Part 9 (1/2)

”Nay,” says candid Tom, ”that work was done before ever we had the chance of a hand in it.”

”Well,” retorted Margaret, with good-humoured pertness, ”there'll never be reason for me to make my brother vain of his wit.”

”Nor for my sister to be vain of hers,” said Tom, not in nettled retaliation, but merely as uttering a truth.

”You compliment me there,” says Margaret, lightly. ”Did you ever hear of a witty woman that was charming?”

”That is true,” I put in, remembering some talk of Phil's, based upon reading as well as upon observation, ”for usually a woman must be ugly, before she will take the trouble to cultivate wit. The possession of wit in a woman seems to imply a lack of other reliances.

And if a woman be pretty and witty both, her arrogance is like to be such as drives every man away. And men resent wit in a woman as if 'twere an invasion of their own province.”

”Sure your explanation must be true, Mr. Philosopher,” said Margaret, ”'tis so profound. As for me, I seek no reasons; 'tis enough to know that most witty women are frights; and I don't blame the men for refusing to be charmed by 'em.”

”Well, sis,” said Tom, ”I'm sure even the cultivation of wit wouldn't make you a fright. So you might amuse yourself by trying it, ma'am. As for charming the men, you married ladies have no more to do with that.”

”Oh, haven't we? Sure, I think 'tis time little boys were in bed, who talk of things they know nothing about. Isn't that so, Bert?”

”Why,” said I, ”for my part, I think 'tis unkind for a woman to exercise her charms upon men after she has destroyed the possibility of rewarding their devotion.”

”Dear me, you talk like a character in a novel. Well, then, you're both agreed I mustn't be charming. So I'll be disagreeable, and begin with you two. Here's a book of sermons Mr. Cornelius must have left.

That will help me, if anything will.” And she sat down with the volume in her hands, took on a solemn frown, and began to read to herself.

After awhile, at a giggle of amus.e.m.e.nt from schoolboy Tom, she turned a rebuking gaze upon us, over the top of the book; but the very effort to be severe emphasised the fact that her countenance was formed to give only pleasure, and our looks brought back the smile to her eyes.

”'Tis no use,” said Tom, ”you couldn't help being charming if you tried.”

She threw down the book, and came and put her arm around him, and so we all three stood before the fire till Philip returned.

”Ah,” she said, ”here is one who will never ask me to be ugly or unpleasant.”

”Who has been asking impossibilities, my dear?” inquired Philip, taking her offered hand in his.

”These wise gentlemen think I oughtn't to be charming, now that I'm married.”

”Then they think you oughtn't to be yourself; and I disagree with 'em entirely.”

She gave him her other hand also, and stood for a short while looking into his innocent, fond eyes.

”You dear old Phil!” she said slowly, in a low voice, falling for the moment into a tender gravity, and her eyes having a more than wonted softness. The next instant, recovering her light playfulness with a little laugh, she took his arm and led the way to the dining-room.

And now came Spring--the Spring of 1775. There had been, of course, for years past, and increasing daily in recent months, talk of the disagreement between the king and the colonies. I have purposely deferred mention of this subject, to the time when it was to fall upon us in its full force so that no one could ignore it or avoid action with regard to it. But I now reach the beginning of the drama which is the matter of this history, and to which all I have written is uneventful prologue. We young people of the Faringfield house (for I was still as much of that house as of my own) had concerned ourselves little with the news from London and Boston, of the concentration of British troops in the latter town in consequence of the increased disaffection upon the closing of its port. We heeded little the fact that the colonies meant to convene another general congress at Philadelphia, or that certain colonial a.s.semblies had done thus and so, and certain local committees decided upon this or that. 'Twould all blow over, of course, as the Stamp Act trouble had done; the seditious cla.s.s in Boston would soon be overawed, and the king would then concede, of his gracious will, what the malcontents had failed to obtain by their violent demands. Such a thing as actual rebellion, real war, was to us simply inconceivable. I believe now that Philip had earlier and deeper thoughts on the subject than I had: indeed events showed that he must have had: but he kept them to himself. And far other and lighter subjects occupied our minds as he and I started for a walk out the Bowery lane one balmy Sunday morning in April, the twenty-third day of the month.

Mr. and Mrs. Faringfield, f.a.n.n.y, and Tom, had gone to church. Philip and I boasted of too much philosophical reading to be churchgoers, and I had let my mother walk off to Trinity with a neighbour. As for Margaret, she stayed home because she was now her own mistress and had a novel to read, out of the last parcel received from London. We left her on the rear veranda, amidst the honeysuckle vines that climbed the trellis-work.

”I've been counting the weeks,” she said to Phil, as we were about to set forth. ”Only seven more Sundays.” And she stopped him to adjust the ribbon of his queue more to her taste. ”Aren't you glad?”

”Yes; and a thousand times so because it makes you happy, my dear,”

said he.

She kissed him, and let him go. ”Don't walk too far, dear!” she called after us.