Part 8 (2/2)
But however disquieting the task was to approach, it could be only successful at the end; for indeed Mr. Faringfield, with all his external frigidity, could refuse Phil nothing. In giving his consent, which perhaps he had been ready to do long before Phil had been ready to ask it, he made no allusion to Phil's going to England. He purposely ignored the circ.u.mstance, I fancy, that in consenting to the marriage, he knowingly opened the way for his daughter's visiting that hated country. Doubtless the late conduct of Ned, and the intended defection of Philip, amicable though that defection was, had shaken him in his resolution of imposing his avoidance of England upon his family. He resigned himself to the inevitable; but he grew more taciturn, sank deeper into himself, became more icy in his manner, than ever.
Philip and Margaret were married in February, four months before the time set for their departure. The wedding was solemnised in Trinity Church, by the Rev. Mr. Barclay, on one of those white days with a little snow in the air, which I for one prefer over sunny days, in winter, as far more seasonable. The young gentlemen of the town wondered that Miss Faringfield had not made a better match (as she might have done, of course, in each one's secret opinion by choosing himself). The young ladies, though some of them may have regretted the subtraction of one eligible youth from their matrimonial chances, were all of them rejoiced at the removal of a rival who had hitherto kept the eyes of a score of youths, even more eligible, turned away from them. And so they wished her well, with smiles the most genuine. She valued not a finger-snap their thoughts or their congratulations. She had, of late, imperceptibly moved aloof from them. Nor had she sought the attentions of the young gentlemen. 'Twas not of her will that they dangled. In truth she no longer had eyes or ears for the small fas.h.i.+onable world of New York. She had a vastly greater world to conquer, and disdained to trouble herself, by a smile or a glance, for the admiration of the poor little world around her.
All her thoughts in her first months of marriage--and these were very pleasant months to Philip, so charming and sweet-tempered was his bride--were of the antic.i.p.ated residence in England. It was still settled that Philip was to go in June; and her going with him was now daily a subject of talk in the family. Mr. Faringfield himself occasionally mentioned it; indifferently, as if 'twere a thing to which he never would have objected. Margaret used sometimes to smile, thinking how her father had put it out of his power to oppose her wishes: first by his friendly sanction to Phil's going, to refuse which he had not the right; and then by his consent to her marriage, to refuse which he had not the will.
Naturally Philip took pleasure in her antic.i.p.ations, supposing that, as to their source and object, they differed not from his. As the pair were so soon to go abroad, 'twas thought unnecessary to set up in a house of their own in New York, and so they made their home for the time in the Faringfield mansion, the two large chambers over the great parlour being allotted to them; while they continued to share the family table, save that Margaret now had her morning chocolate abed.
”I must initiate myself into London ways, dear,” she said, gaily, when f.a.n.n.y remarked how strange this new habit was in a girl who had never been indolent or given to late rising.
”How pretty the blue brocaded satin is!” quoth f.a.n.n.y, looking at one of Margaret's new gowns hanging in a closet. ”Why didn't you wear it at the Watts' dinner yesterday? And your brown velvet--you've not had it on since it came from the dressmaker's.”
”I shall wear them in London,” says Margaret.
And so it was with her in everything. She saved her finest clothes, her smiles, her very interest in life, her capacity for enjoyment, all for London. And Philip, perceiving her indifference to the outside world, her new equability of temper, her uniform softness of demeanour, her constant meditative half-smile due to pleasurable dreams of the future, read all these as tokens of blissful content like that which glowed in his own heart. And he was supremely happy.
'Tis well for a man to have two months of such happiness, to balance against later years of sorrow; but sad will that happiness be in the memory, if it owe itself to the person to whom the sorrow in its train is due.
She would watch for him at the window, in the afternoon, when he came home from the warehouse; and would be waiting at the parlour door as he entered the hall. With his arm about her, he would lead her to a sofa, and they would sit talking for a few minutes before he prepared for supper--for 'twas only on great occasions that the Faringfields dined at five o'clock, as did certain wealthy New York families who followed the London mode.
”I am so perfectly, entirely, completely, utterly happy!” was the burden of Phil's low-spoken words.
”Fie!” said Margaret, playfully, one evening. ”You must not be perfectly happy. There must be some cloud in the sky; some annoyance in business, or such trifle. Perfect happiness is dangerous, mamma says. It can't last. It forbodes calamity to come. 'Tis an old belief, and she vows 'tis true.”
”Why, my poor mother held that belief, too. I fear she had little perfect happiness to test it by; but she had calamities enough. And Bert Russell's mother was saying the same thing the other day. 'Tis a delusion common to mothers, I think. I sha'n't let it affect my felicity. I should be ungrateful to call my contentment less than perfect. And if calamity comes, 'twill not be owing to my happiness.”
”As for that, I can't imagine any calamity possible to us--unless something should occur to hinder us from going to London. But nothing in the world shall do that, of course.”
'Twas upon this conversation that Tom and I broke in, having met as I returned from the custom-house, he from the college.
”Oho!” cried Tom, with teasing mirth, ”still love-making! I tell you what it is, brother Phil, 'tis time you two had eyes for something else besides each other. The town is talking of how engrossed Margaret is in you, that she ignores the existence of everybody else.”
”Let 'em talk,” said Margaret, lightly, with an indifference free from malice. ”Who cares about their existence? They're not so interesting, with their dull teas and stupid gossip of one another! A set of tedious rustics.”
”Hear the countess talk!” Tom rattled on, at the same time looking affectionate admiration out of his mirthful eyes. ”What a high and mighty lady is yours, my lord Philip! I should like to know what the Morrises, and Lind Murray, and the Philipse boys and girls, and our De Lancey cousins, and the rest, would think to hear themselves called a set of rustics.”
”Why,” says Phil, ”beside her ladys.h.i.+p here, are they _not_ a set of rustics?” With which he kissed her, and rose to go to his room.
”_Merci_, monsieur!” said Margaret, rising and dropping him a curtsey, with the prettiest of glances, as he left the parlour.
She hummed a little French air, and went and ran her fingers up and down the keys of the pianoforte, which great new instrument had supplanted the old harpsichord in the house. Tom and I, standing at the fireplace, watched her face as the candle-light fell upon it.
”Well,” quoth Tom, ”Phil is no prouder of his wife than I am of my sister. Don't you think she grows handsomer every day, Bert?”
”'Tis the effect of happiness,” said I, and then I looked into the fireplace rather than at her. For I was then, and had been for long months, engaged in the struggle of detaching my thoughts from her charms, or, better, of accustoming myself to look upon them with composure; and I had made such good success that I wished not to set myself back in it. Eventually my success was complete, and I came to feel toward her no more than the friends.h.i.+p of a lifelong comrade. If a man be honest, and put forth his will, he can quench his love for the woman that is lost to him, unless there have existed long the closest, tenderest, purest ties between them; and even then, except that 'twill revive again sometimes at the touch of an old memory.
”You dear boys!” says Margaret, coming over to us, to reward Tom with a kiss on the cheek, and me with a smile. ”What a vain thing you will make me of my looks!”
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