Philip Winwood Part 11

_Ned Comes Back, with an Interesting Tale of a Fortunate Irishman._

Before any of us knew what to say, a soft tread in the library announced the approach of Mr. Cornelius. He entered unaware of the scene that had just terminated, and with the stormy character of which on Margaret's part, nothing could have been in greater contrast than the quiescent atmosphere that ever accompanied the shy, low-speaking pedagogue. His presence diffused peace and quietude; and more than formerly was this the case of late, since he had resumed an intention of entering the Presbyterian ministry.

He had qualified himself for this profession at Princeton. But after his full preparations, a conscientious scruple had arisen from a sense of his diffidence, which he despaired of conquering, and by which he believed his attempts at pulpit eloquence were sure to be defeated.

Though he could compa.s.s the hardihood to discourse to an a.s.semblage of distracting schoolboys several hours every week-day, he could not summon the courage to address an audience of somnolent adults two hours on Sunday.

But latterly he had awakened to a new inward call, and resolved upon a new trial of his powers. By way of preliminary training, he had set about practising upon the sailors and wharfmen who ordinarily spent their Sundays in gaming or boozing in low taverns along the water-front. To as many of these as would gather in some open s.p.a.ce, at the sound of his voice raised tremulously in a hymn, he would preach as a layman, thus borrowing from the Methodists a device by which he hoped not only his present hearers, but also his own future Presbyterian congregations, should benefit. It was from one of these informal meetings, broken up by the news from Ma.s.sachusetts, that he was but now returned.

The stupefaction in which we all sat, did not prevent our noting the excitement in which Cornelius came; and Mr. Faringfield looked a mute inquiry.

"Your pardon, friends," said the pedagogue to the company; and then to Mr. Faringfield: "If I might speak with you alone a moment, sir--"

Mr. Faringfield went with him into the library, leaving us all under new apprehension.

"Dear bless me!" quoth Mrs. Faringfield, looking distressed. "More calamity, I vow."

In a moment we heard Mr. Faringfield's voice raised in a vehement "No, sir!" Then the library door was reopened, and he returned to us, followed by Cornelius, who was saying in his mildest voice: "But I protest, sir--I entreat--he is a changed man, I a.s.sure you."

"Changed for the worse, I make no doubt," returned the angry merchant.

"Let him not darken my door. If it weren't Sunday, I should send for a constable this moment."

"What is it?" cried Mrs. Faringfield. "Sure it can't be--that boy again!"

"Mr. Edward, madam," said the tutor.

"Dear, dear, what a day! What a terrible day! And Sunday, too!" moaned the lady, lying back in her chair, completely crushed, as if the last blow of fate had fallen.

"He arrived in the _Sarah_ brig, which anch.o.r.ed yesterday evening,"

explained Mr. Cornelius, "but he didn't come ash.o.r.e till this morning."

"He thought Sunday safer," said Mr. Faringfield, with scornful derision.

"I was returning from my service, when I met him," continued the tutor. "He was at the Faringfield wharf, inquiring after the health of the family, of Meadows the watchman. I--er--persuaded him to come home with me."

"You mean, sir, he persuaded you to come and intercede for him," said Mr. Faringfield.

"He is now waiting in the garden. I have been telling Mr. Faringfield, ma'am, that the young man is greatly altered. Upon my word, he shows the truest signs of penitence. I believe he is entirely reformed; he says so."

"You'd best let him come in, William," counselled Mrs. Faringfield.

"If you don't, goodness knows what he may do."

"Madam, I resolved long ago to let the law do its utmost upon him, if he should ever return."

"Oh, but think what scandal! What will all my relations say? Besides, if he is reformed--"

"If he is reformed, let him show it by his conduct on my refusing to take him back; and by suffering the penalty of his crime."

"Oh!--penalty! Don't speak such words! A jailbird in the family! I never could endure it! I shouldn't dare go to church, or be seen anywhere in public!"

"The same old discussion!" said Mr. Faringfield, with a wearied frown.

"Papa, you won't send him to jail, will you?" ventured f.a.n.n.y, with eyes rapidly moistening, and lips turning to a pout in spite of herself.

"Really, sir," put in Cornelius, trembling at his own temerity, "if you could but see him--take my word, sir, if ever there was a case where forgiveness--"

After much more of this sort of talk, and being shaken in will by the day's previous excitements, Mr. Faringfield at length gave in so far as to consent to an interview with the penitent, to whom thereupon Cornelius hastened with the news.

It was indeed a changed and chastened Ned, to all outward appearance, that entered meekly with the pedagogue a few minutes later. His tread was so soft, his demeanour so tame, that one would scarce have known him but for a second look at his shapely face and burly figure. The face was now somewhat hollowed out, darkened, lined, and blotched; and elongated with meek resignation. His clothes--claret-coloured cloth coat and breeches, flowered waistcoat, silk stockings, lace ruffles, and all--were shabby and stained. He bowed to the company, and then stood, furtively watching for some manifestation from the rest before he dared proceed to warmer greetings.

f.a.n.n.y stepped softly forward and kissed him, in a shy, perfunctory manner; and then good-natured Tom shook his hand, and Philip followed suit; after which Mrs. Faringfield embraced him somewhat stiffly, and I gingerly held his fingers a moment, and my mother hoped he found himself well.

"Quite well, I thank you, considering," said he; and then gazed in a half-scared way at his father. All the old defiance had disappeared under the blows of adversity.

"Well, sir," said his father, coldly, "we had scarce looked for you back among us."

"No, sir," said Ned, still standing. "I had no right to be looked for, sir--no more than the prodigal son had. I'm a bit like him, sir."

"Don't count upon the fatted calf, however."

"No, sir; not me. Very plain fare will do for me. I--I ask your pardon, sir, for that--that business about Mr. Palmer."

"The world has put you into a humble mood," said Mr. Faringfield, with sarcastic indifference.

"Yes, sir; the way of transgressors is hard, sir."

"Why don't you sit down?" put in Mrs. Faringfield, who was made uncomfortable by the sight of others being so.

"Thank you, mother," said Ned, availing himself of the implied permission.

"I hear you've undergone a reformation," said his father.

"I hope so, sir. They tell me I've got religion."

"Who tells you?"

"The Methodists. I went to their meetings in London. I--I thought I needed a little of that kind of thing. That's how I happened to--to save my soul."

"And how do you conceive you will provide for your body?"

"I don't know yet--exactly. If I might stay here till I could find some employment--"

Mr. Faringfield met the pleading look of f.a.n.n.y, and the prudent one of his wife. The latter reflected, as plainly as words, what had manifestly entered his own mind: that immunity from future trouble on Ned's account might indeed be had without recourse to a step entailing public disgrace upon the family. So he said:

"My intention was, if you should ever show your face in New York again, to see you punished for that matter of the money and Mr.

Palmer. I don't give up that intention; I shall only postpone carrying it out, during your good behaviour."

"Thank you, sir; I dare say it's better than I deserve."