When I reached our room the next morning, I found Marcel just rising,
though there were black lines under his eyes, from which I judged that
his sleep had not been adequate to the demands of nature. Yet he seemed
happy and contented. There was upon his face no shadow, either of
troubles past, present, or to come.
"Ah, Philadelphia is a pleasant place, Robert my bold knight!" he said.
"I would that I could stay here long enough to exhaust its pleasures. It
is seldom that I have met fellows of such wit, fancy and resource as
Moore, Vivian, and the others. They have an abundance to eat here, cards
without limit, beautiful women to look upon and admire and dance with; a
theatre where they say the plays are not bad, and upon the stage of
which the beautiful Mary Desmond herself is to appear with honor and
distinction, for she could not appear otherwise. Now tell me, out of the
truth that is in your soul, Robert Chester, can life at Valley Forge
compare with life in Philadelphia?"
The mention of Mary Desmond's name in such a connection of course caught
my attention, but I deferred all question about it until I could draw
from Marcel the narration of what had occurred at Catron's room when I
did not come to arrange the duel.
"We had a game, a most beautiful game," said Marcel, in reply. "Vincent
Moore and I were partners, and we won everything that the others could
transfer from their pockets to the table. Upon my soul, Bob, I love that
Irishman almost as much as I do you!"
"But the duel?" I said; "what explanation did you make for me?"
"By my faith," he cried, "Vivian and Belfort and Catron wanted us to
explain how we could win so handsomely and so continuously. They said
that Old Nick was surely at our elbow, and if you consider the invisible
character of the gentleman aforesaid, I cannot deny that he was or
wasn't."
"But the duel, the duel?" I said. "Marcel, be serious for two
consecutive minutes!"
"Oh, that little affair of yours and Belfort's! I had forgotten about it
in the midst of more important subjects. Why do you bother so much over
trifles, Chester? It's that confounded Quakerish sense of responsibility
you have. Get rid of it. It will never do you any good in this world or
the next, and will spoil many otherwise pleasant moments. But your
little affair? I see that you are growing red in the face with
impatience or annoyance, and are not to be satisfied without a
narration. Well, I arrived at Catron's room on time, and explained that
you had been summoned by Sir William Howe, and would communicate with us
as soon as you could escape from the honor conferred upon you by the
commander-in-chief. All of which I spoke in most stately and proper
fashion, and the result seemed extremely satisfactory to every gentleman
present, saving his High Mightiness, Lieutenant Reginald Belfort, who
was disposed to impugn your courage or at least your zeal for a trial at
arms, whereupon I offered to fight him myself, without delay, in that
very room and at that very minute. Moore was eager for it, saying that
the proposition was most becoming to a gentleman like myself (I gave him
my best bow) and was in the highest interest of true sport, but the
others lacked his fine perceptions and just appreciation of a situation
and would not allow it. Then Moore proposed cards, and we sat down to
the game at exactly ten minutes past four o'clock by my watch, and we
did not rise until ten minutes past four o'clock this morning by the
same watch, rounding out the twelve hours most handsomely. At some point
in those twelve hours,--I do not remember just when, for I held a most
beautiful hand at that moment,--Sir William's secretary came in with a
report that you had been installed for the night in his place, which, of
course, checked any further aspersion on your honor that Belfort might
have had in store for you."
Then I told him that Sir William Howe knew of the projected duel and had
forbidden it.
"What do you say now, Marcel?" I asked.
"Why, it was a pretty affair before," he exclaimed, and his face
expressed supreme satisfaction, "but it is famous now. A duel is a duel
at any time, but a forbidden duel is best of all. You and Belfort are
bound to fight since the commander-in-chief has forbidden it. I can
conceive of no possible set of circumstances able to drive us away from
Philadelphia until the edges of your swords shall have met."
"But how?" I asked helplessly.
"Don't worry," he said with confidence. "Moore and I will arrange it.
With that man to help me, I would agree to arrange anything. Now, Bob,
you just be calm and trust me. Don't bother yourself at all about this
duel until you get your sword in your hand and Belfort before you; then
do your best."
It is the truth that I had no wish to fight a duel, but I did not intend
that I alone should appear unwilling; so I left the affair in Marcel's
hands, meanwhile seeming to look forward to the meeting as a man does to
his wedding. Then I asked Marcel what he meant by the appearance of Miss
Desmond in the play.
"I was going to tell you of that," he said. "You know the little theatre
in South Street. It has been the scene of some famous plays during the
past winter. They have officers here who write them and act them too.
There's 'The Mock Doctor,' and 'The Devil is in it,' and 'The
Wonder,'--the wonder of which last is a woman who kept a secret,--and
maybe a dozen more. Well, they are going to give one to-night that has
in it many parts for gallant knights and beautiful ladies. The British
officers are, of course, the gallant knights, and our Tory maidens are
the beautiful ladies. They asked Miss Desmond to take a leading part.
She objected to appearing on the stage, and her father, the crusty old
merchant, sustained her in the refusal. But they tacked about and poured
in a broadside from another quarter,--it was a naval officer who told me
about it. They said that she was the most conspicuous of the Tory young
ladies in Philadelphia, and she would seem lacking in zeal if she
refused to share in an affair devised, given, and patronized by the most
loyal. Whereupon she withdrew her refusal, and I suppose has prevailed
upon her father to withdraw his also,--at least he has made no further
objection. You will go, of course, Robert, and see her act."
Yes, I would go, but I was conscious in my heart of a secret dislike to
the appearance of Mary Desmond upon the stage. It was an affair for
ladies and gentlemen, and but few of the general public would be
present; still it was not a time when play acting was regarded with very
favorable eyes, especially in America. Yet I was conscious that my
objection was not founded upon that feeling. I did not wish to see Mary
Desmond, to whom I was naught, seeking the applause of a crowd, and
above all, I was not willing to hear these men from England discussing
her as they would discuss some stage queen of their own London.
Belfort, who was a fine actor, so Marcel told me, was to have the hero's
part, and he was to make love to Miss Desmond.
"But I promise you it's all in the play, Bob," said Phil, looking at me
from under his eyebrows.
I was not so sure of that, but this additional news increased my
distaste for the play, and I would have changed my mind and stayed away
if Marcel had not assured me that it could not be done.
"You are to go with us behind the scenes, Bob," he said. "We have
already arranged for that. Moore is one of the managers, and he has made
me his assistant. Behold, how invaluable I have become to the British
army in the few days that we have been in Philadelphia! We may need your
help, too. You are to be held in reserve, and Moore will never forgive
you if you do not come."
I was a little surprised at his eagerness on the point, but at the
appointed time I went with him to the theatre. It had never lacked for
attendance when the plays were given in the course of the winter, and
to-night, as usual, it was crowded with British and Hessian officers,
and Philadelphia Tories with their wives and daughters. I peeped at the
audience from my place behind the curtain, and it had been a longtime
since I had seen so much white powder and rose-pink and silk ribbon and
golden epaulet.
I do not remember much about the play or even its name, only that it had
in it a large proportion of love-making, and fighting with swords, all
after the approved fashion. I might have taken more careful note, had
not Reginald Belfort and Mary Desmond filled the principal parts, and my
eyes and ears were for them in particular rather than for the play in
general. There was a great chorus of "Bravos," and a mighty clapping of
hands when she appeared upon the stage as the oppressed and distressed
daughter of a mediæval English Lord whom the brave knight, Lieutenant
Reginald Belfort, was to win, sword in hand, and to whom he was to make
the most ardent love. Belfort did his part well. I give him full credit
for that. He did not miss a sigh or vow of passion, and his voice, his
looks, his gestures were so true, so earnest, that the audience
thundered its applause.
"Doesn't he play it splendidly?" said Marcel, in an ecstasy to me.
"Yes, damn him!" I growled.
And she! she merely walked through the part for a long time, but she
gradually caught the spirit of the lines--perhaps in spite of herself, I
hoped--and became the persecuted and distressed maiden that the play
would have her. Then her acting was real and sincere, and, with her
wondrous beauty to aid her, the audience gave her an applause even
exceeding that they had yielded to Belfort.
"It's a dazzling success!" said Marcel to me, with continued enthusiasm
at the end of the second act.