Philip Winwood Part 20

He saw to the priming of his pistols, and loosened the sword that hung beneath his overcoat; and then he glided some way down the strip of beach. Coming to a convenient place, he clambered up the bluff, to a cleared s.p.a.ce backed by woods.

"Who goes there?"

'Twas the voice of a man who had suddenly halted in the clearing, half-way between the woods and the crest of the bluff. The snow on the ground enabled the two to descry each other. Winwood saw the man raise a musket to his shoulder.

"A word with you, friend," said Philip, and strode swiftly forward ere the sentinel (who was a loyalist volunteer, not a British regular) had the wit to fire. Catching the musket-barrel with one hand, Winwood clapped his pistol to the soldier's breast with the other.

"Now," says he, "if you give a sound, I'll send a bullet through you.

If I pa.s.s here, 'twill bring you no harm, for none shall know it but us two. Let go your musket a moment--I'll give it back to you, man."

A pressure of the pistol against the fellow's ribs brought obedience.

Philip dropped the musket, and, with his foot, dug its lock into the snow, spoiling the priming.

"Now," he continued, "I'll leave you, and remember, if you raise an alarm, you'll be blamed for not firing upon me."

Whereupon Philip dashed into the woods, leaving the startled sentinel to pick up his musket and resume his round as if naught had occurred.

The man knew that his own comfort lay in secrecy, and his comfort outweighed his military conscience.

Through woods and fields Winwood proceeded, skirted swamps and ponds, and waded streams, traversing old familiar ground, the sight of which brought back memories of countless holiday rambles in the happy early days. Margaret's bright face and merry voice, her smiles, and her little displays of partiality for him, were foremost in each recollection; and that he was so soon to see her again, appeared too wonderful for belief. He went forward in the intoxication of joy, singing to himself as a boy would have done.

He knew where there were houses and barns to avoid, and where there were most like to be British cantonments. At length he was so near the town, that he was surprised to have come upon no inner line of sentries. Even as he wondered, he emerged from a copse into a field, and received the usual challenge--spoken this time in so quick, machine-like a manner, and accompanied by so prompt and precise a levelling of the musket, that he knew 'twas a British regular he had to deal with.

He made a pretence of raising a pistol to shoot down the sentry. This brought the sentry's fire, which--as it too was of a British regular of those days--Philip felt safe in risking. But though the shot went far wide, he gave a cry as if he had been hit, and staggered back into the woods. He was no sooner within its cover, than he ran swiftly Eastward with all possible silence. He had noted that the sentry had been pacing in that direction; hence the first of the sentry's comrades to run up would be the one approaching therefrom. This would leave a break in the line, at that part of it East of the scene of the alarm. Philip stopped presently; peered forth from the woods, saw the second sentry hasten with long steps Westward; and then made a dash across the latter's tracks, bending low his body as he went. He thus reached a cover of thicket, through which he forced his way in time to emerge toward the town ere any results of the alarming gun-shot were manifest.

Unless he were willing to attempt crossing what British defences he knew not, or other impediments that might bar pa.s.sage to the town elsewhere than at the Bowery lane entrance, he must now pa.s.s the guard there, which served for the town itself as the outer barriers at Kingsbridge served for the whole island of Manhattan. He chose the less tedious, though more audacious alternative of facing the guard.

He could not employ in this case the method used in pa.s.sing the sh.o.r.e patrol, or that adopted in crossing the line of sentinels above the town; for here the road was the only open way through, it was flanked by a guardhouse, it was lighted by a lantern that hung above the door, and the sentinels were disciplined men. Philip gathered these facts in a single glance, as he approached by slinking along the side of the road, into which he had crawled, through a rail fence, from an adjoining field.

He was close upon the sentinels who paced before the guardhouse, ere he was discovered. For the third time that night, he heard the challenge and saw the threatening movement.

"All's well," he replied. "I'll give an account of myself." And he stepped forward, grasping one of his pistols, not by the breech, but by the barrel.

"Stop where you are!" said the sentry, menacingly.

Philip stood still, raised the pistol, flung it at the lantern, and instantly dropped to his knees. The sentinel's musket flashed and cracked. Total darkness ensued. Philip glided forward between the two men, his footfalls drowned by the sound of their curses. When past them, he hurled his remaining pistol back over his shoulder toward a ma.s.s of bushes on the further side of the sentinels. Its descent through the brush had some sound of a man's leap, and would, he hoped, lead the enemy to think he might have escaped in that direction. By the time the noise of a commotion reached him, with orders to turn out the guard, he was past the building used as a prison for his fellow rebels, and was hastening along the side of the common--now diverted to camp uses of the British as it had been to those of the rebels--able to find the rest of his way in Egyptian blackness. He knew what alleys to take, what short cuts to make by traversing gardens, what ways were most like to be deserted. The streets in the part of the town through which he had to pa.s.s were nearly empty, the taverns, the barracks, and most of the officers' quarters being elsewhere. And so, with a heart elated beyond my power of expression, he leaped finally into the rear garden of the Faringfield mansion, and strode, as if on air, toward the veranda.

He had guessed that the family would be in the smaller parlour, or the library, and so he was not surprised to see all the lower windows dark that were visible from the direction of his approach. But, which gave him a thrill of delightful conjecture, two upper windows shone with light--those above the great parlour and hence belonging to one of the chambers formerly occupied by Margaret and him. He knew no reason why his wife should not still retain the same rooms. She would, then, be there, and probably alone. He might go to her while none was present to chill their meeting, none before whom her pride might induce her to conceal the completeness of her reconciliation, or to moderate the joy of her greeting. Would she weep? Would she laugh? Would she cry out?

Would she merely fall into his arms with a glad smile and cling in a long embrace under his lingering kiss? He trembled like a schoolboy as he climbed the trellis-work to enter by a window.

Creeping up the sloping, snow-covered roof of the veranda, he came at length to the window, and looked in. The chamber was empty, but the door was ajar that led to the apartment in front, used as a sitting-room. She must be in that room, for his first glance had recognised many of her trinkets and possessions in the first chamber.

He asked himself if the years had changed her: they would have made her a little graver, doubtless.

He opened the window so slowly that the noise was scarce perceptible.

Then he clambered over the ledge into the chamber; strode tiptoe toward the next room, catching a mirrored glimpse of his face as he pa.s.sed her dressing-table--the most joyous, eager face in the world.

He pushed the door further open, and stepped across the threshold. She was there, in the centre of the room, standing in meditation, her face turned by chance toward the door through which he entered.

"My dear," said he, in a voice scarce above a whisper; and started toward her, with arms held out, and (I am sure) a very angel's smile of joy and love upon his face.

She opened her eyes and lips in wonder, and then stood pale and rigid as marble, and made a faint gesture to check his approach. As he halted in astonishment, his joy dying at her look, she whispered hoa.r.s.ely:

"You! You, of all men? And to-night, of all nights!"

'Twas the night of our setting forth upon her great design of seizing his commander-in-chief.

CHAPTER XII.

_Their Interview._

Philip took note, at the time, rather of her look than of her words.

"Why, dear," said he, "don't be frightened. Tis I, Philip--'tis not my ghost."

"Yes, 'tis you--I know that well enough."

"Then--" he began, and stepped toward her.

But she retreated with such a movement that he stopped again.

"What's the matter?" he questioned. "Why do you look so?--This is scarce the welcome I had imagined."

"Why are you here?" she asked, in a low voice, regarding him steadily.

"How did you come? What does it mean?"

"It means I love you so much, I could stay no longer from seeing you.

I came by horse, boat, and foot. I pa.s.sed the British sentries."

"You risked your life, then?"

"Oh, of course. If they caught me inside their lines, they would hang me as a spy. But--"

She could not but be touched at this. "Poor Philip!" she murmured, with a tremor in her voice.

"Not poor," said he, "now that I am with you--if you would not draw back, and look so. What is wrong? Am I--unwelcome?"

She saw that, to be true to her design, to her elaborate plan for the future, she must not soften toward him--for his reappearance, with the old-time boyish look and manner, the fond expression now wistful and alarmed, the tender eyes now startled and affrighted, revived much that had been dormant in her heart, and made Captain Falconer seem a very far-off and casual person. Against the influence of Philip's presence, and the effect of his having so imperilled himself to see her, she had to arm herself with coldness, or look upon the success of her project as going for naught to her advantage. She dared not contemplate the forfeit; so she hardened her heart.

"Why," she said, with a forced absence of feeling, "so many years have pa.s.sed--so many things have happened--you appear so much a stranger--"

"Stranger!" echoed he. "Why, not if you had thought of me half as constantly as I have of you! You have been in my mind, in my heart, every hour, every minute since that day--Can it be? Is it my Margaret that stands there and speaks so? So unmoved to see me! So cold! Oh, who would have expected this?"

He sat down and gazed wretchedly about the room, taking no cognisance of what objects his sight fell upon. Margaret seated herself, with a sigh of annoyance, and regarded him with a countenance of displeasure.

"Margaret, do you mean what you say?" he asked, after a short silence.