Part 7 (2/2)
I motioned with my head toward the Faringfield house.
”Why,” he replied, as we both sat down on the wooden bench, ”as I shall be gone years when I do go, Mr. Faringfield stipulated only that I should remain with him here another year; and I was mighty glad he did, or I should have had to make that offer. 'Twasn't that I was anxious to be off so soon, that made me tell him I was going; 'twas that in harbouring the intention, while he still relied upon my remaining always with him, I seemed to be guilty of a kind of treachery. As for--_her_, if she gives no indication within a year, especially when she knows I'm going, why, 'twill be high time to leave the field to you, I think.”
”She doesn't know yet?”
”No; I came first to you. Her father isn't home yet.”
”Well, Phil, there's little for me to say. You know what my feelings are. After all, we are to have you for a year, and then--well, I hope you may become the greatest architect that ever lived!”
”Why, now, 'tis strange; you remind me of my reason for going. Since Mr. Faringfield gave me his sanction, I hadn't thought of that. I'm afraid I've been something of a hypocrite. And yet I certainly thought my desire to go was chiefly on account of my architectural studies; and I certainly intend to pursue them, too. I must have deceived myself a little, though, by dwelling on that reason as one that would prevail with Mr. Faringfield; one that he could understand, and could not fairly oppose. For, hearkee, all the way home, when I looked forward to the future, the architectural part of it was not in my head. I was thinking of the famous historic places I should see; the places where great men have lived; the birthplace and grave of Shakespeare; the palaces where great pageants and tragedies have been enacted; the scenes of great battles; the abbey where so many poets and kings and queens are buried; the Tower where such memorable dramas have occurred; the castles that have stood since the days of chivalry; and Oxford; and the green fields of England that poets have written of, and the churchyard of Gray's Elegy; and all that kind of thing.”
[Ill.u.s.tration: ”OUR MOTIONS, AS WE TOUCHED OUR LIPS WITH THEM, WERE SO IN UNISON THAT MARGARET LAUGHED.”]
”Ay, and something of the gay life of the present, I'll warrant,” said I, with a smile; ”the playhouses, and the taverns, and the parks, and Vauxhall, and the a.s.sembly-rooms; and all _that_ kind of thing.”
”Why, yes, 'tis true. And I wish you were to go with me.”
”Alas, I'm tied down here. Some day, perhaps--”
”What are you two talking of?” The interruption came in a soft, clear, musical voice, of which the instant effect was to make us both start up, and turn toward the fence, with hastened hearts and smiling faces.
Margaret stood erect, looking over the palings at us, backed by the green and flowered bushes through which she and f.a.n.n.y had moved noiselessly toward the fence in quest of nosegays for the supper-table. f.a.n.n.y stood at her side, and both smiled, Margaret archly, f.a.n.n.y pleasantly. The two seemed of one race with the flowers about them, though Margaret's radiant beauty far outshone the more modest charms of her brown-eyed younger sister. The elder placed her gathered flowers on the upper rail of the fence, and taking two roses, one in each hand, held them out toward us.
We grasped each his rose at the same time, and our motions, as we touched our lips with them, were so in unison that Margaret laughed.
”And what _were_ you talking of?” says she.
”Is it a secret any longer?” I asked Philip.
”No.”
”Then we were talking of Phil's going to England, to be a great architect.”
”Going to England!” She looked as if she could not have rightly understood.
”Yes,” said I, ”in a year from now, to stay, the Lord knows how long.”
She turned white, then red; and had the strangest look.
”Is it true?” she asked, after a moment, turning to Phil.
”Yes. I am to go next June.”
”But father--does he know?”
”I told him this afternoon. He is willing.”
”To be sure, to be sure,” she said, thoughtfully. ”He has no authority over you. 'Tis different with us. Oh, Phil, if you could only take me with you!” There was wistful longing and petulant complaint in the speech. And then, as Phil answered, an idea seemed to come to her all at once; and she to rise to it by its possibility, rather than to fall back from its audacity.
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