Philip Winwood Part 30

CHAPTER XVII.

_I Hear Again from Winwood._

Meanwhile we pa.s.sed through a time of deep sorrow at the Faringfield house and ours. The effect of Tom's untimely fate, coming upon Margaret's departure and the disclosures regarding her and Ned, was marked in Mr. Faringfield by a haggardness of countenance, an averted glance, a look of age, pitiful to see. His lady considered herself crushed by affliction, as one upon whom grief had done its worst; and she resigned herself to the role of martyr in the comfortably miserable way that some people do, without losing her appreciation of the small consolations of life, such as morning chocolate, afternoon tea, and neighbourly conversation upon the subject of her woes. Poor f.a.n.n.y bore up for the sake of cheering her parents, but her face, for a long time, was rarely without the traces of tears shed in solitude.

Of that household of handsome, merry children, whose playful shouts had once filled the mansion and garden with life, she was now the only one left. I sighed to think that my chances of taking her away from that house were now reduced to the infinitesimal. Her parents, who had brought into the world so promising a family, to find themselves now so nearly alone, must not be left entirely so: such would be her answer to any pleas I might in my selfishness offer.

What a transformation had been wrought in that once cheerful household! How many lives were darkened!--Mr. Faringfield's, his wife's, f.a.n.n.y's, Philip's (when he should know), Madge's (sooner or later), the sympathetic Cornelius's, my mother's, my own. And what a promising, manly, gentle life had been cut short in its earliest bloom! I knew that Tom's life alone had been worth a score of lives like Captain Falconer's. And the cause of all this, though Margaret was much to blame, was the idle resolve of a frivolous lady-killer to add one more conquest to his list, in the person of a woman for whom he did not entertain more than the most superficial feelings. What a sacrifice had been made for the transient gratification of a stranger's vanity! What bitter consequences, heartrending separations, had come upon all of us who had lived so close together so many pleasant years, through the careless self-amus.e.m.e.nt of a chance interloper whose very name we had not known six months before!

And now, the pleasure-seeker's brief pastime in that quarter being ended, the lasting sorrows of his victims having begun; his own career apparently not altered from its current, their lives diverted rudely into dark channels and one of them stopped short for ever: was the matter to rest so?

You may easily guess what my answer was to this question. When I pondered on the situation, I no longer found Captain Falconer a hard man to hate. The very lightness of his purpose, contrasted with the heaviness of its consequences, aggravated his crime. To risk so much upon other people, to gain so little for himself, was the more heinous sin than its converse would have been. That he might not have foreseen the evil consequences made possible, was no palliation: he ought to have examined the situation; or indeed he ought to have heeded what he must have known, that little offences may always entail dire evils.

Measured by their possibility to work havoc with lives, there are no _small_ sins. The man who enters carelessly upon a trivial deviation is therefore as much to be held responsible as he that walks deliberately into the blackest crime. Not to know this, is not to have studied life; and not to have studied life is, in a person of mature years, a mighty sin of omission, because of the great evils that may arise from ignorance. But Captain Falconer must have known life, must have seen the hazards of his course. Therefore he was responsible in any view; and therefore I would do my utmost toward exacting payment from him. Plainly, in Philip's absence, the right fell to me, as his friend and Tom's--nay, too, as the provisionally accepted husband of Mr. Faringfield's second daughter.

But before I got an opportunity to make a quarrel with Falconer (who had moved his quarters from the Faringfield house, wherein he had not slept or eaten since the night of Margaret's leaving it, though he had spent some time in his rooms there on the ensuing day) I had a curious interview with Mr. Faringfield.

While in the town one day, I had stopped as usual to see my mother.

Just as I was about to remount my horse, Mr. Faringfield appeared at his garden gate. Beckoning me to him, he led the way into the garden, and did not stop until we were behind a fir-tree, where we could not be seen from the house.

"Tell me the truth," said he abruptly, his eyes fixed piercingly upon mine, "how Tom met his death."

After a moment's confusion, I answered:

"I can add nothing to what has been told you, sir."

He looked at me awhile in silence; then said, with a sorrowful frown:

"I make no doubt you are tongue-tied by a compact. But you need not fear me. The British authorities are not to be moved by any complaint of mine. My object is not to procure satisfaction for my son's death.

I merely wish to know whether he took it upon himself to revenge our calamities; and whether that was not the true cause of his death."

"Why, sir," I said awkwardly, as he still held me in a searching gaze that seemed to make speech imperative, "how should you think that?"

"From several things. In the first place, I know Tom was a lad of mettle. The account of the supposed attack that night, has it that Falconer was in your party; he was one of those who returned with you.

What would Tom have been doing in Falconer's society, when not under orders, after what had occurred? Other people, who know nothing of that occurrence, would see nothing strange in their being together.

But I would swear the boy was not so lost to honourable feeling as to have been Falconer's companion after what had taken place here."

"'Twas no loss of honourable feeling that made him Falconer's companion!" said I, impulsively.

"Then," cried he, quickly, with eagerness in his voice, "'twas to fight Falconer?"

"I didn't say that."

"Thank G.o.d, then, if he had to die, 'twas not as that man's friend, but his antagonist! My poor, brave Tom! My n.o.ble boy! Oh, would I had known him better while he lived!"

"He was all that is chivalrous and true, sir."

"I wanted only this a.s.surance. I felt it in my heart. Don't fear my betraying you; I understand how these affairs have to be managed at such times. Alas, if I had but known in time to prevent! Well, well, 'tis too late now. But there is one person I must confide this to--Philip."

"But I haven't told you anything, sir."

"Quite true; and therefore what I shall confide to Philip will not be of your telling. He will be silent, too. We shall make no disclosures.

Falconer shall receive his punishment in another manner."

"He shall, sir," said I, with a positiveness which, in his feeling of sorrow, and yet relief, to know that Tom had died as champion of the family honour, escaped his notice. I thereupon took my leave.

As I afterward came to know, he sent Philip an account of the whole lamentable affair, from Ned's reappearance to Tom's death; it was written in a cipher agreed upon between the two, and 'twas carried by Bill Meadows. Mr. Faringfield deemed it better that Philip should know the whole truth from his relation, than learn of Madge's departure, and Tom's fate, from other accounts, which must soon reach his ears in any case.

I know not exactly how many days later it was, that, having a free evening in the town, I went to the Faringfield house in hope of bearing some cheer with me. But 'twas in vain. Mrs. Faringfield was keeping her chamber, and requiring f.a.n.n.y's attendance. Mr. Faringfield sat in a painful reverie, before the parlour fire; scarce looked up when I entered; and seemed to find the lively spirits I brought in from the cold outer world, a jarring note upon his mood. He had not ordered candles: the firelight was more congenial to his meditations.

Mr. Cornelius sat in a dark corner of the room, lending his silent sympathy, and perhaps a fitting word now and then, to the merchant's reflections.

Old Noah, the only servant I saw, reflected in his black face the sorrow that had fallen on the home, and stepped with the tread of a ghost. I soon took my leave, having so far failed to carry any brightness into the stricken house, that I came away filled with a sadness akin to its own. I walked forward aimlessly through the wintry dusk, thinking life all sorrow, the world all gloom.

Suddenly the sound of laughter struck my ears. Could there indeed be mirth anywhere--nay, so near at hand--while such woe dwelt in the house I had left? The merriment seemed a violence, a sacrilege, an insult. I looked angrily at the place whence the noise proceeded.

'Twas from the parlour of the King's Arms tavern--for, in my doleful ponderings, my feet had carried me, scarce consciously, so far from Queen Street. I peered in through the lighted window. A number of officers were drinking, after dinner, at a large table, and 'twas the noise of their boisterous gaiety that my unhappy feelings had so swiftly resented.

While the merry fellows dipped their punch from the great bowl steaming in the centre of the table, and laughed uproariously at the story one was telling, I beheld in sharp contrast this jocund scene and the sad one I had so recently looked upon. And, coming to observe particulars, I suddenly noticed that the cause of all this laughter, himself smiling in appreciation of his own story as he told it, his face the picture of well-bred light-hearted mirth, was Captain Falconer. And he was the cause of the other scene, the sorrow that abode in the house I loved! The thought turned me to fire. I uttered a curse, and strode into the tavern; rudely flung open the parlour door, and stood in the presence of the laughing officers.

Falconer himself was the first to recognise me, though all had turned to see who made so violent an entrance.

"Why, Russell," cried he, showing not a whit of ill-humour at the interruption to his story, "this is a pleasure, by George! I haven't seen you in weeks. Find a place, and dive into the punch. Ensign Russell, gentlemen--if any of you haven't the honour already--and my very good friend, too!"

"Ensign Russell," I a.s.sented, "but not your friend, Captain Falconer.

I desire no friends of your breed; and I came in here for the purpose of telling you so, d.a.m.n you!"

Falconer's companions were amazed, of course; and some of them looked resentful and outraged, on his behalf. But the captain himself, with very little show of astonishment, continued his friendly smile to me.

"Well acted, Russell," said he, in a tone so pleasant I had to tighten my grip upon my resolution. "On my conscience, anybody who didn't know us would never see your joke."

"Nor would anybody who did know us," I retorted. "If an affront before all this company, purposely offered, be a joke, then laugh at this one. But a man of spirit would take it otherwise."

"Sure the fellow means to insult you, Jack," said one of the officers to Falconer.

"Thank you," said I to the officer.

"Why, Bert," said the captain, quickly, "you must be under some delusion. Have you been drinking too much?"

"Not a drop," I replied. "I needn't be drunk, to know a scoundrel.

Come, sir, will you soon take offence? How far must I go?"

"By all that's holy, Jack," cried one of his friends, "if you don't knock him down, I shall!"

"Ay, he ought to have his throat slit!" called out another.

"Nay, nay!" said Falconer, stopping with a gesture a general rising from the table. "There is some mistake here. I will talk with the gentleman alone. After you, sir." And, having approached me, he waited with great civility, for me to precede him out of the door. I accepted promptly, being in no mood to waste time in a contest of politeness.