Part 32 (2/2)
”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.
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