_Philip Comes at Last to London._
A human life will drone along uneventfully for years with scarce a
perceptible progress, retrogression, or change; and then suddenly,
with a few leaps, will cover more of alteration and event in a week
than it has passed through in a decade. So will the critical
occurrences of a day fill chapters, after those of a year have failed
to yield more material than will eke out a paragraph. Experience
proceeds by fits and starts. Only in fiction does a career run in an
unbroken line of adventures or memorable incidents.
The personal life of Philip Winwood, as distinguished from his
military career, which had no difference from that of other commanders
of rebel partisan horse, and which needs no record at my hands, was
marked by no conspicuous event from the night when he learned and
defeated Madge's plot, to the end of the war. The news of her
departure, and of Tom's death, came to him with a fresh shock, it is
true, but they only settled him deeper in the groove of sorrow, and in
the resolution to pay full retribution where it was due.
He had no pusillanimous notion of the unworthiness of revenge. He
believed retaliation, when complete and inflicted without cost or
injury to the giver, to be a most logical and fitting thing. But he
knew that revenge is a two-edged weapon, and that it must be wielded
carefully, so as not to cause self-damage. He required, too, that it
should be wielded in open and honourable manner; and in that manner he
was resolved to use it upon Captain Falconer. As for Madge, I believe
he forgave her from the first, holding her "more in sorrow than in
anger," 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 hard
blows, and always yielding way to others in the pressure for
promotion. Such was the state of affairs in the rebel army, that his
willingness to defer his claims for advancement, when there were
restless and ambitious spirits to be conciliated and so kept in the
service, was availed of for the sake of expediency. But he went not
without appreciation. On one occasion, when a discontented but useful
Pennsylvanian was pacified with a colonelcy, General Washington
remarked to Light Horse Harry Lee: "And yet you are but a major, and
Winwood remains a captain; but let me tell you, there is less honour
in the titles of general and colonel, as borne by many, than there is
in 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 the
time of the capitulation of Lord Cornwallis's army at Yorktown, to the
combined rebel and French armies under Washington. It happened that
our battalion, wherein I was promoted to a lieutenantcy shortly after
my abortive meeting with Captain Falconer near Kingsbridge, went South
by sea for the fighting there, being the only one of De Lancey's
battalions that left the vicinity of New York. We had bloody work
enough then to balance our idleness in the years we had covered
outposts above New York, and 'twas but a small fraction of our number
that came home alive at last. I never met Philip while we were both in
the South, nor saw him till the war was over.
Shiploads of our New York loyalists left, after Cornwallis's defeat at
Yorktown showed what the end was to be; some of them going to England
but many of them sailing to Nova Scotia and New Brunswick, there to
begin afresh the toiling with the wilderness, and to build up new
English colonies in North America. Others contrived to make their way
by land to Canada, which thereby owes its English population mainly to
those who fled from the independent states rather than give up their
loyalty to the mother country. The government set up by the victorious
rebels had taken away the lands and homes of the loyalists, by acts of
attainder, and any who remained in the country did so at the risk of
life or liberty. What a time of sad leave-taking it was!--families
going forth poor to a strange land, who had lived rich in that of
their birth--what losses, what wrenches, what heart-rendings! And how
little compensation England could give them, notwithstanding all their
claims and petitions! Well, they would deserve little credit for their
loyalty if they had followed it without willingness to lose for it.
But my mother and I had possessed nothing to lose in America but our
house and ground, our money being in the English funds. Fortunately,
and thanks to our insignificance, we had been overlooked in the first
act of attainder, and, taking warning by that, my mother had
gratefully accepted Mr. Faringfield's offer to buy our home, for which
we had thereafter paid him rent. Thus we had nothing to confiscate,
when the war was over. As for Mr. Faringfield, he was on the
triumphant side of Independence, which he had supported with secret
contributions from the first; of course he was not to be held
accountable for the treason of his eldest son, and the open service of
poor Tom on the king's side.
My mother feared dreadful things when the victorious rebels should
take possession--imprisonment, trial for treason, and similar horrors;
and she was for sailing to England with the British army. But I flatly
refused to go, pretending I was no such coward, and that I would leave
when I was quite ready. I was selfish in this, of course; but I could
not bring myself to go so far from Fanny. Our union was still as
uncertain a possibility as ever. Only one thing was sure: she would
not leave her parents at present.
The close of the war did not bring Philip back to us at once. On that
day when, the last of the British vessels having gone down the bay,
with the last British soldier aboard, the strangely empty-looking town
took on a holiday humour, and General Washington rode in by the Bowery
lane, with a number of his officers, and a few war-worn troops to make
up a kind of procession of entry, and the stars and stripes were run
up at the Battery--on that day of sadness, humiliation, and
apprehension to those of us loyalists who had dared stay, I would have
felt like cheering with the crowd, had Philip been one of those who
entered. But he was still in the South, recovering from a bullet wound
in his shoulder.
My mother and I were thereafter the recipients of ominous looks, and
some uncomfortable hints and jeers, and our life was made constantly
unpleasant thereby. The sneers cast by one Major Wheeler upon us
loyalists, and upon our reasons for standing by the king, got me into
a duel with him at Weehawken, wherein I gave him the only wound he
ever received through his attachment to the cause of Independence.
Another such affair, which I had a short time afterward, near the
Bowery lane, and in which I shot a Captain Appleby's ear off, was
attributed by my mother to the same cause; but the real reason was
that the fellow had uttered an atrocious slander of Philip Winwood in
connection with the departure of Phil's wife. This was but one of the
many lies, on both sides of the ocean, that moved me at last to
attempt a true account of my friend's domestic trouble.
My mother foresaw my continual engagement in such affairs if we
remained in a place where we were subject to constant offence, and
declared she would become distracted unless we removed ourselves. I
resisted 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 the
outcome. Well, I thought with a sigh, I can always write to Fanny, and
some day I shall come back for her.
It was now Summer. One evening, I sat upon our front step, in a kind
of torpid state of mind through my refusal to contemplate the dismal
future. My eye turned listlessly down the street. The only moving
figure in it was that of a slender man approaching on the further side
of the way. He carried two valises, one with each hand, and leaned a
little forward as he strode, as if weary. Instantly I thought of years
ago, and another figure coming up that street, with both hands laden,
and walking in a manner of fatigue. I rose, gazed with a fast-beating
heart at the man coming nearer at every step, stifled a cry that
turned into a sob, and ran across the street. He saw me, stopped, set
down his burdens, and waited for me, with a tired, kind smile. I could
not speak aloud, but threw my arms around him, and buried my clouded
eyes upon his shoulder, whispering: "Phil! 'Tis you!"
"Ay," said he, "back at last. I thought I'd walk up from the boat just
as I did that first day I came to New York."
"And just as then," said I, having raised my face and released him, "I
was on the step yonder, and saw you coming, and noticed that you
carried baggage in each hand, and that you walked as if you were
tired."
"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 off
with the question: "How are they? and your mother?"
I told him what I could, as I picked up one of his valises and
accompanied him across the street, thinking how I had done a similar
office on the former occasion, and of the pretty girl that had made
the scene so bright to both him and me. Alas, there was no pretty girl
standing at the gate, beside her proud and stately parents, and her
open-eyed little brother, to receive us. I remembered how Ned and
Fanny had come upon the scene, so that for a moment the whole family
had stood together at the gateway.
"'Tis changed, isn't it?" said Philip, quietly, reading my thoughts as
we passed down the garden walk, upon which way of entrance we had
tacitly agreed in preference to the front door. "I can see the big dog
walking ahead of me, and hear the kitten purring in the basket, and
feel 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 and
more careworn, and his hair was a little sprinkled with gray though he
was but thirty-one.
I left him on the rear veranda, when old Noah had opened the hall door
and shouted a hysterical "Lor' bress me!--it's Massa Phil!" after a
moment's blinking inspection to make sure. From the cheered look on
Mr. Faringfield's face that evening, and the revived lustre in Mrs.
Faringfield's eyes, I could guess what welcome Philip had received
from the stricken pair.
I told him the next day, in our garden, how matters stood with Fanny
and me, and that Captain Falconer had sailed for England with the
royal 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 the
certainty of happiness for at least one of his children. Maybe I can
put the matter to him in that light."
"But Fanny herself will not leave, as long as she thinks they need
her."
"Why, then, he must use his parental authority, and bid her come to
you. He's not the man who would have his child wait upon his death for
happiness. We must use the hope of grandchildren as a means of
argument. For you'll come back to America at last, no doubt, when old
hurts are forgot. And if you can come with a houseful of
youngsters--egad, I shall paint a picture to his mind, will not let
him rest till he sees it in way of accomplishment! Go to England
without fear, man; and trust me to bring things to pass before you've
been 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 intentions
regarding his wife (of whom we were then ignorant whether she was dead
or alive, but supposed she must be somewhere in London), or regarding
Captain Falconer; but I knew that it was to her future, and to his
settlement with Falconer, that he alluded. I guessed then, and
ascertained subsequently, that Phil gave Fanny also encouragement to
believe all should come right between her and me, and yet not to the
further sorrow of her parents. I divined it at the time, from the
hopeful manner in which she supported our departure, both in the busy
days preceding it, and in the hour of leave-taking. True, she broke
down on the ship, whither Philip and Cornelius had brought her to bid
us farewell; and she wept bitter tears on my mother's breast, which I
knew were meant chiefly for me. But at last she presented a brave face
for me to kiss, though 'twas rather a cold, limp hand I pressed as she
started down the ladder for the boat where Cornelius awaited.
"Good-bye, lad," said Phil, with the old smile, which had survived all
his toils and hurts and sorrows; "I shall see you in London next, I
hope. And trust me--about Fanny."
"Thank you, dear Phil, and God bless you! Always working for other
people's happiness, when your own--well, good-bye!"
He had made no request as to my course in the possibility of my
meeting 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 her
handkerchief. We saw them land, and stand upon the wharf to watch our
ship weigh anchor. My mother would wave her handkerchief a moment, and
then apply it to her eyes, and then give it another little toss, and
then her eyes another touch. I stood beside her, leaning upon the
gunwale, with a lump in my throat. Suddenly I realised we were under
way. We continued to exchange farewell motions with the three upon the
wharf. How small Fanny looked! how slender was Philip! how the water
widened every instant between us and them! how long a time must pass
ere we should see them again! A kind of sudden consternation was upon
my mother's face, and in my heart, at the thought. 'Twas a
foretaste--indeed it might prove the actuality--of eternal separation.
Our three friends were at last hidden from our sight, and in the
despondency of that moment I thought what fools men are, to travel
about the world, and not cling all their days to the people, and the
places, that they love.
* * * * *
We lodged at first in Surrey Street, upon our arrival in London; but
when October came, and we had a preliminary taste of dirty fog, my
mother vowed she couldn't endure the damp climate and thick sky of the
town; and so we moved out to Hampstead, where we furnished a small
cottage, and contrived with economy to live upon the income of our
invested principal, which was now swelled by money we had received
from Mr. Faringfield for our home in New York. The proceeds of the
sale of our furniture there had paid our passage, and given us a start
in our new abode. Meanwhile, as an American loyalist who had suffered
by the war, and as a former servant of the king; though I had no claim
for a money indemnity, such as were presented on behalf of many; I was
lucky enough, through Mr. De Lancey's offices, to obtain a small
clerkship in the custom-house. And so we lived uneventfully, in hope
of the day when Phil should come to us, and of that when I might go
and bring back Fanny.
The letters from Philip and Fanny informed us merely of the continued
health, and the revived cheerfulness, of Mr. and Mrs. Faringfield; and
presently of the good fortune of Mr. Cornelius in being chosen to fill
two pulpits in small towns sufficiently near New York to permit his
residence in Queen Street. Mr. Faringfield and Philip were occupied in
setting the former's business upon its feet again, and something like
the old routine had been resumed in the bereaved house. I knew that
all this was due to Phil's imperceptible work. At last there came
great news: Philip was to follow his letter to England, in the next
Bristol vessel after the one that carried it. 'Twas but a brief note
in which he told us this. "There is some news," wrote he, "but I will
save it for word of mouth. Be prepared for a surprise that I shall
bring."
With what expectation we awaited his coming, what conjectures we made
regarding the promised surprise as we talked the news over every
evening in the little parlour where we dined on my return from the
city, I leave my reader to imagine. I had my secret notion that it
concerned Fanny and me.
At the earliest time when a ship might be expected to follow the one
by which the letter came, I began to call every evening, ere starting
for Hampstead, at the inn where the Bristol coaches arrived. Many a
long wait I had in vain when a coach happened to be late. I grew so
accustomed to the disappointment of seeing no familiar figure among
the passengers alighting, that sometimes I felt as if Phil's letter
were 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 open
door to the steps, and was prepared for the accustomed sinking of my
heart, what did that heart do but give a great bound so as almost to
choke me! There he was in the doorway, the same old Phil, with the
same kindly face. I rushed forward. Before I reached him, he had
turned around toward the inside of the coach, as if he would help some
one out after him. "Some decrepit fellow traveller," thought I, and
looked up indifferently to see what sort of person it might be: and
there, as I live, stepping out from the coach, and taking his offered
hand, was Fanny!
I was at her other side before either of them knew it, holding up my
hand likewise. They glanced at me in the same instant; and Phil's glad
smile came as the accompaniment to Fanny's joyous little cry. I had an
arm around each in a moment; and we created some proper indignation
for a short space by blocking up the way from the stage-coach.
"Come!" I cried. "We'll take a hackney-coach! How happy mother will
be!--But no, you must be hungry. Will you eat here first?--a cup of
coffee? a glass of wine?"
But they insisted upon waiting till we got to Hampstead; and, scarce
knowing what I was about, yet accomplishing wonders in my excitement,
I had a coach ready, and their trunks and bags transferred, and all of
us in the coach, before I stopped to breathe. And before I could
breathe 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 she
takes you with her. 'Faith, man, am I not a prophet?"
"You're more than a prophet; you're a providence," I cried. "'Tis your
doing!"
"Nonsense. 'Tis Mr. Faringfield's. And that implacable man, not
content with forcing an uncongenial marriage upon this helpless
damsel, requires that you immediately resign your high post in the
king's service, and live upon the pittance he settles upon you as his
daughter's husband."
"'Tis too generous. I can't accept."
"You must, Bert," put in Fanny, "or else you can't have me. 'Tis one
of papa's conditions."
"But," Phil went on, "in order that this unhappy child may become used
to the horrible idea of this marriage by degrees, she is to live with
your mother a few months while I carry you off on a trip for my
benefit and pleasure: and that's one of my conditions: for it wouldn't
do for you to go travelling about the country after you were married,
leaving your wife at home, and Fanny abominates travelling. But as
soon 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. 'Twas
like being home again, my mother said--thereby admitting inferentially
the homesickness she had refused to confess directly. The chief piece
of personal news the visitors brought was that the Rev. Mr. Cornelius
had taken a wife, and moved into our old house, which 'twas pleasant
to know was in such friendly hands; and that the couple considered it
their 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 whose
society I chose to pass much of my time. What sights he saw; what
unlikely corners he sought out because some poet had been born, or
died, or drunk wine there; what streets he roamed: I am sure I never
could tell. I know that all the time he kept eyes alert for a certain
face, ears keen for a certain name; but neither in the streets, nor at
the shops, nor in the parks, nor at the play, did he catch a glimpse
of Margaret; nor in the coffee-house, or tavern, or gaming-place, or
in the region of the clubs, did he hear a chance mention of the name
of Falconer. And so, presently, we set about making the tour he had
spoken of.
There was a poor family of Long Island loyalists named Doughty, that
had settled in the seacoast town of Hastings in Sussex, in order that
they might follow the fisheries, which had been their means of
livelihood at home. Considering that a short residence in the more
mild and sunny climate of the Channel might be a pleasant change for
my mother, and not disagreeable to Fanny, we arranged that, during the
absence of Phil and me, we should close our cottage, and the ladies
should board with these worthy though humble people, who would afford
them all needful masculine protection. Having seen them comfortably
established, we set forth upon our travels.
We visited the principal towns and historic places of England and
Scotland, Philip having a particular interest in Northamptonshire,
where his father's line sprang from (Sir Ralph Winwood having been a
worthy of some eminence in the reigns of Elizabeth and James),[10] and
in Edinburgh, the native place of his mother. Cathedrals, churches,
universities, castles, tombs of great folk, battle-fields--'twould
fill a book to describe all the things and places we saw; most of
which Phil knew more about than the people did who dwelt by them. From
England we crossed to France, spent a fortnight in Paris, went to
Rheims, thence to Strasburg, thence to Frankfort; came down the Rhine,
and passed through parts of Belgium and Holland before taking vessel
at Amsterdam for London. "I must leave Italy, the other German states,
and the rest till another time," said Philip. It seemed as if we had
been gone years instead of months, when at last we were all home again
in our cottage at Hampstead.
After my marriage, though Mr. Faringfield's handsome settlement would
have enabled Fanny and me to live far more pretentiously, we were
content to remain in the Hampstead cottage. Fanny would not hear to
our living under a separate roof from that of my mother, whose
constant society she had come to regard as necessary to her happiness.
Philip now arranged to pursue the study of architecture in the office
of a practitioner of that art; and he gave his leisure hours to the
improving of his knowledge of London. He made acquaintances; passed
much time in the Pall Mall taverns; and was able to pilot me about the
town, and introduce me to many agreeable habitués of the
coffee-houses, as if he were the elder resident of London, and I were
the newcomer. And so we arrived at the Spring of 1786, and a momentous
event.