Part 6 (1/2)
I considered that Phil and I were evenly matched in the rivalry; for when a young fellow loves a girl, be she ever so divine, and though he feel in his heart that she is too good for him, yet he will believe it is in him to win her grace. If he think his self-known attractions will not suffice, he will trust to some possible hidden merits, unperceived by himself and the world, but which will manifest themselves to her sight in a magical manner vouchsafed to lovers. Or at worst, if he admit himself to be mean and unlikely, he will put reliance upon woman's caprice, which, as we all know, often makes strange selections. As for me, I took myself to be quite a conquering fellow.
In looks, 'twas my opinion that Philip and I were equally gifted. Phil was of a graceful, slender figure; within an inch of six feet, I should say; with a longish face, narrowing from the forehead downward, very distinctly outlined, the nose a little curved, the mouth still as delicate as a boy's. Indeed he always retained something boyish in his look, for all his studiousness and thoughtfulness, and all that came later. He was not as pale as in boyhood, the sea breezes that swept in from the bay, past the wharves, having given him some ruddiness. His eyes, I have said, were blue, almost of a colour with Margaret's. I was an inch or two shorter than Phil, my build was more heavy and full, my face more of an equal width, my nose a little upturned so as to give me an impudent look, my eyes a darkish brown.
That I was not Phil's match in sense, learning, talents, self-command, and modesty, did not occur to me as lessening my chances with a woman.
If I lacked real wit, I had pertness; and I thought I had a manner of das.h.i.+ng boldness, that must do one-half the business with any girl, while my converse trick of softening my voice and eyes to her on occasion, would do the other half.
But Margaret took her time before giving a hint of her heart's condition. She was the same old comrade to us, she confided to us her adverse opinions of other people, laughed with us, and often at us (when it was like as not that she herself had made us ridiculous), told us her little secrets, let us share her gaiety and her dejection alike, teased us, soothed us, made us serve her, and played the spoiled beauty with us to the full of the part. And a beauty she was, indeed; ten times more than in her childhood. The bud was approaching its full bloom. She was of the average tallness; slender at neck, waist, wrist, and ankle, but filling out well in the figure, which had such curves as I swear I never saw elsewhere upon earth. She had the smallest foot, with the highest instep; such as one gets not often an idea of in England. Her little head, with its ripples of chestnut hair, sat like that of a princess; and her face, oval in shape, proud and soft by turns in expression--I have no way of conveying the impression it gave one, but to say that it made me think of a nosegay of fresh, flawless roses, white and red. Often, by candle-light, especially if she were dressed for a ball, or sat at the play, I would liken her to some animate gem, without the hardness that belongs to real precious stones; for indeed she shone like a jewel, thanks to the l.u.s.tre of her eyes in artificial light. Whether from humidity or some quality of their substance, I do not know, but they reflected the rays as I have rarely seen eyes do; and in their luminosity her whole face seemed to have part, so that her presence had an effect of warm brilliancy that lured and dazzled you. To see her emerge from the darkness of the Faringfield coach, or from her sedan-chair, into the bright light of open doorways and of lanterns held by servants, was to hold your breath and stand with lips parted in admiration, until she made you feel your nothingness by a haughty indifference in pa.s.sing, or sent you glowing to the seventh heaven by a radiant smile.
While we were waiting for the heart of our paragon to reveal itself, life in Queen Street was diversified, in the Fall of 1773, by an unexpected visit.
Mr. Faringfield and Philip, as they entered the dining-room one evening after their return from the warehouse, observed that an additional place had been made at the table. Without speaking, the merchant looked inquiringly, and with a little of apprehension, at his lady.
”Ned has come back,” she answered, trying to speak as if this were quite cheerful news.
Mr. Faringfield's face darkened. Then, with some sarcasm, he said:
”He did not go out of his way to stop at the warehouse in coming from the landing.”
”Why, no doubt the s.h.i.+p did not anchor near our wharf. He came by the _Sophy_ brig. He took some tea, and changed his clothes, and went out to meet a fellow pa.s.senger at the coffee-house. They had some business together.”
”Business with a pack of cards, I make no doubt; or else with rum or madeira.”
'Twas the second of these conjectures that turned out right. For Mr.
Edward did not come home in time to occupy at supper the place that had been set for him. When he did appear, he said he had already eaten. Perhaps it was to strengthen his courage for meeting his father, that he had imbibed to the stage wherein he vilely smelt of spirits and his eyes and face were flushed. He was certainly bold enough when he received his father's cold greeting in the parlour, about nine o'clock at night.
”And, pray, what circ.u.mstance gives us the honour of this visit?”
asked Mr. Faringfield, not dissembling his disgust.
”Why,” says Mr. Ned, quite undaunted, and dropping his burly form into an armchair with an air of being perfectly at home, ”to tell the truth, 'tis a hole, the place you sent me to; a very h.e.l.l-hole.”
”By what arrangement with Mr. Culverson did you leave it?” Mr.
Culverson was the Barbadoes merchant by whom Edward had been employed.
”Culverson!” echoed Ned, with a grin. ”I doubt there was little love lost between me and Culverson! 'Culverson,' says I, 'the place is a hole, and the next vessel bound for New York, I go on her.' 'And a d.a.m.ned good riddance!' says Culverson (begging your pardon! I'm only quoting what the man said), and that was the only arrangement I remember of.”
”And so that you are here, what now?” inquired Mr. Faringfield, looking as if he appreciated Mr. Culverson's sentiments.
”Why, sir, as for that, I think 'tis for you to say.”
”Indeed, sir?”
”Yes, sir, seeing that I'm your son, whom you're bound to provide for.”
”You are twenty-two, I think,” says Mr. Faringfield.
”I take it, a few paltry years more or less don't alter my rights, or the responsibilities of a parent. Don't think, sir, I shall stand up and quietly see myself robbed of my birthright. I'm no longer the man to play the Esek, or Esock, or whatever--”
”Esau,” prompted f.a.n.n.y, in a whisper.
”And my mouth isn't to be stopped by any mess of porridge.”