The poor old man had to go to the Barbadoes, and come back again, before a word of this event reached the ears of Mr. Faringfield. When Palmer returned with his account of it, he brought word from Mr. Culverson that, although Ned had indeed settled a gambling debt at the pistol’s point, and had indeed paid the passage of a woman and child to England, his theft had been of less than a hundred pounds. Thus it was made manifest that Ned had lied to Philip in order to play upon his father’s solicitude concerning the name of Faringfield for integrity, and so get into his hands the means of embarking upon the pleasures of the Old World. Very foolish did poor Philip look when he learned how he had been duped. But Mr. Faringfield, I imagine, consoled himself with the probability that New York had seen the last of Mr. Edward.
I think ’twas to let Mr. Faringfield recover first from the feelings of this occasion, that Philip postponed so long the announcement of his intention to go to England. Thus far he had confided his plans to me alone, and as a secret. But now he was past twenty-one years, and his resolution could not much longer be deferred. Nevertheless, not until the next June—that of 1774—did he screw up his courage to the point of action.
“I shall tell him to-day,” said Philip to me one Monday morning, as I walked with him part of the way to the warehouses. “Pray heaven he takes it not too ill.”
I did not see Phil at dinner-time; but in the afternoon, a little before his usual home-coming hour, he came seeking me, with a very relieved and happy face; and found me trimming a grape-vine in our back garden, near the palings that separated our ground from Mr. Faringfield’s. On the Faringfield side of the fence, at this place, grew bushes of snowball and rose.
“How did he take it?” I asked, smiling to see Phil’s eyes so bright.
“Oh, very well. He made no objection; said he had not the right to make any in my case. But he looked so upset for a moment, so deserted—I suppose he was thinking how his own son had failed him, and that now his beneficiary was turning from him—that I wavered. But at that he was the same haughty, immovable man as ever, and I remembered that each of us must live his own life; and so ’tis settled.”
“Well,” said I, with a little of envy at his prospect, and much of sorrow at losing him, and some wonder about another matter, “I’m glad for your sake, though you may imagine how I’ll miss you. But how can you go yet? ’Tis like leaving the field to me—as to her, you know.” I motioned with my head toward the Faringfield house.
“Why,” he replied, as we both sat down on the wooden bench, “as I shall be gone years when I do go, Mr. Faringfield stipulated only that I should remain with him here another year; and I was mighty glad he did, or I should have had to make that offer. ’Twasn’t that I was anxious to be off so soon, that made me tell him I was going; ’twas that in harbouring the intention, while he still relied upon my remaining always with him, I seemed to be guilty of a kind of treachery. As for—her, if she gives no indication within a year, especially when she knows I’m going, why, ’twill be high time to leave the field to you, I think.”