CHAPTER III.

Wherein 'tis Shown that Boys Are but Boys.

The Faringfield house, as I have said, was flanked by garden space on either side. It was on the Eastern side of the street, and so faced West, the next house Southward being ours. The wide hall that we entered ran straight back to a door opening from a wooden veranda that looked toward the rear garden. At the right of this hall, as you went in, a broad oak stairway invited you to the sleeping floor above. But before you came to this stairway, you passed a door that gave into the great parlour, which ran the whole length of the hall, and, being used only on occasions of festivity or ceremony, was now closed and dark. At the left of the hall, the first door led to the smaller parlour, as wide but not as long as the great one, and in daily use as the chief living-room of the house. Its windows were those through which the candle-light within had welcomed us from the frosty, snowy air that evening. Behind this parlour, and reached either directly from it, or by a second door at the left side of the hall, was the library, so-called although a single case of eight shelves sufficed to hold all the books it contained. Yet Philip said there was a world in those books. The room was a small and singularly cosy one, and here, when Mr. Faringfield was not occupied at the mahogany desk, we children might play at chess, draughts, cards, and other games. From this room, one went back into the dining-room, another apartment endeared to me by countless pleasant memories. Its two windows looked Southward across the side grounds (for the hall and great parlour came not so far back) to our house and garden. Behind the dining-room, and separating it from the kitchen and pantry, was a passage with a back stairway and with a bench of washing-basins, easily supplied with water from a cistern below, and from the kettle in the adjacent kitchen. To this place we youngsters now hastened, to put ourselves to rights for supper. The house was carpeted throughout. The great parlour was panelled in wood, white and gold. The other chief rooms were wainscoted in oak; and as to their upper walls, some were bright with French paper, while some shone white with smooth plaster; their ceilings and borders were decorated with arabesque woodwork. There were tiled fireplaces, with carved mantels, white, like the rectangular window-frames and panelled doors. Well, well, 'twas but a house like countless others, and why should I so closely describe it?—save that I love the memory of it, and fain would linger upon its commonest details.

Mighty snug was the dining-room that evening, with its oaken sideboard, its prints and portraits on the wall, its sputtering fire, and its well-filled table lighted from a candelabrum in the centre. The sharp odour of the burning pine was keen to the nostrils, and mingled with it was the smell of the fried ham. There was the softer fragrance of the corn meal mush or porridge, served with milk, and soft was the taste of it also. We had sausage cakes, too, and pancakes to be eaten either with butter or with the syrup of the maple-tree; and jam, and jelly, and fruit butter. These things seem homely fare, no doubt, but there was a skill of cookery in the fat old negress, Hannah—a skill consisting much in the plentiful use of salt and pepper at proper stages—that would have given homelier fare a relish to more fastidious tongues. I miss in the wholesome but limited and unseasoned diet of the English the variety and savouriness of American food (I mean the food of the well-to-do in the large towns), which includes all the English and Scotch dishes, corrected of their insipidity, besides countless dishes French, German, and Dutch, and many native to the soil, all improved and diversified by the surprising genius for cookery which, in so few generations, the negro race has come to exhibit. I was a busy lad at that meal; a speechless one, consequently, and for some minutes so engrossed in the business of my jaws that I did not heed the unwonted silence of the rest. Then suddenly it came upon me as something embarrassing and painful that Mr. and Mrs. Faringfield, who usually conversed at meals, had nothing to say, and that Philip Winwood sat gloomy and taciturn, merely going through a hollow form of eating. As for Fanny, she was the picture of childish sorrow, though now tearless. Only Madge and little Tom, who had found some joke between themselves, occasionally spluttered with suppressed laughter, smiling meanwhile knowingly at each other.

Of course this depression was due to the absence of Ned, regarding the cause of which his mother was still in the dark. Not missing him until we children had filed in to supper after tidying up, she had then remarked that he was not yet in.

"He will not be home to supper," Mr. Faringfield had replied, in a tone that forbade questioning until the pair should be alone, and motioning his wife to be seated at the table. After that he had once or twice essayed to talk upon casual subjects, as if nothing had happened, but he had perceived that the attempt was hopeless while Mrs. Faringfield remained in her state of deferred curiosity and vague alarm, and so he had desisted.

After supper, which the lady's impatience made shorter than my appetite would have dictated, the husband and wife went into the small parlour, closing the door upon us children in the library. Here I managed to make a pleasant evening, in games with Madge and little Tom upon the floor. But Philip, though he came in as was his wont, was not to be lured into our play or our talk. He did not even read, but sat silent and pondering, in no cheerful mood. I, not reading him as Madge did, knew not what the matter was, and accused him of having vapours, like a girl. He looked at me heedlessly, in reply, as if he scarce heard. But Madge, apparently, divined his feeling, and at times respected it, for then she spoke low, and skilfully won me back from my efforts to enliven him. At other times, his way seemed to irritate her, and she hinted that he was foolish, and then she was extraordinarily smiling and adorable to me (always, I now suspect, with the corner of her eye upon him) as if to draw him back to his usual good-fellowship by that method. But 'twas in vain. I left at bedtime, wondering what change had come over him.

That night, I learned afterward, Philip slept little, debating sorrowfully in his mind. He kept his window slightly open at night, in all weather; and open also that night was one of the windows of Mr. and Mrs. Faringfield's great chamber below. A sound that reached him in the small hours, of Mrs. Faringfield whimpering and weeping, decided him. And the next morning, after another silent meal, he contrived to fall into Mr. Faringfield's company on the way to the warehouse, which they had almost reached ere Phil, very down in the mouth and perturbed, got up his courage to his unpleasant task and blundered out in a boyish, frightened way:

"If you please, sir, I wished to tell you—I've made up my mind to leave—and thank you very much for all your kindness!"

Mr. Faringfield stared from under his gathered brows, and asked Phil to repeat the strange thing he had said.

"Leave what, sir?" he queried sharply, when Phil had done so.

"Leave your warehouse, sir; and your house; and New York."

"What do you mean, my boy?"

And Phil, thankful that Mr. Faringfield had paused to have the talk out ere they should come among the men at the warehouse, explained at first in vague terms, but finally in the explicit language to which his benefactor's questions forced him, that he seemed, in Master Ned's mind, to be standing in Ned's way; that he would not for the world appear to supplant any man's son, much less the son of one who had been so kind to him; that he had unintentionally been the cause of Ned's departure the evening before; and that he hoped his going would bring Ned back from the absence which caused his mother grief. "And I wouldn't stay in New York after leaving you, sir," he said, "for 'twould look as if you and I had disagreed."

To all this Mr. Faringfield replied briefly that Ned was a foolish boy, and would soon enough come back, glad of what welcome he might get; and that, as for Philip's going away, it was simply not to be heard of. But Phil persisted, conceding only that he should remain at the warehouse for an hour that morning and complete a task he had left unfinished. Mr. Faringfield still refused to have it that Phil should go at all.

When Philip had done his hour's work, he went in to his employer's office to say good-bye.

"Tut, tut," said Mr. Faringfield, looking annoyed at the interruption, "there's no occasion for goodbyes. But look you, lad. I don't mind your taking the day off, to put yourself into a reasonable state of mind. Go home, and enjoy a holiday, and come back to your work to-morrow, fresh and cheerful. Now, now, boy, I won't hear any more. Only do as I bid you." And he assumed a chilling reserve that indeed froze all further possible discussion.

"But I do say good-bye, sir, and mean it," said Phil, tremulously. "And I thank you from my heart for all you've done for me."

And so, with a lump in his throat, Phil hastened home, and sped up the stairs unseen, like a ghost; and had all his things out on his bed for packing, when suddenly Madge, who had been astonished to hear him moving about, from her mother's room below, flung open his door and looked in upon him, all amazed.

"Why, Phil, what are you doing home at this hour? What are you putting your things into your valise for?"

"Oh, nothing," said Phil, very downcast.

"Why, it looks as if—you were going away somewhere."

Phil made a brief answer; and then there was a long talk, all the while he continued to pack his goods, in his perturbation stowing things together in strange juxtaposition. The end of it was that Madge, after vowing that if he went she would never speak to him again, and would hate him for ever, indignantly left him to himself. Phil went on packing, in all the outward calmness he could muster, though I'll wager with a very pouting and dismal countenance. At last, his possessions being bestowed, and the bag fastened with much physical exertion, he left it on the bed, and slipped down-stairs to find his one remaining piece of property. Philip's cat had waxed plump in the Faringfield household, Master Ned always deterred from harming it by the knowledge that if aught ill befell it, the finger of accusation would point instantly and surely at him.

Phil was returning up the stairs, his pet under his arm, when Mistress Madge reappeared before him, with magic unexpectedness, from a doorway opening on a landing. As she stood in his way there, he stopped, and the two faced each other.

"Well," said she, with sarcastic bitterness, "I suppose you've decided where you're going to."

"Not yet," he replied. He had thought vaguely of Philadelphia or Boston, either of which he now had means of reaching, having saved most of his small salary at the warehouse, for he was not a bound apprentice.

"I make no doubt," she went on, "'twill be the farthest place you can find."

Phil gave her a reproachful look, and asked where her mother and the children were, that he might bid them good-bye. He wondered, indeed, that Madge had not told her mother of his resolve, for, from that lady's not seeking him at once, he knew that she was still unaware of it. He little guessed that 'twas the girl's own power over him she wished to test, and that she would not enlist her mother's persuasions but as a last resource.

"I don't know," she replied carelessly.

"I shall look for them," said Philip, and turned to go down-stairs again.

But (though how could a boy imagine it?) Miss Faringfield would not have it that his yielding should be due to her mother, if it could be achieved as a victory for herself. So she stopped him with a sudden tremulous "Oh, Phil!" and, raising her forearm to the door-post, hid her face against it, and wept as if her heart would break.

Philip had never before known her to shed a tear, and this new spectacle, in a second's time, took all the firmness out of him.

"Why, Madge, I didn't know—don't cry, Madgie—"

She turned swiftly, without looking up, and her face, still in a shower of tears, found hiding no longer against the door-post, but against Phil's breast.

"Don't cry, Madgie dear,—I sha'n't go!"

She raised her wet face, joy sparkling where the lines had not yet lost the shape of grief; and Phil never thought to ask himself how much of her pleasure was for his not going, and how much for the evidence given of her feminine power. He had presently another thing to consider, a not very palatable dose to swallow—the returning to the warehouse and telling Mr. Faringfield of his change of mind. He did this awkwardly enough, no doubt, but manfully enough, I'll take my oath, though he always said he felt never so tamed and small and ludicrous in his life, before or after.

And that scene upon the landing is the last picture, but one, I have to present of childhood days, ere I hasten, over the period that brought us all into our twenties and to strange, eventful times. The one remaining sketch is of an unkempt, bedraggled figure that I saw at the back hall door of the Faringfields one snowy night a week later, when, for some reason or other, I was out late in our back garden. This person, instead of knocking at the door, very cautiously tried it to see if it would open, and, finding it locked, stood timidly back and gazed at it in a quandary. Suspecting mischief, I went to the paling fence that separated our ground from the Faringfields', and called out, "Who's that?"

"Hallo, Bert!" came in a very conciliating tone, low-spoken; and then, as with a sudden thought, "Come over here, will you?"

I crossed the fence, and was in a moment at the side of Master Ned, who looked exceedingly the worse for wear, in face, figure, and clothes.

"Look here," said he, speaking rapidly, so as to prevent my touching the subject of his return, "I want to sneak in, and up-stairs to bed, without the old man seeing me. I don't just like to meet him till to-morrow. But I can't sneak in, for the door's locked, and Noah would be sure to tell dad. You knock, and when they let you in, pretend you came to play with the kids; and whisper Fanny to slip out and open the door for me."

I entered readily into the strategy, as a boy will, glad of Ned's return for the sake of Phil, who I knew was ill at ease for Ned's absence being in some sense due to himself.

Old Noah admitted me at my knock, locked the door after me, and sent me into the smaller parlour, where the whole family happened to be. When I whispered my message to Fanny, she turned so many colours, and made so precipitately for the entrance hall, that her father was put on the alert. He followed her quietly out, just in time to see a very shivering, humble, shamefaced youth step in from the snowy outer night. The sight of his father turned Ned cold and stiff upon the threshold; but all the father did was to put on a grim look of contempt, and say:

"Well, sir, I suppose you've changed your tune."

"Yes, sir," said the penitent, meekly, and there being now no reason for secrecy he shambled after his father into the parlour. There, after his mother's embrace, he grinned sheepishly upon us all. Fanny was quite rejoiced, and so was little Tom till the novelty wore off; while Madge greeted the prodigal good-humouredly enough, and one could read Phil's relief and forgiveness on his smiling face. Master Ned, grateful for an easier ordeal than he had feared, made no exception against Phil in the somewhat sickly amiability he had for all, and we thought that here were reconciliation and the assurance of future peace.

Ned's home-coming brought trouble in its train, as indeed did his every reappearance afterward. It came out that he and another boy—the one in whose house he had found refuge on the night of his running away—had started off for the North to lead the lives of hunters and trappers, a career so inviting that they could not wait to provide a sufficient equipment. They travelled afoot by the Albany post-road, soliciting food at farmhouses, passing their nights in barns; and got as far as Tarrytown, ere either one in his pride would admit to the other, through chattering teeth, that he had had his fill of snow and hunger and the raw winds of the Hudson River. So footsore, leg-weary, empty, and frozen were they on their way back, that they helped themselves to one of Jacob Post's horses, near the Philipse manor-house; and not daring to ride into town on this beast, thoughtlessly turned it loose in the Bowery lane, never thinking how certainly it and they could be traced—for they had been noticed at Van Cortlandt's, again at Kingsbridge, and again at the Blue Bell tavern. After receiving its liberty, the horse had been seen once, galloping toward Turtle Bay, and never again.

So, a few days after Ned's reentrance into the bosom of his family, there came to the house a constable, of our own town, with a deputy sent by the sheriff of Westchester County, wanting Master Edward Faringfield.

Frightened and disgraced, his mother sent for her husband; and for the sake of the family name, Mr. Faringfield adjusted matters by the payment of twice or thrice what the horse was worth. Thus the would-be hunter and trapper escaped the discomfort and shame of jail; though by his father's sentence he underwent a fortnight's detention on bread and water in his bedroom.

That was the first fright and humiliation that Master Ned brought on his people; and he brought so many of these in after years, that the time came when his parents, and all, were rather glad than sorry each time he packed off again, and shuddered rather than rejoiced when, after an absence, he turned up safe and healthy as ever, with his old hangdog smile beneath which lurked a look half-defiant, half-injured. As he grew older, and the boy in him made room for the man, there was less of the smile, less injury, more defiance.

I do not remember how many years it was after Philip's coming to New York, that our Dutch schoolmaster went the way of all flesh, and there came in his place, to conduct a school for boys only and in more advanced studies, a pedagogue from Philadelphia, named Cornelius. He was of American birth, but of European parentage, whether German or Dutch I never knew. Certainly he had learning, and much more than was due alone to his having gone through the college at Princeton in New Jersey. He was in the early twenties, tall and robust, with a large round face, and with these peculiarities: that his hair, eyebrows, and lashes were perfectly white, his eyes of a singularly mild blue, his skin of a pinkish tint; that he was given to blushing whenever he met women or strangers, and that he spoke with pedantic preciseness, in a wondrously low voice. But despite his bashfulness, there was a great deal in the man, and when an emergency rose he never lacked resource.

He it was to whom my education, and Ned Faringfield's, was entrusted, while the girls and little Tom still strove with the rudiments in the dame-school. He it was that carried us to the portals of college; and I carried Philip Winwood thither with me, by studying my lessons with him in the evenings. In many things he was far beyond Mr. Cornelius's highest teaching; but there had been lapses in his information, and these he filled up, and regulated his knowledge as well, through accompanying me in my progress. And he continued so to accompany me, making better use of my books than ever I made, as I went through the King's College; and that is the way in which Phil Winwood got his stock of learning eked out, and put in due shape and order.

It happened that Philip's taste fastened upon one subject of which there was scarce anything to be learned by keeping pace with my studies, but upon which much was to be had from books in the college library, of which I obtained the use for him. It was a strange subject for a youth to take up at that time, or any time since, and in that colonial country—architecture. Yet 'twas just like Phil Winwood to be interested in something that all around him neglected or knew nothing about. What hope an American could have in the pursuit of an art, for which the very rare demands in his country were supplied from Europe, and which indeed languished the world over, I could not see.

"Very well, then," said Phil, "'twill be worth while trying to waken this sleeping art, and to find a place for it in this out-of-the-way country. I wouldn't presume to attempt new forms, to be sure; but one might revive some old ones, and maybe try new arrangements of them."

"Then you think you'll really be an architect?" I asked.

"Why, if it's possible. 'Faith, I'm not so young any more that I still want to be a soldier, or a sailor either. One thing, 'twill take years of study; I'll have to go to Europe for that."

"To England?"

"First of all."

"What will Mr. Faringfield say to that?"

"He will not mind it so much in my case. I'm not of the Faringfield blood."

"Egad," said I, "there's some of the Faringfield blood hankers for a sight of London."

"Whose? Ned's?"

"No. Margaret's."

We were young men now, and she would not let us call her Madge any more. What I had said was true. She had not grown up without hearing and reading much of the great world beyond the sea, and wishing she might have her taste of its pleasures. She first showed a sense of her deprivation—for it was a deprivation for a rich man's daughter—when she finished at the dame-school and we boys entered college. Then she hinted, very cautiously, that her and Fanny's education was being neglected, and mentioned certain other New York gentlemen's daughters, who had been sent to England to boarding-schools.

Delicately as she did this, the thought that his favourite child could harbour a wish that involved going to England, was a blow to Mr. Faringfield. He hastened to remove all cause of complaint on the score of defective education. He arranged that the music teacher, who gave the girls their lessons in singing and in playing upon the harpsichord and guitar, should teach them four days a week instead of two. He engaged Mr. Cornelius to become an inmate of his house and to give them tuition out of his regular school hours. He paid a French widow to instruct them in their pronunciation, their book-French and grammar being acquired under Mr. Cornelius's teaching. And so, poor girls, they got only additional work for Margaret's pains. But both of them were docile, Fanny because it was her nature to be so, Margaret because she had taken it into her head to become an accomplished lady. We never guessed her dreams and ambitions in those years, and to this day I often wonder at what hour in her girlhood the set design took possession of her, that design which dominated all her actions when we so little guessed its existence. Besides these three instructors, the girls had their dancing-master, an Englishman who pretended to impart not only the best-approved steps of a London assembly-room, but its manners and graces as well.

So much for the education of the girls, Philip, and myself. Ned Faringfield's was interrupted by his expulsion from King's for gross misconduct; and was terminated by his disgrace at Yale College (whither his father had sent him in vain hope that he might behave better away from home and more self-dependent) for beating a smaller student whom he had cheated at a clandestine game of cards. His home-coming on this occasion was followed by his being packed off to Virginia to play at superintending his father's tobacco plantations. Neglecting this business to go shooting on the frontier, he got a Scotch Presbyterian mountaineer's daughter into trouble; and when he turned up again at the door in Queen Street, he was still shaky with recollections of the mob of riflemen that had chased him out of Virginia. That piece of sport cost his father a pretty penny, and resulted in a place being got for Ned with a merchant who was Mr. Faringfield's correspondent in the Barbadoes. So to the tropics the young gentleman was shipped, with sighs of relief at his embarkation, and—I have no doubt—with unuttered prayers that he might not show his face in Queen Street for a long time to come. Already he had got the name, in the family, of "the bad shilling," for his always coming back unlooked for.

How different was his younger brother!—no longer "little Tom" (though of but middle height and slim build), but always gay-hearted, affectionate, innocent, and a gentleman. He was a handsome lad, without and within—yes, "lad" I must call him, for, though he came to manly years, he always seemed a boy to me. He followed in our steps, in his time, through Mr. Cornelius's school, and into King's College, too, but the coming of the war cut short his studies there.

It must have been in the year 1772—I remember Margaret spoke of her being seventeen years old, in which case I was nineteen—when I got (and speedily forgot) my first glimpse of Margaret's inmost mind. We were at the play—for New York had had a playhouse ever since Mr. Hallam had brought thither his company, with whom the great Garrick had first appeared in London. I cannot recall what the piece was that night; but I know it must have been a decent one, or Margaret would not have been allowed to see it; and that it purported to set forth true scenes of fashionable life in London. At one side of Margaret her mother sat, at the other was myself, and I think I was that time their only escort.

"What a fright!" said Margaret in my ear, as one of the actresses came upon the stage with an affected gait, and a look of thinking herself mighty fine and irresistible. "'Tis a slander, this."

"Of whom?" I asked.

"Of the fine ladies these poor things pretend to represent."

"How do you know?" I retorted, for I was somewhat taken with the actresses, and thought to avenge them by bringing her down a peg or two. "Have you seen so much of London fine ladies?"

"No, poor me!" she said sorrowfully, without a bit of anger, so that I was softened in a trice. "But the ladies of New York, even, are no such tawdry make-believes as this.—Heaven knows, I would give ten years of life for a sight of the fine world of London!"

She was looking so divine at that moment, that I could not but whisper:

"You would see nothing finer there than yourself."

"Do you think so?" she quickly asked, flashing her eyes upon me in a strange way that called for a serious answer.

"'Tis the God's truth," I said, earnestly.

For a moment she was silent; then she whispered:

"What a silly whimsy of my father, his hatred of England! Does he imagine none of us is really ever to see the world?—That reminds me, don't forget the Town and Country Magazine to-morrow."

I had once come upon a copy of that publication, which reflected the high life of England, perhaps too much on its scandalous side; and had shown it to Margaret. Immediately she had got me to subscribe for it, and to pass each number clandestinely to her. I, delighted to do her a favour, and to have a secret with her, complied joyously; and obtained for her as many novels and plays as I could, as well.

Little I fancied what bee I thus helped to keep buzzing in her pretty head, which she now carried with all the alternate imperiousness and graciousness of confident and proven beauty. Little I divined of feminine dreams of conquest in larger fields; or foresaw of dangerous fruit to grow from seed planted with thoughtlessness. To my mind, nothing of harm or evil could ensue from anything done, or thought, in our happy little group. To my eyes, the future could be only radiant and triumphant. For I was still but a lad at heart, and to think as I did, or to be thoughtless as I was, is the way of youth.

CHAPTER IV.

How Philip and I Behaved as Rivals in Love.

I was always impatient, and restless to settle uncertainties. One fine morning in the Spring of 1773, Philip and I were breaking the Sabbath by practising with the foils in our back garden. Spite of all the lessons I had taken from an English fencing-master in the town, Phil was still my superior in the gentlemanly art. After a bout, on this sunshiny morning, we rested upon a wooden bench, in the midst of a world of white and pink and green, for the apple and cherry blossoms were out, and the leaves were in their first freshness. The air was full of the odour of lilacs and honeysuckles. Suddenly the matter that was in my mind came out.

"I wish you'd tell me something, Phil—though 'tis none of my business,—"

"Why, man, you're welcome to anything I know."

"Then, is there aught between Margaret and you—any agreement or understanding, I mean?"

Phil smiled, comprehending me thoroughly.

"No, there's nothing. I'm glad you asked. It shows there's no promise between her and you, either."

"I thought you and I ought to settle it between ourselves about—Margaret. Because if we both go on letting time pass, each waiting to see what t'other will do, some other man will slip in, and carry off the prize, and there will both of us be, out in the cold."

"Oh, there's little fear of that," said Phil.

"Why, the fellows are all coming after her. She's far the finest girl in town."

"But you see how she treats them, all alike; looks down on them all, even while she's pleasant to them; and doesn't lead any one of them on a step further than the rest."

"Ay, but in time—she's eighteen now, you know."

"Why, did you ever try to imagine her regarding any one of them as a husband; as a companion to live with day after day, and to agree with, and look up to, and yield to, as a wife does? Just fancy Margaret accommodating herself to the everlasting company of Phil Van Cortlandt, or Jack Cruger, or Bob Livingstone, or Harry Colden, or Fred Philipse, or Billy Skinner, or any of them."

"I know," said I; "but many a girl has taken a man that other men couldn't see anything in."

"Ay, the women have a way of their own of judging men; or perhaps they make the best of what they can get. But you may depend on't, Margaret has too clear a sight, and too bright a mind, and thinks too well of herself, to mate with an uncouth cub, or a stupid dolt, or a girlish fop, or any of these that hang about her."

'Twas not Phil's way to speak ill of people, but when one considered men in comparison with Margaret, they looked indeed very crude and unworthy.

"You know," he added, "how soon she tires of any one's society."

"But," said I, dubiously, "if none of them has a chance, how is it with us?"

"Why, 'tis well-proved that she doesn't tire of us. For years and years, she has had us about her every day, and has been content with our society. That shows she could endure us to be always near her."

It was true, indeed. And I should explain here that, as things were in America then, and with Mr. Faringfield and Margaret, neither of us was entirely ineligible to the hand of so rich and important a man's daughter; although the town would not have likened our chances to those of a De Lancey, a Livingstone, or a Philipse. I ought to have said before, that Philip was now of promising fortune. He had risen in the employ of Mr. Faringfield, but, more than that, he had invested some years' savings in one of that merchant's shipping ventures, and had reinvested the profits, always upon his benefactor's advice, until now his independence was a certain thing. If he indeed tried architecture and it failed him as a means of livelihood, he might at any time fall back upon his means and his experience as a merchant adventurer. As for me, I also was a beneficiary of Mr. Faringfield's mercantile transactions by sea, my mother, at his hint, having drawn out some money from the English funds, and risked it with him. Furthermore, I had obtained a subordinate post in the customs office, with a promise of sometime succeeding to my father's old place, and the certainty of remaining in his Majesty's service during good behaviour. This meant for life, for I had now learned how to govern my conduct, having schooled myself, for the sake of my mother's peace of mind, to keep out of trouble, often against my natural impulses. Thus both Phil and I might aspire to Margaret; and, moreover, 'twas like that her father would provide well for her if she found a husband to his approval. It did not then occur to me that my employment in the English service might be against me in Mr. Faringfield's eyes.

"Then," said I, reaching the main point at last, "as you think we are endurable to her—which of us shall it be?"

"Why, that question is for her to settle," said Phil, with a smile half-amused, half-surprised.

"But she will have to be asked. So which of us—?"

"I don't think it matters," he replied. "If she prefers one of us, she will take him and refuse the other, whether he ask first or last."

"But suppose she likes us equally. In that case, might not the first asker win, merely for his being first?"

"I think it scarce possible but that in her heart she must favour one above all others, though she may not know it yet."

"But it seems to me—"

"'Faith, Bert, do as you like, I sha'n't say nay, or think nay. If you ask her, and she accepts you, I shall be sure you are the choice of her heart. But as for me, I have often thought of the matter, and this is what I've come to: not to speak to her of it, until by some hint or act she shows her preference."

"But the lady must not make the first step."

"Not by proposal or direct word, of course—though I'll wager there have been exceptions to that; but I've read, and believe from what I've seen, that 'tis oftenest the lady that gives the first hint. No doubt, she has already made sure of the gentleman's feelings, by signs he doesn't know of. If a man didn't receive some leading on from a woman, how would he dare tell her his mind?—for if he loves her he must dread her refusal, or scorn, beyond all things. However that be, I've seen, in companies, and at the play, and even in church, how girls contrive to show their partiality to the fellows they prefer. Why, we've both had it happen to us, when we were too young for the fancy to last. And 'tis the same, I'll wager, when the girls are women, and the stronger feeling has come, the kind that lasts. Be sure a girl as clever as Margaret will find a way of showing it, if she has set her mind on either of us. And so, I'm resolved to wait for some sign from her before I speak."

He went on to explain that this course would prolong, to the unfortunate one, the possession of the pleasures of hope. It would save him, and Margaret, from the very unpleasant incident of a rejection. Such a refusal must always leave behind it a certain bitterness in the memory, that will touch what friendship remains between the two people concerned. And I know Philip's wish that, though he might not be her choice, his old friendship with her might continue perfectly unmarred, was what influenced him to avoid a possible scene of refusal.

"Then I shall do as you do," said I, "and if I see any sign, either in my favour or yours, be sure I'll tell you."

"I was just about to propose that," said Phil; and we resumed our fencing.

There was, in our plan, nothing to hinder either of us from putting his best foot forward, as the saying is, and making himself as agreeable to the young lady as he could. Indeed that was the quickest way to call forth the indication how her affections stood. I don't think Phil took any pains to appear in a better light than usual. It was his habit to be always himself, sincere, gentle, considerate, and never thrusting forward. He had acquired with his growth a playful humour with which to trim his conversation, but which never went to tiresome lengths. This was all the more taking for his quiet manner, which held one where noise and effort failed. But I exerted myself to be mighty gallant, and to show my admiration and wit in every opportune way.

I considered that Phil and I were evenly matched in the rivalry; for when a young fellow loves a girl, be she ever so divine, and though he feel in his heart that she is too good for him, yet he will believe it is in him to win her grace. If he think his self-known attractions will not suffice, he will trust to some possible hidden merits, unperceived by himself and the world, but which will manifest themselves to her sight in a magical manner vouchsafed to lovers. Or at worst, if he admit himself to be mean and unlikely, he will put reliance upon woman's caprice, which, as we all know, often makes strange selections. As for me, I took myself to be quite a conquering fellow.

In looks, 'twas my opinion that Philip and I were equally gifted. Phil was of a graceful, slender figure; within an inch of six feet, I should say; with a longish face, narrowing from the forehead downward, very distinctly outlined, the nose a little curved, the mouth still as delicate as a boy's. Indeed he always retained something boyish in his look, for all his studiousness and thoughtfulness, and all that came later. He was not as pale as in boyhood, the sea breezes that swept in from the bay, past the wharves, having given him some ruddiness. His eyes, I have said, were blue, almost of a colour with Margaret's. I was an inch or two shorter than Phil, my build was more heavy and full, my face more of an equal width, my nose a little upturned so as to give me an impudent look, my eyes a darkish brown.

That I was not Phil's match in sense, learning, talents, self-command, and modesty, did not occur to me as lessening my chances with a woman. If I lacked real wit, I had pertness; and I thought I had a manner of dashing boldness, that must do one-half the business with any girl, while my converse trick of softening my voice and eyes to her on occasion, would do the other half.

But Margaret took her time before giving a hint of her heart's condition. She was the same old comrade to us, she confided to us her adverse opinions of other people, laughed with us, and often at us (when it was like as not that she herself had made us ridiculous), told us her little secrets, let us share her gaiety and her dejection alike, teased us, soothed us, made us serve her, and played the spoiled beauty with us to the full of the part. And a beauty she was, indeed; ten times more than in her childhood. The bud was approaching its full bloom. She was of the average tallness; slender at neck, waist, wrist, and ankle, but filling out well in the figure, which had such curves as I swear I never saw elsewhere upon earth. She had the smallest foot, with the highest instep; such as one gets not often an idea of in England. Her little head, with its ripples of chestnut hair, sat like that of a princess; and her face, oval in shape, proud and soft by turns in expression—I have no way of conveying the impression it gave one, but to say that it made me think of a nosegay of fresh, flawless roses, white and red. Often, by candle-light, especially if she were dressed for a ball, or sat at the play, I would liken her to some animate gem, without the hardness that belongs to real precious stones; for indeed she shone like a jewel, thanks to the lustre of her eyes in artificial light. Whether from humidity or some quality of their substance, I do not know, but they reflected the rays as I have rarely seen eyes do; and in their luminosity her whole face seemed to have part, so that her presence had an effect of warm brilliancy that lured and dazzled you. To see her emerge from the darkness of the Faringfield coach, or from her sedan-chair, into the bright light of open doorways and of lanterns held by servants, was to hold your breath and stand with lips parted in admiration, until she made you feel your nothingness by a haughty indifference in passing, or sent you glowing to the seventh heaven by a radiant smile.

While we were waiting for the heart of our paragon to reveal itself, life in Queen Street was diversified, in the Fall of 1773, by an unexpected visit.

Mr. Faringfield and Philip, as they entered the dining-room one evening after their return from the warehouse, observed that an additional place had been made at the table. Without speaking, the merchant looked inquiringly, and with a little of apprehension, at his lady.

"Ned has come back," she answered, trying to speak as if this were quite cheerful news.

Mr. Faringfield's face darkened. Then, with some sarcasm, he said:

"He did not go out of his way to stop at the warehouse in coming from the landing."

"Why, no doubt the ship did not anchor near our wharf. He came by the Sophy brig. He took some tea, and changed his clothes, and went out to meet a fellow passenger at the coffee-house. They had some business together."

"Business with a pack of cards, I make no doubt; or else with rum or madeira."

'Twas the second of these conjectures that turned out right. For Mr. Edward did not come home in time to occupy at supper the place that had been set for him. When he did appear, he said he had already eaten. Perhaps it was to strengthen his courage for meeting his father, that he had imbibed to the stage wherein he vilely smelt of spirits and his eyes and face were flushed. He was certainly bold enough when he received his father's cold greeting in the parlour, about nine o'clock at night.

"And, pray, what circumstance gives us the honour of this visit?" asked Mr. Faringfield, not dissembling his disgust.

"Why," says Mr. Ned, quite undaunted, and dropping his burly form into an armchair with an air of being perfectly at home, "to tell the truth, 'tis a hole, the place you sent me to; a very hell-hole."

"By what arrangement with Mr. Culverson did you leave it?" Mr. Culverson was the Barbadoes merchant by whom Edward had been employed.

"Culverson!" echoed Ned, with a grin. "I doubt there was little love lost between me and Culverson! 'Culverson,' says I, 'the place is a hole, and the next vessel bound for New York, I go on her.' 'And a damned good riddance!' says Culverson (begging your pardon! I'm only quoting what the man said), and that was the only arrangement I remember of."

"And so that you are here, what now?" inquired Mr. Faringfield, looking as if he appreciated Mr. Culverson's sentiments.

"Why, sir, as for that, I think 'tis for you to say."

"Indeed, sir?"

"Yes, sir, seeing that I'm your son, whom you're bound to provide for."

"You are twenty-two, I think," says Mr. Faringfield.

"I take it, a few paltry years more or less don't alter my rights, or the responsibilities of a parent. Don't think, sir, I shall stand up and quietly see myself robbed of my birthright. I'm no longer the man to play the Esek, or Esock, or whatever—"

"Esau," prompted Fanny, in a whisper.

"And my mouth isn't to be stopped by any mess of porridge."

"Pottage," corrected Fanny.

"Well, sir," said Mr. Faringfield, rising, and holding himself very stiffly, "I'll think upon it." Whereupon he went into the library, and closed the door after him.

'Tis certain that he had both the strength and the inclination to chastise his son for these insulting rum-incited speeches, and to cast him out to shift for his own future; instead of enduring heedlessly the former, and offering to consider the latter. His strength was equal to his pride, and he was no colder without than he was passionate within. But there was one thing his strength of mind fell short of facing, and that was the disgrace to the family, which the eldest son might bring were he turned looser, unprovided for, in New York. 'Twas the fear of such disgrace that always led Mr. Faringfield to send Ned far away; and made him avoid any scene of violence which the youth, now that he was a man and grown bold, might precipitate in discussions such as the father had but now cut short.

"Now I call that frigid," complained Edward to his mother, staring at the door behind which Mr. Faringfield had disappeared. "Here was I, in for a pleasant confab with my father, concerning my future; and before I can put in a word, out he flings, and there's an end of it. 'Tisn't fatherly, I protest! Well, well, I might have known! He was always stony-hearted; never would discuss matters. That's the gratitude I get for putting the case to him in a reasonable, docile, filial fashion. However, he said he'd think upon it. That means I shall stay here, and take a holiday, till he makes up his mind where to ship me to next. 'Twon't be England, I fancy, mother. I wouldn't object to France, egad! I could learn to eat frogs as soon as another man, if it came to that. Well, I need a holiday, after working so hard in that cursed devil's paradise I've just come from. I suppose I can depend on you for a little pocket-money, ma'am, till dad comes to a conclusion?"

During the next fortnight, as he passed most of his time in the taverns and the coffee-house, save when he attended horse-races on Long Island, or chased foxes upon Tom's horse, or lent the honour of his presence to cock-fights; Mr. Edward found his mother's resources inadequate to his demands, and so levied tribute not only upon Fanny and Tom but also upon Mr. Cornelius, who still abode in the Faringfield house, and upon Philip Winwood. To Phil his manner was more than civil; 'twas most conciliating and flattering, in a pleasantly jocular way.

Ere Mr. Faringfield had announced his mind, the visitor had worn out his welcome in most of his tavern haunts, and become correspondingly tired of New York. One evening, as Philip was leaving the warehouse, a negro boy handed him a note, in which Mr. Ned begged him to come immediately, on a matter of importance, to the King's Arms tavern. There he found Edward seated at a small table in a corner of the tap-room. Ned would have it that Phil should send home his excuses, by the negro, and sup at the tavern; which, for the sake of peace, though unwillingly, Philip finally consented to do.

Edward was drinking rum, in a kind of hot punch of his own mixing. Phil, though fond of madeira at home, now contented himself with ale; and the two were soon at work upon a fried chicken prepared in the Maryland fashion.

"You know, Phil," says Ned at last, having talked in a lively strain upon a multitude of matters, none of which Philip perceived to be important, "'fore gad, I always liked you! Tis so, as the Lord's my judge. Nay, you think I took a damned odd way of showing it. But we're not all alike. Now look you! Hearken unto me, as the parson says. I can say a good word for you in a certain ear."

"Whose?" queried Phil, wondering in what ear he needed a good word said.

"Whose, eh? Now whose would it be? Come, come, I'll speak to the point. I'm no man for palaver. 'Tis an ear you've whispered more than one sweet thing into, I'll warrant. You're young, Philip, young: you think you can fall in love and nobody find it out. Why, I hadn't been landed two hours, and asked the news, when I was told that you and Bert Russell were over ears in love with my sister."

Phil merely looked his astonishment.

"Now, sir, you mayn't think it," says Mr. Ned, "but my word has some weight with Fanny."

"Fanny?" echoed Philip. "What has she to do with it?"

"Why, everything, I fancy. The lady usually has—"

"But Fanny isn't the lady."

"What? Then who the devil is?"

"I don't think 'tis a matter need be talked of now," said Phil.

"But I'd like to know—'gad, it can't be the other sister! Madge—that spitfire! Well, well! Your face speaks, if your tongue won't. Who'd have thought any man would go soft over such a vixen? Well, I can't help you there, my lad!"

"I haven't asked your help," says Phil with a smile.

"Now, it's a pity," says Ned, dolefully, "for I thought by doing you a good turn I might get you to do me another."

"Oh, I see! Why, then, as for my doing you a good turn if it's possible, speak out. What is it?"

"Now, I call that noble of you, Phil; damned noble! I do need a good turn, and that's a fact. You see I didn't tell my father exactly the truth as to my leaving the Barbadoes. Not that I don't scorn a lie, but I was considerate of the old gentleman's feelings. I couldn't endure to shock him in his tenderest place. You understand?"

"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 damned 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 noble 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 nobody 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 hell 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 passage 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 trimming 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 snowball 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."

"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 assembly-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 Fanny had moved noiselessly toward the fence in quest of nosegays for the supper-table. Fanny stood at her side, and both smiled, Margaret archly, Fanny 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.