CHAPTER XIV.
The Bad Shilling Turns up Once More in Queen Street.
"This will be sad news to Mrs. Winwood, gentlemen," said Captain Falconer to Tom and me, as we rode toward the place where we should take the boats for New York. The day was well forward, but its gray sunless light held little cheer for such a silent, dejected crew as we were.
The captain was too much the self-controlled gentleman to show great disappointment on his own account, though he had probably set store upon this venture, as an opportunity that he lacked in his regular duties on General Clinton's staff, where he served pending the delayed enlistment of the loyalist cavalry troop he had been sent over to command. But though he might hide his own regrets, now that we were nearing Margaret, it was proper to consider our failure with reference to her.
"Doubtless," he went on, "there was treachery against us somewhere; for we cannot suppose such vigilance and preparation to be usual with the rebels. But we must not hint as much to her. The leak may have been, you see, through one of the instruments of her choosing—the man Meadows, perhaps, or—" (He stopped short of mentioning Ned Faringfield, whose trustworthiness on either side he was warranted, by much that he had heard, in doubting.) "In any case," he resumed, "'twould be indelicate to imply that her judgment of men, her confidence in any one, could have been mistaken. We'd best merely tell her, then, that the rebels were on the alert, and fell upon us before we could meet her brother."
We thought to find her with face all alive, expectant of the best news, or at least in a fever of impatience, and that therefore 'twould be the more painful to tell her the truth. But when the captain's servant let the three of us in at the front door (Tom and I had waited while Falconer briefly reported our fiasco to General Clinton) and we found her waiting for us upon the stairs, her face was pale with a set and tragic wofulness, as if tidings of our failure had preceded us. There was, perhaps, an instant's last flutter of hope against hope, a momentary remnant of inquiry, in her eyes; but this yielded to despairing certainty at her first clear sight of our crestfallen faces.
"'Twas all for nothing, then?" she said, with a quiet weariness which showed that her battle with disappointment had been fought and had left her tired out if not resigned.
"Yes," said the captain, apparently relieved to discover that no storm of disappointment or reproach was to be undergone. "They are too watchful. We hadn't yet come upon your brother, when a heavy fire broke out upon us. We were lucky to escape before they could surround us. Nine of our men are missing."
She gave a shudder, then came to us, kissed Tom with more than ordinary tenderness, grasped my hand affectionately, and finally held the captain's in a light, momentary clasp.
"You did your best, I'm sure," she said, in a low voice, at the same time flashing her eyes furtively from one to another as if to detect whether we hid any part of the news.
We were relieved and charmed at this resigned manner of receiving our bad tidings, and it gave me, at least, a higher opinion of her strength of character. This was partly merited, I make no doubt; though I did not know then that she had reason to reproach herself for our failure.
"And that's all you have to tell?" she queried. "You didn't discover what made them so ready for a surprise?"
"No," replied the captain, casually. "Could there have been any particular reason, think you? To my mind, they have had lessons enough to make them watchful."
She looked relieved. I suppose she was glad we should not know of her interview with Philip, and of the imprudent taunts by which she herself had betrayed the great design.
"Well," said she. "They may not be so watchful another time. We may try again. Let us wait until I hear from Ned."
But when she stole an interview with Bill Meadows, that worthy had no communication from Ned; instead thereof, he had news that Captain Faringfield had disappeared from the rebel camp, and was supposed by some to have deserted to the British. Something that Meadows knew not at the time, nor I till long after, was of the treasonable plot unearthed in the rebel army, and that two or three of the participants had been punished for the sake of example, and the less guilty ones drummed out of the camp. This was the result of Philip's presentation to General Washington of the list of names obtained from Ned, some of the men named therein having confessed upon interrogation. Philip's account of the affair made it appear to Washington that his discovery was due to his accidental meeting with Ned Faringfield, and that Faringfield's escape was but the unavoidable outcome of the hand-to-hand fight between the two men—for Philip had meanwhile ascertained, by a personal search, that Ned had not been too severely hurt to make good his flight.
Well, there passed a Christmas, and a New Year, in which the Faringfield house saw some revival of the spirit of gladness that had formerly prevailed within its comfortable walls at that season. Mr. Faringfield, who had grown more gray and taciturn each year, mellowed into some resemblance to his former benevolent, though stately, self. He had not yet heard of Ned's treason. His lady, still graceful and slender, resumed her youth. Fanny, who had ever forced herself to the diffusion of merriment when there was cheerlessness to be dispelled, reflected with happy eyes the old-time jocundity now reawakened. My mother, always a cheerful, self-reliant, outspoken soul, imparted the cordiality of her presence to the household, and both Tom and I rejoiced to find the old state of things in part returned. Margaret, perhaps for relief from her private dejection, took part in the household festivities with a smiling animation that she had not vouchsafed them in years; and Captain Falconer added to their gaiety by his charming wit, good-nature, and readiness to please. Yet he, I made no doubt, bore within him a weight of dashed hopes, and could often have cursed when he laughed.
The happy season went, leaving a sweeter air in the dear old house than had filled it for a long time. All that was missing, it seemed to us who knew not yet as much as Margaret knew, was the presence of Philip. Well, the war must end some day, and then what a happy reunion! By that time, if Heaven were kind, I thought, the charm of Captain Falconer would have lost power over Margaret's inclinations, and all would be well that ended well.
One night in January, we had sat very late at cards in the Faringfield parlour, and my mother had just cried out, "Dear bless me, look at the clock!"—when there sounded a dull, heavy pounding upon the rear hall door. There were eight of us, at the two card-tables: Mr. Faringfield and his lady, my mother, Margaret and Fanny, Mr. Cornelius, Tom, and myself. And every one of us, looking from face to face, showed the same thought, the same recognition of that half-cowardly, half-defiant thump, though for so long we had not heard it. How it knocked away the years, and brought younger days rushing back upon us!
Mr. Faringfield's face showed a sweep of conjectures, ranging from that of Ned's being in New York in service of his cause, to that of his being there as a deserter from it. Margaret flushed a moment, and then composed herself with an effort, for whatever issue this unexpected arrival might portend. The rest of us waited in a mere wonder touched with the old disquieting dread of painful scenes.
Old Noah, jealous of the single duty that his years had left him, and resentful of its frequent usurpation by Falconer's servant, always stayed up to attend the door till the last of the family had retired. We now heard him shuffling through the hall, heard the movement of the lock, and then instantly a heavy tread that covered the sound of Noah's. The parlour door from the hall was flung open, and in strode the verification of our thoughts.
Ned's clothes were briar-torn and mud-spattered; his face was haggard, his hair unkempt, his left shoulder humped up and held stiff. He stopped near the door, and stared from face to face, frowning because of the sudden invasion of his eyes by the bright candlelight. When his glance fell upon Margaret, it rested; and thereupon, just as if he were not returned from an absence of three years and more, and heedless of the rest of us, confining his address to her alone, he bellowed, with a most malignant expression of face and voice:
"So you played a fine game with us, my lady—luring us into the dirty scheme, and then turning around and setting your husband on us in the act! I see through it all now, you underhanded, double-dealing slut!"
"Are you speaking to me, sir?" asked Margaret, with dignity.
"Of course I am; and don't think I'll hold my tongue because of these people. Let 'em hear it all, I don't care. It's all up now, and I'm a hanged man if ever I go near the American camp again. But I'm safe here in New York, though I was damn' near being shot when I first came into the British lines. But I've been before General Knyphausen,[7] and been identified, and been acknowledged by your Captain Falconer as the man that worked your cursed plot at t'other end; and I've been let go free—though I'm under watch, no doubt. So you see there's naught to hinder me exposing you for what you are—the woman that mothered a British plot, and worked her trusting brother into it, and then betrayed him to her husband."
"That's a lie!" cried Margaret, crimson in the face.
"What does all this mean?" inquired Mr. Faringfield, rising.
Paying no attention to his father, Edward retorted upon Margaret, who also rose, and who stood between him and the rest of us:
"A lie, is it? Perhaps you can make General Knyphausen and Captain Falconer believe that, now I've told 'em whose cursed husband it was that attacked me at the meeting-place, and alarmed the camp. You didn't think I'd live to tell the tale, did you? You thought to hear of my being hanged, and your husband promoted for his services, and so two birds killed with one stone! But providence had a word to say about that. The Lord is never on the side of plotters and traitors, let me tell you, and here I am to outface you. A lie, is it? A lie that your husband spoiled the scheme? Why, you brazen hussy, he came from New York that very night—he told me so himself! He had seen you, and you had told him all, I'll lay a thousand guineas!"
'Twas at the time a puzzle to me that Margaret should condescend to explanations with him as she forthwith did. But I now see how, realising that proofs of Philip's visit might turn up and seem to bear out Ned's accusation, she must have felt the need of putting herself instantly right with Tom and me, lest she might eventually find herself wrong with General Clinton and Captain Falconer.
"I own that Philip saw me that night," she said, with a self-control compelled by her perilous situation. "He came here by stealth, and took me by surprise. He found reason to suspect our plot, but till now I never knew 'twas really he that put the rebels on their guard. I thought he would be too late. 'Twas through no intention of mine that he guessed what was afoot. I never told Tom and Bert" (these words were meant for our ears) "—or Captain Falconer—of his visit, for fear they might think, as you seem to, that I was to blame. That's all the truth, and we shall see whether Captain Falconer will believe you or me."
Here Mr. Faringfield, whose patience at being so far ignored, though 'twas supported by the hope of receiving the desired enlightenment from their mutual speeches, was at length exhausted, put in with some severity.
"Pray, let us into these mysteries, one of you. Margaret, what is it I hear, of a visit from Philip? of a British plot? By heaven, if I thought—but explain the matter, if you please."
"I have no right to," said she, her face more and more suffused with red. "'Tis not my secret alone; others are concerned."
"It appears," rejoined Mr. Faringfield, "it is a secret that abides in my house, and therefore I have a right to its acquaintance. I command you to explain."
"Command?" she echoed lightly, with astonishment. "Is a married woman subject to her father's commands?"
"An inmate of my house is subject to my commands," he replied, betraying his hidden wrath by a dark look.
"I beg your pardon," said she. "That part of the house which Philip has paid, or will pay, for my living in, is my own, for the time being. I shall go there—"
"You shall not leave this room," cried her father, stalking toward the door. "You fall back upon Philip's name. Very well, he has delegated the care of you to me in his absence. 'Tis time I should represent his authority over you, when I hear of your plotting against his country."
"I have a right to be loyal to the king, above the authority of a husband."
"If your loyalty extends to plotting against your husband's cause, you have not the right under my roof—or under Philip Winwood's part of it. I will know what this scheme is, that you have been engaged in."
"Not from me!" said Margaret, with a resolution that gave a new, unfamiliar aspect to so charmingly feminine a creature.
"Oh, let her alone, father," put in Ned, ludicrously ready for the faintest opportunity either to put his father under obligation or to bring down Margaret. "I'll be frank with you. I've no reason to hide what's past and gone. She and Captain Falconer had a plan to make Washington a prisoner, by a night expedition from New York, and some help in our camp—"
"Which you were to give, I see, you treacherous scoundrel!" said his father, with contempt.
"Oh, now, no hard names, sir. You see, several of us—some good patriots, too, with the country's best interests at heart—couldn't swallow this French alliance; we saw that if we ever did win by it, we should only be exchanging tyrants of our own blood for tyrants of frog-eaters. We began to think England would take us back on good terms if the war could be ended; and we considered the state of the country, the interests of trade—indeed, 'twas chiefly the thought of your business, the hope of seeing it what it once was, that drove me into the thing."
"You wretched hypocrite!" interposed Mr. Faringfield.
"Oh, well; misunderstand me, as usual. Call me names, if you like. I'm only telling the truth, and what you wished to know—what she wouldn't tell you. I'm not as bad as some; I can up and confess, when all's over. Well, as I was about to say, we had everything ready, and the night was set; and then, all of a sudden, Phil Winwood swoops down on me; treats me in a most unbrotherly fashion, I must say" (Ned cast an oblique look at his embarrassed shoulder); "and alarmed the camp. And when the British party rode up, instead of catching Washington they caught hell. And I leave it to you, sir, whether your daughter there, after playing the traitor to her husband's cause, for the sake of her lover; didn't turn around and play the traitor to her own game, for the benefit of her husband, and the ruin of her brother. Such damnableness!"
"'For the sake of her lover,'" Mr. Faringfield repeated. "What do you mean by that, sir?" The phrase, indeed, had given us all a disagreeable start.
"What I say, sir. How could he be otherwise? I guessed it before; and I became sure of it this evening, from the way he spoke of her at General Knyphausen's quarters."
"What a lie!" cried Margaret. "Captain Falconer is a gentleman; he's not of a kind to talk about women who have given him no reason to do so. 'Tis ridiculous! You maligning villain!"
"Oh, 'twasn't what he said, my dear; 'twas his manner whenever he mentioned you. When a man like him handles a woman's name so delicate-like, as if 'twas glass and might break—so grave-like, as if she was a sacred subject—it means she's put herself on his generosity."
Margaret affected a derisive laugh, as at her brother's pretensions to wisdom.
"Oh, I know all the stages," he continued, watching her with a malicious calmness of self-confidence. "When gentry of his sort are first struck with a lady, but not very deep, they speak out their admiration bold and gallant; when they find they're hit seriously, but haven't made sure of her, they speak of her with make-believe carelessness or mere respect: they don't like to show how far gone they are. But when she's come to an understanding with 'em, and put 'em under obligations and responsibilities—it's only then they touch her name so tender and considerate, as if it was so fragile. But that stage doesn't last for ever, my young lady—bear that in mind!"
"You insolent wretch!" said Margaret, ready to cry with rage and confusion.
"This is outrageous," ventured Mrs. Faringfield, daring to look her indignation at Ned. "William, how can you tolerate such things said about your daughter?"
But Mr. Faringfield had been studying his daughter's countenance all the while. Alas for Margaret, she had never given pains to the art of dissimulation, or taken the trouble to learn hypocrisy, or even studied self-control: a negligence common to beauties, who rely upon their charms to carry them through all emergencies without resort to shifts. She was equal to a necessary lie that had not to be maintained with labour, or to a pretence requiring little effort and encountering no suspicion, but to the concealment of her feelings when she was openly put to the question, her powers were inadequate. If ever a human face served its owner ill, by apparently confessing guilt, where only folly existed, Margaret's did so now.
"What I may think of the rascal who says these things," replied Mr. Faringfield, with the unnatural quietness that betrays a tumult of inward feelings, "I will tolerate them till I am sure they are false." His eyes were still fixed on Margaret.
"What!" said she, a little hysterically. "Do you pay attention to the slanders of such a fellow? To an accusation like that, made on the mere strength of a gentleman's manner of mentioning me?"
"No, but I pay attention to your manner of receiving the accusation: your telltale face, your embarrassment—"
"'Tis my anger—"
"There's an anger of innocence, and an anger of guilt. I would your anger had shown more of contempt than of confusion." Alas! he knew naught of half-guilt and its manifestations.
"How can you talk so?—I won't listen—such insulting innuendoes!—even if you are my father—why, this knave himself says I betrayed Captain Falconer's scheme: how could he think that, if—"
"That proves nothing," said Ned, with a contemptuous grin. "Women do unaccountable things. A streak of repentance, maybe; or a lovers' quarrel. The point is, a woman like you wouldn't have entered into a scheme like that, with a man like him, if there hadn't already been a pretty close understanding of another kind. Oh, I know your whole damn' sex, begad!—no offence to these other ladies."
"William, this is scandalous!" cried Mrs. Faringfield. My mother, too, looked what it was not her place to speak. As for Tom and me, we had to defer to Mr. Faringfield; and so had Cornelius, who was very solemn, with an uneasy frown between his white eyebrows. Poor Fanny, most sensitive to disagreeable scenes, sat in self-effacement and mute distress.
Mr. Faringfield, not replying to his wife, took a turn up and down the room, apparently in great mental perplexity and dismay.
Suddenly he was a transformed man. Pale with wrath, his lips moving spasmodically, his arms trembling, he turned upon Margaret, grasped her by the shoulders, and in a choked, half-articulate voice demanded:
"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 circumstance 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 passion:
"Go! From my house, I mean—my roof—and from Philip's part of it. God! 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 passion 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 Fanny, 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 damn 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 passively, 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 Fanny 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 attitude. 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 glass of wine?"
"No, sir. If I had a glass 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 identity 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 assured manner of offering Madge a passage 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 godsend 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 passed between the two: he pretended that the extra trunks were for some mysterious baggage of his own: nor did we then know what passed 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 passing. When at length he appeared, she was standing so close to the glass, 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 assumed 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!"
She looked at him for a moment, with a slight curling of the lip; witnessed his recovery from the fear that she might throw herself upon his care; saw his comfort at being relieved of a possible burden he was not prepared to assume; and then said, very quietly:
"I think Mrs. Russell is coming. You had best go."
With a look of gallant adoration, he made to kiss her hand first. But she drew it away, and put her finger to her lip, as if to bid him depart unheard. When he had left the house, she fell upon the sofa and wept, but only for wounded vanity, for chagrin that she had exposed her heart to one of those gentry who will adore a woman until there is danger of her becoming an embarrassment.
Before long, she arose, and dried her eyes, and went up-stairs to pack her trunks. Thus ended this very light affair of the heart; which had so heavy consequences for so many people.
But Captain Falconer's inward serenity was not to escape with this unexpectedly easy ordeal. When he reached his room, he found me awaiting him, as the representative of Tom Faringfield. I had, in obedience to my sense of duty, put forth a few conventional dissuasions against Tom's fighting the captain; and had presumed to hint that I was nearer to him in years and experience than Tom was. But the boy replied with only a short, bitter laugh at the assured futility of my attempts. Plainly, if there was to be fighting over this matter, I ought not to seek a usurpation of Tom's right. And fighting there would be, I knew, whether I said yea or nay. Since Tom must have a second, that place was mine. And I felt, too, with a young man's foolish faith in poetic justice, that the right must win; that his adversary's superiority in age—and therefore undoubtedly in practice, Falconer being the man he was—would not avail against an honest lad avenging the probity of a sister. And so I yielded countenance to the affair, and went, as soon as my duty permitted, to wait upon Captain Falconer.
"Why," said he, when I had but half told my errand, "I was led to expect this. The young gentleman called me a harsh name, which I'm willing to overlook. But he finds himself aggrieved, and, knowing him as I do, I make no doubt he will not be content till we have a bout or two. If I refuse, he will dog me, I believe, and make trouble for both of us, till I grant him what he asks. So the sooner 'tis done, the better, I suppose. But lookye, Mr. Russell, 'tis sure to be an embarrassing business. If one or other of us should be hurt, there'd be the devil to pay, you know. I dare say the General would be quite obdurate, and go the whole length of the law. There's that to be thought of. Have a glass of wine, and think of it."
Tom and I had already thought of it. We had been longer in New York than the captain had, and we knew how the embarrassment to which he alluded could be provided against.
"'Tis very simple," said I, letting him drink alone, which it was not easy to do, he was still so likeable a man. "We can go from Kingsbridge as if we meant to join Captain De Lancey in another of his raids. And we can find some spot outside the lines; and if any one is hurt, we can give it out as the work of rebel irregulars who attacked us."
He regarded me silently a moment, and then said the plan seemed a good one, and that he would name a second with whom I could arrange details. Whereupon, dismissing the subject with a civil expression of regret that Tom should think himself affronted, he went on to speak of the weather, as if a gentleman ought not to treat a mere duel as a matter of deep concern.
I came away wishing it were not so hard to hate him. The second with whom I at length conferred—for our duties permitted not a prompt despatching of the affair, and moreover Captain Falconer's disposition was to conduct it with the gentlemanly leisure its pretended unimportance allowed—was Lieutenant Hugh Campbell, one of several officers of that name who served in the Highland regiment that had been stationed earlier at Valentine's Hill; he therefore knew the debatable country beyond Kingsbridge as well as I. He was a mere youth, a serious-minded Scot, and of a different sort from Captain Falconer: 'twas one of the elegant captain's ways, and evidence of his breadth of mind, to make friends of men of other kinds than his own. Young Campbell and I, comparing our recollections of the country, found that we both knew of a little open hollow hidden by thickets, quite near the Kingsbridge tavern, which would serve the purpose. Captain Falconer's duties made a daylight meeting difficult to contrive without exposing his movements to curiosity, and other considerations of secrecy likewise preferred a nocturnal affair. We therefore planned that the four of us, and an Irish surgeon named McLaughlin, should appear at the Kingsbridge tavern at ten o'clock on a certain night for which the almanac promised moonlight, and should repair to the meeting-place when the moon should be high enough to illumine the hollow. The weapons were to be rapiers. The preliminary appearance at the tavern was to save a useless cold wait in case one of the participants should, by some freak of duty, be hindered from the appointment; in which event, or in that of a cloudy sky, the matter should be postponed to the next night, and so on.
The duel was to occur upon a Wednesday night. On that afternoon I was in the town, having carried some despatches from our outpost to General De Lancey, and thence to General Knyphausen; and I was free for a few minutes to go home and see my mother.
"What do you think?" she began, handing me a cup of tea as soon as I had strode to the parlour fire-place.
"I think this hot tea is mighty welcome," said I, "and that my left ear is nigh frozen. What else?"
"Margaret has gone," she replied, beginning to rub my ear vigorously.
"Gone! Where?" I looked around as if to make sure there was no sign of her in the room.
"With Ned—on the Phoebe ."
"The deuce! How could you let her do it—you, and her mother, and Fanny?"
"We didn't know. I took some jelly over to old Miss Watts—she's very feeble—and Madge and Ned went while I was out; they had their trunks carted off at the same time. 'Twasn't for an hour or two I became curious why she kept her room, as I thought; and when I went up to see, the room was empty. There were two letters there from her, one to me and one to her mother. She said she left in that way, to save the pain of farewells, and to avoid our useless persuasions against her going. Isn't it terrible?—poor child! Why it seems only yesterday—" And my good mother's lips drew suddenly down at the corners, and she began to sniff spasmodically.
"But is it too late?" I asked, in a suddenly quieted voice. That the brightness and beauty of Madge, which had been a part of my world since I could remember, should have gone from about us, all in a moment!—'twas a new thought, and a strange one. What a blank she left, what a dulness!
"Too late, heaven knows!" said my mother, drying her eyes with a handkerchief, and speaking brokenly. "As soon as Mrs. Faringfield read the letters, which I had taken over at once, Fanny and Mr. Cornelius started running for the wharves. But when they got there, the Phoebe wasn't in sight. It had sailed immediately their trunks were aboard, I suppose. Oh, to think of pretty Madge—what will become of her in that great, bad London?"
"She has made her plans, no doubt, and knows what she is doing," said I, with a little bitterness. "Poor Phil! Her father is much to blame."
When I told Tom, as soon as I reached the outpost, he gave a sudden, ghastly, startled look; then collected himself, and glanced at the sword with which he meant to fight that night.
"Why, I was afraid she would go," said he, in a strained voice; and that was all.
Whenever I saw him during the rest of the evening, he was silent, pale, a little shaky methought. He was not as I had been before my maiden duel: blustering and gay, in a trance-like recklessness; assuming self-confidence so well as to deceive even myself and carry me buoyantly through. He seemed rather in suspense like that of a lover who has to beg a stern father for a daughter's hand. As a slight hurt will cause a man the greatest pain, and a severe injury produce no greater, so will the apprehensions of a trivial ordeal equal in effect those of a matter of life and death; there being a limit to possible sensation, beyond which nature leaves us happily numb. Sometimes, upon occasion, Tom smiled, but with a stiffness of countenance; when he laughed, it was in a short, jerky, mechanical manner. As for me, I was in different mood from that preceding my own first trial of arms: I was now overcast in spirit, tremulous, full of misgivings.
The moon did not disappoint us as we set out for the tavern. There were but a few fleecy clouds, and these not of an opaqueness to darken its beams when they passed across it. The snow was frozen hard in the fields, and worn down in the road. The frost in the air bit our nostrils, and we now and again worked our countenances into strange grimaces, to free them from the sensation of being frozen hard.
"'Tis a beautiful night," said Tom, speaking in more composure than he had shown during the early evening. The moonlight had a calming effect, as the clear air had a bracing one. His eyes roamed the sky, and then the moonlit, snow-clad earth—hillock and valley, wood and pond, solitary house bespeaking indoor comfort, and a glimpse of the dark river in the distance—and he added:
"What a fine world it is!"
When we entered the warm tap-room of the tavern—the house above Kingsbridge, outside the barriers where the passes were examined and the people searched who were allowed entrance and departure; not Hyatt's tavern, South of the bridge—we found a number of subalterns there, some German, some British, some half-drunk, some playing cards. Our Irish surgeon sat in a corner, reading a book—I think 'twas a Latin author—by the light of a tallow candle. He nodded to us indifferently, as if he had no engagement with us, and continued to read. Tom and I ordered a hot rum punch mixed for us, and stood at the bar to drink it.
"You look pale and shaky, you two," said the tavern-keeper, who himself waited upon us.
"'Tis the cold," said I. "We're not all of your constitution, to walk around in shirt-sleeves this weather."
"Why," says the landlord, "I go by the almanac. 'Tis time for the January thaw, 'cordin' to that. Something afoot to-night, eh? One o' them little trips up the river, or out East Chester way, with De Lancey's men, I reckon?"
We said nothing, but wisely looked significant, and the host grinned.
"More like 'tis a matter of wenches," put in a half-drunken ensign standing beside us at the bar. "That's the only business to bring a gentleman out such a cursed night. Damn such a vile country, cold as hell in winter, and hot as hell in summer! Damn it and sink it! and fill up my glass, landlord. Roast me dead if I stick my nose outdoors to-night!"
"A braw, fine nicht, the nicht, gentlemen," said a sober, ruddy-faced Scot, very gravely, with a lofty contempt for the other's remarks. "Guid, hamelike weather."
But the feelings and thoughts prevailing in the tap-room were not in tune with those agitating our hearts, and as soon as Captain Falconer and his friend came in, we took our leave, exchanging a purposely careless greeting with the newcomers. We turned in silence from the road, crossed a little sparsely wooded hill, and arrived in the thicket-screened hollow.
'Twas in silence we had come. I had felt there was much I would like, and ought, to say, but something in Tom's mood or mine, or in the situation, benumbed my thoughts so they would not come forth, or jumbled them so I knew not where to begin. Arrived upon the ground with a palpitating sense of the nearness of the event, we found ourselves still less fit for utterance of the things deepest in our minds.
"There'll be some danger of slipping on the frozen snow," said I, trying to assume a natural, even a cheerful, tone.
"'Tis an even danger to both of us," said Tom, speaking quickly to maintain a steadiness of voice, as a drunken man walks fast to avoid a crookedness of gait.
While we were tramping about to keep warm, the Irish surgeon came to us through the bushes, vowing 'twas "the divvle's own weather, shure enough, barrin' the hivvenly moonlight." Opening his capacious greatcoat, he brought from concealment a small case, which Tom eyed askance, and I regarded ominously, though it had but a mere professional aspect to its owner.
We soon heard the tread, and the low but easy voices, of Captain Falconer and Lieutenant Campbell; who joined us with salutations, graceful on Falconer's part, and naturally awkward on that of Campbell. How I admired the unconcerned, leisurely manner in which Falconer, having gone a little aloof from Tom and me, removed his overcoat, laced coat, and waistcoat, giving a playful shiver, purposely exaggerated, as he stood in his ruffled shirt and well-fitting boots and breeches. I was awkward in helping Tom off with his outer clothes. The moonlight, making everything in the hollow well-nigh as visible as by day, showed Tom's face to be white, his eyes wide-open and darkly radiant; while in Falconer's case it revealed a countenance as pleasant and gracious as ever, eyes neither set nor restless.
Campbell and I perfunctorily compared the swords, gave them a bend or two, and handed them to the principals. We then stood back. Doctor McLaughlin looked on with a mild interest. There was a low cry, a ring of steel, and the two men were at it.
I recall the moonshine upon their faces, the swift dartings of their faintly luminous blades, their strangely altering shadows on the snow as they moved, the steady attention of us who looked on, the moan of the wind among the trees upon the neighbouring heights, the sound of the men's tramping on the crusted snow, the clear clink of their weapons, sometimes the noise of their breathing. They eyed each other steadfastly, seeming to grudge the momentary winks enforced by nature. Falconer's purpose, I began to see, was but to defend himself and disarm his opponent. But Tom gave him much to do, making lightning thrusts with a suddenness and persistence that began at length to try the elder man. So they kept it up till I should have thought they were tired out.
Suddenly Tom made a powerful lunge that seemed to find the captain unready. But the latter, with a sharp involuntary cry, got his blade up in time to divert the point, by pure accident, with the guard of his hilt. His own point was thus turned straight toward his antagonist; and Tom, throwing his weight after his weapon, impaled himself upon the captain's. For an infinitesimal point of time, till the sword was drawn out, the lad seemed to stand upon his toes, leaning forward, looking toward the sky with a strange surprise upon his face, eyes and mouth alike open. And then he collapsed as if his legs and body were but empty rags; and fell in a huddle upon the snow: with a convulsive movement he stretched himself back to the shape of a man; and lay perfectly still.
The captain bent over him with astonishment. The surgeon ran to him, and turned him flat upon his back. I was by this time kneeling opposite the surgeon, who tore open Tom's shirts and examined his body.
"Bedad, gentlemen," said the Irishman sadly, in a moment, "he's beyont the need of my profession. 'Tis well ye had that sthory ready, in case of accident."
I stared incredulously at the surgeon, and then buried my face upon the dear body of the dead, mingling my wild tears with his blood.
"Oh, Madge, Madge," thought I, "if you could see what your folly has led to!"