Philip Winwood Part 37

"Never mind those fellows' holloing," called Philip to our riders.

"'Tis a wager--and I'll double that crown apiece."

We bowled over the road in a way to make me think of Apollo's chariot and the horses of Phaeton; but we lengthened not a rod the stretch betwixt us and our followers, though we nullified their efforts to diminish it. We could make out, more by sight than by hearing--for we kept looking back, our heads thrust out at either side--that the pursuing post-boys continued bawling vehemently at ours. What they said, was drowned by the clatter of horses and wheels.

"Well, they have seen we are two men," said Philip, "and still they keep up the race. They certainly must want us. Were they merely in a hurry to reach Hastings, they could do that the sooner by sparing their horses--this is a killing pace."

"Then we're in a serious plight," said I. "Though we may beat 'em to Hastings, they will catch us there."

"Unless we can gain a quarter of an hour's start, and, by one chance in twenty, find the Doughty boys ash.o.r.e, and their boat in harbour."

"Ay, there's one chance in twenty, maybe," I growled, looking gloomily back, and wishing I might see the pursuing chaise upset, or one of its horses stumble.

There is an old proverb about evil wishes rebounding to strike the sender; and a recollection of this was my paramount thought a moment later: for at a sharp turn our chaise suddenly seemed to leap into the air and alight on one wheel, and then turned over sidewise with what appeared to be a solemn deliberation, piling me upon Philip in a heap.

We felt the conveyance dragged some yards along the road, and then it came to a stop. A moment later we heard the postilions cursing the horses, and then we clambered out of the upper side of the chaise, and leaped into the road. We had been knocked, shaken, and bruised, but were not seriously hurt.

"Here's the devil to pay," cried the older postilion excitedly, turning his attention from the trembling horses to the wrecked vehicle.

"We will pay--but you will let us ride your horses the rest of the way?" asked Phil, quietly, rather as a matter of form than with any hope of success.

"No, sir!" roared the man. "Bean't there damage enough? Just look--"

"Tut, man," said Phil, examining the chaise, "a guinea will mend all--and there it is, and your extra crowns, too, though you failed.

Well," he added, turning to me, "shall we take to the fields? They'll have to hunt us afoot then, and we may beat 'em at that."

But I found I was too lame, from the knocking about I had got in the upset vehicle, for any game of hare and hounds. "Go you," said I. "I was only the second--there's less danger for me."

"I'll not go, then," said he. "What a pity I drew you into this, Bert!

I ought to have considered f.a.n.n.y and your mother. They'll never forgive me--they never ought to.--Well, now we shall know the worst!"

The second vehicle came to a triumphant stop near us, the postilions grinning with satisfaction. Phil and I stood pa.s.sive in the road: I remember wondering whether the officers of the law would put handcuffs upon us. A head was thrust out of the window--a voice called to us.

"Madge!" we cried together, and hastened to her.

"I was afraid you might sail before I got to Hastings," cried she, with relief and joy depicted on her face.

"Who is with you?" asked Phil.

"No one," she answered. "I left Bert's letter with my maid, to give to f.a.n.n.y. I left the girl too, to stay with her if she will take her. I didn't wish to enc.u.mber--Your chaise is broken down: get into this one. Oh, Phil!--I couldn't bear to have you go away--and leave me--after I had seen you again. 'Twas something to know you were in London, at least--near me. But if you go to France--you must let me go, too--you must, dear--as your friend, your comrade and helper, if nothing more--your old friend, that knew you so long ago--"

She lost voice here, and began to cry, still looking at him through the mist of tears. His own eyes glistened softly as he returned her gaze; and, after a moment, he went close to the window through which her head was thrust, raised his hand so as to stroke her hair, and kissed her on the lips.

"Why, you shall come as my wife, of course," said he, gently. "If I had been sure you wished it, you might have travelled with us from London, and been spared this chase.--But think what you are giving up, dear--'tis not too late--the theatre, the praise and admiration, London--"

"Oh, hang 'em all!" cried she, looking joyous through her tears. "'Tis you I want!"

And she caught his face between her hands, and kissed it a dozen times, to the open-mouthed wonder of the staring postilions.

She took us in her post-chaise to Hastings, where the three of us embarked as we had planned to do, having first arranged that one of the Doughty boys should go to Hampstead and act as a sort of man servant or protector to my mother and f.a.n.n.y during their loneliness.

They joined us later in Paris, and I finally accompanied them home when Captain Falconer's fatal duel was a forgotten matter. Philip and Madge then visited Italy and Germany; and subsequently returned to New York, having courageously chosen to outface what old scandal remained from the time of her flight. And so, despite Phil's prediction, 'tis finally his children, not mine, that gladden the age of Mr. and Mrs.

Faringfield, and have brought back the old-time cheer to the house; for f.a.n.n.y and I have remained in England, and here our young ones are being reared. Each under the government for which he fought--thus Philip and I abide. 'Tis no news, that Phil has become one of the leading architects in his country. My own life has been pleasantly monotonous, save for the duel I fought against a detractor of General Washington, which, as I merely wounded my adversary, did not necessitate another exile from the kingdom.

It is still an unsolved mystery in London, as to what became of Miss Warren, the actress of Drury Lane: she was for long reported to have been carried away by a strange gentleman who killed Captain Falconer in a duel over her. 'Tis not known in New York that Mrs. Winwood was ever on the stage. And as I must not yet make it known, nor disclose many things which have perforce entered into this history, I perceive that my labour has been, after all, to no purpose. I dare not give the narrative to the world, now it is done; but I cannot persuade myself to give it to the fire, either. Let it lie hid, then, till all of us concerned in it are pa.s.sed away; and perchance it may serve to instruct some future reader how much a transient vanity and wilfulness may wreck, and how much a steadfast love and courage may retrieve.

THE END.

L.C. Page and Company's

Announcement of List of New Fiction.

Philip Winwood. (50th thousand.) A SKETCH OF THE DOMESTIC HISTORY OF AN AMERICAN CAPTAIN IN THE WAR OF INDEPENDENCE, EMBRACING EVENTS THAT OCCURRED BETWEEN AND DURING THE YEARS 1763 AND 1785 IN NEW YORK AND LONDON. WRITTEN BY HIS ENEMY IN WAR, HERBERT RUSSELL, LIEUTENANT IN THE LOYALIST FORCES. Presented anew by ROBERT NEILSON STEPHENS, author of "A Gentleman Player," "An Enemy to the King," etc.

With six full-page ill.u.s.trations by E.W.D. Hamilton.

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The print, ill.u.s.trations, binding, etc., are worthy of the tale, and the author and his publishers are to be congratulated on a literary work of fiction which is as wholesome as it is winsome, as fresh and artistic as it is interesting and entertaining from first to last paragraph."--_Boston Times_.

Breaking the Shackles. By FRANK BARRETT.

Author of "A Set of Rogues."

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The Progress of Pauline Kessler. By FREDERIC CARREL.

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