Philip Winwood Part 32

When Lee's troop was sent to partic.i.p.ate 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 Was.h.i.+ngton. 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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.

s.h.i.+ploads 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 pet.i.tions! 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 f.a.n.n.y. 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 Was.h.i.+ngton 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 f.a.n.n.y, 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 f.a.n.n.y 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 pa.s.sed 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 Ma.s.sa Phil!" after a moment's blinking inspection to make sure. From the cheered look on Mr. Faringfield's face that evening, and the revived l.u.s.tre 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 f.a.n.n.y 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 f.a.n.n.y. "'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 f.a.n.n.y 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 pa.s.s 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 f.a.n.n.y 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 s.h.i.+p, 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 f.a.n.n.y."

"Thank you, dear Phil, and G.o.d 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, f.a.n.n.y waving her handkerchief. We saw them land, and stand upon the wharf to watch our s.h.i.+p 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 f.a.n.n.y looked! how slender was Philip! how the water widened every instant between us and them! how long a time must pa.s.s 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 princ.i.p.al, 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 pa.s.sage, 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 clerks.h.i.+p 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 f.a.n.n.y.

The letters from Philip and f.a.n.n.y 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 f.a.n.n.y and me.

At the earliest time when a s.h.i.+p 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 pa.s.sengers 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 f.a.n.n.y!

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 f.a.n.n.y's joyous little cry. I had an arm around each in a moment; and we created some proper indignation for a short s.p.a.ce 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 gla.s.s of wine?"

But they insisted upon waiting till we got to Hampstead; and, scarce knowing what I was about, yet accomplis.h.i.+ng 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! f.a.n.n.y 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 f.a.n.n.y, "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 f.a.n.n.y 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.