_How Philip and I Behaved as Rivals in Love._
I was always impatient, and restless to settle uncertainties. One fine
morning in the Spring of 1773, Philip and I were breaking the Sabbath
by practising with the foils in our back garden. Spite of all the
lessons I had taken from an English fencing-master in the town, Phil
was still my superior in the gentlemanly art. After a bout, on this
sunshiny morning, we rested upon a wooden bench, in the midst of a
world of white and pink and green, for the apple and cherry blossoms
were out, and the leaves were in their first freshness. The air was
full of the odour of lilacs and honeysuckles. Suddenly the matter that
was in my mind came out.
"I wish you'd tell me something, Phil--though 'tis none of my
business,--"
"Why, man, you're welcome to anything I know."
"Then, is there aught between Margaret and you--any agreement or
understanding, I mean?"
Phil smiled, comprehending me thoroughly.
"No, there's nothing. I'm glad you asked. It shows there's no promise
between her and you, either."
"I thought you and I ought to settle it between ourselves
about--Margaret. Because if we both go on letting time pass, each
waiting to see what t'other will do, some other man will slip in, and
carry 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 girl
in 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 on
a 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 a
husband; 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 Margaret
accommodating herself to the everlasting company of Phil Van
Cortlandt, or Jack Cruger, or Bob Livingstone, or Harry Colden, or
Fred Philipse, or Billy Skinner, or any of them."
"I know," said I; "but many a girl has taken a man that other men
couldn't see anything in."
"Ay, the women have a way of their own of judging men; or perhaps they
make the best of what they can get. But you may depend on't, Margaret
has too clear a sight, and too bright a mind, and thinks too well of
herself, to mate with an uncouth cub, or a stupid dolt, or a girlish
fop, or any of these that hang about her."
'Twas not Phil's way to speak ill of people, but when one considered
men in comparison with Margaret, they looked indeed very crude and
unworthy.
"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 it
with us?"
"Why, 'tis well-proved that she doesn't tire of us. For years and
years, she has had us about her every day, and has been content with
our 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 in
America then, and with Mr. Faringfield and Margaret, neither of us was
entirely ineligible to the hand of so rich and important a man's
daughter; although the town would not have likened our chances to
those of a De Lancey, a Livingstone, or a Philipse. I ought to have
said before, that Philip was now of promising fortune. He had risen in
the employ of Mr. Faringfield, but, more than that, he had invested
some years' savings in one of that merchant's shipping ventures, and
had reinvested the profits, always upon his benefactor's advice, until
now his independence was a certain thing. If he indeed tried
architecture and it failed him as a means of livelihood, he might at
any time fall back upon his means and his experience as a merchant
adventurer. As for me, I also was a beneficiary of Mr. Faringfield's
mercantile transactions by sea, my mother, at his hint, having drawn
out 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, and
the certainty of remaining in his Majesty's service during good
behaviour. This meant for life, for I had now learned how to govern my
conduct, having schooled myself, for the sake of my mother's peace of
mind, to keep out of trouble, often against my natural impulses. Thus
both Phil and I might aspire to Margaret; and, moreover, 'twas like
that her father would provide well for her if she found a husband to
his approval. It did not then occur to me that my employment in the
English service might be against me in Mr. Faringfield's eyes.
"Then," said I, reaching the main point at last, "as you think we are
endurable to her--which of us shall it be?"
"Why, that question is for her to settle," said Phil, with a smile
half-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, she
will take him and refuse the other, whether he ask first or last."
"But suppose she likes us equally. In that case, might not the first
asker win, merely for his being first?"
"I think it scarce possible but that in her heart she must favour one
above 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 you
ask her, and she accepts you, I shall be sure you are the choice of
her heart. But as for me, I have often thought of the matter, and this
is what I've come to: not to speak to her of it, until by some hint or
act 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 there
have been exceptions to that; but I've read, and believe from what
I've seen, that 'tis oftenest the lady that gives the first hint. No
doubt, she has already made sure of the gentleman's feelings, by signs
he doesn't know of. If a man didn't receive some leading on from a
woman, how would he dare tell her his mind?--for if he loves her he
must dread her refusal, or scorn, beyond all things. However that be,
I've seen, in companies, and at the play, and even in church, how
girls 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 the
fancy to last. And 'tis the same, I'll wager, when the girls are
women, and the stronger feeling has come, the kind that lasts. Be sure
a girl as clever as Margaret will find a way of showing it, if she has
set her mind on either of us. And so, I'm resolved to wait for some
sign from her before I speak."
He went on to explain that this course would prolong, to the
unfortunate one, the possession of the pleasures of hope. It would
save him, and Margaret, from the very unpleasant incident of a
rejection. Such a refusal must always leave behind it a certain
bitterness in the memory, that will touch what friendship remains
between the two people concerned. And I know Philip's wish that,
though he might not be her choice, his old friendship with her might
continue perfectly unmarred, was what influenced him to avoid a
possible scene of refusal.
"Then I shall do as you do," said I, "and if I see any sign, either in
my favour or yours, be sure I'll tell you."
"I was just about to propose that," said Phil; and we resumed our
fencing.
There was, in our plan, nothing to hinder either of us from putting
his best foot forward, as the saying is, and making himself as
agreeable to the young lady as he could. Indeed that was the quickest
way to call forth the indication how her affections stood. I don't
think Phil took any pains to appear in a better light than usual. It
was his habit to be always himself, sincere, gentle, considerate, and
never thrusting forward. He had acquired with his growth a playful
humour with which to trim his conversation, but which never went to
tiresome lengths. This was all the more taking for his quiet manner,
which held one where noise and effort failed. But I exerted myself to
be mighty gallant, and to show my admiration and wit in every
opportune way.
I considered that Phil and I were evenly matched in the rivalry; for
when a young fellow loves a girl, be she ever so divine, and though he
feel in his heart that she is too good for him, yet he will believe it
is in him to win her grace. If he think his self-known attractions
will not suffice, he will trust to some possible hidden merits,
unperceived by himself and the world, but which will manifest
themselves to her sight in a magical manner vouchsafed to lovers. Or
at worst, if he admit himself to be mean and unlikely, he will put
reliance upon woman's caprice, which, as we all know, often makes
strange selections. As for me, I took myself to be quite a conquering
fellow.
In looks, 'twas my opinion that Philip and I were equally gifted. Phil
was of a graceful, slender figure; within an inch of six feet, I
should say; with a longish face, narrowing from the forehead downward,
very distinctly outlined, the nose a little curved, the mouth still as
delicate as a boy's. Indeed he always retained something boyish in his
look, for all his studiousness and thoughtfulness, and all that came
later. He was not as pale as in boyhood, the sea breezes that swept in
from the bay, past the wharves, having given him some ruddiness. His
eyes, I have said, were blue, almost of a colour with Margaret's. I
was an inch or two shorter than Phil, my build was more heavy and
full, my face more of an equal width, my nose a little upturned so as
to 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 of
dashing boldness, that must do one-half the business with any girl,
while my converse trick of softening my voice and eyes to her on
occasion, would do the other half.
But Margaret took her time before giving a hint of her heart's
condition. She was the same old comrade to us, she confided to us her
adverse 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 dejection
alike, teased us, soothed us, made us serve her, and played the
spoiled 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 approaching
its full bloom. She was of the average tallness; slender at neck,
waist, wrist, and ankle, but filling out well in the figure, which had
such curves as I swear I never saw elsewhere upon earth. She had the
smallest foot, with the highest instep; such as one gets not often an
idea of in England. Her little head, with its ripples of chestnut
hair, sat like that of a princess; and her face, oval in shape, proud
and soft by turns in expression--I have no way of conveying the
impression it gave one, but to say that it made me think of a nosegay
of fresh, flawless roses, white and red. Often, by candle-light,
especially if she were dressed for a ball, or sat at the play, I would
liken her to some animate gem, without the hardness that belongs to
real precious stones; for indeed she shone like a jewel, thanks to the
lustre of her eyes in artificial light. Whether from humidity or some
quality of their substance, I do not know, but they reflected the rays
as I have rarely seen eyes do; and in their luminosity her whole face
seemed to have part, so that her presence had an effect of warm
brilliancy that lured and dazzled you. To see her emerge from the
darkness of the Faringfield coach, or from her sedan-chair, into the
bright light of open doorways and of lanterns held by servants, was to
hold your breath and stand with lips parted in admiration, until she
made 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 an
unexpected visit.
Mr. Faringfield and Philip, as they entered the dining-room one
evening after their return from the warehouse, observed that an
additional place had been made at the table. Without speaking, the
merchant looked inquiringly, and with a little of apprehension, at his
lady.
"Ned has come back," she answered, trying to speak as if this were
quite 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 from
the landing."
"Why, no doubt the ship did not anchor near our wharf. He came by the
_Sophy_ brig. He took some tea, and changed his clothes, and went out
to meet a fellow passenger at the coffee-house. They had some business
together."
"Business with a pack of cards, I make no doubt; or else with rum or
madeira."
'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 that
had been set for him. When he did appear, he said he had already
eaten. Perhaps it was to strengthen his courage for meeting his
father, that he had imbibed to the stage wherein he vilely smelt of
spirits and his eyes and face were flushed. He was certainly bold
enough when he received his father's cold greeting in the parlour,
about nine o'clock at night.
"And, pray, what circumstance 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 into
an armchair with an air of being perfectly at home, "to tell the
truth, '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 love
lost between me and Culverson! 'Culverson,' says I, 'the place is a
hole, and the next vessel bound for New York, I go on her.' 'And a
damned good riddance!' says Culverson (begging your pardon! I'm only
quoting what the man said), and that was the only arrangement I
remember 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 provide
for."
"You are twenty-two, I think," says Mr. Faringfield.
"I take it, a few paltry years more or less don't alter my rights, or
the responsibilities of a parent. Don't think, sir, I shall stand up
and quietly see myself robbed of my birthright. I'm no longer the man
to 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 very
stiffly, "I'll think upon it." Whereupon he went into the library, and
closed the door after him.
'Tis certain that he had both the strength and the inclination to
chastise his son for these insulting rum-incited speeches, and to cast
him out to shift for his own future; instead of enduring heedlessly
the former, and offering to consider the latter. His strength was
equal to his pride, and he was no colder without than he was
passionate within. But there was one thing his strength of mind fell
short of facing, and that was the disgrace to the family, which the
eldest son might bring were he turned looser, unprovided for, in New
York. 'Twas the fear of such disgrace that always led Mr. Faringfield
to send Ned far away; and made him avoid any scene of violence which
the youth, now that he was a man and grown bold, might precipitate in
discussions such as the father had but now cut short.
"Now I call that frigid," complained Edward to his mother, staring at
the door behind which Mr. Faringfield had disappeared. "Here was I, in
for a pleasant confab with my father, concerning my future; and before
I can put in a word, out he flings, and there's an end of it. 'Tisn't
fatherly, I protest! Well, well, I might have known! He was always
stony-hearted; never would discuss matters. That's the gratitude I get
for 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, and
take 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 to
that. Well, I need a holiday, after working so hard in that cursed
devil's paradise I've just come from. I suppose I can depend on you
for a little pocket-money, ma'am, till dad comes to a conclusion?"
During the next fortnight, as he passed most of his time in the
taverns and the coffee-house, save when he attended horse-races on
Long Island, or chased foxes upon Tom's horse, or lent the honour of
his presence to cock-fights; Mr. Edward found his mother's resources
inadequate to his demands, and so levied tribute not only upon Fanny
and Tom but also upon Mr. Cornelius, who still abode in the
Faringfield house, and upon Philip Winwood. To Phil his manner was
more than civil; 'twas most conciliating and flattering, in a
pleasantly jocular way.
Ere Mr. Faringfield had announced his mind, the visitor had worn out
his welcome in most of his tavern haunts, and become correspondingly
tired of New York. One evening, as Philip was leaving the warehouse, a
negro boy handed him a note, in which Mr. Ned begged him to come
immediately, on a matter of importance, to the King's Arms tavern.
There he found Edward seated at a small table in a corner of the
tap-room. Ned would have it that Phil should send home his excuses, by
the negro, and sup at the tavern; which, for the sake of peace, though
unwillingly, 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 the
Maryland fashion.
"You know, Phil," says Ned at last, having talked in a lively strain
upon a multitude of matters, none of which Philip perceived to be
important, "'fore gad, I always liked you! Tis so, as the Lord's my
judge. Nay, you think I took a damned odd way of showing it. But we're
not all alike. Now look you! Hearken unto me, as the parson says. I
can say a good word for you in a certain ear."
"Whose?" queried Phil, wondering in what ear he needed a good word
said.
"Whose, eh? Now whose would it be? Come, come, I'll speak to the
point. I'm no man for palaver. 'Tis an ear you've whispered more than
one sweet thing into, I'll warrant. You're young, Philip, young: you
think you can fall in love and nobody find it out. Why, I hadn't been
landed two hours, and asked the news, when I was told that you and
Bert 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 some
weight 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--that
spitfire! Well, well! Your face speaks, if your tongue won't. Who'd
have thought any man would go soft over such a vixen? Well, I can't
help 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 a
good turn I might get you to do me another."
"Oh, I see! Why, then, as for my doing you a good turn if it's
possible, speak out. What is it?"
"Now, I call that noble of you, Phil; damned noble! I do need a good
turn, and that's a fact. You see I didn't tell my father exactly the
truth 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't
endure 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 spotless
name of Faringfield! Oh, I've worked upon that more than once, I tell
you. The old gentleman will do much to keep the name without a
blemish; I could always bring him to terms by threatening to disgrace
it--"
"What a rascal you've been, then!"
"Why, maybe so; we're not all saints. But I've always kept my word
with father, and whenever he gave me the money I wanted, or set me up
in life again, I kept the name clean--comparatively clean, that is to
say, as far as any one in New York might know. And even this time--at
the Barbadoes--'twasn't with any purpose of punishing father, I vow;
'twas for my necessities, I made myself free with a thousand pounds of
Culverson's."
"The devil! Do you mean you embezzled a thousand pounds?"
"One cool, clean thousand! My necessities, I tell you. There was a
debt of honour, you must know; a damned unlucky run at the cards, and
the navy officer that won came with a brace of pistols and gave me two
days in which to pay. And then there was a lady--with a brat, confound
her!--to be sent to England, and looked after. You see, 'twas honour
moved me in the first case, and chivalry in the second. As a
gentleman, I couldn't withstand the promptings of noble sentiments
like those."
"Well, what then?"
"Why, then I came away. And I hadn't the heart to break the truth to
father, knowing how 'twould cut him up. I thought of the old
gentleman's family pride, his gray hairs--his hair _is_ gray by this
time, 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 I
left. I pretended I was ill--and so I was, in a way. But he must have
found out by this time, and when he sends after me, by the next
vessel, I'm afraid poor father will have to undergo a severe
trial--you know his weakness for the honoured name of Faringfield."
"By the Lord, Ned, this is worse than I should ever have thought of
you."
"It _is_ a bit bad, isn't it? And I've been thinking what's to be
done--for father's sake, you know. If 'twere broken to him gently, at
once, as nobody but you can break it, why then, he might give me the
money to repay Culverson, and send me back to Barbadoes by the next
ship, and nothing need ever come out. I'm thoroughly penitent, so help
me, heaven, and quite willing to go back."
"And incur other debts of honour, and obligations of chivalry," says
Phil.
"I'll see the cards in hell first, and the women too, by gad!" whereat
Mr. Edward brought his fist down upon the table most convincingly.
He thought it best to spend that night at the tavern; whither Phil
went in the morning with news of Mr. Faringfield's reception of the
disclosure. The merchant had listened with a countenance as cold as a
statue's, but had promptly determined to make good the thousand pounds
to Mr. Culverson, and that Ned should return to the Barbadoes without
the formality of bidding the family farewell. But the money was to be
entrusted not to Mr. Edward, but to Mr. Faringfield's old clerk,
Palmer, who was to be the young man's travelling companion on the
Southward voyage. At word of this last arrangement, Edward showed
himself a little put out, which he told Phil was on account of his
father's apparent lack of confidence. But he meditated awhile, and
took on a more cheerful face.
It happened--and, as it afterward came out, his previous knowledge of
this had suggested the trick he played upon Phil and Mr.
Faringfield--that, the same day on which the next Barbadoes-bound
vessel sailed, a brig left port for England. Both vessels availed
themselves of the same tide and wind, and so went down the bay
together.
On the Barbadoes vessel, Ned and Mr. Palmer were to share the same
cabin; and thither, ere the ship was well out of the East River, the
old clerk accompanied Ned for the purpose of imbibing a beverage which
the young gentleman protested was an unfailing preventive of
sea-sickness, if taken in time. Once in the cabin, and the door being
closed, Mr. Ned adroitly knocked Palmer down with a blow from behind;
gagged, bound, and robbed him of the money, and left him to his
devices. Returning to the deck, he induced the captain to put him, by
boat, aboard the brig bound for England, which was still close at
hand. Taking different courses, upon leaving the lower bay, the two
vessels were soon out of hail, and that before the discovery of the
much 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. When
Palmer returned with his account of it, he brought word from Mr.
Culverson that, although Ned had indeed settled a gambling debt at the
pistol's point, and had indeed paid the passage of a woman and child
to England, his theft had been of less than a hundred pounds. Thus it
was made manifest that Ned had lied to Philip in order to play upon
his father's solicitude concerning the name of Faringfield for
integrity, and so get into his hands the means of embarking upon the
pleasures of the Old World. Very foolish did poor Philip look when he
learned how he had been duped. But Mr. Faringfield, I imagine,
consoled himself with the probability that New York had seen the last
of Mr. Edward.
I think 'twas to let Mr. Faringfield recover first from the feelings
of this occasion, that Philip postponed so long the announcement of
his intention to go to England. Thus far he had confided his plans to
me alone, and as a secret. But now he was past twenty-one years, and
his resolution could not much longer be deferred. Nevertheless, not
until the next June--that of 1774--did he screw up his courage to the
point of action.
"I shall tell him to-day," said Philip to me one Monday morning, as I
walked with him part of the way to the warehouses. "Pray heaven he
takes it not too ill."
I did not see Phil at dinner-time; but in the afternoon, a little
before his usual home-coming hour, he came seeking me, with a very
relieved and happy face; and found me trimming a grape-vine in our
back 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 to
make any in my case. But he looked so upset for a moment, so
deserted--I suppose he was thinking how his own son had failed him,
and that now his beneficiary was turning from him--that I wavered. But
at that he was the same haughty, immovable man as ever, and I
remembered that each of us must live his own life; and so 'tis
settled."
"Well," said I, with a little of envy at his prospect, and much of
sorrow at losing him, and some wonder about another matter, "I'm glad
for your sake, though you may imagine how I'll miss you. But how can
you 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 I
shall be gone years when I do go, Mr. Faringfield stipulated only that
I should remain with him here another year; and I was mighty glad he
did, or I should have had to make that offer. 'Twasn't that I was
anxious to be off so soon, that made me tell him I was going; 'twas
that in harbouring the intention, while he still relied upon my
remaining always with him, I seemed to be guilty of a kind of
treachery. As for--_her_, if she gives no indication within a year,
especially when she knows I'm going, why, 'twill be high time to leave
the 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 feelings
are. After all, we are to have you for a year, and then--well, I hope
you may become the greatest architect that ever lived!"
"Why, now, 'tis strange; you remind me of my reason for going. Since
Mr. Faringfield gave me his sanction, I hadn't thought of that. I'm
afraid I've been something of a hypocrite. And yet I certainly thought
my desire to go was chiefly on account of my architectural studies;
and I certainly intend to pursue them, too. I must have deceived
myself a little, though, by dwelling on that reason as one that would
prevail with Mr. Faringfield; one that he could understand, and could
not fairly oppose. For, hearkee, all the way home, when I looked
forward to the future, the architectural part of it was not in my
head. I was thinking of the famous historic places I should see; the
places where great men have lived; the birthplace and grave of
Shakespeare; the palaces where great pageants and tragedies have been
enacted; the scenes of great battles; the abbey where so many poets
and kings and queens are buried; the Tower where such memorable dramas
have occurred; the castles that have stood since the days of chivalry;
and Oxford; and the green fields of England that poets have written
of, and the churchyard of Gray's Elegy; and all that kind of thing."
[Illustration: "OUR MOTIONS, AS WE TOUCHED OUR LIPS WITH THEM, WERE SO
IN UNISON THAT MARGARET LAUGHED."]
"Ay, and something of the gay life of the present, I'll warrant," said
I, with a smile; "the playhouses, and the taverns, and the parks, and
Vauxhall, 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 start
up, and turn toward the fence, with hastened hearts and smiling faces.
Margaret stood erect, looking over the palings at us, backed by the
green and flowered bushes through which she and Fanny had moved
noiselessly toward the fence in quest of nosegays for the
supper-table. Fanny stood at her side, and both smiled, Margaret
archly, Fanny pleasantly. The two seemed of one race with the flowers
about them, though Margaret's radiant beauty far outshone the more
modest charms of her brown-eyed younger sister. The elder placed her
gathered 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 we
touched our lips with them, were so in 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 great
architect."
"Going to England!" She looked as if she could not have rightly
understood.
"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 authority
over you. 'Tis different with us. Oh, Phil, if you could only take me
with you!" There was wistful longing and petulant complaint in the
speech. And then, as Phil answered, an idea seemed to come to her all
at once; and she to rise to it by its possibility, rather than to fall
back from its audacity.
"I would gladly," said he; "but your father would never consent that a
Faringfield--"
"Well, one need not always be a Faringfield," she replied, looking him
straight in the face, with a kind of challenge in her voice and eyes.
"Why--perhaps not," said Phil, for the mere sake of agreeing, and
utterly at a loss as to her meaning.
"You don't understand," says she. "A father's authority over his
daughter ceases one day."
"Ay, no doubt," says Phil; "when she becomes of legal age. But even
then, without her father's consent--"
"Why, now," she interrupted, "suppose her father's authority over her
passed to somebody else; somebody of her father's own preference;
somebody that her father already knew was going to England: could her
father forbid his taking her?"
"But, 'tis impossible," replied mystified Phil. "To whom in the world
would 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 Polly
Livingstone's father give up his authority over her the other day--to
Mr. Ludlow?"
"Certainly, to her husband."
"Well!"
"Margaret--do you mean--? But you can't mean _that_?" Phil had not the
voice to say more, emerging so suddenly from the clouds of puzzlement
to the yet uncertain sunshine of joy.
"Why shouldn't I mean that?" says she, with the prettiest laugh, which
made her bold behaviour seem the most natural, feminine act
imaginable. "Am I not good enough for you?"
"Madge! You're not joking, are you?" He caught her hands, and gazed
with still dubious rapture at her across the fence.
My sensations may easily be imagined. But by the time she had assured
him 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 to
be sealed."
Philip took my hint; and he and Margaret laughed, and stretched arms
across the paling tops; and I lost sight of their faces. I sought
refuge in turning to Fanny, who was nearer to me than they were. To my
surprise, she was watching me with the most kindly, pitying face in
the world. Who would have thought she had known my heart regarding her
sister?
"Poor Bert!" she murmured gently, scarce for my hearing.
And I, who had felt very solitary the moment before, now seemed not
quite so lonely; and I continued to look into the soft, compassionate
eyes of Fanny, so steadily that in a moment, with the sweetest of
blushes, she lowered them to the roses in her hand.