CHAPTER XX.

_We Intrude upon a Gentleman at a Coffee-house._

Little was eaten at that supper, to which we sat down in a constraint natural to the situation. Philip was presently about to assume the burden of opening the conversation, when Madge abruptly began:

"I make no doubt you recognised him, Bert--the man with the coach."

"Yes. Philip and I saw him outside the theatre."

"And followed him, in following you," added Philip. "We had intended--"

"You must not suppose--" she interrupted; but, after a moment's halt of embarrassment, left the sentence unfinished, and made another beginning: "I never saw him or heard of him, after I left New York, till I had been three years on the stage. Then, when the war was over, he came back to London, and chanced to see me play at Drury Lane. He knew me in spite of my stage name, and during that very performance I found him waiting in the greenroom. I had no desire for any of his society, and told him so. But it seems that, finding me--admired, and successful in the way I had resorted to, he could not be content till he regained my--esteem. If I had shown myself friendly to him then, I should soon have been rid of him: but instead, I showed a resolution to avoid him; and he is the kind of man who can't endure a repulse from a woman. To say truth, he thinks himself invincible to 'em all, and when he finds one of 'em proof against him, even though she may once have seemed--when she didn't know her mind--well, she is the woman he must be pestering, to show that he's not to be resisted.

"And so, at last, to be rid of his plaguing, I went away from London, and took another stage name, and acted in the country. Only Mr. and Mrs. Sheridan were in the secret of this: 'twas Mr. Sheridan gave me letters to the country managers. That was in the Fall of '83. Well, I heard after awhile that he too had gone into the country, to dance attendance on an old aunt, whose heir he had got the chance of being, through his cousin's death. But I knew if I came back to London he would hear of it, and then, sure, farewell to all my peace! He had continually threatened to carry me off in a coach to some village by the Channel, and take me across to France in a fishing-smack. When I declared I would ask the magistrates for protection, he said they would laugh at me as a play-actress trying to make herself talked about. I took that to be true, and so, as I've told you, I left London.

"Well, after more than two years, I thought he must have put me out of his mind, and so I returned, and made my reappearance to-night. And, mercy on me!--there he was, waiting outside the theatre. From his appearance, I suppose the aunt has died and he has come into the money. He followed me home, as you saw; and for a moment, when he was carrying me toward the coach, I vow I had a fear of being rushed away to a seaport, and taken by force, on some fisherman's boat, across the Channel. And then, all of a sudden, 'twas as if you two had sprung out of the earth. Where did you come from? How was it? Oh, tell me all--all the news! Poor Tom! I thought I should die when I heard of his death. 'Twas--'twas Falconer told me--how he was killed in a skirmish with the--What's the matter? Why do you look so? Isn't it true? I entreat--!"

"Did Falconer tell you Tom died that way?" I blurted out, hotly, ere Phil could check me.

"In truth, he did! How was it?" She had turned white as a sheet.

"'Twas Falconer killed him in a duel," said I, with indignation, "the very night after you sailed!"

"What, Fal--! A duel! My God, on my account, then! Oh, I never knew that! Oh, Tom--little Tom--the dear little fellow--'twas I killed him!" She flung her head forward upon the table, and sobbed wildly, so that I repented of my outspoken anger at Falconer's deception of her. For some minutes her grief was pitiful to see. If ever there was the anguish of remorse, it was then. I sat sobered, leaving it to Phil to apply comfort, which, when her outburst of tears had spent its violence, he undertook to do.

"Well, well, Madge," said he, softly, "'tis done and past now, and not for us to recall. 'Twas an honourable death, such as he would never have shrunk from; and he has long been past all sorrow. The most of his life, while it lasted, was happy; and you could never have foreseen. He will not be unavenged, take my word of that!"

But it was a long time ere Phil could restore her to composure. When he had done so, he asked her what had become of Ned. Thereupon she told us all that I have recorded in a former chapter, of their first days in London, and the events leading to her acceptance of Mr. Sheridan's offer. After she had been acting for some time, under the name of Miss Warren, Ned chanced to come to the play, and recognised her. He thereupon dogged her, in miserable plight, claiming some return of the favours which he vowed he had lavished upon her. She put him upon a small pension, but declared that if he molested her with further demands she would send him to jail for robbing her. She had not seen him since; he had called regularly upon her man of business for his allowance, until lately, when he had ceased to appear.

Of what had occurred before she turned actress, she told us all, I say; for the news of Tom's real fate had put her into a state for withholding nothing. Never was confession more complete; uttered as it was in a stricken voice, broken as it was by convulsive sobs, marked as it was by falling tears, hesitations for phrases less likely to pain Philip, remorseful lowerings of her eyes. She reverted, finally, to her acquaintance with Falconer in New York, and finished with the words:

"But I protest I have never been guilty of the worst--the one thing--I swear it, Philip; before God, I do!"

If any load was taken from Phil's mind by this, he refrained from showing it.

"I came in search of you," said he, in a low voice, "to see what I could do toward your happiness. I knew that in your situation, a wife separated from her husband, dependent on heaven knew what for a maintenance, you must have many anxious, distressful hours. If I had known where to find you, I should have sent you money regularly from the first, and eased your mind with a definite understanding. And now I wish to do this--nay, I _will_ do it, for it is my right. Whatever may have happened, you are still the Madge Faringfield I--I loved from the first; nothing can make you another woman to me: and though you chose to be no longer my wife, 'tis impossible that while I live I can cease to be your husband."

The corners of her lips twitched, but she recovered herself with a disconsolate sigh. "Chose to be no longer your wife," she repeated. "Yes, it appeared so. I wanted to shine in the world. I have shone--on the stage, I mean; but that's far from the way I had looked to. A woman in my situation--a wife separated from her husband--can never shine as I had hoped to, I fancy. But I've been admired in a way--and it hasn't made me happy. Admiration can't make a woman happy if she has a deeper heart than her desire of admiration will fill. If I could have forgot, well and good; but I couldn't forget, and can't forget. And one must have love, and devotion; but after having known yours, Philip, whose else could I find sufficient?"

And now there was a pause while each, fearing that the other might not desire reunion, hesitated to propose it; and so, each one waiting for the other to say the word, both left it unsaid. When the talk was finally renewed, it was with a return of the former constraint.

She asked us, with a little stiffness of manner, when we had come to London; which led to our relation, between us, of all that had passed since her departure from New York. She opened her eyes at the news of our residence in Hampstead, and lost her embarrassment in her glad, impulsive acceptance of my invitation to come and see us as soon as possible. While Philip and she still kept their distance, as it were, I knew not how far to go in cordiality, or I should have pressed her to come and live with us. She wept and laughed, at the prospect of seeing Fanny and my mother, and declared they must visit her in town. And then her tongue faltered as the thought returned of Falconer's probable interference with the quiet and safety of her further residence in London; and her face turned anxious.

"'Faith! you need have no fear on that score," said Philip, quietly. "Where does he live?"

She did not know, but she named a club, and a tavern, from which he had dated importunate letters to her before she left London.

"Well," said Philip, rising, "I shall see a lawyer to-morrow, and you may expect to hear from him soon regarding the settlement I make upon you."

"You are too kind," she murmured. "I have no right to accept it of you."

"Oh, yes, you have. I am always your husband, I tell you; and you will have no choice but to accept. I know not what income you get by acting; but this will suffice if you choose to leave the stage."

"But you?" she replied faintly, rising. "Shall I not see--?"

"I shall leave England in a few days: I don't know how long I shall be abroad. But there will be Bert, and Fanny, and Mrs. Russell--I know you may command them for anything." There was an oppressive pause now, during which she looked at him wistfully, hoping he might at the last moment ask her that, which he waited to give her a final opportunity of asking him. But neither dared, for fear of the other's hesitation or refusal. And so, at length, with a good-bye spoken in an unnatural voice on each side, the two exchanged a hand-clasp, and Philip left the room. She stood pale and trembling, bereft of speech, while I told her that I should wait upon her soon. Then I followed Philip down-stairs and to the street.

"I will stay to-night at Jack's tavern yonder," said he. "I can watch this house, in case that knave should return to annoy her. Go you home--Fanny and your mother will be anxious. And come for me to-morrow at the tavern, as early as you can. You may tell them what you see fit, at home. That's all, I think--'tis very late. Good night!"

I sought a hackney-coach, and went home to relieve the fears of the ladies, occasioned by our long absence. My news that Margaret was found (I omitted mention of Captain Falconer in my account) put the good souls into a great flutter of joy and excitement, and they would have it that they should go in to see her the first thing on the morrow, a resolution I saw no reason to oppose. So I took them with me to town in the morning, left them at Madge's lodgings, and was gone to join Philip ere the laughing and crying of their meeting with her was half-done.

As there was little chance to find Captain Falconer stirring early, Phil and I gave the forenoon to his arrangements with his man of law at Lincoln's Inn. When these were satisfactorily concluded, and a visit incidental to them had been made to a bank in the city, we refreshed ourselves at the Globe tavern in Fleet Street, and then turned our faces Westward.

At the tavern that Madge had named, we learned where Falconer abode, but, proceeding to his lodgings, found he had gone out. We looked in at various places whither we were directed; but 'twas not till late in the afternoon, that Philip caught sight of him writing a letter at a table in the St. James Coffeehouse.

Philip recognised him from the view he had obtained the previous night; but, to make sure, he nudged me to look. On my giving a nod of confirmation, Philip went to him at once, and said:

"Pray pardon my interrupting: you are Captain Falconer, I believe."

The captain looked up, and saw only Philip, for I stood a little to the rear of the former's elbow.

"I believe so, too, sir," he replied urbanely.

"Our previous meeting was so brief," said Philip, "that I doubt you did not observe my face so as to recall it now."

"That must be the case," said the captain, "for I certainly do not remember having ever met you."

"And yet our meeting was no longer ago than last night--in Dean Street."

The captain's face changed: he gazed, half in astonishment, half in a dawning resentment.

"The deuce, sir! Have you intruded upon me to insult me?"

"'Faith, sir, I've certainly intruded upon you for no friendly purpose."

Falconer continued to gaze, in wonder as well as annoyance.

"Who the devil are you, sir?" he said at last.

"My name is Winwood, sir--Captain Winwood, late of the American army of Independence."

Falconer opened his eyes wide, parted his lips, and turned a little pale. At that moment, I shifted my position; whereupon he turned, and saw me.

"And Russell, too!" said he. "Well, this is a--an odd meeting, gentlemen."

"Not a chance one," said Philip. "I have been some time seeking you."

"Well, well," replied the captain, recovering his self-possession. "I imagine I know your purpose, sir."

"That will spare my explaining it. You will, of course, accommodate me?"

"Oh, yes; I see no way out of it. Gad, I'm the most obliging of men--Mr. Russell will vouch for it."

"Then I beg you will increase the obligation by letting us despatch matters without the least delay."

"Certainly, if you will have it so--though I abominate hurry in all things."

"To-morrow at dawn, I hope, will not be too soon for your preparations?"

"Why, no, I fancy not. Let me see. One moment, I pray."

He called a waiter, and asked:

"Thomas, is there any gentleman of my acquaintance in the house at present?"

"Oh, a score, sir. There's Mr. Hidsleigh hup-stairs, and--"

"Mr. Idsleigh will do. Ask him to grant me the favour of coming down for a minute." The waiter hastened away. "Mr. Russell, of course, represents you, sir," the captain added, to Philip.

"Yes, sir; and you are the challenged party, of course."

"I thank you, sir. If Mr. Russell will wait, I will introduce my friend here, and your desire for expedition may be carried out."

"I am much indebted, sir," said Philip; and requesting me to join him later at the tavern in Dean Street, he took his leave.

When Mr. Idsleigh, a fashionable young buck whom I now recalled having once seen in the company of Lord March, had presented himself, a very brief explanation on Falconer's part sufficed to enlist his services as second; whereupon the captain desired affably that he might be allowed to finish his letter, and Idsleigh and I retired to a compartment at the farther end of the room. Idsleigh regarded me with disdainful indifference, and conducted his side of the preliminaries in a bored fashion, as if the affair were of even less consequence than Falconer had pretended to consider it. He set me down as a nobody, a person quite out of the pale of polite society, and one whom it was proper to have done with in the shortest time, and with the fewest words, possible. I was equally chary of speech, and it was speedily settled that our principals should fight with small swords, at sunrise, at a certain spot in Hyde Park; and Idsleigh undertook to provide a surgeon. He then turned his back on me, and walked over to Falconer, without the slightest civility of leave-taking.

I went first in a hackney-coach to Hyde Park, to ascertain exactly the spot which Mr. Idsleigh had designated. Having done so, I returned to Dean Street; and, in order that I might without suspicion accompany Philip before daybreak, I called at Madge's lodgings, and suggested that my mother and Fanny should pass the night in her house (in which I had observed there were rooms to let) and take her to Hampstead the next day; while I should sleep at the tavern. This plan was readily adopted. Thereupon, rejoining Philip, I went with him to the Strand, where he engaged a post-chaise to be in waiting for him and me the next morning, for our flight in the event of the duel having the fatal termination he desired.

"We'll take a hint from Captain Falconer's threat," said Phil: "ride post to Hastings, and have the Doughty boys sail us across to France. You'd best write a letter this evening, to leave at Madge's lodgings after the affair, explaining your departure, to Fanny and your mother. Afterward, you can either send for them to come to France, or you can return to Hampstead when the matter blows over. I might have spared you these inconveniences and risks, by getting another second; but I knew you wouldn't stand that."

And there, indeed, he spoke the truth.