_We Intrude upon a Gentleman at a Coffee-house._
Little was eaten at that supper, to which we sat down in a constraint
natural to the situation. Philip was presently about to assume the
burden of opening the conversation, when Madge abruptly began:
"I make no doubt you recognised him, Bert--the man with the coach."
"Yes. Philip and I saw him outside the theatre."
"And followed him, in following you," added Philip. "We had
intended--"
"You must not suppose--" she interrupted; but, after a moment's halt
of embarrassment, left the sentence unfinished, and made another
beginning: "I never saw him or heard of him, after I left New York,
till I had been three years on the stage. Then, when the war was over,
he came back to London, and chanced to see me play at Drury Lane. He
knew me in spite of my stage name, and during that very performance I
found him waiting in the greenroom. I had no desire for any of his
society, and told him so. But it seems that, finding me--admired, and
successful in the way I had resorted to, he could not be content till
he regained my--esteem. If I had shown myself friendly to him then, I
should soon have been rid of him: but instead, I showed a resolution
to avoid him; and he is the kind of man who can't endure a repulse
from a woman. To say truth, he thinks himself invincible to 'em all,
and when he finds one of 'em proof against him, even though she may
once have seemed--when she didn't know her mind--well, she is the
woman he must be pestering, to show that he's not to be resisted.
"And so, at last, to be rid of his plaguing, I went away from London,
and took another stage name, and acted in the country. Only Mr. and
Mrs. Sheridan were in the secret of this: 'twas Mr. Sheridan gave me
letters to the country managers. That was in the Fall of '83. Well, I
heard after awhile that he too had gone into the country, to dance
attendance on an old aunt, whose heir he had got the chance of being,
through his cousin's death. But I knew if I came back to London he
would hear of it, and then, sure, farewell to all my peace! He had
continually threatened to carry me off in a coach to some village by
the Channel, and take me across to France in a fishing-smack. When I
declared I would ask the magistrates for protection, he said they
would laugh at me as a play-actress trying to make herself talked
about. I took that to be true, and so, as I've told you, I left
London.
"Well, after more than two years, I thought he must have put me out of
his mind, and so I returned, and made my reappearance to-night. And,
mercy on me!--there he was, waiting outside the theatre. From his
appearance, I suppose the aunt has died and he has come into the
money. He followed me home, as you saw; and for a moment, when he was
carrying me toward the coach, I vow I had a fear of being rushed away
to a seaport, and taken by force, on some fisherman's boat, across the
Channel. And then, all of a sudden, 'twas as if you two had sprung out
of the earth. Where did you come from? How was it? Oh, tell me
all--all the news! Poor Tom! I thought I should die when I heard of
his death. 'Twas--'twas Falconer told me--how he was killed in a
skirmish with the--What's the matter? Why do you look so? Isn't it
true? I entreat--!"
"Did Falconer tell you Tom died that way?" I blurted out, hotly, ere
Phil could check me.
"In truth, he did! How was it?" She had turned white as a sheet.
"'Twas Falconer killed him in a duel," said I, with indignation, "the
very night after you sailed!"
"What, Fal--! A duel! My God, on my account, then! Oh, I never knew
that! Oh, Tom--little Tom--the dear little fellow--'twas I killed
him!" She flung her head forward upon the table, and sobbed wildly, so
that I repented of my outspoken anger at Falconer's deception of her.
For some minutes her grief was pitiful to see. If ever there was the
anguish of remorse, it was then. I sat sobered, leaving it to Phil to
apply comfort, which, when her outburst of tears had spent its
violence, he undertook to do.
"Well, well, Madge," said he, softly, "'tis done and past now, and not
for us to recall. 'Twas an honourable death, such as he would never
have shrunk from; and he has long been past all sorrow. The most of
his life, while it lasted, was happy; and you could never have
foreseen. He will not be unavenged, take my word of that!"
But it was a long time ere Phil could restore her to composure. When
he had done so, he asked her what had become of Ned. Thereupon she
told us all that I have recorded in a former chapter, of their first
days in London, and the events leading to her acceptance of Mr.
Sheridan's offer. After she had been acting for some time, under the
name of Miss Warren, Ned chanced to come to the play, and recognised
her. He thereupon dogged her, in miserable plight, claiming some
return of the favours which he vowed he had lavished upon her. She put
him upon a small pension, but declared that if he molested her with
further demands she would send him to jail for robbing her. She had
not seen him since; he had called regularly upon her man of business
for his allowance, until lately, when he had ceased to appear.
Of what had occurred before she turned actress, she told us all, I
say; for the news of Tom's real fate had put her into a state for
withholding nothing. Never was confession more complete; uttered as it
was in a stricken voice, broken as it was by convulsive sobs, marked
as it was by falling tears, hesitations for phrases less likely to
pain Philip, remorseful lowerings of her eyes. She reverted, finally,
to her acquaintance with Falconer in New York, and finished with the
words:
"But I protest I have never been guilty of the worst--the one thing--I
swear it, Philip; before God, I do!"
If any load was taken from Phil's mind by this, he refrained from
showing it.
"I came in search of you," said he, in a low voice, "to see what I
could do toward your happiness. I knew that in your situation, a wife
separated from her husband, dependent on heaven knew what for a
maintenance, you must have many anxious, distressful hours. If I had
known where to find you, I should have sent you money regularly from
the first, and eased your mind with a definite understanding. And now
I wish to do this--nay, I _will_ do it, for it is my right. Whatever
may have happened, you are still the Madge Faringfield I--I loved from
the first; nothing can make you another woman to me: and though you
chose to be no longer my wife, 'tis impossible that while I live I can
cease to be your husband."
The corners of her lips twitched, but she recovered herself with a
disconsolate sigh. "Chose to be no longer your wife," she repeated.
"Yes, it appeared so. I wanted to shine in the world. I have shone--on
the stage, I mean; but that's far from the way I had looked to. A
woman in my situation--a wife separated from her husband--can never
shine as I had hoped to, I fancy. But I've been admired in a way--and
it hasn't made me happy. Admiration can't make a woman happy if she
has a deeper heart than her desire of admiration will fill. If I could
have forgot, well and good; but I couldn't forget, and can't forget.
And one must have love, and devotion; but after having known yours,
Philip, whose else could I find sufficient?"
And now there was a pause while each, fearing that the other might not
desire reunion, hesitated to propose it; and so, each one waiting for
the other to say the word, both left it unsaid. When the talk was
finally renewed, it was with a return of the former constraint.
She asked us, with a little stiffness of manner, when we had come to
London; which led to our relation, between us, of all that had passed
since her departure from New York. She opened her eyes at the news of
our residence in Hampstead, and lost her embarrassment in her glad,
impulsive acceptance of my invitation to come and see us as soon as
possible. While Philip and she still kept their distance, as it were,
I knew not how far to go in cordiality, or I should have pressed her
to come and live with us. She wept and laughed, at the prospect of
seeing Fanny and my mother, and declared they must visit her in town.
And then her tongue faltered as the thought returned of Falconer's
probable interference with the quiet and safety of her further
residence in London; and her face turned anxious.
"'Faith! you need have no fear on that score," said Philip, quietly.
"Where does he live?"
She did not know, but she named a club, and a tavern, from which he
had dated importunate letters to her before she left London.
"Well," said Philip, rising, "I shall see a lawyer to-morrow, and you
may expect to hear from him soon regarding the settlement I make upon
you."
"You are too kind," she murmured. "I have no right to accept it of
you."
"Oh, yes, you have. I am always your husband, I tell you; and you will
have no choice but to accept. I know not what income you get by
acting; but this will suffice if you choose to leave the stage."
"But you?" she replied faintly, rising. "Shall I not see--?"
"I shall leave England in a few days: I don't know how long I shall be
abroad. But there will be Bert, and Fanny, and Mrs. Russell--I know
you may command them for anything." There was an oppressive pause now,
during which she looked at him wistfully, hoping he might at the last
moment ask her that, which he waited to give her a final opportunity
of asking him. But neither dared, for fear of the other's hesitation
or refusal. And so, at length, with a good-bye spoken in an unnatural
voice on each side, the two exchanged a hand-clasp, and Philip left
the room. She stood pale and trembling, bereft of speech, while I told
her that I should wait upon her soon. Then I followed Philip
down-stairs and to the street.
"I will stay to-night at Jack's tavern yonder," said he. "I can watch
this house, in case that knave should return to annoy her. Go you
home--Fanny and your mother will be anxious. And come for me to-morrow
at the tavern, as early as you can. You may tell them what you see
fit, at home. That's all, I think--'tis very late. Good night!"
I sought a hackney-coach, and went home to relieve the fears of the
ladies, occasioned by our long absence. My news that Margaret was
found (I omitted mention of Captain Falconer in my account) put the
good souls into a great flutter of joy and excitement, and they would
have it that they should go in to see her the first thing on the
morrow, a resolution I saw no reason to oppose. So I took them with me
to town in the morning, left them at Madge's lodgings, and was gone to
join Philip ere the laughing and crying of their meeting with her was
half-done.
As there was little chance to find Captain Falconer stirring early,
Phil and I gave the forenoon to his arrangements with his man of law
at Lincoln's Inn. When these were satisfactorily concluded, and a
visit incidental to them had been made to a bank in the city, we
refreshed ourselves at the Globe tavern in Fleet Street, and then
turned our faces Westward.
At the tavern that Madge had named, we learned where Falconer abode,
but, proceeding to his lodgings, found he had gone out. We looked in
at various places whither we were directed; but 'twas not till late in
the afternoon, that Philip caught sight of him writing a letter at a
table in the St. James Coffeehouse.
Philip recognised him from the view he had obtained the previous
night; but, to make sure, he nudged me to look. On my giving a nod of
confirmation, Philip went to him at once, and said:
"Pray pardon my interrupting: you are Captain Falconer, I believe."
The captain looked up, and saw only Philip, for I stood a little to
the rear of the former's elbow.
"I believe so, too, sir," he replied urbanely.
"Our previous meeting was so brief," said Philip, "that I doubt you
did not observe my face so as to recall it now."
"That must be the case," said the captain, "for I certainly do not
remember having ever met you."
"And yet our meeting was no longer ago than last night--in Dean
Street."
The captain's face changed: he gazed, half in astonishment, half in a
dawning resentment.
"The deuce, sir! Have you intruded upon me to insult me?"
"'Faith, sir, I've certainly intruded upon you for no friendly
purpose."
Falconer continued to gaze, in wonder as well as annoyance.
"Who the devil are you, sir?" he said at last.
"My name is Winwood, sir--Captain Winwood, late of the American army
of Independence."
Falconer opened his eyes wide, parted his lips, and turned a little
pale. At that moment, I shifted my position; whereupon he turned, and
saw me.
"And Russell, too!" said he. "Well, this is a--an odd meeting,
gentlemen."
"Not a chance one," said Philip. "I have been some time seeking you."
"Well, well," replied the captain, recovering his self-possession. "I
imagine I know your purpose, sir."
"That will spare my explaining it. You will, of course, accommodate
me?"
"Oh, yes; I see no way out of it. Gad, I'm the most obliging of
men--Mr. Russell will vouch for it."
"Then I beg you will increase the obligation by letting us despatch
matters without the least delay."
"Certainly, if you will have it so--though I abominate hurry in all
things."
"To-morrow at dawn, I hope, will not be too soon for your
preparations?"
"Why, no, I fancy not. Let me see. One moment, I pray."
He called a waiter, and asked:
"Thomas, is there any gentleman of my acquaintance in the house at
present?"
"Oh, a score, sir. There's Mr. Hidsleigh hup-stairs, and--"
"Mr. Idsleigh will do. Ask him to grant me the favour of coming down
for a minute." The waiter hastened away. "Mr. Russell, of course,
represents you, sir," the captain added, to Philip.
"Yes, sir; and you are the challenged party, of course."
"I thank you, sir. If Mr. Russell will wait, I will introduce my
friend here, and your desire for expedition may be carried out."
"I am much indebted, sir," said Philip; and requesting me to join him
later at the tavern in Dean Street, he took his leave.
When Mr. Idsleigh, a fashionable young buck whom I now recalled having
once seen in the company of Lord March, had presented himself, a very
brief explanation on Falconer's part sufficed to enlist his services
as second; whereupon the captain desired affably that he might be
allowed to finish his letter, and Idsleigh and I retired to a
compartment at the farther end of the room. Idsleigh regarded me with
disdainful indifference, and conducted his side of the preliminaries
in a bored fashion, as if the affair were of even less consequence
than Falconer had pretended to consider it. He set me down as a
nobody, a person quite out of the pale of polite society, and one whom
it was proper to have done with in the shortest time, and with the
fewest words, possible. I was equally chary of speech, and it was
speedily settled that our principals should fight with small swords,
at sunrise, at a certain spot in Hyde Park; and Idsleigh undertook to
provide a surgeon. He then turned his back on me, and walked over to
Falconer, without the slightest civility of leave-taking.
I went first in a hackney-coach to Hyde Park, to ascertain exactly the
spot which Mr. Idsleigh had designated. Having done so, I returned to
Dean Street; and, in order that I might without suspicion accompany
Philip before daybreak, I called at Madge's lodgings, and suggested
that my mother and Fanny should pass the night in her house (in which
I had observed there were rooms to let) and take her to Hampstead the
next day; while I should sleep at the tavern. This plan was readily
adopted. Thereupon, rejoining Philip, I went with him to the Strand,
where he engaged a post-chaise to be in waiting for him and me the
next morning, for our flight in the event of the duel having the fatal
termination he desired.
"We'll take a hint from Captain Falconer's threat," said Phil: "ride
post to Hastings, and have the Doughty boys sail us across to France.
You'd best write a letter this evening, to leave at Madge's lodgings
after the affair, explaining your departure, to Fanny and your mother.
Afterward, you can either send for them to come to France, or you can
return to Hampstead when the matter blows over. I might have spared
you these inconveniences and risks, by getting another second; but I
knew you wouldn't stand that."
And there, indeed, he spoke the truth.