as he found thelively foreigner interesting, became in time something of a comrade tothe fencing master. The end of this was that, in real or pretendedreturn for the loan of Saviolo's book, the Frenchman gave Philip acourse of instruction and practice in each of his three arts.

To these the boy added, without need of a teacher, the ability toshoot, both with gun and with pistol. I suppose it was from being somuch with his mother, between whom and himself there must have existedthe most complete devotion, that notwithstanding his manly andscholarly accomplishments, his heart, becoming neither tough like thesportsman's nor dry like the bookworm's, remained as tender as agirl's—or rather as a girl's is commonly supposed to be. His mother'sdeath, due to some inward ailment of which the nature was a problem tothe doctors, left him saddened but too young to be embittered. Andthis was the Philip Winwood—grave and shy from having been deprivedtoo much of the company of other boys, but with certain mental andbodily advantages of which too much of that company would havedeprived him—who was taken into the house of the Faringfields in theSummer of 1763.

The footing on which he should remain there was settled the verymorning after his arrival. Mr. Faringfield, a rigid and prudent man,but never a stingy one, made employment for him as a kind of messengeror under clerk in his warehouse. The boy fell gratefully into the newlife, passing his days in and about the little counting-room thatlooked out on Mr. Faringfield's wharf on the East River. He found itdull work, the copying of invoices, the writing of letters tomerchants in other parts of the world, the counting of articles ofcargo, and often the bearing a hand in loading or unloading someschooner or dray; but as beggars should not be choosers, sobeneficiaries should not be complainers, and Philip kept his feelingsto himself.

Mr. Faringfield was an exacting master, whose rule was that his menshould never be idle, even at times when there seemed nothing to do.If no task was at hand, they should seek one; and if none could befound, he was like to manufacture one. Thus was Phil denied thepleasure of brightening or diversifying his day with reading, forwhich he could have found time enough. He tried to be interested inhis work, and he in part succeeded, somewhat by good-fellowship withthe jesting, singing, swearing wharfmen and sailors, somewhat bydwelling often on the thought that he was filling his small place in agreat commerce which touched so distant shores, and so many countries,of the world. He used to watch the vessels sail, on the few andfar-between days when there were departures, and wish, with inwardsighs, that he might sail with them. A longing to see the great world,the Europe of history, the Britain of his ancestors, had beenimplanted in him by his reading, before he had come to New York, andthe desire was but intensified by his daily contact with the one endof a trade whose other end lay beyond the ocean.

Outside of the hours of business, Philip's place was that of a memberof the Faringfield household, where, save in the one respect thatafter his first night it was indeed the garret room that fell to him,he was on terms of equality with the children. Ned alone, of them all,affected toward him the manner of a superior to a dependent. Whateverwere Philip's feelings regarding this attitude of the elder son, hekept them locked within, and had no more to say to Master Ned thanabsolute civility required. With the two girls and little Tom, andwith me, he was, evenings and Sundays, the pleasantest playfellow inthe world.

Ungrudgingly he gave up to us, once we had made the overtures, thetime he would perhaps rather have spent over his books; for he hadbrought a few of these from Philadelphia, a fact which accounted forthe exceeding heaviness of his travelling bag, and he had access, ofcourse, to those on Mr. Faringfield's shelves. His compliance with ourdemands was the more kind, as I afterward began to see, for that hisday's work often left him quite tired out. Of this we never thought;we were full of the spirits pent up all day at school, Madge and Fannybeing then learners at the feet of a Boston maiden lady in our street,while I yawned and idled my hours away on the hard benches of a Dutchschoolmaster near the Broadway, under whom Ned Faringfield also was astudent. But fresh as we were, and tired as Philip was, he was alwaysready for a romp in our back yard, or a game of hide-and-seek in theFaringfields' gardens, or a chase all the way over to the BowlingGreen, or all the way up to the Common where the town ended and theBowery lane began.

But it soon came out that Phil's books were not neglected, either. Thespeed with which his candles burnt down, and required renewal, told ofnocturnal studies in his garret. As these did not perceptiblyinterfere with his activity the next day, they were viewed by Mr.Faringfield rather with commendation than otherwise, and so wereallowed to continue. My mother thought it a sin that no one interferedto prevent the boy's injuring his health; but when she said this toPhil himself, he only smiled and answered that if his reading did costhim anything of health, 'twas only fair a man should pay something forhis pleasures.

My mother's interest in the matter arose from a real liking. She sawmuch of Philip, for he and the three younger Faringfields were asoften about our house as about their own. Ours was not nearly as fine;'twas a white-painted wooden house, like those in New England, butroomy enough for its three only occupants, my mother and me and themaid. We were not rich, but neither were we of the poorest. My father,the predecessor of Mr. Aitken in the customs office, had leftsufficient money in the English funds at his death, to keep us in thedecent circ*mstances we enjoyed, and there was yet a special fundreserved for my education. So we could be neighbourly with theFaringfields, and were so; and so all of us children, includingPhilip, were as much at home in the one house as in the other.

One day, in the Fall of that year of Philip's arrival, we young oneswere playing puss-in-a-corner in the large garden—half orchard, halfvegetable plantation—that formed the rear of the Faringfields'grounds. It was after Phil's working hours, and a pleasant, cool,windy evening. The maple leaves were yellowing, the oak leaves turningred. I remember how the wind moved the apple-tree boughs, and theyellow corn-stalks waiting to be cut and stacked as fodder. (When Ispeak of corn, I do not use the word in the English sense, of grain ingeneral, but in the American sense, meaning maize, of which there aretwo kinds, the sweet kind being most delicious to eat, as either kindis a beautiful sight when standing in the field, the tall stalkswaving their many arms in the breeze.) We were all laughing, andrunning from tree to tree, when in from the front garden came Ned, hisface wearing its familiar cruel, bullying, spoil-sport smile.

The wind blowing out Madge's brown hair as she ran, I suppose put himin mind of what to do. For all at once, clapping his hand to hismouth, and imitating the bellowing war-whoop of an Indian, he rushedupon us in that character, caught hold of Madge's hair, and made offas if to drag her away by it. She, screaming, tried to resist, but ofcourse could not get into an attitude for doing so while he pulled herso fast. The end of it was, that she lost her balance and fell, thustearing her hair from his grasp.

I, being some distance away, picked up an apple and flung it at thepersecutor's head, which I missed by half an inch. Before I couldfollow the apple, Philip had taken the work out of my hands.

"You are a savage," said Phil, in a low voice, but with a fiery eye,confronting Ned at close quarters.

"And what are you?" replied young Faringfield promptly. "You're abeggar, that's what you are! A beggar that my father took in."

For a moment or two Phil regarded his insulter in amazed silence; thenanswered:

"If only you weren't her brother!"

Here Madge spoke up, from the ground on which she sat:

"Oh, don't let that stop you, Phil!"

"I sha'n't," said Phil, with sudden decision, and the next instant theastounded Ned was recoiling from a solid blow between the eyes.

Of course he immediately returned the compliment in kind, and as Nedwas a strong fellow, Phil had all he could do to hold his own in theensuing scuffle. How long this might have lasted, I don't know, hadnot Fanny run between, with complete disregard of her own safety,calling out:

"Oh, Phil, you mustn't hurt Ned!"

Her interposition being aided on the other side by little Tom, whoseized Ned's coat-tails and strove to pull him away from injuringPhilip, the two combatants, their boyish belligerence perhaps havinghad enough for the time, separated, both panting.

"I'll have it out with you yet!" said Master Ned, short-windedly,adjusting his coat, and glaring savagely.

"All right!" said Phil, equally out of breath. Ned then left thefield, with a look of contempt for the company.

After that, things went on in the old pleasant manner, except thatNed, without any overt act to precipitate a fight, habitually treatedPhil with a most annoying air of scorn and derision. This, thoughendured silently, was certainly most exasperating.

But it had not to be endured much of the time, for Ned had grown moreand more to disdain our society, and to cultivate companions superiorto us in years and knowledge of the world. They were, indeed, a smart,trick-playing, swearing set, who aped their elders in drinking,dicing, card-gambling, and even in wenching. Their zest in thisimitation was the greater for being necessarily exercised in secretcorners, and for their freshness to the vices they affected.

I do not say I was too good for this company and their practices; orthat Philip was either. Indeed we had more than a mere glimpse ofboth, for boys, no matter how studious or how aspiring in the longrun, will see what life they can; will seek the taste of forbiddenfruit, and will go looking for temptations to yield to. Indeed, thehigher a boy's intelligence, the more eager may be his curiosity for,his first enjoyment of, the sins as well as the other pleasures. Whatbanished us—Philip and me—from Ned's particular set was, first,Ned's enmity toward us; second, our attachment to a clan of boysequally bent on playing the rake in secret, though of betterinformation and manners than Ned's comrades could boast of; third,Phil's fondness for books, and mine for him; and finally, our love forMadge.

This last remained unaltered in both of us. As for Madge, as I hadpredicted to myself, she had gradually restored me to my old place inher consideration as the novelty of Philip's newer devotion had wornoff. We seemed now to be equals in her esteem. At one time Phil wouldapparently stand uppermost there, at another I appeared to bepreferred. But this alternating superiority was usually due to casualcirc*mstance. Sometimes, I suppose, it owed itself to caprice;sometimes, doubtless, to deep design unsuspected by either of us. Boysare not men until they are well grown; but women are women from theirfirst compliment. On the whole, as I have said, Phil and I were veryeven rivals.

It was sometime in the winter—Philip's first winter with theFaringfields—that the next outbreak came, between him and MasterEdward. If ever the broad mansion of the Faringfields looked warm andwelcoming, it was in midwinter. The great front doorway, with itsfanlight above, and its panel windows at each side, through which thelight shone during the long evenings, and with its broad stone stepsand out-curving iron railings, had then its most hospitable aspect.One evening that it looked particularly inviting to me, was when Nedand the two girls and I were returning with our skates from anafternoon spent on Beekman's pond. Large flakes were falling softly onsnow already laid. Darkness had caught up with us on the way home, andwhen we came in sight of the cheery light enframing the Faringfields'wide front door, and showing also from the windows at one side, I wasnot sorry I was to eat supper with them that evening, my mother havinggone sleighing to visit the Murrays at Incledon, with whom she was topass the night. As we neared the door, tired and hungry, whom shouldwe see coming toward it from the other direction but Philip Winwood.He had worked over the usual time at the warehouse. Before the girlsor I could exchange halloes with Phil, we were all startled to hearNed call out to him, in a tone even more imperious than the words:

"Here, you, come and take my skates, and carry them in, and tellmother I've stopped at Jack Van Cortlandt's house a minute."

And he stood waiting for Phil to do his bidding. The rest of ushalted, also; while Phil stopped where he was, looking as if he couldnot have heard aright.

"Come, are you deaf?" cried Ned, impatiently. "Do as you're bid, andbe quick about it."

Now, of course, there was nothing wrong in merely asking a comrade, asone does ask a comrade such things, to carry in one's skates while onestopped on the way. No one was ever readier than Phil to do suchlittle offices, or great ones either. Indeed, it is the American wayto do favours, even when not requested, and even to inferiors. I haveseen an American gentleman of wealth go in the most natural manner tothe assistance of his own servant in a task that seemed to overtax thelatter, and think nothing of it. But in the case I am relating; apartfrom the fact that I, being nearer than Phil, was the proper one ofwhom to ask the favour; the phrase and manner were those of a masterto a servant; a rough master and a stupid servant, moreover. And soPhilip, after a moment, merely laughed, and went on his way toward thedoor.

At this Master Ned stepped forward with the spirit of chastisem*nt inhis eyes, his skates held back as if he meant to strike Phil withtheir sharp blades. But it happened that Philip had by now mounted thefirst door-step, and thus stood higher than his would-be assailant. SoMaster Ned stopped just out of Philip's reach, and said insolently:

"'Tis time you were taught your place, young fellow. You're one of myfather's servants, that's all; so take in my skates, or I'll showyou."

"You're wrong there," said Phil, with forced quietness. "A clerk ormessenger, in business, is not a personal servant."

"Take in these skates, or I'll brain you with 'em!" cried Ned, tothat.

"Come on and brain!" cried Phil.

"By G—d, I will that!" replied Ned, and made to swing the skatesaround by the straps. But his arm was, at that instant, caught in apowerful grip, and, turning about in surprise, he looked into thehard, cold eyes of his father, who had come up unseen, having stayed;at the warehouse even later than Phil.

"If any blows are struck here, you sha'n't be the one to strike them,sir," he said to Ned. "What's this I hear, of servants? I'll teach youonce for all, young man, that in my house Philip is your equal. Go toyour room and think of that till it becomes fixed in your mind."

To go without supper, with such an appetite, on such a cold night, wasindeed a dreary end for such a day's sport. I, who knew how chilledand starved Ned must be, really pitied him.

But instead of slinking off with a whimper, he for the first time inhis life showed signs of revolt.

"What if I don't choose to go to my room?" he answered, impudently, toour utmost amazement. "You may prefer an outside upstart over yourson, if you like, but you can't always make your son a prisoner by theordering."

Mr. Faringfield showed little of the astonishment and paternal wrathhe doubtless felt. He gazed coldly at his defiant offspring a moment;then took a step toward him. But Ned, with the agility of boyhood,turned and ran, looking back as he went, and stopping only when he wasat a safe distance.

"Come back," called his father, not risking his dignity in a doubtfulpursuit, but using such a tone that few would dare to disobey thecommand.

"Suppose I don't choose to come back," answered Ned, to whose head thevery devil had now certainly mounted. "Maybe there's other places togo to, where one doesn't have to stand by and see an upstart beggarpreferred to himself, and put in his place, and fed on the best whilehe's lying hungry in his dark room."

"If there's another place for you, I'd advise you to find it," saidMr. Faringfield, after a moment's reflection.

"Oh, I'll find it," was the reply; and then came what Master Ned knewwould be the crowning taunt and insult to his father. "If it comes tothe worst, I know how I can get to England, where I'd rather be,anyway."

There was a reason why Mr. Faringfield's face turned dark as athunder-cloud at this. You must know, first, that in him alone wasembodied the third generation of colonial Faringfields. The founder ofthe American branch of the family, having gone pretty nearly to thedogs at home, and got into close quarters with the law, received fromhis people the alternative of emigrating to Virginia or sufferingjustice to take its course. Tossing up his last sixpence, heindifferently observed, on its coming down, that it lay in favour ofVirginia. So he chose emigration, and was shipped off, upon conditionthat if he ever again set foot in England he should be forthwithturned over to the merciless law. His relations, as he perceived,cherished the hope that he would die of a fever likely to be caught onthe piece of marshy land in Virginia which they, in a belief that itwas worthless, had made over to him. Pondering on this on the voyage,and perhaps having had his fill of the flesh and the devil, heresolved to disappoint his family. And, to make short a very longstory of resolution and toil, he did so, becoming at last one of therichest tobacco-planters in the province.

He might now have returned to England with safety; but his resentmentagainst the people who had exiled him when they might have compoundedwith justice otherwise, extended even to their country, which he nolonger called his, and he abode still by the condition of hisemigration. He married a woman who had her own special reasons forinimical feelings toward the English authorities, which any one mayinfer who is familiar with one phase (though this was not as large aphase as English writers seem to think) of the peopling of Virginia.Although she turned over a new leaf in the province, and seems to havebeen a model wife and parent, she yet retained a sore heart againstthe mother country. The feeling of these two was early inculcated intothe minds of their children, and their eldest son, in whom it amountedalmost to a mania, transmitted it on to his own successor, our Mr.Faringfield of Queen Street.

The second Faringfield (father of ours), being taken with a desire forthe civilities and refinements of a town life, moved from Virginia toNew York, married there a very worthy lady of Dutch patroon descent,and, retaining his Virginia plantation, gradually extended hisbusiness, so that he died a general merchant, with a European and aWest Indian trade, and with vessels of his own. He it was that builtthe big Faringfield house in Queen Street. He was of an aspiring mind,for one in trade, and had even a leaning toward book-knowledge and theornaments of life. He was, moreover, an exceedingly proud man, as if ahaughty way were needful to a man of business and an American, inorder to check the contempt with which he might be treated as either.His large business, his pride, his unreasonable hatred of England(which he never saw), and a very fine and imposing appearance, hepassed down to our Mr. Faringfield, by whom all these inheritanceswere increased. This gentleman, sensible of the injustice of aninherited dislike not confirmed by experience, took occasion of somebusiness to make a visit to England, shortly after his father's death.I believe he called upon his English cousins, now some degreesremoved, and, finding them in their generation ignorant that therewere any American Faringfields, was so coldly received by them, aswell as by the men with whom his business brought him in contact, thathe returned more deeply fixed in his dislike, and with a determinationthat no Faringfield under his control should ever again breathe theair of the mother island. He even chose a wife of French, rather thanEnglish, descent; though, indeed, the De Lanceys, notwithstanding theywere Americans of Huguenot origin, were very good Englishmen, as theissue proved when the separation came.

Miss De Lancey, however, at that time, had no views or feelings asbetween the colonies and England; or if she had any, scarcely knewwhat they were. She was a pretty, innocent, small-minded woman; withno very large heart either, I fancy; and without force of character;sometimes a little shrewish when vexed, and occasionally given toprolonged whining complaints, which often won the point with herhusband, as a persistent mosquito will drive a man from a field whencea giant's blows would not move him. She heard Mr. Faringfield'stirades against England, with neither disagreement nor assent; and shelet him do what he could to instil his own antagonism into thechildren. How he succeeded, or failed, will appear in time. I havetold enough to show why Master Ned's threatening boast, of knowing howto get to England, struck his father like a blow in the face.

I looked to see Mr. Faringfield now stride forth at all risk andinflict upon Master Ned some chastisem*nt inconceivable; and Nedhimself took a backward step or two. But his father, after a moment ofdark glowering, merely answered, though in a voice somewhat unsteadywith anger:

"To England or the devil, my fine lad, before ever you enter my door,until you change your tune!"

Whereupon he motioned the rest of us children to follow him into thehouse, leaving his eldest son to turn and trudge defiantly off intothe darkness. From Ned's manner of doing this, I knew that he was sureof shelter for that night, at least. Noah, the old black servant,having seen his master through the panel windows, had already openedthe door; and so we went in to the warm, candle-lit hall, Mr.Faringfield's agitation now perfectly under control, and his angershowing not at all upon his surface of habitual sternness.

As for the others, Phil walked in a kind of deep, troubled study, intowhich he had been thrown by Ned's words regarding him; I was awed intobreathless silence and a mouse-like tread; and kind little Fanny wentgently sobbing with sorrow and fear for her unhappy brother—a sorrowand fear not shared in the least degree by her sister Madge, whoseface showed triumphant approval of her father's course and of theoutcome.

CHAPTER III.

Wherein 'tis Shown that Boys Are but Boys.

The Faringfield house, as I have said, was flanked by garden space oneither side. It was on the Eastern side of the street, and so facedWest, the next house Southward being ours. The wide hall that weentered ran straight back to a door opening from a wooden veranda thatlooked toward the rear garden. At the right of this hall, as you wentin, a broad oak stairway invited you to the sleeping floor above. Butbefore you came to this stairway, you passed a door that gave into thegreat parlour, which ran the whole length of the hall, and, being usedonly on occasions of festivity or ceremony, was now closed and dark.At the left of the hall, the first door led to the smaller parlour, aswide but not as long as the great one, and in daily use as the chiefliving-room of the house. Its windows were those through which thecandle-light within had welcomed us from the frosty, snowy air thatevening. Behind this parlour, and reached either directly from it, orby a second door at the left side of the hall, was the library,so-called although a single case of eight shelves sufficed to hold allthe books it contained. Yet Philip said there was a world in thosebooks. The room was a small and singularly cosy one, and here, whenMr. Faringfield was not occupied at the mahogany desk, we childrenmight play at chess, draughts, cards, and other games. From this room,one went back into the dining-room, another apartment endeared to meby countless pleasant memories. Its two windows looked Southwardacross the side grounds (for the hall and great parlour came not sofar back) to our house and garden. Behind the dining-room, andseparating it from the kitchen and pantry, was a passage with a backstairway and with a bench of washing-basins, easily supplied withwater from a cistern below, and from the kettle in the adjacentkitchen. To this place we youngsters now hastened, to put ourselves torights for supper. The house was carpeted throughout. The greatparlour was panelled in wood, white and gold. The other chief roomswere wainscoted in oak; and as to their upper walls, some were brightwith French paper, while some shone white with smooth plaster; theirceilings and borders were decorated with arabesque woodwork. Therewere tiled fireplaces, with carved mantels, white, like therectangular window-frames and panelled doors. Well, well, 'twas but ahouse like countless others, and why should I so closely describeit?—save that I love the memory of it, and fain would linger upon itscommonest details.

Mighty snug was the dining-room that evening, with its oakensideboard, its prints and portraits on the wall, its sputtering fire,and its well-filled table lighted from a candelabrum in the centre.The sharp odour of the burning pine was keen to the nostrils, andmingled with it was the smell of the fried ham. There was the softerfragrance of the corn meal mush or porridge, served with milk, andsoft was the taste of it also. We had sausage cakes, too, and pancakesto be eaten either with butter or with the syrup of the maple-tree;and jam, and jelly, and fruit butter. These things seem homely fare,no doubt, but there was a skill of cookery in the fat old negress,Hannah—a skill consisting much in the plentiful use of salt andpepper at proper stages—that would have given homelier fare a relishto more fastidious tongues. I miss in the wholesome but limited andunseasoned diet of the English the variety and savouriness of Americanfood (I mean the food of the well-to-do in the large towns), whichincludes all the English and Scotch dishes, corrected of theirinsipidity, besides countless dishes French, German, and Dutch, andmany native to the soil, all improved and diversified by thesurprising genius for cookery which, in so few generations, the negrorace has come to exhibit. I was a busy lad at that meal; a speechlessone, consequently, and for some minutes so engrossed in the businessof my jaws that I did not heed the unwonted silence of the rest. Thensuddenly it came upon me as something embarrassing and painful thatMr. and Mrs. Faringfield, who usually conversed at meals, had nothingto say, and that Philip Winwood sat gloomy and taciturn, merely goingthrough a hollow form of eating. As for Fanny, she was the picture ofchildish sorrow, though now tearless. Only Madge and little Tom, whohad found some joke between themselves, occasionally spluttered withsuppressed laughter, smiling meanwhile knowingly at each other.

Of course this depression was due to the absence of Ned, regarding thecause of which his mother was still in the dark. Not missing him untilwe children had filed in to supper after tidying up, she had thenremarked that he was not yet in.

"He will not be home to supper," Mr. Faringfield had replied, in atone that forbade questioning until the pair should be alone, andmotioning his wife to be seated at the table. After that he had onceor twice essayed to talk upon casual subjects, as if nothing hadhappened, but he had perceived that the attempt was hopeless whileMrs. Faringfield remained in her state of deferred curiosity and vaguealarm, and so he had desisted.

After supper, which the lady's impatience made shorter than myappetite would have dictated, the husband and wife went into the smallparlour, closing the door upon us children in the library. Here Imanaged to make a pleasant evening, in games with Madge and little Tomupon the floor. But Philip, though he came in as was his wont, was notto be lured into our play or our talk. He did not even read, but satsilent and pondering, in no cheerful mood. I, not reading him as Madgedid, knew not what the matter was, and accused him of having vapours,like a girl. He looked at me heedlessly, in reply, as if he scarceheard. But Madge, apparently, divined his feeling, and at timesrespected it, for then she spoke low, and skilfully won me back frommy efforts to enliven him. At other times, his way seemed to irritateher, and she hinted that he was foolish, and then she wasextraordinarily smiling and adorable to me (always, I now suspect,with the corner of her eye upon him) as if to draw him back to hisusual good-fellowship by that method. But 'twas in vain. I left atbedtime, wondering what change had come over him.

That night, I learned afterward, Philip slept little, debatingsorrowfully in his mind. He kept his window slightly open at night, inall weather; and open also that night was one of the windows of Mr.and Mrs. Faringfield's great chamber below. A sound that reached himin the small hours, of Mrs. Faringfield whimpering and weeping,decided him. And the next morning, after another silent meal, hecontrived to fall into Mr. Faringfield's company on the way to thewarehouse, which they had almost reached ere Phil, very down in themouth and perturbed, got up his courage to his unpleasant task andblundered out in a boyish, frightened way:

"If you please, sir, I wished to tell you—I've made up my mind toleave—and thank you very much for all your kindness!"

Mr. Faringfield stared from under his gathered brows, and asked Philto repeat the strange thing he had said.

"Leave what, sir?" he queried sharply, when Phil had done so.

"Leave your warehouse, sir; and your house; and New York."

"What do you mean, my boy?"

And Phil, thankful that Mr. Faringfield had paused to have the talkout ere they should come among the men at the warehouse, explained atfirst in vague terms, but finally in the explicit language to whichhis benefactor's questions forced him, that he seemed, in Master Ned'smind, to be standing in Ned's way; that he would not for the worldappear to supplant any man's son, much less the son of one who hadbeen so kind to him; that he had unintentionally been the cause ofNed's departure the evening before; and that he hoped his going wouldbring Ned back from the absence which caused his mother grief. "And Iwouldn't stay in New York after leaving you, sir," he said, "for'twould look as if you and I had disagreed."

To all this Mr. Faringfield replied briefly that Ned was a foolishboy, and would soon enough come back, glad of what welcome he mightget; and that, as for Philip's going away, it was simply not to beheard of. But Phil persisted, conceding only that he should remain atthe warehouse for an hour that morning and complete a task he had leftunfinished. Mr. Faringfield still refused to have it that Phil shouldgo at all.

When Philip had done his hour's work, he went in to his employer'soffice to say good-bye.

"Tut, tut," said Mr. Faringfield, looking annoyed at the interruption,"there's no occasion for goodbyes. But look you, lad. I don't mindyour taking the day off, to put yourself into a reasonable state ofmind. Go home, and enjoy a holiday, and come back to your workto-morrow, fresh and cheerful. Now, now, boy, I won't hear any more.Only do as I bid you." And he assumed a chilling reserve that indeedfroze all further possible discussion.

"But I do say good-bye, sir, and mean it," said Phil, tremulously."And I thank you from my heart for all you've done for me."

And so, with a lump in his throat, Phil hastened home, and sped up thestairs unseen, like a ghost; and had all his things out on his bed forpacking, when suddenly Madge, who had been astonished to hear himmoving about, from her mother's room below, flung open his door andlooked in upon him, all amazed.

"Why, Phil, what are you doing home at this hour? What are you puttingyour things into your valise for?"

"Oh, nothing," said Phil, very downcast.

"Why, it looks as if—you were going away somewhere."

Phil made a brief answer; and then there was a long talk, all thewhile he continued to pack his goods, in his perturbation stowingthings together in strange juxtaposition. The end of it was thatMadge, after vowing that if he went she would never speak to himagain, and would hate him for ever, indignantly left him to himself.Phil went on packing, in all the outward calmness he could muster,though I'll wager with a very pouting and dismal countenance. At last,his possessions being bestowed, and the bag fastened with muchphysical exertion, he left it on the bed, and slipped down-stairs tofind his one remaining piece of property. Philip's cat had waxed plumpin the Faringfield household, Master Ned always deterred from harmingit by the knowledge that if aught ill befell it, the finger ofaccusation would point instantly and surely at him.

Phil was returning up the stairs, his pet under his arm, when MistressMadge reappeared before him, with magic unexpectedness, from a doorwayopening on a landing. As she stood in his way there, he stopped, andthe two faced each other.

"Well," said she, with sarcastic bitterness, "I suppose you've decidedwhere you're going to."

"Not yet," he replied. He had thought vaguely of Philadelphia orBoston, either of which he now had means of reaching, having savedmost of his small salary at the warehouse, for he was not a boundapprentice.

"I make no doubt," she went on, "'twill be the farthest place you canfind."

Phil gave her a reproachful look, and asked where her mother and thechildren were, that he might bid them good-bye. He wondered, indeed,that Madge had not told her mother of his resolve, for, from thatlady's not seeking him at once, he knew that she was still unaware ofit. He little guessed that 'twas the girl's own power over him shewished to test, and that she would not enlist her mother's persuasionsbut as a last resource.

"I don't know," she replied carelessly.

"I shall look for them," said Philip, and turned to go down-stairsagain.

But (though how could a boy imagine it?) Miss Faringfield would nothave it that his yielding should be due to her mother, if it could beachieved as a victory for herself. So she stopped him with a suddentremulous "Oh, Phil!" and, raising her forearm to the door-post, hidher face against it, and wept as if her heart would break.

Philip had never before known her to shed a tear, and this newspectacle, in a second's time, took all the firmness out of him.

"Why, Madge, I didn't know—don't cry, Madgie—"

She turned swiftly, without looking up, and her face, still in ashower of tears, found hiding no longer against the door-post, butagainst Phil's breast.

"Don't cry, Madgie dear,—I sha'n't go!"

She raised her wet face, joy sparkling where the lines had not yetlost the shape of grief; and Phil never thought to ask himself howmuch of her pleasure was for his not going, and how much for theevidence given of her feminine power. He had presently another thingto consider, a not very palatable dose to swallow—the returning tothe warehouse and telling Mr. Faringfield of his change of mind. Hedid this awkwardly enough, no doubt, but manfully enough, I'll take myoath, though he always said he felt never so tamed and small andludicrous in his life, before or after.

And that scene upon the landing is the last picture, but one, I haveto present of childhood days, ere I hasten, over the period thatbrought us all into our twenties and to strange, eventful times. Theone remaining sketch is of an unkempt, bedraggled figure that I saw atthe back hall door of the Faringfields one snowy night a week later,when, for some reason or other, I was out late in our back garden.This person, instead of knocking at the door, very cautiously tried itto see if it would open, and, finding it locked, stood timidly backand gazed at it in a quandary. Suspecting mischief, I went to thepaling fence that separated our ground from the Faringfields', andcalled out, "Who's that?"

"Hallo, Bert!" came in a very conciliating tone, low-spoken; and then,as with a sudden thought, "Come over here, will you?"

I crossed the fence, and was in a moment at the side of Master Ned,who looked exceedingly the worse for wear, in face, figure, andclothes.

"Look here," said he, speaking rapidly, so as to prevent my touchingthe subject of his return, "I want to sneak in, and up-stairs to bed,without the old man seeing me. I don't just like to meet him tillto-morrow. But I can't sneak in, for the door's locked, and Noah wouldbe sure to tell dad. You knock, and when they let you in, pretend youcame to play with the kids; and whisper Fanny to slip out and open thedoor for me."

I entered readily into the strategy, as a boy will, glad of Ned'sreturn for the sake of Phil, who I knew was ill at ease for Ned'sabsence being in some sense due to himself.

Old Noah admitted me at my knock, locked the door after me, and sentme into the smaller parlour, where the whole family happened to be.When I whispered my message to Fanny, she turned so many colours, andmade so precipitately for the entrance hall, that her father was puton the alert. He followed her quietly out, just in time to see a veryshivering, humble, shamefaced youth step in from the snowy outernight. The sight of his father turned Ned cold and stiff upon thethreshold; but all the father did was to put on a grim look ofcontempt, and say:

"Well, sir, I suppose you've changed your tune."

"Yes, sir," said the penitent, meekly, and there being now no reasonfor secrecy he shambled after his father into the parlour. There,after his mother's embrace, he grinned sheepishly upon us all. Fannywas quite rejoiced, and so was little Tom till the novelty wore off;while Madge greeted the prodigal good-humouredly enough, and one couldread Phil's relief and forgiveness on his smiling face. Master Ned,grateful for an easier ordeal than he had feared, made no exceptionagainst Phil in the somewhat sickly amiability he had for all, and wethought that here were reconciliation and the assurance of futurepeace.

Ned's home-coming brought trouble in its train, as indeed did hisevery reappearance afterward. It came out that he and another boy—theone in whose house he had found refuge on the night of his runningaway—had started off for the North to lead the lives of hunters andtrappers, a career so inviting that they could not wait to provide asufficient equipment. They travelled afoot by the Albany post-road,soliciting food at farmhouses, passing their nights in barns; and gotas far as Tarrytown, ere either one in his pride would admit to theother, through chattering teeth, that he had had his fill of snow andhunger and the raw winds of the Hudson River. So footsore, leg-weary,empty, and frozen were they on their way back, that they helpedthemselves to one of Jacob Post's horses, near the Philipsemanor-house; and not daring to ride into town on this beast,thoughtlessly turned it loose in the Bowery lane, never thinking howcertainly it and they could be traced—for they had been noticed atVan Cortlandt's, again at Kingsbridge, and again at the Blue Belltavern. After receiving its liberty, the horse had been seen once,galloping toward Turtle Bay, and never again.

So, a few days after Ned's reentrance into the bosom of his family,there came to the house a constable, of our own town, with a deputysent by the sheriff of Westchester County, wanting Master EdwardFaringfield.

Frightened and disgraced, his mother sent for her husband; and for thesake of the family name, Mr. Faringfield adjusted matters by thepayment of twice or thrice what the horse was worth. Thus the would-behunter and trapper escaped the discomfort and shame of jail; though byhis father's sentence he underwent a fortnight's detention on breadand water in his bedroom.

That was the first fright and humiliation that Master Ned brought onhis people; and he brought so many of these in after years, that thetime came when his parents, and all, were rather glad than sorry eachtime he packed off again, and shuddered rather than rejoiced when,after an absence, he turned up safe and healthy as ever, with his oldhangdog smile beneath which lurked a look half-defiant, half-injured.As he grew older, and the boy in him made room for the man, there wasless of the smile, less injury, more defiance.

I do not remember how many years it was after Philip's coming to NewYork, that our Dutch schoolmaster went the way of all flesh, and therecame in his place, to conduct a school for boys only and in moreadvanced studies, a pedagogue from Philadelphia, named Cornelius. Hewas of American birth, but of European parentage, whether German orDutch I never knew. Certainly he had learning, and much more than wasdue alone to his having gone through the college at Princeton in NewJersey. He was in the early twenties, tall and robust, with a largeround face, and with these peculiarities: that his hair, eyebrows, andlashes were perfectly white, his eyes of a singularly mild blue, hisskin of a pinkish tint; that he was given to blushing whenever he metwomen or strangers, and that he spoke with pedantic preciseness, in awondrously low voice. But despite his bashfulness, there was a greatdeal in the man, and when an emergency rose he never lacked resource.

He it was to whom my education, and Ned Faringfield's, was entrusted,while the girls and little Tom still strove with the rudiments in thedame-school. He it was that carried us to the portals of college; andI carried Philip Winwood thither with me, by studying my lessons withhim in the evenings. In many things he was far beyond Mr. Cornelius'shighest teaching; but there had been lapses in his information, andthese he filled up, and regulated his knowledge as well, throughaccompanying me in my progress. And he continued so to accompany me,making better use of my books than ever I made, as I went through theKing's College; and that is the way in which Phil Winwood got hisstock of learning eked out, and put in due shape and order.

It happened that Philip's taste fastened upon one subject of whichthere was scarce anything to be learned by keeping pace with mystudies, but upon which much was to be had from books in the collegelibrary, of which I obtained the use for him. It was a strange subjectfor a youth to take up at that time, or any time since, and in thatcolonial country—architecture. Yet 'twas just like Phil Winwood to beinterested in something that all around him neglected or knew nothingabout. What hope an American could have in the pursuit of an art, forwhich the very rare demands in his country were supplied from Europe,and which indeed languished the world over, I could not see.

"Very well, then," said Phil, "'twill be worth while trying to wakenthis sleeping art, and to find a place for it in this out-of-the-waycountry. I wouldn't presume to attempt new forms, to be sure; but onemight revive some old ones, and maybe try new arrangements of them."

"Then you think you'll really be an architect?" I asked.

"Why, if it's possible. 'Faith, I'm not so young any more that I stillwant to be a soldier, or a sailor either. One thing, 'twill take yearsof study; I'll have to go to Europe for that."

"To England?"

"First of all."

"What will Mr. Faringfield say to that?"

"He will not mind it so much in my case. I'm not of the Faringfieldblood."

"Egad," said I, "there's some of the Faringfield blood hankers for asight of London."

"Whose? Ned's?"

"No. Margaret's."

We were young men now, and she would not let us call her Madge anymore. What I had said was true. She had not grown up without hearingand reading much of the great world beyond the sea, and wishing shemight have her taste of its pleasures. She first showed a sense of herdeprivation—for it was a deprivation for a rich man's daughter—whenshe finished at the dame-school and we boys entered college. Then shehinted, very cautiously, that her and Fanny's education was beingneglected, and mentioned certain other New York gentlemen's daughters,who had been sent to England to boarding-schools.

Delicately as she did this, the thought that his favourite child couldharbour a wish that involved going to England, was a blow to Mr.Faringfield. He hastened to remove all cause of complaint on the scoreof defective education. He arranged that the music teacher, who gavethe girls their lessons in singing and in playing upon the harpsichordand guitar, should teach them four days a week instead of two. Heengaged Mr. Cornelius to become an inmate of his house and to givethem tuition out of his regular school hours. He paid a French widowto instruct them in their pronunciation, their book-French and grammarbeing acquired under Mr. Cornelius's teaching. And so, poor girls,they got only additional work for Margaret's pains. But both of themwere docile, Fanny because it was her nature to be so, Margaretbecause she had taken it into her head to become an accomplished lady.We never guessed her dreams and ambitions in those years, and to thisday I often wonder at what hour in her girlhood the set design tookpossession of her, that design which dominated all her actions when weso little guessed its existence. Besides these three instructors, thegirls had their dancing-master, an Englishman who pretended to impartnot only the best-approved steps of a London assembly-room, but itsmanners and graces as well.

So much for the education of the girls, Philip, and myself. NedFaringfield's was interrupted by his expulsion from King's for grossmisconduct; and was terminated by his disgrace at Yale College(whither his father had sent him in vain hope that he might behavebetter away from home and more self-dependent) for beating a smallerstudent whom he had cheated at a clandestine game of cards. Hishome-coming on this occasion was followed by his being packed off toVirginia to play at superintending his father's tobacco plantations.Neglecting this business to go shooting on the frontier, he got aScotch Presbyterian mountaineer's daughter into trouble; and when heturned up again at the door in Queen Street, he was still shaky withrecollections of the mob of riflemen that had chased him out ofVirginia. That piece of sport cost his father a pretty penny, andresulted in a place being got for Ned with a merchant who was Mr.Faringfield's correspondent in the Barbadoes. So to the tropics theyoung gentleman was shipped, with sighs of relief at his embarkation,and—I have no doubt—with unuttered prayers that he might not showhis face in Queen Street for a long time to come. Already he had gotthe name, in the family, of "the bad shilling," for his always comingback unlooked for.

How different was his younger brother!—no longer "little Tom" (thoughof but middle height and slim build), but always gay-hearted,affectionate, innocent, and a gentleman. He was a handsome lad,without and within—yes, "lad" I must call him, for, though he came tomanly years, he always seemed a boy to me. He followed in our steps,in his time, through Mr. Cornelius's school, and into King's College,too, but the coming of the war cut short his studies there.

It must have been in the year 1772—I remember Margaret spoke of herbeing seventeen years old, in which case I was nineteen—when I got(and speedily forgot) my first glimpse of Margaret's inmost mind. Wewere at the play—for New York had had a playhouse ever since Mr.Hallam had brought thither his company, with whom the great Garrickhad first appeared in London. I cannot recall what the piece was thatnight; but I know it must have been a decent one, or Margaret wouldnot have been allowed to see it; and that it purported to set forthtrue scenes of fashionable life in London. At one side of Margaret hermother sat, at the other was myself, and I think I was that time theironly escort.

"What a fright!" said Margaret in my ear, as one of the actresses cameupon the stage with an affected gait, and a look of thinking herselfmighty fine and irresistible. "'Tis a slander, this."

"Of whom?" I asked.

"Of the fine ladies these poor things pretend to represent."

"How do you know?" I retorted, for I was somewhat taken with theactresses, and thought to avenge them by bringing her down a peg ortwo. "Have you seen so much of London fine ladies?"

"No, poor me!" she said sorrowfully, without a bit of anger, so that Iwas softened in a trice. "But the ladies of New York, even, are nosuch tawdry make-believes as this.—Heaven knows, I would give tenyears of life for a sight of the fine world of London!"

She was looking so divine at that moment, that I could not butwhisper:

"You would see nothing finer there than yourself."

"Do you think so?" she quickly asked, flashing her eyes upon me in astrange way that called for a serious answer.

"'Tis the God's truth," I said, earnestly.

For a moment she was silent; then she whispered:

"What a silly whimsy of my father, his hatred of England! Does heimagine none of us is really ever to see the world?—That reminds me,don't forget the Town and Country Magazine to-morrow."

I had once come upon a copy of that publication, which reflected thehigh life of England, perhaps too much on its scandalous side; and hadshown it to Margaret. Immediately she had got me to subscribe for it,and to pass each number clandestinely to her. I, delighted to do her afavour, and to have a secret with her, complied joyously; and obtainedfor her as many novels and plays as I could, as well.

Little I fancied what bee I thus helped to keep buzzing in her prettyhead, which she now carried with all the alternate imperiousness andgraciousness of confident and proven beauty. Little I divined offeminine dreams of conquest in larger fields; or foresaw of dangerousfruit to grow from seed planted with thoughtlessness. To my mind,nothing of harm or evil could ensue from anything done, or thought, inour happy little group. To my eyes, the future could be only radiantand triumphant. For I was still but a lad at heart, and to think as Idid, or to be thoughtless as I was, is the way of youth.

CHAPTER IV.

How Philip and I Behaved as Rivals in Love.

I was always impatient, and restless to settle uncertainties. One finemorning in the Spring of 1773, Philip and I were breaking the Sabbathby practising with the foils in our back garden. Spite of all thelessons I had taken from an English fencing-master in the town, Philwas still my superior in the gentlemanly art. After a bout, on thissunshiny morning, we rested upon a wooden bench, in the midst of aworld of white and pink and green, for the apple and cherry blossomswere out, and the leaves were in their first freshness. The air wasfull of the odour of lilacs and honeysuckles. Suddenly the matter thatwas in my mind came out.

"I wish you'd tell me something, Phil—though 'tis none of mybusiness,—"

"Why, man, you're welcome to anything I know."

"Then, is there aught between Margaret and you—any agreement orunderstanding, I mean?"

Phil smiled, comprehending me thoroughly.

"No, there's nothing. I'm glad you asked. It shows there's no promisebetween her and you, either."

"I thought you and I ought to settle it between ourselvesabout—Margaret. Because if we both go on letting time pass, eachwaiting to see what t'other will do, some other man will slip in, andcarry off the prize, and there will both of us be, out in the cold."

"Oh, there's little fear of that," said Phil.

"Why, the fellows are all coming after her. She's far the finest girlin town."

"But you see how she treats them, all alike; looks down on them all,even while she's pleasant to them; and doesn't lead any one of them ona step further than the rest."

"Ay, but in time—she's eighteen now, you know."

"Why, did you ever try to imagine her regarding any one of them as ahusband; as a companion to live with day after day, and to agree with,and look up to, and yield to, as a wife does? Just fancy Margaretaccommodating herself to the everlasting company of Phil VanCortlandt, or Jack Cruger, or Bob Livingstone, or Harry Colden, orFred Philipse, or Billy Skinner, or any of them."

"I know," said I; "but many a girl has taken a man that other mencouldn't see anything in."

"Ay, the women have a way of their own of judging men; or perhaps theymake the best of what they can get. But you may depend on't, Margarethas too clear a sight, and too bright a mind, and thinks too well ofherself, to mate with an uncouth cub, or a stupid dolt, or a girlishfop, or any of these that hang about her."

'Twas not Phil's way to speak ill of people, but when one consideredmen in comparison with Margaret, they looked indeed very crude andunworthy.

"You know," he added, "how soon she tires of any one's society."

"But," said I, dubiously, "if none of them has a chance, how is itwith us?"

"Why, 'tis well-proved that she doesn't tire of us. For years andyears, she has had us about her every day, and has been content withour society. That shows she could endure us to be always near her."

It was true, indeed. And I should explain here that, as things were inAmerica then, and with Mr. Faringfield and Margaret, neither of us wasentirely ineligible to the hand of so rich and important a man'sdaughter; although the town would not have likened our chances tothose of a De Lancey, a Livingstone, or a Philipse. I ought to havesaid before, that Philip was now of promising fortune. He had risen inthe employ of Mr. Faringfield, but, more than that, he had investedsome years' savings in one of that merchant's shipping ventures, andhad reinvested the profits, always upon his benefactor's advice, untilnow his independence was a certain thing. If he indeed triedarchitecture and it failed him as a means of livelihood, he might atany time fall back upon his means and his experience as a merchantadventurer. As for me, I also was a beneficiary of Mr. Faringfield'smercantile transactions by sea, my mother, at his hint, having drawnout some money from the English funds, and risked it with him.Furthermore, I had obtained a subordinate post in the customs office,with a promise of sometime succeeding to my father's old place, andthe certainty of remaining in his Majesty's service during goodbehaviour. This meant for life, for I had now learned how to govern myconduct, having schooled myself, for the sake of my mother's peace ofmind, to keep out of trouble, often against my natural impulses. Thusboth Phil and I might aspire to Margaret; and, moreover, 'twas likethat her father would provide well for her if she found a husband tohis approval. It did not then occur to me that my employment in theEnglish service might be against me in Mr. Faringfield's eyes.

"Then," said I, reaching the main point at last, "as you think we areendurable to her—which of us shall it be?"

"Why, that question is for her to settle," said Phil, with a smilehalf-amused, half-surprised.

"But she will have to be asked. So which of us—?"

"I don't think it matters," he replied. "If she prefers one of us, shewill take him and refuse the other, whether he ask first or last."

"But suppose she likes us equally. In that case, might not the firstasker win, merely for his being first?"

"I think it scarce possible but that in her heart she must favour oneabove all others, though she may not know it yet."

"But it seems to me—"

"'Faith, Bert, do as you like, I sha'n't say nay, or think nay. If youask her, and she accepts you, I shall be sure you are the choice ofher heart. But as for me, I have often thought of the matter, and thisis what I've come to: not to speak to her of it, until by some hint oract she shows her preference."

"But the lady must not make the first step."

"Not by proposal or direct word, of course—though I'll wager therehave been exceptions to that; but I've read, and believe from whatI've seen, that 'tis oftenest the lady that gives the first hint. Nodoubt, she has already made sure of the gentleman's feelings, by signshe doesn't know of. If a man didn't receive some leading on from awoman, how would he dare tell her his mind?—for if he loves her hemust dread her refusal, or scorn, beyond all things. However that be,I've seen, in companies, and at the play, and even in church, howgirls contrive to show their partiality to the fellows they prefer.Why, we've both had it happen to us, when we were too young for thefancy to last. And 'tis the same, I'll wager, when the girls arewomen, and the stronger feeling has come, the kind that lasts. Be surea girl as clever as Margaret will find a way of showing it, if she hasset her mind on either of us. And so, I'm resolved to wait for somesign from her before I speak."

He went on to explain that this course would prolong, to theunfortunate one, the possession of the pleasures of hope. It wouldsave him, and Margaret, from the very unpleasant incident of arejection. Such a refusal must always leave behind it a certainbitterness in the memory, that will touch what friendship remainsbetween the two people concerned. And I know Philip's wish that,though he might not be her choice, his old friendship with her mightcontinue perfectly unmarred, was what influenced him to avoid apossible scene of refusal.

"Then I shall do as you do," said I, "and if I see any sign, either inmy favour or yours, be sure I'll tell you."

"I was just about to propose that," said Phil; and we resumed ourfencing.

There was, in our plan, nothing to hinder either of us from puttinghis best foot forward, as the saying is, and making himself asagreeable to the young lady as he could. Indeed that was the quickestway to call forth the indication how her affections stood. I don'tthink Phil took any pains to appear in a better light than usual. Itwas his habit to be always himself, sincere, gentle, considerate, andnever thrusting forward. He had acquired with his growth a playfulhumour with which to trim his conversation, but which never went totiresome lengths. This was all the more taking for his quiet manner,which held one where noise and effort failed. But I exerted myself tobe mighty gallant, and to show my admiration and wit in everyopportune way.

I considered that Phil and I were evenly matched in the rivalry; forwhen a young fellow loves a girl, be she ever so divine, and though hefeel in his heart that she is too good for him, yet he will believe itis in him to win her grace. If he think his self-known attractionswill not suffice, he will trust to some possible hidden merits,unperceived by himself and the world, but which will manifestthemselves to her sight in a magical manner vouchsafed to lovers. Orat worst, if he admit himself to be mean and unlikely, he will putreliance upon woman's caprice, which, as we all know, often makesstrange selections. As for me, I took myself to be quite a conqueringfellow.

In looks, 'twas my opinion that Philip and I were equally gifted. Philwas of a graceful, slender figure; within an inch of six feet, Ishould say; with a longish face, narrowing from the forehead downward,very distinctly outlined, the nose a little curved, the mouth still asdelicate as a boy's. Indeed he always retained something boyish in hislook, for all his studiousness and thoughtfulness, and all that camelater. He was not as pale as in boyhood, the sea breezes that swept infrom the bay, past the wharves, having given him some ruddiness. Hiseyes, I have said, were blue, almost of a colour with Margaret's. Iwas an inch or two shorter than Phil, my build was more heavy andfull, my face more of an equal width, my nose a little upturned so asto give me an impudent look, my eyes a darkish brown.

That I was not Phil's match in sense, learning, talents, self-command,and modesty, did not occur to me as lessening my chances with a woman.If I lacked real wit, I had pertness; and I thought I had a manner ofdashing boldness, that must do one-half the business with any girl,while my converse trick of softening my voice and eyes to her onoccasion, would do the other half.

But Margaret took her time before giving a hint of her heart'scondition. She was the same old comrade to us, she confided to us heradverse opinions of other people, laughed with us, and often at us(when it was like as not that she herself had made us ridiculous),told us her little secrets, let us share her gaiety and her dejectionalike, teased us, soothed us, made us serve her, and played thespoiled beauty with us to the full of the part. And a beauty she was,indeed; ten times more than in her childhood. The bud was approachingits full bloom. She was of the average tallness; slender at neck,waist, wrist, and ankle, but filling out well in the figure, which hadsuch curves as I swear I never saw elsewhere upon earth. She had thesmallest foot, with the highest instep; such as one gets not often anidea of in England. Her little head, with its ripples of chestnuthair, sat like that of a princess; and her face, oval in shape, proudand soft by turns in expression—I have no way of conveying theimpression it gave one, but to say that it made me think of a nosegayof fresh, flawless roses, white and red. Often, by candle-light,especially if she were dressed for a ball, or sat at the play, I wouldliken her to some animate gem, without the hardness that belongs toreal precious stones; for indeed she shone like a jewel, thanks to thelustre of her eyes in artificial light. Whether from humidity or somequality of their substance, I do not know, but they reflected the raysas I have rarely seen eyes do; and in their luminosity her whole faceseemed to have part, so that her presence had an effect of warmbrilliancy that lured and dazzled you. To see her emerge from thedarkness of the Faringfield coach, or from her sedan-chair, into thebright light of open doorways and of lanterns held by servants, was tohold your breath and stand with lips parted in admiration, until shemade you feel your nothingness by a haughty indifference in passing,or sent you glowing to the seventh heaven by a radiant smile.

While we were waiting for the heart of our paragon to reveal itself,life in Queen Street was diversified, in the Fall of 1773, by anunexpected visit.

Mr. Faringfield and Philip, as they entered the dining-room oneevening after their return from the warehouse, observed that anadditional place had been made at the table. Without speaking, themerchant looked inquiringly, and with a little of apprehension, at hislady.

"Ned has come back," she answered, trying to speak as if this werequite cheerful news.

Mr. Faringfield's face darkened. Then, with some sarcasm, he said:

"He did not go out of his way to stop at the warehouse in coming fromthe landing."

"Why, no doubt the ship did not anchor near our wharf. He came by theSophy brig. He took some tea, and changed his clothes, and went outto meet a fellow passenger at the coffee-house. They had some businesstogether."

"Business with a pack of cards, I make no doubt; or else with rum ormadeira."

'Twas the second of these conjectures that turned out right. For Mr.Edward did not come home in time to occupy at supper the place thathad been set for him. When he did appear, he said he had alreadyeaten. Perhaps it was to strengthen his courage for meeting hisfather, that he had imbibed to the stage wherein he vilely smelt ofspirits and his eyes and face were flushed. He was certainly boldenough when he received his father's cold greeting in the parlour,about nine o'clock at night.

"And, pray, what circ*mstance gives us the honour of this visit?"asked Mr. Faringfield, not dissembling his disgust.

"Why," says Mr. Ned, quite undaunted, and dropping his burly form intoan armchair with an air of being perfectly at home, "to tell thetruth, 'tis a hole, the place you sent me to; a very hell-hole."

"By what arrangement with Mr. Culverson did you leave it?" Mr.Culverson was the Barbadoes merchant by whom Edward had been employed.

"Culverson!" echoed Ned, with a grin. "I doubt there was little lovelost between me and Culverson! 'Culverson,' says I, 'the place is ahole, and the next vessel bound for New York, I go on her.' 'And adamned good riddance!' says Culverson (begging your pardon! I'm onlyquoting what the man said), and that was the only arrangement Iremember of."

"And so that you are here, what now?" inquired Mr. Faringfield,looking as if he appreciated Mr. Culverson's sentiments.

"Why, sir, as for that, I think 'tis for you to say."

"Indeed, sir?"

"Yes, sir, seeing that I'm your son, whom you're bound to providefor."

"You are twenty-two, I think," says Mr. Faringfield.

"I take it, a few paltry years more or less don't alter my rights, orthe responsibilities of a parent. Don't think, sir, I shall stand upand quietly see myself robbed of my birthright. I'm no longer the manto play the Esek, or Esock, or whatever—"

"Esau," prompted Fanny, in a whisper.

"And my mouth isn't to be stopped by any mess of porridge."

"Pottage," corrected Fanny.

"Well, sir," said Mr. Faringfield, rising, and holding himself verystiffly, "I'll think upon it." Whereupon he went into the library, andclosed the door after him.

'Tis certain that he had both the strength and the inclination tochastise his son for these insulting rum-incited speeches, and to casthim out to shift for his own future; instead of enduring heedlesslythe former, and offering to consider the latter. His strength wasequal to his pride, and he was no colder without than he waspassionate within. But there was one thing his strength of mind fellshort of facing, and that was the disgrace to the family, which theeldest son might bring were he turned looser, unprovided for, in NewYork. 'Twas the fear of such disgrace that always led Mr. Faringfieldto send Ned far away; and made him avoid any scene of violence whichthe youth, now that he was a man and grown bold, might precipitate indiscussions such as the father had but now cut short.

"Now I call that frigid," complained Edward to his mother, staring atthe door behind which Mr. Faringfield had disappeared. "Here was I, infor a pleasant confab with my father, concerning my future; and beforeI can put in a word, out he flings, and there's an end of it. 'Tisn'tfatherly, I protest! Well, well, I might have known! He was alwaysstony-hearted; never would discuss matters. That's the gratitude I getfor putting the case to him in a reasonable, docile, filial fashion.However, he said he'd think upon it. That means I shall stay here, andtake a holiday, till he makes up his mind where to ship me to next.'Twon't be England, I fancy, mother. I wouldn't object to France,egad! I could learn to eat frogs as soon as another man, if it came tothat. Well, I need a holiday, after working so hard in that curseddevil's paradise I've just come from. I suppose I can depend on youfor a little pocket-money, ma'am, till dad comes to a conclusion?"

During the next fortnight, as he passed most of his time in thetaverns and the coffee-house, save when he attended horse-races onLong Island, or chased foxes upon Tom's horse, or lent the honour ofhis presence to co*ck-fights; Mr. Edward found his mother's resourcesinadequate to his demands, and so levied tribute not only upon Fannyand Tom but also upon Mr. Cornelius, who still abode in theFaringfield house, and upon Philip Winwood. To Phil his manner wasmore than civil; 'twas most conciliating and flattering, in apleasantly jocular way.

Ere Mr. Faringfield had announced his mind, the visitor had worn outhis welcome in most of his tavern haunts, and become correspondinglytired of New York. One evening, as Philip was leaving the warehouse, anegro boy handed him a note, in which Mr. Ned begged him to comeimmediately, on a matter of importance, to the King's Arms tavern.There he found Edward seated at a small table in a corner of thetap-room. Ned would have it that Phil should send home his excuses, bythe negro, and sup at the tavern; which, for the sake of peace, thoughunwillingly, Philip finally consented to do.

Edward was drinking rum, in a kind of hot punch of his own mixing.Phil, though fond of madeira at home, now contented himself with ale;and the two were soon at work upon a fried chicken prepared in theMaryland fashion.

"You know, Phil," says Ned at last, having talked in a lively strainupon a multitude of matters, none of which Philip perceived to beimportant, "'fore gad, I always liked you! Tis so, as the Lord's myjudge. Nay, you think I took a damned odd way of showing it. But we'renot all alike. Now look you! Hearken unto me, as the parson says. Ican say a good word for you in a certain ear."

"Whose?" queried Phil, wondering in what ear he needed a good wordsaid.

"Whose, eh? Now whose would it be? Come, come, I'll speak to thepoint. I'm no man for palaver. 'Tis an ear you've whispered more thanone sweet thing into, I'll warrant. You're young, Philip, young: youthink you can fall in love and nobody find it out. Why, I hadn't beenlanded two hours, and asked the news, when I was told that you andBert Russell were over ears in love with my sister."

Phil merely looked his astonishment.

"Now, sir, you mayn't think it," says Mr. Ned, "but my word has someweight with Fanny."

"Fanny?" echoed Philip. "What has she to do with it?"

"Why, everything, I fancy. The lady usually has—"

"But Fanny isn't the lady."

"What? Then who the devil is?"

"I don't think 'tis a matter need be talked of now," said Phil.

"But I'd like to know—'gad, it can't be the other sister! Madge—thatspitfire! Well, well! Your face speaks, if your tongue won't. Who'dhave thought any man would go soft over such a vixen? Well, I can'thelp you there, my lad!"

"I haven't asked your help," says Phil with a smile.

"Now, it's a pity," says Ned, dolefully, "for I thought by doing you agood turn I might get you to do me another."

"Oh, I see! Why, then, as for my doing you a good turn if it'spossible, speak out. What is it?"

"Now, I call that noble of you, Phil; damned noble! I do need a goodturn, and that's a fact. You see I didn't tell my father exactly thetruth as to my leaving the Barbadoes. Not that I don't scorn a lie,but I was considerate of the old gentleman's feelings. I couldn'tendure to shock him in his tenderest place. You understand?"

"I probably shall when you've finished."

"Why, I dare say you know what the old man's tenderest place is. Well,if you won't answer, 'tis his pride in the family name, the spotlessname of Faringfield! Oh, I've worked upon that more than once, I tellyou. The old gentleman will do much to keep the name without ablemish; I could always bring him to terms by threatening to disgraceit—"

"What a rascal you've been, then!"

"Why, maybe so; we're not all saints. But I've always kept my wordwith father, and whenever he gave me the money I wanted, or set me upin life again, I kept the name clean—comparatively clean, that is tosay, as far as any one in New York might know. And even this time—atthe Barbadoes—'twasn't with any purpose of punishing father, I vow;'twas for my necessities, I made myself free with a thousand pounds ofCulverson's."

"The devil! Do you mean you embezzled a thousand pounds?"

"One cool, clean thousand! My necessities, I tell you. There was adebt of honour, you must know; a damned unlucky run at the cards, andthe navy officer that won came with a brace of pistols and gave me twodays in which to pay. And then there was a lady—with a brat, confoundher!—to be sent to England, and looked after. You see, 'twas honourmoved me in the first case, and chivalry in the second. As agentleman, I couldn't withstand the promptings of noble sentimentslike those."

"Well, what then?"

"Why, then I came away. And I hadn't the heart to break the truth tofather, knowing how 'twould cut him up. I thought of the oldgentleman's family pride, his gray hairs—his hair is gray by thistime, isn't it?—"

"And what is it you wish me to do?"

"Why, you see, Culverson hadn't yet found out how things were, when Ileft. I pretended I was ill—and so I was, in a way. But he must havefound out by this time, and when he sends after me, by the nextvessel, I'm afraid poor father will have to undergo a severetrial—you know his weakness for the honoured name of Faringfield."

"By the Lord, Ned, this is worse than I should ever have thought ofyou."

"It is a bit bad, isn't it? And I've been thinking what's to bedone—for father's sake, you know. If 'twere broken to him gently, atonce, as nobody but you can break it, why then, he might give me themoney to repay Culverson, and send me back to Barbadoes by the nextship, and nothing need ever come out. I'm thoroughly penitent, so helpme, heaven, and quite willing to go back."

"And incur other debts of honour, and obligations of chivalry," saysPhil.

"I'll see the cards in hell first, and the women too, by gad!" whereatMr. Edward brought his fist down upon the table most convincingly.

He thought it best to spend that night at the tavern; whither Philwent in the morning with news of Mr. Faringfield's reception of thedisclosure. The merchant had listened with a countenance as cold as astatue's, but had promptly determined to make good the thousand poundsto Mr. Culverson, and that Ned should return to the Barbadoes withoutthe formality of bidding the family farewell. But the money was to beentrusted not to Mr. Edward, but to Mr. Faringfield's old clerk,Palmer, who was to be the young man's travelling companion on theSouthward voyage. At word of this last arrangement, Edward showedhimself a little put out, which he told Phil was on account of hisfather's apparent lack of confidence. But he meditated awhile, andtook on a more cheerful face.

It happened—and, as it afterward came out, his previous knowledge ofthis had suggested the trick he played upon Phil and Mr.Faringfield—that, the same day on which the next Barbadoes-boundvessel sailed, a brig left port for England. Both vessels availedthemselves of the same tide and wind, and so went down the baytogether.

On the Barbadoes vessel, Ned and Mr. Palmer were to share the samecabin; and thither, ere the ship was well out of the East River, theold clerk accompanied Ned for the purpose of imbibing a beverage whichthe young gentleman protested was an unfailing preventive ofsea-sickness, if taken in time. Once in the cabin, and the door beingclosed, Mr. Ned adroitly knocked Palmer down with a blow from behind;gagged, bound, and robbed him of the money, and left him to hisdevices. Returning to the deck, he induced the captain to put him, byboat, aboard the brig bound for England, which was still close athand. Taking different courses, upon leaving the lower bay, the twovessels were soon out of hail, and that before the discovery of themuch puzzled Palmer's condition in his cabin.

The poor old man had to go to the Barbadoes, and come back again,before a word of this event reached the ears of Mr. Faringfield. WhenPalmer returned with his account of it, he brought word from Mr.Culverson that, although Ned had indeed settled a gambling debt at thepistol's point, and had indeed paid the passage of a woman and childto England, his theft had been of less than a hundred pounds. Thus itwas made manifest that Ned had lied to Philip in order to play uponhis father's solicitude concerning the name of Faringfield forintegrity, and so get into his hands the means of embarking upon thepleasures of the Old World. Very foolish did poor Philip look when helearned how he had been duped. But Mr. Faringfield, I imagine,consoled himself with the probability that New York had seen the lastof Mr. Edward.

I think 'twas to let Mr. Faringfield recover first from the feelingsof this occasion, that Philip postponed so long the announcement ofhis intention to go to England. Thus far he had confided his plans tome alone, and as a secret. But now he was past twenty-one years, andhis resolution could not much longer be deferred. Nevertheless, notuntil the next June—that of 1774—did he screw up his courage to thepoint of action.

"I shall tell him to-day," said Philip to me one Monday morning, as Iwalked with him part of the way to the warehouses. "Pray heaven hetakes it not too ill."

I did not see Phil at dinner-time; but in the afternoon, a littlebefore his usual home-coming hour, he came seeking me, with a veryrelieved and happy face; and found me trimming a grape-vine in ourback garden, near the palings that separated our ground from Mr.Faringfield's. On the Faringfield side of the fence, at this place,grew bushes of snowball and rose.

"How did he take it?" I asked, smiling to see Phil's eyes so bright.

"Oh, very well. He made no objection; said he had not the right tomake any in my case. But he looked so upset for a moment, sodeserted—I suppose he was thinking how his own son had failed him,and that now his beneficiary was turning from him—that I wavered. Butat that he was the same haughty, immovable man as ever, and Iremembered that each of us must live his own life; and so 'tissettled."

"Well," said I, with a little of envy at his prospect, and much ofsorrow at losing him, and some wonder about another matter, "I'm gladfor your sake, though you may imagine how I'll miss you. But how canyou go yet? 'Tis like leaving the field to me—as to her, you know."I motioned with my head toward the Faringfield house.

"Why," he replied, as we both sat down on the wooden bench, "as Ishall be gone years when I do go, Mr. Faringfield stipulated only thatI should remain with him here another year; and I was mighty glad hedid, or I should have had to make that offer. 'Twasn't that I wasanxious to be off so soon, that made me tell him I was going; 'twasthat in harbouring the intention, while he still relied upon myremaining always with him, I seemed to be guilty of a kind oftreachery. As for—her , if she gives no indication within a year,especially when she knows I'm going, why, 'twill be high time to leavethe field to you, I think."

"She doesn't know yet?"

"No; I came first to you. Her father isn't home yet."

"Well, Phil, there's little for me to say. You know what my feelingsare. After all, we are to have you for a year, and then—well, I hopeyou may become the greatest architect that ever lived!"

"Why, now, 'tis strange; you remind me of my reason for going. SinceMr. Faringfield gave me his sanction, I hadn't thought of that. I'mafraid I've been something of a hypocrite. And yet I certainly thoughtmy desire to go was chiefly on account of my architectural studies;and I certainly intend to pursue them, too. I must have deceivedmyself a little, though, by dwelling on that reason as one that wouldprevail with Mr. Faringfield; one that he could understand, and couldnot fairly oppose. For, hearkee, all the way home, when I lookedforward to the future, the architectural part of it was not in myhead. I was thinking of the famous historic places I should see; theplaces where great men have lived; the birthplace and grave ofShakespeare; the palaces where great pageants and tragedies have beenenacted; the scenes of great battles; the abbey where so many poetsand kings and queens are buried; the Tower where such memorable dramashave occurred; the castles that have stood since the days of chivalry;and Oxford; and the green fields of England that poets have writtenof, and the churchyard of Gray's Elegy; and all that kind of thing."

"Ay, and something of the gay life of the present, I'll warrant," saidI, with a smile; "the playhouses, and the taverns, and the parks, andVauxhall, and the assembly-rooms; and all that kind of thing."

"Why, yes, 'tis true. And I wish you were to go with me."

"Alas, I'm tied down here. Some day, perhaps—"

"What are you two talking of?" The interruption came in a soft, clear,musical voice, of which the instant effect was to make us both startup, and turn toward the fence, with hastened hearts and smiling faces.

Margaret stood erect, looking over the palings at us, backed by thegreen and flowered bushes through which she and Fanny had movednoiselessly toward the fence in quest of nosegays for thesupper-table. Fanny stood at her side, and both smiled, Margaretarchly, Fanny pleasantly. The two seemed of one race with the flowersabout them, though Margaret's radiant beauty far outshone the moremodest charms of her brown-eyed younger sister. The elder placed hergathered flowers on the upper rail of the fence, and taking two roses,one in each hand, held them out toward us.

We grasped each his rose at the same time, and our motions, as wetouched our lips with them, were so in unison that Margaret laughed.

"OUR MOTIONS, AS WE TOUCHED OUR LIPS WITH THEM, WERE SOIN UNISON THAT MARGARET LAUGHED."

"And what were you talking of?" says she.

"Is it a secret any longer?" I asked Philip.

"No."

"Then we were talking of Phil's going to England, to be a greatarchitect."

"Going to England!" She looked as if she could not have rightlyunderstood.

"Yes," said I, "in a year from now, to stay, the Lord knows how long."

She turned white, then red; and had the strangest look.

"Is it true?" she asked, after a moment, turning to Phil.

"Yes. I am to go next June."

"But father—does he know?"

"I told him this afternoon. He is willing."

"To be sure, to be sure," she said, thoughtfully. "He has no authorityover you. 'Tis different with us. Oh, Phil, if you could only take mewith you!" There was wistful longing and petulant complaint in thespeech. And then, as Phil answered, an idea seemed to come to her allat once; and she to rise to it by its possibility, rather than to fallback from its audacity.

"I would gladly," said he; "but your father would never consent that aFaringfield—"

"Well, one need not always be a Faringfield," she replied, looking himstraight in the face, with a kind of challenge in her voice and eyes.

"Why—perhaps not," said Phil, for the mere sake of agreeing, andutterly at a loss as to her meaning.

"You don't understand," says she. "A father's authority over hisdaughter ceases one day."

"Ay, no doubt," says Phil; "when she becomes of legal age. But eventhen, without her father's consent—"

"Why, now," she interrupted, "suppose her father's authority over herpassed to somebody else; somebody of her father's own preference;somebody that her father already knew was going to England: could herfather forbid his taking her?"

"But, 'tis impossible," replied mystified Phil. "To whom in the worldwould your father pass his authority over you? He is hale and hearty;there's not the least occasion for a guardian."

"Why, fathers do , you know."

"Upon my soul, I don't see—"

"I vow you don't! You are the blindest fellow! Didn't PollyLivingstone's father give up his authority over her the other day—toMr. Ludlow?"

"Certainly, to her husband."

"Well!"

"Margaret—do you mean—? But you can't mean that ?" Phil had not thevoice to say more, emerging so suddenly from the clouds of puzzlementto the yet uncertain sunshine of joy.

"Why shouldn't I mean that?" says she, with the prettiest laugh, whichmade her bold behaviour seem the most natural, feminine actimaginable. "Am I not good enough for you?"

"Madge! You're not joking, are you?" He caught her hands, and gazedwith still dubious rapture at her across the fence.

My sensations may easily be imagined. But by the time she had assuredhim she was perfectly in earnest, I had taught myself to act the man;and so I said, playfully:

"Such a contract, though 'tis made before witnesses, surely ought tobe sealed."

Philip took my hint; and he and Margaret laughed, and stretched armsacross the paling tops; and I lost sight of their faces. I soughtrefuge in turning to Fanny, who was nearer to me than they were. To mysurprise, she was watching me with the most kindly, pitying face inthe world. Who would have thought she had known my heart regarding hersister?

"Poor Bert!" she murmured gently, scarce for my hearing.

And I, who had felt very solitary the moment before, now seemed notquite so lonely; and I continued to look into the soft, compassionateeyes of Fanny, so steadily that in a moment, with the sweetest ofblushes, she lowered them to the roses in her hand.

CHAPTER V.

We Hear Startling News, Which Brings about a Family "Scene".

I have characterised Margaret's behaviour in the matter of thismarriage proposal as forward; though I have admitted that it scarcelooked so, so graceful and womanlike was her manner of carrying itoff, which had in it nothing worse than the privileged air of aspoiled beauty. Now that writing of it has set me thinking of it, Isee that 'twas a more natural act than it appears in the cold recital.For years she had been our queen, and Phil and I her humble subjects,and the making of the overtures appeared as proper in her, as it wouldhave seemed presumption in either of us. And over Phil, from thatbygone day when she had gone across the street to his rescue, she hadassumed an air of authority, nay of proprietorship, that bade him waitupon her will ere ever he acted or spoke. And, again, though out ofconsideration for his rival he had been purposely silent whileawaiting a sign from her, she had read his heart from the first. Hisevery look and tone for years had been an unconscious act of wooing,and so when she brought matters to a point as she did, 'twas on herpart not so much an overture as a consent. As for marriage proposal ingeneral, all men with whom I have discussed it have confessed theirown scenes thereof to have been, in the mere words, quite simple andunpoetical, whether enacted in confusion or in confidence; and to havebeen such as would not read at all finely in books.

The less easy ordeal awaited Philip, of asking her father. But he wasglad this stood yet in his way, and that 'twas not easy; for 'twouldmake upon his courage that demand which every man's courage ought toundergo in such an affair, and which Margaret's conduct had precludedin his coming to an understanding with her.

But however disquieting the task was to approach, it could be onlysuccessful at the end; for indeed Mr. Faringfield, with all hisexternal frigidity, could refuse Phil nothing. In giving his consent,which perhaps he had been ready to do long before Phil had been readyto ask it, he made no allusion to Phil's going to England. Hepurposely ignored the circ*mstance, I fancy, that in consenting to themarriage, he knowingly opened the way for his daughter's visiting thathated country. Doubtless the late conduct of Ned, and the intendeddefection of Philip, amicable though that defection was, had shakenhim in his resolution of imposing his avoidance of England upon hisfamily. He resigned himself to the inevitable; but he grew moretaciturn, sank deeper into himself, became more icy in his manner,than ever.

Philip and Margaret were married in February, four months before thetime set for their departure. The wedding was solemnised in TrinityChurch, by the Rev. Mr. Barclay, on one of those white days with alittle snow in the air, which I for one prefer over sunny days, inwinter, as far more seasonable. The young gentlemen of the townwondered that Miss Faringfield had not made a better match (as shemight have done, of course, in each one's secret opinion by choosinghimself). The young ladies, though some of them may have regretted thesubtraction of one eligible youth from their matrimonial chances, wereall of them rejoiced at the removal of a rival who had hitherto keptthe eyes of a score of youths, even more eligible, turned away fromthem. And so they wished her well, with smiles the most genuine. Shevalued not a finger-snap their thoughts or their congratulations. Shehad, of late, imperceptibly moved aloof from them. Nor had she soughtthe attentions of the young gentlemen. 'Twas not of her will that theydangled. In truth she no longer had eyes or ears for the smallfashionable world of New York. She had a vastly greater world toconquer, and disdained to trouble herself, by a smile or a glance, forthe admiration of the poor little world around her.

All her thoughts in her first months of marriage—and these were verypleasant months to Philip, so charming and sweet-tempered was hisbride—were of the anticipated residence in England. It was stillsettled that Philip was to go in June; and her going with him was nowdaily a subject of talk in the family. Mr. Faringfield himselfoccasionally mentioned it; indifferently, as if 'twere a thing towhich he never would have objected. Margaret used sometimes to smile,thinking how her father had put it out of his power to oppose herwishes: first by his friendly sanction to Phil's going, to refusewhich he had not the right; and then by his consent to her marriage,to refuse which he had not the will.

Naturally Philip took pleasure in her anticipations, supposing that,as to their source and object, they differed not from his. As the pairwere so soon to go abroad, 'twas thought unnecessary to set up in ahouse of their own in New York, and so they made their home for thetime in the Faringfield mansion, the two large chambers over the greatparlour being allotted to them; while they continued to share thefamily table, save that Margaret now had her morning chocolate abed.

"I must initiate myself into London ways, dear," she said, gaily, whenFanny remarked how strange this new habit was in a girl who had neverbeen indolent or given to late rising.

"How pretty the blue brocaded satin is!" quoth Fanny, looking at oneof Margaret's new gowns hanging in a closet. "Why didn't you wear itat the Watts' dinner yesterday? And your brown velvet—you've not hadit on since it came from the dressmaker's."

"I shall wear them in London," says Margaret.

And so it was with her in everything. She saved her finest clothes,her smiles, her very interest in life, her capacity for enjoyment, allfor London. And Philip, perceiving her indifference to the outsideworld, her new equability of temper, her uniform softness ofdemeanour, her constant meditative half-smile due to pleasurabledreams of the future, read all these as tokens of blissful contentlike that which glowed in his own heart. And he was supremely happy.'Tis well for a man to have two months of such happiness, to balanceagainst later years of sorrow; but sad will that happiness be in thememory, if it owe itself to the person to whom the sorrow in its trainis due.

She would watch for him at the window, in the afternoon, when he camehome from the warehouse; and would be waiting at the parlour door ashe entered the hall. With his arm about her, he would lead her to asofa, and they would sit talking for a few minutes before he preparedfor supper—for 'twas only on great occasions that the Faringfieldsdined at five o'clock, as did certain wealthy New York families whofollowed the London mode.

"I am so perfectly, entirely, completely, utterly happy!" was theburden of Phil's low-spoken words.

"Fie!" said Margaret, playfully, one evening. "You must not beperfectly happy. There must be some cloud in the sky; some annoyancein business, or such trifle. Perfect happiness is dangerous, mammasays. It can't last. It forbodes calamity to come. 'Tis an old belief,and she vows 'tis true."

"Why, my poor mother held that belief, too. I fear she had littleperfect happiness to test it by; but she had calamities enough. AndBert Russell's mother was saying the same thing the other day. 'Tis adelusion common to mothers, I think. I sha'n't let it affect myfelicity. I should be ungrateful to call my contentment less thanperfect. And if calamity comes, 'twill not be owing to my happiness."

"As for that, I can't imagine any calamity possible to us—unlesssomething should occur to hinder us from going to London. But nothingin the world shall do that, of course."

'Twas upon this conversation that Tom and I broke in, having met as Ireturned from the custom-house, he from the college.

"Oho!" cried Tom, with teasing mirth, "still love-making! I tell youwhat it is, brother Phil, 'tis time you two had eyes for somethingelse besides each other. The town is talking of how engrossed Margaretis in you, that she ignores the existence of everybody else."

"Let 'em talk," said Margaret, lightly, with an indifference free frommalice. "Who cares about their existence? They're not so interesting,with their dull teas and stupid gossip of one another! A set oftedious rustics."

"Hear the countess talk!" Tom rattled on, at the same time lookingaffectionate admiration out of his mirthful eyes. "What a high andmighty lady is yours, my lord Philip! I should like to know what theMorrises, and Lind Murray, and the Philipse boys and girls, and our DeLancey cousins, and the rest, would think to hear themselves called aset of rustics."

"Why," says Phil, "beside her ladyship here, are they not a set ofrustics?" With which he kissed her, and rose to go to his room.

"Merci , monsieur!" said Margaret, rising and dropping him a curtsey,with the prettiest of glances, as he left the parlour.

She hummed a little French air, and went and ran her fingers up anddown the keys of the pianoforte, which great new instrument hadsupplanted the old harpsichord in the house. Tom and I, standing atthe fireplace, watched her face as the candle-light fell upon it.

"Well," quoth Tom, "Phil is no prouder of his wife than I am of mysister. Don't you think she grows handsomer every day, Bert?"

"'Tis the effect of happiness," said I, and then I looked into thefireplace rather than at her. For I was then, and had been for longmonths, engaged in the struggle of detaching my thoughts from hercharms, or, better, of accustoming myself to look upon them withcomposure; and I had made such good success that I wished not to setmyself back in it. Eventually my success was complete, and I came tofeel toward her no more than the friendship of a lifelong comrade. Ifa man be honest, and put forth his will, he can quench his love forthe woman that is lost to him, unless there have existed long theclosest, tenderest, purest ties between them; and even then, exceptthat 'twill revive again sometimes at the touch of an old memory.

"You dear boys!" says Margaret, coming over to us, to reward Tom witha kiss on the cheek, and me with a smile. "What a vain thing you willmake me of my looks!"

"Nay," says candid Tom, "that work was done before ever we had thechance of a hand in it."

"Well," retorted Margaret, with good-humoured pertness, "there'llnever be reason for me to make my brother vain of his wit."

"Nor for my sister to be vain of hers," said Tom, not in nettledretaliation, but merely as uttering a truth.

"You compliment me there," says Margaret, lightly. "Did you ever hearof a witty woman that was charming?"

"That is true," I put in, remembering some talk of Phil's, based uponreading as well as upon observation, "for usually a woman must beugly, before she will take the trouble to cultivate wit. Thepossession of wit in a woman seems to imply a lack of other reliances.And if a woman be pretty and witty both, her arrogance is like to besuch as drives every man away. And men resent wit in a woman as if'twere an invasion of their own province."

"Sure your explanation must be true, Mr. Philosopher," said Margaret,"'tis so profound. As for me, I seek no reasons; 'tis enough to knowthat most witty women are frights; and I don't blame the men forrefusing to be charmed by 'em."

"Well, sis," said Tom, "I'm sure even the cultivation of wit wouldn'tmake you a fright. So you might amuse yourself by trying it, ma'am. Asfor charming the men, you married ladies have no more to do withthat."

"Oh, haven't we? Sure, I think 'tis time little boys were in bed, whotalk of things they know nothing about. Isn't that so, Bert?"

"Why," said I, "for my part, I think 'tis unkind for a woman toexercise her charms upon men after she has destroyed the possibilityof rewarding their devotion."

"Dear me, you talk like a character in a novel. Well, then, you'reboth agreed I mustn't be charming. So I'll be disagreeable, and beginwith you two. Here's a book of sermons Mr. Cornelius must have left.That will help me, if anything will." And she sat down with the volumein her hands, took on a solemn frown, and began to read to herself.After awhile, at a giggle of amusem*nt from schoolboy Tom, she turneda rebuking gaze upon us, over the top of the book; but the very effortto be severe emphasised the fact that her countenance was formed togive only pleasure, and our looks brought back the smile to her eyes.

"'Tis no use," said Tom, "you couldn't help being charming if youtried."

She threw down the book, and came and put her arm around him, and sowe all three stood before the fire till Philip returned.

"Ah," she said, "here is one who will never ask me to be ugly orunpleasant."

"Who has been asking impossibilities, my dear?" inquired Philip,taking her offered hand in his.

"These wise gentlemen think I oughtn't to be charming, now that I'mmarried."

"Then they think you oughtn't to be yourself; and I disagree with 'ementirely."

She gave him her other hand also, and stood for a short while lookinginto his innocent, fond eyes.

"You dear old Phil!" she said slowly, in a low voice, falling for themoment into a tender gravity, and her eyes having a more than wontedsoftness. The next instant, recovering her light playfulness with alittle laugh, she took his arm and led the way to the dining-room.

And now came Spring—the Spring of 1775. There had been, of course,for years past, and increasing daily in recent months, talk of thedisagreement between the king and the colonies. I have purposelydeferred mention of this subject, to the time when it was to fall uponus in its full force so that no one could ignore it or avoid actionwith regard to it. But I now reach the beginning of the drama which isthe matter of this history, and to which all I have written isuneventful prologue. We young people of the Faringfield house (for Iwas still as much of that house as of my own) had concerned ourselveslittle with the news from London and Boston, of the concentration ofBritish troops in the latter town in consequence of the increaseddisaffection upon the closing of its port. We heeded little the factthat the colonies meant to convene another general congress atPhiladelphia, or that certain colonial assemblies had done thus andso, and certain local committees decided upon this or that. 'Twouldall blow over, of course, as the Stamp Act trouble had done; theseditious class in Boston would soon be overawed, and the king wouldthen concede, of his gracious will, what the malcontents had failed toobtain by their violent demands. Such a thing as actual rebellion,real war, was to us simply inconceivable. I believe now that Philiphad earlier and deeper thoughts on the subject than I had: indeedevents showed that he must have had: but he kept them to himself. Andfar other and lighter subjects occupied our minds as he and I startedfor a walk out the Bowery lane one balmy Sunday morning in April, thetwenty-third day of the month.

Mr. and Mrs. Faringfield, Fanny, and Tom, had gone to church. Philipand I boasted of too much philosophical reading to be churchgoers, andI had let my mother walk off to Trinity with a neighbour. As forMargaret, she stayed home because she was now her own mistress and hada novel to read, out of the last parcel received from London. We lefther on the rear veranda, amidst the honeysuckle vines that climbed thetrellis-work.

"I've been counting the weeks," she said to Phil, as we were about toset forth. "Only seven more Sundays." And she stopped him to adjustthe ribbon of his queue more to her taste. "Aren't you glad?"

"Yes; and a thousand times so because it makes you happy, my dear,"said he.

She kissed him, and let him go. "Don't walk too far, dear!" she calledafter us.

We looked back from the gateway, and saw that she had come to the endof the veranda to see us from the garden. We doffed our hats, and Philthrew her a kiss; which she returned, and then waved her hand afterus, softly smiling. Philip lingered a moment, smiling back, to getthis last view of her ere he closed the gate.

We had just passed the common, at the Northern end of the town, whenwe heard a clatter of galloping hoofs in the Bowery lane before us.Looking up the vista of road shaded by trees in fresh leafa*ge, we sawa rider coming toward us at a very severe pace. As he approached, thehorse stumbled; and the man on its back, fearing it might sink fromexhaustion, drew up and gave it a moment in which to recover itself.He evidently wished to make a decent entrance into the town. He was ina great panting and perspiration, like his trembling steed, which wascovered with foam; and his clothes were disturbed and soiled withtravel. He took off his co*cked felt hat to fan himself.

"You ride fast, for Sunday, friend," said Phil pleasantly. "Anytrouble?"

"Trouble for some folks, I guess," was the reply, spoken with a Yankeedrawl and twang. "I'm bringing news from Massachusetts." He slappedthe great pocket of his plain coat, calling attention to itswell-filled condition as with square papers. "Letters from theCommittee of Safety."

"Why, has anything happened at Boston?" asked Phil, quickly.

"Well, no, not just at Boston. But out Concord way, and at Lexington,and on the road back to Boston, I should reckon a few things hadhappened." And then, leaving off his exasperating drawl, he veryspeedily related the terrible occurrence of the nineteenth ofApril—terrible because 'twas warlike bloodshed in a peaceful land,between the king's soldiers and the king's subjects, between men ofthe same race and speech, men of the same mother country; and becauseof what was to follow in its train. I remember how easily and soon thetale was told; how clearly the man's calm voice, though scarce raisedabove a usual speaking tone, stood out against the Sunday morningstillness, with no sound else but the twittering of birds in the treesnear by.

"Get up!" said the messenger, not waiting for our thanks or comments;and so galloped into the town, leaving us to stare after him and thenat each other.

"'Faith, this will make the colonies stand together," said Philip atlast.

"Ay," said I, "against the rebellious party."

"No," quoth he, "when I say the colonies, I mean what you call therebellious party in them."

"Why, 'tis not the majority, and therefore it can't be said torepresent the colonies."

"I beg your pardon—I think we shall find it is the majority,particularly outside of the large towns. This news will fly to everycorner of the land as fast as horses can carry it, and put the countryfolk in readiness for whatever the Continental Congress may decideupon."

"Why, then, 'twill put our people on their guard, too, for whateverthe rebels may attempt."

Philip's answer to this brought about some dispute as to whether thename rebels, in its ordinary sense, could properly be applied to thosecolonists who had what he termed grievances. We both showed heat, Ithe more, until he, rather than quarrel, fell into silence. We hadturned back into the town; choosing a roundabout way for home, that wemight observe the effect of the messenger's news upon the citizens. Ina few streets the narrow footways were thronged with people in theirchurchgoing clothes, and many of these had already gathered intostartled groups, where the rider who came in such un-Sabbath-likehaste had stopped to justify himself, and satisfy the curiosity ofobservers, and ask the whereabouts of certain gentlemen of theprovincial assembly, to whom he had letters. We heard detailsrepeated, and opinions uttered guardedly, and grave concern everywhereexpressed.

By the time we had reached home, Mr. and Mrs. Faringfield were alreadythere, discussing the news with my mother, in the presence of the twodaughters and Tom. We found them all in the parlour. Margaret stood inthe library doorway, still holding her novel in her hand, her fingerkeeping the page. Her face showed but a languid interest in thetragedy which made all the others look so grave.

"You've heard the news, of course?" said Mr. Faringfield to us as weentered, curiously searching Philip's face while he spoke.

"Yes, sir; we were the first in the town to hear it, I think," repliedPhil.

"Tis a miracle if we do not have war," said Mr. Faringfield.

"I pray not," says my mother, who was a little less terrified thanMrs. Faringfield. "And I won't believe we shall, till I see it at ourdoors."

"Oh, don't speak of it!" cried Mrs. Faringfield, with a shudder.

"Why, ladies," says Philip, "'tis best to think of it as if 'tweresurely coming, and so accustom the mind to endure its horrors. I shallteach my wife to do so." And he looked playfully over at Margaret.

"Why, what is it to me?" said Margaret. "Tis not like to come beforewe sail, and in England we shall be well out of it. Sure you don'tthink the rebels will cross the ocean and attack London?"

"Why, if war comes," said Phil, quietly, "we shall have to postponeour sailing."

"Postpone it!" she cried, in alarm. "Why? And how long?"

"Until the matter is settled one way or another."

"But it won't come before we sail. 'Tis only seven weeks. Whateverhappens, they'll riddle away that much time first, in talk andpreparation; they always do."

"But we must wait, my dear, till the question is decided whetherthere's to be war or peace. If we come round to the certainty ofpeace, which is doubtful, then of course there's naught to hinder us.But if there's war, why, we've no choice but to see it out before weleave the country."

I never elsewhere saw such utter, indignant consternation as came overMargaret's face.

"But why? For what reason?" she cried. "Will not vessels sail, asusual? Are you afraid we shall be harmed on the sea? 'Tis ridiculous!The rebels have no war-ships. Why need we stay? What have we to dowith these troubles? 'Tis not our business to put them down. The kinghas soldiers enough."

"Ay," said Phil, surprised at her vehemence, but speaking the morequietly for that, "'tis the colonies will need soldiers."

"Then what folly are you talking? Why should we stay for this war."

"That I may take my part in it, my dear."

"Bravo, brother Phil!" cried Tom Faringfield. "You nor I sha'n't missa chance to fight for the king!"

"Nor I, either," I added.

"'Tis not for the king, that I shall be fighting," said Phil, simply.

A silence of astonishment fell on the company. 'Twas broken by Mr.Faringfield:

"Bravo, Phil, say I this time." And, losing no jot of his haughtymanner, he went over, and with one hand grasping Phil's, laid theother approvingly on the young man's shoulder.

"What, have we rebels in our own family?" cried Mrs. Faringfield,whose horror at the fact gave her of a sudden the needful courage.

"Madam, do your sentiments differ from mine?" asked her husband.

"Sir, I am a De Lancey!" she replied, with a chilling haughtinessalmost equal to his own.

Tom, buoyed by his feelings of loyalty above the fear of his father'sdispleasure, crossed to his mother, and kissed her; and even Fanny hadthe spirit to show defiantly on which side she stood, by nestling toher mother's side and caressing her head.

"Good, mamma!" cried Margaret. "No one shall make rebels of us!Understand that, Mr. Philip Winwood!"

Philip, though an ashen hue about the lips showed what was passing inhis heart, tried to take the bitterness from the situation by treatingit playfully. "You see, Mr. Faringfield, if we are indeed rebelsagainst our king, we are paid by our wives turning rebels againstourselves."

"You cannot make a joke of it, sir," said Margaret, with a menacingcoldness in her tone. "'Tis little need the king has of myinfluence, I fancy; he has armies to fight his battles. But there'sone thing does concern me, and that is my visit to London.—But you'llnot deprive me of that, dear, will you, now that you think of itbetter?" Her voice had softened as she turned to pleading.

"We must wait, my dear, while there is uncertainty or war."

"But you haven't the right to make me wait!" she cried, her voicewarming to mingled rage, reproach, and threat. "Why, wars last foryears—I should be an old woman! You're not free to deny me thispleasure, or postpone it an hour! You promised it from the first, youencouraged my anticipations until I came to live upon them, you fed myhopes till they dropped everything else in the world. Night and day Ihave looked forward to it, thought of it, dreamt of it! And now yousay I must wait—months, at least; probably years! But you can't meanit, Phil! You wouldn't be so cruel! Tell me!"

"I mean no cruelty, dear. But one has no choice when patriotismdictates—when one's country—"

"Why, you sha'n't treat me so, disappoint me so! 'Twould be breakingyour word; 'twould be a cruel betrayal, no less; 'twould make all yourconduct since our marriage—nay, since that very day we promisedmarriage—a deception, a treachery, a lie; winning a woman's hand andkeeping her love, upon a false pretence! You dare not turn back onyour word now! If you are a man of honour, of truth, of commonhonesty, you will let this miserable war go hang, and take me toEngland, as you promised! And if you don't I'll hate you!—hate you!"

Her speech had come out in a torrent of increasing force, until hervoice was almost a scream, and this violence had its climax in ahysterical outburst of weeping, as she sank upon a chair and hid herface upon the back thereof. In this attitude she remained, her bodyshaking with sobs.

Philip, moved as a man rarely is, hastened to her, and leaning over,essayed to take her hand.

"But you should understand, dear," said he, most tenderly, with whatvoice he could command. "God knows I would do anything to make youhappy, but—"

"Then," she said tearfully, resigning her hand to his, "don't bringthis disappointment upon me. Let them make war, if they please; youhave your wife to consider, and your own future. Whatever they fightabout, 'tis nothing to you, compared with your duty to me."

"But you don't understand," was all he could reply. "If I couldexplain—"

"Oh, Phil, dear," she said, adopting again a tender, supplicatingtone. "You'll not rob me of what I've so joyously looked forward to,will you? Think, how I've set my heart on it! Why, we've lookedforward to it together, haven't we? All our happiness has been boundup with our anticipations. Don't speak of understanding orexplaining,—only remember that our first thought should be of eachother's happiness, dear, and that you will ruin mine if you don't takeme. For my sake, for my love, promise we shall go to England in June!I beg you—'tis the one favour—I will love you so! Do, Phil! We shallbe so happy!"

She looked up at him with such an eager pleading through her tearsthat I did not wonder to see his own eyes moisten.

"My dear," said he, with an unsteady voice, "I can't. I shouldn't be aman if I left the country at this time. I should loathe myself; Ishould not be worthy of you."

She flung his hand away from her, and rose in another seizure ofwrath.

"Worthy!" she cried. "What man is worthy of a woman, when he cheatsher as you have cheated me! You are a fool, with your talk of loathingyourself if you left the country! In God's name, what could there bein that to make you loathe yourself? What claim has the country onyou, equal to the claim your wife has? Better loathe yourself for yourfalse treatment of her! You'd loathe yourself, indeed! Well, then, Itell you this, 'tis I that will loathe you, if you stay! I shallabominate you, I shall not let you come into my sight! Now, sir, takeyour choice, this instant. Keep your promise with me—"

"'Twas not exactly a promise, my dear."

"I say, keep it, and take me to London, and keep my love and respect;or break your promise, and my heart, and take my hate and contempt.Choose, I say! Which? This instant! Speak!"

"Madge, dear, you are not yourself—"

"Oh, but I am, though! More myself than ever! And my own mistress,too! Speak, I bid you! Tell me we shall go. Answer—will you do asyour wife wishes?"

"I will do as your husband ought."

"Will you go to England?"

"I will stay till I know the fate of the colonies; and to fight forthem if need be."

"You give me up, for the sake of a whim, of some silly fustian aboutpatriotism, some fool's rubbish of high-sounding words! Me , youbalance against a crazy notion! Very well, sir! How I shall hate youfor it! Don't come near me—not a step! Cling to your notion; see ifit will fill my place! From this moment, you're not my husband, I'mnot your wife—unless you promise we shall sail in June! And don'tdare speak to me, except to tell me that!"

Whereupon, paying no heed to his reproachful cry of "Madge," she sweptpast him, and across the parlour, and up the hall staircase to herroom; leaving us all in the amazement which had held us motionless andsilent throughout the scene.

Philip stood with his hand upon the chair-back where she had wept;pale and silent, the picture of abandonment and sorrow.

CHAPTER VI.

Ned Comes Back, with an Interesting Tale of a Fortunate Irishman.

Before any of us knew what to say, a soft tread in the libraryannounced the approach of Mr. Cornelius. He entered unaware of thescene that had just terminated, and with the stormy character of whichon Margaret's part, nothing could have been in greater contrast thanthe quiescent atmosphere that ever accompanied the shy, low-speakingpedagogue. His presence diffused peace and quietude; and more thanformerly was this the case of late, since he had resumed an intentionof entering the Presbyterian ministry.

He had qualified himself for this profession at Princeton. But afterhis full preparations, a conscientious scruple had arisen from a senseof his diffidence, which he despaired of conquering, and by which hebelieved his attempts at pulpit eloquence were sure to be defeated.Though he could compass the hardihood to discourse to an assemblage ofdistracting schoolboys several hours every week-day, he could notsummon the courage to address an audience of somnolent adults twohours on Sunday.

But latterly he had awakened to a new inward call, and resolved upon anew trial of his powers. By way of preliminary training, he had setabout practising upon the sailors and wharfmen who ordinarily spenttheir Sundays in gaming or boozing in low taverns along thewater-front. To as many of these as would gather in some open space,at the sound of his voice raised tremulously in a hymn, he wouldpreach as a layman, thus borrowing from the Methodists a device bywhich he hoped not only his present hearers, but also his own futurePresbyterian congregations, should benefit. It was from one of theseinformal meetings, broken up by the news from Massachusetts, that hewas but now returned.

The stupefaction in which we all sat, did not prevent our noting theexcitement in which Cornelius came; and Mr. Faringfield looked a muteinquiry.

"Your pardon, friends," said the pedagogue to the company; and then toMr. Faringfield: "If I might speak with you alone a moment, sir—"

Mr. Faringfield went with him into the library, leaving us all undernew apprehension.

"Dear bless me!" quoth Mrs. Faringfield, looking distressed. "Morecalamity, I vow."

In a moment we heard Mr. Faringfield's voice raised in a vehement "No,sir!" Then the library door was reopened, and he returned to us,followed by Cornelius, who was saying in his mildest voice: "But Iprotest, sir—I entreat—he is a changed man, I assure you."

"Changed for the worse, I make no doubt," returned the angry merchant."Let him not darken my door. If it weren't Sunday, I should send for aconstable this moment."

"What is it?" cried Mrs. Faringfield. "Sure it can't be—that boyagain!"

"Mr. Edward, madam," said the tutor.

"Dear, dear, what a day! What a terrible day! And Sunday, too!" moanedthe lady, lying back in her chair, completely crushed, as if the lastblow of fate had fallen.

"He arrived in the Sarah brig, which anchored yesterday evening,"explained Mr. Cornelius, "but he didn't come ashore till thismorning."

"He thought Sunday safer," said Mr. Faringfield, with scornfulderision.

"I was returning from my service, when I met him," continued thetutor. "He was at the Faringfield wharf, inquiring after the health ofthe family, of Meadows the watchman. I—er—persuaded him to come homewith me."

"You mean, sir, he persuaded you to come and intercede for him," saidMr. Faringfield.

"He is now waiting in the garden. I have been telling Mr. Faringfield,ma'am, that the young man is greatly altered. Upon my word, he showsthe truest signs of penitence. I believe he is entirely reformed; hesays so."

"You'd best let him come in, William," counselled Mrs. Faringfield."If you don't, goodness knows what he may do."

"Madam, I resolved long ago to let the law do its utmost upon him, ifhe should ever return."

"Oh, but think what scandal! What will all my relations say? Besides,if he is reformed—"

"If he is reformed, let him show it by his conduct on my refusing totake him back; and by suffering the penalty of his crime."

"Oh!—penalty! Don't speak such words! A jailbird in the family! Inever could endure it! I shouldn't dare go to church, or be seenanywhere in public!"

"The same old discussion!" said Mr. Faringfield, with a wearied frown.

"Papa, you won't send him to jail, will you?" ventured Fanny, witheyes rapidly moistening, and lips turning to a pout in spite ofherself.

"Really, sir," put in Cornelius, trembling at his own temerity, "ifyou could but see him—take my word, sir, if ever there was a casewhere forgiveness—"

After much more of this sort of talk, and being shaken in will by theday's previous excitements, Mr. Faringfield at length gave in so faras to consent to an interview with the penitent, to whom thereuponCornelius hastened with the news.

It was indeed a changed and chastened Ned, to all outward appearance,that entered meekly with the pedagogue a few minutes later. His treadwas so soft, his demeanour so tame, that one would scarce have knownhim but for a second look at his shapely face and burly figure. Theface was now somewhat hollowed out, darkened, lined, and blotched; andelongated with meek resignation. His clothes—claret-coloured clothcoat and breeches, flowered waistcoat, silk stockings, lace ruffles,and all—were shabby and stained. He bowed to the company, and thenstood, furtively watching for some manifestation from the rest beforehe dared proceed to warmer greetings.

Fanny stepped softly forward and kissed him, in a shy, perfunctorymanner; and then good-natured Tom shook his hand, and Philip followedsuit; after which Mrs. Faringfield embraced him somewhat stiffly, andI gingerly held his fingers a moment, and my mother hoped he foundhimself well.

"Quite well, I thank you, considering," said he; and then gazed in ahalf-scared way at his father. All the old defiance had disappearedunder the blows of adversity.

"Well, sir," said his father, coldly, "we had scarce looked for youback among us."

"No, sir," said Ned, still standing. "I had no right to be looked for,sir—no more than the prodigal son had. I'm a bit like him, sir."

"Don't count upon the fatted calf, however."

"No, sir; not me. Very plain fare will do for me. I—I ask yourpardon, sir, for that—that business about Mr. Palmer."

"The world has put you into a humble mood," said Mr. Faringfield, withsarcastic indifference.

"Yes, sir; the way of transgressors is hard, sir."

"Why don't you sit down?" put in Mrs. Faringfield, who was madeuncomfortable by the sight of others being so.

"Thank you, mother," said Ned, availing himself of the impliedpermission.

"I hear you've undergone a reformation," said his father.

"I hope so, sir. They tell me I've got religion."

"Who tells you?"

"The Methodists. I went to their meetings in London. I—I thought Ineeded a little of that kind of thing. That's how I happened to—tosave my soul."

"And how do you conceive you will provide for your body?"

"I don't know yet—exactly. If I might stay here till I could findsome employment—"

Mr. Faringfield met the pleading look of Fanny, and the prudent one ofhis wife. The latter reflected, as plainly as words, what hadmanifestly entered his own mind: that immunity from future trouble onNed's account might indeed be had without recourse to a step entailingpublic disgrace upon the family. So he said:

"My intention was, if you should ever show your face in New Yorkagain, to see you punished for that matter of the money and Mr.Palmer. I don't give up that intention; I shall only postpone carryingit out, during your good behaviour."

"Thank you, sir; I dare say it's better than I deserve."

And so was Mr. Ned established home again, to be provided for by hisfather until he should obtain some means of self-support. In this taskhis father offered no assistance, being cautious against vouching fora person hitherto so untrustworthy; and it soon became evident thatNed was not very vigorously prosecuting the task himself. He had theexcuse that it was a bad time for the purpose, the country being sounsettled in the expectation of continued war. And he was content toremain an idle charge upon his father's bounty, a somewhat neglectedinmate of the house, his comings and goings not watched or inquiredinto. His father rarely had a word for him but of curt and formalgreeting. His mother found little more to say to him, and that in ashy reserved manner. Margaret gave him no speeches, but sometimes alook of careless derision and contempt, which must have caused himoften to grind his teeth behind his mask of humility. Philip'scourtesy to him was distinctly chilly; while Tom treated him ratherwith the indifferent amiability of a new and not very closeacquaintance, than with any revival of old brotherly familiarity. Ishared Phil's doubts upon Ned's spiritual regeneration, and manypeople in the town were equally skeptical. But there were enough ofthose credulous folk that delight in the miraculous, who believedfully in this marvellous conversion, and never tired of discussing thewonder. And so Ned went about, posing as a brand snatched from theburning, to the amusem*nt of one-half the town, the admiration of theother half, and the curiosity of both.

"'Tis all fudge, says I," quoth lean old Bill Meadows, the watchman atthe Faringfield wharves. "His story and his face don't hitch. Hedeclares he was convarted by the Methodies, and he talks their talkabout salvation and redemption and the like. But if he really hadreligion their way, he'd wear the face o' joy and gladness. Whereas hegoes about looking as sober as a covenanter that expected the day ofjudgment to-morrow and knew he was predestinated for one O' the goats.Methodie convarts don't wear Presbyterian faces. Ecod, sir" (this hesaid to Phil, with whom he was on terms of confidence), "he's got itin his head that religion and a glum face goes together; and hethereby gives the lie to his Methodie convarsion."

Ned was at first in rather sore straits for a companion, none of hisold associates taking well to his reformation. He had to fall backupon poor Cornelius, who was always the most obliging of men and couldnever refuse his company or aught else to any tolerable person thatsought it. But in a week or so Ned had won back Fanny to her oldallegiance, and she, in the kindness of her heart, and in her pitythat the poor repentant fellow should be so misunderstood, hisamendment so doubted, gave him as much of her time as he asked for.She walked with him, rode with him, and boated with him. This was allgreatly to my cost and annoyance; for, ever since she had so gentlycommiserated my loss of Margaret, I had learned more and more to valueher sweet consolation, rely upon her sympathy in all matters, and findserenity and happiness in her society. It had come to be that two werecompany, three were none—particularly when the third was Ned. So, ifshe would go about with him, I left her to go with him alone; and Isuffered, and pined, and raged inwardly, in consequence. 'Twas thisdeprivation that taught me how necessary she was to me; and how herpresence gave my days half their brightness, my nights half theirbeauty, my taste of everything in life half its sweetness. Philip wasunreservedly welcome to Madge now; I wondered I had been so late indiscovering the charms of Fanny.

But one day I noticed that a coolness had arisen between her and Ned;a scarce evident repulsion on her part, a cessation of interest onhis. This was, I must confess, as greatly to my satisfaction as to mycuriosity. But Fanny was no more a talebearer than if she had been ofour sex; and Ned was little like to disclose the cause intentionally:so I did not learn it until by inference from a passage that occurredone night at the King's Arms' Tavern.

Poor Philip, avoided and ignored by Madge, who had not yet relented,was taking an evening stroll with me, in the soothing company of thepedagogue; when we were hailed by Ned with an invitation to a mug ofale in the tavern. Struck with the man's apparent wistfulness forcompany, and moved by a fellow feeling of forlornness, Philipaccepted; and Cornelius, always acquiescent, had not the ill grace torefuse. So the four of us sat down together at a table.

"I wish I might offer you madeira, gentlemen; or punch, at least,"said Ned regretfully, "but you know how it is. I'm reaping what Isowed. Things might be worse. I knew 'em worse in London—before Iturned over a new leaf."

The mugs being emptied, and the rest of us playing host in turn, theywere several times replenished. Ned had been drinking before he metus; but this was not apparent until he began to show the effect of hispotations while the heads of us his companions were still perfectlyclear. It was evident that he had not allowed his conversion to weanhim from this kind of indulgence. The conversation reverted to histime of destitution in London.

"Such experiences," observed Cornelius, "have their good fruits. Theyincline men to repentance who might else continue in their evil waysall their lives."

"Yes, sir; that's the truth!" cried Ned. "If I'd had some people'sluck—but it's better to be saved than to make a fortune—although, tobe sure, there are fellows, rascals, too, that the Lord seems to takefar better care of than he does of his own!"

Mr. Cornelius looked a little startled at this. But the truth was, Imake no doubt, that the pretence of virtue, adopted for the purpose ofregaining the comforts of his father's house, wore heavily upon Ned;that he chafed terribly under it sometimes; and that this was one ofthe hours when, his wits and tongue loosened by drink, he becamereckless and allowed himself relief. He knew that Philip, Cornelius,and I, never tattled. And so he cast the muzzle of sham reformationfrom his mouth.

He was silent for a while, recollections of past experience risingvividly in his mind, as they will when a man comes to a certain stageof drink.

"Sure, luck is an idiot," he burst out presently, wrathful from hismemories. "It reminds me of a fool of a wench that passes over agentleman and flings herself at a lout. For, lookye, there was two ofus in London, a rascal Irishman and me, that lived in the samelodgings. We did that to save cost, after we'd both had dogs' fortuneat the cards and the faro-table. If it hadn't been for a good-naturedwoman or two—I spoke ill of the breed just now, but they have theirmerits—we'd have had no lodgings at all then, except the Fleet,maybe, or Newgate, if it had come to that. Well, as I was saying, wewere both as near starvation as ever I wish to be, the Irishman andme. There we were, poverty-stricken as rats, both tarred with the samestick, no difference between us except he was an ugly brute, and ascoundrel, and a man of no family. Now if either of us deserved goodfortune, it certainly was me; there can't be any question of that. Andyet, here I am, driven to the damnedest tedious time of it for barefood and shelter, and compelled to drink ale when I'm—oh, curse it,gentlemen, was ever such rotten luck?"

Cornelius, whom disillusion had stricken into speechlessness at thisrevelation of the old Ned under the masquerade, sighed heavily andlooked pained. But Philip, always curious upon matters of humanexperience, asked:

"What of the Irishman?"

"Driving in his chariot, the dog! Swaggering in Pall Mall; eating anddrinking at taverns that it makes my mouth water to think of; layinghis hundred guineas a throw, if he likes. Oh, the devil! The fat ofLondon for that fellow; and me cast off here in New York to the mosthellish dull life! 'Tisn't a fair dispensation; upon my soul itisn't!"

"And what made him so fortunate?" inquired Philip.

"Ay, that's the worst of it! What good are a man's relations? Whatgood are mine, at least? For that knave had only one relation, but shewas of some use, Lord knows! When it came to the worst with him, hewalked to Bristol, and begged or stole passage to Ireland, and huntedup his sister, who had a few pounds a year of her own. He had thoughtof borrowing a guinea or two, to try his fortune with again. But whenhe saw his sister, he found she'd grown up into a beauty—no more of abeauty than my sisters, though; but she was a girl of enterprise andspirit. I don't say Madge isn't that; but she's married and done for.But Fanny—well, I don't see anything brilliant in store for Fanny."

"What has she to do with the affairs of your Irishman?" I asked.

"Oh, nothing. She's a different kind from this Irish lady. For whatdid that girl do, after her brother had seen her and got the idea,than pack up and come to London with him. And he showed her around sowell, and her fine looks made such an impression, that within threemonths he had her married to a lord's son—the heir to Lord Ilverton'sestates and title. And now she's a made woman, and he's a made man,and what do you think of that for a lucky brother and a clever sister?And yet, compared with Fanny—"

"Do you mean to say," interrupted Philip, in a low voice, "that youhave ever thought of Fanny as a partner in such a plan?"

"Little use to think of her," replied Ned, contemptuously. "She hasn'tthe spirit. I'm afraid there ain't many sisters like Mullaney's. PoorFan wouldn't even listen—"

"Did you dare propose it to her?" said Phil. My own feelings were toostrong for speech.

"Dare!" repeated Ned. "Why not? 'Twould have made her fortune—"

"Upon my word," put in Mr. Cornelius, no longer able to contain hisopinions, "I never heard of such rascality!"

Something in the pedagogue's tone, I suppose, or in Ned's stage oftipsiness at the moment, gave the speech an inflammatory effect. Nedstared a moment at the speaker, in amazement. Then he said, witharoused insolence:

"What's this, Mr. Parson? What have you to say here? My sister ismy sister, let me tell you—"

"If she knew you as well as I do now," retorted Cornelius, quietly,"she wouldn't boast of the relationship."

"What the devil!" cried Ned, in an elevated voice, thus drawing theattention of the four or five other people in the room. "Who is this,talks of relationships? You cursed parson-pedagogue—!"

"Be quiet, Ned," warned Philip. "Everybody hears you."

"I don't care," replied Ned, rising, and again addressing Cornelius."Does anybody boast of relationships to you, you tow-headed bumpkin?Do you think you can call me to account, as you can the scum youpreach to on the wharves? I'll teach you!"

Whereat, Cornelius being opposite him, Ned violently pushed forwardthe table so as to carry the tutor over backward in his chair. Hishead and back struck the floor heavily, and he lay supine beneath theupset table.

An excited crowd instantly surrounded our group. Philip and Iimmediately removed the table, and helped Cornelius to his feet. Thepedagogue's face was afire; his fists were clenched; his chestswelled; and one could judge from his wrists what sturdy arms hissleeves encased. As he advanced upon Ned, he was all at once become soformidable a figure that no one thought to interpose. Ned himself,appalled at the approaching embodiment of anger and strength,retreated a foot or two from the expected blow. Everybody looked tosee him stretched flat in a moment; when Cornelius suddenly stopped,relaxed his muscles, unclosed his fists, and said to his insulter, ina quiet but virile voice quite different from that of his usualspeech:

"By the grace of God, I put my hands behind my back; for I've spoiledhandsomer faces than yours, Edward Faringfield!"

There was a moment's pause.

"The grace of God has no such effect upon me!" said I, rapping Nedover the mouth with the back of my hand. Before the matter could goany further, Philip caught my arm, and Cornelius's, and hurried us outof the tavern.

I now knew what had broken the friendship between Fanny and herworthless brother. I feared a catastrophe when Mr. Faringfield shouldlearn of the occurrence at the tavern. But, thanks to the silence ofus who were concerned, and to the character of the few gentlemen withwhom he deigned to converse, it never came to his ears. Ned, restoredto his senses, and fearing for his maintenance, made no attempt toretaliate my blow; and resumed his weary pretence of reformation. Butyears afterward we were to recall his story of the Irishman's sister.

CHAPTER VII.

Enemies in War.

As this is not a history of the wars I shall not dwell upon the talkand preparations that went on during the weeks ensuing upon oureventful Sunday: which talk was common to both parties, but whichpreparations were mainly on the part of the rebels, we loyalistsawaiting events and biding the return from England of Governor Tryon.There were looks of suspicion exchanged, and among the more violentand uncouth there were open boasts bandied, open taunts reciprocated,and open threats hurled back and forth. Most of the quality of thetown were on the loyal side; but yet there were some excellentfamilies—such as the Livingstones—who stood first and last among theso-called Whigs. This was the case in great part of the country, thewealth and culture, with distinguished exceptions, being for the kingand parliament; though, I must own, a great quantity of the brainsbeing on the other side: but in Virginia and her Southerly neighbours,strange to say, the aristocracy largely, though not entirely, leanedtoward revolt; for what reason I never knew, unless it was that manyof them, descended from younger sons of good English stock who hadbeen exiled as black sheep or ne'er-do-wells, inherited feelingssimilar to Mr. Faringfield's. Or perhaps 'twas indeed a pride, whichmade them resentful of the superiority assumed by native Englishmenover them as colonists. Or they may have felt that they shouldactually become slaves in submitting to be taxed by a parliament inwhich they were not represented. In any case, they (like PhilipWinwood and Mr. Faringfield, the Adamses of Boston, and thousands ofothers) had motives that outweighed in them the sentiment of loyalty,the passion of attachment to the land whence we had drawn our race andstill drew our culture and all our refinements and graces. Thissentiment, and this passion, made it impossible for Tom Faringfieldand me to see any other course for us than undeviating fidelity to theking and the mother-country. There were of course some loyalists (orTories, if you prefer that name) who took higher views than arose fromtheir mere affections, and who saw harm for America in any revolt fromEnglish government; and there were others, doubtless, whose motiveswere entirely low and selfish, such as holders of office under thecrown, and men who had powers and privileges of which any change ofsystem, any disturbance of the royal authority, might deprive them. Itwas Philip who called my attention to this last class, and to theeffect its existence must have on the common people in the crisis thenpresent.

"The colonists of America are not like any other people," said he."Their fathers came to this land when it was a savage wilderness,tearing themselves from their homes, from civil surroundings; thatthey might be far from tyranny, in small forms as well as great. Notmerely tyranny of king or church, but the shapes of it that Hamletspeaks of—'the oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, theinsolence of office.' All for the sake of liberty, they battled withsavages and with nature, fought and toiled, bled and starved. AndTyranny ignored them till they had transformed their land andthemselves into something worth its attention. And then, backed andsustained by royal authority, those hated things stole in uponthem—'the insolence of office, the proud man's contumely, theoppressor's wrong.' This, lookye, besides the particular matter oftaxation without representation; of being bid to obey laws they haveno hand in making; of having a set of masters, three thousand milesaway, and not one of their own land or their own choosing, order themto do thus and so:—why, 'twere the very soul and essence of slaveryto submit! Man, how can you wonder I am of their side?"

"And with your taste for the things to be found only in the monarchiesof Europe; for the arts, and the monuments of past history, the placeshallowed by great events and great men!" said I, quoting rememberedexpressions of his own.

"Why," says he, smiling a little regretfully, "we shall have our ownarts and hallowed places some day; meanwhile one's taste must defer toone's heart and one's intelligence."

"Yes," said I, with malicious derision, "when 'tis so great a questionas a paltry tax upon tea."

"'Tis no such thing," says he, warming up; "'tis a question of beingtaxed one iota, the thousandth part of a farthing, by a body ofstrangers, a body in which we are not represented."

"Neither were we represented in it when it sent armies to protect usfrom the French, and toward the cost of which 'tis right we shouldpay."

"We paid, in men and money both. And the armies were sent less for ourprotection than for the aggrandisem*nt of England. She was fightingthe French the world over; in America, as elsewhere, the onlydifference being that in America we helped her."

So 'twas disputed between many another pair of friends, betweenbrothers, between fathers and sons, husbands and wives. I do not knowof another civil war that made as many breaks in families. Meanwhile,the local authorities—those of local election, not of royalappointment—were yet outwardly noncommittal. When Colonel Washington,the general-in-chief appointed by the congress of the colonies atPhiladelphia, was to pass through New York on his way to Cambridge,where the New England rebels were surrounding the king's troops inBoston, it was known that Governor Tryon would arrive from Englandabout the same time. Our authorities, rather than seem to favour oneside, sent a committee to New Jersey to meet the rebel commander andescort him through the town, and immediately thereafter paid a similarattention to the royal governor. One of those who had what theyconsidered the honour of riding behind Mr. Washington a part of hisway (he came accompanied by a troop of horse from Philadelphia, andmade a fine, commanding figure, I grant) was Philip Winwood. When hereturned from Kingsbridge, I, pretending I had not gone out of my wayto see the rebel generalissimo pass, met him with a smile, as if tomake a joke of all the rebel preparations:

"Well," says I, "what manner of hero is your illustrious chief? A veryJulius Cæsar, I make no doubt."

"A grave and modest gentleman," says Phil, "and worthy of all theadmiration you used to have for him when we would talk of the FrenchWar. I remember you would say he was equal to all the regular Englishofficers together; and how you declared Governor Shirley was a foolfor not giving him a king's commission."

"Well," said I, "'tis a thousand to one, that if Colonel Washingtonhadn't been disappointed of a king's commission, he wouldn't now beleader of the king's enemies." I knew I had no warrant the slightestfor attributing Mr. Washington's patriotism to such a petty motive asa long-cherished resentment of royal neglect; and years afterward, inLondon, I was to chastise an equally reckless speaker for a similarslander; but I was young and partisan, and being nettled by thereminder of my inconsistency, spoke to irritate.

"That is a lie!" said Phil, quietly, looking me straight in the face.

Such a word from Philip made me stare in amazement; but it did notimprove my temper, or incline me to acknowledge the injustice I haduttered. My face burned, my fingers clenched. But it was Philip thathad spoken; and a thing or two flashed into my mind in the pause; and,controlling myself, I let out a long breath, opened my fists, and,with the best intentions in the world, and with the quietest voice,gave him a blow far more severe than a blow of the fist had been.

"I will take that from you, Phil," said I: "God knows, your stand inthis rebellion has caused you enough unhappiness."

He winced, and sent me a startled look, stung at my alluding to theestrangement of his wife. I know not whether he took it as a tauntfrom so dear a friend, or whether the mere mention of so delicate asorrow was too much for him; but his face twitched, and he gave aswallow, and was hard put to it to hold back the tears.

"Forgive me," I said, stricken to the heart at sight of this. "I amyour friend always, Phil." I put a hand upon his shoulder, and hisface turned to a kindly expression of pardon, a little short of thesmile he dared not yet trust himself to attempt.

Margaret's demeanour to him, indeed, had not shown the smallestsoftening. But to the rest of the world, after the immediate effectsof that Sunday scene had worn off, she seemed vastly more sparklingand fascinating than ever before: whether she was really so, and ofintention, or whether the appearance was from contrast with hertreatment of Philip, I dare not say. But the impression was Philip's,I think, as well as every one's else; and infinitely it multiplied thesorrow of which he would not speak, but which his countenance couldnot conceal. When the news of the affair at Bunker's Hill wasdiscussed at the supper-table one evening in June, I being present,and Margaret heard how bravely the British charged the third andsuccessful time up to the rebel works, after being hurled back twiceby a very hell of musketry, she dropped her fork, and clapped herhands, crying:

"Bravo, bravo! 'Tis such men that grow in England. I could love everyone of 'em!"

"Brave men, I allow," said Philip; "but as for their victory, 'twasbut a technical one, if accounts be true. Their loss was greater thanours; and the fight proved that Americans can stand before Britishregulars."

Margaret paid no more notice than if Philip had not spoken—'twas herpractice now to ignore his speeches not directed to herself alone—andwhen he had done, she said, blithely, to one of the young De Lanceys,who was a guest:

"And so they drove the Yankees out! And what then, cousin?"

"Why, that was all. But as for the men that grow in England, you'llfind some of us grown in America quite as ready to fight for the king,if matters go on. Only wait till Governor Tryon sets about calling forloyal regiments. We shall be falling over one another in the scrambleto volunteer. But I mean to be first."

"Good, cousin!" she cried. "You may kiss my hand for that—nay, mycheek, if I could reach it to you."

"Faith," said De Lancey, after gallantly touching her fingers with hislips, "if all the ladies in New York had such hands, and offered 'emto be kissed by each recruit for the king, there'd be no man left tofight on the rebel side."

"Why, his Majesty is welcome to my two hands for the purpose, and myface, too," she rattled on. "But some of our New York rebels weregoing to do great things: 'tis two months now, and yet we see nothingof their doings."

"Have a little patience, madam," said Philip, very quietly. "We rebelsmay be further advanced in our arrangements than is known in allquarters."

The truth of this was soon evident. In the open spaces of thetown—the parade-ground (or Bowling Green) outside the fort; thecommon at the head of the town; before the very barracks in ChambersStreet that had just been vacated by the last of the royal troops inNew York, they having sailed for Boston rather for their own safetythan to swell the army there—there was continual instructing anddrilling of awkward Whigs. Organisation had proceeded throughout theprovince, whose entire rebel force was commanded by Mr. PhilipSchuyler, of Albany; subordinate to whom was Mr. Richard Montgomery,an Irish gentleman who had first set foot in America at Louisbourg, asa king's officer, and who now resided beyond Kingsbridge.

It was under Montgomery that Philip Winwood took service, enlisting asa private soldier, but soon revealing such knowledge of militarymatters that he was speedily, in the off-hand manner characteristic ofimprovised armies, made a lieutenant. This was a little strange,seeing that there was a mighty scramble for commissions, nine out ofevery ten patriots, however raw, clamouring to be officers; and itshows that sometimes (though 'tis not often) modest merit will win aswell as self-assertive incompetence. Philip had obtained hisacquaintance with military forms from books; he was, in his ability toassimilate the matter of a book, an exception among men; and a stillgreater exception in his ability to apply that matter practically.Indeed, it sometimes seemed that he could get out of a book not onlyall that was in it, but more than was in it. Many will not believewhat I have related of him, that he had actually learned the rudimentsof fencing, the soldier's manual of arms, the routine of camp andmarch, and such things, from reading; but it is a fact: just as it istrue that Greene, the best general of the rebels after Washington,learned military law, routine, tactics, and strategy, from books heread at the fire of the forge where he worked as blacksmith; and thatthe men whom he led to Cambridge, from Rhode Island, were the bestdisciplined, equipped, uniformed, and maintained, of the whole Yankeearmy at that time. As for Philip's gift of translating printed matterinto actuality, I remember how, when we afterward came to visitstrange cities together, he would find his way about without aquestion, like an old resident, through having merely readdescriptions of the places.

But rank did not come unsought, or otherwise, to Philip's fellowvolunteer from the Faringfield house, Mr. Cornelius. The pedagogue,with little to say on the subject, took the rebel side as a matter ofcourse, Presbyterians being, it seems, republican in their nature. Hewent as a private in the same company with Philip.

It was planned that the rebel troops of New York province shouldinvade Canada by way of Lake George, while the army under Washingtoncontinued the siege of Boston. Philip went through the form ofarranging that his wife should remain at her father's house—the onlysuitable home for her, indeed—during his absence in the field; andso, in the Summer of 1775, upon a day much like that in which he hadfirst come to us twelve years before, it was ours to wish him for atime farewell.

Mr. Faringfield and his lady, with Fanny and Tom, stood in the hall,and my mother and I had joined them there, when Philip camedown-stairs in his new blue regimentals. He wore his sword, but it wasnot his wife that had buckled it on. There had been no change in hermanner toward him: he was still to her but as a strange guest in thehouse, rather to be disdained than treated with the courtesy due evento a strange guest. We all asked ourselves what her farewell would be,but none mentioned the thought. As Phil came into view at the firstlanding, he sent a quick glance among us to see if she was there. Fora moment his face was struck into a sadly forlorn expression; but, asif by chance, she came out of the larger parlour at that moment, andhis countenance revived almost into hope. The rest of us had alreadysaid our good-byes to Mr. Cornelius, who now stood waiting for Philip.As the latter reached the foot of the stairs, Margaret suddenly turnedto the pedagogue, to add her civility to ours, for she had alwaysliked the bashful fellow, and his joining the rebels was to her amatter of indifference—it did not in any way affect her own pleasure.This movement on her part made it natural that Philip's firstleave-taking should be of Mr. Faringfield, who, seeing Margaretoccupied, went forward and grasped Phil's hand.

"God bless thee, lad," said he, showing the depth of his feelings asmuch by a tenderness very odd in so cold a man, as by reverting to theold pronoun now becoming obsolete except with Quakers, "and bring theesafe out of it all, and make thy cause victorious!"

"Good-bye, Philip," said Mrs. Faringfield, with some betrayal ofaffection, "and heaven bring you back to us!"

Fanny's farewell, though spoken with a voice more tremulous and eyesmore humid, was in the same strain; and so was that of my mother,though she could not refrain from adding, "Tis such a pity!" andwishing that so handsome a soldier was on the right side.

"Good-bye and good luck, dear old Phil!" was all that Tom said.

"And so say I," I put in, taking his hand in my turn, and trying notto show my discomposure, "meaning to yourself, but not to your cause.Well—dear lad—heaven guard you, and give you a speedy return! Foryour sake and ours, may the whole thing be over before your campaignis begun. I should like to see a war, and be in one—but not a warlike this, that makes enemies of you and me. Good-bye, Phil—and comeback safe and sound."

'Twas Margaret's time now, for Ned was not present. There was a pause,as Phil turned questioningly—nay wistfully—toward her. She met hislook calmly. Old Noah and some of the negroes, who had pressed forwardto see Phil's departure from the house, were waiting for her to speak,that they might afterward call out their Godspeed.

"Good-bye!" she said, at last, holding out her hand indifferently.

He took the hand, bent over it, pressed it with his lips. Then helooked at her again. I think she must have shown just the slightestyielding, given just the least permission, in her eyes; for he wentnearer, and putting his arm around her, gently drew her close to him,and looked down at her. Suddenly she turned her face up, and pursedher lips. With a look of gladness, he passionately kissed her.

"God bless you, my dear wife," he whispered; and then, as if byexpecting more he might court a disappointment to mar the memory ofthat leave-taking, he released her, and said to us all: "Take care ofher, I pray!" whereupon, abruptly turning, he hastened out of the opendoor, waving back his hat in response to our chorus of good-byes, andthe loud "Go' bless you, Massa Philip!" of the negroes.

We followed quickly to the porch, to look after him. But he strode offso fast that Cornelius had to run to keep up with him. He did not oncelook back, even when he passed out of sight at the street corner. Ibelieve he divined that his wife would not be among those lookingafter, and that he wished not to interpose any other last impressionof his dear home than that of her kiss.

When we came back into the hall, she had flown. Later, as my motherand I went through the garden homeward, passing beneath Margaret'sopen windows, we heard her weeping—not violently, but steadily,monotonously, as if she had a long season of the past to regret, along portion of the future to sorrow for. And here let me say that Ithink Margaret, from first to last, loved Philip with more tendernessthan she was capable of bestowing upon any one else; with an affectionso deep that sometimes it might be obscured by counter feelingsplaying over the surface of her heart, so deep that often she mightnot be conscious of its presence, but so deep that it might never beuprooted:—and 'twas that which made things the more pitiful.

Tom and I went out, with a large number of the town's people, to watchthe rebel soldiers depart, and we saw Philip with his company, andexchanged with him a smile and a wave of the hat. How little wethought that one of us he was never to meet again, that the other hewas not to see in many years, and that four of those years were topass ere he should set foot again in Queen Street.

Many things, to be swiftly passed over in my history, occurred inthose four years. One of these, the most important to me, happened ashort time after Philip's departure for the North. It was a briefconversation with Fanny, and it took place upon the wayside walk atwhat they call the Battery, at the green Southern end of the town,where it is brought to a rounded point by the North and East Riversapproaching each other as they flow into the bay. To face the gentlebreeze, I stopped and turned so we might look Southward over the bay,toward where, at the distant Narrows, Long Island and Staten Islandseem to meet and close it in.

"I don't like to look out yonder," said Fanny. "It makes me imagineI'm away on the ocean, by myself. And it seems so lonely."

"Why, you poor child," replied I, "'tis a sin you should ever feellonely; you do so much to prevent others being so." I turned my backupon the bay, and led her past the fort, toward the Broadway. "Yousee," said I, abruptly, glancing at her brown eyes, which dropped in acharming confusion, "how much you need a comrade." I remember I wasnot entirely unconfused myself at that moment, for inspiration hadsuddenly shown me my opportunity, and how to use it, and some inwardtrepidation was inseparable from a plunge into the matter I was nowresolved upon going through.

"Why," says she, blushing, and seeming, as she walked, to take a greatinterest in her pretty feet, "I have several comrades as it is."

"Yes. But I mean one that should devote himself to you alone. Philiphas Margaret; and besides, he is gone now, and so is Mr. Cornelius.And Tom will be finding a wife some day, and your parents cannot livefor ever, and your friends will be married one after another."

"Poor me!" says she, with a sigh of comic wofulness. "How helpless andalone you make me feel!"

"Not so entirely alone, neither! There's one I didn't mention."

"And that one, too, I suppose, will be running off some day."

"No. He, like Tom, will be seeking a wife some day; perhaps soonerthan Tom; perhaps very soon indeed; perhaps this very minute."

"Oh, Bert!—What nonsense! Don't look at me so, here in thestreet—people will take notice."

"What do I care for people? Let the fellows all see, and envy me, ifyou'll give me what I ask. What say you, dearest? Speak; tell me! Nay,if you won't, I'll make you blush all the more—I love you, I loveyou, I love you! Now will you speak?"

"Oh, Bert, dear, at least wait till we are home!"

"If you'll promise to say yes then."

"Very well—if 'twill please you."

"Nay, it must be to please yourself too. You do love me a little,don't you?"

"Why, of course I do; and you must have known it all the time!"

But, alas, her father's "yes" was not so easily to be won. I broachedthe matter to him that very evening (Fanny and I meanwhile having cometo a fuller understanding in the seclusion of the garden); but heshook his head, and regarded me coldly.

"No, sir," said he. "For, however much you are to be esteemed as ayoung gentleman of honour and candour and fine promise, 'tis for me toconsider you rather as an adherent of a government that has persecutedmy country, and now makes war upon it. The day may come when you willfind a more congenial home nearer the crown you have already expressedyour desire to fight for. And then, if Fanny were your wife, you wouldcarry her off to make an Englishwoman of her, as my first daughterwould have been carried by her husband, upon different motives, butfor this war. Perhaps 'twere better she could have gone," he added,with a sigh, for Margaret had been his favourite child; "my loss ofher could scarce have been more complete than it is. But 'tis not sowith Fanny."

"But, sir, I am not to take it that you refuse me, definitely,finally?—I beg—"

"Nay, sir, I only say that we must wait. Let us see what time shallbring to pass. I believe that you will not—and I am sure that Fannywill not—endeavour any act without my consent, or against my wish.Nay, I don't bid you despair, neither. Time shall determine."

I was not so confident that I would not endeavour any act without hisconsent; but I shared his certainty that Fanny would not. And so, indespondency, I took the news to her.

"Well," says she, with a sigh. "We must wait, that's all."

While we were waiting, and during the Fall and Winter, we heard nowand then from Philip, for communication was still possible between NewYork and the rebel army proceeding toward Canada. He wrote Margaretletters of which the rest of us never saw the contents; but he wroteto Mr. Faringfield and me also. His history during this time was thatof his army, of which we got occasional news from other sources.During part of September and all of October it was besieging St.John's, which capitulated early in November. Schuyler's ill-health hadleft the supreme active command to Montgomery. The army pushed on, andoccupied Montreal, though it failed to capture Governor Carleton; whoescaped to Quebec in a boat, by ingeniously disguising himself as acountryman. At Montreal the jealousies and quarrels of officers, sosummarily created such, gave Montgomery much trouble, and when he setforward for Quebec, there to join the force sent under Arnold throughthe Maine wilderness from the rebel main army at Cambridge, he couldtake with him but three hundred men—so had the patriot warriors ofNew York fallen off in zeal and numbers! But you may be sure it wasnot from Philip's letters that we got these items disadvantageous tohis cause.

Our last word from him was when he was in quarters before Quebec:Cornelius was with him; and they were having a cold and snowy time ofit, waiting for Quebec to fall before them. He mentioned casually thathe had been raised to a captaincy: we afterward learned that this wasfor brave conduct upon the occasion of a sally of Scotch troops fromone of the gates of Quebec to cut off a mortar battery and a body ofriflemen; Philip had not only saved the battery and the riflemen, buthad made prisoners of the sallying party.

Late in the Winter—that is to say, early in 1776—we learned of thedire failure of the night attack made by the combined forces ofMontgomery and Arnold upon Quebec at the end of December, 1775; thatArnold had been wounded, his best officers taken prisoners, andMontgomery killed. The first reports said nothing of Winwood. WhenMargaret heard the news, she turned white as a sheet; and at thistriumph of British arms my joy was far outweighed, Mr. Faringfield'sgrief multiplied, by fears lest Philip, who we knew would shirk nodanger, had met a fate similar to his commander's. But subsequent newstold us that he was a prisoner, though severely wounded. We comfortedourselves with considering that he was like to receive good nursingfrom the French nuns of Quebec. And eventually we found the name ofCaptain Winwood in a list of rebel prisoners who were to be exchanged;from which, as a long time had passed, we inferred that he was nowrecovered of his injuries; whereupon Margaret, who had never spoken ofhim, or shown her solicitude other than by an occasional dispiritedself-abstraction, regained all her gaiety and was soon her old,charming self again. In due course, we learned that the exchange ofprisoners had been effected, and that a number of officers (among whomwas Captain Winwood) had departed from Quebec, bound whither we werenot informed; and after that we lost track of him for many and many amonth.

Meanwhile, the war had made itself manifest in New York: at firstdistantly, as by the passage of a few rebel companies fromPennsylvania and Virginia through the town on their way to Cambridge;by continued enlistments for the rebel cause; by the presence of asmall rebel force of occupation; and by quiet enrolments of usloyalists for service when our time should come. But in the beginningof the warm weather of 1776, the war became apparent in its own shape.The king's troops under Sir William Howe had at last evacuated Bostonand sailed to Halifax, taking with them a host of loyalists, whoseflight was held up to us New York Tories as prophetic of our own fate.Washington now supposed, rightly, that General Howe intended presentlyto occupy New York; and so down upon our town, and the island on whichit was, and upon Long Island, came the rebel main army from Cambridge;and brought some very bad manners with it, for all that there neverwas a finer gentleman in the world than was at its head, and that I ambound to own some of his officers and men to have been worthy of himin good breeding. Here the army was reinforced by regiments from themiddle and Southern provinces; and for awhile we loyalists kept closemouths. Margaret, indeed, for the time, ceased altogether to be aloyalist, in consequence of the gallantry of certain officers in blueand buff, and several Virginia dragoons in blue and red, with whom shewas brought into acquaintance through her father's attachment to therebel interest. She expanded and grew brilliant in the sunshine ofadmiration (she had even a smile and compliment from Washingtonhimself, at a ball in honour of the rebel declaration of independence)in which she lived during the time when New York abounded with rebeltroops.

But that was a short time; for the British disembarked upon LongIsland, met Washington's army there and defeated it, so that it had toslip back to New York in boats by night; then landed above the town,almost in time to cut it off as it fled Northward; fought part of iton the heights of Harlem; kept upon its heels in Westchester County;encountered it again near White Plains; and came back triumphant towinter in and about New York. And now we loyalists and the rebelsympathisers exchanged tunes; and Margaret was as much for the kingagain as ever—she never cared two pins for either cause, I fancy,save as it might, for the time being, serve her desire to shine.

She was radiant and joyous, and made no attempt to disguise herfeelings, when it was a settled fact that the British army shouldoccupy New York indefinitely.

"'Tis glorious!" said she, dancing up and down the parlour before Tomand me. "This will be some relief from dulness, some consolation! Thetown will be full of gallant generals and colonels, handsome majors,dashing captains; there are lords and baronets among 'em; they'll bequartered in all the good houses; there will be fine uniforms,regimental bands, and balls and banquets! Why, I can quite endurethis! War has its compensations. We'll have a merry winter of it,young gentlemen! Sure 'twill be like a glimpse of London."

"And there'll be much opportunity for vain ladies to have their headsturned!" quoth Tom, half in jest, half in disapproval.

"I know nothing of that," says she, "but I do know whose sister willbe the toast of the British Army before a month is past!"

If the king's troops acquired a toast upon entering New York, therebels had gained a volunteer upon leaving it. One day, just beforeWashington's army fled, Tom Faringfield came to me with a face allamusem*nt.

"Who do you think is the latest patriot recruit?" cried he. It was ourcustom to give the rebels ironically their own denomination ofpatriots.

"Not you nor I, at any rate," said I.

"But one of the family, nevertheless."

"Why, surely—your father has not—"

"Oh, no; only my father's eldest."

"Ned?"

"Nobody else. Fancy Ned taking the losing side! Oh, 'fore God, it'strue! He came home in a kind of uniform to-day, and told father whathe had done; the two had a long talk together in private after that;and though father never shows his thoughts, I believe he really hassome hopes of Ned now. The rebels made a lieutenant of him, onfather's account. I wonder what his game is."

"I make no doubt, to curry favour with his father."

"Maybe. But perhaps to get an excuse for leaving town, and a way ofdoing so. I've heard some talk—they say poor Sally Roberts'scondition is his work."

"Very like. Your brother is a terrible Adonis—with ladies of acertain kind."

"Not such an Adonis neither—at least the Adonis that Venus courted inShakespeare's poem. Rather a Jove, I should say."

We did not then suspect the depth of Mr. Ned's contrivance orduplicity. He left New York with the rebels, and 'twas some time erewe saw, or heard of, him again.

And now at last several loyalist brigades were formed as auxiliariesto the royal army, and Tom and I were soon happy in the consciousnessof serving our king, and in the possession of the green uniforms thatdistinguished the local from the regular force. We were of ColonelCruger's battalion, of General Oliver De Lancey's brigade, and bothwere so fortunate as to obtain commissions, Tom receiving that oflieutenant, doubtless by reason of his mother's relationship toGeneral De Lancey, and I being made an ensign, on account of theexcellent memory in which my father was held by the loyal party. Mr.Faringfield, like many another father in similar circ*mstances, wasoutwardly passive upon his son's taking service against his own cause:as a prudent man, he had doubtless seen from the first the advantageof having a son actually under arms for the king, for it gave him andhis property such safety under the British occupation as even hislady's loyalist affiliations might not have sufficed to do. ThereforeTom, as a loyalist officer, was no less at home than formerly, in thehouse of his rebel father. I know not how many such family situationswere brought about by this strange war.

CHAPTER VIII.

I Meet an Old Friend in the Dark.

I shall not give an account of my military service, since it enteredlittle into the history of Philip Winwood. 'Twas our duty to help manthe outposts that guarded the island at whose Southern extremity NewYork lies, from rebel attack; especially from the harassments of thepartisan troops, and irregular Whiggery, who would swoop down inraiding parties, cut off our foragers, drive back our wood-cutters,and annoy us in a thousand ways. We had such raiders of our own, too,notably Captain James De Lancey's Westchester Light Horse, Simcoe'sRangers, and the Hessian yagers, who repaid the visits of our enemiesby swift forays across the neutral ground between the two armies.

But this warfare did not exist in its fulness till later, when theAmerican army formed about us an immense segment of a circle, whichbegan in New Jersey, ran across Westchester County in New Yorkprovince, and passed through a corner of Connecticut to Long IslandSound. On our side, we occupied Staten Island, part of the New Jerseyshore, our own island, lower Westchester County, and that portion ofLong Island nearest New York. But meanwhile, the rebel main army wasin New Jersey in the Winter of 1776-77, surprising some of ourHessians at Trenton, overcoming a British force at Princeton, andgoing into quarters at Morristown. And in the next year, Sir WilliamHowe having sailed to take Philadelphia with most of the king'sregulars (leaving General Clinton to hold New York with some royaltroops and us loyalists), the fighting was around the rebel capital,which the British, after two victories, held during the Winter of1777-78, while Washington camped at Valley Forge.

In the Fall of 1777, we thought we might have news of Winwood, for inthe Northern rebel army to which General Burgoyne then capitulated,there were not only many New York troops, but moreover several of theofficers taken at Quebec, who had been exchanged when Philip had. Butof him we heard nothing, and from him it was not likely that we shouldhear. Margaret never mentioned him now, and seemed to have forgottenthat she possessed a husband. Her interest was mainly in the Britishofficers still left in New York, and her impatience was for the returnof the larger number that had gone to Philadelphia. To this impatiencean end was put in the Summer of 1778, when the main army marched backto us across New Jersey, followed part way by the rebels, and fightingwith them at Monmouth Court House. 'Twas upon this that the lines Ihave mentioned, of British outposts protecting New York, and rebelforces surrounding us on all sides but that of the sea, wereestablished in their most complete shape; and that the reciprocalforays became most frequent.

And now, too, the British occupation of New York assumed its greatestproportions. The kinds of festivity in which Margaret so brilliantlyshone, lent to the town the continual gaiety in which she so keenlydelighted. The loyalist families exerted themselves to protect theking's officers from dulness, and the king's officers, in their ownendeavours to the same end, helped perforce to banish dulness from thelives of their entertainers. 'Twas a gay town, indeed, for some folk,despite the vast ugly blotches wrought upon its surface by two greatfires since the war had come, and despite the scarcity of provisionsand the other inconveniences of a virtual state of siege. Tom and Isaw much of that gaiety, for indeed at that time our duties were notas active as we wished they might be, and they left us leisure enoughto spend in the town. But we were pale candles to the Europeanofficers—the rattling, swearing, insolent English, the tall andhaughty Scots, the courtly Hessians and Brunswickers.

"What, sister, have we grown invisible, Bert and I?" said Tom toMargaret, as we met her in the hall one night, after we had returnedfrom a ball in the Assembly Rooms. "Three times we bowed to you thisevening, and got never a glance in return."

"'Faith," says she, with a smile, "one can't see these green uniformsfor the scarlet ones!"

"Ay," he retorted, with less good-humour than she had shown, "thescarlet coats blind some people's eyes, I think, to other things thangreen uniforms."

It was, I fancy, because Tom had from childhood adored her so much,that he now took her conduct so ill, and showed upon occasion abitterness that he never manifested over any other subject.

"What do you mean, you saucy boy?" cried she, turning red, and lookingmighty handsome. "You might take a lesson or two in manners from someof the scarlet coats!"

"Egad, they wouldn't find time to give me lessons, being so busy withyou! But which of your teachers do you recommend—Captain Andre, LordRawdon, Colonel Campbell, or the two Germans whose names I can'tpronounce? By George, you won't be happy till you have Sir HenryClinton and General Knyphausen disputing for the front place at yourfeet!"

SHE WAS INDEED THE TOAST OF THE ARMY.

She softened from anger to a little laugh of conscious triumph, tappedhim with her fan, and sped up the stairs. Her prediction had cometrue. She was indeed the toast of the army. Her mother apparently sawno scandal in this, being blinded by her own partiality to the royalside. Her father knew it not, for he rarely attended the Britishfestivities, from which he could not in reason debar his wife anddaughters. Fanny was too innocent to see harm in what her sister did.But Tom and I, though we never spoke of it to each other, were madesensitive, by our friendship for Philip, to the impropriety of thesituation—that the wife of an absent American officer should reign asa beauty among his military enemies. I make no doubt but thecirc*mstance was commented upon, with satirical smiles at the expenseof both husband and wife, by the British officers themselves. Indeed Ionce heard her name mentioned, not as Mrs. Winwood, but as "CaptainWinwood's wife," with an expression of voice that made me burn toplant my fist in the leering face of the fellow who spoke—somelow-born dog, I'll warrant, who had paid high for his commission.

It was a custom of Tom's and mine to put ourselves, when off dutytogether, in the way of more active service than properly fell to us,by taking horse and riding to the eastern side of the Harlem River,where was quartered the troop of Tom's relation, James De Lancey. Inmore than one of the wild forays of these horsem*n, did we take anunauthorised part, and find it a very exhilarating business.

One cold December afternoon in 1778, we got private word from CaptainDe Lancey that he was for a raid up the Albany road, that night, inretaliation for a recent severe onslaught made upon our Hessian postnear Colonel Van Cortlandt's mansion, either ('twas thought) by Lee'sVirginia Light Horse or by the partisan troop under the Frenchnobleman known in the rebel service as Armand.

At nightfall we were on the gallop with De Lancey's men, striking thesparks from the stony road under a cloudy sky. But these troops,accustomed to darkness and familiar with the country, found the nightnot too black for their purpose, which was, first, the seizing of somecattle that two or three Whig farmers had contrived to retainpossession of, and, second, the surprising of a small advanced postdesigned to protect rebel foragers. The first object was fairly wellaccomplished, and a detail of men assigned to conduct the prizes backto Kingsbridge forthwith, a difficult task for which those upon whomit fell cursed their luck, or their commander's orders, under theirbreath. One of the farmers, for stubbornly resisting, was left tied toa tree before his swiftly dismantled house, and only Captain DeLancey's fear of alarming the rebel outpost prevented the burning downof the poor fellow's barn.

The taking of these cattle had necessitated our leaving the highway.To this we now returned, and proceeded Northward to where the roadcrosses the Neperan River, near the Philipse manor-house. Instead ofcrossing this stream, we turned to the right, to follow its left banksome way upward, and then ascended the hill East of it, on which therebel post was established. Our course, soon after leaving the road,lay through woods, the margin of the little river affording us onlysufficient clear space for proceeding in single file. De Lancey rodeat the head, then went two of his men, then Tom Faringfield andmyself, the troop stringing out behind us, the lieutenant being at therear.

'Twas slow and toilsome riding; and only the devil's own luck, or somemarvellous instinct of our horses, spared us many a stumble overroots, stones, twigs, and underbrush. What faint light the nightretained for well-accustomed eyes, had its source in thecloud-curtained moon, and that being South of us, we were hidden inthe shadow of the woods. But 'tis a thousand wonders the noise of ourpassage was not sooner heard, though De Lancey's stern command forsilence left no sound possible from us except that of our horses andequipments. I fancy 'twas the loud murmur of the stream that shieldedus. But at last, as we approached the turning of the water, where wewere to dismount, surround the rebels hutted upon the hill before us,creep silently upon them, and attack from all sides at a signal, therewas a voice drawled out of the darkness ahead of us the challenge:

"Who goes thar?"

We heard the click of the sentinel's musket-lock; whereupon Captain DeLancey, in hope of gaining the time to seize him ere he could give thealarm, replied, "Friends," and kept riding on.

"You're a liar, Jim De Lancey!" cried back the sentinel, and fired hispiece, and then (as our ears told us) fled through the woods, up thehill, toward his comrades.

There was now nothing for us but to abandon all thought of surroundingthe enemy, or even, we told ourselves, of taking time to dismount andbestow our horses; unless we were willing to lose the advantage of asurprise at least partial, as we were not. We could but charge onhorseback up the hill, after the fleeing sentinel, in hope of comingupon the rebels but half-prepared. Or rather, as we then felt, so wechose to think, foolish as the opinion was. Indeed what could havebeen more foolish, less military, more like a tale of fabulous knightsin some enchanted forest? A cavalry charge, with no sort of regularformation, up a wooded hill, in a night dark enough in the open butsheer black under the thick boughs; to meet an encamped enemy at thetop! But James De Lancey's men were noted rather for reckless dashthan for military prudence; they felt best on horseback, and wouldaccept a score of ill chances and fight in the saddle, rather than adozen advantages and go afoot. I think they were not displeased attheir discovery by the sentinel, which gave them an excuse for aharebrained onset ahorse, in place of the tedious manoeuvre afoot thathad been planned. As for Tom and me, we were at the age when a manwill dare the impossible.

So we went, trusting to the sense of our beasts, or to dumb luck, tocarry us unimpeded through the black woods. As it was, a few of theanimals ran headforemost against trees, and others stumbled over rootsand logs, while some of the riders had their heads knocked nearly offby coming in contact with low branches. But a majority of us, to judgeby the noise we made, arrived with our snorting, panting steeds at thehill-crest; where, in a cleared space, and fortified with felledtrees, upheaved earth, forage carts, and what not, stood theimprovised cabins of the rebels.

Three or four shots greeted us as we emerged from the thick wood. We,being armed with muskets and pistols as well as swords, returned thefire, and spurred our horses on toward the low breastwork, which, asit was not likely to have anything of a trench behind it, we thoughtto overleap either on horse or afoot. But the fire that we met, almostat the very barrier, felled so many of our horses and men, raised sucha hellish chorus of wild neighing, cries of pain and wrath, ferociouscurses and shouts of vengeance, that the men behind reined upuncertain. De Lancey turned upon his horse, waved his sword, andshouted for the laggards to come on. We had only the light of musketryto see by. Tom Faringfield was unhorsed and down; and fearing he mightbe wounded, I leaped to the ground, knelt, and partly raised him. Hewas unharmed, however; and we both got upon our feet, with our swordsout, our discharged muskets slung round upon our backs, our intentbeing to mount over the rebel's rude rampart—for we had got animpression of De Lancey's sword pointed that way while he fiercelycalled upon his troops to disregard the fallen, and each man chargefor himself in any manner possible, ahorse or afoot.

But more and more of the awakened rebels—we could make out only theirdark figures—sprang forward from their huts (mere roofs, 'twerebetter to call these) to the breastwork, each waiting to take carefulaim at our mixed-up mass of men and horses before he fired into it. AsTom and I were extricating ourselves from the mass by scrambling overa groaning man or two, and a shrieking, kicking horse that lay on itsside, De Lancey rode back to enforce his commands upon the men at ourrear, some of whom were firing over our heads. His turning wasmistaken for a movement of retreat, not only by our men, of whom theunhurt promptly made to hasten down the hill, but also by the enemy, afew of whom now leaped from behind their defence to pursue.

Tom and I, not yet sensible of the action of our comrades, werestriding forward to mount the rampart, when this sally of rebelsoccurred. Though it appalled us at the time, coming so unexpectedly,it was the saving of us; for it stopped the fire of the rebelsremaining behind the barrier, lest they should hit their comrades. Aringing voice, more potent than a bugle, now called upon these latterto come back, in a tone showing their movement to have been withoutorders. They speedily obeyed; all save one, a tall, broadfellow—nothing but a great black figure in the night, to oursight—who had rushed with a clubbed musket straight upon Tom and me.A vague sense of it circling through the air, rather than distinctsight of it, told me that his musket-butt was aimed at Tom's head.Instinctively I flung up my sword to ward off the blow; and though ofcourse I could not stop its descent, I so disturbed its direction thatit struck only Tom's shoulder; none the less sending him to the groundwith a groan. With a curse, I swung my sword—a cut-and-thrustblade-of-all-work, so to speak—with some wild idea of slicing off apart of the rebel's head; but my weapon was hacked where it met him,and so it merely made him reel and drop his musket. The darknessfalling the blacker after the glare of the firing, must have cloakedthese doings from the other rebels. Tom rose, and the two of us fellupon our enemy at once, I hissing out the words, "Call for quarter,you dog!"

"Very well," he said faintly, quite docile from having had his sensesknocked out of him by my blow, and not knowing at all what was goingon.

"Come then," said I, and grasped him by an arm, while Tom held him atthe other side; and so the three of us ran after De Lancey and hismen—for the captain had followed in vain attempt to rally them—intothe woods and down the hill. Tom's horse was shot, and mine had fled.

Our prisoner accompanied us with the unquestioning obedience of onewhose wits are for the time upon a vacation. Getting into the currentof retreat, which consisted of mounted men, men on foot, riderlesshorses, and the wrathful captain whose enterprise was now quitehopeless through the enemy's being well warned against a secondattempt, we at last reached the main road.

Here, out of a chaotic huddle, order was formed, and to the men lefthorseless, mounts were given behind other men. Captain De Lanceyassigned a beast to myself and my prisoner. The big rebel clambered upbehind me, with the absent-minded acquiescence he had displayed eversince my stroke had put his wits asleep. As we started dejectedlySouthward, full of bruises, aches, and weariness, there was somequestion whether the rebels would pursue us.

"Not if their officer has an ounce of sense," said Captain De Lancey,"being without horses, as he is. He's scarce like to play the fool bycoming down, as I did in charging up! Well, we've left some wounded tohis care. Who is their commander? Ask your prisoner, LieutenantRussell."

I turned on my saddle and put the query, but my man vouchsafed merelya stupid, "Hey?"

"Shake him back to his senses," said De Lancey, stopping his horse, asI did mine, and Tom his.

But shaking did not suffice.

"This infernal darkness helps to cloud his wits," suggested thecaptain. "Flash a light before his eyes. Here, Tippet, your lantern,please."

I continued shaking the prisoner, while the lantern was brought.Suddenly the man gave a start, looked around into the black night, andinquired in a husky, small voice:

"Who are you? Where are we?"

"We are your captors," said I, "and upon the Hudson River road, boundfor Kingsbridge. And now, sir, who are you?"

But the rays of the lantern, falling that instant upon his face,answered my question for me.

"Cornelius!" I cried.

"What, sir? Why—'tis Mr. Russell!"

"Ay, and here is Tom Faringfield," said I.

"Well, bless my soul!" exclaimed the pedagogue, grasping the hand thatTom held to him out of the darkness.

"Mr. Cornelius, since that is your name," put in De Lancey, to whomtime was precious. "Will you please tell us who commands yonder, wherewe got the reception our folly deserved, awhile ago?"

"Certainly, sir," said Cornelius. "'Tis no harm, I suppose—noviolation of duty or custom?"

"Not in the least," said I.

"Why then, sir," says he, "since yesterday, when we relieved theinfantry there—we are dragoons, sir, though dismounted for thisparticular service—a new independent troop, sir—Winwood's Horse—"

"Winwood's!" cried I.

"Ay, Captain Winwood's—Mr. Philip, you know—'tis he commands ourpost yonder."

"Oh, indeed!" said De Lancey, carelessly. "A relation of mine bymarriage."

But for a time I had nothing to say, thinking how, after these yearsof separation, Philip and I had come so near meeting in the night, andknown it not; and how, but for the turn of things, one of us mighthave given the other his death-blow unwittingly in the darkness.

CHAPTER IX.

Philip's Adventures—Captain Falconer Comes to Town.

Upon the way back to our lines, we were entertained by Mr. Corneliuswith an account of Philip's movements during the past three years. Onepiece of information interested Captain De Lancey: the recent attackupon Van Wrumb's Hessians, which it had been our purpose that night torevenge, was the work of Winwood's troop of horse. Our curiosity uponhearing of Philip as a captain of independent cavalry, who had left usas a lieutenant of New York foot, was satisfied in the course of thepedagogue's narrative. The tutor himself had received promotion upontwo sides: first, to the Presbyterian ministry, his admission theretohaving occurred while he was with the rebel army near Morristown, NewJersey, the last previous Winter but one; second, to the chaplaincy ofWinwood's troop.

"Sure the devil's in it," said I, when he had told me this, "if therebels' praying men are as sanguinary as you showed yourselfto-night—leaping out to pursue your beaten enemy, as you did."

"Why," he replied, self-reproachfully, in his mildest voice, "I find,do what I can, I have at bottom a combative spirit that will rise uponoccasion. I had thought 'twas long since quelled. But I fear no man isalways and altogether his own master. I saw even General Washington,at Monmouth—but no matter for that. Especially of late, I have foundmy demon of wrath—to speak figuratively—too much for me. 'Twas tooviolently roused, maybe, that night your General Grey and his men fellupon us as we slept, yonder across the Hudson, and slaughtered us likesheep in the barn we lay in."

"Why, were you in that too?" I asked, surprised. "I thought that troopwas called Lady Washington's Light Horse."[3]

"Ay, we were then of that troop, Captain Winwood and I. 'Twas for hisconduct in that affair, his valour and skill in saving the remnant ofthe troop, that he was put, t'other day, in command of an independentcompany. I may take some pride in having helped him to this honour;for his work the night General Grey surprised us was done so quietly,and his report made so little of his own share in the business,'twould have gone unrecognised, but for my account of it. Though, tobe sure, General Washington said afterward, in my hearing, that suchbravery and sagacity, coupled with such modesty, were only what hemight expect of Captain Winwood."

Cornelius had shared Philip's fortunes since their departure from NewYork. When Winwood fell wounded in the snow, between the twoblockhouses at the foot of the cliff, that night the rebels met defeatat Quebec, the pedagogue remained to succour him, and so was takenprisoner with him. He afterward helped nurse him in the Frenchreligious house, in the walled "upper town," to which the rebelwounded were conveyed.

Upon the exchange of prisoners, Philip, having suffered a relapse, wasunable to accompany his comrades homeward, and Cornelius stayed tocare for him. There was a Scotchwoman who lived upon a farm a fewmiles West of Quebec, and whose husband was serving on our side as oneof Colonel Maclean's Royal Highlanders. She took Winwood and thepedagogue into her house as guests, trusting them till some uncertaintime in the future might find them able to pay.

When at last Philip dared hazard the journey, the rebel siege ofQuebec, which had continued in a half-hearted manner until Springbrought British reinforcements up the river in ship-loads, had longbeen raised, and the rebels had long since flown. Provided by GovernorCarleton with the passports to which in their situation they wereentitled, the two started for New York, bound by way of the St.Lawrence, the Richelieu, the lakes, and the Hudson. It was now Winter,and only Winwood's impatience to resume service could have temptedthem to such a journey in that season.

They came part way afoot, receiving guidance now from some solitaryfur-capped courier du bois clad in skins and hoofed with snow-shoes,now from some peaceful Indian, now from the cowled brothers of, someforest monastery which gave them a night's shelter also. Portions ofthe journey they made upon sledges driven by poor habitans dwellingin the far-apart villages or solitary farmhouses. At other times theyprofited by boats and canoes, propelled up the St. Lawrence by Frenchpeasants, befringed hunters, or friendly red men. Their entertainmentand housing were sometimes from such people as I have mentioned;sometimes of their own contriving, the woods furnishing game for food,fa*gots for fuel, and boughs for roof and bedding.

They encountered no danger from human foes until they were in theprovince of New York, and, having left the lakes behind them, werefooting it Southward along the now frozen Hudson. The Indians inNorthern New York had been won to our interest, by Sir John Johnson,of Johnson Hall, in the Mohawk Valley, and were more than formerlyinclined to vigilance regarding travellers in those lonely regions.Upon waking suddenly one night when camped in the woods, Philip saw bythe firelight that he was surrounded by a party of silent savages; hissword and pistol, and Cornelius's rifle, being already in theirpossession. The two soldiers were held as prisoners for several days,and made to accompany their captors upon long, mysteriousperegrinations. At last they were brought before Sir John Johnson, atone of his forts; and that gentleman, respecting Governor Carleton'spasses, and the fact that Captain Winwood was related by marriage tothe De Lanceys, sent them with a guide to Albany.

Here they reported to General Schuyler; and Philip, having learned bythe experience of his journey that his wound left him incapacitatedfor arduous service afoot, desired an arrangement by which he mightjoin the cavalry branch of the army. Mr. Schuyler was pleased to putthe matter through for him, and to send him to Morristown, New Jersey,(where the rebel main force was then in Winter quarters) with acommendatory letter to General Washington. Cornelius, whose time ofservice had expired, was free to accompany him.

Philip, being enrolled, without loss of nominal rank, in LadyWashington's Light Horse, which Cornelius entered as a trooper, had nowthe happiness of serving near the person of the commander-in-chief. Hewas wounded again at the Brandywine, upon which occasion Corneliusbore him off the field without their being captured. During the Winterat Valley Forge, and at the battle of Monmouth, and in the recentpartisan warfare on both sides of the Hudson, their experiences werethose of Washington's army as a whole, of which there are historiesenough extant: until their troop was cut to pieces by Earl Grey, andCaptain Winwood was advanced to an independent command. This was but arecent event.

"And did he never think of us in New York," said Tom, "that he sent usno word in all this time?"

"Sure, you must thank your British occupation of New York, if youreceived none of our messages. General Washington allowed them topass."

"Ay, 'tis not easy for rebels to communicate with their friends in NewYork," quoth I, "despite the traffic of goods between the Whig countryfolk and some of our people, that Captain De Lancey knows about."

"Tut, man!" said De Lancey. "Some things must be winked at; we needtheir farm stuff as much as they want our tea and such. Butcorrespondence from rebels must go to headquarters—where 'tis like tostop, when it's for a family whose head is of Mr. Faringfield's way ofthinking."

"Well," said Mr. Cornelius, "Captain Winwood and I have discussed morethan one plan by which he might perchance get sight of his people fora minute or so. He has hoped he might be sent into New York under aflag of truce, upon some negotiation or other, and might obtainpermission from your general to see his wife while there; but he hasalways been required otherwise when messengers were to be sent. He haseven thought of offering to enter the town clandestinely—"

"Hush!" I interrupted. "You are indiscreet. We are soldiers of theking, remember. But, to be sure, 'tis nonsense; Phil would not be sucha fool as to risk hanging."

"Oh, to be sure; nonsense, indeed!" Cornelius stammered, much upset atthe imprudence due to his thoughtlessness. "And yet," he resumedpresently, "never did a man more crave a sight of those he leftbehind. He would barter a year of his life, I think, for a minute'sspeech with his wife. He talks of her by the hour, when he and I arealone together. There was some coolness, you will remember, beforetheir parting; but 'twas not on his side, and his lady seemed to havedropped it when he was taking leave of her; and three years of absencehave gone since then. So I am sure she has softened quite, and thatshe desires his return as much as he longs for her presence. Andthough he knows all this must be so, he keeps me ever reassuring andpersuading him it is. Ah, sir, if ever there was a man in love withhis wife!"

I made no reply. I had previously informed him of her good health, inanswer to a question whose eagerness came of his friendship forPhilip. I asked myself whether his unsuspecting mind was like toperceive aught that would pain him for Philip's sake, in herabandonment to the gaieties of the town, to the attentions of theking's officers, to the business of making herself twice as charmingas the pedagogue had ever seen her.

We got it arranged that our prisoner should be put on parole andquartered at Mr. Faringfield's house, where his welcome was indeed aglad one. When Margaret heard of his presence in the town, she gave amomentary start (it seemed to me a start of self-accusation) and paleda little; but she composed herself, and asked in a sweet and gracious(not an eager) tone:

"And Philip?"

I told her all I had learned from Cornelius, to which she listenedwith a kindly heedfulness, only sometimes pressing her white teethupon her lower lip, and other times dropping her lustrous eyes from mypurposely steady, and perhaps reproachful, gaze.

"So then," said she, as if to be gay at the expense of her husband'slong absence, "now that three years and more have brought him so nearus, maybe another three years or so will bring him back to us!" 'Twasaffected gaiety, one could easily see. Her real feeling must have beenof annoyance that any news of her husband should be obtruded upon her.She had entered into a way of life that involved forgetfulness of him,and for which she must reproach herself whenever she thought of him,but which was too pleasant for her to abandon. But she had the virtueto be ashamed that reminders of his existence were unwelcome, andconsequently to pretend that she took them amiably; and yet she hadnot the hypocrisy to pretend the eager solicitude which a devoted wifewould evince upon receiving news of her long-absent soldier-husband.Such hypocrisy, indeed, would have appeared ridiculous in a wife whohad scarce mentioned her husband's name, and then only when othersspoke of him, in three years. Yet her very self-reproach fordisregarding him—did it not show that, under all the feelings thatheld her to a life of gay coquetry, lay her love for Philip, not dead,nor always sleeping?

When Cornelius came to the house to live, she met him with a warmclasp of the hand, and with a smile of so much radiance and sweetness,that for a time he must have been proud of her on Phil's behalf; andso dazzled that he could not yet see those things for which, on thesame behalf, he must needs be sorrowful.

Knowing now exactly where Philip was, we were able to send him speedynews of Cornelius's safety, and of the good health and good wishes ofus all; and we got in reply a message full of thanks and ofaffectionate solicitude. The transfer of his troop to New Jersey soonremoved the possibility of my meeting him.

In the following Summer (that of 1779), as I afterward learned,Captain Winwood and some of his men accompanied Major Lee's famousdragoons (dismounted for the occasion) to the nocturnal surprise andcapture of our post at Paulus Hook, in New Jersey, opposite New York.But he found no way of getting into the town to see us. And so I bringhim to the Winter of 1779, when the main rebel camp was again atMorristown, and Philip stationed near Washington's headquarters. Butmeanwhile, in New York, in the previous Autumn some additional Britishtroops had arrived from England; and one of these was CaptainFalconer.

There was a ball one night at Captain Morris's country-house someeight or ten miles North of the town, which the rebel authorities hadalready declared confiscate, if I remember aright, but which, as itwas upon the island of Manhattan and within our lines, yet remained inactual possession of the rightful owner. Here Washington (said to havebeen an unsuccessful suitor to Mrs. Morris when she was Miss Philipse)had quartered ere the British chased the rebels from the island ofManhattan; and here now were officers of our own in residence. 'Twas afine, white house, distinguished by the noble columns of its Grecianfront; from its height it overlooked the Hudson, the Harlem, the EastRiver, the Sound, and miles upon miles of undulating land on everyside.[4]

On this night the lights showed welcome from its many windows, opendoors, and balconies, and from the coloured paper lanterns festoonedupon its façade and strung aloft over its splendid lawn and gardens.The house still stands, I hear, and is known as the Jumel Mansion,from the widow who lives there. But I'll warrant it presents no moresuch scenes as it offered that night, when the wealth and beauty ofNew York, the chivalry of the king's army, arrived at its broadpillared entrance by horse and by coach in a constant procession. Inthe great hall, and the adjacent rooms, the rays of countless candlesfell upon brilliant uniforms, upon silk and velvet and brocade andbroadcloth, upon powdered hair, and fans and furbelows, upon whitenecks and bosoms, and dazzling eyes, upon jewels and golden bucklesand shining sword-hilts.

We that entered from the Faringfield coach were Mrs. Faringfield andmy mother, Margaret and Fanny, Tom and myself. We had just receivedthe greeting of our handsome hostess, and were passing up the hall,when my eyes alighted upon the figure of an officer who stood alone,in an attitude of pensive negligence, beside the mantelpiece. He wasfully six feet tall, but possessed a carriage of grace and elegance,instead of the rigid erectness of so many of his comrades. He had aslender, finely cut, English face, a long but delicate chin, gray eyesof a beautiful clearness, slightly wavy hair that was now powdered,and the hands and legs of a gentleman.

"What a handsome fellow! Who is he?" whispered Margaret to Fanny.

I glanced at her. Her eyes showed admiration—an expression I hadnever before seen in them. I looked back at the officer. He in turnhad seen her. His face, from having worn a look half melancholy, halflanguid, had speedily become animated with interest. 'Twas as if eachof these two superb creatures had unexpectedly fallen upon somethingthey had scarce hoped to find in their present environment.

"A mighty pretty gentleman, indeed," said my mother.

"Nay," said Margaret, with a swift relapse into indifference, "no suchAdonis neither, on second view."

But I saw that she turned the corner of her eye upon him at intervalsas she moved forward, and that she was not sorry or annoyed to findthat he kept his gaze boldly upon her all the while. Presently helooked about him, and singled out an acquaintance, to whom he made hisway. Five minutes later he was being introduced, as Captain Falconer,to Mrs. Winwood.

"'Faith," said he, in a courteous, subdued voice, after bowing verylow, "I did not think to find a lady so recently from St. James', inthis place. One might swear, looking at you, madam, that this wasAlmack's."

"Sir, you speak to one that never saw St. James' but in imagination,"said Margaret, coolly. "Sure one can be white, and moderately civil,and yet be of New York."

"The deuce, madam! A native? You?"

"Ay, sir, of the aborigines; the daughter of a red Indian!"

"'Fore God, then, 'tis no wonder the American colonists make war uponthe Indian race. Their wives and daughters urge 'em to it, out ofjealousy of the red men's daughters."

"Why, if they wished the red ladies exterminated, they couldn't dobetter than send a number of king's officers among 'em—famouslady-killers, I've heard."

"Madam, I know naught of that; nor of the art of lady-killing itself,which I never desired to possess until this evening."

The captain's eyes, so languid with melancholy or ennui a short whilebefore, now had the glow of pre-determined conquest; his face shonewith that resolve; and by this transformation, as well as by theinconsistency of his countenance with the soft tone and playful matterof his words, which inconsistency betrayed the gentleness to beassumed, I read the man through once for all: selfish, resolute,facile, versatile, able to act any part thoroughly and in a moment,constant to his object till it was won, then quick to leave it foranother; unscrupulous, usually invincible, confident of his provenpowers rather than vain of fancied ones; good-natured when notcrossed, and with an irresistible charm of person and manner. AndMargaret too—there was more and other meaning in her looks than inher light, ironical speeches.

He led her through two minuets that night, and was her partner in theVirginia reel (the name the Americans give the Sir Roger de Coverly);and his was the last face we saw at our coach window as we startedhomeward.

"You've made the rest of the army quite jealous of this new captain,"growled Tom, as we rolled Southward over the stony Harlem road. "Theway Major Tarleton glared at him, would have set another mantrembling."

"Captain Falconer doesn't tremble so easily, I fancy," said Margaret."And yet he's no marvel of a man, as I can see."

Tom gave a sarcastic grunt. His manifestations regarding Margaret'sbehaviour were the only exception to the kind, cheerful conduct of hiswhole life. A younger brother is not ordinarily so watchful of asister's demeanour; he has the doings of other young ladies to concernhimself with. Tom did not lack these, but he was none the less keenlysensitive upon the point of Margaret's propriety and good name. 'Twasthe extraordinary love and pride he had centred upon her, that madehim so observant and so touchy in the case. He brooded upon heractions, worried himself with conjectures, underwent such torments asjealous lovers know, such pangs as Hamlet felt in his uncertaintyregarding the integrity of his mother.

Within a week after the Morris ball, it came to pass that CaptainFalconer was quartered, by regular orders, in the house of Mr.Faringfield. Tom and I, though we only looked our thoughts, saw morethan accident in this. The officer occupied the large parlour, whichhe divided by curtains into two apartments, sitting-room andsleeping-chamber. By his courtesy and vivacity, he speedily won theregard of the family, even of Mr. Faringfield and the Rev. Mr.Cornelius.

"Damn the fellow!" said Tom to me. "I can't help liking him."

"Nor I, either," was my reply; but I also damned him in my turn.

CHAPTER X.

A Fine Project.

Were it my own history that I am here undertaking, I should give atthis place an account of my first duel, which was fought with swords,in Bayard's Woods, my opponent being an English lieutenant of foot,from whom I had suffered a display of that superciliousness which ourprovincial troops had so resented in the British regulars in the oldFrench War. By good luck I disarmed the man without our receiving morethan a small scratch apiece; and subsequently brought him to thehumbleness of a fawning spaniel, by a mien and tone of half-threateningsuperiority which never fail of reducing such high-talking sparks toabject meekness. 'Twas a trick of pretended bullying, which welong-suffering Americans were driven to adopt in self-defence againstcertain derisive, contemptuous praters that came to our shores fromEurope. But 'tis more to my purpose, as the biographer of PhilipWinwood, to continue upon the subject of Captain Falconer.

He was the mirror of elegance, with none of the exaggerations of afop. He brought with him to the Queen Street house the atmosphere ofBond Street and Pall Mall, the perfume of Almack's and the assemblyrooms, the air of White's and the clubs, the odour of the chocolatehouses and the fashionable taverns. 'Twas all that he represented, Ifancy, rather than what the man himself was, and conquering as he was,that caught Margaret's eye. He typified the world before which she hadhoped to shine, and from which she had been debarred—cruellydebarred, it may have seemed to her. I did not see this then; 'twasanother, one of a broader way of viewing things, one of a less partialimagination—'twas Philip Winwood—that found this excuse for her.

Captain Falconer had the perception soon to gauge correctly us whowere of American rearing, and the tact to cast aside the lofty mannerby which so many of his stupid comrades estranged us. He treated Tomand me with an easy but always courteous familiarity that surprised,flattered, and won us. He would play cards with us, in hissitting-room, as if rather for the sake of our company than for thepleasure of the game. Indeed, as he often frankly confessed, gamblingwas no passion with him; and this was remarkable at a time when 'twasthe only passion most fine young gentlemen would acknowledge asgenuine in them, and when those who did not feel that passion affectedit. We admired this fine disdain on his part for the commonfashionable occupation of the age (for the pursuit of women waspretended to be followed as a necessary pastime, but without much realheart) as evidence of a superior mind. Yet he played with us, losingat first, but eventually winning until I had to withdraw. Tom, havingmore money to lose, held out longer.

"Why now," said the captain once, regarding his winnings with a faceof perfect ruefulness, "'tis proven that what we seek eludes us, andwhat we don't value comes to us! Here am I, the last man in the worldto court success this way, and here am I more winner than if I hadplayed with care and attention."

Tom once mentioned, to another officer, Captain Falconer's luck atcards as an instance of fortune befriending one who despised herfavours in that way.

"Blood, sir!" exclaimed the officer. "Jack Falconer may have a mindand taste above gaming as a pleasure, for aught I know. But I would Ihad his skill with the cards. 'Tis no pastime with him, but alivelihood. Don't you know the man is as poor as a church-mouse, butfor what he gets upon the green table?"

This revelation a little dampened our esteem for the captain'selevation of intellect, but I'll take my oath of it, he was reallyabove gaming as a way of entertaining his mind, however he resorted toit as a means of filling his purse.

Of course Tom's friendly association with him was before there wassure cause to suspect his intentions regarding Margaret. His mannertoward her was the model of proper civility. He was a hundred timesmore amiable and jocular with Fanny, whom he treated with thehalf-familiar pleasantry of an elderly man for a child; petting herwith such delicacy as precluded displeasure on either her part ormine. He pretended great dejection upon learning that her heart wasalready engaged; and declared that his only consolation lay in thefact that the happy possessor of the prize was myself: for which weboth liked him exceedingly. Toward Mrs. Faringfield, too, he used achivalrous gallantry as complimentary to her husband as to the lady.Only between him and Margaret was there the distance of unvariedformality.

And yet we ought to have seen how matters stood. For now Margaret,though she had so little apparent cordiality for the captain, hadceased to value the admiration of the other officers, and hadsubstituted a serene indifference for the animated interest she hadformerly shown toward the gaieties of the town. And the captain, too,we learned, had the reputation of an inveterate conqueror of women;yet he had exhibited a singular callousness to the charms of theladies of New York. He had been three months in the town, and his namehad not been coupled with that of any woman there. We might havesurmised from this a concealed preoccupation. And, moreover, there wasmy first reading of his countenance, the night of the Morris ball;this I had not forgotten, yet I ignored it, or else I shut my eyes tomy inevitable inferences, because I could see no propriety in anypossible interference from me.

One evening in December there was a drum at Colonel Philipse's townhouse, which Margaret did not attend. She had mentioned, as reason forabsenting herself, a cold caught a few nights previously, through herbare throat being exposed to a chill wind by the accidental falling ofher cloak as she walked to the coach after Mrs. Colden's rout. As theevening progressed toward hilarity, I observed that Tom Faringfieldbecame restless and gloomy. At last he approached me, with a facestrangely white, and whispered:

"Do you see?—Captain Falconer is not here!"

"Well, what of that?" quoth I. "Ten to one, he finds these companiesplaguey tiresome."

"Or finds other company more agreeable," replied Tom, with a very darklook in his eyes.

He left me, with no more words upon the subject. When it was time togo home, and Mrs. Faringfield and Fanny and I sought about the roomsfor him, we found he had already taken his leave. So we three had thechariot to ourselves, and as we rode I kept my own thoughts upon Tom'sprevious departure, and my own vague dread of what might happen.

But when Noah let us in, all seemed well in the Faringfield house.Margaret was in the parlour, reading; and she laid down her book toask us pleasantly what kind of an evening we had had. She was the onlyone of the family up to receive us, Mr. Faringfield having retiredhours ago, and Tom having come in and gone to bed without anexplanation. The absence of light in Captain Falconer's windowssignified that he too had sought his couch, for had he been still out,his servant would have kept candles lighted for him.

The next day, as we rode out Northward to our posts, Tom suddenlybroke the silence:

"Curse it!" said he. "There are more mysteries than one. Do you knowwhat I found when I got home last night?"

"I can't imagine."

"Well, I first looked into the parlour, but no one was there. Insteadof going on to the library, I went up-stairs and knocked at Margaret'sdoor. I—I wanted to see her a moment. It happened to be unlatched,and as I knocked rather hard, it swung open. No one was in that room,either, but I thought she might be in the bedchamber beyond, and so Icrossed to knock at that. But I chanced to look at her writing-tableas I passed; there was a candle burning on it, and devil take me if Ididn't see a letter in a big schoolboy's hand that I couldn't helpknowing at a glance—the hand of my brother Ned!"

"Then I'll engage the letter wasn't to Margaret. You know how muchlove is lost between those two."

"But it was to her, though! 'Dear M.,' it began—there's no one elsewhose name begins with M in the family. And the writing was fresh—notthe least faded. I saw that much before I thought of what I was doing.But when I remembered 'twasn't my letter, I looked no more."

"But how could he send a letter from the rebel camp to her in NewYork?"[5]

"Why, that's not the strangest part of it. There's no doubt Washingtonhas spies in the town, and ways of communicating with the rebelsympathisers here; I've sometimes thought my father—but no matter forthat. The fact is, there the letter was, as certainly from Ned as I'mlooking at you; and we know he's in the rebel army. But the wonder,the incredible thing, is that he should write to Margaret."

"'Tis a mystery, in truth."

"Well, 'tis none of ours, after all, and of course this will go nofurther—but let me tell you, the devil's in it when those two are incorrespondence. There's crookedness of some kind afoot, when suchhaters combine together!"

"You didn't ask her, of course?"

"No. But I knocked at her chamber door, and getting no answer I wentdown-stairs again. This time she was in the parlour. She had been inthe library before, it seemed; 'twas warmer there."

But, as I narrowly watched the poor lad, I questioned whether he wasreally convinced that she had been in the library before. He had saidnothing of Captain Falconer's sitting-room, of which the door was thatof the transformed large parlour, and was directly across the hallfrom the Faringfields' ordinary parlour, wherein Tom had first soughtand eventually found her.

'Twas our practice thus to ride back to our posts when we had been offduty, although our rank did not allow us to go mounted in the service.For despite the needs of the army, the Faringfields and I contrived toretain our horses for private use. All of that family were goodriders, particularly Margaret. She often rode out for a morning'scanter, going alone because it was her will thereto, which was notopposed, for she had so accustomed us to her aloofness that solitaryexcursions seemed in place with her. One day, a little later in thatsame December, Tom and I had taken the road by way of General DeLancey's country mansion at Bloomingdale, rather than our usualcourse, which lay past the Murray house of Incledon. As I rodeNorthward at a slow walk, some distance ahead of my comrade, Idistinctly heard through a thicket that veiled the road from a littleglade at the right, the voice of Captain Falconer, saying playfully:

"Nay, how can you doubt me? Would not gratitude alone, for thereparation of my fortunes, bind me as your slave, if you had notchains more powerful?"

And then I caught this answer, in a voice that gave me a start, andsent the blood into my face—the voice of Margaret:

"But will those chains hold, if this design upon your gratitude fail?"

She spoke as in jest, but with a perceptible undercurrent ofearnestness. This was a new attitude for her, and what a revelation tome! In a flash I saw her infatuation for this fine fellow, some fearof losing him, a pursuit of some plan by which she might repair hisfortunes and so bind him by obligation. Had Margaret, the invincible,the disdainful, fallen to so abject a posture? And how long had thesesecret meetings been going on?

There was new-fallen snow upon the road, and this had deadened thesound of our horses' feet to those beyond the thicket. Tom was not yetso near as to have heard their voices. I saw the desirability of hisremaining in ignorance for the present, so I uttered a loud "chuck,"and gave a pull at my reins, as if urging my horse to a better gait,my purpose being to warn the speakers of unseen passers-by ere Tomshould come up. I had not let my horse come to a stop, nor had Iotherwise betrayed my discovery.

But, to my dread, I presently heard Tom cry sharply, "Whoa!" and,looking back, saw he had halted at the place where I had heard thevoices. My warning must have failed to hush the speakers. Never shallI forget the look of startled horror, shame, and anger upon his face.For a moment he sat motionless; then he turned his horse back to anopening in the thicket, and rode into the glade. I galloped after him,to prevent, if possible, some fearful scene.

When I entered the glade, I saw Margaret and Captain Falconer seatedupon their horses, looking with still fresh astonishment anddiscomfiture upon the intruder. Their faces were toward me. Tom hadstopped his horse, and he sat regarding them with what expression Icould not see, being behind him. Apparently no one of the three hadyet spoken.

Tom glanced at me as I joined the group, and then, in a singularlyrestrained voice, he said:

"Captain Falconer, may I beg leave to be alone with my sister a fewmoments? I have something to ask her. If you would ride a little wayoff, with Mr. Russell—"

'Twas, after all, a most natural request. A brother may wish to speakto his sister in private, and 'tis more fitting to put a gentlemanthan a lady to the trouble of an absence. Seeing it thus, and speakingwith recovered composure as if nothing were wrong, the captaincourteously replied:

"Most certainly. Mr. Russell, after you, sir—nay, no precedence torank, while we are simply private gentlemen."

He bowed low to Margaret, and we two rode out to the highway, there topace our horses up and down within call. Of what passed betweenbrother and sister, I afterward received a close account.

"I must have a straight answer," Tom began, "for I must not be put tothe folly of acting without cause. Tell me, then, upon your honour,has there been reason between you and Captain Falconer for me to fighthim? The truth, now! Of course, I shall find another pretext. It looksa thousand to one, there's reason; but I must be sure."

"Why, I think you have lost your wits, Tom," said she. "If a gentlemanknown to the family happens to meet me when I ride out, and we chanceto talk—"

"Ay, but in such a private place, and in such familiar tones, when youscarce ever converse together at home, and then in the most formalway! Oh, sister, that it should come to this!"

"I say, you're a fool, Tom! And a spy too—dogging my footsteps! Whatright have you to call me to account?"

"As your brother, of course."

"My younger brother you are; and too young to understand all you see,for one thing, or to hold me responsible to you for my actions, foranother."

"I understand when your honour calls for my actions, however! Yourvery anger betrays you. I will kill Falconer!"

"You'll do nothing of the kind!"

"You shall see! I know a brother's duties—his rights, by heaven!"

"A brother has no duties nor rights, concerning a sister who ismarried."

"Then, if not as your brother, I have as your husband's friend. For,by God, I am Phil's friend, to the death; and while he's not here tosee what's passing, I dare act on his behalf. If I may not have a careof my sister's honour, I may of Philip Winwood's! And now I'll go toyour captain!"

"But wait—stay, Tom—a moment, for God's sake! You're mistaken, Itell you. There's naught against Philip Winwood's honour in my meetingCaptain Falconer. We have conferences, I grant. But 'tis upon a matteryou know nothing of—a matter of the war."

"What nonsense! To think I should believe that! What affair of the warcould you have to do with? It makes me laugh!"

"I vow there's an affair I have to do with. What do you know of mysecrets, my planning and plotting? 'Tis an affair for the royal cause,I'll tell you that much. Nay, I'll tell you all; you won't dare betrayit—you'd be a traitor to the king if you did. You shall be let intoit, you and Bert. Call back Captain Falconer and him."

Puzzled and incredulous, but glad to test any assertion that mightclear his sister of the suspicion most odious, Tom hallooed for us.When we re-entered the glade, Margaret spoke ere any one else had timefor a word:

"Captain Falconer, I think you'll allow me the right to admit thesegentlemen into the secret of our interviews. They are both loyal, bothso dear to me that I'd gladly have them take a part in the honour ofour project—of which, heaven knows, there'll be enough and to spareif we succeed."

"Madam," said he, "its chance of success will be all the greater, forthe participation of these gentlemen."

"Well?" said Tom, looking inquiringly at his sister.

"You promise your aid, then, both?" she asked.

"Let us hear it first," he replied.

She obtained our assurances of secrecy in any event, and proceeded:

"Everybody knows what this rebellion costs England, in money, men, andcommerce; not to speak of the king's peace of mind, and the feelingsof the nation. Everybody sees it must last well-nigh for ever, if itdoesn't even win in the end! Well, then, think what it would mean forEngland, for the king, for America, if the war could be cut short by asingle blow, with no cost; cut short by one night's courage, daring,and skill, on the part of a handful of men!"

Tom and I smiled as at one who dreams golden impossibilities.

"Laugh if you will," said she; "but tell me this: what is the soul ofthe rebellion? What is the one vital part its life depends on? Thedifferent rebel provinces hate and mistrust one another—what holds'em together? The rebel Congress quarrels and plots, and issues moneythat isn't worth the dirty paper it's printed on; disturbs its army,and does no good to any one—what keeps the rebellion afoot in spiteof it? The rebel army complains, and goes hungry and half-naked, andis full of mutiny and desertion—what still controls it from meltingaway entirely? What carries it through such Winters as the rebels hadat Valley Forge, when the Congress, the army, and the people were allat sixes and sevens and swords' points? What raises money the Lordknows how, finds supplies the Lord knows where, induces men to stay inthe field, by the Lord knows what means, and has got such renown theworld over that now France is the rebels' ally? I make you stare,boys; you're not used to seeing me play the orator. I never didbefore, and I sha'n't again, for heaven forbid I should be a woman ofthat kind! But I've studied this matter, and I hope I have a few ideasupon it."

"But what has done all these things you mention? May I ask that?" saidI, both amused and curious.

"Washington!" was her reply. "Remove him, and this rebellion willburst like a soap-bubble! And that's the last of my speechmaking. Ourproject is to remove Washington—nay, there's no assassination in it.We'll do better—capture him and send him to England. Once he is inthe Tower awaiting trial, how long do you think the rebellion willlast? And what rewards do you think there'll be for those that senthim there?"

"Why," said Tom, "is that a new project? Hasn't the British army beentrying to wipe out Washington's army and take him prisoner these fouryears?"

"But not in the way that we have planned it," replied Margaret, "andthat Captain Falconer shall execute it. Tell them, captain."

"'Tis very simple, gentlemen," said the English officer. "If thehonour of the execution is to be mine, and the men's whom I shalllead, the honour of the design, and of securing the necessarycollusion in the rebel camp, is Mrs. Winwood's. My part hitherto hasbeen, with Sir Henry Clinton's approval, to make up a chosen body ofmen from all branches of the army; and my part finally shall be tolead this select troop on horseback one dark night, by a deviousroute, to that part of the rebel lines nearest Washington's quarters;then, with the coöperation that this lady has obtained among therebels, to make a swift dash upon those quarters, seize Washingtonwhile our presence is scarce yet known, and carry him back to New Yorkby outriding all pursuit. Boats will be waiting to bring us across theriver. I allow such projects have been tried before, but they havebeen defeated through rebel sentries giving the alarm in time. Theylacked one advantage we possess—collusion in the rebel camp—"

"And 'twas you obtained that collusion?" Tom broke in, turning toMargaret. "Hang me if I see how you in New York—oh, but I do, though!Through brother Ned!"

"You're a marvel at a guess," quoth she.

"Ay, ay! But how did you carry on your correspondence with him? 'Twashe, then, originated this scheme?"

"Oh, no; 'twas no such thing! The credit is all mine, if you please. Imake no doubt, he would have originated it, if he had thought of it.But a sister's wits are sometimes as good as a brother's—rememberthat, Tom. For I had the wit not only to devise this project, but toknow from the first that Ned's reason for joining the rebels was, thathe might profit by betraying them."

"Ay, we might have known as much, Bert," said Tom. "But we give youall credit for beating us there, sister."

"Thank you! But the rascal never saw the way to his ends, I fancy; forhe's still in good repute in the rebel army. And when I began to thinkof a way to gain—to gain the honour of aiding the king's cause, youknow, I saw at once that Ned might help me. Much as we disliked eachother, he would work with me in this, for the money 'twould bring him.And I had 'lighted upon something else, too—quite by chance. Acertain old person I know of has been serving to carry news from aparticular Whig of my acquaintance (and neither of 'em must ever cometo harm, Captain Falconer has sworn) to General Washington." (As wasafterward made sure, 'twas old Bill Meadows, who carried secret wordand money from Mr. Faringfield and other friends of the rebellion.)"This old person is very much my friend, and will keep my secrets aswell as those of other people. So each time he has gone to the rebelcamp, of late—and how he gets there and back into New York uncaught,heaven only knows—he has carried a message to brother Ned; andbrought back a reply. Thus while he knowingly serves the rebel cause,he ignorantly serves ours too, for he has no notion of what my brotherand I correspond about. And so 'tis all arranged. Through Ned we havelearned that the rebel light horse troop under Harry Lee has gone offupon some long business or other, and, as far as the army knows, mayreturn to the camp at any time. All that our company under CaptainFalconer has to do, then, is to ride upon a dark night to a placeoutside the rebel pickets, where Ned will meet them. How Ned shallcome there unsuspected, is his own affair—he swears 'tis easy. Hewill place himself at the head of our troop, and knowing the rebelpasswords for the night, as well as how to speak like one of MajorLee's officers, he can lead our men past the sentries without alarm.Our troop will have on the blue greatcoats and the caps the rebelcavalry wear—General Grey's men took a number of these last year, andnow they come into use. And besides our having all these means ofpassing the rebel lines without hindrance, Ned has won over a numberof the rebels themselves, by promising 'em a share of the great rewardthe parliament is sure to vote for this business. He has secured someof the men about headquarters to our interest."

"What a traitor!" quoth Tom, in a tone of disgust.

"Why, sure, we can make use of his treason, without being proud of himas one of the family," said Margaret. "The matter now is, that CaptainFalconer offers you two gentlemen places in the troop he has chosen."

"The offer comes a little late, sir," said Tom, turning to thecaptain.

"Why, sir," replied Falconer, "I protest I often thought of you two.But the risk, gentlemen, and your youth, and my dislike of imperillingmy friends—however, take it as you will, I now see I had done betterto enlist you at the first. The point is, to enlist you now. You shallhave your commander's permission; General Clinton gives me my choiceof men. 'Twill be a very small company, gentlemen; the need of silenceand dash requires that. And you two shall come in for honour and pay,next to myself—that I engage. 'Twill make rich men of us three, atleast, and of your brother, sir; while this lady will find herself theworld's talk, the heroine of the age, the saviour of America, theglory of England. I can see her hailed in London for this, if itsucceed; praised by princes, toasted by noblemen, envied by the ladiesof fashion and the Court, huzza'd by the people in the streets andparks when she rides out—"

"Nay, captain, you see too far ahead," she interrupted, seeming ill atease that these things should be said before Tom and me.

"A strange role, sure, for Captain Winwood's wife," said Tom; "that ofplotter against his commander."

"Nay," she cried, quickly, "Captain Winwood plays a strange rôle forMargaret Faringfield's husband—that of rebel against her king. Forlook ye, I had a king before he had a commander. Isn't that what youmight call logic, Tom?"

"'Tis an unanswerable answer, at least," said Captain Falconer,smiling gallantly. "But come, gentlemen, shall we have your aid inthis fine adventure?"

It was a fine adventure, and that was the truth. The underhand work,the plotting and the treason involved, were none of ours. 'Twasagainst Philip Winwood's cause, but our cause was as much to us as hiswas to him. The prospect of pay and honour did not much allure us; butthe vision of that silent night ride, that perilous entrance into theenemy's camp, that swift dash for the person of our greatest foe, thatgallop homeward with a roused rebel cavalry, desperate withconsternation, at our heels, quite supplanted all feelings of slightin not having been invited earlier. Such an enterprise, for youngfellows like us, there was no staying out of.

We gave Captain Falconer our hands upon it, whereupon he told us hewould be at the pains to secure our relief from regular duty on thenight set for the adventure—that of the following Wednesday—anddirected us to be ready with our horses at the ferry at six o'clockWednesday evening. The rebel cavalry caps and overcoats were to betaken to the New Jersey side previously, and there put on, thisarrangement serving as precaution against our disguise being seenwithin our lines by some possible rebel spy who might thereuponsuspect our purpose and find means of preceding us to the enemy'scamp.

Tom and I saw the English captain and Margaret take the road towardthe town, whereupon we resumed our ride Northward. I could note thelad's relief at being able to account for his sister's secret meetingwith Falconer by a reason other than he had feared.

"By George, though," he broke out presently, "'tis plaguey strangeMargaret should grow so active in loyalty! I never knew her zeal to bevery great for any cause of a public nature. 'Tisn't like her; rabbitme if it is!"

"Why," quoth I, "maybe it's for her own purposes, after all—thereward and the glory. You know the pleasure she takes in shining."

"Egad, that's true enough!" And Tom's face cleared again.

Alas, I knew better! Besides the motive I had mentioned, there hadbeen another to stimulate her wits and industry—the one her words,overheard by me alone, had betrayed too surely—the desire ofenriching and advancing Captain Falconer. Well, she was not the firstwoman, nor has been the last, scheming to pour wealth and honour intoa man's lap, partly out of the mere joy of pleasing him, partly inhope of binding him by gratitude, partly to make him seem in theworld's eyes the worthier her devotion, and so to lessen her demeritif that devotion be unlawful.

"Poor Philip!" thought I. "Poor Philip! And what will be the end ofthis?"

CHAPTER XI.

Winwood Comes to See His Wife.

'T were scarce possible to exaggerate the eagerness with whichMargaret looked forward to the execution of the great project. Heranticipations, in the intensity and entirety with which they possessedher, equalled those with which she had formerly awaited the trip toEngland. She was now as oblivious of the festivities arising from thearmy's presence, as she had been of the town's tame pleasures on theformer occasion. She showed, to us who had the key to her mind, adeeper abstraction, a more anxious impatience, a keener foretaste (inimagination) of the triumphs our success would bring her. Herfavourable expectations, of course, seesawed with fears of failure;and sometimes there was preserved a balance that afflicted her with amost irritating uncertainty, revealed by petulant looks and tones. Butby force of will, 'twas mainly in the hope of success that she passedthe few days between our meeting in the glade and the appointedWednesday evening.

"Tut, sister," warned Tom, with kind intention, "don't raise yourselfso high with hope, or you may fall as far with disappointment."

"Never fear, Tom; we can't fail."

"It looks all clear and easy, I allow," said he; "but there's many aslip, remember!"

"Not two such great slips to the same person," she replied. "I had myshare of disappointment, when I couldn't go to London. This war, andmy stars, owe me a good turn, dear."

But when, at dusk on Wednesday evening, Tom and I took leave of her inthe hall, she was trembling like a person with a chill. Her eyesglowed upon us beseechingly, as if she implored our Herculeanendeavours in the attempt now to be made.

We had to speak softly to one another, lest Mr. Faringfield might hearand infer some particular enterprise—for we were not to hazard theslightest adverse chance. Captain Falconer had been away from hisquarters all day, about the business of the night, and would notreturn till after its accomplishment. Thus we two were the last to beseen of her, of those bound to the adventure; and so to us werevisible the feelings with which she regarded the setting forth of ourwhole company upon the project she had designed, for which she hadlaboriously laid preparations even in the enemy's camp, and from whichshe looked for a splendid future. Were it realised, she might defy Mr.Faringfield and Philip: they would be nobodies, in comparison withher: heroines belong to the whole world, and may have their choice ofthe world's rewards: they may go where they please, love whom theyplease, and no father nor husband may say them nay. Though I could notbut be sad, for Philip's sake, at thought of what effect our successmight have upon her, yet for the moment I seemed to view matters fromher side, with her nature, and for that moment I felt that todisappoint her hopes would be a pity.

As for myself (and Tom was like me) my cause and duty, not Margaret'sprivate ambitions, bade me strive my utmost in the business; and myyouthful love of danger sent me forth with a most exquisite thrill, asinto the riskiest, most exhilarating game a man can play. So I tootrembled a little, but with an uplifting, strong-nerved excitement fardifferent from the anxious tremor of suspense that tortured Margaret.

"For pity's sake, don't fail, boys!" she said, as if all rested uponus two. "Think of me waiting at home for the news! Heaven, how slowthe hours will pass! I sha'n't have a moment's rest of mind or bodytill I know!"

"You shall know as soon as we can get back to New York," said I.

"Ay—if we are able to come back," added Tom, with a queer smile.

She turned whiter, and new thoughts seemed to sweep into her mind. Butshe drove them back.

"Hush, Tom, we mustn't think of that!" she whispered. "No, no, itcan't come to that! But I shall be a thousand times the more anxious!Good night!—that's all I shall say—good night and a speedy and safereturn!"

She caught her brother's head between her hands, bestowed a ferventkiss upon his forehead, swiftly pressed my fingers, and opened thedoor for us.

We passed out into the dark, frosty evening. There was snow on theground but none in the air. We mounted our waiting horses, waved backa farewell to the white-faced, white-handed figure in the doorway; andstarted toward the ferry. Margaret was left alone with herfast-beating heart, to her ordeal of mingled elation and doubt, herdread of crushing disappointment, her visions of glorious triumph.

At the ferry we reported to Captain Falconer, who was expeditiouslysending each rider and horse aboard one of the waiting flat-boats assoon as each arrived. Thus was avoided the assemblage, for any lengthof time, of a special body of horsem*n in the streets—for not eventhe army, let alone the townspeople, should know more of our settingforth than could not be hid. The departure of those who were to embarkfrom the town was managed with exceeding quietness and rapidity.Captain Falconer and the man who was to guide us to EdwardFaringfield's trysting-place were the last to board.

Upon rounding the lower end of the town, and crossing the Hudson toPaulus Hook, which post our troops had reoccupied after the rebelcapture of its former garrison, we went ashore and were joined by menand horses from up the river, and by others from Staten Island. Wethen exchanged our hats for the caps taken from the rebel cavalry,donned the blue surtouts, and set out; Captain Falconer and the guideriding at the head.

For a short distance we kept to the Newark road, but, withoutproceeding to that town, we deviated to the right, and madeNorthwestwardly, the purpose being to pass through a hiatus in thesemicircle of rebel detached posts, turn the extremity of the mainarmy, and approach Morristown—where Washington had hisheadquarters—from a side whence a British force from New York mightbe the less expected.

Each man of us carried a sword and two pistols, having otherwise noburden but his clothes. At first we walked our horses, but presentlywe put them to a steady, easy gallop. The snow on the ground greatlymuffled the sound of our horses' footfalls, and made our way lessinvisible than so dark a night might have allowed. But it madeourselves also the more likely to be seen; though scarce at a greatdistance nor in more than brief glimpses, for the wind raised cloudsof fine snow from the whitened fields, the black growth of tree andbrush along the road served now as curtain for us, now as backgroundinto which our outlines might sink, and a stretch of woods sometimesswallowed us entirely from sight. Besides, on such a night there wouldbe few folk outdoors, and if any of these came near, or if we wereseen from farmhouses or village windows, our appearance of rebel horsewould protect our purpose. So, in silence all, following our captainand his guide, we rode forward to seize the rebel chief, and makeseveral people's fortunes.

I must now turn to Philip Winwood, and relate matters of which I wasnot a witness, but with which I was subsequently made acquainted inall minuteness.

We had had no direct communication with Philip since the time afterour capture of Mr. Cornelius, who, as every exchange of prisoners hadpassed him by, still remarked upon parole at Mr. Faringfield's. If Mr.Faringfield received news of Winwood through his surreptitiousmessenger, Bill Meadows, he kept it to himself, naturally making asecret of his being in correspondence with General Washington.

Though Philip knew of Meadows's perilous employment, he would not riskthe fellow's discovery even to Margaret, and so refrained from layingupon him the task of a message to her. How she found out what Meadowswas engaged in, I cannot guess, unless it was that, unheeded in thehouse as she was unheeding, she chanced to overhear some talk betweenher father and him, or to detect him in the bringing of some letterwhich she afterward took the trouble secretly to peep into. Nor did Iever press to know by what means she had induced him to serve asmessenger between her and Ned, and to keep this service hidden fromher father and husband and all the world. Maybe she pretended a desireto hear of her husband without his knowing she had so far softenedtoward him, and a fear of her father's wrath if he learned she madeNed her correspondent in the matter. Perhaps she added to her gentlermeans of persuasion a veiled threat of exposing Meadows to the Britishif he refused. In any event, she knew that, once enlisted, he could berelied on for the strictest obedience to her wishes. It needed not, inhis case, the additional motive for secrecy, that a knowledge of hisemployment on Margaret's business would compromise him with GeneralWashington and Mr. Faringfield.

How Meadows contrived to meet Ned, to open the matter to him, toconvey the ensuing correspondence, to avoid discovery upon this matterin the rebel camp, as he avoided it upon Washington's business in NewYork, is beyond me: if it were not, I should be as skilful, as fit forsuch work, as Meadows himself. 'Tis well-known now what marvellouslyable secret agents Washington made use of; how to each side many ofthem had to play the part of spies upon the other side; how they wereregarded with equal suspicion in both camps; and how some of themreally served their enemies in order finally to serve their friends.More than one of them, indeed, played a double game, receiving payfrom both sides, and earning it from both, each commander conceivinghimself to be the one benefited. In comparison with such duplicity,the act of Meadows, in undertaking Margaret's private business as asecret matter adjunctive to his main employment, was honesty itself.

'Tis thus explained why, though Margaret might communicate with herbrother in the enemy's camp, she got no word from her husband there.But his thoughts and his wishes had scarce another subject thanherself. The desire to see her, possessed him more and more wholly. Heimagined that her state of mind must in this be a reflection of hisown. Long ago her anger must have died—nay, had it not passed in thatfarewell embrace when she held up her face to invite his kiss? Thechastening years of separation, the knowledge of his toils anddangers, must have wrought upon her heart, to make it more tender tohim than ever. She must grieve at their parting, long for hishome-coming. So convinced was he of such feelings on her part, that hepitied her for them, felt the start of many a tear in sorrow for hersorrow.

"Poor girl!" he thought. "How her face would gladden if I were to walkinto her presence at this moment!"

And the thought gave birth to the resolution. The joy of such ameeting was worth a thousand risks and efforts.

His first step was to get leave of absence and General Washington'spermission to enter New York. The former was quickly obtained, thelatter less so. But if he failed to demonstrate to the commander thepossible profit of his secretly visiting the enemy's town, heconvinced him that the entrance was not too difficult to one who knewthe land so well, and who could so easily find concealment.Sympathising with Philip's private motive in the case, trusting himimplicitly, and crediting his ability to take care of himself in evenso perilous a matter, Washington finally gave consent.

Philip rode in proper manner from the rebel camp, bound apparentlySouthward, as if perchance he bore despatches to the rebel civilauthorities at Philadelphia. Once out of observation, he concealed hisuniform cap and outer coat, and provided himself at a New Jerseyvillage with an ordinary felt hat, and a plain dark overcoat. He thenturned from the Southward road, circled widely about the rebel camp,and arrived at a point some distance north of it. Here, in ahospitable farmhouse, he passed the night. The next day, he rodeEastward for the Hudson River, crossing undiscovered the scanty,ill-patrolled line of rebel outposts, and for the most part refrainingfrom use of the main roads, deserted as these were. By woods andby-ways, he proceeded as best the snow-covered state of the countryallowed. 'Twas near dusk on the second day, when he came out upon thewooded heights that looked coldly down upon the Hudson a few milesabove the spot opposite the town of New York.

He looked across the river and Southeastward, knowing that beyond thelow hills and the woods lay the town, and that in the town wasMargaret. Then he rode back from the crest of the cliff till he cameto the head of a ravine. Down this he led his beast, arriving finallyat the narrow strip of river-bank at the cliff's foot. He followedthis some distance Southward, still leading the horse. 'Twas not yetso dark that he could not make out a British sloop-of-war, and furtherdown the river the less distinct outline of a frigate, serving assentinels and protectors of this approach to the town. From these hewas concealed by the bushes that grew at the river's edge.

At last he turned into the mouth of a second ravine, and, rounding asharp side-spur of the interrupted cliff, came upon a log hut builtupon a small level shelf of earth. At one end of this structure was apent-roof. Philip tied his horse thereunder, and, noting a kind of dimglow through the oiled paper that filled the cabin's single window,gave two double knocks followed by a single one, upon the plank door.This was soon opened, and Philip admitted to the presence of thesingle occupant, an uncouth fellow, fisherman and hunter, whoseacquaintance he had made in patrolling the New Jersey side at the headof his troop. The man was at heart with the rebels, and Winwood knewwith whom he had to deal. Indeed Philip had laid his plans carefullyfor this hazardous visit, in accordance with his knowledge of theneighbourhood and of what he might rely upon.

"I wish to borrow one of your canoes, Ellis," said he, "and beg yourattention to my horse, which is in the shed. Be so kind as to give itfeed, and to cover it with a blanket if you have such a thing. Butleave it in the shed, and ready saddled; I may have to ride in ahurry. I sha'n't need you with me in the canoe—nor any supper, Ithank you, sir."

For the man, with the taciturn way of his kind, had motioned towardsome pork frying at a fire. With no thought to press, or to question,he replied:

"I'll fetch the canoe down the gully, cap'n. You stay here and warmyourself a minute. And don't worry about your hoss, sir."

A few minutes later, Philip was launched upon the dark current of theHudson, paddling silently toward the Eastern shore. Darkness had nowfallen, and he trusted it to hide him from the vigilance of theBritish vessels whose lights shone dim and uncertain down the river.

Much larger craft landed much larger crews within our lines, on nodarker nights—as, for one case, when the Whigs came down inwhaleboats and set fire to the country mansion of our General DeLancey at Bloomingdale. Philip made the passage unseen, and drew thecanoe up to a safe place under some bushes growing from the face of alow bluff that rose from the slight beach. His heart galloped andglowed at sense of being on the same island with his wife. He wasthrilled to think that, if all went well, within an hour or two heshould hold her in his arms.

He saw to the priming of his pistols, and loosened the sword that hungbeneath his overcoat; and then he glided some way down the strip ofbeach. Coming to a convenient place, he clambered up the bluff, to acleared space backed by woods.

"Who goes there?"

'Twas the voice of a man who had suddenly halted in the clearing,half-way between the woods and the crest of the bluff. The snow on theground enabled the two to descry each other. Winwood saw the man raisea musket to his shoulder.

"A word with you, friend," said Philip, and strode swiftly forward erethe sentinel (who was a loyalist volunteer, not a British regular) hadthe wit to fire. Catching the musket-barrel with one hand, Winwoodclapped his pistol to the soldier's breast with the other.

"Now," says he, "if you give a sound, I'll send a bullet through you.If I pass here, 'twill bring you no harm, for none shall know it butus two. Let go your musket a moment—I'll give it back to you, man."

A pressure of the pistol against the fellow's ribs brought obedience.Philip dropped the musket, and, with his foot, dug its lock into thesnow, spoiling the priming.

"Now," he continued, "I'll leave you, and remember, if you raise analarm, you'll be blamed for not firing upon me."

Whereupon Philip dashed into the woods, leaving the startled sentinelto pick up his musket and resume his round as if naught had occurred.The man knew that his own comfort lay in secrecy, and his comfortoutweighed his military conscience.

Through woods and fields Winwood proceeded, skirted swamps and ponds,and waded streams, traversing old familiar ground, the sight of whichbrought back memories of countless holiday rambles in the happy earlydays. Margaret's bright face and merry voice, her smiles, and herlittle displays of partiality for him, were foremost in eachrecollection; and that he was so soon to see her again, appeared toowonderful for belief. He went forward in the intoxication of joy,singing to himself as a boy would have done.

He knew where there were houses and barns to avoid, and where therewere most like to be British cantonments. At length he was so near thetown, that he was surprised to have come upon no inner line ofsentries. Even as he wondered, he emerged from a copse into a field,and received the usual challenge—spoken this time in so quick,machine-like a manner, and accompanied by so prompt and precise alevelling of the musket, that he knew 'twas a British regular he hadto deal with.

He made a pretence of raising a pistol to shoot down the sentry. Thisbrought the sentry's fire, which—as it too was of a British regularof those days—Philip felt safe in risking. But though the shot wentfar wide, he gave a cry as if he had been hit, and staggered back intothe woods. He was no sooner within its cover, than he ran swiftlyEastward with all possible silence. He had noted that the sentry hadbeen pacing in that direction; hence the first of the sentry'scomrades to run up would be the one approaching therefrom. This wouldleave a break in the line, at that part of it East of the scene of thealarm. Philip stopped presently; peered forth from the woods, saw thesecond sentry hasten with long steps Westward; and then made a dashacross the latter's tracks, bending low his body as he went. He thusreached a cover of thicket, through which he forced his way in time toemerge toward the town ere any results of the alarming gun-shot weremanifest.

Unless he were willing to attempt crossing what British defences heknew not, or other impediments that might bar passage to the townelsewhere than at the Bowery lane entrance, he must now pass the guardthere, which served for the town itself as the outer barriers atKingsbridge served for the whole island of Manhattan. He chose theless tedious, though more audacious alternative of facing the guard.

He could not employ in this case the method used in passing the shorepatrol, or that adopted in crossing the line of sentinels above thetown; for here the road was the only open way through, it was flankedby a guardhouse, it was lighted by a lantern that hung above the door,and the sentinels were disciplined men. Philip gathered these facts ina single glance, as he approached by slinking along the side of theroad, into which he had crawled, through a rail fence, from anadjoining field.

He was close upon the sentinels who paced before the guardhouse, erehe was discovered. For the third time that night, he heard thechallenge and saw the threatening movement.

"All's well," he replied. "I'll give an account of myself." And hestepped forward, grasping one of his pistols, not by the breech, butby the barrel.

"Stop where you are!" said the sentry, menacingly.

Philip stood still, raised the pistol, flung it at the lantern, andinstantly dropped to his knees. The sentinel's musket flashed andcracked. Total darkness ensued. Philip glided forward between the twomen, his footfalls drowned by the sound of their curses. When pastthem, he hurled his remaining pistol back over his shoulder toward amass of bushes on the further side of the sentinels. Its descentthrough the brush had some sound of a man's leap, and would, he hoped,lead the enemy to think he might have escaped in that direction. Bythe time the noise of a commotion reached him, with orders to turn outthe guard, he was past the building used as a prison for his fellowrebels, and was hastening along the side of the common—now divertedto camp uses of the British as it had been to those of therebels—able to find the rest of his way in Egyptian blackness. Heknew what alleys to take, what short cuts to make by traversinggardens, what ways were most like to be deserted. The streets in thepart of the town through which he had to pass were nearly empty, thetaverns, the barracks, and most of the officers' quarters beingelsewhere. And so, with a heart elated beyond my power of expression,he leaped finally into the rear garden of the Faringfield mansion, andstrode, as if on air, toward the veranda.

He had guessed that the family would be in the smaller parlour, or thelibrary, and so he was not surprised to see all the lower windows darkthat were visible from the direction of his approach. But, which gavehim a thrill of delightful conjecture, two upper windows shone withlight—those above the great parlour and hence belonging to one of thechambers formerly occupied by Margaret and him. He knew no reason whyhis wife should not still retain the same rooms. She would, then, bethere, and probably alone. He might go to her while none was presentto chill their meeting, none before whom her pride might induce her toconceal the completeness of her reconciliation, or to moderate the joyof her greeting. Would she weep? Would she laugh? Would she cry out?Would she merely fall into his arms with a glad smile and cling in along embrace under his lingering kiss? He trembled like a schoolboy ashe climbed the trellis-work to enter by a window.

Creeping up the sloping, snow-covered roof of the veranda, he came atlength to the window, and looked in. The chamber was empty, but thedoor was ajar that led to the apartment in front, used as asitting-room. She must be in that room, for his first glance hadrecognised many of her trinkets and possessions in the first chamber.He asked himself if the years had changed her: they would have madeher a little graver, doubtless.

He opened the window so slowly that the noise was scarce perceptible.Then he clambered over the ledge into the chamber; strode tiptoetoward the next room, catching a mirrored glimpse of his face as hepassed her dressing-table—the most joyous, eager face in the world.He pushed the door further open, and stepped across the threshold. Shewas there, in the centre of the room, standing in meditation, her faceturned by chance toward the door through which he entered.

"My dear," said he, in a voice scarce above a whisper; and startedtoward her, with arms held out, and (I am sure) a very angel's smileof joy and love upon his face.

She opened her eyes and lips in wonder, and then stood pale and rigidas marble, and made a faint gesture to check his approach. As hehalted in astonishment, his joy dying at her look, she whisperedhoarsely:

"You! You, of all men? And to-night, of all nights!"

'Twas the night of our setting forth upon her great design of seizinghis commander-in-chief.

CHAPTER XII.

Their Interview.

Philip took note, at the time, rather of her look than of her words.

"Why, dear," said he, "don't be frightened. Tis I, Philip—'tis not myghost."

"Yes, 'tis you—I know that well enough."

"Then—" he began, and stepped toward her.

But she retreated with such a movement that he stopped again.

"What's the matter?" he questioned. "Why do you look so?—This isscarce the welcome I had imagined."

"Why are you here?" she asked, in a low voice, regarding him steadily."How did you come? What does it mean?"

"It means I love you so much, I could stay no longer from seeing you.I came by horse, boat, and foot. I passed the British sentries."

"You risked your life, then?"

"Oh, of course. If they caught me inside their lines, they would hangme as a spy. But—"

She could not but be touched at this. "Poor Philip!" she murmured,with a tremor in her voice.

"Not poor," said he, "now that I am with you—if you would not drawback, and look so. What is wrong? Am I—unwelcome?"

She saw that, to be true to her design, to her elaborate plan for thefuture, she must not soften toward him—for his reappearance, with theold-time boyish look and manner, the fond expression now wistful andalarmed, the tender eyes now startled and affrighted, revived muchthat had been dormant in her heart, and made Captain Falconer seem avery far-off and casual person. Against the influence of Philip'spresence, and the effect of his having so imperilled himself to seeher, she had to arm herself with coldness, or look upon the success ofher project as going for naught to her advantage. She dared notcontemplate the forfeit; so she hardened her heart.

"Why," she said, with a forced absence of feeling, "so many years havepassed—so many things have happened—you appear so much a stranger—"

"Stranger!" echoed he. "Why, not if you had thought of me half asconstantly as I have of you! You have been in my mind, in my heart,every hour, every minute since that day—Can it be? Is it my Margaretthat stands there and speaks so? So unmoved to see me! So cold! Oh,who would have expected this?"

He sat down and gazed wretchedly about the room, taking no cognisanceof what objects his sight fell upon. Margaret seated herself, with asigh of annoyance, and regarded him with a countenance of displeasure.

"Margaret, do you mean what you say?" he asked, after a short silence.

"I'm sure you shouldn't blame me," said she. "You enabled me to learnhow to endure your absence. You stayed away all these years. NaturallyI've come to consider you as—"

"Nay, don't attempt to put me in the wrong. My heart is as warm to youas ever, in spite of the years of absence. Those years have made nochange in me. Why should they have changed you, then? No—'tis nottheir fault if you are changed, nor mine neither. There is somethingwrong, I see. Be frank, dear, and tell me what it is. You need not beafraid of me—you know I wouldn't hurt a hair of your head. Oh,sweetheart, what has come between us? Tell me, I beg!"

"Why, nothing, of course—nothing but the gulf that time has widened.That's all—sure 'tis enough."

"But 'tis more than that. Were that all, and I came back to you thus,a minute's presence would bridge that gulf. All the old feelings wouldrush back. Why, if I were but a mere acquaintance whom you had onceknown in a friendly way, you wouldn't have greeted me so coldly. Therewould have been cordiality, smiles, a warm clasp of the hand,questions about my health and doings, at least a curiosity as to how Ihad passed the years. But you meet me, not merely with lack of warmth,but with positive coldness. Nay, you were shocked, startled,frightened! You turned white, and stood still as if you saw a spirit,or as if you were caught in some crime! Yes, 'twas for all the worldlike that! And what was't you said? It passed me then, I was so amazedat my reception—so different from the one I had pictured all the waythither, all the weeks and months. What was't you said?"

"Some word of surprise, I suppose; something of no meaning."

"Nay, it had meaning, too. I felt that, though I put it aside for thetime. Something about the night—ah, yes: 'to-night of all nights.'And me of all men. Why so? Why to-night in particular? Why am I themost inconvenient visitor, and why to-night ? Tell me that! Tellme—I have the right to know!"

"Nay, if you work yourself up into a fury so—"

"'Tis no senseless fury, madam! There's reason at the bottom of it, mylady! I must know, and I will know, what it is that my visitinterferes with. You were not going out, I can see by your dress. Norexpecting company. Unless—no, it couldn't be that! You're not capableof that! You are my wife, you are Margaret Faringfield, WilliamFaringfield's daughter. God forgive the mistrust—yet every husbandwith an imagination has tortured himself for an instant sometime withthat thought, suppose his wife's heart might stray? I've heard 'emconfess the thought; and even I—but what a hell it was for the momentit lasted! And how swiftly I put it from me, to dwell on yourtenderness in the old days, your pride that has put you above thehopes of all men but me, the unworthy one you chose to reach down yourhand to from your higher level!"

"So you have harboured that suspicion, have you?" she cried, withflashing eyes.

"No, no; harboured it never! Only let my perverse imagination 'light,for the space of a breath, on the possibility, to my unutterabletorment. All men's fancies play 'em such tricks now and then, totorture them and take down their vanity. Men would rest too easy intheir security, were it not so."

"A man that suspects his wife, deserves to lose her allegiance," criedMargaret, with a kind of triumphant imputation of blame, which was herbetrayal.

He gazed at her with the dawning horror of half-conviction.

"Then I have lost yours?" he asked, in a tone stricken with doubt anddread.

"I didn't say so," she replied, reddening.

"But your words imply that. You seemed to be justifying yourself by mysuspicion. But there was no suspicion till now—nothing but atormenting fancy of what I believed impossible. So you cannot excuseyourself that way."

"I'm not trying to excuse myself. There's nothing to excuse."

"I'm not sure of that! Your manner looks as if you realised havingsaid too much—having betrayed yourself. Margaret, for God's sake,tell me 'tis not so! Tell me my fears are wrong! Assure me I have notlost you—no, no, I won't even ask you. 'Tis not possible. I won'tbelieve it of you—that you could be inconstant! Forgive me,dear—your strange manner has so upset me—but forgive me, I beg, andlet me take you in my arms." He had risen to approach her.

"No, no! Don't. Don't touch me!" she cried, rising in turn, forresistance. She kept her mind fixed upon the expected rewards of herproject, and so fortified herself against yielding.

"By heaven, I'll know what this means!" he cried. He looked wildlyabout the room, as if the explanation might somewhere there be found.Her own glance went with his, as if there might indeed be someevidence, which she must either make shift to conceal, or invent aninnocent reason for its presence. Her eye rested an instant upon abook that lay on the table. Philip noted this, picked up the book,turned the cover, and read the name on the first leaf.

"'Charles Falconer.' Who is he?"

"'HE IS A—AN ACQUAINTANCE.'"

"No matter," she said quickly, and made to snatch the book away. "Heis a—an acquaintance. He is quartered in the house, in fact—aBritish officer."

"An acquaintance? But why do you turn red? Why look so confused? Whytry to take the book away from me? Oh, my God, it is true! it istrue!" He dropped the volume, sank back upon a chair, and regarded herwith indescribable grief.

"Why," she blundered, "a gentleman may lend a lady a novel—"

"Oh, the lending is nothing! 'Twas your look and action when I readhis name. 'Tis your look now, your look of guilt. Oh, to see thatflush of discovered shame on your face! You care for this man, I cansee that!"

"Well, what if I do?"

"Then you confess it? Oh, can it be you that say this?—you that standthere with eyes that drop before mine for shame—nay, eyes that youraise with defiance! Brazen—oh, my God, my God, tell me 'tis all amistake! Tell me I wrong you, dear; that you are still mine, myMargaret, my Madge—little Madge, that found me a home that day I cameto New York; my pretty Madge, that cried when I was going to leave onNed's account; that I loved the first moment I saw her, and—always—"

He broke down at this, and leaned forward upon the table, covering hisface with his hands. When he next looked up, with haggard countenance,he saw her lips twitching and tears in her eyes.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, with a flash of hope, and half rose to go to her.

"No, no! Let me alone!" she cried, escaping narrowly from thatsurrender to her feelings which would have meant forfeiting the fruitsof her long planning.

His mood changed.

"I'll not endure this," he cried, rising and pacing the floor. "You'llfind I'm no such weakling, though I can weep for my wife when I loseher love. He shall find it so, too! I understand now what you meantby 'to-night of all nights.' He was to meet you to-night. He'squartered in the house, you say. He was to slink up, no doubt, whenall were out of the way—your father divines little of this, I'llwarrant. Well, he may come—but he shall find me waiting at mywife's door!"

"You'll wait in vain, then. He is very far from here to-night."

"I'll believe that when it's proven. I find 'tis well that I, 'of allmen,' came here to-night."

"Nay, you're mistaken. You had been more like to find him to-nightwhere you came from, than where you've come to."

How true it is that a woman may always be relied on to say a word toomuch—whether for the sake of a taunt, or the mere necessity of givingan apt answer, I presume not to decide.

"What can that mean?" said he, arrested by the peculiarity of her toneand look. "Find him where I came from? Why, that's our camp. What doeshe do there, 'to-night of all nights?' Explain yourself."

"Nothing at all. I spoke without thinking."

"The likelier to have spoken true, then! So your—acquaintance—mightbe found in our camp to-night? Charles Falconer, a British officer. Ican't imagine—not as a spy, surely. Oho! is there some expedition?Some attack, some midnight surprise? This requires looking into."

"I fear you will not find out much. And if you did, it would be toolate for you to carry a warning."

"The expedition has too great a start of me—is that what you mean?That's to be seen. I might beat Mr. Falconer in this, as he has beatenme—elsewhere. I know the Jersey roads better than I have known mywife's heart, perchance. What is this expedition?"

"Do you think I would tell you—if there were one?"

"I'm satisfied there is some such thing. But I doubt no warning ofmine is needed, to defeat it. Our army is alert for these nightattempts. We've had too many of 'em. If there be one afoot to-night,so much the worse for those engaged in it."

This irritated her; and she never used the skill to guard her speech,at her calmest; so she answered quickly:

"Not if it's helped by traitors in your camp!"

"What?—But how should you, a woman, know of such a matter?"

"You'll see, when the honours are distributed."

"This is very strange. You are in this officer's confidence, perhaps.He is unwise to trust you so far—you have told me enough to—"

"There's no more need of secrecy. Captain Falconer's men are well ontheir way to Morristown. Even if you got out of our lines as easily asyou got in, you could only meet our troops returning with yourgeneral."

Doubtless she conceived that by taunting him, at this safe hour, withthis prevision of her success, she helped the estrangement which shefelt necessary to her enjoyment of her expected rewards.

"Oho!" quoth he, with a bitter, derisive laugh. "Another attempt toseize Washington! What folly!"

"Not when we are helped by treason in your camp, as I said before.Folly, is it? You'll sing another song to-morrow!"

She smiled with anticipated triumph, and the smile had in it so muchof the Madge of other days, that his bitterness forsook him, andadmiration and love returned to sharpen his grief.

"Oh, Madge, dear, could I but win you back!" he murmured, wistfully.

"What, in that strain again!" she said, petulant at each revival ofthe self-reproach his sorrow caused in her.

"Ay, if I had but the chance! If I might be with you long enough, if Imight reawaken the old tenderness!—But I forget; treason in our camp,you say. There is danger, then—ay, there's always the possibility.The devil's in it, that I must tear myself from you now; that I mustpart with you while matters are so wrong between us; that I must leaveyou when I would give ten years of life for one hour to win your loveback! But you will take my hand, let me kiss you once—you will dothat for the sake of the old times—and then I will be gone!"

"Be gone? Where?"

"Back to camp, of course, to give warning of this expedition."

"'Tis impossible! Tis hours—"

"'Tis not impossible—I will outride them. They wouldn't have startedbefore dark."

"You would only overtake them, at your best. Do you think they wouldlet you pass?"

"Poh! I know every road. I can ride around them. I'll put the army inreadiness for 'em, treason or no treason! For the present, good-bye—"

The look in his face—of power and resolution—gave her a sudden senseof her triumph slipping out of her grasp.

"You must not go!" she cried, quite awakened to the peril of thesituation to her enterprise.

"I must! Good-bye! One kiss, I beg!"

"But you sha'n't go!" As he came close to her, she clasped him tightlywith both arms. She made no attempt to avoid his kiss, and he, takingthis for acquiescence, bestowed the kiss upon unresponsive lips.

"Now let me go," said he, turning to stride toward the door by whichhe had entered from the rear chamber.

"No, no! Stay. Time to win back my love, you said. Take the time now.You may find me not so difficult of winning back. Nay, I have neverceased to love you, at the bottom of my heart. I love you now. Youshall stay."

"I must not, I dare not. Oh, I would to God I could believe you! Butwhether 'tis true, or a device to keep me here, I will not stay. Letme go!"

"I will not! You will have to force me from you, first! I tell you Ilove you—my husband!"

"If you love me, you will let me go."

"If you love me, you will stay."

"Not a moment—though God knows how I love you! I will come to see yousoon again."

"If you go now, I will never let you see me again!—Nay, you must dragme after you, then!"

He was moving toward the door despite her hold; and now he caught herwrists to force open the clasp in which she held him.

"Oh! you are crushing my arms!" she cried.

"Ay, the beautiful, dear arms—God bless them! But let me go, then!"

"I won't! You will have to kill me, first! You shall not spoil myscheme!"

"Yours!"

"Yes, mine! Mine, against your commander, against your cause!" She waswrought up now to a fury, at the physical force he exerted to releasehimself; and for the time, swayed by her feelings only, she let policyfly to the winds. "Your cause that I hate, because it ruined my hopesbefore! You are a fool if you think my being your wife would have keptme from fighting your hateful cause. I became your wife that I mightgo to England, and when that failed I was yours no longer. Loveanother? Yes!—and you shall not spoil his work and mine—not unlessyou kill me!"

For a moment his mental anguish, his overwhelming shame for her,unnerved him, and he stared at her with a ghastly face, relaxing hispressure for freedom. But this weakness was followed by a fiercereaction. His countenance darkened, and with one effort, the firstinto which he had put his real strength, he tore her arms from him.White-faced and breathing fast, with rage and fear of defeat, she ranto a front window, and flung it open.

"By heaven, I'll stop you!" she cried. "Help! A rebel—a spy! Ah, youmen yonder—this way! A rebel spy!"

Philip looked over her head, out of the window. Far up the streetswaggered five or six figures which, upon coming under a corner lampwhose rays yellowed a small circle of snow, showed to be those ofBritish soldiers. Their unaltered movements evidenced that they hadnot heard her cry. Thereupon she shouted, with an increased voice:

"Soldiers! Help! Surround this house! A rebel—"

She got no further, for Philip dragged her away from the window, and,when she essayed to scream the louder, he placed one hand over hermouth, the other about her neck. Holding her thus, he forced her intothe rear chamber, and then toward the window by which he meant toleave. At its very ledge he let her go, and made to step out to theroof of the veranda. But she grasped his clothes with the power ofrage and desperation, and set up another screaming for help.

In an agony of mind at having to use such painful violence against awoman, and how much more so against the wife he still loved; and atthe grievous appearance that she was willing to sacrifice him upon theBritish gallows rather than let him mar her purpose, he flung her awaywith all necessary force, so that, with a final shriek of pain anddismay, she fell to the floor exhausted.

He cast an anguished glance upon her, as she lay defeated andhalf-fainting; and, knowing not to what fate he might be leaving her,he moaned, "God pity her!" and stepped out upon the sloping roof. Hescrambled to the edge, let himself half-way down by the trellis,leaped the rest of the distance, and ran through the back garden fromthe place he had so well loved.

While his wife, lying weak upon the floor of her chamber, gazed at thewindow through which he had disappeared, and, as if a new change hadoccurred within her, sobbed in consternation:

"Oh, what have I done? He is a man, indeed!—and I have lost him!"

CHAPTER XIII.

Wherein Captain Winwood Declines a Promotion.

Philip assumed that the greatest risk would lie in departing the townby the route over which he had made his entrance, and in which he hadleft a trail of alarm. His best course would be in the oppositedirection.

Therefore, having leaped across the fence to the alley behind theFaringfield grounds, he turned to the right and ran; for he hadbethought him, while fleeing through the garden, that he mightprobably find a row-boat at the Faringfield wharves. He guessed that,as the port of New York was open to all but the rebel Americans andtheir allies the French, Mr. Faringfield would have continued histrade in the small way possible, under the British flag, that his lossby the war might be the less, and his means of secretly aiding therebel cause might be the more. So there would still be some littleshipping, and its accessories, at the wharves.

Though the British occupation had greatly changed the aspect of thetown by daylight, it had not altered the topography of that part whichPhilip had to traverse, and the darkness that served as his shield wasto him no impediment. Many a time, in the old days, we had chased andfled through those streets and alleys, in make-believe deer-hunts ormimic Indian warfare. So, without a collision or a stumble, he madehis way swiftly to the mouth of a street that gave upon thewater-front, by the Faringfield warehouse where so many busy days ofhis boyhood and youth had passed, and opposite the wharves.

He paused here, lacking knowledge whether the river front was guardedor not. He saw no human being, but could not be sure whether or notsome dark form might emerge from the dimness when he should cross tothe wharves. These, like the street and the roofs, were snow-covered.Aloft beyond them, but close, two or three faint lights, tiny yellowislets in a sea of gloom, revealed the presence of the shipping onwhich he had counted. He could hear the slap of the inky water againstthe piles, but scarce another sound, save his own breathing.

He formed the intention of making a noiseless dash across thewaterside street, with body bent low, to the part of the wharf where asmall boat was most like to be. He was standing close to one side of awooden building that fronted toward the wharf.

He sprang forward, and, just as he passed the corner of the edifice,his head struck something heavy but yielding, which toppled oversidewise with a grunt, and upon which Philip fell prone, forcing fromit a second grunt a little less vigorous than the first. 'Twas a humanbody, that had come from the front of the house at the same instant inwhich Philip had darted from along the side.

"Shall I choke him to assure silence?" Phil hurriedly asked himself,and instinctively made to put his hands to the man's neck. But thebody under him began to wriggle, to kick out with its legs, and to layabout with its hands.

"What the hell d'yuh mean?" it gasped. "Git off o' me!"

Philip scrambled promptly to his feet, having recognised the voice.

"I'll stake my life, it's Meadows!"

"Yes, it is, and who in the name of hellfire an' brimstone—?"

"Hush, Bill! Don't you know my voice? Let me help you up. There youare. I'm Philip Winwood!"

"Why, so y'are, boy! Excuse the way I spoke. But what on airth—?"

"No matter what I'm doing here. The thing is to get back to camp.Come! Is the wharf a safe place for me?"

"Yes, at this hour of a dark night. But I'd like to know—"

"Keep with me, then," whispered Philip, and made for the wharf,holding the old watchman's arm. "Show me where there's a small boat. Imust row to the Jersey side at once, and then ride—by heaven, I wishI might get a horse, over there, without going as far as Dan Ellis's!I left mine with him."

"Mebbe I can get you a hoss, yonder," said Meadows. "An' I reckon Ican row you round an' acrost, 'thout their plaguey ships a-spyin' us."

"Then, by the Lord," said Philip, while Meadows began letting himselfdown the side of the wharf to the skiff which he knew rode there uponthe black water, "'tis enough to make one believe in miracles, myrunning into you! What were you doing out so late?"

"Mum, sir! I was jest back from the same camp you're bound fur.'Tain't five minutes since I crawled up out o' this yer skift."

"What! And did you meet a party going the other way—toward our camp,I mean?"

"Ay," replied Meadows, standing up in the boat and guiding the legs ofPhilip as the latter descended from the wharf. "I watched 'em from thepatch o' woods beyont Westervelt's. I took 'em to be Major Lee's men,or mebbe yours, from their caps and plumes; but I dunno: I couldn'tsee well. But if they was goin' to the Morristown camp, they was goin'by a roundabout way, fur they took the road to the right, at the forkt'other side o' them woods!"

"Good, if 'twas a British troop indeed! If I take the short road, Imay beat 'em. Caps and plumes like ours, eh! Here, I'll pull an oar,too; and for God's sake keep clear of the British ships."

"Trust me, cap'n. I guess they ain't shifted none since I come acrostawhile ago. I'll land yuh nearest where we can get the hoss I spokeof. 'Tis the beast 'ut brung me from the camp—but mum about that."The two men moved at the oars, and the boat shot out from the sluggishdock-water to the live current, down which it headed. "Don't youconsarn yerse'f about them ships—'tis the dark o' the moon an' acloudy night, an' as fur our course, I could smell it out, if itcome to that!"

They rounded the end of the town, and turned into the Hudson, glidingblack over the surface of blackness. They pulled for some distanceagainst the stream, so as to land far enough above our post at PaulusHook. Going ashore in a little cove apparently well-known to Meadows,they drew up the boat, and hastened inland. Meadows had led the wayabout half a mile, when a dark mass composed of farmhouse andoutbuildings loomed up before them.

"Here's where the hoss is; Pete Westervelt takes keer of him,"whispered the watchman, and strode, not to the stables, but to thedoor of what appeared to be an outer kitchen, which he opened with akey of his own. A friendly whinny greeted him from the narrow darkspace into which he disappeared. He soon came out, leading the horsehe used in his journeys to and from the American camp, and bearingsaddle and bridle on his arm. The two men speedily adjusted these,whereupon Philip mounted.

"Bring or send the beast back by night," said Meadows, handing overthe key, with which he had meanwhile relocked the door of hisimprovised stable. "Hoss-flesh is damn' skeerce these times." This wasthe truth, the needs of the armies having raised the price of a horseto a fabulous sum.

Philip promised to return the horse or its equivalent; gave a swiftacknowledgment of thanks, and a curt good-night; and made off, leavingold Meadows to foot it, and row it, once more back to New York.

'Twas now, till he should reach the camp, but a matter of steadygalloping, with ears alert for the sound of other hoof-beats, eyeswatchful at crossroads and open stretches for the party he hoped toforestall. While he had had ways and means to think of, and had beenin peril of detection by the British, or in doubt of obtaining a horsewithout a long trudge to Ellis's hut, his mind had been diverted fromthe unhappy interview with Margaret. But now that swept back into histhoughts, inundating his soul with grief and shame, of the utmostdegree of bitterness. These were the more complete from therecollection of the joyous anticipations with which he had gone tomeet her.

Contemplation of this contrast, sense of his desertion, overcame hishabitual resistance to self-pity, a feeling against which he wasusually on the stronger guard for his knowledge that it was aconcomitant of his inherent sensibility. He quite yielded to it for atime; and though 'twas sharpened by his comparison of the Margaret hehad just left, with the pretty, soft-smiling Madge of other days, thatcomparison eventually supplanted self-pity with pity for her, afeeling no less laden with sorrow.

He dared not think of what her perverseness might yet lead her to. Forhimself he saw nothing but hopeless sorrow, unless she could bebrought back to her better self. But, alas, he by whose influence thatend might be achieved—for he could not believe that her heart hadquite cast him out—was flying from her, and years might pass ere heshould see her again: meanwhile, how intolerable would life be to him!His heart, with the instinct of self-protection, sought some interestin which it might find relief.

He thought of the cause for which he was fighting. That must suffice;it must take the place of wife and love. Cold, impersonal, inadequateas it seemed now, he knew that in the end it would suffice to fillgreat part of that inner heart which she had occupied. He turned to itwith the kindling affection which a man ever has for the resource thatis left him when he is scorned elsewhere. And he felt his ardour forit fanned by his deepened hate for the opposing cause, a hateintensified by the circ*mstance that his rival was of that cause. Forthat rival's sake, he hated with a fresh implacability the whole royalside and everything pertaining to it. He pressed his teeth together,and resolved to make that side pay as dearly as lay in him to make it,for what he had lost of his wife's love, and for what she had lost ofher probity.

And the man himself, Falconer! 'Twas he that commanded this night'swild attempt, if she had spoken truly. Well, Falconer should notsucceed this night, and Philip, with a kind of bitter elation, thankedGod 'twas through him that the attempt should be the more utterlydefeated. He patted his horse—a faithful beast that had known but ashort rest since it had travelled over the same road in the oppositedirection—and used all means to keep it at the best pace compatiblewith its endurance. Forward it sped, in long, unvarying bounds, seeingthe road in the dark, or rather in the strange dusky light yielded bythe snow-covered earth and seeming rather to originate there than tobe reflected from the impenetrable obscurity overhead.

From the attempt which he was bent upon turning into a ridiculousabortion, if it lay in the power of man and horse to do so, Philip'sthoughts went to the object of that attempt, Washington himself. Hewas thrilled at once with a greater love and admiration for that firmsoul maintaining always its serenity against the onslaughts of men andcirc*mstance, that soul so unshakable as to seem in the care of Fateitself. Capture Washington! Philip laughed at the thought.

And yet a British troop had seized General Charles Lee when he was therebels' second in command, and, in turn, a party of Yankees had takenthe British General Prescott from his quarters in Rhode Island. True,neither of these officers was at the time of his seizure as safelyquartered and well guarded as Washington was now; but, on the otherhand, Margaret had spoken of treachery in the American camp. Who werethe traitors? Philip hoped he might find out their chief, at least.

It was a long and hard ride, and more and more an up-hill one as itneared its end. But Philip's thoughts made him so often unconscious ofhis progress, and of the passage of the hours, that he finallyrealised with a momentary surprise that he had reached a fork of theroad, near which he should come upon the rebel pickets, and that thenight was far spent. He might now take one road, and enter the camp atit* nearest point, but at a point far from Washington's headquarters;or he might take the other road and travel around part of the camp, soas to enter it at a place near the general's house. 'Twas at or nearthe latter place that the enemy would try to enter, as they wouldsurely be so directed by the traitors within the camp.

Heedless of the apparent advantage of alarming the camp at theearliest possible moment, at whatever part of it he could then reach,he felt himself impelled to choose the second road. He ever afterwardheld that his choice of this seemingly less preferable road was theresult of a swift process of unconscious reasoning—for he maintainedthat what we call intuition is but an instantaneous perception offacts and of their inevitable inferences, too rapid for the reflectivepart of the mind to record.

He felt the pressure of time relaxed, for a troop of horse going bythe circuitous route Meadows had indicated could not have reached thecamp in the hours since they had passed the place where Meadows hadseen them. So he let his horse breathe wherever the road was broken byascents. At last he drew up, for a moment, upon an eminence whichgave, by daylight, a wide view of country. Much of this expanse beingclear of timber, and clad in snow, it yielded something to anight-accustomed eye, despite the darkness. A low, far-off, steady,snow-muffled beating, which had imperceptibly begun to play onWinwood's ear, indicated a particular direction for his gaze.Straining his senses, he looked.

Against the dusky-white background of snow, he could make out anindistinct, irregular, undulating line of moving dark objects. Herecognised this appearance as the night aspect of a distant band ofhorsem*n. They were travelling in a line parallel to his own.Presently, he knew, they would turn toward him, and change theirlinear appearance to that of a compact mass. But he waited not forthat. He gently bade his horse go on, and presently he turned straightfor the camp, having a good lead of the horsem*n.

He was passing a little copse at his right hand, when suddenly a darkfigure stepped from behind a tree into the road before him. Thinkingthis was a soldier on picket duty, he recollected the word of thenight, and reined in to give it upon demand. But the man, havingviewed him as well as the darkness allowed, seemed to realise havingmade a mistake, and, as suddenly as he had appeared, stalked back intothe wood.

"What does this mean?" thought Philip; and then he remembered whatMargaret had said of treachery. Was this mysterious night-walker atraitor posted there to aid the British to their object?

"Stop or I'll shoot you down!" cried Philip, remembering too late thathe had parted with both his pistols at the Bowery lane guard-house.

But the noise of the man's retreat through the undergrowth told thathe was willing to risk a shot.

Philip knew the importance of obtaining a clue to the traitors. Therebels had suffered considerably from treachery on their own side; hadbeen in much danger from the treason of Doctor Church at Boston; hadowed the speedier loss of their Fort Washington to that of Dumont; and(many of them held) the retreat which Washington checked at Monmouth,to the design of their General Charles Lee. So the capture of thisman, apart from its possible effect upon the present business, mightlead to the unearthing of a nest of traitors likely at some futuretime, if not to-night, to menace the rebel cause.

Philip leaped from his horse, and, trusting to the animal's manifesthabit of awaiting orders, stopped not to tie it, but plunged directlyinto the wood, drawing his sword as he went.

The sound of the man's flight had ceased, but Philip continued in thedirection it had first taken. He was about to cross a row of lowbushes, when he unexpectedly felt his ankle caught by a hand, andhimself thrown forward on his face. The man had crouched amongst thebushes and tripped him up as he made to pass.

The next moment, the man was on Philip's back, fumbling to grasp hisneck, and muttering:

"Tell me who you are, quick! Who are you from? You don't wear thedragoon cap, I see. Now speak the truth, or by God I'll shoot yourhead off!"

Philip knew, at the first word, the voice of Ned Faringfield. It tookhim not an instant to perceive who was a chief—if not thechief—traitor in the affair, or to solve what had long been to himalso a problem, that of Ned's presence in the rebel army. Therecognition of voice had evidently not been mutual; doubtless this wasbecause Philip's few words had been spoken huskily. Retaining hishoarseness, and taking his cue from Ned's allusion to the dragoon cap,he replied:

"'Tis all right. You're our man, I see. Though I don't wear thedragoon cap, I come from New York about Captain Falconer's business."

"Then why the hell didn't you give the word?" said Ned, releasing hispressure upon Philip's body.

"You didn't ask for it. Get up—you're breaking my back."

Ned arose, relieving Philip of all weight, but stood over him with apistol.

"Then give it now," Ned commanded.

"I'll be hanged if you haven't knocked it clean out of my head,"replied Philip. "Let me think a moment—I have the cursedest memory."

He rose with a slowness, and an appearance of weakness, both mainlyassumed. He still held his sword, which, happily for him, had turnedflat under him as he fell. When he was quite erect, he suddenly flungup the sword so as to knock the pistol out of aim, dashed forward withall his weight, and, catching Ned by the throat with both hands, borehim down upon his side among the briars, and planted a knee upon hisneck. Instantly shortening his sword, he held the point close aboveNed's eye.

"Now," said Phil, "let that pistol fall! Let it fall, I say, or I'llrun my sword into your brain. That's well. You traitor, shall I killyou now? or take you into camp and let you hang for your treason?"

Ned wriggled, but finding that Philip held him in too resolved agrasp, gave up.

"Is it you, brother Phil?" he gasped. "Why, then, you lied; you saidyou came from New York, about Falconer's business. I'd never havethought you'd stoop to a mean deception!"

"I think I'd better take you to hang," continued Philip. "If I killyou now, we sha'n't get the names of the other traitors."

"You wouldn't do such an unbrotherly act, Phil! I know you wouldn't.You've too good a heart. Think of your wife, my sister—"

"Ay, the traitress!"

"Then think of my father; think of the mouth that fed you—I mean thehand that fed you! You'll let me go, Phil—sure you'll let me go.Remember how we played together when we were boys. I'll give you thenames of the other traitors. I'm not so much to blame: I was luredinto this—lured by your wife—so help me God, I was—and you'reresponsible for her, you know. You ought to be the last man in theworld—"

Philip's mood had changed at thought of Ned's father; the old man'spride of the name, his secret and perilous devotion to the rebelcause: he deserved better of that cause than that his son should diebranded as a traitor to it; and better of Phil than that by his handthat son should be slain.

"How can you let me have the names without loss of time, if I let yougo, on condition of your giving our army a wide berth the rest of yourdays?" Philip asked, turning the captive over upon his back.

"I can do it in a minute, I swear," cried Ned. "Will you let me go ifI do?"

"If I'm convinced they're the right names and all the names; but ifso, and I let you go, remember I'll see you hanged if you ever showyour face in our army again."

"Rest easy on that. I take you at your word. The names are all writdown in my pocketbook, with the share of money each man was to get. IfI was caught, I was bound the rest should suffer, too. The book is inmy waistcoat lining—there; do you feel it? Rip it out."

Philip did so, and, sitting on Ned's chest, with a heel ready to beatin his skull at a treacherous movement, contrived to strike a lightand verify by the brief flame of the tow the existence of a list ofnames. As time was now of ever-increasing value, Philip took it forgranted that the list was really what Ned declared it. He thenpossessed himself of Ned's pistol, and rose, intending to conduct himas far as to the edge of the camp, and to release him only when Philipshould have given the alarm, so that Ned could not aid the approach ofFalconer's party. But Philip had no sooner communicated this intentionthan Ned suddenly whipped out a second pistol from his coat pocket, inwhich his hand had been busy for some time, and aimed at him. Thanksto a spoiled priming, the hammer fell without effect.

"You double traitor!" cried Philip, rushing upon Ned with threateningsword. But Ned, with a curse, bent aside, and, before Philip couldbring either of his weapons into use, grappled with him for anotherfall. The two men swayed together an instant; then Philip once moreshortened his sword and plunged the point into Ned's shoulder as bothcame down together.

"God damn your soul!" cried Ned, and for the time of a breath huggedhis enemy the tighter. But for the time of a breath only; the holdthen relaxed; and Philip, rising easily from the embrace of the limpform, ran unimpeded to the road, mounted the waiting horse, andgalloped to the rebel lines.

When our party, all the fatigue of the ride forgotten in a thrill ofexpectation, reached the spot where Ned Faringfield was to join us,our leader's low utterance of the signal, and our eager peerings intothe wood, met no response. As we stood huddled together, there brokeupon us from the front such a musketry, and there forthwith appearedin the open country at our left such a multitude of mounted figures,that we guessed ourselves betrayed, and foresaw ourselves surroundedby a vastly superior force if we stayed for a demonstration.

"'Tis all up, gentlemen!" cried Captain Falconer, in a tone ofresignation, and without even an oath; whereupon we wheeled indisappointment and made back upon our tracks; being pursued for somemiles, but finally abandoned, by the cavalry we had seen, which, as wedid not learn till long afterward, was led by Winwood. We left somedead and wounded near the place where we had been taken by surprise;and some whose horses had been hurt were made prisoners.

For his conduct in all this business, an offer was made to Philip ofpromotion to a majority; but he firmly declined it, saying that heowed the news of our expedition to such circ*mstances that he chosenot, in his own person, to profit by it.[6]

CHAPTER XIV.

The Bad Shilling Turns up Once More in Queen Street.

"This will be sad news to Mrs. Winwood, gentlemen," said CaptainFalconer to Tom and me, as we rode toward the place where we shouldtake the boats for New York. The day was well forward, but its graysunless light held little cheer for such a silent, dejected crew as wewere.

The captain was too much the self-controlled gentleman to show greatdisappointment on his own account, though he had probably set storeupon this venture, as an opportunity that he lacked in his regularduties on General Clinton's staff, where he served pending the delayedenlistment of the loyalist cavalry troop he had been sent over tocommand. But though he might hide his own regrets, now that we werenearing Margaret, it was proper to consider our failure with referenceto her.

"Doubtless," he went on, "there was treachery against us somewhere;for we cannot suppose such vigilance and preparation to be usual withthe rebels. But we must not hint as much to her. The leak may havebeen, you see, through one of the instruments of her choosing—the manMeadows, perhaps, or—" (He stopped short of mentioning NedFaringfield, whose trustworthiness on either side he was warranted, bymuch that he had heard, in doubting.) "In any case," he resumed,"'twould be indelicate to imply that her judgment of men, herconfidence in any one, could have been mistaken. We'd best merely tellher, then, that the rebels were on the alert, and fell upon us beforewe could meet her brother."

We thought to find her with face all alive, expectant of the bestnews, or at least in a fever of impatience, and that therefore 'twouldbe the more painful to tell her the truth. But when the captain'sservant let the three of us in at the front door (Tom and I had waitedwhile Falconer briefly reported our fiasco to General Clinton) and wefound her waiting for us upon the stairs, her face was pale with a setand tragic wofulness, as if tidings of our failure had preceded us.There was, perhaps, an instant's last flutter of hope against hope, amomentary remnant of inquiry, in her eyes; but this yielded todespairing certainty at her first clear sight of our crestfallenfaces.

"'Twas all for nothing, then?" she said, with a quiet weariness whichshowed that her battle with disappointment had been fought and hadleft her tired out if not resigned.

"Yes," said the captain, apparently relieved to discover that no stormof disappointment or reproach was to be undergone. "They are toowatchful. We hadn't yet come upon your brother, when a heavy firebroke out upon us. We were lucky to escape before they could surroundus. Nine of our men are missing."

She gave a shudder, then came to us, kissed Tom with more thanordinary tenderness, grasped my hand affectionately, and finally heldthe captain's in a light, momentary clasp.

"You did your best, I'm sure," she said, in a low voice, at the sametime flashing her eyes furtively from one to another as if to detectwhether we hid any part of the news.

We were relieved and charmed at this resigned manner of receiving ourbad tidings, and it gave me, at least, a higher opinion of herstrength of character. This was partly merited, I make no doubt;though I did not know then that she had reason to reproach herself forour failure.

"And that's all you have to tell?" she queried. "You didn't discoverwhat made them so ready for a surprise?"

"No," replied the captain, casually. "Could there have been anyparticular reason, think you? To my mind, they have had lessons enoughto make them watchful."

She looked relieved. I suppose she was glad we should not know of herinterview with Philip, and of the imprudent taunts by which sheherself had betrayed the great design.

"Well," said she. "They may not be so watchful another time. We maytry again. Let us wait until I hear from Ned."

But when she stole an interview with Bill Meadows, that worthy had nocommunication from Ned; instead thereof, he had news that CaptainFaringfield had disappeared from the rebel camp, and was supposed bysome to have deserted to the British. Something that Meadows knew notat the time, nor I till long after, was of the treasonable plotunearthed in the rebel army, and that two or three of the participantshad been punished for the sake of example, and the less guilty onesdrummed out of the camp. This was the result of Philip's presentationto General Washington of the list of names obtained from Ned, some ofthe men named therein having confessed upon interrogation. Philip'saccount of the affair made it appear to Washington that his discoverywas due to his accidental meeting with Ned Faringfield, and thatFaringfield's escape was but the unavoidable outcome of thehand-to-hand fight between the two men—for Philip had meanwhileascertained, by a personal search, that Ned had not been too severelyhurt to make good his flight.

Well, there passed a Christmas, and a New Year, in which theFaringfield house saw some revival of the spirit of gladness that hadformerly prevailed within its comfortable walls at that season. Mr.Faringfield, who had grown more gray and taciturn each year, mellowedinto some resemblance to his former benevolent, though stately, self.He had not yet heard of Ned's treason. His lady, still graceful andslender, resumed her youth. Fanny, who had ever forced herself to thediffusion of merriment when there was cheerlessness to be dispelled,reflected with happy eyes the old-time jocundity now reawakened. Mymother, always a cheerful, self-reliant, outspoken soul, imparted thecordiality of her presence to the household, and both Tom and Irejoiced to find the old state of things in part returned. Margaret,perhaps for relief from her private dejection, took part in thehousehold festivities with a smiling animation that she had notvouchsafed them in years; and Captain Falconer added to their gaietyby his charming wit, good-nature, and readiness to please. Yet he, Imade no doubt, bore within him a weight of dashed hopes, and couldoften have cursed when he laughed.

The happy season went, leaving a sweeter air in the dear old housethan had filled it for a long time. All that was missing, it seemed tous who knew not yet as much as Margaret knew, was the presence ofPhilip. Well, the war must end some day, and then what a happyreunion! By that time, if Heaven were kind, I thought, the charm ofCaptain Falconer would have lost power over Margaret's inclinations,and all would be well that ended well.

One night in January, we had sat very late at cards in the Faringfieldparlour, and my mother had just cried out, "Dear bless me, look at theclock!"—when there sounded a dull, heavy pounding upon the rear halldoor. There were eight of us, at the two card-tables: Mr. Faringfieldand his lady, my mother, Margaret and Fanny, Mr. Cornelius, Tom, andmyself. And every one of us, looking from face to face, showed thesame thought, the same recognition of that half-cowardly, half-defiantthump, though for so long we had not heard it. How it knocked away theyears, and brought younger days rushing back upon us!

Mr. Faringfield's face showed a sweep of conjectures, ranging fromthat of Ned's being in New York in service of his cause, to that ofhis being there as a deserter from it. Margaret flushed a moment, andthen composed herself with an effort, for whatever issue thisunexpected arrival might portend. The rest of us waited in a merewonder touched with the old disquieting dread of painful scenes.

Old Noah, jealous of the single duty that his years had left him, andresentful of its frequent usurpation by Falconer's servant, alwaysstayed up to attend the door till the last of the family had retired.We now heard him shuffling through the hall, heard the movement of thelock, and then instantly a heavy tread that covered the sound ofNoah's. The parlour door from the hall was flung open, and in strodethe verification of our thoughts.

Ned's clothes were briar-torn and mud-spattered; his face was haggard,his hair unkempt, his left shoulder humped up and held stiff. Hestopped near the door, and stared from face to face, frowning becauseof the sudden invasion of his eyes by the bright candlelight. When hisglance fell upon Margaret, it rested; and thereupon, just as if hewere not returned from an absence of three years and more, andheedless of the rest of us, confining his address to her alone, hebellowed, with a most malignant expression of face and voice:

"So you played a fine game with us, my lady—luring us into the dirtyscheme, and then turning around and setting your husband on us in theact! I see through it all now, you underhanded, double-dealing slu*t!"

"Are you speaking to me, sir?" asked Margaret, with dignity.

"Of course I am; and don't think I'll hold my tongue because of thesepeople. Let 'em hear it all, I don't care. It's all up now, and I'm ahanged man if ever I go near the American camp again. But I'm safehere in New York, though I was damn' near being shot when I first cameinto the British lines. But I've been before General Knyphausen,[7]and been identified, and been acknowledged by your Captain Falconer asthe man that worked your cursed plot at t'other end; and I've been letgo free—though I'm under watch, no doubt. So you see there's naughtto hinder me exposing you for what you are—the woman that mothered aBritish plot, and worked her trusting brother into it, and thenbetrayed him to her husband."

"That's a lie!" cried Margaret, crimson in the face.

"What does all this mean?" inquired Mr. Faringfield, rising.

Paying no attention to his father, Edward retorted upon Margaret, whoalso rose, and who stood between him and the rest of us:

"A lie, is it? Perhaps you can make General Knyphausen and CaptainFalconer believe that, now I've told 'em whose cursed husband it wasthat attacked me at the meeting-place, and alarmed the camp. Youdidn't think I'd live to tell the tale, did you? You thought to hearof my being hanged, and your husband promoted for his services, and sotwo birds killed with one stone! But providence had a word to sayabout that. The Lord is never on the side of plotters and traitors,let me tell you, and here I am to outface you. A lie, is it? A liethat your husband spoiled the scheme? Why, you brazen hussy, he camefrom New York that very night—he told me so himself! He had seen you,and you had told him all, I'll lay a thousand guineas!"

'Twas at the time a puzzle to me that Margaret should condescend toexplanations with him as she forthwith did. But I now see how,realising that proofs of Philip's visit might turn up and seem to bearout Ned's accusation, she must have felt the need of putting herselfinstantly right with Tom and me, lest she might eventually findherself wrong with General Clinton and Captain Falconer.

"I own that Philip saw me that night," she said, with a self-controlcompelled by her perilous situation. "He came here by stealth, andtook me by surprise. He found reason to suspect our plot, but till nowI never knew 'twas really he that put the rebels on their guard. Ithought he would be too late. 'Twas through no intention of mine thathe guessed what was afoot. I never told Tom and Bert" (these wordswere meant for our ears) "—or Captain Falconer—of his visit, forfear they might think, as you seem to, that I was to blame. That's allthe truth, and we shall see whether Captain Falconer will believe youor me."

Here Mr. Faringfield, whose patience at being so far ignored, though'twas supported by the hope of receiving the desired enlightenmentfrom their mutual speeches, was at length exhausted, put in with someseverity.

"Pray, let us into these mysteries, one of you. Margaret, what is it Ihear, of a visit from Philip? of a British plot? By heaven, if Ithought—but explain the matter, if you please."

"I have no right to," said she, her face more and more suffused withred. "'Tis not my secret alone; others are concerned."

"It appears," rejoined Mr. Faringfield, "it is a secret that abides inmy house, and therefore I have a right to its acquaintance. I commandyou to explain."

"Command?" she echoed lightly, with astonishment. "Is a married womansubject to her father's commands?"

"An inmate of my house is subject to my commands," he replied,betraying his hidden wrath by a dark look.

"I beg your pardon," said she. "That part of the house which Philiphas paid, or will pay, for my living in, is my own, for the timebeing. I shall go there—"

"You shall not leave this room," cried her father, stalking toward thedoor. "You fall back upon Philip's name. Very well, he has delegatedthe care of you to me in his absence. 'Tis time I should represent hisauthority over you, when I hear of your plotting against his country."

"I have a right to be loyal to the king, above the authority of ahusband."

"If your loyalty extends to plotting against your husband's cause, youhave not the right under my roof—or under Philip Winwood's part ofit. I will know what this scheme is, that you have been engaged in."

"Not from me!" said Margaret, with a resolution that gave a new,unfamiliar aspect to so charmingly feminine a creature.

"Oh, let her alone, father," put in Ned, ludicrously ready for thefaintest opportunity either to put his father under obligation or tobring down Margaret. "I'll be frank with you. I've no reason to hidewhat's past and gone. She and Captain Falconer had a plan to makeWashington a prisoner, by a night expedition from New York, and somehelp in our camp—"

"Which you were to give, I see, you treacherous scoundrel!" said hisfather, with contempt.

"Oh, now, no hard names, sir. You see, several of us—some goodpatriots, too, with the country's best interests at heart—couldn'tswallow this French alliance; we saw that if we ever did win by it, weshould only be exchanging tyrants of our own blood for tyrants offrog-eaters. We began to think England would take us back on goodterms if the war could be ended; and we considered the state of thecountry, the interests of trade—indeed, 'twas chiefly the thought ofyour business, the hope of seeing it what it once was, that droveme into the thing."

"You wretched hypocrite!" interposed Mr. Faringfield.

"Oh, well; misunderstand me, as usual. Call me names, if you like. I'monly telling the truth, and what you wished to know—what shewouldn't tell you. I'm not as bad as some; I can up and confess, whenall's over. Well, as I was about to say, we had everything ready, andthe night was set; and then, all of a sudden, Phil Winwood swoops downon me; treats me in a most unbrotherly fashion, I must say" (Ned castan oblique look at his embarrassed shoulder); "and alarmed the camp.And when the British party rode up, instead of catching Washingtonthey caught hell. And I leave it to you, sir, whether your daughterthere, after playing the traitor to her husband's cause, for the sakeof her lover; didn't turn around and play the traitor to her own game,for the benefit of her husband, and the ruin of her brother. Suchdamnableness!"

"'For the sake of her lover,'" Mr. Faringfield repeated. "What do youmean by that, sir?" The phrase, indeed, had given us all adisagreeable start.

"What I say, sir. How could he be otherwise? I guessed it before; andI became sure of it this evening, from the way he spoke of her atGeneral Knyphausen's quarters."

"What a lie!" cried Margaret. "Captain Falconer is a gentleman; he'snot of a kind to talk about women who have given him no reason to doso. 'Tis ridiculous! You maligning villain!"

"Oh, 'twasn't what he said, my dear; 'twas his manner whenever hementioned you. When a man like him handles a woman's name sodelicate-like, as if 'twas glass and might break—so grave-like, as ifshe was a sacred subject—it means she's put herself on hisgenerosity."

Margaret affected a derisive laugh, as at her brother's pretensions towisdom.

"Oh, I know all the stages," he continued, watching her with amalicious calmness of self-confidence. "When gentry of his sort arefirst struck with a lady, but not very deep, they speak out theiradmiration bold and gallant; when they find they're hit seriously, buthaven't made sure of her, they speak of her with make-believecarelessness or mere respect: they don't like to show how far gonethey are. But when she's come to an understanding with 'em, and put'em under obligations and responsibilities—it's only then they touchher name so tender and considerate, as if it was so fragile. But thatstage doesn't last for ever, my young lady—bear that in mind!"

"You insolent wretch!" said Margaret, ready to cry with rage andconfusion.

"This is outrageous," ventured Mrs. Faringfield, daring to look herindignation at Ned. "William, how can you tolerate such things saidabout your daughter?"

But Mr. Faringfield had been studying his daughter's countenance allthe while. Alas for Margaret, she had never given pains to the art ofdissimulation, or taken the trouble to learn hypocrisy, or evenstudied self-control: a negligence common to beauties, who rely upontheir charms to carry them through all emergencies without resort toshifts. She was equal to a necessary lie that had not to be maintainedwith labour, or to a pretence requiring little effort and encounteringno suspicion, but to the concealment of her feelings when she wasopenly put to the question, her powers were inadequate. If ever ahuman face served its owner ill, by apparently confessing guilt, whereonly folly existed, Margaret's did so now.

"What I may think of the rascal who says these things," replied Mr.Faringfield, with the unnatural quietness that betrays a tumult ofinward feelings, "I will tolerate them till I am sure they are false."His eyes were still fixed on Margaret.

"What!" said she, a little hysterically. "Do you pay attention to theslanders of such a fellow? To an accusation like that, made on themere strength of a gentleman's manner of mentioning me?"

"No, but I pay attention to your manner of receiving the accusation:your telltale face, your embarrassment—"

"'Tis my anger—"

"There's an anger of innocence, and an anger of guilt. I would youranger had shown more of contempt than of confusion." Alas! he knewnaught of half-guilt and its manifestations.

"How can you talk so?—I won't listen—such insultinginnuendoes!—even if you are my father—why, this knave himself says Ibetrayed Captain Falconer's scheme: how could he think that, if—"

"That proves nothing," said Ned, with a contemptuous grin. "Women dounaccountable things. A streak of repentance, maybe; or a lovers'quarrel. The point is, a woman like you wouldn't have entered into ascheme like that, with a man like him, if there hadn't already been apretty close understanding of another kind. Oh, I know your wholedamn' sex, begad!—no offence to these other ladies."

"William, this is scandalous!" cried Mrs. Faringfield. My mother, too,looked what it was not her place to speak. As for Tom and me, we hadto defer to Mr. Faringfield; and so had Cornelius, who was verysolemn, with an uneasy frown between his white eyebrows. Poor Fanny,most sensitive to disagreeable scenes, sat in self-effacement and mutedistress.

Mr. Faringfield, not replying to his wife, took a turn up and down theroom, apparently in great mental perplexity and dismay.

Suddenly he was a transformed man. Pale with wrath, his lips movingspasmodically, his arms trembling, he turned upon Margaret, graspedher by the shoulders, and in a choked, half-articulate voice demanded:

"Tell the truth! Is it so—this shame—crime? Speak! I will shake thetruth from you!"

"Father! Don't!" she screamed, terrified by his look; and from hissearching gaze, she essayed to hide, by covering her face with herhands, the secret her conscience magnified so as to forbid confessionand denial alike. I am glad to recall this act of womanhood, whichshowed her inability to brazen all accusation out.

But Mr. Faringfield saw no palliating circ*mstance in this evidence ofwomanly feeling. Seeing in it only an admission of guilt, he raisedhis arms convulsively for a moment as if he would strike her down withhis hands, or crush her throat with them. But, overcoming thisimpulse, he drew back so as to be out of reach of her, and said, in alow voice shaken with passion:

"Go! From my house, I mean—my roof—and from Philip's part of it.God! that a child of mine should plot against my country, forEngland—that was enough; but to be false to her husband, too—falseto Philip! I will own no such treason! I turn you out, I cast you off!Not another hour in my house, not another minute! You are not mydaughter, not Philip's wife!—You are a thing I will not name! Wedisown you. Go, I bid you; let me never see you again!"

She had not offered speech or motion; and she continued to standmotionless, regarding her father in fear and sorrow.

"I tell you to leave this house!" he added, in a slightly higher andquicker voice. "Do you wait for me to thrust you out?"

She slowly moved toward the door. But her mother ran and caught herarm, and stood between her and Mr. Faringfield.

"William!" said the lady. "Consider—the poor child—your favourite,she was—you mustn't send her out. I'm sure Philip wouldn't have youdo this, for all she might seem guilty of."

"Ay, the lad is too kind of heart. So much the worse her treason tohim! She shall go; and you, madam, will not interfere. 'Tis for meto command. Be pleased to step aside!"

His passion had swiftly frozen into an implacable sternness whichstruck fear to the childish heart of his wife, and she obeyed himdumbly. Dropping weakly upon a chair, she added her sobs to those ofFanny, which had begun to break plaintively upon the tragic silence.

Margaret raised her glance from the floor, in a kind of wistfulleave-taking, to us who looked on and pitied her.

"Indeed, sir," began Mr. Cornelius softly, rising and taking a steptoward Mr. Faringfield. But the latter cut his good intention short,by a mandatory gesture and the harshly spoken words:

"No protests, sir; no intercessions. I am aware of what I do."

"But at midnight, sir. Think of it. Where can she find shelter at thishour?"

"Why," put in my mother, "in my house, and welcome, if she mustleave this one."

"Thank you, Mrs. Russell," said Margaret, in a stricken voice. "Forthe time being, I shall be glad—"

"For all time, if you wish," replied my mother. "And we shall haveyour things moved over tomorrow."

"By the Lord, sis," cried Ned, with a sudden friendliness quiteastonishing after the part he had taken, and to be accounted for onlyby the idea that had struck him, "here's a blessing in disguise!There's a ship sails next Wednesday—so I found out this evening—anddamn me if you sha'n't go to London with me! That's the kind of aforgiving brother I am!"

She had utterly ignored his first words, but when he reached thepoint, she looked at him thoughtfully, with a check upon herresentment. She made no reply, however; but he had not missed herexpression. Tom and I exchanged side glances, remembering Ned's formerwish that he might imitate his Irish friend by taking his sister toLondon to catch a fortune with. As for Margaret, as matters stood, itwould be something to go to London, relying on her beauty. I fancied Isaw that thought in her look.

Mr. Faringfield, who had heard with cold heedlessness my mother'soffer and Ned's, now rang the bell. Noah appeared, with a sad,affrighted face—he had been listening at the door—and cast a furtiveglance at Margaret, in token of commiseration.

"Bring Mrs. Winwood's cloak," said Mr. Faringfield to the old negro."Then open the door for her and Mr. Edward."

While Noah was absent on this errand, and Margaret waited passively,Tom went to her, kissed her cheek, and then came away without a word.

"You'll accept Mrs. Russell's invitation, dear," said Mrs.Faringfield, in tears, "and we can see you every day."

"Certainly, for the present," replied Margaret, who did not weep, butspoke in a singularly gentle voice.

"And I, too, for to-night, with my best thanks," added Ned, who hadnot been invited, but whom my mother preferred not to refuse.

Noah brought in the cloak, and placed it around Madge with an unusualattentiveness, prolonging the slight service to its utmost possiblelength, and keeping an eye for any sign of relenting on the part ofhis master.

My mother and I stood waiting for Margaret, while Mrs. Faringfield andFanny weepingly embraced her. That done, and with a good-night for Tomand Mr. Cornelius, but not a word or a look for her father, who stoodas silent and motionless as marble, she laid her hand softly upon myarm, and we went forth, leaving my mother to the unwelcome escort ofNed. The door closed upon us four—'twas the last time it ever closedupon one of us—and in a few seconds we were at our steps. And whoshould come along at that moment, on his way to his quarters, butCaptain Falconer? He stopped, in pleased surprise, and, peering at ourfaces in the darkness, asked in his gay, good-natured way what fun wasafoot.

"Not much fun," said Margaret. "I have just left my father's house, athis command."

He stood in a kind of daze. As it was very cold, we bade him goodnight, and went in. Reopening the door, and looking out, I saw himproceeding homeward, his head averted in a meditative attitude. I knewnot till the next day what occurred when he arrived in the Faringfieldhall.

"Sir," said Tom Faringfield, stepping forth from where he had beenleaning against the stair-post, "I must speak low, because my parentsand sister are in the parlour there, and I don't wish them to hear—"

"With all my heart," replied Falconer. "Won't you come into my room,and have a glass of wine?"

"No, sir. If I had a glass of wine, I should only waste it by throwingit in your face. All I have to say is, that you are a scoundrel, and Idesire an opportunity to kill you as soon as may be—"

"Tut, tut, my dear lad—"

"I'll think of a pretext, and send my friend to you to-morrow," addedTom, and, turning his back, went quietly up-stairs to his room; where,having locked the door, he fell face forward upon his bed, and criedlike a heart-broken child.

CHAPTER XV.

In Which There Is a Flight by Sea, and a Duel by Moonlight.

It appeared, from Ned Faringfield's account of himself, that after hisencounter with Philip, and his fall from the shock of his wound, hehad awakened to a sense of being still alive, and had made his way tothe house of a farmer, whose wife took pity on him and nursed him inconcealment to recovery. He then travelled through the woods to StatenIsland, where, declaring himself a deserter from the rebel army, hedemanded to be taken before the British commander.

Being conveyed to headquarters in the Kennedy House, near the bottomof the Broadway, he told his story, whereupon witnesses to hisidentity were easily found, and, Captain Falconer having been broughtto confront him, he was released from bodily custody. He must have hada private interview with Falconer, and, perhaps, obtained money fromhim, before he came to the Faringfield house to vent hisdisappointment upon Madge. Or else he had got money from some othersource; he may have gambled with what part of his pay he received inthe early campaigns. He may, on some occasion, have safely violatedWashington's orders against private robbery under the cover of war. Hemay have had secret dealings with the "Skinners" or other unattachedmarauders. In any case, his assured manner of offering Madge a passageto England with him, showed that he possessed the necessary means.

He had instantly recognised a critical moment of Madge's life, themoment when she found herself suddenly deprived of all resource but afriendly hospitality which she was too proud to make long use of, as aheaven-sent occasion for his ends. At another time, he would not havethought of making Madge his partner in an enterprise like theIrishman's—he feared her too much, and was too sensible of herdislike and contempt.

He set forth his scheme to her the next day, taking her acquiescencefor granted. She listened quietly, without expressing her thoughts;but she neither consented nor refused. Ned, however, made fullarrangements for their voyage; considering it the crowning godsend ofa providential situation, that a vessel was so soon to make the trip,notwithstanding the unlikely time of year. When Margaret's things werebrought over to our house, he advised her to begin packing at once,and he even busied himself in procuring additional trunks from hismother and mine, that she might be able to take all her gowns toLondon. The importance of this, and of leaving none of her jewelrybehind, he most earnestly impressed upon her.

Yet she did not immediately set about packing, Ned probably hadmoments of misgiving, and of secret cursing, when he feared he mightbe reckoning without his host. The rest of us, at the time, knewnothing of what passed between the two: he pretended that the extratrunks were for some mysterious baggage of his own: nor did we thenknow what passed between her and Captain Falconer late in the day, andupon which, indeed, her decision regarding Ned's offer depended.

She had watched at our window for the captain's passing. When atlength he appeared, she was standing so close to the glass, her eyesso unmistakably met his side-look, that he could not pretend he hadnot seen her. As he bowed with most respectful civility, she beckonedhim with a single movement of a finger, and went, herself, to let himin. When he had followed her into our parlour, his manner wasoutwardly of the most delicate consideration, but she thought she sawbeneath it a certain uneasiness. They spoke awhile of her removal fromher father's house; but he avoided question as to its cause, or as toher intentions. At last, she said directly, with assumed lightness:

"I think of going to London with my brother, on the Phoebe ."

She was watching him closely: his face brightened wonderfully.

"I vow, you could do nothing better," he said. "There is yourworld. I've always declared you were a stranger in this far-off land.'Tis time you found your proper element. I can't help confessing it;'tis due to you I should confess it—though alas for us whom you leavein New York!"

She looked at him for a moment, with a slight curling of the lip;witnessed his recovery from the fear that she might throw herself uponhis care; saw his comfort at being relieved of a possible burden hewas not prepared to assume; and then said, very quietly:

"I think Mrs. Russell is coming. You had best go."

With a look of gallant adoration, he made to kiss her hand first. Butshe drew it away, and put her finger to her lip, as if to bid himdepart unheard. When he had left the house, she fell upon the sofa andwept, but only for wounded vanity, for chagrin that she had exposedher heart to one of those gentry who will adore a woman until there isdanger of her becoming an embarrassment.

Before long, she arose, and dried her eyes, and went up-stairs to packher trunks. Thus ended this very light affair of the heart; which hadso heavy consequences for so many people.

But Captain Falconer's inward serenity was not to escape with thisunexpectedly easy ordeal. When he reached his room, he found meawaiting him, as the representative of Tom Faringfield. I had, inobedience to my sense of duty, put forth a few conventionaldissuasions against Tom's fighting the captain; and had presumed tohint that I was nearer to him in years and experience than Tom was.But the boy replied with only a short, bitter laugh at the assuredfutility of my attempts. Plainly, if there was to be fighting overthis matter, I ought not to seek a usurpation of Tom's right. Andfighting there would be, I knew, whether I said yea or nay. Since Tommust have a second, that place was mine. And I felt, too, with a youngman's foolish faith in poetic justice, that the right must win; thathis adversary's superiority in age—and therefore undoubtedly inpractice, Falconer being the man he was—would not avail against anhonest lad avenging the probity of a sister. And so I yieldedcountenance to the affair, and went, as soon as my duty permitted, towait upon Captain Falconer.

"Why," said he, when I had but half told my errand, "I was led toexpect this. The young gentleman called me a harsh name, which I'mwilling to overlook. But he finds himself aggrieved, and, knowing himas I do, I make no doubt he will not be content till we have a bout ortwo. If I refuse, he will dog me, I believe, and make trouble for bothof us, till I grant him what he asks. So the sooner 'tis done, thebetter, I suppose. But lookye, Mr. Russell, 'tis sure to be anembarrassing business. If one or other of us should be hurt, there'dbe the devil to pay, you know. I dare say the General would be quiteobdurate, and go the whole length of the law. There's that to bethought of. Have a glass of wine, and think of it."

Tom and I had already thought of it. We had been longer in New Yorkthan the captain had, and we knew how the embarrassment to which healluded could be provided against.

"'Tis very simple," said I, letting him drink alone, which it was noteasy to do, he was still so likeable a man. "We can go fromKingsbridge as if we meant to join Captain De Lancey in another of hisraids. And we can find some spot outside the lines; and if any one ishurt, we can give it out as the work of rebel irregulars who attackedus."

He regarded me silently a moment, and then said the plan seemed a goodone, and that he would name a second with whom I could arrangedetails. Whereupon, dismissing the subject with a civil expression ofregret that Tom should think himself affronted, he went on to speak ofthe weather, as if a gentleman ought not to treat a mere duel as amatter of deep concern.

I came away wishing it were not so hard to hate him. The second withwhom I at length conferred—for our duties permitted not a promptdespatching of the affair, and moreover Captain Falconer's dispositionwas to conduct it with the gentlemanly leisure its pretendedunimportance allowed—was Lieutenant Hugh Campbell, one of severalofficers of that name who served in the Highland regiment that hadbeen stationed earlier at Valentine's Hill; he therefore knew thedebatable country beyond Kingsbridge as well as I. He was a mereyouth, a serious-minded Scot, and of a different sort from CaptainFalconer: 'twas one of the elegant captain's ways, and evidence of hisbreadth of mind, to make friends of men of other kinds than his own.Young Campbell and I, comparing our recollections of the country,found that we both knew of a little open hollow hidden by thickets,quite near the Kingsbridge tavern, which would serve the purpose.Captain Falconer's duties made a daylight meeting difficult tocontrive without exposing his movements to curiosity, and otherconsiderations of secrecy likewise preferred a nocturnal affair. Wetherefore planned that the four of us, and an Irish surgeon namedMcLaughlin, should appear at the Kingsbridge tavern at ten o'clock ona certain night for which the almanac promised moonlight, and shouldrepair to the meeting-place when the moon should be high enough toillumine the hollow. The weapons were to be rapiers. The preliminaryappearance at the tavern was to save a useless cold wait in case oneof the participants should, by some freak of duty, be hindered fromthe appointment; in which event, or in that of a cloudy sky, thematter should be postponed to the next night, and so on.

The duel was to occur upon a Wednesday night. On that afternoon I wasin the town, having carried some despatches from our outpost toGeneral De Lancey, and thence to General Knyphausen; and I was freefor a few minutes to go home and see my mother.

"What do you think?" she began, handing me a cup of tea as soon as Ihad strode to the parlour fire-place.

"I think this hot tea is mighty welcome," said I, "and that my leftear is nigh frozen. What else?"

"Margaret has gone," she replied, beginning to rub my ear vigorously.

"Gone! Where?" I looked around as if to make sure there was no sign ofher in the room.

"With Ned—on the Phoebe ."

"The deuce! How could you let her do it—you, and her mother, andFanny?"

"We didn't know. I took some jelly over to old Miss Watts—she's veryfeeble—and Madge and Ned went while I was out; they had their trunkscarted off at the same time. 'Twasn't for an hour or two I becamecurious why she kept her room, as I thought; and when I went up tosee, the room was empty. There were two letters there from her, one tome and one to her mother. She said she left in that way, to save thepain of farewells, and to avoid our useless persuasions against hergoing. Isn't it terrible?—poor child! Why it seems only yesterday—"And my good mother's lips drew suddenly down at the corners, and shebegan to sniff spasmodically.

"But is it too late?" I asked, in a suddenly quieted voice. That thebrightness and beauty of Madge, which had been a part of my worldsince I could remember, should have gone from about us, all in amoment!—'twas a new thought, and a strange one. What a blank sheleft, what a dulness!

"Too late, heaven knows!" said my mother, drying her eyes with ahandkerchief, and speaking brokenly. "As soon as Mrs. Faringfield readthe letters, which I had taken over at once, Fanny and Mr. Corneliusstarted running for the wharves. But when they got there, the Phoebewasn't in sight. It had sailed immediately their trunks were aboard, Isuppose. Oh, to think of pretty Madge—what will become of her in thatgreat, bad London?"

"She has made her plans, no doubt, and knows what she is doing," saidI, with a little bitterness. "Poor Phil! Her father is much to blame."

When I told Tom, as soon as I reached the outpost, he gave a sudden,ghastly, startled look; then collected himself, and glanced at thesword with which he meant to fight that night.

"Why, I was afraid she would go," said he, in a strained voice; andthat was all.

Whenever I saw him during the rest of the evening, he was silent,pale, a little shaky methought. He was not as I had been before mymaiden duel: blustering and gay, in a trance-like recklessness;assuming self-confidence so well as to deceive even myself and carryme buoyantly through. He seemed rather in suspense like that of alover who has to beg a stern father for a daughter's hand. As a slighthurt will cause a man the greatest pain, and a severe injury produceno greater, so will the apprehensions of a trivial ordeal equal ineffect those of a matter of life and death; there being a limit topossible sensation, beyond which nature leaves us happily numb.Sometimes, upon occasion, Tom smiled, but with a stiffness ofcountenance; when he laughed, it was in a short, jerky, mechanicalmanner. As for me, I was in different mood from that preceding my ownfirst trial of arms: I was now overcast in spirit, tremulous, full ofmisgivings.

The moon did not disappoint us as we set out for the tavern. Therewere but a few fleecy clouds, and these not of an opaqueness to darkenits beams when they passed across it. The snow was frozen hard in thefields, and worn down in the road. The frost in the air bit ournostrils, and we now and again worked our countenances into strangegrimaces, to free them from the sensation of being frozen hard.

"'Tis a beautiful night," said Tom, speaking in more composure than hehad shown during the early evening. The moonlight had a calmingeffect, as the clear air had a bracing one. His eyes roamed the sky,and then the moonlit, snow-clad earth—hillock and valley, wood andpond, solitary house bespeaking indoor comfort, and a glimpse of thedark river in the distance—and he added:

"What a fine world it is!"

When we entered the warm tap-room of the tavern—the house aboveKingsbridge, outside the barriers where the passes were examined andthe people searched who were allowed entrance and departure; notHyatt's tavern, South of the bridge—we found a number of subalternsthere, some German, some British, some half-drunk, some playing cards.Our Irish surgeon sat in a corner, reading a book—I think 'twas aLatin author—by the light of a tallow candle. He nodded to usindifferently, as if he had no engagement with us, and continued toread. Tom and I ordered a hot rum punch mixed for us, and stood at thebar to drink it.

"You look pale and shaky, you two," said the tavern-keeper, whohimself waited upon us.

"'Tis the cold," said I. "We're not all of your constitution, to walkaround in shirt-sleeves this weather."

"Why," says the landlord, "I go by the almanac. 'Tis time for theJanuary thaw, 'cordin' to that. Something afoot to-night, eh? One o'them little trips up the river, or out East Chester way, with DeLancey's men, I reckon?"

We said nothing, but wisely looked significant, and the host grinned.

"More like 'tis a matter of wenches," put in a half-drunken ensignstanding beside us at the bar. "That's the only business to bring agentleman out such a cursed night. Damn such a vile country, cold ashell in winter, and hot as hell in summer! Damn it and sink it! andfill up my glass, landlord. Roast me dead if I stick my noseoutdoors to-night!"

"A braw, fine nicht, the nicht, gentlemen," said a sober, ruddy-facedScot, very gravely, with a lofty contempt for the other's remarks."Guid, hamelike weather."

But the feelings and thoughts prevailing in the tap-room were not intune with those agitating our hearts, and as soon as Captain Falconerand his friend came in, we took our leave, exchanging a purposelycareless greeting with the newcomers. We turned in silence from theroad, crossed a little sparsely wooded hill, and arrived in thethicket-screened hollow.

'Twas in silence we had come. I had felt there was much I would like,and ought, to say, but something in Tom's mood or mine, or in thesituation, benumbed my thoughts so they would not come forth, orjumbled them so I knew not where to begin. Arrived upon the groundwith a palpitating sense of the nearness of the event, we foundourselves still less fit for utterance of the things deepest in ourminds.

"There'll be some danger of slipping on the frozen snow," said I,trying to assume a natural, even a cheerful, tone.

"'Tis an even danger to both of us," said Tom, speaking quickly tomaintain a steadiness of voice, as a drunken man walks fast to avoid acrookedness of gait.

While we were tramping about to keep warm, the Irish surgeon came tous through the bushes, vowing 'twas "the divvle's own weather, shureenough, barrin' the hivvenly moonlight." Opening his capaciousgreatcoat, he brought from concealment a small case, which Tom eyedaskance, and I regarded ominously, though it had but a mereprofessional aspect to its owner.

We soon heard the tread, and the low but easy voices, of CaptainFalconer and Lieutenant Campbell; who joined us with salutations,graceful on Falconer's part, and naturally awkward on that ofCampbell. How I admired the unconcerned, leisurely manner in whichFalconer, having gone a little aloof from Tom and me, removed hisovercoat, laced coat, and waistcoat, giving a playful shiver,purposely exaggerated, as he stood in his ruffled shirt andwell-fitting boots and breeches. I was awkward in helping Tom off withhis outer clothes. The moonlight, making everything in the hollowwell-nigh as visible as by day, showed Tom's face to be white, hiseyes wide-open and darkly radiant; while in Falconer's case itrevealed a countenance as pleasant and gracious as ever, eyes neitherset nor restless.

Campbell and I perfunctorily compared the swords, gave them a bend ortwo, and handed them to the principals. We then stood back. DoctorMcLaughlin looked on with a mild interest. There was a low cry, a ringof steel, and the two men were at it.

I recall the moonshine upon their faces, the swift dartings of theirfaintly luminous blades, their strangely altering shadows on the snowas they moved, the steady attention of us who looked on, the moan ofthe wind among the trees upon the neighbouring heights, the sound ofthe men's tramping on the crusted snow, the clear clink of theirweapons, sometimes the noise of their breathing. They eyed each othersteadfastly, seeming to grudge the momentary winks enforced by nature.Falconer's purpose, I began to see, was but to defend himself anddisarm his opponent. But Tom gave him much to do, making lightningthrusts with a suddenness and persistence that began at length to trythe elder man. So they kept it up till I should have thought they weretired out.

Suddenly Tom made a powerful lunge that seemed to find the captainunready. But the latter, with a sharp involuntary cry, got his bladeup in time to divert the point, by pure accident, with the guard ofhis hilt. His own point was thus turned straight toward hisantagonist; and Tom, throwing his weight after his weapon, impaledhimself upon the captain's. For an infinitesimal point of time, tillthe sword was drawn out, the lad seemed to stand upon his toes,leaning forward, looking toward the sky with a strange surprise uponhis face, eyes and mouth alike open. And then he collapsed as if hislegs and body were but empty rags; and fell in a huddle upon the snow:with a convulsive movement he stretched himself back to the shape of aman; and lay perfectly still.

The captain bent over him with astonishment. The surgeon ran to him,and turned him flat upon his back. I was by this time kneelingopposite the surgeon, who tore open Tom's shirts and examined hisbody.

"Bedad, gentlemen," said the Irishman sadly, in a moment, "he's beyontthe need of my profession. 'Tis well ye had that sthory ready, in caseof accident."

I stared incredulously at the surgeon, and then buried my face uponthe dear body of the dead, mingling my wild tears with his blood.

"Oh, Madge, Madge," thought I, "if you could see what your folly hasled to!"

CHAPTER XVI.

Follows the Fortunes of Madge and Ned.

But Madge could know nothing yet of that night's occurrence. She wasthen many miles out to sea, her thoughts perhaps still lingeringbehind with her old life, but bound soon to overtake her, and to passfar ahead to the world she was sailing for, the world of herlong-cherished desires.

I shall briefly relate a part of what she afterward recounted to me.The voyage from New York to Bristol lasted six weeks. She sufferedmuch from her cramped quarters, from the cold weather, fromseasickness; but she bore up against her present afflictions, in thehope of future compensations. She put away from her, with the facilityof an ambitious beauty, alike her regrets for the past, and hermisgivings of the future.

Not to risk any increase of those misgivings, she refrained fromquestioning Ned as to his resources, nor did she require of him aminute exposition of his plans. She preferred to leave all to him andto circ*mstance, considering that, once launched upon the sea ofLondon, and perfectly unrestricted as to her proceedings, she couldmake shift to keep afloat. She had an earnest of the power of herbeauty, in its effect upon the ship's captain, who, in the absence ofpassengers, was the only person aboard whose admiration was worthplaying for. She had the place of honour at his table, and in herpresence he was nothing but eyes and dumb confusion, while theextraordinary measures he took for her comfort proclaimed him herwilling slave.

She listened without objection or comment when Ned, in confidentialmoods, forced his purposes upon her attention.

"We'll make 'em stare, my dear," said he. "We'll make 'em open theireyes a bit; just you wait! We'll find lodgings somewhere in the thickof the town, and I'll take you to the theatres, and to walk in St.James Park, and to the public assemblies, and wherever you're sure tobe seen. I wish 'twere Summer; then there'd be Vauxhall and Ranelagh,and all that. 'Tis a bad time of year in London now; but we'll do ourbest. There'll be young sparks of quality enough, to ask each otherwho that goddess is, and that Venus, and that angel, and all that kindof thing; and they'll be mad to make your acquaintance. They'll takenote of me, and when they see me at the coffee-houses and faro-tables,they'll fall over one another in the rush to know me, and to be myfriends. And I'll pick out the best, and honour 'em with invitationsto call at our lodgings, and there'll be my pretty sister to mix apunch for us, or pour out tea for us; and once we let 'em see we're asgood quality as any of 'em, and won't stand any damn' nonsense,' why,you leave it to brother Ned to land a fat fish, that's all!"

She had a fear that his operations might at length become offensive toher taste, might stray from the line of her own ambitions; but she sawgood reason to await developments in silence; and to postponedeviating from Ned's wishes, until they should cease to forward hers.

Upon her landing at Bristol, and looking around with interest at theshipping which reminded her of New York but to emphasise her feelingof exile therefrom, her thrilling sense of being at last in the OldWorld, abated her heaviness at leaving the ship which seemed the oneremaining tie with her former life. If ever a woman felt herself to beentering upon life anew, and realised a necessity of blotting the pastfrom memory, it was she; and well it was that the novelty of hersurroundings, the sense of treading the soil whereon she had so longpined to set foot, aided her resolution to banish from her mind allthat lay behind her.

The time-worn, weather-beaten aspect of the town, its old streetsthronged with people of whom she was not known to a soul, would havemade her disconsolate, had she not forced herself to contemplate withinterest the omnipresent antiquity, to her American eyes so new. Andso, as she had heroically endured seasickness, she now fought bravelyagainst homesickness; and, in the end, as nearly conquered it as oneever does.

'Twas a cold ride by stage-coach to London, at that season; there werefew travellers in the coach, and those few were ill-natured withdiscomfort, staring fiercely at the two strangers—whose strangenessthey instantly detected by some unconscious process—as if the pairwere responsible for the severe February weather, or guilty of someunknown crime. At the inns where they stopped, for meals andovernight, they were subjected to a protracted gazing on the part ofall who saw them—an inspection seemingly resentful or disapproving,but indeed only curious. It irritated Madge, who asked Ned what thecause might be.

"Tut! Don't mind it," said he. "'Tis the way of the English,everywhere but in London. They stare at strangers as if they was indanger of being insulted by 'em, or having their pockets picked by'em, or at best as if they was looking at some remarkable animal; butthey mean no harm by it."

"How can they see we are strangers?" she queried. "We're dressed likethem."

"God knows! Perhaps because we look more cheerful than they do, andhave a brisker way, and laugh easier," conjectured Ned. "But you'llfeel more at home in London."

By the time she arrived in London, having slept in a different bedeach night after landing, and eaten at so many different inns eachday, Madge felt as if she had been a long while in England.[8] Shecame to the town thus as to a haven of rest; and though she was stillgazed at for her beauty, it was not in that ceaseless and mistrustfulway in which she had been scrutinised from top to toe in the country;moreover, the names of many of the streets and localities werefamiliar to her, and in her thoughts she had already visited them: forthese reasons, which were more than Ned had taken account of, she didindeed feel somewhat at home in London, as he had predicted.

The night of their arrival was passed at the inn, in the Strand, wherethe coach had set them down. The next morning Ned chose lodgings inCraven Street: three rooms, constituting the entire first floor; whichMadge, though she thought the house had a dingy look, foundcomfortable enough in their faded way; and wherein the two wereinstalled by noon. They spent the afternoon walking about the mostfamous streets, returning to their lodgings for dinner.

"I think," said Ned, while they were eating, "'twon't do any harm toget on one of your best gowns, and your furbelows, and we'll go to theplay, and begin the campaign this very night."

"Bless me, no! I'm tired to death with sightseeing," replied Madge. "Icould fall asleep this moment. Besides, who's here to dress my hair? Icouldn't go without a commode."

"Oh, well, just as you like. Only be pleased to remember, ma'am, mypurse isn't a widow's mite—widow's cruse of oil, I mean, that runsfor ever. I've been at a great expense to bring you here, and poundsand shillings don't rain from heaven like—like that stuff the Jewslived on for forty years in the wilderness. The sooner we land ourfish, the sooner we'll know where the money's coming from. I sha'n'tbe able to pay for lodgings and meals very long."

"Why, 'tis a pretty pass if you've no more money—"

"Well, it is a pretty pass, and that's just what it is. I didn'tcount the cost when I made the generous offer to bring you. Oh, we canlast a week or so yet, but the sooner something is done, the sooner weshall be easy in our minds. On second thoughts, though, you'd bettergo to bed and rest. It mightn't be well to flash on the town to-night,looking fa*gged, and without your hair dressed, and all that. So you goto bed and I'll go around and—call upon a few friends I made when Iwas here before."

Ned had so improved his attire, by acquisitions in New York, Bristol,and London, that his appearance was now presentable in the haunts ofgentlemen. So he went out, leaving her alone. She could no longerpostpone meditating upon what was before her.

Now that she viewed it for the first time in definite particulars, itstrue aspect struck her with a sudden dismay. She was expected to donothing less than exhibit herself for sale, put herself up at auctionfor the highest bidder, set out her charms as a bait. And when thebait drew, and the bidders offered, and the buyer awaited—what then?She would never, her pride alone would never let her, degrade herselfto a position at the very thought of which she caught her breath withhorror. Come what may, the man who purchased her must put thetransaction into the form of marriage. True, she was already married,in the view of the law; but, with a woman's eye for essentials, shefelt her divorce from Philip already accomplished. The law, sheallowed, would have to be satisfied with matters of form: but that wasa detail to be observed when the time came; Philip would not opposeobstacles.

So she would let matters take their course, would wait uponoccurrences. In very truth, to put herself on view with intent ofcatching a husband, of obtaining an establishment in life, was no morethan young ladies of fashion, of virtue, of piety, did continually,under the skilled direction of the most estimable mothers. In Madge'scase, the only difference was, on the one side, the excuse ofnecessity; on the other side, the encumbrance of her existingmarriage. But the latter could be removed, whereas the former woulddaily increase.

She must, therefore, benefit by Ned's operations as long as they didnot threaten to degrade her. By the time they did threaten so, shewould have gained some experience of her own, circ*mstances would havearisen which she could turn to her use. Of actual destitution, neverhaving felt it, she could not conceive; and therefore she did not takeaccount of its possibility in her case.

So, having recovered from her brief panic, she went to bed and sleptsoundly.

The next morning Ned was in jubilant spirits. His visit the previousnight had been to a gaminghouse in Covent Garden, and fortune hadshowered him with benefactions. He saw the margin of time at theirdisposal lengthened by several weeks. He bade his sister put herselfat her best, drank with her to their success, and went and engaged ahairdresser and a maid. They went that night, in a hackney-coach, tothe play at Drury Lane.

The open-mouthed gazing of her new maid, the deftly spoken admirationof her hairdresser, and the mirror upon her dressing-table, hadprepared Madge for triumph. Her expectations were not disappointed,but they were almost forgotten. Her pleasure at sight of the restless,chattering crowd; her interest in the performance; her joy in seeing,in fine: supplanted half the consciousness of being seen. But she was,indeed, stared at from all parts of the house; people looked, andnudged one another; and the powdered bucks and beauties in theside-boxes, glancing up, forgot their own looks in examining hers.

Ned was elated beyond measure. He praised her all the way home in thecoach, and when they stood at last on the step of their lodging-house,he waited a moment before going in, and looked back toward the Strand,half-thinking that some susceptible and adventurous admirer might havefollowed their conveyance to the door.

The next day, Sunday, he took her to church, at St. James's inPiccadilly, where they had difficulty in getting seats, and whereseveral pious dowagers were scandalised at the inattention of theirmale company to the service. Ned walked out alone in the afternoon,but, to his surprise, he was not accosted by any gentleman pretendingto recognise him as some one else, as a means of knowing him ashimself.

On Monday he made himself seen at numerous coffee-houses and taverns,but, although he came upon two or three faces that he had noted in thetheatre, no one looked at him with any sign of recollection. "Well,well," thought he, and afterward said to Madge, "in time they willcome to remember me as the lovely creature's escort; at first theireyes will be all for the lovely creature herself."

They went to Covent Garden that evening, and to the Haymarket thenext; and subsequently to public assemblies: Madge everywherearresting attention, and exciting whispers and elbowings amongobservers wherever she passed. At the public balls, she was asked todance, by fellows of whom neither she nor Ned approved, but who, Nedfinally came to urge, might be useful acquaintances as leading tobetter ones. But she found all of them contemptible, and would notencourage any of them.

"If we could only get an invite to some private entertainment, thething would be done in a jiffy," said Ned, "but damn it, you won'tlead on any of these fellows—sure they must know ladies to whom theywould mention you."

"I shouldn't think much of ladies that sought acquaintances on theirrecommendation."

"Why, curse it, we must begin somewhere, to get in."

"If we began where these could open the doors, I warrant we shouldn'tget very far in."

"Rat me if I understand why the men that are taken with you at theplay, and elsewhere—real gentlemen of quality, some of 'em—never tryto follow you up through me. I've put myself in their way, the Lordknows. Maybe they think I'm your husband. Curse it, there is adifficulty! If you walked alone, in St. James Park, or past theclubs—?"

"You scoundrel, do you think I've come to that?"

Her look advised him not to pursue his last suggestion. By this timehis expectations from their public appearances together had been sadlydampened. They must make acquaintances; creditable ones, that is tosay, for of another kind he had enough and to spare.

But at last, after some weeks, during which he remained unapproached,and at the end of which he came to a belated perception of theinsuperable barrier between the elect and the undesirable, and of hisown identity with the latter class, he decided he must fall back uponhis friends for what they might be worth. He had undergone many snubsin his efforts to thrust himself upon fine gentlemen in taverns,coffee-houses, and gaming-places. As for Madge, her solitude had beenmitigated by her enjoyment of plays and sights, of the externalglimpses of that life to which her entrance seemed impossible.

Ned began therefore to bring his associates to their lodgings:chiefly, a gambling barrister of Lincoln's Inn, a drunken cashieredcaptain of marines, and a naval surgeon's mate with an unhealthyoutbreak on his face. One meeting with each rascal sufficed to makeMadge deny her presence upon his next visit. At this Ned raged,declaring, that these gentlemen, though themselves in adversecirc*mstances, had relations and friends among the quality or thewealthy. And at length he triumphantly made good his assertion byintroducing a youth to whom the barrister had introduced him, and who,he whispered to Madge, though not blessed with a title, was the heirin prospect of an immense fortune. It came out that he was the son ofa prosperous fishmonger in the city.

He was a fat, good-humoured fellow, expensively dressed, and clean,being in all these points an exception among Ned's acquaintances.Madge found him, as a mere acquaintance, more amusing thanintolerable; but as a possible husband, not to be thought of save withlaughter and contempt.

Her refusal to consider him in the desired light, made Ned very wroth;and in revenge he went out, and, between drink and gaming, rid himselfof every penny he possessed. He thereupon begged that Madge would lethim pawn some of her jewelry. She refused to do so; until theirlandlady threatened ejection and suit.

After that, matters went from bad to worse. With part of the moneyobtained upon what trinkets she gave him, Ned tried to repair hisfortunes at the gaming-table; and that failing, he consoled himself indrunkenness. More of her valuables were demanded; yielded up afterterrible quarrels with Ned, and humiliating scenes with the landlady.The visits to the play ceased, the maid was discharged, thehairdresser was no more brought into requisition. Their fall todestitution was worthy of the harebrained design, the bunglingconduct, of Ned; the childish inexperience, the blind confidence, ofMadge. 'Twas a fall as progressive as a series of prints by Hogarth.The brother was perpetually in liquor; he no longer took Madge outwith him. Often he stayed away nights and days at a time.

She resolved to entrust nothing further to him, but to dispose of herornaments herself, and to devote the proceeds to necessities alone, ashe had wasted them in drink and gaming. When she acted upon thisresolution, he behaved like a madman. Fearful quarrels ensued. Heblamed her for defeating his plans, she upbraided him for alluring herto London. Recriminations and threats filled the hours when he waswith her; loneliness and despondency occupied the periods of hisabsence. Finally, while she slept, he robbed her of money she had gotupon a bracelet; then of some of the jewelry itself. She dared nolonger sleep soundly, lest he might take away her last means ofsubsistence. She was in daily and nightly terror of him.

She made up her mind, at last, to flee to some other part of the town,and hide from him; that her few resources left might be devoted toherself alone, and thus postpone the day of destruction to thefurthest possible time. After her last jewel, she might dispose of herdresses. It was on a moonlight night in spring that she came to thisdetermination; and, as Ned had gone out in a mood apparently presaginga long absence, she set about packing her clothes into her trunks, soas to take them with her when she left by hackney-coach at earlydaylight to seek new lodgings.

Suddenly she heard the door below slam with a familiar violence, and awell-known heavy tread ascend the stairs. There was no time to concealwhat she was at, ere Ned flung open the door, and stumbled in. Hestared in amazement at her trunks and dresses.

"What's this?" he cried. "Why is all this trash lying around? Why,damme, you're packing your trunks!"

She had passed the mood for dissembling. "Well," she retorted, "I maypack my trunks if I please. They're my trunks, and my things in 'em."

"What! You thankless hussy, were you going to run away?"

"'Tis no concern of yours, what I was going to do!"

"Oh, isn't it? We'll see about that! Begad, 'tis lucky I came back! Soyou were going to desert me, eh? Well, I'm damned if there was eversuch ingratitude! After all I've done and suffered!"

She gave a derisive laugh, and defiantly resumed her packing.

"What! you're rebellious, are you?" quoth he. "But you'll not get awayfrom me so easy, my lady. Not with those clothes, at least; foryourself, it doesn't much matter. I'll just put those things back intothe press, and after this I'll carry the key. But your rings andnecklace—I'll take charge of them first."

He stepped forward to lay hands upon the ornaments, which, for theirgreater security from him, she now wore upon her person at all times.She sprang away, ready to defend them by every possible means, andwarning him not to touch her. Her flashing eyes and fiery mien checkedhim for a moment; then, with a curse, he seized her by the neck andessayed to undo the necklace. Thereupon she screamed loudly for help.To intimidate her into silence, he struck her in the face. At that shebegan to struggle and hit, so that he was hard put to it to retainhold of her and to save his face from her hands. Enraged by herefforts, he finally drew back to give her a more effectual blow; whichhe succeeded in doing, but at the cost of relaxing his grasp, so thatshe slipped from him and escaped by the door. She hastened down thestairs and into the street, he in wrathful pursuit. She fled towardthe Strand.

"HE FINALLY DREW BACK TO GIVE HER A MORE EFFECTUALBLOW."

At the corner of that thoroughfare, she ran into a trio of gentlemenwho just at the moment reached the junction of the two streets.

"The deuce!" cried one of the three, flinging his arms around her."What have we here? Beauty in distress?"

"Let me go!" she cried. "Don't let him take me."

"Him!" echoed the gentleman, releasing her. He was adistinguished-looking fellow of twenty-eight or so, with a winningface and very fine eyes. "Oh, I see. The villain in pursuit!"

"Egad, that makes you the hero to the rescue, Dick," said one of theyoung gentleman's companions.

"Faith, I'll play the part, too," replied Dick. "Fear not, madam."

"Thank you, sir, for stopping her," said Ned, coming up, panting.

"Pray, don't waste your thanks. What shall I do to the rascal, madam?"

"I don't care," she answered. "Don't let him have me."

"None of that, sir," spoke up Ned. "She's a runaway, and I'm hernatural protector."

"Her husband?" inquired Dick.

"No—"

"I congratulate you, madam."

"I'm her brother," said Ned.

"And condole with you in the same breath," finished Dick, to Margaret."You're a lady, I see. Pardon my familiarity at first. Sure youneedn't fear me—I have a wife as beautiful as yourself. As for thisrelation of yours—"

"He tried to rob me of my necklace and rings. We lodge yonder, wherethe light is in the window. He found me packing my trunks to leavehim—"

"And leave him you shall. Shall she not, gentlemen?"

His two companions warmly assented. Ned savagely measured them withhis eyes, but did not dare a trial of prowess against three. Moreover,their courtly address and easy manners disconcerted him.

"Oh, I sha'n't harm her," he grumbled. "'Twas but a tiff. Let her comeback home; 'twill be all well."

But Madge was not for resigning herself a moment to his mercy. Shebriefly explained her situation and her wishes. The upshot of all was,that the young gentleman called Dick turned to his friends and said:

"What say you, gentlemen? Our friends at Brooks's can wait, I think.Shall we protect this lady while she packs her trunks, find lodgingsfor her this very night, and see her installed in them?"

"Ay, and see that this gentle brother does not follow or learn whereshe goes," answered one.

"Bravo!" cried the other. "'Twill be like an incident in a comedy,Dick."

"Rather like a page of Smollett," replied Dick. "With your permission,madam, we'll accompany you to your lodgings."

They sat around the fireplace, with their backs to her, and talkedwith easy gaiety, while she packed her possessions; Ned having firstfollowed them in, and then fled to appease his mind at an ale-house.Finally Dick and one of the gentlemen closed her trunks for her, whilethe other went for a coach; wherein all three accompanied her to thehouse of a wigmaker known to Dick, in High Holborn; where they rousedthe inmates, made close terms, and left her installed in a decent roomwith her belongings.

As they took their leave, after an almost tearful burst of thanks onher part, Dick said:

"From some of your expressions, madam, I gather that your resourcesare limited—resources of one kind, I mean. But in your appearance,your air, and your voice, you possess resources, which if ever youfeel disposed to use, I beg you will let me know. Pray don'tmisunderstand me; the world knows how much I am in love with mywife."[9]

When he had gone, leaving her puzzled and astonished, she turned tothe wigmaker's wife, who was putting the room to rights, and asked:

"Pray what is that last gentleman's name?"

"Wot, ma'am! Can it be you don't know 'im? "

"He forgot to tell me."

"Sure 'e thought as you must know already. Everybody in London knowsthe great Mr. Sheridan."

"What! Mr. Richard Brinsley Sheridan, the dramatist?"

"And manager of Drury Lane Theaytre. Didn't you 'ear 'im hoffer to putyou on the stage, w'en 'e spoke about your looks and voice?"

Madge turned to the mirror; and saw, for the—first time in weeks, asudden light of hope, a sense of triumphs yet in her power, dawn uponher face.

CHAPTER XVII.

I Hear Again from Winwood.

Meanwhile we passed through a time of deep sorrow at the Faringfieldhouse and ours. The effect of Tom's untimely fate, coming uponMargaret's departure and the disclosures regarding her and Ned, wasmarked in Mr. Faringfield by a haggardness of countenance, an avertedglance, a look of age, pitiful to see. His lady considered herselfcrushed by affliction, as one upon whom grief had done its worst; andshe resigned herself to the rôle of martyr in the comfortablymiserable way that some people do, without losing her appreciation ofthe small consolations of life, such as morning chocolate, afternoontea, and neighbourly conversation upon the subject of her woes. PoorFanny bore up for the sake of cheering her parents, but her face, fora long time, was rarely without the traces of tears shed in solitude.Of that household of handsome, merry children, whose playful shoutshad once filled the mansion and garden with life, she was now the onlyone left. I sighed to think that my chances of taking her away fromthat house were now reduced to the infinitesimal. Her parents, who hadbrought into the world so promising a family, to find themselves nowso nearly alone, must not be left entirely so: such would be heranswer to any pleas I might in my selfishness offer.

What a transformation had been wrought in that once cheerfulhousehold! How many lives were darkened!—Mr. Faringfield's, hiswife's, Fanny's, Philip's (when he should know), Madge's (sooner orlater), the sympathetic Cornelius's, my mother's, my own. And what apromising, manly, gentle life had been cut short in its earliestbloom! I knew that Tom's life alone had been worth a score of liveslike Captain Falconer's. And the cause of all this, though Margaretwas much to blame, was the idle resolve of a frivolous lady-killer toadd one more conquest to his list, in the person of a woman for whomhe did not entertain more than the most superficial feelings. What asacrifice had been made for the transient gratification of astranger's vanity! What bitter consequences, heartrending separations,had come upon all of us who had lived so close together so manypleasant years, through the careless self-amusem*nt of a chanceinterloper whose very name we had not known six months before!

And now, the pleasure-seeker's brief pastime in that quarter beingended, the lasting sorrows of his victims having begun; his own careerapparently not altered from its current, their lives diverted rudelyinto dark channels and one of them stopped short for ever: was thematter to rest so?

You may easily guess what my answer was to this question. When Ipondered on the situation, I no longer found Captain Falconer a hardman to hate. The very lightness of his purpose, contrasted with theheaviness of its consequences, aggravated his crime. To risk so muchupon other people, to gain so little for himself, was the more heinoussin than its converse would have been. That he might not have foreseenthe evil consequences made possible, was no palliation: he ought tohave examined the situation; or indeed he ought to have heeded what hemust have known, that little offences may always entail dire evils.Measured by their possibility to work havoc with lives, there are nosmall sins. The man who enters carelessly upon a trivial deviationis therefore as much to be held responsible as he that walksdeliberately into the blackest crime. Not to know this, is not to havestudied life; and not to have studied life is, in a person of matureyears, a mighty sin of omission, because of the great evils that mayarise from ignorance. But Captain Falconer must have known life, musthave seen the hazards of his course. Therefore he was responsible inany view; and therefore I would do my utmost toward exacting paymentfrom him. Plainly, in Philip's absence, the right fell to me, as hisfriend and Tom's—nay, too, as the provisionally accepted husband ofMr. Faringfield's second daughter.

But before I got an opportunity to make a quarrel with Falconer (whohad moved his quarters from the Faringfield house, wherein he had notslept or eaten since the night of Margaret's leaving it, though he hadspent some time in his rooms there on the ensuing day) I had a curiousinterview with Mr. Faringfield.

While in the town one day, I had stopped as usual to see my mother.Just as I was about to remount my horse, Mr. Faringfield appeared athis garden gate. Beckoning me to him, he led the way into the garden,and did not stop until we were behind a fir-tree, where we could notbe seen from the house.

"Tell me the truth," said he abruptly, his eyes fixed piercingly uponmine, "how Tom met his death."

After a moment's confusion, I answered:

"I can add nothing to what has been told you, sir."

He looked at me awhile in silence; then said, with a sorrowful frown:

"I make no doubt you are tongue-tied by a compact. But you need notfear me. The British authorities are not to be moved by any complaintof mine. My object is not to procure satisfaction for my son's death.I merely wish to know whether he took it upon himself to revenge ourcalamities; and whether that was not the true cause of his death."

"Why, sir," I said awkwardly, as he still held me in a searching gazethat seemed to make speech imperative, "how should you think that?"

"From several things. In the first place, I know Tom was a lad ofmettle. The account of the supposed attack that night, has it thatFalconer was in your party; he was one of those who returned with you.What would Tom have been doing in Falconer's society, when not underorders, after what had occurred? Other people, who know nothing ofthat occurrence, would see nothing strange in their being together.But I would swear the boy was not so lost to honourable feeling as tohave been Falconer's companion after what had taken place here."

"'Twas no loss of honourable feeling that made him Falconer'scompanion!" said I, impulsively.

"Then," cried he, quickly, with eagerness in his voice, "'twas tofight Falconer?"

"I didn't say that."

"Thank God, then, if he had to die, 'twas not as that man's friend,but his antagonist! My poor, brave Tom! My noble boy! Oh, would I hadknown him better while he lived!"

"He was all that is chivalrous and true, sir."

"I wanted only this assurance. I felt it in my heart. Don't fear mybetraying you; I understand how these affairs have to be managed atsuch times. Alas, if I had but known in time to prevent! Well, well,'tis too late now. But there is one person I must confide thisto—Philip."

"But I haven't told you anything, sir."

"Quite true; and therefore what I shall confide to Philip will not beof your telling. He will be silent, too. We shall make no disclosures.Falconer shall receive his punishment in another manner."

"He shall, sir," said I, with a positiveness which, in his feeling ofsorrow, and yet relief, to know that Tom had died as champion of thefamily honour, escaped his notice. I thereupon took my leave.

As I afterward came to know, he sent Philip an account of the wholelamentable affair, from Ned's reappearance to Tom's death; it waswritten in a cipher agreed upon between the two, and 'twas carried byBill Meadows. Mr. Faringfield deemed it better that Philip should knowthe whole truth from his relation, than learn of Madge's departure,and Tom's fate, from other accounts, which must soon reach his ears inany case.

I know not exactly how many days later it was, that, having a freeevening in the town, I went to the Faringfield house in hope ofbearing some cheer with me. But 'twas in vain. Mrs. Faringfield waskeeping her chamber, and requiring Fanny's attendance. Mr. Faringfieldsat in a painful reverie, before the parlour fire; scarce looked upwhen I entered; and seemed to find the lively spirits I brought infrom the cold outer world, a jarring note upon his mood. He had notordered candles: the firelight was more congenial to his meditations.Mr. Cornelius sat in a dark corner of the room, lending his silentsympathy, and perhaps a fitting word now and then, to the merchant'sreflections.

Old Noah, the only servant I saw, reflected in his black face thesorrow that had fallen on the home, and stepped with the tread of aghost. I soon took my leave, having so far failed to carry anybrightness into the stricken house, that I came away filled with asadness akin to its own. I walked forward aimlessly through the wintrydusk, thinking life all sorrow, the world all gloom.

Suddenly the sound of laughter struck my ears. Could there indeed bemirth anywhere—nay, so near at hand—while such woe dwelt in thehouse I had left? The merriment seemed a violence, a sacrilege, aninsult. I looked angrily at the place whence the noise proceeded.'Twas from the parlour of the King's Arms tavern—for, in my dolefulponderings, my feet had carried me, scarce consciously, so far fromQueen Street. I peered in through the lighted window. A number ofofficers were drinking, after dinner, at a large table, and 'twas thenoise of their boisterous gaiety that my unhappy feelings had soswiftly resented.

While the merry fellows dipped their punch from the great bowlsteaming in the centre of the table, and laughed uproariously at thestory one was telling, I beheld in sharp contrast this jocund sceneand the sad one I had so recently looked upon. And, coming to observeparticulars, I suddenly noticed that the cause of all this laughter,himself smiling in appreciation of his own story as he told it, hisface the picture of well-bred light-hearted mirth, was CaptainFalconer. And he was the cause of the other scene, the sorrow thatabode in the house I loved! The thought turned me to fire. I uttered acurse, and strode into the tavern; rudely flung open the parlour door,and stood in the presence of the laughing officers.

Falconer himself was the first to recognise me, though all had turnedto see who made so violent an entrance.

"Why, Russell," cried he, showing not a whit of ill-humour at theinterruption to his story, "this is a pleasure, by George! I haven'tseen you in weeks. Find a place, and dive into the punch. EnsignRussell, gentlemen—if any of you haven't the honour already—and myvery good friend, too!"

"Ensign Russell," I assented, "but not your friend, Captain Falconer.I desire no friends of your breed; and I came in here for the purposeof telling you so, damn you!"

Falconer's companions were amazed, of course; and some of them lookedresentful and outraged, on his behalf. But the captain himself, withvery little show of astonishment, continued his friendly smile to me.

"Well acted, Russell," said he, in a tone so pleasant I had to tightenmy grip upon my resolution. "On my conscience, anybody who didn't knowus would never see your joke."

"Nor would anybody who did know us," I retorted. "If an affront beforeall this company, purposely offered, be a joke, then laugh at thisone. But a man of spirit would take it otherwise."

"Sure the fellow means to insult you, Jack," said one of the officersto Falconer.

"Thank you," said I to the officer.

"Why, Bert," said the captain, quickly, "you must be under somedelusion. Have you been drinking too much?"

"Not a drop," I replied. "I needn't be drunk, to know a scoundrel.Come, sir, will you soon take offence? How far must I go?"

"By all that's holy, Jack," cried one of his friends, "if you don'tknock him down, I shall!"

"Ay, he ought to have his throat slit!" called out another.

"Nay, nay!" said Falconer, stopping with a gesture a general risingfrom the table. "There is some mistake here. I will talk with thegentleman alone. After you, sir." And, having approached me, he waitedwith great civility, for me to precede him out of the door. I acceptedpromptly, being in no mood to waste time in a contest of politeness.

"Now, lad, what in the name of heaven—" he began, in the most gentle,indulgent manner, as we stood alone in the passage.

"For God's sake," I blurted irritably, "be like your countrymen inthere: be sneering, resentful, supercilious! Don't be so cursedamiable—don't make it so hard for me to do this!"

"I supercilious! And to thee, lad!" he replied, with a reproachfulsmile.

"Show your inward self, then. I know how selfish you are, howunscrupulous! You like people for their good company, and theiradmiration of you, their attachment to you. But you would trample overany one, without a qualm, to get at your own pleasure or enrichment,or to gratify your vanity."

He meditated for a moment upon my words. Then he said, good-naturedly:

"Why, you hit me off to perfection, I think. And yet, my liking forsome people is real, too. I would do much for those I like—if it costnot too many pains, and required no sacrifice of pleasure. For you,indeed, I would do a great deal, upon my honour!"

"Then do this," quoth I, fighting against the ingratiating charm heexercised. "Grant me a meeting—swords or pistols, I don't carewhich—and the sooner the better."

"But why? At least I may know the cause."

"The blight you have brought on those I love—but that's a cause mustbe kept secret between us."

"Must I fight twice on the same score, then?"

"Why not? You fared well enough the first time. Tom fought on hisfamily's behalf. I fight on behalf of my friend—Captain Winwood.Besides, haven't I given you cause to-night, before your friends inthere? If I was in the wrong there, so much the greater my offence.Come—will you take up the quarrel as it is? Or must I give newprovocation?"

He sighed like a man who finds himself drawn into a business he wouldhave considerately avoided.

"Well, well," said he, "I can refuse you nothing. We can manage theaffair as we did the other, I fancy. It must be a secret, ofcourse—even from my friends in there. I shall tell them we havesettled our difference, and let them imagine what they please to. I'llsend some one to you—that arrangement will give you the choice ofweapons."

"'Tis indifferent to me."

"To me also. But I prefer you should have that privilege. I entreatyou will choose the weapons you are best at."

"Thank you. I shall expect to hear from you, then. Good-night!"

"Good-night! 'Tis a foggy evening. I wish you might come in and warmyourself with a glass before you go; but of course—well, good-night!"

I went out into the damp darkness, thanking heaven the matter wassettled beyond undoing; and marvelling that exceptional, favouredpeople should exist, who, thanks to some happy combination ofsuperficial graces, remain irresistibly likable despite all exposureof the selfish vices they possess at heart.

But if my prospective opponent was one who could not be facedantagonistically without a severe effort, the second whom he chose wasone against whose side I could fight with the utmost readiness, thanksto the irritating power he possessed upon me. He was Lieutenant Chubb,whom I had worsted in the affair to which I have alluded earlier,which grew out of his assumption of superiority to us who were ofAmerican birth. I had subjected this co*ck to such deference in mypresence, that he now rejoiced at what promised to be my defeat, andhis revenge by proxy, so great reliance he placed upon CaptainFalconer's skill with either sword or pistol. I chose the latterweapon, however, without much perturbation, inwardly resolved that thegloating Chubb should so far fail of his triumph, as to suffer asecond humiliation in the defeat of his principal. For my own second,Lieutenant Berrian, of our brigade, did me the honour to go out withme. A young New York surgeon, Doctor Williams, obliged us by assumingthe risk which it would have been too much to ask Doctor McLaughlin toundertake a second time. At my desire, the place and hour set werethose at which Tom Faringfield had met his death. I felt that thememory of his dying face would be strongest, there and then, to makemy arm and sight quick and sure.

A thaw had carried away much of the snow, and hence we had it not aslight as it had been for Tom's duel; although the moon made ouroutlines and features perfectly distinct as we assembled in thehollow, and it would make our pistol-barrels shine brightly enoughwhen the time came, as I ascertained by taking aim at an imaginarymark.

Falconer and I stood each alone, while the seconds stepped off thepaces and the surgeon lighted a small lantern which might enable himto throw, upon a possible wound, rays more to the purpose than themoon afforded. I was less agitated, I think, than the doctor himself,who was new to such an affair. I kept my mind upon the change wroughtin the Faringfield household, upon the fate of Tom, upon what Iimagined would be Philip's feelings; and I had a thought, too, for thedisappointment of my old enemy Chubb if I could cap the firing signalwith a shot the fraction of a second before my antagonist could. Wewere to stand with our backs toward each other, at the full distance,and, upon the word, might turn and fire as soon as possible. To be thefirst in wheeling round upon a heel, and covering the foe, was my oneconcern, and, as I took my place, I dismissed all else from my mind,to devote my entire self, bodily and mental, to that one series ofmovements: all else but one single impression, and that was ofmalicious exultation upon the face of Chubb.

"You'll smile on t'other side of your face in a minute," thought I,pressing my teeth together.

I was giving my hand its final adjustment to the pistol, when suddenlya man dashed out of the covert at one side of the hollow, and rantoward us, calling out in a gruff voice:

"Hold on a minute. Here's su'thin' fur you, Ensign Russell."

We had all turned at the first sound of the man's tread, fearing wehad been spied upon and discovered. But I now knew there was no dangerof that kind, for the voice belonged to old Bill Meadows.

"What do you mean?" I asked sharply, annoyed at the interruption.

"Nothin'. Read this here. I've follered yuh all evenin', thinkin' toketch yuh alone. I gev my word to get it to yuh, fust thing; an' furmy own sake, I tried to do it unbeknownst. But now I must do it anyhowI ken. So take it, an' my compliments, an' I trust yuh to keep mum an'ask no questions, an' furget 'twas me brung it. And I'll keep a shetmouth about these here goings on. Only read it now, fur God's sake."

He had handed me a sealed letter. My curiosity being much excited, Iturned to Falconer, and said:

"Will you grant me permission? 'Twill take but a moment."

"Certainly," said he.

"Ay," added Chubb, against all the etiquette of the situation, "it canbe allowed, as you're not like to read any more letters."

I tore it open, disdaining to reply in words to a gratuitous taunt Icould soon answer by deed. The doctor having handed me his lantern, Iheld it in one hand, the letter in the other. The writing was that ofPhilip Winwood, and the letter read as follows:

"DEAR BERT:—I have learned what sad things have befallen. You will easily guess my informant; but I know you will not use your knowledge of my communication therewith, to the detriment thereof. And I am sure that, since I ask it, you will not betray (or, by any act or disclosure, imperil or hamper) the messenger who brings this at risk of his life; for the matter is a private one.

"Pondering upon all that has occurred, I am put in a fear of your forgetting whose right it is to avenge it, and of your taking that duty to yourself, which belongs by every consideration to me. This is to beg, therefore, that you will not forestall me; that while I live you will leave this matter to me, at whatsoever cost though it be to your pride and your impatience. Dear Bert, I enjoin you, do not usurp my prerogative. By all the ties between us, past and to come, I demand this of you. The man is mine to kill. Let him wait my time, and I shall be the more, what I long have been, Ever thine,

"PHILIP."

I thought over it for a full minute. He asked of me a grievousdisappointment; nay, something of a humiliation, too, so highly had Icarried myself, so triumphant had my enemy Chubb become inanticipation, so derisive would he be in case of my withdrawal.

If I receded, Chubb would have ground to think the message a device toget me out of a peril at the last moment, after I had pretended toface it so intrepidly thereunto. For I could not say what my lettercontained, or who it was from, without betraying Meadows and perhapsMr. Faringfield, which both Philip's injunction and my own willprohibited my doing. Thus, I hesitated awhile before yielding toPhilip what he claimed so rightly as his own. But I am glad I had thecourage to face Chubb's probable suspicions and possible contempt.

"Gentlemen," said I, folding up the letter for concealment andpreservation, "I am very sorry to have brought you out here fornothing. I must make some other kind of reparation to you, CaptainFalconer. I can't fight you."

There was a moment's pause; during which Lieutenant Chubb looked fromme to his principal, with a mirthful grin, as much as to say I was aproven coward after all my swagger. But the captain merely replied:

"Oh, let the matter rest as it is, then. I'm sorry I had to disappointa lady, to come out here on a fool's errand, that's all."

He made that speech with intention, I'm sure, by way of revenge uponme, though doubtless 'twas true enough; for he must have known how itwould sting a man who thought kindly of Madge Faringfield. It was thefirst cutting thing I had ever heard him say; it showed that he was nolonger unwilling to antagonise me; it proved that he, too, could throwoff the gentleman when he chose: and it made him no longer difficultfor me to hate.

CHAPTER XVIII.

Philip Comes at Last to London.

A human life will drone along uneventfully for years with scarce aperceptible progress, retrogression, or change; and then suddenly,with a few leaps, will cover more of alteration and event in a weekthan it has passed through in a decade. So will the criticaloccurrences of a day fill chapters, after those of a year have failedto yield more material than will eke out a paragraph. Experienceproceeds by fits and starts. Only in fiction does a career run in anunbroken line of adventures or memorable incidents.

The personal life of Philip Winwood, as distinguished from hismilitary career, which had no difference from that of other commandersof rebel partisan horse, and which needs no record at my hands, wasmarked by no conspicuous event from the night when he learned anddefeated Madge's plot, to the end of the war. The news of herdeparture, and of Tom's death, came to him with a fresh shock, it istrue, but they only settled him deeper in the groove of sorrow, and inthe resolution to pay full retribution where it was due.

He had no pusillanimous notion of the unworthiness of revenge. Hebelieved retaliation, when complete and inflicted without cost orinjury to the giver, to be a most logical and fitting thing. But heknew that revenge is a two-edged weapon, and that it must be wieldedcarefully, so as not to cause self-damage. He required, too, that itshould be wielded in open and honourable manner; and in that manner hewas resolved to use it upon Captain Falconer. As for Madge, I believehe forgave her from the first, holding her "more in sorrow than inanger," and pitying rather than reproaching.

Well, he served throughout the war, keeping his sorrow to himself,being known always for a quietly cheerful mien, giving and taking hardblows, and always yielding way to others in the pressure forpromotion. Such was the state of affairs in the rebel army, that hiswillingness to defer his claims for advancement, when there wererestless and ambitious spirits to be conciliated and so kept in theservice, was availed of for the sake of expediency. But he went notwithout appreciation. On one occasion, when a discontented but usefulPennsylvanian was pacified with a colonelcy, General Washingtonremarked to Light Horse Harry Lee: "And yet you are but a major, andWinwood remains a captain; but let me tell you, there is less honourin the titles of general and colonel, as borne by many, than there isin the mere names of Major Lee and Captain Winwood."

When Lee's troop was sent to participate in the Southern campaign,Philip's accompanied it, and he had hard campaigning under Greene,which continued against our Southernmost forces until long after thetime of the capitulation of Lord Cornwallis's army at Yorktown, to thecombined rebel and French armies under Washington. It happened thatour battalion, wherein I was promoted to a lieutenantcy shortly aftermy abortive meeting with Captain Falconer near Kingsbridge, went Southby sea for the fighting there, being the only one of De Lancey'sbattalions that left the vicinity of New York. We had bloody workenough then to balance our idleness in the years we had coveredoutposts above New York, and 'twas but a small fraction of our numberthat came home alive at last. I never met Philip while we were both inthe South, nor saw him till the war was over.

Shiploads of our New York loyalists left, after Cornwallis's defeat atYorktown showed what the end was to be; some of them going to Englandbut many of them sailing to Nova Scotia and New Brunswick, there tobegin afresh the toiling with the wilderness, and to build up newEnglish colonies in North America. Others contrived to make their wayby land to Canada, which thereby owes its English population mainly tothose who fled from the independent states rather than give up theirloyalty to the mother country. The government set up by the victoriousrebels had taken away the lands and homes of the loyalists, by acts ofattainder, and any who remained in the country did so at the risk oflife or liberty. What a time of sad leave-taking it was!—familiesgoing forth poor to a strange land, who had lived rich in that oftheir birth—what losses, what wrenches, what heart-rendings! And howlittle compensation England could give them, notwithstanding all theirclaims and petitions! Well, they would deserve little credit for theirloyalty if they had followed it without willingness to lose for it.

But my mother and I had possessed nothing to lose in America but ourhouse and ground, our money being in the English funds. Fortunately,and thanks to our insignificance, we had been overlooked in the firstact of attainder, and, taking warning by that, my mother hadgratefully accepted Mr. Faringfield's offer to buy our home, for whichwe had thereafter paid him rent. Thus we had nothing to confiscate,when the war was over. As for Mr. Faringfield, he was on thetriumphant side of Independence, which he had supported with secretcontributions from the first; of course he was not to be heldaccountable for the treason of his eldest son, and the open service ofpoor Tom on the king's side.

My mother feared dreadful things when the victorious rebels shouldtake possession—imprisonment, trial for treason, and similar horrors;and she was for sailing to England with the British army. But I flatlyrefused to go, pretending I was no such coward, and that I would leavewhen I was quite ready. I was selfish in this, of course; but I couldnot bring myself to go so far from Fanny. Our union was still asuncertain a possibility as ever. Only one thing was sure: she wouldnot leave her parents at present.

The close of the war did not bring Philip back to us at once. On thatday when, the last of the British vessels having gone down the bay,with the last British soldier aboard, the strangely empty-looking towntook on a holiday humour, and General Washington rode in by the Bowerylane, with a number of his officers, and a few war-worn troops to makeup a kind of procession of entry, and the stars and stripes were runup at the Battery—on that day of sadness, humiliation, andapprehension to those of us loyalists who had dared stay, I would havefelt like cheering with the crowd, had Philip been one of those whoentered. But he was still in the South, recovering from a bullet woundin his shoulder.

My mother and I were thereafter the recipients of ominous looks, andsome uncomfortable hints and jeers, and our life was made constantlyunpleasant thereby. The sneers cast by one Major Wheeler upon usloyalists, and upon our reasons for standing by the king, got me intoa duel with him at Weehawken, wherein I gave him the only wound heever received through his attachment to the cause of Independence.Another such affair, which I had a short time afterward, near theBowery lane, and in which I shot a Captain Appleby's ear off, wasattributed by my mother to the same cause; but the real reason wasthat the fellow had uttered an atrocious slander of Philip Winwood inconnection with the departure of Phil's wife. This was but one of themany lies, on both sides of the ocean, that moved me at last toattempt a true account of my friend's domestic trouble.

My mother foresaw my continual engagement in such affairs if weremained in a place where we were subject to constant offence, anddeclared she would become distracted unless we removed ourselves. Iresisted until she vowed she would go alone, if I drove her to that.And then I yielded, with a heart enveloped in a dark mist as to theoutcome. Well, I thought with a sigh, I can always write to Fanny, andsome day I shall come back for her.

It was now Summer. One evening, I sat upon our front step, in a kindof torpid state of mind through my refusal to contemplate the dismalfuture. My eye turned listlessly down the street. The only movingfigure in it was that of a slender man approaching on the further sideof the way. He carried two valises, one with each hand, and leaned alittle forward as he strode, as if weary. Instantly I thought of yearsago, and another figure coming up that street, with both hands laden,and walking in a manner of fatigue. I rose, gazed with a fast-beatingheart at the man coming nearer at every step, stifled a cry thatturned into a sob, and ran across the street. He saw me, stopped, setdown his burdens, and waited for me, with a tired, kind smile. I couldnot speak aloud, but threw my arms around him, and buried my cloudedeyes upon his shoulder, whispering: "Phil! 'Tis you!"

"Ay," said he, "back at last. I thought I'd walk up from the boat justas I did that first day I came to New York."

"And just as then," said I, having raised my face and released him, "Iwas on the step yonder, and saw you coming, and noticed that youcarried baggage in each hand, and that you walked as if you weretired."

"I am tired," said he, "but I walk as my wounds let me."

"But there's no cat this time," said I, attempting a smile.

"No, there's no cat," he replied. "And no—"

His eye turned toward the Faringfield garden gate, and he broke offwith the question: "How are they? and your mother?"

I told him what I could, as I picked up one of his valises andaccompanied him across the street, thinking how I had done a similaroffice on the former occasion, and of the pretty girl that had madethe scene so bright to both him and me. Alas, there was no pretty girlstanding at the gate, beside her proud and stately parents, and heropen-eyed little brother, to receive us. I remembered how Ned andFanny had come upon the scene, so that for a moment the whole familyhad stood together at the gateway.

"'Tis changed, isn't it?" said Philip, quietly, reading my thoughts aswe passed down the garden walk, upon which way of entrance we hadtacitly agreed in preference to the front door. "I can see the big dogwalking ahead of me, and hear the kitten purring in the basket, andfeel little Tom's soft hand, and see at the other side of me—well,'tis the way of the world, Bert!"

He had the same boyish look; notwithstanding his face was longer andmore careworn, and his hair was a little sprinkled with gray though hewas but thirty-one.

I left him on the rear veranda, when old Noah had opened the hall doorand shouted a hysterical "Lor' bress me!—it's Massa Phil!" after amoment's blinking inspection to make sure. From the cheered look onMr. Faringfield's face that evening, and the revived lustre in Mrs.Faringfield's eyes, I could guess what welcome Philip had receivedfrom the stricken pair.

I told him the next day, in our garden, how matters stood with Fannyand me, and that Captain Falconer had sailed for England with theroyal army.

"I don't think Mr. Faringfield will hold out for ever," said Philip,alluding to my hopes of Fanny. "'Faith, he ought to welcome thecertainty of happiness for at least one of his children. Maybe I canput the matter to him in that light."

"But Fanny herself will not leave, as long as she thinks they needher."

"Why, then, he must use his parental authority, and bid her come toyou. He's not the man who would have his child wait upon his death forhappiness. We must use the hope of grandchildren as a means ofargument. For you'll come back to America at last, no doubt, when oldhurts are forgot. And if you can come with a houseful ofyoungsters—egad, I shall paint a picture to his mind, will not lethim rest till he sees it in way of accomplishment! Go to Englandwithout fear, man; and trust me to bring things to pass before you'vebeen long away."

"But you? Surely—"

"Oh, I shall follow you soon. I have matters of my own to look to,over there."

He did not confide to me, at this time, his thoughts and intentionsregarding his wife (of whom we were then ignorant whether she was deador alive, but supposed she must be somewhere in London), or regardingCaptain Falconer; but I knew that it was to her future, and to hissettlement with Falconer, that he alluded. I guessed then, andascertained subsequently, that Phil gave Fanny also encouragement tobelieve all should come right between her and me, and yet not to thefurther sorrow of her parents. I divined it at the time, from thehopeful manner in which she supported our departure, both in the busydays preceding it, and in the hour of leave-taking. True, she brokedown on the ship, whither Philip and Cornelius had brought her to bidus farewell; and she wept bitter tears on my mother's breast, which Iknew were meant chiefly for me. But at last she presented a brave facefor me to kiss, though 'twas rather a cold, limp hand I pressed as shestarted down the ladder for the boat where Cornelius awaited.

"Good-bye, lad," said Phil, with the old smile, which had survived allhis toils and hurts and sorrows; "I shall see you in London next, Ihope. And trust me—about Fanny."

"Thank you, dear Phil, and God bless you! Always working for otherpeople's happiness, when your own—well, good-bye!"

He had made no request as to my course in the possibility of mymeeting Madge in London; but he knew that I knew what he would wish,and I was glad he had not thought necessary to tell me.

Philip and Cornelius rowed the boat back, Fanny waving herhandkerchief. We saw them land, and stand upon the wharf to watch ourship weigh anchor. My mother would wave her handkerchief a moment, andthen apply it to her eyes, and then give it another little toss, andthen her eyes another touch. I stood beside her, leaning upon thegunwale, with a lump in my throat. Suddenly I realised we were underway. We continued to exchange farewell motions with the three upon thewharf. How small Fanny looked! how slender was Philip! how the waterwidened every instant between us and them! how long a time must passere we should see them again! A kind of sudden consternation was uponmy mother's face, and in my heart, at the thought. 'Twas aforetaste—indeed it might prove the actuality—of eternal separation.Our three friends were at last hidden from our sight, and in thedespondency of that moment I thought what fools men are, to travelabout the world, and not cling all their days to the people, and theplaces, that they love.

We lodged at first in Surrey Street, upon our arrival in London; butwhen October came, and we had a preliminary taste of dirty fog, mymother vowed she couldn't endure the damp climate and thick sky of thetown; and so we moved out to Hampstead, where we furnished a smallcottage, and contrived with economy to live upon the income of ourinvested principal, which was now swelled by money we had receivedfrom Mr. Faringfield for our home in New York. The proceeds of thesale of our furniture there had paid our passage, and given us a startin our new abode. Meanwhile, as an American loyalist who had sufferedby the war, and as a former servant of the king; though I had no claimfor a money indemnity, such as were presented on behalf of many; I waslucky enough, through Mr. De Lancey's offices, to obtain a smallclerkship in the custom-house. And so we lived uneventfully, in hopeof the day when Phil should come to us, and of that when I might goand bring back Fanny.

The letters from Philip and Fanny informed us merely of the continuedhealth, and the revived cheerfulness, of Mr. and Mrs. Faringfield; andpresently of the good fortune of Mr. Cornelius in being chosen to filltwo pulpits in small towns sufficiently near New York to permit hisresidence in Queen Street. Mr. Faringfield and Philip were occupied insetting the former's business upon its feet again, and something likethe old routine had been resumed in the bereaved house. I knew thatall this was due to Phil's imperceptible work. At last there camegreat news: Philip was to follow his letter to England, in the nextBristol vessel after the one that carried it. 'Twas but a brief notein which he told us this. "There is some news," wrote he, "but I willsave it for word of mouth. Be prepared for a surprise that I shallbring."

With what expectation we awaited his coming, what conjectures we maderegarding the promised surprise as we talked the news over everyevening in the little parlour where we dined on my return from thecity, I leave my reader to imagine. I had my secret notion that itconcerned Fanny and me.

At the earliest time when a ship might be expected to follow the oneby which the letter came, I began to call every evening, ere startingfor Hampstead, at the inn where the Bristol coaches arrived. Many along wait I had in vain when a coach happened to be late. I grew soaccustomed to the disappointment of seeing no familiar figure amongthe passengers alighting, that sometimes I felt as if Phil's letterwere a delusion and he never would appear.

But one evening as I stared as usual with the crowd in the coach yard,and had watched three portly strangers already emerge from the opendoor to the steps, and was prepared for the accustomed sinking of myheart, what did that heart do but give a great bound so as almost tochoke me! There he was in the doorway, the same old Phil, with thesame kindly face. I rushed forward. Before I reached him, he hadturned around toward the inside of the coach, as if he would help someone out after him. "Some decrepit fellow traveller," thought I, andlooked up indifferently to see what sort of person it might be: andthere, as I live, stepping out from the coach, and taking his offeredhand, was Fanny!

I was at her other side before either of them knew it, holding up myhand likewise. They glanced at me in the same instant; and Phil's gladsmile came as the accompaniment to Fanny's joyous little cry. I had anarm around each in a moment; and we created some proper indignationfor a short space by blocking up the way from the stage-coach.

"Come!" I cried. "We'll take a hackney-coach! How happy mother willbe!—But no, you must be hungry. Will you eat here first?—a cup ofcoffee? a glass of wine?"

But they insisted upon waiting till we got to Hampstead; and, scarceknowing what I was about, yet accomplishing wonders in my excitement,I had a coach ready, and their trunks and bags transferred, and all ofus in the coach, before I stopped to breathe. And before I couldbreathe twice, it seemed, we were rolling over the stones Northward.

"Sure it's a dream!" said I. "To think of it! Fanny in London!"

"My father would have it so," said she, demurely.

"Ay," added Phil, "and she's forbidden to go back to New York till shetakes you with her. 'Faith, man, am I not a prophet?"

"You're more than a prophet; you're a providence," I cried. "'Tis yourdoing!"

"Nonsense. 'Tis Mr. Faringfield's. And that implacable man, notcontent with forcing an uncongenial marriage upon this helplessdamsel, requires that you immediately resign your high post in theking's service, and live upon the pittance he settles upon you as hisdaughter's husband."

"'Tis too generous. I can't accept."

"You must, Bert," put in Fanny, "or else you can't have me. 'Tis oneof papa's conditions."

"But," Phil went on, "in order that this unhappy child may become usedto the horrible idea of this marriage by degrees, she is to live withyour mother a few months while I carry you off on a trip for mybenefit and pleasure: and that's one of my conditions: for it wouldn'tdo for you to go travelling about the country after you were married,leaving your wife at home, and Fanny abominates travelling. But assoon as you and I have seen a very little of this part of the world,you're to be married and live happy ever after."

We had a memorable evening in our little parlour that night. 'Twaslike being home again, my mother said—thereby admitting inferentiallythe homesickness she had refused to confess directly. The chief pieceof personal news the visitors brought was that the Rev. Mr. Corneliushad taken a wife, and moved into our old house, which 'twas pleasantto know was in such friendly hands; and that the couple considered ittheir particular mission to enliven the hours of Mr. and Mrs.Faringfield, with whom they spent half their time.

Philip's first month in England was spent in exploring London,sometimes with me, sometimes alone, for 'tis needless to say in whosesociety I chose to pass much of my time. What sights he saw; whatunlikely corners he sought out because some poet had been born, ordied, or drunk wine there; what streets he roamed: I am sure I nevercould tell. I know that all the time he kept eyes alert for a certainface, ears keen for a certain name; but neither in the streets, nor atthe shops, nor in the parks, nor at the play, did he catch a glimpseof Margaret; nor in the coffee-house, or tavern, or gaming-place, orin the region of the clubs, did he hear a chance mention of the nameof Falconer. And so, presently, we set about making the tour he hadspoken of.

There was a poor family of Long Island loyalists named Doughty, thathad settled in the seacoast town of Hastings in Sussex, in order thatthey might follow the fisheries, which had been their means oflivelihood at home. Considering that a short residence in the moremild and sunny climate of the Channel might be a pleasant change formy mother, and not disagreeable to Fanny, we arranged that, during theabsence of Phil and me, we should close our cottage, and the ladiesshould board with these worthy though humble people, who would affordthem all needful masculine protection. Having seen them comfortablyestablished, we set forth upon our travels.

We visited the principal towns and historic places of England andScotland, Philip having a particular interest in Northamptonshire,where his father's line sprang from (Sir Ralph Winwood having been aworthy of some eminence in the reigns of Elizabeth and James),[10] andin Edinburgh, the native place of his mother. Cathedrals, churches,universities, castles, tombs of great folk, battle-fields—'twouldfill a book to describe all the things and places we saw; most ofwhich Phil knew more about than the people did who dwelt by them. FromEngland we crossed to France, spent a fortnight in Paris, went toRheims, thence to Strasburg, thence to Frankfort; came down the Rhine,and passed through parts of Belgium and Holland before taking vesselat Amsterdam for London. "I must leave Italy, the other German states,and the rest till another time," said Philip. It seemed as if we hadbeen gone years instead of months, when at last we were all home againin our cottage at Hampstead.

After my marriage, though Mr. Faringfield's handsome settlement wouldhave enabled Fanny and me to live far more pretentiously, we werecontent to remain in the Hampstead cottage. Fanny would not hear toour living under a separate roof from that of my mother, whoseconstant society she had come to regard as necessary to her happiness.

Philip now arranged to pursue the study of architecture in the officeof a practitioner of that art; and he gave his leisure hours to theimproving of his knowledge of London. He made acquaintances; passedmuch time in the Pall Mall taverns; and was able to pilot me about thetown, and introduce me to many agreeable habitués of thecoffee-houses, as if he were the elder resident of London, and I werethe newcomer. And so we arrived at the Spring of 1786, and a momentousevent.

CHAPTER XIX.

We Meet a Play-actress There.

It was Philip's custom, at this time, to attend first nights at theplayhouses, as well from a love of the theatre as from the possibilitythat he might thus come upon Captain Falconer. He always desired mycompany, which I was the readier to grant for that I should recognisethe captain in any assemblage, and could point him out to Phil, whohad never seen him. We took my mother and Fanny excepting when theypreferred to stay at home, which was the case on a certain evening inthis Spring of 1786, when we went to Drury Lane to witness thereappearance of a Miss Warren who had been practising her art theprevious three years in the provinces. This long absence from Londonhad begun before my mother and I arrived there, and consequentlyPhilip and I had that evening the pleasurable anticipation of seeingupon the stage a much-praised face that was quite new to us.

"IT WAS PHILIP'S CUSTOM, AT THIS TIME, TO ATTEND FIRSTNIGHTS AT THE PLAYHOUSES."

There was the usual noisy throng of coaches, chairs, people afoot,lackeys, chair-men, boys, and such, in front of the playhouse when wearrived, and though we scanned all faces on whom the light fell, wehad our wonted disappointment regarding that of Captain Falconer. Wemade our way to the pit, and passed the time till the bell and thechorus "Hats off!" signalled the rising of the green curtain, inwatching the chattering assemblage that was every moment swelled fromthe doors; but neither among the lace-ruffled bucks and macaronis whochaffed with the painted and powdered ladies in the boxes, nor amongthose dashing gentry who ogled the same towering-haired ladies fromthe benches around us in the pit, did I perceive the elegant and easycaptain. We therefore fell back upon the pleasure to be expected fromthe play itself, and when the curtain rose, I, for one, was resignedto the absence of him we had come partly in quest of.

No sooner had Miss Warren come upon the stage, in her favourite partof Fanny in "The Clandestine Marriage," revived for the occasion, thanI knew her as Madge Faringfield. I bent forward, with staring eyes andgaping mouth; if I uttered any exclamation it was drowned in the soundof the hand-clapping that greeted her. While she curtseyed andpleasantly smiled, in response to this welcome, I turned abruptly toPhil, my eyes betokening my recognition. He nodded, without a word orany other movement, and continued to look at her, his face wearing ahalf-smiling expression of gentle gladness.

I knew, from my old acquaintance with him, that he was under so greatemotion that he dared not speak. It was, indeed, a cessation of secretanxiety to him, a joy such as only a constant lover can understand, toknow that she was alive, well, with means of livelihood, and beautifulas ever. Though she was now thirty-one, she looked, on the stage, nota day older than upon that sad night when he had thrown her from him,six years and more before—nay, than upon that day well-nigh elevenyears before, when he had bade her farewell to go upon his firstcampaign. She was still as slender, still had the same girlish air andmanner.

Till the curtain fell upon the act, we sat without audible remark,delighting our eyes with her looks, our ears with her voice, ourhearts (and paining them at the same time) with the memories her everymovement, every accent, called up.

"How shall we see her?" were Phil's first words at the end of the act.

"We may be allowed to send our names, and see her in the greenroom,"said I. "Or perhaps you know somebody who can take us there withoutany preliminaries."

"Nay," returned Philip, after a moment's thought, "there will be otherpeople there. I shouldn't like strangers to see—you understand. Weshall wait till the play is over, and then go to the door where theplayers come out. 'Twill take her some time to dress for goinghome—we can't miss her that way."

I sympathised with his feelings against making their meeting a scenefor the amusem*nt of frivolous lookers-on, and we waited patientlyenough. Neither of us could have told, when the play was over, whatwas the story it presented. Even Madge's speeches we heard with lesssense of their meaning than emotion at the sound of her voice. If thiswas the case with me, how much more so, as I could see by side-glancesat his face, was it with Philip! Between the acts, we had little usefor conversation. One of our thoughts, though neither uttered it, wasthat, despite the reputation that play-actresses generally bore, awoman could live virtuously by the profession, and in it, and thatseveral women since the famous Mrs. Bracegirdle were allowed to havedone so. 'Twas only necessary to look at our Madge, to turn thepossibility in her case into certainty.

When at last the play was ended, we forced our way through thedeparting crowd so as to arrive almost with the first upon the sceneof waiting footmen, shouting drivers, turbulent chair-men, clamorousboys with dim lanterns or flaming torches, and such attendants uponthe nightly emptying of a playhouse. Through this crush we fought ourway, hastened around into a darker street, comparatively quiet anddeserted, and found a door with a feeble lamp over it, which, as asurly old fellow within told us, served as stage entrance to thetheatre. We crossed the dirty street, and took up our station in theshadow opposite the door; whence a few actors not required in thefinal scene, or not having to make much alteration of attire for thestreet, were already emerging, bent first, I suppose, for one or otherof the many taverns or coffee-houses about Covent Garden near at hand.

While we were waiting, two chair-men came with their vehicle and setit down at one side of the door, and a few boys and women gathered inthe hope of obtaining sixpence by some service of which a player mightperchance be in need on issuing forth. And presently a coach appearedat the corner of the street, and stopped there, whereupon a gentlemangot out of it, gave the driver and footman some commands, and whilethe conveyance remained where it was, approached alone, at a blithegait, and took post near us, though more in the light shed by the lampover the stage door.

"Gad's life!" I exclaimed, in a whisper.

"What is it?" asked Phil, in a similar voice.

"Falconer!" I replied, ere I had thought.

Philip gazed at the newcomer, who was heedless of our presence. Philseemed about to stride forward to him, but reconsidered, and whisperedto me, in a strange tone:

"What can he be doing here, where she—? You are sure that's theman?"

"Yes—but not now—'tis not the place—we came for another purpose—"

"I know—but if I lose him!"

"No fear of that. I'll keep track of him—learn where he's to befound—while you meet her."

"But if he—if she—"

"Wait and see. His being here, may not in any way concern her. Merecoincidence, no doubt."

"I hope to God it is!" whispered Phil, though his voice quivered."Nay, I'll believe it is, too, till I see otherwise."

"Good! And when I learn his haunts, as I shall before I sleep, you mayfind him at any time."

And so we continued to wait, keeping in the darkness, so that thecaptain, even if he had deigned to be curious, could not have made outour faces from where he stood. Philip watched him keenly, to stamp hisfeatures upon memory, as well as they could be observed in the yellowlight of the sickly lamp; but yet, every few moments Phil cast aneager glance at the door. I grant I was less confident that Falconer'spresence was mere coincidence, than I had appeared, and I was in atremble of apprehension for what Madge's coming might reveal.

The captain, who was very finely dressed, and, like us, carried a canebut no sword, allowed impatience to show upon his usually serenecountenance: evidently he was unused to waiting in such a place, and Iwondered why he did not make free of the greenroom instead of doingso. But he composed himself to patience as with a long breath, andfell to humming softly a gay French air the while he stood leaningmotionlessly, in an odd but graceful attitude, upon his slender cane.Sometimes he glanced back toward the waiting coach, and then, withoutchange of position as to his body, returned his gaze to the door.

Two or three false alarms were occasioned him, and us, by the comingforth of ladies who proved, as soon as the light struck them, to beother than the person we awaited. But at last she appeared, lookingher years and cares a little more than upon the stage, but stillbeautiful and girlish. She was followed by a young waiting-woman; butbefore we had time to note this, or to step out of the shadow, we sawCaptain Falconer bound across the way, seize her hand, and bend verygallantly to kiss it.

So, then, it was for her he had waited: such was the bitter thought ofPhil and me; and how our hearts sickened at it, may be imagined when Isay that his hope and mine, though unexpressed, had been to find herpenitent and hence worthy of all forgiveness, in which case she wouldnot have renewed even acquaintance with this captain. And there hewas, kissing her hand!

But ere either of us could put our thought into speech, our sunkenhearts were suddenly revived, by Madge's conduct.

She drew her hand instantly away, and as soon as she saw who it wasthat had seized it, she took on a look of extreme annoyance and anger,and would have hastened past him, but that he stood right in her way.

"You again!" she said. "Has my absence been for nothing, then?"

"Had you stayed from London twice three years, you would have found methe same, madam," he replied.

"Then I must leave London again, that's all," said she.

"It shall be with me, then," said he. "My coach is waiting yonder."

"And my chair is waiting here," said she, snatching an opportunity topass him and to step into the sedan, of which the door was invitinglyopen. It was not her chair, but one that stood in solicitation of somepassenger from the stage door; as was now shown by one of thechair-men asking her for directions. She bade her maid hire a boy witha light, and lead the way afoot; and told the chair-men to follow themaid. The chair door being then closed, and the men lifting theirburden, her orders were carried out.

Neither Philip nor I had yet thought it opportune to appear from ourconcealment, and now he whispered that, for the avoidance of a scenebefore spectators, it would be best for him to follow the chair, andaccost her at her own door. I should watch Falconer to his abode, andeach of us should eventually go home independently of the other. Ourrelief to find that the English captain's presence was against Madge'swill, needed no verbal expression; it was sufficiently manifestotherwise.

Before Philip moved out to take his place behind the littleprocession, Falconer, after a moment's thought, walked rapidly past tohis coach, and giving the driver and footman brief orders, steppedinto it. 'Twas now time for both Phil and me to be in motion, and wewent down the way together. The chair passed the coach, whichimmediately fell in behind it, the horses proceeding at a walk.

"He intends to follow her," said I.

"Then we shall follow both," said Phil, "and await events. 'Tis no useforcing a scene in this neighbourhood."

So Philip's quest and mine lay together, and we proceeded along thefootway, a little to the rear of the coach, which in turn was a littleto the rear of the chair. Passing the side of Drury Lane Theatre, theprocession soon turned into Bow Street, and leaving Covent GardenTheatre behind, presently resumed a Southwestward course, deflectingat St. Martin's Lane so as to come at last into Gerrard Street, andturning thence Northward into Dean Street. Here the maid led thechair-men along the West side of the way; but Philip and I kept theEast side. At last the girl stopped before a door with a pillaredporch, and the carriers set down the chair.

Instantly Captain Falconer's footman leaped from the box of the coach,and, while the maid was at the chair door to help her mistress, dashedinto the porch and stood so as to prevent any one's reaching the doorof the house. The captain himself, springing out of the coach, wasat Madge's side as soon as she had emerged from the chair. Philipand I, gliding unseen across the street, saw him hand something tothe front chair-man which made that rascal open his mouth inastonishnent—'twas, no doubt, a gold piece or two—and heard himsay:

"You and your fellow, begone, and divide that among you. Quick!Vanish!"

The men obeyed with alacrity, bearing their empty chair past Phil andme toward Gerrard Street at a run. The captain, by similar means, sentthe boy with the light scampering off in the opposite direction.Meanwhile, Philip and I having stopped behind a pillar of the nextporch for a moment's consultation, Madge was bidding the footman standaside from before her door. This we could see by the rays of a streetlamp, which were at that place sufficient to make a carried light notabsolutely necessary.

"Come into the coach, madam," said Falconer, seizing one of her hands."You remember my promise. I swear I shall keep it though I hang forit! Don't make a disturbance and compel me to use force, I beg. Yousee, the street is deserted."

"You scoundrel!" she answered. "If you really think you can carry meoff, you're much—"

"Nay," he broke in, "actresses are carried off, and not always forthe sake of being talked about, neither! Fetch the maid, Richard—Iwouldn't deprive a lady of her proper attendance. Pray pardonthis—you put me to it, madam!"

With which, he grasped her around the waist, lifted her as if she werea child, and started with her toward the coach. The footman, a hugefellow, adopted similar measures with the waiting-woman, who set up ashrill screaming that made needless any cries on Madge's part.

Philip and I dashed forward at this, and while I fell upon thefootman, Phil staggered the captain with a blow. As Falconer turnedwith an exclamation, to see by whom he was attacked, Madge toreherself from his relaxed hold, ran to the house door, and set theknocker going at its loudest. A second blow from Philip sent thecaptain reeling against his coach wheel. I, meanwhile, had drawn thefootman from the maid; who now joined her mistress and continuedshrieking at the top of her voice. The fellow, seeing his mastermomentarily in a daze, and being alarmed by the knocking andscreaming, was put at a loss. The house door opening, and the noisebringing people to their windows, and gentlemen rushing out of Jack'stavern hard by, Master Richard recovered from his irresolution, ranand forced his master into the coach, got in after him to keep himthere, and shouted to the coachman to drive off.

"Very well, madam," cried Falconer through the coach door, before itclosed with a bang, "but I'll keep my word yet, I promise you!"Whereupon, the coach rolled away behind galloping horses.

Forgetting, in the moment's excitement, my intention of dogging thecaptain to his residence, I accompanied Philip to the doorway, wherestood Madge with her maid and a house servant. She was waiting tothank her protectors, whom, in the rush and partial darkness, she hadnot yet recognised. It was, indeed, far from her thoughts that we two,whom she had left so many years before in America, should turn up ather side in London at such a moment.

We took off our hats, and bowed. Her face had already formed a smileof thanks, when we raised our heads into the light from a candle thehouse servant carried. Madge gave a little startled cry of joy, andlooked from one to the other of us to make sure she was not under adelusion: then fondly murmuring Phil's name and mine in what faintvoice was left her, she made first as if she would fall into his arms;but recollecting with a look of pain how matters stood between them,she drew back, steadied herself against the door-post, and dropped hereyes from his.

"We should like to talk with you a little, my dear," said Phil gently."May we come in?"

There was a gleam of new-lighted hope in her eyes as she looked up andanswered tremulously:

"'Twill be a happiness—more than I dared expect."

We followed the servant with the candle up-stairs to a smalldrawing-room, in which a table was set with bread, cheese, cold beef,and a bottle of claret.

"'Tis my supper," said Madge. "If I had known I should have suchguests—you will do me the honour, will you not?"

Her manner was so tentative and humble, so much that of one who scarcefeels a right even to plead, so different from that of the old pettedand radiant Madge, that 'twould have taken a harder man than Philip todecline. And so, when the servant had placed additional chairs, downwe sat to supper with Miss Warren, of Drury Lane Theatre, who had senther maid to answer the inquiries of the alarmed house concerning therecent tumult in the street.

CHAPTER XX.

We Intrude upon a Gentleman at a Coffee-house.

Little was eaten at that supper, to which we sat down in a constraintnatural to the situation. Philip was presently about to assume theburden of opening the conversation, when Madge abruptly began:

"I make no doubt you recognised him, Bert—the man with the coach."

"Yes. Philip and I saw him outside the theatre."

"And followed him, in following you," added Philip. "We hadintended—"

"You must not suppose—" she interrupted; but, after a moment's haltof embarrassment, left the sentence unfinished, and made anotherbeginning: "I never saw him or heard of him, after I left New York,till I had been three years on the stage. Then, when the war was over,he came back to London, and chanced to see me play at Drury Lane. Heknew me in spite of my stage name, and during that very performance Ifound him waiting in the greenroom. I had no desire for any of hissociety, and told him so. But it seems that, finding me—admired, andsuccessful in the way I had resorted to, he could not be content tillhe regained my—esteem. If I had shown myself friendly to him then, Ishould soon have been rid of him: but instead, I showed a resolutionto avoid him; and he is the kind of man who can't endure a repulsefrom a woman. To say truth, he thinks himself invincible to 'em all,and when he finds one of 'em proof against him, even though she mayonce have seemed—when she didn't know her mind—well, she is thewoman he must be pestering, to show that he's not to be resisted.

"And so, at last, to be rid of his plaguing, I went away from London,and took another stage name, and acted in the country. Only Mr. andMrs. Sheridan were in the secret of this: 'twas Mr. Sheridan gave meletters to the country managers. That was in the Fall of '83. Well, Iheard after awhile that he too had gone into the country, to danceattendance on an old aunt, whose heir he had got the chance of being,through his cousin's death. But I knew if I came back to London hewould hear of it, and then, sure, farewell to all my peace! He hadcontinually threatened to carry me off in a coach to some village bythe Channel, and take me across to France in a fishing-smack. When Ideclared I would ask the magistrates for protection, he said theywould laugh at me as a play-actress trying to make herself talkedabout. I took that to be true, and so, as I've told you, I leftLondon.

"Well, after more than two years, I thought he must have put me out ofhis mind, and so I returned, and made my reappearance to-night. And,mercy on me!—there he was, waiting outside the theatre. From hisappearance, I suppose the aunt has died and he has come into themoney. He followed me home, as you saw; and for a moment, when he wascarrying me toward the coach, I vow I had a fear of being rushed awayto a seaport, and taken by force, on some fisherman's boat, across theChannel. And then, all of a sudden, 'twas as if you two had sprung outof the earth. Where did you come from? How was it? Oh, tell meall—all the news! Poor Tom! I thought I should die when I heard ofhis death. 'Twas—'twas Falconer told me—how he was killed in askirmish with the—What's the matter? Why do you look so? Isn't ittrue? I entreat—!"

"Did Falconer tell you Tom died that way?" I blurted out, hotly, erePhil could check me.

"In truth, he did! How was it?" She had turned white as a sheet.

"'Twas Falconer killed him in a duel," said I, with indignation, "thevery night after you sailed!"

"What, Fal—! A duel! My God, on my account, then! Oh, I never knewthat! Oh, Tom—little Tom—the dear little fellow—'twas I killedhim!" She flung her head forward upon the table, and sobbed wildly, sothat I repented of my outspoken anger at Falconer's deception of her.For some minutes her grief was pitiful to see. If ever there was theanguish of remorse, it was then. I sat sobered, leaving it to Phil toapply comfort, which, when her outburst of tears had spent itsviolence, he undertook to do.

"Well, well, Madge," said he, softly, "'tis done and past now, and notfor us to recall. 'Twas an honourable death, such as he would neverhave shrunk from; and he has long been past all sorrow. The most ofhis life, while it lasted, was happy; and you could never haveforeseen. He will not be unavenged, take my word of that!"

But it was a long time ere Phil could restore her to composure. Whenhe had done so, he asked her what had become of Ned. Thereupon shetold us all that I have recorded in a former chapter, of their firstdays in London, and the events leading to her acceptance of Mr.Sheridan's offer. After she had been acting for some time, under thename of Miss Warren, Ned chanced to come to the play, and recognisedher. He thereupon dogged her, in miserable plight, claiming somereturn of the favours which he vowed he had lavished upon her. She puthim upon a small pension, but declared that if he molested her withfurther demands she would send him to jail for robbing her. She hadnot seen him since; he had called regularly upon her man of businessfor his allowance, until lately, when he had ceased to appear.

Of what had occurred before she turned actress, she told us all, Isay; for the news of Tom's real fate had put her into a state forwithholding nothing. Never was confession more complete; uttered as itwas in a stricken voice, broken as it was by convulsive sobs, markedas it was by falling tears, hesitations for phrases less likely topain Philip, remorseful lowerings of her eyes. She reverted, finally,to her acquaintance with Falconer in New York, and finished with thewords:

"But I protest I have never been guilty of the worst—the one thing—Iswear it, Philip; before God, I do!"

If any load was taken from Phil's mind by this, he refrained fromshowing it.

"I came in search of you," said he, in a low voice, "to see what Icould do toward your happiness. I knew that in your situation, a wifeseparated from her husband, dependent on heaven knew what for amaintenance, you must have many anxious, distressful hours. If I hadknown where to find you, I should have sent you money regularly fromthe first, and eased your mind with a definite understanding. And nowI wish to do this—nay, I will do it, for it is my right. Whatevermay have happened, you are still the Madge Faringfield I—I loved fromthe first; nothing can make you another woman to me: and though youchose to be no longer my wife, 'tis impossible that while I live I cancease to be your husband."

The corners of her lips twitched, but she recovered herself with adisconsolate sigh. "Chose to be no longer your wife," she repeated."Yes, it appeared so. I wanted to shine in the world. I have shone—onthe stage, I mean; but that's far from the way I had looked to. Awoman in my situation—a wife separated from her husband—can nevershine as I had hoped to, I fancy. But I've been admired in a way—andit hasn't made me happy. Admiration can't make a woman happy if shehas a deeper heart than her desire of admiration will fill. If I couldhave forgot, well and good; but I couldn't forget, and can't forget.And one must have love, and devotion; but after having known yours,Philip, whose else could I find sufficient?"

And now there was a pause while each, fearing that the other might notdesire reunion, hesitated to propose it; and so, each one waiting forthe other to say the word, both left it unsaid. When the talk wasfinally renewed, it was with a return of the former constraint.

She asked us, with a little stiffness of manner, when we had come toLondon; which led to our relation, between us, of all that had passedsince her departure from New York. She opened her eyes at the news ofour residence in Hampstead, and lost her embarrassment in her glad,impulsive acceptance of my invitation to come and see us as soon aspossible. While Philip and she still kept their distance, as it were,I knew not how far to go in cordiality, or I should have pressed herto come and live with us. She wept and laughed, at the prospect ofseeing Fanny and my mother, and declared they must visit her in town.And then her tongue faltered as the thought returned of Falconer'sprobable interference with the quiet and safety of her furtherresidence in London; and her face turned anxious.

"'Faith! you need have no fear on that score," said Philip, quietly."Where does he live?"

She did not know, but she named a club, and a tavern, from which hehad dated importunate letters to her before she left London.

"Well," said Philip, rising, "I shall see a lawyer to-morrow, and youmay expect to hear from him soon regarding the settlement I make uponyou."

"You are too kind," she murmured. "I have no right to accept it ofyou."

"Oh, yes, you have. I am always your husband, I tell you; and you willhave no choice but to accept. I know not what income you get byacting; but this will suffice if you choose to leave the stage."

"But you?" she replied faintly, rising. "Shall I not see—?"

"I shall leave England in a few days: I don't know how long I shall beabroad. But there will be Bert, and Fanny, and Mrs. Russell—I knowyou may command them for anything." There was an oppressive pause now,during which she looked at him wistfully, hoping he might at the lastmoment ask her that, which he waited to give her a final opportunityof asking him. But neither dared, for fear of the other's hesitationor refusal. And so, at length, with a good-bye spoken in an unnaturalvoice on each side, the two exchanged a hand-clasp, and Philip leftthe room. She stood pale and trembling, bereft of speech, while I toldher that I should wait upon her soon. Then I followed Philipdown-stairs and to the street.

"I will stay to-night at Jack's tavern yonder," said he. "I can watchthis house, in case that knave should return to annoy her. Go youhome—Fanny and your mother will be anxious. And come for me to-morrowat the tavern, as early as you can. You may tell them what you seefit, at home. That's all, I think—'tis very late. Good night!"

I sought a hackney-coach, and went home to relieve the fears of theladies, occasioned by our long absence. My news that Margaret wasfound (I omitted mention of Captain Falconer in my account) put thegood souls into a great flutter of joy and excitement, and they wouldhave it that they should go in to see her the first thing on themorrow, a resolution I saw no reason to oppose. So I took them with meto town in the morning, left them at Madge's lodgings, and was gone tojoin Philip ere the laughing and crying of their meeting with her washalf-done.

As there was little chance to find Captain Falconer stirring early,Phil and I gave the forenoon to his arrangements with his man of lawat Lincoln's Inn. When these were satisfactorily concluded, and avisit incidental to them had been made to a bank in the city, werefreshed ourselves at the Globe tavern in Fleet Street, and thenturned our faces Westward.

At the tavern that Madge had named, we learned where Falconer abode,but, proceeding to his lodgings, found he had gone out. We looked inat various places whither we were directed; but 'twas not till late inthe afternoon, that Philip caught sight of him writing a letter at atable in the St. James Coffeehouse.

Philip recognised him from the view he had obtained the previousnight; but, to make sure, he nudged me to look. On my giving a nod ofconfirmation, Philip went to him at once, and said:

"Pray pardon my interrupting: you are Captain Falconer, I believe."

The captain looked up, and saw only Philip, for I stood a little tothe rear of the former's elbow.

"I believe so, too, sir," he replied urbanely.

"Our previous meeting was so brief," said Philip, "that I doubt youdid not observe my face so as to recall it now."

"That must be the case," said the captain, "for I certainly do notremember having ever met you."

"And yet our meeting was no longer ago than last night—in DeanStreet."

The captain's face changed: he gazed, half in astonishment, half in adawning resentment.

"The deuce, sir! Have you intruded upon me to insult me?"

"'Faith, sir, I've certainly intruded upon you for no friendlypurpose."

Falconer continued to gaze, in wonder as well as annoyance.

"Who the devil are you, sir?" he said at last.

"My name is Winwood, sir—Captain Winwood, late of the American armyof Independence."

Falconer opened his eyes wide, parted his lips, and turned a littlepale. At that moment, I shifted my position; whereupon he turned, andsaw me.

"And Russell, too!" said he. "Well, this is a—an odd meeting,gentlemen."

"Not a chance one," said Philip. "I have been some time seeking you."

"Well, well," replied the captain, recovering his self-possession. "Iimagine I know your purpose, sir."

"That will spare my explaining it. You will, of course, accommodateme?"

"Oh, yes; I see no way out of it. Gad, I'm the most obliging ofmen—Mr. Russell will vouch for it."

"Then I beg you will increase the obligation by letting us despatchmatters without the least delay."

"Certainly, if you will have it so—though I abominate hurry in allthings."

"To-morrow at dawn, I hope, will not be too soon for yourpreparations?"

"Why, no, I fancy not. Let me see. One moment, I pray."

He called a waiter, and asked:

"Thomas, is there any gentleman of my acquaintance in the house atpresent?"

"Oh, a score, sir. There's Mr. Hidsleigh hup-stairs, and—"

"Mr. Idsleigh will do. Ask him to grant me the favour of coming downfor a minute." The waiter hastened away. "Mr. Russell, of course,represents you, sir," the captain added, to Philip.

"Yes, sir; and you are the challenged party, of course."

"I thank you, sir. If Mr. Russell will wait, I will introduce myfriend here, and your desire for expedition may be carried out."

"I am much indebted, sir," said Philip; and requesting me to join himlater at the tavern in Dean Street, he took his leave.

When Mr. Idsleigh, a fashionable young buck whom I now recalled havingonce seen in the company of Lord March, had presented himself, a verybrief explanation on Falconer's part sufficed to enlist his servicesas second; whereupon the captain desired affably that he might beallowed to finish his letter, and Idsleigh and I retired to acompartment at the farther end of the room. Idsleigh regarded me withdisdainful indifference, and conducted his side of the preliminariesin a bored fashion, as if the affair were of even less consequencethan Falconer had pretended to consider it. He set me down as anobody, a person quite out of the pale of polite society, and one whomit was proper to have done with in the shortest time, and with thefewest words, possible. I was equally chary of speech, and it wasspeedily settled that our principals should fight with small swords,at sunrise, at a certain spot in Hyde Park; and Idsleigh undertook toprovide a surgeon. He then turned his back on me, and walked over toFalconer, without the slightest civility of leave-taking.

I went first in a hackney-coach to Hyde Park, to ascertain exactly thespot which Mr. Idsleigh had designated. Having done so, I returned toDean Street; and, in order that I might without suspicion accompanyPhilip before daybreak, I called at Madge's lodgings, and suggestedthat my mother and Fanny should pass the night in her house (in whichI had observed there were rooms to let) and take her to Hampstead thenext day; while I should sleep at the tavern. This plan was readilyadopted. Thereupon, rejoining Philip, I went with him to the Strand,where he engaged a post-chaise to be in waiting for him and me thenext morning, for our flight in the event of the duel having the fataltermination he desired.

"We'll take a hint from Captain Falconer's threat," said Phil: "ridepost to Hastings, and have the Doughty boys sail us across to France.You'd best write a letter this evening, to leave at Madge's lodgingsafter the affair, explaining your departure, to Fanny and your mother.Afterward, you can either send for them to come to France, or you canreturn to Hampstead when the matter blows over. I might have sparedyou these inconveniences and risks, by getting another second; but Iknew you wouldn't stand that."

And there, indeed, he spoke the truth.

CHAPTER XXI.

The Last, and Most Eventful, of the History.

I took my mother and Fanny to the play that night, to see Madge act,and we three met her after the performance and were driven to herlodgings with her. I then bade the ladies good-night, with a secrettenderness arising from the possibility, unknown to them, that ourparting then might be for as many months as they supposed hours.

Returning to Philip at the tavern, I found he had passed the eveningin writing letters; among others, one for me to copy in my own name,to be left at Madge's lodgings in case of my having to flee thecountry for awhile. It was so phrased that the result of the duel,whether in Philip's death or his antagonist's, could be told by theinsertion of a single line, after its occurrence.

Phil and I rose betimes the next morning, and went by hackney-coach,in the darkness, to a place in the Oxford road, near Tyburn; where weleft our conveyance waiting, and proceeded afoot to the chosen spot inthe Park.

No one was there when we arrived, and we paced to and fro together tokeep in exercise, talking in low voices, and beguiling our agitationby confining our thoughts to a narrow channel. The sod was cool andsoft to our tread, and the smell of the leaves was pleasant to ournostrils. As the sky whitened above the silent trees, and the graylight penetrated to the grassy turf at our feet, Phil quoted softlythe line from Grey's Elegy in which the phrase of "incense-breathingmorn" occurs; and from that he went to certain parts of Milton's"L'Allegro" and then to Shakespeare's songs, "When Daisies Pied" and"Under the Greenwood Tree."

"'Faith," said he, breaking off from the poetry, "'tis a marvel howcontent I feel! You would not believe it, the serene happiness thathas come over me. 'Tis easy to explain, though: I have adjusted myaffairs, provided for my wife, left nothing in confusion or disorder,and am as ready for death as for life. I feel at last responsible tono one; free to accept whatever fate I may incur; clear of burdens.The great thing, man, is to have one's debts paid, one's obligationsdischarged: then death or life matters little, and the mere act ofbreathing fresh air is a joy unspeakable."

We now descried the figures of Falconer, Idsleigh, and a thirdgentleman, approaching under the trees. Civil greetings passed as theycame up, and Falconer overwent the demands of mere courtesy so far asto express himself upon the coolness and sweetness of the morning. Buthe was scrutinising Philip curiously the while, as if there were somereason why he should be less indifferent regarding this antagonistthan he had shown himself regarding Tom Faringfield and me.

The principals removed their hats, coats, and waistcoats. As they werenot booted, but appeared in stockings and low shoes, they made twofine and supple figures to look upon. The formalities between Mr.Idsleigh and me were as brief as possible. Falconer chose his swordwith a pretence of scarce looking at it, Philip gave his the usualexamination, and the two men stood on guard.

There was a little wary play at first, while each sought an inkling ofthe other's method. Then some livelier work, in which they warmedthemselves and got their muscles into complete facility, followed uponPhil's pretending to lose his guard. All this was but overture, and itcame to a stop for a short pause designed as preliminary to the realduel. Both were now perspiring, and breathing into their lungs deepdraughts of air. Falconer's expression showed that he had recognisedbetter fencing in Phil's work than he had thought to find; but Phil'sface conveyed no such surprise, for he had counted upon an adversarypossessed of the first skill.

'Twas Falconer who began what we all felt was to be the serious partof the combat. Phil parried the thrust neatly; made a feint, but,instantly recovering, availed himself of his opponent's countermovement, and sank his point fair into Falconer's left breast. TheEnglish captain tumbled instantly to the ground. The swiftness of thething startled us. Idsleigh and his medical companion stared inamazement, wondering that the fallen man should lie so still. It tooka second or two for that which their eyes had informed them, topenetrate to their understanding. But Philip and I knew that the lungehad pierced the heart, and that the accomplished Lovelace on theground would charm no more women.

'Twas only when we were hastening back to our hackney-coach, thatPhilip trembled. Then for a few moments his teeth chattered as if hewere taken with a chill, and his face was deathly pale.

"'Tis terrible," he said, in an awed tone, "to kill a man this way.'Tis not like in war. On a morning like this, in the civil manner ofgentlemen, to make of such a marvellous living, thinking, feelingmachine a poor heap of senseless flesh and bone that can onlyrot:—and all in the time of a sword-thrust!"

"Tut!" said I, "the world is the better for the riddance. Think ofTom, and all else!"

"I know it," said Phil, conquering his weakness. "And such men knowwhat they risk when they break into the happiness of others. I couldnot have lived in peace while he lived. Well, that is all behind usnow. Yonder is our coach."

We got in, and were driven to the tavern in Dean Street. We theredismissed the coach, and Philip started afoot for the inn, in theStrand, where our post-chaise was to be in readiness. I was to joinhim there after completing the letter and leaving it at Madge'slodgings, Philip using the mean time in attending to the posting ofcertain letters of his own. We had no baggage to impede us, as weintended to purchase new wearables in France: we had, on the previousday, provided ourselves with money and letters of credit. My affairshad been so arranged that neither my wife nor my mother could bepecuniarily embarrassed by my absence. Philip's American passport,used upon our former travels, was still in force and had been made toinclude a travelling companion. So all was smoothed for our flight.

Taking my letter to the house in which Madge lived, I asked for hermaid, telling the house servant I would wait at the street door: for,as I did not wish to meet any of the three ladies, I considered itsafer to entrust the letter to Madge's own woman. The girl came down;but I had no sooner handed her the letter, and told her what to dowith it, than I heard Madge's voice in the hall above. She had comeout to see who wanted her maid, suspecting some trick of Falconer's;and, leaning over the stair-rail, had recognised my voice.

"What is it, Bert? Why don't you come up?"

"I can't—I'm in haste," I blundered. "Good morning!"

"But wait! What's wrong? A moment, I entreat! Nay, you shall—!" Andat that she came tripping swiftly down the stairs. The maid,embarrassed, handed her the letter. Without opening it, she advancedto me, while I was wildly considering the propriety of taking to myheels; and demanded:

"What is it you had to write? Sure 'tis your own hand. Why can't youtell me?"

"Not so loud," I begged. "My mother and Fanny mustn't know till I amgone."

"Gone!" With this she tore open the letter, and seemed to grasp itsgeneral sense in a glance. "A duel! I suspected—from what Philipsaid. Oh, my God, was he—?" She scanned the writing wildly, but inher excitement it conveyed nothing to her mind.

"Captain Falconer will not annoy you again," I said, "and Philip and Imust go to France for awhile. Good-bye! Let mother and Fanny see theletter in half an hour."

"But wait—thank God, he's not hurt!—France, you say? How? Whichroad?"

She was holding my coat lapel, to make me stay and tell her. So Ianswered:

"By post to Hastings; there we shall get the Doughty boys to—"

At this, there broke in another voice from above stairs—that ofFanny:

"Is that Bert, Madge dear?"

"Tell her 'no,'" I whispered, appalled at thought of a leave-taking,explanations, weeping, and delay. "And for God's sake, let me—ah,thank you! Read the letter—you shall hear from us—God bless youall!"

The next moment I was speeding from the house, leaving Madge in atumult of thoughts at the door. I turned into Gerrard Street withoutlooking back; and brisk walking soon brought me to the Strand, wherePhilip himself was just ready to take the post-chaise.

"A strange thing delayed me," said he, as we forthwith took our seatsin the vehicle; which we had no sooner done than the postilions setthe four horses going and our journey was begun.

"What was it?" I asked, willing to reserve the account of my interviewwith Madge till later.

"The most remarkable thing, for me to witness on this particularmorning," he replied; and told me the story as we rattled throughTemple Bar and Fleet Street, on our way to the bridge and the Surreyside. "After I left you, I don't know what it was that kept me fromcoming through St. Martin's Lane to the Strand, and made me continueEast instead. But something did; and finally I turned to come throughBow Street. When I was nearly in front of the magistrate's house, apost-chaise stopped before it, and a fellow got out whom I took to bea Bow Street runner. Several people ran up to see if he had a prisonerin the chaise, and so the footway was blocked; and I stopped to lookon for a moment with the rest. A man called out to the constable,'What you got, Bill?' The constable, who had turned around and reachedinto the chaise, stopped to look at the speaker, and said, 'Nobodymuch—only the Soho Square assault and robbery—I ran him down atPlymouth, waiting for a vessel—he had a mind to travel for hishealth.' The constable grinned, and the other man said, 'Sure that's ahanging business, and no mistake!'"

"And so it is," said I, interrupting Philip. "I read of the affair atthe time. A fellow named Howard knocked down his landlady, robbed hermoney-box, and got away before she came to."

"Yes," Phil went on, "I remembered it, too. And I waited for a glimpseof the robber's face. He stepped out, and the constable, with acomrade from inside the chaise, led him to where they hold prisonersfor examination. He was all mud-stained, dishevelled, and frowsy: fortwo seconds, though he didn't notice me, I had a good view of him. Andwho do you think this Howard really was?"

"Bless me, how should I know? My acquaintance among the criminalclasses isn't what it might be."

"'Twas Ned Faringfield!" said Philip. "I should have known himanywhere—heavens, how little a man's looks change, through allvicissitudes!"

"Well, upon my soul!" I exclaimed, in a chill. "Who'd have thought it?Yet hanging is what we always predicted for him, in jest. That itshould come so soon—for they'll make short work of that case, 'tiscertain."

"Yes, I fear they'll not lose much time over it, at the Old Bailey. Wemay expect to read his name among the Newgate hangings in a month ortwo. Poor devil!—I'll send him some money through my lawyer, and haveNobbs see that he gets decent counsel. Money will enable him to livehis last weeks at Newgate in comfort, at least; though 'tis beyondcounsel to save his neck. His people must never know. Nor Fanny."

"Unless he gives his real name at the trial, or in his 'last dyingspeech and confession.'"

"Why, even then it may not come to their ears. Best bring Fanny andyour mother soon to France. Madge will never tell, if she learns; I'llwarrant her for that. To think of it!—the dear old house in QueenStreet, and the boys and girls we used to play with—Tom's fate—andnow Ned's—Fanny in England—and Madge—! Was ever such diversity ofdestinies in so small a family?"

He fell into his thoughts: of what strange parts we play in the world,how different from those anybody would predict for us in ourchildhood—how different, from those we then predict for ourselves.And so we were borne across the Thames, looking back to get our lastview of St. Paul's dome for some time to come; through Southwark, andfinally into the country. The postilions kept the horses at a goodgait Southward. We did not urge them to this, for indeed we saw butlittle necessity for great haste, as there was likely to be some timeere Falconer's death became known to the authorities, and some timelonger ere it was traced to us. But as Mr. Idsleigh, before gettingout of the way himself, might take means to lay written informationagainst us, which would serve at least to put the minions of the lawon the right track, and as we might be subjected to some delay atHastings, we saw no reason to repress the postilions' zeal, either.

In our second stage we were not favoured with so energetic conductors,and in our third we had unfit horses. So we had occasion to be glad ofour excellent start. Thus, between good horses and bad, livepostilions and lethargic, smooth roads and rough, we fared on thewhole rather well than ill, and felt but the smallest apprehension ofbeing caught. To speak metaphorically, the coast of France was alreadyin our sight.

At the end of the first stage, we had breakfasted upon eggs and beer.We took an early dinner at Tunbridge Wells, and proceeded throughSussex. 'Twas well forward in the afternoon, and we were alreadypreparing our eyes, faces, and nostrils for the refreshing intimationof the sea, when our ears notified us of a vehicle following in ourwake. Looking back, at a bend of the road, we saw it was a conveyancesimilar to our own, and that the postilions were whipping the horsesto their utmost speed. "Whoever rides there," said I, "has paid orpromised well for haste."

"'Tis strange there should be other folk bound in a hurry for Hastingsthis same day," replied Phil.

We looked at one another, with the same thought.

"Their post-boys seem to be watching our chaise as much as anythingelse," I remarked. "To be sure, they can't know 'tis you and I."

"No, but if they were in quest of us, they would try to overtakethis chaise or any other on the road. Ho, postilion!—an extra crownapiece for yourselves if you leave those fellows yonder behind forgood." And Phil added quietly to me: "It won't do to offer 'em toomuch at first—'twould make 'em suspicious."

"But," quoth I, as our men put their horses to the gallop. "How thedevil could any one have got so soon upon our track?"

"Why, Idsleigh may have turned informer, in his own interest—he wasin a devilish difficult position—and men would be sent with ourdescriptions to the post-houses. 'Tis merely possible. Or ourhackney-coachman may have guessed something, and dogged me to theStrand, and informed. If they found where we started, of course theycould track us from stage to stage. 'Tis best to be safe—though Iscarce think they're in our pursuit."

"Egad, they're in somebody's!" I cried. "Their postilions are shoutingto ours to stop."

"Never mind those fellows' holloing," called Philip to our riders."'Tis a wager—and I'll double that crown apiece."

We bowled over the road in a way to make me think of Apollo's chariotand the horses of Phaeton; but we lengthened not a rod the stretchbetwixt us and our followers, though we nullified their efforts todiminish it. We could make out, more by sight than by hearing—for wekept looking back, our heads thrust out at either side—that thepursuing post-boys continued bawling vehemently at ours. What theysaid, was drowned by the clatter of horses and wheels.

"Well, they have seen we are two men," said Philip, "and still theykeep up the race. They certainly must want us. Were they merely in ahurry to reach Hastings, they could do that the sooner by sparingtheir horses—this is a killing pace."

"Then we're in a serious plight," said I. "Though we may beat 'em toHastings, they will catch us there."

"Unless we can gain a quarter of an hour's start, and, by one chancein twenty, find the Doughty boys ashore, and their boat in harbour."

"Ay, there's one chance in twenty, maybe," I growled, looking gloomilyback, and wishing I might see the pursuing chaise upset, or one of itshorses stumble.

There is an old proverb about evil wishes rebounding to strike thesender; and a recollection of this was my paramount thought a momentlater: for at a sharp turn our chaise suddenly seemed to leap into theair and alight on one wheel, and then turned over sidewise with whatappeared to be a solemn deliberation, piling me upon Philip in a heap.We felt the conveyance dragged some yards along the road, and then itcame to a stop. A moment later we heard the postilions cursing thehorses, and then we clambered out of the upper side of the chaise, andleaped into the road. We had been knocked, shaken, and bruised, butwere not seriously hurt.

"Here's the devil to pay," cried the older postilion excitedly,turning his attention from the trembling horses to the wreckedvehicle.

"We will pay—but you will let us ride your horses the rest of theway?" asked Phil, quietly, rather as a matter of form than with anyhope of success.

"No, sir!" roared the man. "Bean't there damage enough? Just look—"

"Tut, man," said Phil, examining the chaise, "a guinea will mendall—and there it is, and your extra crowns, too, though you failed.Well," he added, turning to me, "shall we take to the fields? They'llhave to hunt us afoot then, and we may beat 'em at that."

But I found I was too lame, from the knocking about I had got in theupset vehicle, for any game of hare and hounds. "Go you," said I. "Iwas only the second—there's less danger for me."

"I'll not go, then," said he. "What a pity I drew you into this, Bert!I ought to have considered Fanny and your mother. They'll neverforgive me—they never ought to.—Well, now we shall know the worst!"

The second vehicle came to a triumphant stop near us, the postilionsgrinning with satisfaction. Phil and I stood passive in the road: Iremember wondering whether the officers of the law would put handcuffsupon us. A head was thrust out of the window—a voice called to us.

"Madge!" we cried together, and hastened to her.

"I was afraid you might sail before I got to Hastings," cried she,with relief and joy depicted on her face.

"Who is with you?" asked Phil.

"No one," she answered. "I left Bert's letter with my maid, to give toFanny. I left the girl too, to stay with her if she will take her. Ididn't wish to encumber—Your chaise is broken down: get into thisone. Oh, Phil!—I couldn't bear to have you go away—and leaveme—after I had seen you again. 'Twas something to know you were inLondon, at least—near me. But if you go to France—you must let mego, too—you must, dear—as your friend, your comrade and helper, ifnothing more—your old friend, that knew you so long ago—"

She lost voice here, and began to cry, still looking at him throughthe mist of tears. His own eyes glistened softly as he returned hergaze; and, after a moment, he went close to the window through whichher head was thrust, raised his hand so as to stroke her hair, andkissed her on the lips.

"Why, you shall come as my wife, of course," said he, gently. "If Ihad been sure you wished it, you might have travelled with us fromLondon, and been spared this chase.—But think what you are giving up,dear—'tis not too late—the theatre, the praise and admiration,London—"

"Oh, hang 'em all!" cried she, looking joyous through her tears. "'Tisyou I want!"

And she caught his face between her hands, and kissed it a dozentimes, to the open-mouthed wonder of the staring postilions.

She took us in her post-chaise to Hastings, where the three of usembarked as we had planned to do, having first arranged that one ofthe Doughty boys should go to Hampstead and act as a sort of manservant or protector to my mother and Fanny during their loneliness.They joined us later in Paris, and I finally accompanied them homewhen Captain Falconer's fatal duel was a forgotten matter. Philip andMadge then visited Italy and Germany; and subsequently returned to NewYork, having courageously chosen to outface what old scandal remainedfrom the time of her flight. And so, despite Phil's prediction, 'tisfinally his children, not mine, that gladden the age of Mr. and Mrs.Faringfield, and have brought back the old-time cheer to the house;for Fanny and I have remained in England, and here our young ones arebeing reared. Each under the government for which he fought—thusPhilip and I abide. 'Tis no news, that Phil has become one of theleading architects in his country. My own life has been pleasantlymonotonous, save for the duel I fought against a detractor of GeneralWashington, which, as I merely wounded my adversary, did notnecessitate another exile from the kingdom.

It is still an unsolved mystery in London, as to what became of MissWarren, the actress of Drury Lane: she was for long reported to havebeen carried away by a strange gentleman who killed Captain Falconerin a duel over her. 'Tis not known in New York that Mrs. Winwood wasever on the stage. And as I must not yet make it known, nor disclosemany things which have perforce entered into this history, I perceivethat my labour has been, after all, to no purpose. I dare not give thenarrative to the world, now it is done; but I cannot persuade myselfto give it to the fire, either. Let it lie hid, then, till all of usconcerned in it are passed away; and perchance it may serve toinstruct some future reader how much a transient vanity and wilfulnessmay wreck, and how much a steadfast love and courage may retrieve.

THE END.

NOTES.

NOTE 1.

Before the Revolution, there were Queen Street and Pearl Street,together forming a line continuous though not exactly straight. Afterthe Revolution, the whole line was named Pearl Street. King Street andDuke Street were others that rightly underwent re-christening. But,with equal propriety, many old names smacking of the English régimewere retained, and serve as memorials of the English part of thecity's colonial history: such names, for instance, as William Street,Nassau Street, Hanover Square, Kingsbridge; not to mention New Yorkitself. The old Dutch rule, too, remains marked in the city'snomenclature—for ever, let us hope. I say, "let us hope;" for therehave been attempts to have the authorities change the name of theBowery itself, that renowned thoroughfare which began, in the verymorn of the city's history, as a lane leading to Peter Stuyvesant'sbauer. I scarce think this desecration shall ever come to pass: yetin such matters one may not be sure of a nation which has permittedthe spoiling (by the mutilation of headlands and cliffs, for privategain) of a river the most storied in our own land, and the mostbeautiful in the world.

NOTE 2.

In 1595 was published in London: "Vincentio Saviolo his Practise. Intwo Bookes. The first intreating the use of the Rapier and Dagger. Thesecond of Honour and Honourable Quarrels." (Etc.) The celebratedswordsman sets forth only the Italian system, and has naught to sayupon the French. The book that Winwood studied may have been somereprint (now unknown), with notes or additions by a later hand. In anycase, he may have acquired through it sufficient rudimentaryacquaintance with some sort of practice to enable him to excite theFrench fencing-master's interest.

NOTE 3.

"Lady Washington's Light Horse" was a name sometimes unofficiallyapplied to Lieut.-Col. Baylor's Dragoons. They were sleeping in a barnand outbuildings, at Old Tappan, one night in the Fall of 1778, whenthey were surprised by General Grey, whose men, attacking withbayonets, killed 11, mangled 25, and took about 40 prisoners. BothCol. Baylor and Major Clough were wounded, the latter fatally. It isof course this affair, to which Lieut. Russell's narrative alludes.

NOTE 4.

The Morris house, now known as the Jumel mansion, was half ageneration old at the beginning of the Revolution. Thither, as thebride of Captain Morris, a brother-officer of Washington's in the oldFrench war, went Mary Philipse; whom young Washington was said to havewooed while he tarried in and about New York upon his memorablejourney to Boston to solicit in vain, of Governor Shirley, a king'scommission. The Revolution found the Morrises on the side opposed toWashington's; for a short time during the operations above New York in1776 he occupied this house of theirs as headquarters. They lost itthrough their allegiance to the royal cause, all their American realestate being confiscated by the New York assembly. The mansion becamein time the residence of that remarkable woman who, from a barefootgirl in Providence, R.I., had grown up to be the wife of a Frenchmannamed Jumel; and to be the object of much admiration, and the subjectof some scandal. In her widowhood she received under this roof AaronBurr, after his duel with Hamilton (whose neighbouring country-housestill exists, in Convent Avenue), and under this roof she andBurr—both in their old age—were united in marriage. I imagine thatsome of the ghosts that haunt this mansion, if they might be got in acorner, would yield their interviewers a quaint reminiscence or two.The grounds appertaining to the house have been sadly diminished bythe opening of new streets; yet it is still a fine, striking landmark,perched to be seen afar, as from the railroad trains that follow theEast bank of the Harlem, or, better, from West 155th Street at andabout its junction with St. Nicholas Place and the Speedway. At thetime when I left New York for a temporary residence in the Old World,there was talk of moving the house to a less commanding, but stilleminent, height that crowns the bluff rising from the Speedway: theowner was compelled, it was said, to avail himself of the increasedvalue of the land whereon it stood. 'Tis some pity if this has been,or has to be, done; but nothing to the pity if the mansion had to bepulled down. Apart from all associations and historical interest, thisimposing specimen of our Colonial domestic architecture, so simple andreposeful an edifice amidst a world of flat buildings, and of gew-gawhouses built for sale on the instalment plan to the ubiquitous Mr. andMrs. Veneering, is a precious relief, nay an untiring delight, to theeye.

NOTE 5.

During this Winter (1779-80) the Continental army was in two maindivisions. The one with which Washington made his headquarters washutted on the heights about Morristown, N.J. The other, under GeneralHeath, was stationed in the highlands of the Hudson. Intermediateterritory, of course, was more or less thoroughly guarded by detachedposts, militia, and various forces regular and irregular. The most ofthe cavalry was quartered in Connecticut; but Winwood's troop, as ournarrative shows, was established near Washington's headquarters. Thiswas a memorably cold Winter, and as severe upon the patriots as themore famous Winter (1777-78) at Valley Forge. About the latter part ofJanuary the Hudson was frozen over, almost to its mouth.

NOTE 6.

Long before I fell upon Lieut. Russell's narrative, a detailed accountof a British attempt to capture Washington, by a bold night dash uponhis quarters at Morristown, had caught my eyes from the pages of theold "New Jersey Historical Collections." Washington was not the onlyobject of such designs during the War of Independence. One was plannedfor the seizure of Governor Livingstone at his home in Elizabeth,N.J.; but, much to Sir Henry Clinton's disappointment, thatinfluential and witty champion of independence was not at home whenthe surprise party called.

NOTE 7.

Lieut-Gen. Knyphausen was now (January, 1780) temporarily in chiefcommand at New York, as Sir Henry Clinton and Lord Cornwallis hadsailed South (December 26, 1779) to attack Charleston and reduce SouthCarolina.

NOTE 8.

At that time, the Bristol and Bath stage-coaches took two days for thetrip to London. Madge doubtless would have slept a night or two atBristol after her landing; and probably at the Pelican Inn atSpeenhamland (opposite Newbury), the usual midway sleeping-place, atthe end of the first day's ride. But bad weather may have hindered thejourney, and required the passengers to pass more than one night asinn-guests upon the road.

NOTE 9.

Mrs. Sheridan's surpassing beauty, talent, and amiability arewell-known to all readers; as is the fact that her brilliant husband,despite their occasional quarrels, was very much in love with her fromfirst to last.

NOTE 10.

Sir Ralph Winwood, born at Aynho, in Northamptonshire, in 1564, wasfrequently sent as envoy to Holland in the reign of James I., by whomhe was knighted in 1603. He was Secretary of State from a date in 1614till his death in 1617. His collected papers and letters are entitled,"Memorials of Affairs of State in the Reigns of Queen Elizabeth andKing James I.," etc. His portrait painted by Miereveldt, is in theNational Portrait Gallery in London.