CHAPTER XVIII.

Philip Comes at Last to London.

A human life will drone along uneventfully for years with scarce a perceptible progress, retrogression, or change; and then suddenly, with a few leaps, will cover more of alteration and event in a week than it has passed through in a decade. So will the critical occurrences of a day fill chapters, after those of a year have failed to yield more material than will eke out a paragraph. Experience proceeds by fits and starts. Only in fiction does a career run in an unbroken line of adventures or memorable incidents.

The personal life of Philip Winwood, as distinguished from his military career, which had no difference from that of other commanders of rebel partisan horse, and which needs no record at my hands, was marked by no conspicuous event from the night when he learned and defeated Madge's plot, to the end of the war. The news of her departure, and of Tom's death, came to him with a fresh shock, it is true, but they only settled him deeper in the groove of sorrow, and in the resolution to pay full retribution where it was due.

He had no pusillanimous notion of the unworthiness of revenge. He believed retaliation, when complete and inflicted without cost or injury to the giver, to be a most logical and fitting thing. But he knew that revenge is a two-edged weapon, and that it must be wielded carefully, so as not to cause self-damage. He required, too, that it should be wielded in open and honourable manner; and in that manner he was resolved to use it upon Captain Falconer. As for Madge, I believe he forgave her from the first, holding her "more in sorrow than in anger," and pitying rather than reproaching.

Well, he served throughout the war, keeping his sorrow to himself, being known always for a quietly cheerful mien, giving and taking hard blows, and always yielding way to others in the pressure for promotion. Such was the state of affairs in the rebel army, that his willingness to defer his claims for advancement, when there were restless and ambitious spirits to be conciliated and so kept in the service, was availed of for the sake of expediency. But he went not without appreciation. On one occasion, when a discontented but useful Pennsylvanian was pacified with a colonelcy, General Washington remarked to Light Horse Harry Lee: "And yet you are but a major, and Winwood remains a captain; but let me tell you, there is less honour in the titles of general and colonel, as borne by many, than there is in the mere names of Major Lee and Captain Winwood."

When Lee's troop was sent to participate in the Southern campaign, Philip's accompanied it, and he had hard campaigning under Greene, which continued against our Southernmost forces until long after the time of the capitulation of Lord Cornwallis's army at Yorktown, to the combined rebel and French armies under Washington. It happened that our battalion, wherein I was promoted to a lieutenantcy shortly after my abortive meeting with Captain Falconer near Kingsbridge, went South by sea for the fighting there, being the only one of De Lancey's battalions that left the vicinity of New York. We had bloody work enough then to balance our idleness in the years we had covered outposts above New York, and 'twas but a small fraction of our number that came home alive at last. I never met Philip while we were both in the South, nor saw him till the war was over.

Shiploads of our New York loyalists left, after Cornwallis's defeat at Yorktown showed what the end was to be; some of them going to England but many of them sailing to Nova Scotia and New Brunswick, there to begin afresh the toiling with the wilderness, and to build up new English colonies in North America. Others contrived to make their way by land to Canada, which thereby owes its English population mainly to those who fled from the independent states rather than give up their loyalty to the mother country. The government set up by the victorious rebels had taken away the lands and homes of the loyalists, by acts of attainder, and any who remained in the country did so at the risk of life or liberty. What a time of sad leave-taking it was!—families going forth poor to a strange land, who had lived rich in that of their birth—what losses, what wrenches, what heart-rendings! And how little compensation England could give them, notwithstanding all their claims and petitions! Well, they would deserve little credit for their loyalty if they had followed it without willingness to lose for it.

But my mother and I had possessed nothing to lose in America but our house and ground, our money being in the English funds. Fortunately, and thanks to our insignificance, we had been overlooked in the first act of attainder, and, taking warning by that, my mother had gratefully accepted Mr. Faringfield's offer to buy our home, for which we had thereafter paid him rent. Thus we had nothing to confiscate, when the war was over. As for Mr. Faringfield, he was on the triumphant side of Independence, which he had supported with secret contributions from the first; of course he was not to be held accountable for the treason of his eldest son, and the open service of poor Tom on the king's side.

My mother feared dreadful things when the victorious rebels should take possession—imprisonment, trial for treason, and similar horrors; and she was for sailing to England with the British army. But I flatly refused to go, pretending I was no such coward, and that I would leave when I was quite ready. I was selfish in this, of course; but I could not bring myself to go so far from Fanny. Our union was still as uncertain a possibility as ever. Only one thing was sure: she would not leave her parents at present.

The close of the war did not bring Philip back to us at once. On that day when, the last of the British vessels having gone down the bay, with the last British soldier aboard, the strangely empty-looking town took on a holiday humour, and General Washington rode in by the Bowery lane, with a number of his officers, and a few war-worn troops to make up a kind of procession of entry, and the stars and stripes were run up at the Battery—on that day of sadness, humiliation, and apprehension to those of us loyalists who had dared stay, I would have felt like cheering with the crowd, had Philip been one of those who entered. But he was still in the South, recovering from a bullet wound in his shoulder.

My mother and I were thereafter the recipients of ominous looks, and some uncomfortable hints and jeers, and our life was made constantly unpleasant thereby. The sneers cast by one Major Wheeler upon us loyalists, and upon our reasons for standing by the king, got me into a duel with him at Weehawken, wherein I gave him the only wound he ever received through his attachment to the cause of Independence. Another such affair, which I had a short time afterward, near the Bowery lane, and in which I shot a Captain Appleby's ear off, was attributed by my mother to the same cause; but the real reason was that the fellow had uttered an atrocious slander of Philip Winwood in connection with the departure of Phil's wife. This was but one of the many lies, on both sides of the ocean, that moved me at last to attempt a true account of my friend's domestic trouble.

My mother foresaw my continual engagement in such affairs if we remained in a place where we were subject to constant offence, and declared she would become distracted unless we removed ourselves. I resisted until she vowed she would go alone, if I drove her to that. And then I yielded, with a heart enveloped in a dark mist as to the outcome. Well, I thought with a sigh, I can always write to Fanny, and some day I shall come back for her.

It was now Summer. One evening, I sat upon our front step, in a kind of torpid state of mind through my refusal to contemplate the dismal future. My eye turned listlessly down the street. The only moving figure in it was that of a slender man approaching on the further side of the way. He carried two valises, one with each hand, and leaned a little forward as he strode, as if weary. Instantly I thought of years ago, and another figure coming up that street, with both hands laden, and walking in a manner of fatigue. I rose, gazed with a fast-beating heart at the man coming nearer at every step, stifled a cry that turned into a sob, and ran across the street. He saw me, stopped, set down his burdens, and waited for me, with a tired, kind smile. I could not speak aloud, but threw my arms around him, and buried my clouded eyes upon his shoulder, whispering: "Phil! 'Tis you!"

"Ay," said he, "back at last. I thought I'd walk up from the boat just as I did that first day I came to New York."

"And just as then," said I, having raised my face and released him, "I was on the step yonder, and saw you coming, and noticed that you carried baggage in each hand, and that you walked as if you were tired."

"I am tired," said he, "but I walk as my wounds let me."

"But there's no cat this time," said I, attempting a smile.

"No, there's no cat," he replied. "And no—"

His eye turned toward the Faringfield garden gate, and he broke off with the question: "How are they? and your mother?"

I told him what I could, as I picked up one of his valises and accompanied him across the street, thinking how I had done a similar office on the former occasion, and of the pretty girl that had made the scene so bright to both him and me. Alas, there was no pretty girl standing at the gate, beside her proud and stately parents, and her open-eyed little brother, to receive us. I remembered how Ned and Fanny had come upon the scene, so that for a moment the whole family had stood together at the gateway.

"'Tis changed, isn't it?" said Philip, quietly, reading my thoughts as we passed down the garden walk, upon which way of entrance we had tacitly agreed in preference to the front door. "I can see the big dog walking ahead of me, and hear the kitten purring in the basket, and feel little Tom's soft hand, and see at the other side of me—well, 'tis the way of the world, Bert!"

He had the same boyish look; notwithstanding his face was longer and more careworn, and his hair was a little sprinkled with gray though he was but thirty-one.

I left him on the rear veranda, when old Noah had opened the hall door and shouted a hysterical "Lor' bress me!—it's Massa Phil!" after a moment's blinking inspection to make sure. From the cheered look on Mr. Faringfield's face that evening, and the revived lustre in Mrs. Faringfield's eyes, I could guess what welcome Philip had received from the stricken pair.

I told him the next day, in our garden, how matters stood with Fanny and me, and that Captain Falconer had sailed for England with the royal army.

"I don't think Mr. Faringfield will hold out for ever," said Philip, alluding to my hopes of Fanny. "'Faith, he ought to welcome the certainty of happiness for at least one of his children. Maybe I can put the matter to him in that light."

"But Fanny herself will not leave, as long as she thinks they need her."

"Why, then, he must use his parental authority, and bid her come to you. He's not the man who would have his child wait upon his death for happiness. We must use the hope of grandchildren as a means of argument. For you'll come back to America at last, no doubt, when old hurts are forgot. And if you can come with a houseful of youngsters—egad, I shall paint a picture to his mind, will not let him rest till he sees it in way of accomplishment! Go to England without fear, man; and trust me to bring things to pass before you've been long away."

"But you? Surely—"

"Oh, I shall follow you soon. I have matters of my own to look to, over there."

He did not confide to me, at this time, his thoughts and intentions regarding his wife (of whom we were then ignorant whether she was dead or alive, but supposed she must be somewhere in London), or regarding Captain Falconer; but I knew that it was to her future, and to his settlement with Falconer, that he alluded. I guessed then, and ascertained subsequently, that Phil gave Fanny also encouragement to believe all should come right between her and me, and yet not to the further sorrow of her parents. I divined it at the time, from the hopeful manner in which she supported our departure, both in the busy days preceding it, and in the hour of leave-taking. True, she broke down on the ship, whither Philip and Cornelius had brought her to bid us farewell; and she wept bitter tears on my mother's breast, which I knew were meant chiefly for me. But at last she presented a brave face for me to kiss, though 'twas rather a cold, limp hand I pressed as she started down the ladder for the boat where Cornelius awaited.

"Good-bye, lad," said Phil, with the old smile, which had survived all his toils and hurts and sorrows; "I shall see you in London next, I hope. And trust me—about Fanny."

"Thank you, dear Phil, and God bless you! Always working for other people's happiness, when your own—well, good-bye!"

He had made no request as to my course in the possibility of my meeting Madge in London; but he knew that I knew what he would wish, and I was glad he had not thought necessary to tell me.

Philip and Cornelius rowed the boat back, Fanny waving her handkerchief. We saw them land, and stand upon the wharf to watch our ship weigh anchor. My mother would wave her handkerchief a moment, and then apply it to her eyes, and then give it another little toss, and then her eyes another touch. I stood beside her, leaning upon the gunwale, with a lump in my throat. Suddenly I realised we were under way. We continued to exchange farewell motions with the three upon the wharf. How small Fanny looked! how slender was Philip! how the water widened every instant between us and them! how long a time must pass ere we should see them again! A kind of sudden consternation was upon my mother's face, and in my heart, at the thought. 'Twas a foretaste—indeed it might prove the actuality—of eternal separation. Our three friends were at last hidden from our sight, and in the despondency of that moment I thought what fools men are, to travel about the world, and not cling all their days to the people, and the places, that they love.

We lodged at first in Surrey Street, upon our arrival in London; but when October came, and we had a preliminary taste of dirty fog, my mother vowed she couldn't endure the damp climate and thick sky of the town; and so we moved out to Hampstead, where we furnished a small cottage, and contrived with economy to live upon the income of our invested principal, which was now swelled by money we had received from Mr. Faringfield for our home in New York. The proceeds of the sale of our furniture there had paid our passage, and given us a start in our new abode. Meanwhile, as an American loyalist who had suffered by the war, and as a former servant of the king; though I had no claim for a money indemnity, such as were presented on behalf of many; I was lucky enough, through Mr. De Lancey's offices, to obtain a small clerkship in the custom-house. And so we lived uneventfully, in hope of the day when Phil should come to us, and of that when I might go and bring back Fanny.

The letters from Philip and Fanny informed us merely of the continued health, and the revived cheerfulness, of Mr. and Mrs. Faringfield; and presently of the good fortune of Mr. Cornelius in being chosen to fill two pulpits in small towns sufficiently near New York to permit his residence in Queen Street. Mr. Faringfield and Philip were occupied in setting the former's business upon its feet again, and something like the old routine had been resumed in the bereaved house. I knew that all this was due to Phil's imperceptible work. At last there came great news: Philip was to follow his letter to England, in the next Bristol vessel after the one that carried it. 'Twas but a brief note in which he told us this. "There is some news," wrote he, "but I will save it for word of mouth. Be prepared for a surprise that I shall bring."

With what expectation we awaited his coming, what conjectures we made regarding the promised surprise as we talked the news over every evening in the little parlour where we dined on my return from the city, I leave my reader to imagine. I had my secret notion that it concerned Fanny and me.

At the earliest time when a ship might be expected to follow the one by which the letter came, I began to call every evening, ere starting for Hampstead, at the inn where the Bristol coaches arrived. Many a long wait I had in vain when a coach happened to be late. I grew so accustomed to the disappointment of seeing no familiar figure among the passengers alighting, that sometimes I felt as if Phil's letter were a delusion and he never would appear.

But one evening as I stared as usual with the crowd in the coach yard, and had watched three portly strangers already emerge from the open door to the steps, and was prepared for the accustomed sinking of my heart, what did that heart do but give a great bound so as almost to choke me! There he was in the doorway, the same old Phil, with the same kindly face. I rushed forward. Before I reached him, he had turned around toward the inside of the coach, as if he would help some one out after him. "Some decrepit fellow traveller," thought I, and looked up indifferently to see what sort of person it might be: and there, as I live, stepping out from the coach, and taking his offered hand, was Fanny!

I was at her other side before either of them knew it, holding up my hand likewise. They glanced at me in the same instant; and Phil's glad smile came as the accompaniment to Fanny's joyous little cry. I had an arm around each in a moment; and we created some proper indignation for a short space by blocking up the way from the stage-coach.

"Come!" I cried. "We'll take a hackney-coach! How happy mother will be!—But no, you must be hungry. Will you eat here first?—a cup of coffee? a glass of wine?"

But they insisted upon waiting till we got to Hampstead; and, scarce knowing what I was about, yet accomplishing wonders in my excitement, I had a coach ready, and their trunks and bags transferred, and all of us in the coach, before I stopped to breathe. And before I could breathe twice, it seemed, we were rolling over the stones Northward.

"Sure it's a dream!" said I. "To think of it! Fanny in London!"

"My father would have it so," said she, demurely.

"Ay," added Phil, "and she's forbidden to go back to New York till she takes you with her. 'Faith, man, am I not a prophet?"

"You're more than a prophet; you're a providence," I cried. "'Tis your doing!"

"Nonsense. 'Tis Mr. Faringfield's. And that implacable man, not content with forcing an uncongenial marriage upon this helpless damsel, requires that you immediately resign your high post in the king's service, and live upon the pittance he settles upon you as his daughter's husband."

"'Tis too generous. I can't accept."

"You must, Bert," put in Fanny, "or else you can't have me. 'Tis one of papa's conditions."

"But," Phil went on, "in order that this unhappy child may become used to the horrible idea of this marriage by degrees, she is to live with your mother a few months while I carry you off on a trip for my benefit and pleasure: and that's one of my conditions: for it wouldn't do for you to go travelling about the country after you were married, leaving your wife at home, and Fanny abominates travelling. But as soon as you and I have seen a very little of this part of the world, you're to be married and live happy ever after."

We had a memorable evening in our little parlour that night. 'Twas like being home again, my mother said—thereby admitting inferentially the homesickness she had refused to confess directly. The chief piece of personal news the visitors brought was that the Rev. Mr. Cornelius had taken a wife, and moved into our old house, which 'twas pleasant to know was in such friendly hands; and that the couple considered it their particular mission to enliven the hours of Mr. and Mrs. Faringfield, with whom they spent half their time.

Philip's first month in England was spent in exploring London, sometimes with me, sometimes alone, for 'tis needless to say in whose society I chose to pass much of my time. What sights he saw; what unlikely corners he sought out because some poet had been born, or died, or drunk wine there; what streets he roamed: I am sure I never could tell. I know that all the time he kept eyes alert for a certain face, ears keen for a certain name; but neither in the streets, nor at the shops, nor in the parks, nor at the play, did he catch a glimpse of Margaret; nor in the coffee-house, or tavern, or gaming-place, or in the region of the clubs, did he hear a chance mention of the name of Falconer. And so, presently, we set about making the tour he had spoken of.

There was a poor family of Long Island loyalists named Doughty, that had settled in the seacoast town of Hastings in Sussex, in order that they might follow the fisheries, which had been their means of livelihood at home. Considering that a short residence in the more mild and sunny climate of the Channel might be a pleasant change for my mother, and not disagreeable to Fanny, we arranged that, during the absence of Phil and me, we should close our cottage, and the ladies should board with these worthy though humble people, who would afford them all needful masculine protection. Having seen them comfortably established, we set forth upon our travels.

CHAPTER XIX.

We Meet a Play-actress There.

It was Philip's custom, at this time, to attend first nights at the playhouses, as well from a love of the theatre as from the possibility that he might thus come upon Captain Falconer. He always desired my company, which I was the readier to grant for that I should recognise the captain in any assemblage, and could point him out to Phil, who had never seen him. We took my mother and Fanny excepting when they preferred to stay at home, which was the case on a certain evening in this Spring of 1786, when we went to Drury Lane to witness the reappearance of a Miss Warren who had been practising her art the previous three years in the provinces. This long absence from London had begun before my mother and I arrived there, and consequently Philip and I had that evening the pleasurable anticipation of seeing upon the stage a much-praised face that was quite new to us.

IT WAS PHILIP'S CUSTOM, AT THIS TIME, TO ATTEND FIRST NIGHTS AT THE PLAYHOUSES.BLOW.

"IT WAS PHILIP'S CUSTOM, AT THIS TIME, TO ATTEND FIRST NIGHTS AT THE PLAYHOUSES."

There was the usual noisy throng of coaches, chairs, people afoot, lackeys, chair-men, boys, and such, in front of the playhouse when we arrived, and though we scanned all faces on whom the light fell, we had our wonted disappointment regarding that of Captain Falconer. We made our way to the pit, and passed the time till the bell and the chorus "Hats off!" signalled the rising of the green curtain, in watching the chattering assemblage that was every moment swelled from the doors; but neither among the lace-ruffled bucks and macaronis who chaffed with the painted and powdered ladies in the boxes, nor among those dashing gentry who ogled the same towering-haired ladies from the benches around us in the pit, did I perceive the elegant and easy captain. We therefore fell back upon the pleasure to be expected from the play itself, and when the curtain rose, I, for one, was resigned to the absence of him we had come partly in quest of.

No sooner had Miss Warren come upon the stage, in her favourite part of Fanny in "The Clandestine Marriage," revived for the occasion, than I knew her as Madge Faringfield. I bent forward, with staring eyes and gaping mouth; if I uttered any exclamation it was drowned in the sound of the hand-clapping that greeted her. While she curtseyed and pleasantly smiled, in response to this welcome, I turned abruptly to Phil, my eyes betokening my recognition. He nodded, without a word or any other movement, and continued to look at her, his face wearing a half-smiling expression of gentle gladness.

I knew, from my old acquaintance with him, that he was under so great emotion that he dared not speak. It was, indeed, a cessation of secret anxiety to him, a joy such as only a constant lover can understand, to know that she was alive, well, with means of livelihood, and beautiful as ever. Though she was now thirty-one, she looked, on the stage, not a day older than upon that sad night when he had thrown her from him, six years and more before—nay, than upon that day well-nigh eleven years before, when he had bade her farewell to go upon his first campaign. She was still as slender, still had the same girlish air and manner.

Till the curtain fell upon the act, we sat without audible remark, delighting our eyes with her looks, our ears with her voice, our hearts (and paining them at the same time) with the memories her every movement, every accent, called up.

"How shall we see her?" were Phil's first words at the end of the act.

"We may be allowed to send our names, and see her in the greenroom," said I. "Or perhaps you know somebody who can take us there without any preliminaries."

"Nay," returned Philip, after a moment's thought, "there will be other people there. I shouldn't like strangers to see—you understand. We shall wait till the play is over, and then go to the door where the players come out. 'Twill take her some time to dress for going home—we can't miss her that way."

I sympathised with his feelings against making their meeting a scene for the amusement of frivolous lookers-on, and we waited patiently enough. Neither of us could have told, when the play was over, what was the story it presented. Even Madge's speeches we heard with less sense of their meaning than emotion at the sound of her voice. If this was the case with me, how much more so, as I could see by side-glances at his face, was it with Philip! Between the acts, we had little use for conversation. One of our thoughts, though neither uttered it, was that, despite the reputation that play-actresses generally bore, a woman could live virtuously by the profession, and in it, and that several women since the famous Mrs. Bracegirdle were allowed to have done so. 'Twas only necessary to look at our Madge, to turn the possibility in her case into certainty.

When at last the play was ended, we forced our way through the departing crowd so as to arrive almost with the first upon the scene of waiting footmen, shouting drivers, turbulent chair-men, clamorous boys with dim lanterns or flaming torches, and such attendants upon the nightly emptying of a playhouse. Through this crush we fought our way, hastened around into a darker street, comparatively quiet and deserted, and found a door with a feeble lamp over it, which, as a surly old fellow within told us, served as stage entrance to the theatre. We crossed the dirty street, and took up our station in the shadow opposite the door; whence a few actors not required in the final scene, or not having to make much alteration of attire for the street, were already emerging, bent first, I suppose, for one or other of the many taverns or coffee-houses about Covent Garden near at hand.

While we were waiting, two chair-men came with their vehicle and set it down at one side of the door, and a few boys and women gathered in the hope of obtaining sixpence by some service of which a player might perchance be in need on issuing forth. And presently a coach appeared at the corner of the street, and stopped there, whereupon a gentleman got out of it, gave the driver and footman some commands, and while the conveyance remained where it was, approached alone, at a blithe gait, and took post near us, though more in the light shed by the lamp over the stage door.

"Gad's life!" I exclaimed, in a whisper.

"What is it?" asked Phil, in a similar voice.

"Falconer!" I replied, ere I had thought.

Philip gazed at the newcomer, who was heedless of our presence. Phil seemed about to stride forward to him, but reconsidered, and whispered to me, in a strange tone:

"What can he be doing here, where she—? You are sure that's the man?"

"Yes—but not now—'tis not the place—we came for another purpose—"

"I know—but if I lose him!"

"No fear of that. I'll keep track of him—learn where he's to be found—while you meet her."

"But if he—if she—"

"Wait and see. His being here, may not in any way concern her. Mere coincidence, no doubt."

"I hope to God it is!" whispered Phil, though his voice quivered. "Nay, I'll believe it is, too, till I see otherwise."

"Good! And when I learn his haunts, as I shall before I sleep, you may find him at any time."

And so we continued to wait, keeping in the darkness, so that the captain, even if he had deigned to be curious, could not have made out our faces from where he stood. Philip watched him keenly, to stamp his features upon memory, as well as they could be observed in the yellow light of the sickly lamp; but yet, every few moments Phil cast an eager glance at the door. I grant I was less confident that Falconer's presence was mere coincidence, than I had appeared, and I was in a tremble of apprehension for what Madge's coming might reveal.

The captain, who was very finely dressed, and, like us, carried a cane but no sword, allowed impatience to show upon his usually serene countenance: evidently he was unused to waiting in such a place, and I wondered why he did not make free of the greenroom instead of doing so. But he composed himself to patience as with a long breath, and fell to humming softly a gay French air the while he stood leaning motionlessly, in an odd but graceful attitude, upon his slender cane. Sometimes he glanced back toward the waiting coach, and then, without change of position as to his body, returned his gaze to the door.

Two or three false alarms were occasioned him, and us, by the coming forth of ladies who proved, as soon as the light struck them, to be other than the person we awaited. But at last she appeared, looking her years and cares a little more than upon the stage, but still beautiful and girlish. She was followed by a young waiting-woman; but before we had time to note this, or to step out of the shadow, we saw Captain Falconer bound across the way, seize her hand, and bend very gallantly to kiss it.

So, then, it was for her he had waited: such was the bitter thought of Phil and me; and how our hearts sickened at it, may be imagined when I say that his hope and mine, though unexpressed, had been to find her penitent and hence worthy of all forgiveness, in which case she would not have renewed even acquaintance with this captain. And there he was, kissing her hand!

But ere either of us could put our thought into speech, our sunken hearts were suddenly revived, by Madge's conduct.

She drew her hand instantly away, and as soon as she saw who it was that had seized it, she took on a look of extreme annoyance and anger, and would have hastened past him, but that he stood right in her way.

"You again!" she said. "Has my absence been for nothing, then?"

"Had you stayed from London twice three years, you would have found me the same, madam," he replied.

"Then I must leave London again, that's all," said she.

"It shall be with me, then," said he. "My coach is waiting yonder."

"And my chair is waiting here," said she, snatching an opportunity to pass him and to step into the sedan, of which the door was invitingly open. It was not her chair, but one that stood in solicitation of some passenger from the stage door; as was now shown by one of the chair-men asking her for directions. She bade her maid hire a boy with a light, and lead the way afoot; and told the chair-men to follow the maid. The chair door being then closed, and the men lifting their burden, her orders were carried out.

Neither Philip nor I had yet thought it opportune to appear from our concealment, and now he whispered that, for the avoidance of a scene before spectators, it would be best for him to follow the chair, and accost her at her own door. I should watch Falconer to his abode, and each of us should eventually go home independently of the other. Our relief to find that the English captain's presence was against Madge's will, needed no verbal expression; it was sufficiently manifest otherwise.

Before Philip moved out to take his place behind the little procession, Falconer, after a moment's thought, walked rapidly past to his coach, and giving the driver and footman brief orders, stepped into it. 'Twas now time for both Phil and me to be in motion, and we went down the way together. The chair passed the coach, which immediately fell in behind it, the horses proceeding at a walk.

"He intends to follow her," said I.

"Then we shall follow both," said Phil, "and await events. 'Tis no use forcing a scene in this neighbourhood."

So Philip's quest and mine lay together, and we proceeded along the footway, a little to the rear of the coach, which in turn was a little to the rear of the chair. Passing the side of Drury Lane Theatre, the procession soon turned into Bow Street, and leaving Covent Garden Theatre behind, presently resumed a Southwestward course, deflecting at St. Martin's Lane so as to come at last into Gerrard Street, and turning thence Northward into Dean Street. Here the maid led the chair-men along the West side of the way; but Philip and I kept the East side. At last the girl stopped before a door with a pillared porch, and the carriers set down the chair.

Instantly Captain Falconer's footman leaped from the box of the coach, and, while the maid was at the chair door to help her mistress, dashed into the porch and stood so as to prevent any one's reaching the door of the house. The captain himself, springing out of the coach, was at Madge's side as soon as she had emerged from the chair. Philip and I, gliding unseen across the street, saw him hand something to the front chair-man which made that rascal open his mouth in astonishnent—'twas, no doubt, a gold piece or two—and heard him say:

"You and your fellow, begone, and divide that among you. Quick! Vanish!"

The men obeyed with alacrity, bearing their empty chair past Phil and me toward Gerrard Street at a run. The captain, by similar means, sent the boy with the light scampering off in the opposite direction. Meanwhile, Philip and I having stopped behind a pillar of the next porch for a moment's consultation, Madge was bidding the footman stand aside from before her door. This we could see by the rays of a street lamp, which were at that place sufficient to make a carried light not absolutely necessary.

"Come into the coach, madam," said Falconer, seizing one of her hands. "You remember my promise. I swear I shall keep it though I hang for it! Don't make a disturbance and compel me to use force, I beg. You see, the street is deserted."

"You scoundrel!" she answered. "If you really think you can carry me off, you're much—"

"Nay," he broke in, "actresses are carried off, and not always for the sake of being talked about, neither! Fetch the maid, Richard—I wouldn't deprive a lady of her proper attendance. Pray pardon this—you put me to it, madam!"

With which, he grasped her around the waist, lifted her as if she were a child, and started with her toward the coach. The footman, a huge fellow, adopted similar measures with the waiting-woman, who set up a shrill screaming that made needless any cries on Madge's part.

Philip and I dashed forward at this, and while I fell upon the footman, Phil staggered the captain with a blow. As Falconer turned with an exclamation, to see by whom he was attacked, Madge tore herself from his relaxed hold, ran to the house door, and set the knocker going at its loudest. A second blow from Philip sent the captain reeling against his coach wheel. I, meanwhile, had drawn the footman from the maid; who now joined her mistress and continued shrieking at the top of her voice. The fellow, seeing his master momentarily in a daze, and being alarmed by the knocking and screaming, was put at a loss. The house door opening, and the noise bringing people to their windows, and gentlemen rushing out of Jack's tavern hard by, Master Richard recovered from his irresolution, ran and forced his master into the coach, got in after him to keep him there, and shouted to the coachman to drive off.

"Very well, madam," cried Falconer through the coach door, before it closed with a bang, "but I'll keep my word yet, I promise you!" Whereupon, the coach rolled away behind galloping horses.

Forgetting, in the moment's excitement, my intention of dogging the captain to his residence, I accompanied Philip to the doorway, where stood Madge with her maid and a house servant. She was waiting to thank her protectors, whom, in the rush and partial darkness, she had not yet recognised. It was, indeed, far from her thoughts that we two, whom she had left so many years before in America, should turn up at her side in London at such a moment.

We took off our hats, and bowed. Her face had already formed a smile of thanks, when we raised our heads into the light from a candle the house servant carried. Madge gave a little startled cry of joy, and looked from one to the other of us to make sure she was not under a delusion: then fondly murmuring Phil's name and mine in what faint voice was left her, she made first as if she would fall into his arms; but recollecting with a look of pain how matters stood between them, she drew back, steadied herself against the door-post, and dropped her eyes from his.

"We should like to talk with you a little, my dear," said Phil gently. "May we come in?"

There was a gleam of new-lighted hope in her eyes as she looked up and answered tremulously:

"'Twill be a happiness—more than I dared expect."

We followed the servant with the candle up-stairs to a small drawing-room, in which a table was set with bread, cheese, cold beef, and a bottle of claret.

"'Tis my supper," said Madge. "If I had known I should have such guests—you will do me the honour, will you not?"

Her manner was so tentative and humble, so much that of one who scarce feels a right even to plead, so different from that of the old petted and radiant Madge, that 'twould have taken a harder man than Philip to decline. And so, when the servant had placed additional chairs, down we sat to supper with Miss Warren, of Drury Lane Theatre, who had sent her maid to answer the inquiries of the alarmed house concerning the recent tumult in the street.

CHAPTER XX.

We Intrude upon a Gentleman at a Coffee-house.

Little was eaten at that supper, to which we sat down in a constraint natural to the situation. Philip was presently about to assume the burden of opening the conversation, when Madge abruptly began:

"I make no doubt you recognised him, Bert—the man with the coach."

"Yes. Philip and I saw him outside the theatre."

"And followed him, in following you," added Philip. "We had intended—"

"You must not suppose—" she interrupted; but, after a moment's halt of embarrassment, left the sentence unfinished, and made another beginning: "I never saw him or heard of him, after I left New York, till I had been three years on the stage. Then, when the war was over, he came back to London, and chanced to see me play at Drury Lane. He knew me in spite of my stage name, and during that very performance I found him waiting in the greenroom. I had no desire for any of his society, and told him so. But it seems that, finding me—admired, and successful in the way I had resorted to, he could not be content till he regained my—esteem. If I had shown myself friendly to him then, I should soon have been rid of him: but instead, I showed a resolution to avoid him; and he is the kind of man who can't endure a repulse from a woman. To say truth, he thinks himself invincible to 'em all, and when he finds one of 'em proof against him, even though she may once have seemed—when she didn't know her mind—well, she is the woman he must be pestering, to show that he's not to be resisted.

"And so, at last, to be rid of his plaguing, I went away from London, and took another stage name, and acted in the country. Only Mr. and Mrs. Sheridan were in the secret of this: 'twas Mr. Sheridan gave me letters to the country managers. That was in the Fall of '83. Well, I heard after awhile that he too had gone into the country, to dance attendance on an old aunt, whose heir he had got the chance of being, through his cousin's death. But I knew if I came back to London he would hear of it, and then, sure, farewell to all my peace! He had continually threatened to carry me off in a coach to some village by the Channel, and take me across to France in a fishing-smack. When I declared I would ask the magistrates for protection, he said they would laugh at me as a play-actress trying to make herself talked about. I took that to be true, and so, as I've told you, I left London.

"Well, after more than two years, I thought he must have put me out of his mind, and so I returned, and made my reappearance to-night. And, mercy on me!—there he was, waiting outside the theatre. From his appearance, I suppose the aunt has died and he has come into the money. He followed me home, as you saw; and for a moment, when he was carrying me toward the coach, I vow I had a fear of being rushed away to a seaport, and taken by force, on some fisherman's boat, across the Channel. And then, all of a sudden, 'twas as if you two had sprung out of the earth. Where did you come from? How was it? Oh, tell me all—all the news! Poor Tom! I thought I should die when I heard of his death. 'Twas—'twas Falconer told me—how he was killed in a skirmish with the—What's the matter? Why do you look so? Isn't it true? I entreat—!"

"Did Falconer tell you Tom died that way?" I blurted out, hotly, ere Phil could check me.

"In truth, he did! How was it?" She had turned white as a sheet.

"'Twas Falconer killed him in a duel," said I, with indignation, "the very night after you sailed!"

"What, Fal—! A duel! My God, on my account, then! Oh, I never knew that! Oh, Tom—little Tom—the dear little fellow—'twas I killed him!" She flung her head forward upon the table, and sobbed wildly, so that I repented of my outspoken anger at Falconer's deception of her. For some minutes her grief was pitiful to see. If ever there was the anguish of remorse, it was then. I sat sobered, leaving it to Phil to apply comfort, which, when her outburst of tears had spent its violence, he undertook to do.

"Well, well, Madge," said he, softly, "'tis done and past now, and not for us to recall. 'Twas an honourable death, such as he would never have shrunk from; and he has long been past all sorrow. The most of his life, while it lasted, was happy; and you could never have foreseen. He will not be unavenged, take my word of that!"

But it was a long time ere Phil could restore her to composure. When he had done so, he asked her what had become of Ned. Thereupon she told us all that I have recorded in a former chapter, of their first days in London, and the events leading to her acceptance of Mr. Sheridan's offer. After she had been acting for some time, under the name of Miss Warren, Ned chanced to come to the play, and recognised her. He thereupon dogged her, in miserable plight, claiming some return of the favours which he vowed he had lavished upon her. She put him upon a small pension, but declared that if he molested her with further demands she would send him to jail for robbing her. She had not seen him since; he had called regularly upon her man of business for his allowance, until lately, when he had ceased to appear.

Of what had occurred before she turned actress, she told us all, I say; for the news of Tom's real fate had put her into a state for withholding nothing. Never was confession more complete; uttered as it was in a stricken voice, broken as it was by convulsive sobs, marked as it was by falling tears, hesitations for phrases less likely to pain Philip, remorseful lowerings of her eyes. She reverted, finally, to her acquaintance with Falconer in New York, and finished with the words:

"But I protest I have never been guilty of the worst—the one thing—I swear it, Philip; before God, I do!"

If any load was taken from Phil's mind by this, he refrained from showing it.

"I came in search of you," said he, in a low voice, "to see what I could do toward your happiness. I knew that in your situation, a wife separated from her husband, dependent on heaven knew what for a maintenance, you must have many anxious, distressful hours. If I had known where to find you, I should have sent you money regularly from the first, and eased your mind with a definite understanding. And now I wish to do this—nay, I will do it, for it is my right. Whatever may have happened, you are still the Madge Faringfield I—I loved from the first; nothing can make you another woman to me: and though you chose to be no longer my wife, 'tis impossible that while I live I can cease to be your husband."

The corners of her lips twitched, but she recovered herself with a disconsolate sigh. "Chose to be no longer your wife," she repeated. "Yes, it appeared so. I wanted to shine in the world. I have shone—on the stage, I mean; but that's far from the way I had looked to. A woman in my situation—a wife separated from her husband—can never shine as I had hoped to, I fancy. But I've been admired in a way—and it hasn't made me happy. Admiration can't make a woman happy if she has a deeper heart than her desire of admiration will fill. If I could have forgot, well and good; but I couldn't forget, and can't forget. And one must have love, and devotion; but after having known yours, Philip, whose else could I find sufficient?"

And now there was a pause while each, fearing that the other might not desire reunion, hesitated to propose it; and so, each one waiting for the other to say the word, both left it unsaid. When the talk was finally renewed, it was with a return of the former constraint.

She asked us, with a little stiffness of manner, when we had come to London; which led to our relation, between us, of all that had passed since her departure from New York. She opened her eyes at the news of our residence in Hampstead, and lost her embarrassment in her glad, impulsive acceptance of my invitation to come and see us as soon as possible. While Philip and she still kept their distance, as it were, I knew not how far to go in cordiality, or I should have pressed her to come and live with us. She wept and laughed, at the prospect of seeing Fanny and my mother, and declared they must visit her in town. And then her tongue faltered as the thought returned of Falconer's probable interference with the quiet and safety of her further residence in London; and her face turned anxious.

"'Faith! you need have no fear on that score," said Philip, quietly. "Where does he live?"

She did not know, but she named a club, and a tavern, from which he had dated importunate letters to her before she left London.

"Well," said Philip, rising, "I shall see a lawyer to-morrow, and you may expect to hear from him soon regarding the settlement I make upon you."

"You are too kind," she murmured. "I have no right to accept it of you."

"Oh, yes, you have. I am always your husband, I tell you; and you will have no choice but to accept. I know not what income you get by acting; but this will suffice if you choose to leave the stage."

"But you?" she replied faintly, rising. "Shall I not see—?"

"I shall leave England in a few days: I don't know how long I shall be abroad. But there will be Bert, and Fanny, and Mrs. Russell—I know you may command them for anything." There was an oppressive pause now, during which she looked at him wistfully, hoping he might at the last moment ask her that, which he waited to give her a final opportunity of asking him. But neither dared, for fear of the other's hesitation or refusal. And so, at length, with a good-bye spoken in an unnatural voice on each side, the two exchanged a hand-clasp, and Philip left the room. She stood pale and trembling, bereft of speech, while I told her that I should wait upon her soon. Then I followed Philip down-stairs and to the street.

"I will stay to-night at Jack's tavern yonder," said he. "I can watch this house, in case that knave should return to annoy her. Go you home—Fanny and your mother will be anxious. And come for me to-morrow at the tavern, as early as you can. You may tell them what you see fit, at home. That's all, I think—'tis very late. Good night!"

I sought a hackney-coach, and went home to relieve the fears of the ladies, occasioned by our long absence. My news that Margaret was found (I omitted mention of Captain Falconer in my account) put the good souls into a great flutter of joy and excitement, and they would have it that they should go in to see her the first thing on the morrow, a resolution I saw no reason to oppose. So I took them with me to town in the morning, left them at Madge's lodgings, and was gone to join Philip ere the laughing and crying of their meeting with her was half-done.

As there was little chance to find Captain Falconer stirring early, Phil and I gave the forenoon to his arrangements with his man of law at Lincoln's Inn. When these were satisfactorily concluded, and a visit incidental to them had been made to a bank in the city, we refreshed ourselves at the Globe tavern in Fleet Street, and then turned our faces Westward.

At the tavern that Madge had named, we learned where Falconer abode, but, proceeding to his lodgings, found he had gone out. We looked in at various places whither we were directed; but 'twas not till late in the afternoon, that Philip caught sight of him writing a letter at a table in the St. James Coffeehouse.

Philip recognised him from the view he had obtained the previous night; but, to make sure, he nudged me to look. On my giving a nod of confirmation, Philip went to him at once, and said:

"Pray pardon my interrupting: you are Captain Falconer, I believe."

The captain looked up, and saw only Philip, for I stood a little to the rear of the former's elbow.

"I believe so, too, sir," he replied urbanely.

"Our previous meeting was so brief," said Philip, "that I doubt you did not observe my face so as to recall it now."

"That must be the case," said the captain, "for I certainly do not remember having ever met you."

"And yet our meeting was no longer ago than last night—in Dean Street."

The captain's face changed: he gazed, half in astonishment, half in a dawning resentment.

"The deuce, sir! Have you intruded upon me to insult me?"

"'Faith, sir, I've certainly intruded upon you for no friendly purpose."

Falconer continued to gaze, in wonder as well as annoyance.

"Who the devil are you, sir?" he said at last.

"My name is Winwood, sir—Captain Winwood, late of the American army of Independence."

Falconer opened his eyes wide, parted his lips, and turned a little pale. At that moment, I shifted my position; whereupon he turned, and saw me.

"And Russell, too!" said he. "Well, this is a—an odd meeting, gentlemen."

"Not a chance one," said Philip. "I have been some time seeking you."

"Well, well," replied the captain, recovering his self-possession. "I imagine I know your purpose, sir."

"That will spare my explaining it. You will, of course, accommodate me?"

"Oh, yes; I see no way out of it. Gad, I'm the most obliging of men—Mr. Russell will vouch for it."

"Then I beg you will increase the obligation by letting us despatch matters without the least delay."

"Certainly, if you will have it so—though I abominate hurry in all things."

"To-morrow at dawn, I hope, will not be too soon for your preparations?"

"Why, no, I fancy not. Let me see. One moment, I pray."

He called a waiter, and asked:

"Thomas, is there any gentleman of my acquaintance in the house at present?"

"Oh, a score, sir. There's Mr. Hidsleigh hup-stairs, and—"

"Mr. Idsleigh will do. Ask him to grant me the favour of coming down for a minute." The waiter hastened away. "Mr. Russell, of course, represents you, sir," the captain added, to Philip.

"Yes, sir; and you are the challenged party, of course."

"I thank you, sir. If Mr. Russell will wait, I will introduce my friend here, and your desire for expedition may be carried out."

"I am much indebted, sir," said Philip; and requesting me to join him later at the tavern in Dean Street, he took his leave.

When Mr. Idsleigh, a fashionable young buck whom I now recalled having once seen in the company of Lord March, had presented himself, a very brief explanation on Falconer's part sufficed to enlist his services as second; whereupon the captain desired affably that he might be allowed to finish his letter, and Idsleigh and I retired to a compartment at the farther end of the room. Idsleigh regarded me with disdainful indifference, and conducted his side of the preliminaries in a bored fashion, as if the affair were of even less consequence than Falconer had pretended to consider it. He set me down as a nobody, a person quite out of the pale of polite society, and one whom it was proper to have done with in the shortest time, and with the fewest words, possible. I was equally chary of speech, and it was speedily settled that our principals should fight with small swords, at sunrise, at a certain spot in Hyde Park; and Idsleigh undertook to provide a surgeon. He then turned his back on me, and walked over to Falconer, without the slightest civility of leave-taking.

I went first in a hackney-coach to Hyde Park, to ascertain exactly the spot which Mr. Idsleigh had designated. Having done so, I returned to Dean Street; and, in order that I might without suspicion accompany Philip before daybreak, I called at Madge's lodgings, and suggested that my mother and Fanny should pass the night in her house (in which I had observed there were rooms to let) and take her to Hampstead the next day; while I should sleep at the tavern. This plan was readily adopted. Thereupon, rejoining Philip, I went with him to the Strand, where he engaged a post-chaise to be in waiting for him and me the next morning, for our flight in the event of the duel having the fatal termination he desired.

"We'll take a hint from Captain Falconer's threat," said Phil: "ride post to Hastings, and have the Doughty boys sail us across to France. You'd best write a letter this evening, to leave at Madge's lodgings after the affair, explaining your departure, to Fanny and your mother. Afterward, you can either send for them to come to France, or you can return to Hampstead when the matter blows over. I might have spared you these inconveniences and risks, by getting another second; but I knew you wouldn't stand that."

And there, indeed, he spoke the truth.