I wished to hold further conversation with Marcel that morning on a
matter of high interest to both of us, but I did not find the
opportunity, for we were sent on immediate duty into different parts of
the suburbs. Mine was soon finished, and I returned to the heart of the
city. I noticed at once that the invading army had suffered a further
relaxation of discipline. Evidently, after his failure of the preceding
night, Sir William took no further interest in the war, and but little
in the army, for that matter, except where his personal friends were
concerned. But most afflicting was the condition of mind into which the
Tories had fallen. Philadelphia, like New York, abounded in these
gentry, and a right royal time they had been having, basking in the
sunshine of British favor, and tickling themselves with visions of
honors and titles, and even expecting shares in the confiscated estates
of their patriot brethren.
Now they were in sore distress, and but little of my pity had they.
Among the rumors was one, and most persistent it was too, that a
consequence of the French alliance would be the speedy evacuation of
Philadelphia by the British, who would in all probability seek to
concentrate their strength at New York. This was a misfortune that the
wretched Tories had never foreseen. What! the British ever give up
anything they had once laid their hands upon! The descendants of the
conquerors of Crecy, Poitiers, and Agincourt, the grandsons of the men
who had humbled Louis the Great at Blenheim and Malplaquet, to be beaten
by untrained, half-armed, and starving farmers! The thing was
impossible. And Tory and Briton vied with each other in crying to all
the winds of heaven that it could not be. The British were most arrogant
towards us in those days, for which reason we always took much
satisfaction in beating them, admitting at the same time that they were
brave men, and we never cared much about our victories over the
Hessians, who, to tell the truth, were very fierce in the pursuit of a
beaten enemy, but not quite so enduring in the main contention as the
British.
But I had ever had more animosity against the Tories than the British,
and I felt much secret delight at their manifest and troublous state of
mind. Some, who had their affairs well in hand, were preparing to depart
with their beloved British, who little wanted such burdens. Others were
mourning for their houses and goods which they had expected to see
wrenched from them as they would have wrenched theirs from the patriots.
All seemed to expect that the American army would be upon them
immediately, such were their agitation and terror. Curses, too, were now
heard against King George for deserting his faithful servants after
making so many great promises to them. Well, it is not for those who
shake the dice and lose, to complain. We, too, had had our sufferings.
Nevertheless, the British, as is their wont, put a good face upon the
matter. That very night, many of the officers were at a reception given
with great splendor at the house of a rich Tory, and they talked of past
triumphs and of others soon to be won. I also was there, for I had
contrived to secure an invitation, having special reasons for going.
As I had expected, Miss Desmond was present. She seemed to neglect none
of the fashionable gayeties of the city, and to me she looked handsomer
and statelier than ever. I wished for some look, some suggestion that we
had been companions in danger, and that we were rather better friends
than the others present; but she was cold and proud, and there was
nothing in her manner to show that we had ever met, save in the formal
atmosphere of the drawing-room.
"I hear, Lieutenant Melville," she said, "that you were in the
unfortunate attack last night and fell into the hands of the rebels."
"Yes, Miss Desmond," I replied, "but good fortune succeeded bad fortune.
I escaped from them in the darkness and the confusion, and am back in
Philadelphia to lay my sword at your feet."
Such was the polite language of the time; but she received it with small
relish, for she replied, with asperity,--
"You have barely escaped laying your sword at the feet of the rebels. Is
not that enough of such exercise?"
Then some British officers, who heard her, laughed as if the gibe had no
point for them.
I had no further opportunity for conversation with her until much later
in the evening. The rooms were buzzing with the gossip of great events
soon to occur; and though I sought not the part of a spy, and had no
intent to put myself in such a position, I listened eagerly to the
fragments of news that were sent about. This was not a matter of
difficulty, for all were willing, even eager, to talk, and one could not
but listen, without drawing comment and giving offence.
"'Tis reported," said Symington, a colonel, to me, "that the French king
will despatch an army in great haste to America. But we shall not care
for that--shall we, Melville? I, for one, am tired of playing
hide-and-seek with the old fox, Mr. Washington, and should like to meet
our ancient foes the French regulars in the open field. Then the
fighting would be according to the rules as practised by the experts in
Europe for many generations."
I thought to throw cold water upon him, and said I feared the Americans
and the French allied might prove too strong for us; and as for the
ancient rules of war, campaigns must be adapted to their circumstances
and the nature of the country in which they are conducted. If the
Americans alone, and that too when at least one-third of them were loyal
to our cause, had been able to confine us to two or three cities
practically in a state of besiegement, what were we to expect when the
full might of the King of France arrived to help them?
But he would have naught of my argument. He was full of the idea that
glory was to be found fighting the French regulars in the open field
according to the rules of Luxembourg and Marlborough. But I have no
right to complain, for it was such folly as his that was of great help
to us throughout the war, and contributed to the final victory over the
greatest power and the best soldiers of Europe.
Although much interested in such talk as it was continued by one or
another through the evening, I watched Miss Desmond. Now, since I knew
her so well, or at least thought I did, she had for me a most marvellous
attraction. At no time did she betray any weakness in the part she
played, and though more than once she found my eyes resting upon her,
there was no answering gleam. But I was patient, and a time when I could
speak to her alone again came at last. She had gone for air into the
small flower-garden which adjoined the house after the fashion of the
English places, and I, noting that no one else had observed her,
followed. She sat in a rustic chair, and, seeing me coming, waited for
me calmly, and in such manner that I could not tell whether I came as
one welcome or repugnant. But I stood by her side nevertheless.
"You have heard all the talk to-night, Lieutenant Melville, have you
not?" she asked.
"I suppose that you have in mind the new alliance with the French that
the rebels have made?" I said.
"Yes," she said. "That has been the burden of our talk."
"I could not escape it," I replied. "It is a very promising matter for
the rebels, and for that reason a very unpromising one for us."
"The French," she said, "would consider it a glorious revenge upon us
for our many victories at their expense, if they could help the rebels
to certain triumph over us. It would shear off the right arm of
England."
I looked with wonder at this woman who could thus preserve her false
part with me when she knew I knew so well that it was false. I thought
she might never again refer to our night ride, our companionship in
danger. It was not anything that I wished to forget. In truth, I did not
wish to forget any part of it. Yet if I had reflected, I should have
seen that she had reason to forget that night's ride, since she must
distrust me. Evidently Wildfoot had not told her who I was, and while I
must be a friend in some way or the ranger would not have let me go, she
could not guess the whole truth.
"Do you think, Lieutenant Melville," she asked, turning a very
thoughtful face towards me, "that this alliance will crush the English,
or will the French intervention incite them to more strenuous efforts?"
"I think, Miss Desmond," I replied, piqued and suddenly determining to
play my part as well as she, "that we will defeat Americans and French
combined. You know we are accustomed to victory over the French."
"It is as you say," she said; "but when one reads French histories one
finds French victories over the English also."
Which is very true, for it is a great gain to the glory of any country
to have expert historians.
"We will underrate the French," I said, "for that would depreciate such
triumphs as we have achieved in conflict with them."
"You make very little of Americans," she said. "Do you not think that
you will also have to reckon with my misguided countrymen?"
"Mere louts," I said, thinking that at last I had found away to provoke
her into an expression of her real opinions. "Perchance they might do
something if they were trained and properly armed. But, as they are,
they cannot withstand the British bayonet."
She looked at me with some curiosity, at which I was gratified, but, in
imitation of her own previous example, I had discharged expression from
my face.
"I had thought sometimes, Lieutenant Melville," she said, "that you had
been moved to sympathy for these people, these rebels."
"Then you are much mistaken, Miss Desmond," I said, "although I hope I
am not hard of heart. I am most loyal to the king, and hope for his
complete triumph. How could I be otherwise, when you, who are
American-born, set me such a noble example?"
"That is but the language of compliment, Lieutenant Melville," she said,
"the courtly speech that you have learned in London drawing-rooms,
and--pardon me for saying it--means nothing."
"It might mean nothing with other men," I said, losing somewhat of my
self-possession, "but it does mean something with me."
"I do not understand you, Lieutenant Melville," she said, turning upon
me an inquiring look. "You seem to speak in metaphors to-night."
"If so," I replied, "I may again plead your noble example. I do not
understand you at all to-night, Miss Desmond."
"Our conversation has been of a military character," she replied,
smiling for the first time. "So gallant an officer as you, Lieutenant
Melville, should understand that, while all of it may well be a puzzle
to me, a woman, whom the sound of a trumpet frightens, it is easy enough
for you to comprehend it."
"It is this time I who ask the pardon, Miss Desmond," I replied, "if I
say that is the language of compliment, of the drawing-room."
She made no reply, but bent forward to inhale the odor of a flower that
blossomed near her. I too was silent, for I knew not whether she wished
me to go or stay, or cared naught for either. From the drawing-room came
the sound of music, but she made no movement to go.
"I have had thoughts about you, too, Miss Desmond," I said, at length,
after some minutes of embarrassment, for me at least.
"I trust that such thoughts have been of a pleasant nature, Lieutenant
Melville," she said, turning her deep eyes upon me again.
"I have thought," I continued, "that you too felt a certain sympathy for
the rebels, your misguided countrymen."
"What reasons have I furnished for such a supposition?" she replied,
coldly. "Are you in the habit, Lieutenant Melville, of attributing
treasonable thoughts to the best friends of the king's cause."
This I thought was carrying the matter to a very extreme point, but it
was not for me, who called myself a gentleman, to say so aloud.
"I would not speak of it as treason," I said; "it seems to me to be in
accord with nature that you, who are an American, should feel sympathy
for the Americans."
"Then," she replied, "it is you who have treasonable thoughts, and not
I."
"I trust I may never falter in doing my duty," I said.
"I trust I may not do so either," she said.
"Then," I exclaimed, flinging away reserve and caution, "why play this
part any longer?"
"What part?" she asked, her eyes still unfathomable.
"This pretence of Toryism," I cried. "This pretence which we both know
to be so unreal. Do I not know that you are a patriot, the noblest of
patriots? Do I not honor you for it? Do I not remember every second of
our desperate ride together, and glory in the remembrance?"
I paused, for I am not accustomed to making high speeches, even when
under the influence of strong emotion.
Her eyes wavered, for the first time, and the red flush swept over her
face. But she recovered herself quickly.
"Then say nothing about it, if you would serve me," she said, and rising
abruptly she went into the house.