And before I could
breathe twice, it seemed, we were rolling over the stones Northward.
"Sure it's a dream!" said I. "To think of it! Fanny in London!"
"My father would have it so," said she, demurely.
"Ay," added Phil, "and she's forbidden to go back to New York till she
takes you with her. 'Faith, man, am I not a prophet?"
"You're more than a prophet; you're a providence," I cried. "'Tis your
doing!"
"Nonsense. 'Tis Mr. Faringfield's. And that implacable man, not
content with forcing an uncongenial marriage upon this helpless
damsel, requires that you immediately resign your high post in the
king's service, and live upon the pittance he settles upon you as his
daughter's husband."
"'Tis too generous. I can't accept."
"You must, Bert," put in Fanny, "or else you can't have me. 'Tis one
of papa's conditions."
"But," Phil went on, "in order that this unhappy child may become used
to the horrible idea of this marriage by degrees, she is to live with
your mother a few months while I carry you off on a trip for my
benefit and pleasure: and that's one of my conditions: for it wouldn't
do for you to go travelling about the country after you were married,
leaving your wife at home, and Fanny abominates travelling. But as
soon as you and I have seen a very little of this part of the world,
you're to be married and live happy ever after."
We had a memorable evening in our little parlour that night.
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