Naturally Philip took pleasure in her anticipations, supposing that, as to their source and object, they differed not from his. As the pair were so soon to go abroad, 'twas thought unnecessary to set up in a house of their own in New York, and so they made their home for the time in the Faringfield mansion, the two large chambers over the great parlour being allotted to them; while they continued to share the family table, save that Margaret now had her morning chocolate abed.
"I must initiate myself into London ways, dear," she said, gaily, when Fanny remarked how strange this new habit was in a girl who had never been indolent or given to late rising.
"How pretty the blue brocaded satin is!" quoth Fanny, looking at one of Margaret's new gowns hanging in a closet. "Why didn't you wear it at the Watts' dinner yesterday? And your brown velvet—you've not had it on since it came from the dressmaker's."
"I shall wear them in London," says Margaret.
And so it was with her in everything. She saved her finest clothes, her smiles, her very interest in life, her capacity for enjoyment, all for London. And Philip, perceiving her indifference to the outside world, her new equability of temper, her uniform softness of demeanour, her constant meditative half-smile due to pleasurable dreams of the future, read all these as tokens of blissful content like that which glowed in his own heart. And he was supremely happy. 'Tis well for a man to have two months of such happiness, to balance against later years of sorrow; but sad will that happiness be in the memory, if it owe itself to the person to whom the sorrow in its train is due.
She would watch for him at the window, in the afternoon, when he came home from the warehouse; and would be waiting at the parlour door as he entered the hall. With his arm about her, he would lead her to a sofa, and they would sit talking for a few minutes before he prepared for supper—for 'twas only on great occasions that the Faringfields dined at five o'clock, as did certain wealthy New York families who followed the London mode.
"I am so perfectly, entirely, completely, utterly happy!" was the burden of Phil's low-spoken words.
"Fie!" said Margaret, playfully, one evening. "You must not be perfectly happy. There must be some cloud in the sky; some annoyance in business, or such trifle. Perfect happiness is dangerous, mamma says. It can't last. It forbodes calamity to come. 'Tis an old belief, and she vows 'tis true."
"Why, my poor mother held that belief, too. I fear she had little perfect happiness to test it by; but she had calamities enough. And Bert Russell's mother was saying the same thing the other day. 'Tis a delusion common to mothers, I think. I sha'n't let it affect my felicity. I should be ungrateful to call my contentment less than perfect. And if calamity comes, 'twill not be owing to my happiness."
"As for that, I can't imagine any calamity possible to us—unless something should occur to hinder us from going to London. But nothing in the world shall do that, of course."