Philip Winwood Part 26

"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 circ.u.mstance 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 pa.s.sion:

"Go! From my house, I mean--my roof--and from Philip's part of it.

G.o.d! 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 pa.s.sion 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 f.a.n.n.y, 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 d.a.m.n 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 pa.s.sively, 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 f.a.n.n.y 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 att.i.tude. 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 gla.s.s of wine?"

"No, sir. If I had a gla.s.s 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.

CHAPTER XV.

_In Which There Is a Flight by Sea, and a Duel by Moonlight._

It appeared, from Ned Faringfield's account of himself, that after his encounter with Philip, and his fall from the shock of his wound, he had awakened to a sense of being still alive, and had made his way to the house of a farmer, whose wife took pity on him and nursed him in concealment to recovery. He then travelled through the woods to Staten Island, where, declaring himself a deserter from the rebel army, he demanded to be taken before the British commander.

Being conveyed to headquarters in the Kennedy House, near the bottom of the Broadway, he told his story, whereupon witnesses to his ident.i.ty were easily found, and, Captain Falconer having been brought to confront him, he was released from bodily custody. He must have had a private interview with Falconer, and, perhaps, obtained money from him, before he came to the Faringfield house to vent his disappointment upon Madge. Or else he had got money from some other source; he may have gambled with what part of his pay he received in the early campaigns. He may, on some occasion, have safely violated Washington's orders against private robbery under the cover of war. He may have had secret dealings with the "Skinners" or other unattached marauders. In any case, his a.s.sured manner of offering Madge a pa.s.sage to England with him, showed that he possessed the necessary means.

He had instantly recognised a critical moment of Madge's life, the moment when she found herself suddenly deprived of all resource but a friendly hospitality which she was too proud to make long use of, as a heaven-sent occasion for his ends. At another time, he would not have thought of making Madge his partner in an enterprise like the Irishman's--he feared her too much, and was too sensible of her dislike and contempt.

He set forth his scheme to her the next day, taking her acquiescence for granted. She listened quietly, without expressing her thoughts; but she neither consented nor refused. Ned, however, made full arrangements for their voyage; considering it the crowning G.o.dsend of a providential situation, that a vessel was so soon to make the trip, notwithstanding the unlikely time of year. When Margaret's things were brought over to our house, he advised her to begin packing at once, and he even busied himself in procuring additional trunks from his mother and mine, that she might be able to take all her gowns to London. The importance of this, and of leaving none of her jewelry behind, he most earnestly impressed upon her.

Yet she did not immediately set about packing, Ned probably had moments of misgiving, and of secret cursing, when he feared he might be reckoning without his host. The rest of us, at the time, knew nothing of what pa.s.sed between the two: he pretended that the extra trunks were for some mysterious baggage of his own: nor did we then know what pa.s.sed between her and Captain Falconer late in the day, and upon which, indeed, her decision regarding Ned's offer depended.

She had watched at our window for the captain's pa.s.sing. When at length he appeared, she was standing so close to the gla.s.s, her eyes so unmistakably met his side-look, that he could not pretend he had not seen her. As he bowed with most respectful civility, she beckoned him with a single movement of a finger, and went, herself, to let him in. When he had followed her into our parlour, his manner was outwardly of the most delicate consideration, but she thought she saw beneath it a certain uneasiness. They spoke awhile of her removal from her father's house; but he avoided question as to its cause, or as to her intentions. At last, she said directly, with a.s.sumed lightness:

"I think of going to London with my brother, on the _Phoebe_."

She was watching him closely: his face brightened wonderfully.

"I vow, you could do nothing better," he said. "_There_ is _your_ world. I've always declared you were a stranger in this far-off land.

'Tis time you found your proper element. I can't help confessing it; 'tis due to you I should confess it--though alas for us whom you leave in New York!"