_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 my
ghost."
"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 is
scarce 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 hang
me 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 draw
back, and look so. What is wrong? Am I--unwelcome?"
She saw that, to be true to her design, to her elaborate plan for the
future, she must not soften toward him--for his reappearance, with the
old-time boyish look and manner, the fond expression now wistful and
alarmed, the tender eyes now startled and affrighted, revived much
that had been dormant in her heart, and made Captain Falconer seem a
very far-off and casual person. Against the influence of Philip's
presence, and the effect of his having so imperilled himself to see
her, she had to arm herself with coldness, or look upon the success of
her project as going for naught to her advantage. She dared not
contemplate the forfeit; so she hardened her heart.
"Why," she said, with a forced absence of feeling, "so many years have
passed--so many things have happened--you appear so much a stranger--"
"Stranger!" echoed he. "Why, not if you had thought of me half as
constantly 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 Margaret
that 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 cognisance
of what objects his sight fell upon. Margaret seated herself, with a
sigh 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 learn
how to endure your absence. You stayed away all these years. Naturally
I've come to consider you as--"
"Nay, don't attempt to put me in the wrong. My heart is as warm to you
as ever, in spite of the years of absence. Those years have made no
change in me. Why should they have changed you, then? No--'tis not
their fault if you are changed, nor mine neither. There is something
wrong, I see. Be frank, dear, and tell me what it is. You need not be
afraid 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 would
rush back. Why, if I were but a mere acquaintance whom you had once
known in a friendly way, you wouldn't have greeted me so coldly. There
would have been cordiality, smiles, a warm clasp of the hand,
questions about my health and doings, at least a curiosity as to how I
had 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 world
like that! And what was't you said? It passed me then, I was so amazed
at my reception--so different from the one I had pictured all the way
thither, 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 the
time. 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 the
most inconvenient visitor, and why _to-night_? Tell me that! Tell
me--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, my
lady! I must know, and I will know, what it is that my visit
interferes with. You were not going out, I can see by your dress. Nor
expecting company. Unless--no, it couldn't be that! You're not capable
of that! You are my wife, you are Margaret Faringfield, William
Faringfield's daughter. God forgive the mistrust--yet every husband
with an imagination has tortured himself for an instant sometime with
that thought, suppose his wife's heart _might_ stray? I've heard 'em
confess the thought; and even I--but what a hell it was for the moment
it lasted! And how swiftly I put it from me, to dwell on your
tenderness in the old days, your pride that has put you above the
hopes of all men but me, the unworthy one you chose to reach down your
hand to from your higher level!"
"So you have harboured _that_ suspicion, have you?" she cried, with
flashing eyes.
"No, no; harboured it never! Only let my perverse imagination 'light,
for the space of a breath, on the possibility, to my unutterable
torment. All men's fancies play 'em such tricks now and then, to
torture them and take down their vanity. Men would rest too easy in
their security, were it not so."
"A man that suspects his wife, deserves to lose her allegiance," cried
Margaret, with a kind of triumphant imputation of blame, which was her
betrayal.
He gazed at her with the dawning horror of half-conviction.
"Then I have lost yours?" he asked, in a tone stricken with doubt and
dread.
"I didn't say so," she replied, reddening.
"But your words imply that. You seemed to be justifying yourself by my
suspicion. But there was no suspicion till now--nothing but a
tormenting fancy of what I believed impossible. So you cannot excuse
yourself 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 having
said 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 not
lost you--no, no, I won't even ask you. 'Tis not possible. I won't
believe it of you--that you could be inconstant! Forgive me,
dear--your strange manner has so upset me--but forgive me, I beg, and
let 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, for
resistance. She kept her mind fixed upon the expected rewards of her
project, and so fortified herself against yielding.
"By heaven, I'll know what this means!" he cried. He looked wildly
about the room, as if the explanation might somewhere there be found.
Her own glance went with his, as if there might indeed be some
evidence, which she must either make shift to conceal, or invent an
innocent reason for its presence. Her eye rested an instant upon a
book 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?"
[Illustration: "'HE IS A--AN ACQUAINTANCE.'"]
"No matter," she said quickly, and made to snatch the book away. "He
is a--an acquaintance. He is quartered in the house, in fact--a
British officer."
"An acquaintance? But why do you turn red? Why look so confused? Why
try to take the book away from me? Oh, my God, it is true! it is
true!" He dropped the volume, sank back upon a chair, and regarded her
with 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 read
his name. 'Tis your look now, your look of guilt. Oh, to see that
flush of discovered shame on _your_ face! You care for this man, I can
see that!"
"Well, what if I do?"
"Then you confess it? Oh, can it be you that say this?--you that stand
there with eyes that drop before mine for shame--nay, eyes that you
raise with defiance! Brazen--oh, my God, my God, tell me 'tis all a
mistake! Tell me I wrong you, dear; that you are still mine, my
Margaret, my Madge--little Madge, that found me a home that day I came
to New York; my pretty Madge, that cried when I was going to leave on
Ned'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 his
face 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 that
surrender to her feelings which would have meant forfeiting the fruits
of her long planning.
His mood changed.
"I'll not endure this," he cried, rising and pacing the floor. "You'll
find I'm no such weakling, though I can weep for my wife when I lose
her love. _He_ shall find it so, too! I understand now what you meant
by 'to-night of all nights.' He was to meet you to-night. He's
quartered in the house, you say. He was to slink up, no doubt, when
all were out of the way--your father divines little of this, I'll
warrant. Well, he may come--but he shall find _me_ waiting at my
wife'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 all
men,' came here to-night."
"Nay, you're mistaken. You had been more like to find him to-night
where 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 too
much--whether for the sake of a taunt, or the mere necessity of giving
an apt answer, I presume not to decide.
"What can that mean?" said he, arrested by the peculiarity of her tone
and look. "Find him where I came from? Why, that's our camp. What does
he 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--might
be found in our camp to-night? Charles Falconer, a British officer. I
can'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 too
late 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 beaten
me--elsewhere. I know the Jersey roads better than I have known my
wife'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 of
mine is needed, to defeat it. Our army is alert for these night
attempts. 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 on
their way to Morristown. Even if you got out of our lines as easily as
you got in, you could only meet our troops returning with your
general."
Doubtless she conceived that by taunting him, at this safe hour, with
this prevision of her success, she helped the estrangement which she
felt necessary to her enjoyment of her expected rewards.
"Oho!" quoth he, with a bitter, derisive laugh. "Another attempt to
seize 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 much
of the Madge of other days, that his bitterness forsook him, and
admiration 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 of
the self-reproach his sorrow caused in her.
"Ay, if I had but the chance! If I might be with you long enough, if I
might 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 must
part with you while matters are so wrong between us; that I must leave
you when I would give ten years of life for one hour to win your love
back! But you will take my hand, let me kiss you once--you will do
that 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 started
before dark."
"You would only overtake them, at your best. Do you think they would
let you pass?"
"Poh! I know every road. I can ride around them. I'll put the army in
readiness for 'em, treason or no treason! For the present, good-bye--"
The look in his face--of power and resolution--gave her a sudden sense
of her triumph slipping out of her grasp.
"You must not go!" she cried, quite awakened to the peril of the
situation 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 tightly
with both arms. She made no attempt to avoid his kiss, and he, taking
this for acquiescence, bestowed the kiss upon unresponsive lips.
"Now let me go," said he, turning to stride toward the door by which
he 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 never
ceased to love you, at the bottom of my heart. I love you now. You
shall stay."
"I must not, I dare not. Oh, I would to God I could believe you! But
whether 'tis true, or a device to keep me here, I will not stay. Let
me go!"
"I will not! You will have to force me from you, first! I tell you I
love 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 you
soon again."
"If you go now, I will never let you see me again!--Nay, you must drag
me after you, then!"
He was moving toward the door despite her hold; and now he caught her
wrists 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 my
scheme!"
"Yours!"
"Yes, mine! Mine, against your commander, against your cause!" She was
wrought up now to a fury, at the physical force he exerted to release
himself; and for the time, swayed by her feelings only, she let policy
fly to the winds. "Your cause that I hate, because it ruined my hopes
before! You are a fool if you think my being your wife would have kept
me from fighting your hateful cause. I became your wife that I might
go to England, and when that failed I was yours no longer. Love
another? Yes!--and you shall not spoil his work and mine--not unless
you 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 his
pressure for freedom. But this weakness was followed by a fierce
reaction. His countenance darkened, and with one effort, the first
into 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 ran
to a front window, and flung it open.
"By heaven, I'll stop you!" she cried. "Help! A rebel--a spy! Ah, you
men yonder--this way! A rebel spy!"
Philip looked over her head, out of the window. Far up the street
swaggered five or six figures which, upon coming under a corner lamp
whose rays yellowed a small circle of snow, showed to be those of
British soldiers. Their unaltered movements evidenced that they had
not 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 her
mouth, the other about her neck. Holding her thus, he forced her into
the rear chamber, and then toward the window by which he meant to
leave. At its very ledge he let her go, and made to step out to the
roof of the veranda. But she grasped his clothes with the power of
rage and desperation, and set up another screaming for help.
In an agony of mind at having to use such painful violence against a
woman, and how much more so against the wife he still loved; and at
the grievous appearance that she was willing to sacrifice him upon the
British gallows rather than let him mar her purpose, he flung her away
with all necessary force, so that, with a final shriek of pain and
dismay, she fell to the floor exhausted.
He cast an anguished glance upon her, as she lay defeated and
half-fainting; and, knowing not to what fate he might be leaving her,
he moaned, "God pity her!" and stepped out upon the sloping roof. He
scrambled to the edge, let himself half-way down by the trellis,
leaped the rest of the distance, and ran through the back garden from
the place he had so well loved.
While his wife, lying weak upon the floor of her chamber, gazed at the
window through which he had disappeared, and, as if a new change had
occurred within her, sobbed in consternation:
"Oh, what have I done? He is a man, indeed!--and I have lost him!"