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."
"She doesn't know yet?"
"No; I came first to you. Her father isn't home yet."
"Well, Phil, there's little for me to say. You know what my feelings are. After all, we are to have you for a year, and then—well, I hope you may become the greatest architect that ever lived!"