_The Bad Shilling Turns up Once More in Queen Street._
"This will be sad news to Mrs. Winwood, gentlemen," said Captain
Falconer to Tom and me, as we rode toward the place where we should
take the boats for New York. The day was well forward, but its gray
sunless light held little cheer for such a silent, dejected crew as we
were.
The captain was too much the self-controlled gentleman to show great
disappointment on his own account, though he had probably set store
upon this venture, as an opportunity that he lacked in his regular
duties on General Clinton's staff, where he served pending the delayed
enlistment of the loyalist cavalry troop he had been sent over to
command. But though he might hide his own regrets, now that we were
nearing Margaret, it was proper to consider our failure with reference
to her.
"Doubtless," he went on, "there was treachery against us somewhere;
for we cannot suppose such vigilance and preparation to be usual with
the rebels. But we must not hint as much to her. The leak may have
been, you see, through one of the instruments of her choosing--the man
Meadows, perhaps, or--" (He stopped short of mentioning Ned
Faringfield, whose trustworthiness on either side he was warranted, by
much that he had heard, in doubting.) "In any case," he resumed,
"'twould be indelicate to imply that her judgment of men, her
confidence in any one, could have been mistaken. We'd best merely tell
her, then, that the rebels were on the alert, and fell upon us before
we could meet her brother."
We thought to find her with face all alive, expectant of the best
news, or at least in a fever of impatience, and that therefore 'twould
be the more painful to tell her the truth. But when the captain's
servant let the three of us in at the front door (Tom and I had waited
while Falconer briefly reported our fiasco to General Clinton) and we
found her waiting for us upon the stairs, her face was pale with a set
and tragic wofulness, as if tidings of our failure had preceded us.
There was, perhaps, an instant's last flutter of hope against hope, a
momentary remnant of inquiry, in her eyes; but this yielded to
despairing certainty at her first clear sight of our crestfallen
faces.
"'Twas all for nothing, then?" she said, with a quiet weariness which
showed that her battle with disappointment had been fought and had
left her tired out if not resigned.
"Yes," said the captain, apparently relieved to discover that no storm
of disappointment or reproach was to be undergone. "They are too
watchful. We hadn't yet come upon your brother, when a heavy fire
broke out upon us. We were lucky to escape before they could surround
us. Nine of our men are missing."
She gave a shudder, then came to us, kissed Tom with more than
ordinary tenderness, grasped my hand affectionately, and finally held
the captain's in a light, momentary clasp.
"You did your best, I'm sure," she said, in a low voice, at the same
time flashing her eyes furtively from one to another as if to detect
whether we hid any part of the news.
We were relieved and charmed at this resigned manner of receiving our
bad tidings, and it gave me, at least, a higher opinion of her
strength of character. This was partly merited, I make no doubt;
though I did not know then that she had reason to reproach herself for
our failure.
"And that's all you have to tell?" she queried. "You didn't discover
what made them so ready for a surprise?"
"No," replied the captain, casually. "Could there have been any
particular reason, think you? To my mind, they have had lessons enough
to make them watchful."
She looked relieved. I suppose she was glad we should not know of her
interview with Philip, and of the imprudent taunts by which she
herself had betrayed the great design.
"Well," said she. "They may not be so watchful another time. We may
try again. Let us wait until I hear from Ned."
But when she stole an interview with Bill Meadows, that worthy had no
communication from Ned; instead thereof, he had news that Captain
Faringfield had disappeared from the rebel camp, and was supposed by
some to have deserted to the British. Something that Meadows knew not
at the time, nor I till long after, was of the treasonable plot
unearthed in the rebel army, and that two or three of the participants
had been punished for the sake of example, and the less guilty ones
drummed out of the camp. This was the result of Philip's presentation
to General Washington of the list of names obtained from Ned, some of
the men named therein having confessed upon interrogation. Philip's
account of the affair made it appear to Washington that his discovery
was due to his accidental meeting with Ned Faringfield, and that
Faringfield's escape was but the unavoidable outcome of the
hand-to-hand fight between the two men--for Philip had meanwhile
ascertained, by a personal search, that Ned had not been too severely
hurt to make good his flight.
Well, there passed a Christmas, and a New Year, in which the
Faringfield house saw some revival of the spirit of gladness that had
formerly prevailed within its comfortable walls at that season. Mr.
Faringfield, who had grown more gray and taciturn each year, mellowed
into some resemblance to his former benevolent, though stately, self.
He had not yet heard of Ned's treason. His lady, still graceful and
slender, resumed her youth. Fanny, who had ever forced herself to the
diffusion of merriment when there was cheerlessness to be dispelled,
reflected with happy eyes the old-time jocundity now reawakened. My
mother, always a cheerful, self-reliant, outspoken soul, imparted the
cordiality of her presence to the household, and both Tom and I
rejoiced to find the old state of things in part returned. Margaret,
perhaps for relief from her private dejection, took part in the
household festivities with a smiling animation that she had not
vouchsafed them in years; and Captain Falconer added to their gaiety
by his charming wit, good-nature, and readiness to please. Yet he, I
made no doubt, bore within him a weight of dashed hopes, and could
often have cursed when he laughed.
The happy season went, leaving a sweeter air in the dear old house
than had filled it for a long time. All that was missing, it seemed to
us who knew not yet as much as Margaret knew, was the presence of
Philip. Well, the war must end some day, and then what a happy
reunion! By that time, if Heaven were kind, I thought, the charm of
Captain 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 Faringfield
parlour, and my mother had just cried out, "Dear bless me, look at the
clock!"--when there sounded a dull, heavy pounding upon the rear hall
door. There were eight of us, at the two card-tables: Mr. Faringfield
and his lady, my mother, Margaret and Fanny, Mr. Cornelius, Tom, and
myself. And every one of us, looking from face to face, showed the
same thought, the same recognition of that half-cowardly, half-defiant
thump, though for so long we had not heard it. How it knocked away the
years, and brought younger days rushing back upon us!
Mr. Faringfield's face showed a sweep of conjectures, ranging from
that of Ned's being in New York in service of his cause, to that of
his being there as a deserter from it. Margaret flushed a moment, and
then composed herself with an effort, for whatever issue this
unexpected arrival might portend. The rest of us waited in a mere
wonder touched with the old disquieting dread of painful scenes.
Old Noah, jealous of the single duty that his years had left him, and
resentful of its frequent usurpation by Falconer's servant, always
stayed 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 the
lock, and then instantly a heavy tread that covered the sound of
Noah's. The parlour door from the hall was flung open, and in strode
the 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. He
stopped near the door, and stared from face to face, frowning because
of the sudden invasion of his eyes by the bright candlelight. When his
glance fell upon Margaret, it rested; and thereupon, just as if he
were not returned from an absence of three years and more, and
heedless of the rest of us, confining his address to her alone, he
bellowed, with a most malignant expression of face and voice:
"So you played a fine game with us, my lady--luring us into the dirty
scheme, and then turning around and setting your husband on us in the
act! I see through it all now, you underhanded, double-dealing slut!"
"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 these
people. Let 'em hear it all, I don't care. It's all up now, and I'm a
hanged man if ever I go near the American camp again. But I'm safe
here in New York, though I was damn' near being shot when I first came
into the British lines. But I've been before General Knyphausen,[7]
and been identified, and been acknowledged by your Captain Falconer as
the man that worked your cursed plot at t'other end; and I've been let
go free--though I'm under watch, no doubt. So you see there's naught
to hinder me exposing you for what you are--the woman that mothered a
British plot, and worked her trusting brother into it, and then
betrayed 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, who
also rose, and who stood between him and the rest of us:
"A lie, is it? Perhaps you can make General Knyphausen and Captain
Falconer believe that, now I've told 'em whose cursed husband it was
that attacked me at the meeting-place, and alarmed the camp. You
didn't think I'd live to tell the tale, did you? You thought to hear
of my being hanged, and your husband promoted for his services, and so
two birds killed with one stone! But providence had a word to say
about 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 lie
that your husband spoiled the scheme? Why, you brazen hussy, he came
from 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 to
explanations with him as she forthwith did. But I now see how,
realising that proofs of Philip's visit might turn up and seem to bear
out Ned's accusation, she must have felt the need of putting herself
instantly right with Tom and me, lest she might eventually find
herself wrong with General Clinton and Captain Falconer.
"I own that Philip saw me that night," she said, with a self-control
compelled by her perilous situation. "He came here by stealth, and
took me by surprise. He found reason to suspect our plot, but till now
I never knew 'twas really he that put the rebels on their guard. I
thought he would be too late. 'Twas through no intention of mine that
he guessed what was afoot. I never told Tom and Bert" (these words
were meant for our ears) "--or Captain Falconer--of his visit, for
fear they might think, as you seem to, that I was to blame. That's all
the truth, and we shall see whether Captain Falconer will believe you
or me."
Here Mr. Faringfield, whose patience at being so far ignored, though
'twas supported by the hope of receiving the desired enlightenment
from their mutual speeches, was at length exhausted, put in with some
severity.
"Pray, let us into these mysteries, one of you. Margaret, what is it I
hear, of a visit from Philip? of a British plot? By heaven, if I
thought--but explain the matter, if you please."
"I have no right to," said she, her face more and more suffused with
red. "'Tis not my secret alone; others are concerned."
"It appears," rejoined Mr. Faringfield, "it is a secret that abides in
my house, and therefore I have a right to its acquaintance. I command
you to explain."
"Command?" she echoed lightly, with astonishment. "Is a married woman
subject 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 Philip
has paid, or will pay, for my living in, is my own, for the time
being. I shall go there--"
"You shall not leave this room," cried her father, stalking toward the
door. "You fall back upon Philip's name. Very well, he has delegated
the care of you to me in his absence. 'Tis time I should represent his
authority 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 a
husband."
"If your loyalty extends to plotting against your husband's cause, you
have not the right under my roof--or under Philip Winwood's part of
it. 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 the
faintest opportunity either to put his father under obligation or to
bring down Margaret. "I'll be frank with you. I've no reason to hide
what's past and gone. She and Captain Falconer had a plan to make
Washington a prisoner, by a night expedition from New York, and some
help in our camp--"
"Which you were to give, I see, you treacherous scoundrel!" said his
father, with contempt.
"Oh, now, no hard names, sir. You see, several of us--some good
patriots, too, with the country's best interests at heart--couldn't
swallow this French alliance; we saw that if we ever did win by it, we
should only be exchanging tyrants of our own blood for tyrants of
frog-eaters. We began to think England would take us back on good
terms if the war could be ended; and we considered the state of the
country, the interests of trade--indeed, 'twas chiefly the thought of
_your_ business, the hope of seeing it what it once was, that drove
_me_ into the thing."
"You wretched hypocrite!" interposed Mr. Faringfield.
"Oh, well; misunderstand me, as usual. Call me names, if you like. I'm
only telling the truth, and what you wished to know--what _she_
wouldn't tell you. I'm not as bad as some; I can up and confess, when
all's over. Well, as I was about to say, we had everything ready, and
the night was set; and then, all of a sudden, Phil Winwood swoops down
on me; treats me in a most unbrotherly fashion, I must say" (Ned cast
an oblique look at his embarrassed shoulder); "and alarmed the camp.
And when the British party rode up, instead of catching Washington
they caught hell. And I leave it to you, sir, whether your daughter
there, after playing the traitor to her husband's cause, for the sake
of 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. Such
damnableness!"
"'For the sake of her lover,'" Mr. Faringfield repeated. "What do you
mean by that, sir?" The phrase, indeed, had given us all a
disagreeable start.
"What I say, sir. How could he be otherwise? I guessed it before; and
I became sure of it this evening, from the way he spoke of her at
General Knyphausen's quarters."
"What a lie!" cried Margaret. "Captain Falconer is a gentleman; he's
not of a kind to talk about women who have given him no reason to do
so. 'Tis ridiculous! You maligning villain!"
"Oh, 'twasn't what he said, my dear; 'twas his manner whenever he
mentioned you. When a man like him handles a woman's name so
delicate-like, as if 'twas glass and might break--so grave-like, as if
she was a sacred subject--it means she's put herself on his
generosity."
Margaret affected a derisive laugh, as at her brother's pretensions to
wisdom.
"Oh, I know all the stages," he continued, watching her with a
malicious calmness of self-confidence. "When gentry of his sort are
first struck with a lady, but not very deep, they speak out their
admiration bold and gallant; when they find they're hit seriously, but
haven't made sure of her, they speak of her with make-believe
carelessness or mere respect: they don't like to show how far gone
they are. But when she's come to an understanding with 'em, and put
'em under obligations and responsibilities--it's only then they touch
her name so tender and considerate, as if it was so fragile. But that
stage doesn't last for ever, my young lady--bear that in mind!"
"You insolent wretch!" said Margaret, ready to cry with rage and
confusion.
"This is outrageous," ventured Mrs. Faringfield, daring to look her
indignation at Ned. "William, how can you tolerate such things said
about your daughter?"
But Mr. Faringfield had been studying his daughter's countenance all
the while. Alas for Margaret, she had never given pains to the art of
dissimulation, or taken the trouble to learn hypocrisy, or even
studied self-control: a negligence common to beauties, who rely upon
their charms to carry them through all emergencies without resort to
shifts. She was equal to a necessary lie that had not to be maintained
with labour, or to a pretence requiring little effort and encountering
no suspicion, but to the concealment of her feelings when she was
openly put to the question, her powers were inadequate. If ever a
human face served its owner ill, by apparently confessing guilt, where
only 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 of
inward 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 the
slanders of such a fellow? To an accusation like that, made on the
mere 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 your
anger had shown more of contempt than of confusion." Alas! he knew
naught of half-guilt and _its_ manifestations.
"How can you talk so?--I won't listen--such insulting
innuendoes!--even if you are my father--why, this knave himself says I
betrayed Captain Falconer's scheme: how could he think that, if--"
"That proves nothing," said Ned, with a contemptuous grin. "Women do
unaccountable things. A streak of repentance, maybe; or a lovers'
quarrel. The point is, a woman like you wouldn't have entered into a
scheme like that, with a man like him, if there hadn't already been a
pretty close understanding of another kind. Oh, I know your whole
damn' 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 had
to defer to Mr. Faringfield; and so had Cornelius, who was very
solemn, with an uneasy frown between his white eyebrows. Poor Fanny,
most sensitive to disagreeable scenes, sat in self-effacement and mute
distress.
Mr. Faringfield, not replying to his wife, took a turn up and down the
room, apparently in great mental perplexity and dismay.
Suddenly he was a transformed man. Pale with wrath, his lips moving
spasmodically, his arms trembling, he turned upon Margaret, grasped
her by the shoulders, and in a choked, half-articulate voice demanded:
"Tell the truth! Is it so--this shame--crime? Speak! I will shake the
truth from you!"
"Father! Don't!" she screamed, terrified by his look; and from his
searching gaze, she essayed to hide, by covering her face with her
hands, the secret her conscience magnified so as to forbid confession
and denial alike. I am glad to recall this act of womanhood, which
showed her inability to brazen all accusation out.
But Mr. Faringfield saw no palliating circumstance in this evidence of
womanly feeling. Seeing in it only an admission of guilt, he raised
his arms convulsively for a moment as if he would strike her down with
his hands, or crush her throat with them. But, overcoming this
impulse, he drew back so as to be out of reach of her, and said, in a
low 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, for
England--that was enough; but to be false to her husband, too--false
to 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 my
daughter, not Philip's wife!--You are a thing I will not name! We
disown you. Go, I bid you; let me never see you again!"
She had not offered speech or motion; and she continued to stand
motionless, regarding her father in fear and sorrow.
"I tell you to leave this house!" he added, in a slightly higher and
quicker voice. "Do you wait for me to thrust you out?"
She slowly moved toward the door. But her mother ran and caught her
arm, 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 you
do this, for all she might seem guilty of."
"Ay, the lad is too kind of heart. So much the worse her treason to
him! She _shall_ go; and you, madam, will not interfere. 'Tis for me
to command. Be pleased to step aside!"
His passion had swiftly frozen into an implacable sternness which
struck fear to the childish heart of his wife, and she obeyed him
dumbly. Dropping weakly upon a chair, she added her sobs to those of
Fanny, which had begun to break plaintively upon the tragic silence.
Margaret raised her glance from the floor, in a kind of wistful
leave-taking, to us who looked on and pitied her.
"Indeed, sir," began Mr. Cornelius softly, rising and taking a step
toward 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 this
hour?"
"Why," put in my mother, "in my house, and welcome, if she _must_
leave this one."
"Thank you, Mrs. Russell," said Margaret, in a stricken voice. "For
the time being, I shall be glad--"
"For all time, if you wish," replied my mother. "And we shall have
your things moved over tomorrow."
"By the Lord, sis," cried Ned, with a sudden friendliness quite
astonishing after the part he had taken, and to be accounted for only
by 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--and
damn me if you sha'n't go to London with me! That's the kind of a
forgiving brother I am!"
She had utterly ignored his first words, but when he reached the
point, she looked at him thoughtfully, with a check upon her
resentment. She made no reply, however; but he had not missed her
expression. Tom and I exchanged side glances, remembering Ned's former
wish that he might imitate his Irish friend by taking his sister to
London to catch a fortune with. As for Margaret, as matters stood, it
would be something to go to London, relying on her beauty. I fancied I
saw that thought in her look.
Mr. Faringfield, who had heard with cold heedlessness my mother's
offer and Ned's, now rang the bell. Noah appeared, with a sad,
affrighted face--he had been listening at the door--and cast a furtive
glance 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, but
spoke in a singularly gentle voice.
"And I, too, for to-night, with my best thanks," added Ned, who had
not been invited, but whom my mother preferred not to refuse.
Noah brought in the cloak, and placed it around Madge with an unusual
attentiveness, prolonging the slight service to its utmost possible
length, and keeping an eye for any sign of relenting on the part of
his master.
My mother and I stood waiting for Margaret, while Mrs. Faringfield and
Fanny weepingly embraced her. That done, and with a good-night for Tom
and Mr. Cornelius, but not a word or a look for her father, who stood
as silent and motionless as marble, she laid her hand softly upon my
arm, and we went forth, leaving my mother to the unwelcome escort of
Ned. The door closed upon us four--'twas the last time it ever closed
upon one of us--and in a few seconds we were at our steps. And who
should come along at that moment, on his way to his quarters, but
Captain Falconer? He stopped, in pleased surprise, and, peering at our
faces in the darkness, asked in his gay, good-natured way what fun was
afoot.
"Not much fun," said Margaret. "I have just left my father's house, at
his command."
He stood in a kind of daze. As it was very cold, we bade him good
night, and went in. Reopening the door, and looking out, I saw him
proceeding homeward, his head averted in a meditative attitude. I knew
not till the next day what occurred when he arrived in the Faringfield
hall.
"Sir," said Tom Faringfield, stepping forth from where he had been
leaning against the stair-post, "I must speak low, because my parents
and 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 throwing
it in your face. All I have to say is, that you are a scoundrel, and I
desire 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," added
Tom, and, turning his back, went quietly up-stairs to his room; where,
having locked the door, he fell face forward upon his bed, and cried
like a heart-broken child.