He was the mirror of elegance, with none of the exaggerations of a fop. He brought with him to the Queen Street house the atmosphere of Bond Street and Pall Mall, the perfume of Almack's and the assembly rooms, the air of White's and the clubs, the odour of the chocolate houses and the fashionable taverns. 'Twas all that he represented, I fancy, rather than what the man himself was, and conquering as he was, that caught Margaret's eye. He typified the world before which she had hoped to shine, and from which she had been debarred—cruelly debarred, it may have seemed to her. I did not see this then; 'twas another, one of a broader way of viewing things, one of a less partial imagination—'twas Philip Winwood—that found this excuse for her.
Captain Falconer had the perception soon to gauge correctly us who were of American rearing, and the tact to cast aside the lofty manner by which so many of his stupid comrades estranged us. He treated Tom and me with an easy but always courteous familiarity that surprised, flattered, and won us. He would play cards with us, in his sitting-room, as if rather for the sake of our company than for the pleasure of the game. Indeed, as he often frankly confessed, gambling was no passion with him; and this was remarkable at a time when 'twas the only passion most fine young gentlemen would acknowledge as genuine in them, and when those who did not feel that passion affected it. We admired this fine disdain on his part for the common fashionable occupation of the age (for the pursuit of women was pretended to be followed as a necessary pastime, but without much real heart) as evidence of a superior mind. Yet he played with us, losing at first, but eventually winning until I had to withdraw. Tom, having more money to lose, held out longer.
"Why now," said the captain once, regarding his winnings with a face of perfect ruefulness, "'tis proven that what we seek eludes us, and what we don't value comes to us! Here am I, the last man in the world to court success this way, and here am I more winner than if I had played with care and attention."
Tom once mentioned, to another officer, Captain Falconer's luck at cards as an instance of fortune befriending one who despised her favours in that way.
"Blood, sir!" exclaimed the officer. "Jack Falconer may have a mind and taste above gaming as a pleasure, for aught I know. But I would I had his skill with the cards. 'Tis no pastime with him, but a livelihood. Don't you know the man is as poor as a church-mouse, but for what he gets upon the green table?"
This revelation a little dampened our esteem for the captain's elevation of intellect, but I'll take my oath of it, he was really above gaming as a way of entertaining his mind, however he resorted to it as a means of filling his purse.
Of course Tom's friendly association with him was before there was sure cause to suspect his intentions regarding Margaret. His manner toward her was the model of proper civility. He was a hundred times more amiable and jocular with Fanny, whom he treated with the half-familiar pleasantry of an elderly man for a child; petting her with such delicacy as precluded displeasure on either her part or mine. He pretended great dejection upon learning that her heart was already engaged; and declared that his only consolation lay in the fact that the happy possessor of the prize was myself: for which we both liked him exceedingly. Toward Mrs. Faringfield, too, he used a chivalrous gallantry as complimentary to her husband as to the lady. Only between him and Margaret was there the distance of unvaried formality.
And yet we ought to have seen how matters stood. For now Margaret, though she had so little apparent cordiality for the captain, had ceased to value the admiration of the other officers, and had substituted a serene indifference for the animated interest she had formerly shown toward the gaieties of the town. And the captain, too, we learned, had the reputation of an inveterate conqueror of women; yet he had exhibited a singular callousness to the charms of the ladies of New York. He had been three months in the town, and his name had not been coupled with that of any woman there. We might have surmised from this a concealed preoccupation. And, moreover, there was my first reading of his countenance, the night of the Morris ball; this I had not forgotten, yet I ignored it, or else I shut my eyes to my inevitable inferences, because I could see no propriety in any possible interference from me.
One evening in December there was a drum at Colonel Philipse's town house, which Margaret did not attend. She had mentioned, as reason for absenting herself, a cold caught a few nights previously, through her bare throat being exposed to a chill wind by the accidental falling of her cloak as she walked to the coach after Mrs. Colden's rout. As the evening progressed toward hilarity, I observed that Tom Faringfield became restless and gloomy. At last he approached me, with a face strangely white, and whispered:
"Do you see?—Captain Falconer is not here!"