Philip Winwood Part 10

"Until the matter is settled one way or another."

"But it won't come before we sail. 'Tis only seven weeks. Whatever happens, they'll riddle away that much time first, in talk and preparation; they always do."

"But we must wait, my dear, till the question is decided whether there's to be war or peace. If we come round to the certainty of peace, which is doubtful, then of course there's naught to hinder us.

But if there's war, why, we've no choice but to see it out before we leave the country."

I never elsewhere saw such utter, indignant consternation as came over Margaret's face.

"But why? For what reason?" she cried. "Will not vessels sail, as usual? Are you afraid we shall be harmed on the sea? 'Tis ridiculous!

The rebels have no war-s.h.i.+ps. Why need we stay? What have we to do with these troubles? 'Tis not our business to put them down. The king has soldiers enough."

"Ay," said Phil, surprised at her vehemence, but speaking the more quietly for that, "'tis the colonies will need soldiers."

"Then what folly are you talking? Why should we stay for this war."

"That I may take my part in it, my dear."

"Bravo, brother Phil!" cried Tom Faringfield. "You nor I sha'n't miss a chance to fight for the king!"

"Nor I, either," I added.

"'Tis not for the king, that I shall be fighting," said Phil, simply.

A silence of astonishment fell on the company. 'Twas broken by Mr.

Faringfield:

"Bravo, Phil, say _I_ this time." And, losing no jot of his haughty manner, he went over, and with one hand grasping Phil's, laid the other approvingly on the young man's shoulder.

"What, have we rebels in our own family?" cried Mrs. Faringfield, whose horror at the fact gave her of a sudden the needful courage.

"Madam, do your sentiments differ from mine?" asked her husband.

"Sir, I am a De Lancey!" she replied, with a chilling haughtiness almost equal to his own.

Tom, buoyed by his feelings of loyalty above the fear of his father's displeasure, crossed to his mother, and kissed her; and even f.a.n.n.y had the spirit to show defiantly on which side she stood, by nestling to her mother's side and caressing her head.

"Good, mamma!" cried Margaret. "No one shall make rebels of us!

Understand that, Mr. Philip Winwood!"

Philip, though an ashen hue about the lips showed what was pa.s.sing in his heart, tried to take the bitterness from the situation by treating it playfully. "You see, Mr. Faringfield, if we are indeed rebels against our king, we are paid by our wives turning rebels against ourselves."

"You cannot make a joke of it, sir," said Margaret, with a menacing coldness in her tone. "'Tis little need the king has of _my_ influence, I fancy; he has armies to fight his battles. But there's one thing does concern me, and that is my visit to London.--But you'll not deprive me of that, dear, will you, now that you think of it better?" Her voice had softened as she turned to pleading.

"We must wait, my dear, while there is uncertainty or war."

"But you haven't the right to make me wait!" she cried, her voice warming to mingled rage, reproach, and threat. "Why, wars last for years--I should be an old woman! You're not free to deny me this pleasure, or postpone it an hour! You promised it from the first, you encouraged my antic.i.p.ations until I came to live upon them, you fed my hopes till they dropped everything else in the world. Night and day I have looked forward to it, thought of it, dreamt of it! And now you say I must wait--months, at least; probably years! But you can't mean it, Phil! You wouldn't be so cruel! Tell me!"

"I mean no cruelty, dear. But one has no choice when patriotism dictates--when one's country--"

"Why, you sha'n't treat me so, disappoint me so! 'Twould be breaking your word; 'twould be a cruel betrayal, no less; 'twould make all your conduct since our marriage--nay, since that very day we promised marriage--a deception, a treachery, a lie; winning a woman's hand and keeping her love, upon a false pretence! You _dare_ not turn back on your word now! If you are a man of honour, of truth, of common honesty, you will let this miserable war go hang, and take me to England, as you promised! And if you don't I'll hate you!--hate you!"

Her speech had come out in a torrent of increasing force, until her voice was almost a scream, and this violence had its climax in a hysterical outburst of weeping, as she sank upon a chair and hid her face upon the back thereof. In this att.i.tude she remained, her body shaking with sobs.

Philip, moved as a man rarely is, hastened to her, and leaning over, essayed to take her hand.

"But you should understand, dear," said he, most tenderly, with what voice he could command. "G.o.d knows I would do anything to make you happy, but--"

"Then," she said tearfully, resigning her hand to his, "don't bring this disappointment upon me. Let them make war, if they please; you have your wife to consider, and your own future. Whatever they fight about, 'tis nothing to you, compared with your duty to me."

"But you don't understand," was all he could reply. "If I could explain--"

"Oh, Phil, dear," she said, adopting again a tender, supplicating tone. "You'll not rob me of what I've so joyously looked forward to, will you? Think, how I've set my heart on it! Why, we've looked forward to it together, haven't we? All our happiness has been bound up with our antic.i.p.ations. Don't speak of understanding or explaining,--only remember that our first thought should be of each other's happiness, dear, and that you will ruin mine if you don't take me. For my sake, for my love, promise we shall go to England in June!

I beg you--'tis the one favour--I will love you so! Do, Phil! We shall be so happy!"

She looked up at him with such an eager pleading through her tears that I did not wonder to see his own eyes moisten.

"My dear," said he, with an unsteady voice, "I can't. I shouldn't be a man if I left the country at this time. I should loathe myself; I should not be worthy of you."

She flung his hand away from her, and rose in another seizure of wrath.

"Worthy!" she cried. "What man is worthy of a woman, when he cheats her as you have cheated me! You are a fool, with your talk of loathing yourself if you left the country! In G.o.d's name, what could there be in that to make you loathe yourself? What claim has the country on you, equal to the claim your wife has? Better loathe yourself for your false treatment of her! You'd loathe yourself, indeed! Well, then, I tell you this, 'tis I that will loathe you, if you stay! I shall abominate you, I shall not let you come into my sight! Now, sir, take your choice, this instant. Keep your promise with me--"

"'Twas not exactly a promise, my dear."

"I say, keep it, and take me to London, and keep my love and respect; or break your promise, and my heart, and take my hate and contempt.

Choose, I say! Which? This instant! Speak!"

"Madge, dear, you are not yourself--"

"Oh, but I am, though! More myself than ever! And my own mistress, too! Speak, I bid you! Tell me we shall go. Answer--will you do as your wife wishes?"

"I will do as your husband ought."

"Will you go to England?"

"I will stay till I know the fate of the colonies; and to fight for them if need be."

"You give me up, for the sake of a whim, of some silly fustian about patriotism, some fool's rubbish of high-sounding words! _Me_, you balance against a crazy notion! Very well, sir! How I shall hate you for it! Don't come near me--not a step! Cling to your notion; see if it will fill my place! From this moment, you're not my husband, I'm not your wife--unless you promise we shall sail in June! And don't dare speak to me, except to tell me that!"

Whereupon, paying no heed to his reproachful cry of "Madge," she swept past him, and across the parlour, and up the hall staircase to her room; leaving us all in the amazement which had held us motionless and silent throughout the scene.

Philip stood with his hand upon the chair-back where she had wept; pale and silent, the picture of abandonment and sorrow.

CHAPTER VI.