Philip Winwood Part 7

"I probably shall when you've finished."

"Why, I dare say you know what the old man's tenderest place is. Well, if you won't answer, 'tis his pride in the family name, the spotless name of Faringfield! Oh, I've worked upon that more than once, I tell you. The old gentleman will do much to keep the name without a blemish; I could always bring him to terms by threatening to disgrace it--"

"What a rascal you've been, then!"

"Why, maybe so; we're not all saints. But I've always kept my word with father, and whenever he gave me the money I wanted, or set me up in life again, I kept the name clean--comparatively clean, that is to say, as far as any one in New York might know. And even this time--at the Barbadoes--'twasn't with any purpose of punishing father, I vow; 'twas for my necessities, I made myself free with a thousand pounds of Culverson's."

"The devil! Do you mean you embezzled a thousand pounds?"

"One cool, clean thousand! My necessities, I tell you. There was a debt of honour, you must know; a d.a.m.ned unlucky run at the cards, and the navy officer that won came with a brace of pistols and gave me two days in which to pay. And then there was a lady--with a brat, confound her!--to be sent to England, and looked after. You see, 'twas honour moved me in the first case, and chivalry in the second. As a gentleman, I couldn't withstand the promptings of n.o.ble sentiments like those."

"Well, what then?"

"Why, then I came away. And I hadn't the heart to break the truth to father, knowing how 'twould cut him up. I thought of the old gentleman's family pride, his gray hairs--his hair _is_ gray by this time, isn't it?--"

"And what is it you wish me to do?"

"Why, you see, Culverson hadn't yet found out how things were, when I left. I pretended I was ill--and so I was, in a way. But he must have found out by this time, and when he sends after me, by the next vessel, I'm afraid poor father will have to undergo a severe trial--you know his weakness for the honoured name of Faringfield."

"By the Lord, Ned, this is worse than I should ever have thought of you."

"It _is_ a bit bad, isn't it? And I've been thinking what's to be done--for father's sake, you know. If 'twere broken to him gently, at once, as n.o.body but you can break it, why then, he might give me the money to repay Culverson, and send me back to Barbadoes by the next ship, and nothing need ever come out. I'm thoroughly penitent, so help me, heaven, and quite willing to go back."

"And incur other debts of honour, and obligations of chivalry," says Phil.

"I'll see the cards in h.e.l.l first, and the women too, by gad!" whereat Mr. Edward brought his fist down upon the table most convincingly.

He thought it best to spend that night at the tavern; whither Phil went in the morning with news of Mr. Faringfield's reception of the disclosure. The merchant had listened with a countenance as cold as a statue's, but had promptly determined to make good the thousand pounds to Mr. Culverson, and that Ned should return to the Barbadoes without the formality of bidding the family farewell. But the money was to be entrusted not to Mr. Edward, but to Mr. Faringfield's old clerk, Palmer, who was to be the young man's travelling companion on the Southward voyage. At word of this last arrangement, Edward showed himself a little put out, which he told Phil was on account of his father's apparent lack of confidence. But he meditated awhile, and took on a more cheerful face.

It happened--and, as it afterward came out, his previous knowledge of this had suggested the trick he played upon Phil and Mr.

Faringfield--that, the same day on which the next Barbadoes-bound vessel sailed, a brig left port for England. Both vessels availed themselves of the same tide and wind, and so went down the bay together.

On the Barbadoes vessel, Ned and Mr. Palmer were to share the same cabin; and thither, ere the ship was well out of the East River, the old clerk accompanied Ned for the purpose of imbibing a beverage which the young gentleman protested was an unfailing preventive of sea-sickness, if taken in time. Once in the cabin, and the door being closed, Mr. Ned adroitly knocked Palmer down with a blow from behind; gagged, bound, and robbed him of the money, and left him to his devices. Returning to the deck, he induced the captain to put him, by boat, aboard the brig bound for England, which was still close at hand. Taking different courses, upon leaving the lower bay, the two vessels were soon out of hail, and that before the discovery of the much puzzled Palmer's condition in his cabin.

The poor old man had to go to the Barbadoes, and come back again, before a word of this event reached the ears of Mr. Faringfield. When Palmer returned with his account of it, he brought word from Mr.

Culverson that, although Ned had indeed settled a gambling debt at the pistol's point, and had indeed paid the pa.s.sage of a woman and child to England, his theft had been of less than a hundred pounds. Thus it was made manifest that Ned had lied to Philip in order to play upon his father's solicitude concerning the name of Faringfield for integrity, and so get into his hands the means of embarking upon the pleasures of the Old World. Very foolish did poor Philip look when he learned how he had been duped. But Mr. Faringfield, I imagine, consoled himself with the probability that New York had seen the last of Mr. Edward.

I think 'twas to let Mr. Faringfield recover first from the feelings of this occasion, that Philip postponed so long the announcement of his intention to go to England. Thus far he had confided his plans to me alone, and as a secret. But now he was past twenty-one years, and his resolution could not much longer be deferred. Nevertheless, not until the next June--that of 1774--did he screw up his courage to the point of action.

"I shall tell him to-day," said Philip to me one Monday morning, as I walked with him part of the way to the warehouses. "Pray heaven he takes it not too ill."

I did not see Phil at dinner-time; but in the afternoon, a little before his usual home-coming hour, he came seeking me, with a very relieved and happy face; and found me tr.i.m.m.i.n.g a grape-vine in our back garden, near the palings that separated our ground from Mr.

Faringfield's. On the Faringfield side of the fence, at this place, grew bushes of s...o...b..ll and rose.

"How did he take it?" I asked, smiling to see Phil's eyes so bright.

"Oh, very well. He made no objection; said he had not the right to make any in my case. But he looked so upset for a moment, so deserted--I suppose he was thinking how his own son had failed him, and that now his beneficiary was turning from him--that I wavered. But at that he was the same haughty, immovable man as ever, and I remembered that each of us must live his own life; and so 'tis settled."

"Well," said I, with a little of envy at his prospect, and much of sorrow at losing him, and some wonder about another matter, "I'm glad for your sake, though you may imagine how I'll miss you. But how can you go yet? 'Tis like leaving the field to me--as to _her_, you know."

I motioned with my head toward the Faringfield house.

"Why," he replied, as we both sat down on the wooden bench, "as I shall be gone years when I do go, Mr. Faringfield stipulated only that I should remain with him here another year; and I was mighty glad he did, or I should have had to make that offer. 'Twasn't that I was anxious to be off so soon, that made me tell him I was going; 'twas that in harbouring the intention, while he still relied upon my remaining always with him, I seemed to be guilty of a kind of treachery. As for--_her_, if she gives no indication within a year, especially when she knows I'm going, why, 'twill be high time to leave the field to you, I think."

"She doesn't know yet?"

"No; I came first to you. Her father isn't home yet."

"Well, Phil, there's little for me to say. You know what my feelings are. After all, we are to have you for a year, and then--well, I hope you may become the greatest architect that ever lived!"

"Why, now, 'tis strange; you remind me of my reason for going. Since Mr. Faringfield gave me his sanction, I hadn't thought of that. I'm afraid I've been something of a hypocrite. And yet I certainly thought my desire to go was chiefly on account of my architectural studies; and I certainly intend to pursue them, too. I must have deceived myself a little, though, by dwelling on that reason as one that would prevail with Mr. Faringfield; one that he could understand, and could not fairly oppose. For, hearkee, all the way home, when I looked forward to the future, the architectural part of it was not in my head. I was thinking of the famous historic places I should see; the places where great men have lived; the birthplace and grave of Shakespeare; the palaces where great pageants and tragedies have been enacted; the scenes of great battles; the abbey where so many poets and kings and queens are buried; the Tower where such memorable dramas have occurred; the castles that have stood since the days of chivalry; and Oxford; and the green fields of England that poets have written of, and the churchyard of Gray's Elegy; and all that kind of thing."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "OUR MOTIONS, AS WE TOUCHED OUR LIPS WITH THEM, WERE SO IN UNISON THAT MARGARET LAUGHED."]

"Ay, and something of the gay life of the present, I'll warrant," said I, with a smile; "the playhouses, and the taverns, and the parks, and Vauxhall, and the a.s.sembly-rooms; and all _that_ kind of thing."

"Why, yes, 'tis true. And I wish you were to go with me."

"Alas, I'm tied down here. Some day, perhaps--"

"What are you two talking of?" The interruption came in a soft, clear, musical voice, of which the instant effect was to make us both start up, and turn toward the fence, with hastened hearts and smiling faces.

Margaret stood erect, looking over the palings at us, backed by the green and flowered bushes through which she and f.a.n.n.y had moved noiselessly toward the fence in quest of nosegays for the supper-table. f.a.n.n.y stood at her side, and both smiled, Margaret archly, f.a.n.n.y pleasantly. The two seemed of one race with the flowers about them, though Margaret's radiant beauty far outshone the more modest charms of her brown-eyed younger sister. The elder placed her gathered flowers on the upper rail of the fence, and taking two roses, one in each hand, held them out toward us.

We grasped each his rose at the same time, and our motions, as we touched our lips with them, were so in unison that Margaret laughed.

"And what _were_ you talking of?" says she.

"Is it a secret any longer?" I asked Philip.

"No."

"Then we were talking of Phil's going to England, to be a great architect."

"Going to England!" She looked as if she could not have rightly understood.

"Yes," said I, "in a year from now, to stay, the Lord knows how long."

She turned white, then red; and had the strangest look.

"Is it true?" she asked, after a moment, turning to Phil.

"Yes. I am to go next June."

"But father--does he know?"

"I told him this afternoon. He is willing."

"To be sure, to be sure," she said, thoughtfully. "He has no authority over you. 'Tis different with us. Oh, Phil, if you could only take me with you!" There was wistful longing and petulant complaint in the speech. And then, as Phil answered, an idea seemed to come to her all at once; and she to rise to it by its possibility, rather than to fall back from its audacity.