CHAPTER I

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THE LOYALIST

_A Story of the American Revolution_

BY

JAMES FRANCIS BARRETT

[Illustration: Publisher's logo]

P. J. KENEDY & SONS

NEW YORK

COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY

P. J. KENEDY & SONS, NEW YORK

_Printed in U. S. A._

TO MY SISTER

AS A SLIGHT TOKEN OF LOVE AND ESTEEM

FOREWORD

Historical facts constitute the background of this story. Its hero and

its heroine are, of course, fictitious; but the deportment of General

Arnold, the Shippen family, the several military and civic personages

throughout the story is described, for the most part, accurately and in

conformity with the sober truths of history. Pains have been taken to

depict the various historical episodes which enter into the story--such

as the attempted formation of the Regiment of Roman Catholic Volunteers,

the court-martial of Major General Arnold, the Military Mass on the

occasion of the anniversary of American Independence--with as much

fidelity to truth as possible. The anti-Catholic sentences, employed in

the reprimand of Captain Meagher, are anachronisms; they are identical,

however, with utterances made in the later life of Benedict Arnold. The

influence of Peggy Shippen upon her husband is vouched for by eminent

authority.

Due appreciation and sincere gratitude must be expressed to those

authors from whom much information has been taken,--to John Gilmary

Shea, in his "History of the Catholic Church in the United States"; to

Martin I. J. Griffin's "Catholics and the American Revolution"; to F. J.

Stimson's excellent work, "Memoirs of Benedict Arnold"; to John Fiske's

"American Revolution," and to the many other works which have freely

been made use of in the course of this writing. Cordial thanks are also

due to those who have generously assisted by suggestions and criticisms,

and especially to those who have devoted their valuable moments to the

revision of the proof sheets.

J. F. B.

THE LOYALIST

PART ONE

CHAPTER I

"Please continue, Peggy. You were telling me who were there and what

they wore. Oh, dear! I am so sorry mother would not give me leave to go.

Was it all too gay?"

"It was wonderful!" was the deliberate reply. "We might have danced till

now had not Washington planned that sudden attack. We had to leave

then,--that was early this morning,--and I spent the day abed."

It was now well into the evening and the two girls had been seated for

the longest time, it seemed, on the small sofa which flanked the east

wall of the parlor. The dusk, which had begun to grow thick and fast

when Marjorie had come to visit Peggy, was now quite absorbed into

darkness; still the girls had not lighted the candles, choosing to

remain in the dark until the story of the wonderful experience of the

preceding day had been entirely related.

The grand pageant and mock tournament, the celebrated Mischienza,

arranged in honor of General Howe, who had resigned his office as

Commander-in-chief of His Majesty's forces in America to return to

England, there to defend himself against his enemies in person, as

General Burgoyne was now doing from his seat in Parliament, was an event

long to be remembered not alone from the extravagance of its display,

but from the peculiar prominence it afforded the foremost families of

the city, particularly that of the Shippens.

Edward Shippen was a gentleman of rank, of character, of fortune, a

member of one of the oldest and most respected families in the city of

Philadelphia, whose ancestor, of the same name, had been Mayor of the

city nigh an hundred years before. He belonged to the Society of

Friends, or Quakers, and while he took no active interest on either side

during the years of the war, still he was generally regarded as one of

the sympathizers of the Crown. Because of the social eminence which the

family enjoyed and the brilliance and genial hospitality which

distinguished their affairs, the Shippens were considered the undisputed

leaders of the social set of Philadelphia. The three lovely Misses

Shippen were the belles of the more aristocratic class. They were

toasted frequently by the gay English officers during the days of the

British occupation, for their father's house was often the rendezvous of

the titled celebrities of the day.

"And was your Captain there, too?" continued Marjorie, referring, of

course, to Captain Monstresor, the engineer of the undertaking, an

erstwhile admirer of Mistress Peggy.

"You must know, my dear, that he arranged the spectacle. I saw little of

him until the dance. In truth, he seemed more popular than General Howe

himself."

Marjorie sat up.

"Tell me! Did the tournament begin the program?"

"No!" replied Peggy. "The military procession of boats and barges with

Lords Howe and Rawdon, General Howe and General Clinton, opened the

event in the late morning, sailing up the river to the Wharton House,

the scene of the tournament."

Marjorie nodded.

"The noise of the guns was deafening. When the flotilla arrived at

Walnut Grove, which was lined with troops and bedecked brilliantly with

flags and bunting, the pageant opened."

"Where were you in the meantime?" asked Marjorie, careful to lose no

detail.

"We were seated in the pavilions,--seven ladies in each,--clothed in

Turkish garments, each wearing in her turban the favor to be bestowed on

her victorious knight."

"And who was your knight?"

"The Honorable Captain Cathcart," quickly replied Peggy, her eyes

beaming with a smile of evident satisfaction and proud joy.

"Lord Cathcart, whom I met here?"

"The same," answered Peggy. "He was the leader of the 'Knights of the

Blended Rose.'"

"What an odd name!" she exclaimed.

"I know it. They were named after their device. They were dressed in

white and red silk, mounted on gray horses and attended by esquires.

They were preceded by a herald who bore their device, two roses

intertwined above the motto, 'We droop when separated.' My knight rode

at the head, attended by two British Officers, and his two esquires, the

one bearing his lance, the other his shield emblazoned with his

device--Cupid astride a lion--over the motto, Surrounded by love.'"

"You little Tory," interrupted Marjorie. "I shall tell General

Washington that you are disloyal and have lent your sympathy to a

British Officer."

"I care little. The Yankees are without refinement----"

"Don't you dare say that," snapped Marjorie, her whole being animated

with sudden anger. "It is untrue and you know it. They are patriots

and----"

"Forgive me, dear," murmured Peggy, laying her hand on the arm of her

irate friend. "I said that only in jest. I shan't continue if you are

vexed."

There was silence.

"Please! I am not angry," Marjorie pleaded. "Do continue."

"I forget my story now. What did I tell? There was so much that I am

confused."

"The Knights of the Rose!" suggested Marjorie.

"Oh, yes! Well, this body of knights made the circuit of the square and

then saluted their ladies. On a sudden, a herald advanced with a

flourish of trumpets and announced that the ladies of the Blended Rose

excelled in wit, beauty, grace, charm and accomplishments those of the

whole world and challenged a denial by deeds of arms. Whereupon a

counter sound of trumpets was heard from afar and another herald

galloped before a body of knights in black and orange silk with the

device--a wreath of flowers surrounding a burning heart--over the motto,

'Love and Glory.' These were the Knights of the Burning Mountain, who

came to dispute the claim of the Knights of the Blended Rose."

"It must have been gorgeous!" exclaimed Marjorie, clasping her hands

before her.

"Indeed it was. Well, after several preliminaries, the encounter took

place, the knights receiving their lances together with their shields

from their esquires, whereupon they saluted and encountered at full

speed, shivering their spears against the shield of their adversaries.

They next encountered and discharged their pistols and then fought with

swords. Again the two chiefs of the warring factions, Captain Cathcart

of the Blended Rose and Captain Watson of the Burning Mountain, met in

mid field to try their arms as champions of their respective parties.

They parried and thrust with true knightly valor until Major Grayson, as

marshal of the field, intervened at the critical moment, declaring the

ladies of both parties to be fully satisfied with the proofs of love and

the feats of valor displayed by their knights. He then commanded the

combatants to desist. Thus ended the tournament."

"How wonderful!" sighed Marjorie. "I would I had been present. And your

knight was the hero?"

"Of course," replied Peggy with a smile. "I am sure that he would have

worsted Captain Watson, had not the Major stepped in. But the banquet

was splendid."

"And Captain Cathcart!" reminded Marjorie, with a slight manifestation

of instinctive envy.

"Why! He attended me, of course," was the proud response. "Each knight

escorted his lady through the triumphal arches erected in honor of the

Generals who were present, along the long avenue lined on both sides

with the troops and the colors of the army. At the third arch, which was

dedicated to General Howe and which bore on its top a huge flying figure

of Fame, we entered the great Hall. There refreshments were served and

the dancing began. It continued until midnight. The windows were then

thrown open and we witnessed the wonderful display of fireworks. And

then the supper!

"Gorgeous, of course!" exclaimed Marjorie.

"Gorgeous, indeed!" Peggy repeated--"a great room, with fifty or more

pier glasses, draped with green silk and hundreds of varieties of

flowers of as many hues and shades. An hundred branches of lights,

thousands of tapers, four hundred and thirty covers, and there must have

been more than twelve hundred dishes. The attendants were twenty-four

black slaves garbed oriental fashion with silver collars and bracelets.

And then we danced and danced until dawn, when we were interrupted by

the sound of distant cannon."

"And then your knights were called to real war," remarked Marjorie.

"For the moment all thought this to be part of the program, the signal

for another great spectacle. Suddenly everything broke into confusion.

The officers rushed to their commands. The rest of us betook ourselves

as best we could. We came home and went to bed, tired in every bone.

Mother is sorry that I attended, for she thought it too gay. But I would

not have lost it for the world."

And perhaps her mother was right. For Peggy was but eighteen, the

youngest of the Shippen family. The other girls were somewhat older, yet

the three were considered the most beautiful debutantes of the city, the

youngest, if in anything, the more renowned for grace and manner. Her

face was of that plumpness to give it charm, delicate in contour, rich

with the freshness of the bloom of youth. Her carriage betrayed

breeding and dignity. And all was sweetened by a magnetism and vivacity

that charmed all who came within her influence. Still her attitude was

the more prepossessing than permanent.

Like her father, she was a Quaker in many of her observances. To that

creed she adhered with a rigorous determination. She had so often

manifested her political sympathies, which were intensified to an

irrational degree as appeared from passionate disclosures, that her

father was led to observe that she was more a Tory at heart than General

Howe himself.

Her companion, Marjorie Allison, was about her own age, but as intensely

American as she was English. Her parents had always lived in

Philadelphia, as their parents had before them, coming originally from

the Mother country to which they were now opposed in martial strife. The

thrill of patriotism for the cause of the infant republic, which

throbbed violently within her breast, had been inspired to enthusiasm

more by the intense antipathy for the Church of England than for the

government itself. This antipathy was kept alive and invigorated by the

doleful memory of the privations and adversities endured by her

ancestors from the agents of this same government because of their

Catholic worship and their heroic efforts to follow their religious

convictions.

The sympathies of the Allisons were undivided. They were notorious

Whigs, ardent champions of the rights which the new government so

strongly asserted, and which they had pledged themselves stoutly to

defend; ardent champions of the eternal principles on which the new

republic was built. The psychology of the Allisons' allegiance did not

differ from that of innumerable other families. Usually, strange to

relate, society, while constantly moving forward with eager speed, is

just as constantly looking backward with tender regrets. But no regrets

were here. Religious persecution leaves no tender memories in its trail.

Dissatisfaction with the past is seldom rendered more memorable than by

the fanatic attempt to separate the soul from its God.

Marjorie and Peggy had been friends from girlhood. They understood each

other very well. Each knew and appreciated the other's peculiarities,

her virtues and her foibles, her political propensities and religious

convictions. They never discussed their religious differences. They

avoided such a clash out of respect for each other's convictions. Not

so, however, in matters relating to the form of government. Marjorie was

a Whig, an ardent champion of the rights of the Colonists, while her

more aristocratic friend was Tory in her sentiments, moderate, it is

true, but nevertheless at times much inclined to the extreme.

Notwithstanding these differences, their friendship had been constant

and they had always shared their joys and sorrows.

The days of the British occupation of the city had been glorious ones

for Peggy and her sisters. The love of display and finery which was

characteristic of them was satiated by the brilliance and the gayety of

the winter season during which the titled British Officers were feted

and entertained extravagantly. None outshone the Shippens in the

magnificence of their entertainments. Their house was ever open in

hospitality, and more than once it had been whispered about that their

resources had reached the point of exhaustion.

At these functions Marjorie found herself a welcome guest. For Peggy

took care that her little friend was never overlooked, even if on one

occasion a pang of regret sent her to bed with copious tears when the

favor for the evening had been bestowed upon her fair guest. Marjorie,

however, maintained a mature composure and a marked concern, as was her

wont, throughout it all, and Peggy again reassured herself that her

misgivings were without foundation. For Marjorie disliked the titled

gentry. They were without exception hostile to the faith to which she so

steadfastly adhered. She bore with them merely for the pleasure which

she derived from the coterie made brilliant by their participation.

And so the winter passed, giving way to lovely, spring, whose gentle

zephyrs dispelled the cold, the ice and the snow that had sent the

British into the ballrooms for protection, and had afflicted and

distressed the patriots at Valley Forge. With the advent of favorable

weather, operations began anew; the hopes and the courage of the

colonists were now exalted to the highest pitch. The disasters of Long

Island and Fort Washington had been offset by the victory at Saratoga.

While the British had taken and held the important cities of New York

and Philadelphia as well as the town of Newport, still they had lost an

army and had gained nothing but the ground on which they were encamped.

Now, at the beginning of the fourth period of the war, the joyful news

was heralded far and wide that the government of France had formally

acknowledged the independence of the United States and that help was on

the way to assist the Colonists in their struggle. At the same time the

conciliatory measures of Lord North in Parliament gave indication to

the patriots that the British Government was weakening. The joy of the

Whigs knew no bounds, and Marjorie was beside herself as she related the

glad tidings over and over again. The fourth epoch of the war augured

well for the success of the cause.

II

In all the Colonies there was at this stage of the war no city more

important than Philadelphia. Whatever there was among the Colonists of

wealth, of comfort, of social refinement, of culture and of courtly

manners was here centered. Even the houses were more imposing than

elsewhere throughout the country. They were usually well constructed of

stone or brick with either thatched or slated roofs. They were supplied

with barns bursting with the opulence of the fields. The countryside

round about was teeming with fatness. Indeed, in all the colonies no

other place was so replete with affluence and comfort.

Nor was it without its gentry, cultured and dignified. Its inhabitants

were, for the most part, made up of members of old Quaker families and

others faithful to the Church of England and devoted to the political

principles of the Mother country,--the proud possessors of wealth and

the exemplars of the most dignified deportment. Already were its fair

sex renowned abroad as well as at home for their "beauty, grace and

intelligence." They moved with all the gayety and charm of court ladies.

The wealth and luxury of a capital city were there; for even in the

infancy of the republic, Philadelphia had attained a distinction,

unique and preeminent. What was more natural, then, than that their

allegiance should be divided; the so-called fashionable set adhering to

the crown; the common townsfolk, the majority of whom were refugees from

an obnoxious autocracy, zealously espousing the colonists' cause, and

the middle class, who were comprised of those families holding a more or

less neutral position in the war, and who were willing to preserve their

estates and possessions, remaining undecided, and in their manner

maintaining good offices with both sides throughout the strife.

The British Army took possession of the city, after its victorious

encounter on the Brandywine, on the twenty-sixth of September, 1777. Sir

William Howe selected for his headquarters the finest house in the city,

the mansion which was once the home of Governor Richard Penn, grandson

of William Penn. Here General Howe and his staff of officers passed a

gay winter. They were much more interested in the amusements, the

gayeties, the dissipations carried on in this old Quaker City than in

any efforts to capture the army of General Washington.

The infatuate populace, indifferent to the progress of the Revolution,

unaffected for the most part by the righteousness of the cause of the

Colonists, became enamored of the brilliance and the fashion and the

display of the English nobility. They cordially welcomed General Howe

and his young officers, electing them the leaders and the favorites in

all the social gayeties and amusements of the season. Such was the

luxury and dissipation of the British in the city, at dinner parties,

cock-fights, amateur theatrical performances, that Dr. Franklin was led

to remark in Paris that General Howe had not taken Philadelphia as much

as Philadelphia had taken General Howe.

The general plan of campaign for the year 1777 did not include the

capture of Philadelphia. Howe had been ordered to march from New York,

which he had taken the preceding August, to the vicinity of Albany.

There he was to join forces with the army from Canada under General

Burgoyne, which was to penetrate northern New York. Why he elected to

march against Philadelphia and be obliged to retrace his steps in order

to reach Burgoyne was unknown at the time. The total collapse of

Burgoyne's expedition at Saratoga and the menace of the American Army

under General Washington obliged him to alter his plan and to remain in

the vicinity of Philadelphia, which city he made his headquarters for

the winter.

In the meantime the army of General Washington, which had been

continually harassing the English forces, went into winter quarters in

close proximity, at Valley Forge, a bare twenty miles distant, northwest

of the city. Here the little army of the Colonists menaced the position

of the British while enduring with heroic fortitude the severities of

the winter season. Shoeless and shivering, the soldiers prepared these

winter quarters of cold huts, rudely constructed; themselves overcoated

in torn blankets, with stuffed straw in their boots for want of

stockings. Their food was as scarce as their clothing and at one time

more than two thousand men were reported unfit for duty because barefoot

and otherwise naked. Many a night the men were compelled to remain

seated by the fire for want of blankets. Day by day the supply of fuel

diminished, and the neighborhood became more destitute of trees and

timber.

The morale of the troops seemed to feed on misfortune; but their hopes

and courage were suddenly intensified when the news of the Alliance with

France reverberated throughout the camp to the booming of cannon and the

shouts of the whole army. There was no respite, however. While the enemy

was living in luxury and comfort in the gay city, the Continentals under

the patience of Washington, and the military genius of Von Steuben, were

being rounded into a toughened and well drilled fighting machine, strong

in organization and bold in spirit, a worthy match for the rapid and

accurate movements for which the better equipped British army was

becoming famous.

That Sir William Howe found it easier to loiter in Philadelphia than to

play a strategic game against Washington in the depths of an American

winter, was due no less to the want of decision which characterized all

of his actions than to the stupid mismanagement with which the campaign

of 1777 was directed. The British had gained the two most important

American cities, New York and Philadelphia, but the entire American army

was still in the field. The acquisition of territory was of no military

importance while the forces of the enemy remained intact and well

organized. Moreover, Burgoyne was left to his fate and at Saratoga an

army was lost.

Nor was any advantage to be derived from the possession of the American

capital. Washington's position at Valley Forge had held the British in

check all winter. And whatever of work the Congress was required to do

could as well be done at York as at Philadelphia. As a basis for

military operation the city was without value, for it was difficult to

defend and hard to supply with foodstuffs. But it was rich,

extravagant, fashionable, a "place of crucifying expenses," and its

fine houses, good pavements, and regular arrangement of streets,

impressed Howe as the most fitting place for the British Army to

establish winter quarters. And so they sat down to wait for spring.

III

"We shall never forget the splendor of it all; it was wonderful!"

exclaimed Peggy with a deep sigh.

"A farewell party!" said Marjorie. "Undoubtedly the gallant Britishers

outdid themselves. Howe leaves soon, does he not?"

"Yes. Next week."

"Which means that the period of entertaining is about to come to an

end."

"I suppose. But wasn't the winter glorious? I shall never forget it."

A smile covered her face, dotting her cheeks with two tiny dimples. She

held her hands together over her knees while she sat quite motionless,

her eyes looking out into the darkness of the room.

Presently she bethought herself.

"Let us light the tapers!" she announced, jumping up from the sofa.

"It is late," Marjorie remarked, as she, too, prepared to arise. "I must

leave for home."

"Stay! It is still early. Soon we shall be obliged to settle into

quietude. Dark days are before us."

"Why!" Marjorie exclaimed. "I should think that the future augurs well.

I do wish the soldiers would evacuate the city."

"When General Howe leaves, all may as well leave with him."

"When does he leave, did you say?" impatiently asked her true American

friend.

"Next week, I understand. The great Mischienza, you know, was arranged

in his honor as a farewell celebration."

"General Clinton, I presume, will succeed. He seems the most logical

choice."

"Yes. He already has been appointed to the supreme command."

"I hope he decides to evacuate."

"I do not know. Perhaps," was the sole response.

But it already had been decided. Upon the departure of General Howe,

instructions were forwarded from the ministry to Sir Henry Clinton, the

new Commander-in-chief, to evacuate the city at once. The imminent

arrival of the French fleet, together with the increasing menace of the

Continental Army at Valley Forge, constituted a grave peril to the

isolated army of the British. Hence it was determined that the capital

city must be abandoned.

Clinton intended to transfer his army to New York by water in order that

the bulk of his forces might be concentrated for the spring campaign. On

account of the vast number of Tories who, apprehensive of their personal

effects, had begged to be transferred with him, he was obliged to forego

his original intention of sailing by water in favor of a march overland.

Accordingly on the morning of June 18, 1778, the rear-guard of the

British marched out of the city and on that same afternoon the American

advance entered and took possession with Major General Benedict Arnold,

the hero of Saratoga, as Military Governor.

The joy of the Whig populace knew no bounds. No longer would the

shadows of dark despair and abandoned hope hang like a pall over the

capital city. No longer would the stately residences of the Tory element

be thrown open for the diversion and the junket of the titled gentry. No

more would the soldiery of an hostile army loiter about the street

corners or while away the hours at the Taverns or at the Coffee Houses.

The Congress was about to return. The city would again become the

political as well as the civic center of American affairs. The people

would be ruled by a governor of their own accord and sympathy.

Philadelphia was to enter into its own.

CHAPTER II

I

"It won't do, I tell you. And the sooner he realizes this the more

satisfactory will it become for all concerned."

"Sh-h-h," answered Mrs. Allison in a seemingly heedless manner. She was

seated by the side window in her old rocker, intent only on her three

needles and the ball of black yarn. "Judge not, that you may not be

judged!" she reminded him.

"He is too imprudent. Only today he contemptuously dismissed the Colonel

and the secretary; later he requested them to dine with him. We don't

like it, I tell you."

As a matter of fact, there was no more staunch defender or constant

advocate of the cause of the Colonists than Matthew Allison himself; and

when the proclamation of the new Military Governor ordering the closing

of the shops and the suspension of business in general until the

question of ownership was established, had been issued, he was among the

first of the citizens to comply with it. True, his sole source of income

had been temporarily suspended. But what matter? It meant order and

prevented the wares from falling into the hands of the enemy. His small

shop had enabled himself together with his wife and daughter to eke out

a comfortable existence. Their cozy home while unmistakably plain and

unadorned with the finer appointments indicative of opulence,

nevertheless was not without charm and cheeriness. It was delightful in

simplicity and neat arrangement.

Allison had welcomed the entry of General Arnold into the city as a hero

coming into his own, but he was not slow in perceiving that the

temperament of the man rendered him an unhappy choice for the

performance of the onerous duties which the successful administration of

the office required. Readily and with genuine satisfaction did he yield

to the initial mandate of the Governor; but when the scent of luxury

from this same Governor's house, the finest mansion in the city and the

identical one lately occupied by the British commander, was diffused

throughout the city causing murmurs of criticism and dissension, Matthew

Allison forgot for the moment his oath of fealty and gave expression to

pain and dissatisfaction.

"Why allow yourself to be disturbed at his manner of living?" asked his

wife, picking up the conversation at the point where he had left it.

"And you and I and the vast majority of us sacrificing our all. Why they

tell me that his quarters abound in luxury to a degree never excelled by

Howe himself."

"Well!" was the simple reply.

"And the Massachusetts Regiment has been appointed his guard of honor;

and that two armed soldiers have been stationed at the doorposts."

Allison spoke with evident passion, the ardor of which pervaded his

entire being.

"And yet I dare say you would be the first to disapprove of the other

extreme," admonished Mrs. Allison in her soft and gentle way. "Under

martial law you know, there must be no relaxation of discipline,

notwithstanding the fact that the Americans once more control the city."

"Laxity or no laxity, it is extravagant for him to be housed in the

finest mansion in the city with a retinue of servants and attendants

only excelled by Sir William Howe; to be surrounded by a military guard

of selective choice; to maintain a coach and four with footmen and

servants, all equipped with livery of the most exclusive design; to live

in the greatest splendor, notwithstanding the avowed republican

simplicity of the country as well as the distressed condition of our

affairs and finances. Who is paying for this extravagance? We, of

course. We are being taxed and supertaxed for this profligate waste

while our shops are closed to all future trade. These are not alone my

opinions; they are the expressions of the men about town. This was the

sole topic of conversation today at the Coffee House."

For where else would the news of the day be found if not on the street

corners or at the Coffee House? This latter institution, like its London

prototype, was the chief organ through which the public opinion of the

metropolis continually asserted itself. Its convenience lay in its

adaptability for the making of appointments at any hour of the day, or

for the passing of an evening socially for a very small charge. It had

its characters who became as famous as the institution itself, its

orators to whose eloquence the crowd listened with admiration, its

medical men who might be consulted on any malady merely for the asking,

its poets and humorists who in winter occupied the chairs of learning

nearest the stove and in summer held the choice places on the balcony,

and who discoursed fables and politics with renewed embellishment upon

the advent of every newcomer. The atmosphere always reeked with the

fumes of tobacco. Nowhere else was smoking more constant than at the

Coffee House. And why any one would leave his own home and fireside to

sit amid such eternal fog, was a mystery to every good housewife. But

every man of the upper or the middle class went daily to the Coffee

House to learn and discuss the news of the day.

"I suppose Jim Cadwalader waxed warm today on the subject and gave you

inspiration," submitted Mrs. Allison. "Why do you not suspend your

judgment for a while until you learn more about the Governor,--at any

rate give him the benefit of a doubt until you have some facts," mildly

replied Mrs. Allison with that gentle manner and meekness of temper

which was characteristic of her.

"Facts!" said he, "I am telling you that these are facts. The Colonel

saw this, I tell you, for he dined with him. And I want to tell you

this," he announced pointing towards her, "he hates the Catholics and is

strongly opposed to any alliance with a Catholic country."

"Never mind, my dear. We cannot suffer for that."

"I know, but it may concern us sooner or later. Our fathers endured

severe tortures at the hands of a bigoted Government, and if the new

republic gives promise of such unhappy tidings, we may as well leave the

earth."

"I would not take any undue alarm," quietly answered Mrs. Allison as her

deft fingers sped on with the knitting. "General Washington is

broad-minded enough to appreciate our loyalty and our spirit of

self-sacrifice. And besides the new French Alliance will prevent any of

the intolerance which made itself manifest in the person of King

George. With a Catholic ally, the government cannot very well denounce

the Catholics as you will discover from the repealing of several of the

laws which rendered life more or less obnoxious in some of the colonies.

And I think, too, that we have given more than our share to the cause.

With so much to our credit, no public official, whatever his natural

inclination, can afford to visit his bigotry on us. I would not worry

about General Arnold. He will not molest us, I am sure."

"I don't think that he pleases me anyway."

"And why?" she paused to ask. "Because he maintains too expensive a

livery, or has surrounded himself by too many attendants?"

"No. I dislike the man. I do not like his traits."

"It is unkind of you to say that. Who enjoys a greater reputation for

skill or bravery or personal courage than he? What would have become of

Gates, or our army, or the French Alliance were he not at Saratoga, and

there too without a command, you must remember."

"I know all that, but he is too blunt, too headstrong, too proud,

too----"

Marjorie's figure at the door interrupted him.

II

Although Mistress Allison was not twenty, she maintained the composure

of a married woman, sedate and reserved like the matrons of this period.

Her dress was neat and well chosen, a chintz cotton gown, of a very

pretty blue stamp, blue silk quilt and a spotted figured apron. The

vivacity of her manner and the winsomeness of her behavior were

prepossessing, and she was beautiful to look upon: her complexion as

dazzling white as snow in sunshine; except her cheeks, which were a

bright red; and her lips, of a still deeper crimson. Her small oval face

was surmounted by a wealth of dark brown hair, craped up with two rolls

on each side and topped with a small cap of beautiful gauze and rich

lace,--a style most becoming to a girl of her age. Health, activity,

decision were written full upon her, whether in the small foot which

planted itself on the ground, firm but flexible, or in the bearing of

her body, agile or lofty.

She was the only child of Mr. Allison and a much admired member of the

city's middle class. And while it is true that a certain equality in

class and social refinement was an attribute of the American people

which found great favor in the eyes of the older world inhabitants, it

is equally true that this equality was more seeming than real. This was

due to a great extent to the distinction established by the wealth and

the liberties enjoyed by the various classes of people. It was said, and

not without a semblance of truth, that the inhabitants of Philadelphia

were rated according to their fortunes. The first class was known as the

carriage folk, who proclaimed, almost without exception, their pretended

descent from the ancient English families by their coats of arms

imprinted upon their carriage doors. The second class was composed of

the merchants, lawyers, and business men of the city; and the third

class, were those who exercised the mechanical arts. These felt their

social inferiority and never hoped for any association with the upper

classes. The Allisons were of the middle rank, and were looked upon as

its most respected members.

Plain, simple-living folk, they made no pretense to display. Neither did

they affect aristocracy. Their manner of living was as comfortable as

their modest means would allow. It was a common habit for the people of

this class to indulge in luxury far beyond their resources and no small

amount of this love of ostentation was attributed to the daughters of

the families. In this respect Marjorie offended not in the least.

Whether assisting her father in the shop during the busy hours, or

presiding at the Coffee House, or helping her mother with the affairs of

the household, she was equally at home. Neither the brilliance of the

social function, nor the pleasures of the dance roused unusual desires

in her. Indeed she seldom participated in such entertainments, unless on

the invitation and in company with the Shippen family with whom she was

on the most intimate terms of friendship. The gay winter season of the

British occupation of the city produced no change in her manner or

attire. The dazzling spectacle of the Mischienza found her secluded in

her home, more from her own desire than from her pretended deference to

the wishes of her mother.

Her happiness was in her homelife. This was the center of her affection

as well as of her tenderest solicitude. Here she busied herself daily,

either in the care of the house, and the preparation of the meals, which

were by no means sumptuous owing to the scarcity of all foodstuffs, or

at the wheel where she made shirtings and the sheetings for the army. A

touch of her hand here and there, to this chair, slightly out of place,

to this cup or that plate in the china-chest, to the miniature on the

wall, leaning slightly to one side, or the whisk of her sweeping-brush

through the silver-sand on the floor, transformed a disorderly aspect

into one of neatness and taste. It was here that she spent her days,

enduring their unvarying monotony, with sweet and unbroken contentment.

As she hurriedly entered the house, she arrested the attention of her

father and put a period to the conversation.

"Oh, Father, have you heard?"

"What news now, child!"

"Washington has engaged the British."

"And how fared?"

"They were compelled to withdraw."

"Thank God."

"Where, Marjorie, did you come by this good news?" inquired the mother.

"At the State House. A courier arrived from Monmouth with the tidings,"

answered Marjorie, still nervous to narrate the story, and forgetting to

remove her hat.

"When did this happen?" asked her father, impatiently.

"It seems that General Washington started in pursuit of Clinton as soon

as he had evacuated the city. He had decided that an attack must be made

as soon as possible. When the British reached Allentown, they found the

American army gaining the front and so they turned towards Monmouth.

Near the Court House the British were outflanked and the Americans

gained the superior ground and so the battle was won. Then General Lee

ordered a retreat."

"A retreat?" exploded Mr. Allison. "What for?"

"I do not know, but that was the report. Lee retreated when Washington

arrived on the scene," continued Marjorie.

"And then?"

"He rallied the troops to another front and began the attack anew,

driving the British back a considerable distance. Nightfall ended the

battle, and when day broke, Clinton had withdrawn."

"And Lee ordered a retreat!" exclaimed Mr. Allison. "A damned poltroon!"

"All say the same. The crowd was furious upon hearing the message,

although some thought it too incredible. The joy of victory, however,

made them forget the disgraceful part."

"My faith in him has never faltered," quietly observed Mrs. Allison, as

she prepared to resume the knitting from which she had ceased on the

sudden entry of Marjorie.

"And his pretended friends must now croak forth his praises," rejoined

her husband.

"There were shouts and cheers," continued Marjorie, "as the news was

being announced. Each newcomer would add another detail to the story

with beaming delight. All said that the retreat from the city and the

defeat of the British augured a speedy termination of the war. The

country is wholly united again under General Washington."

"And what will become of Lee?" asked the father.

"The traitor!" snapped Marjorie. "They ought to court-martial him. The

crowd greeted his name with hisses when the details began to impress

themselves upon them. I dare say, he has few friends in the city

tonight, expect perhaps among the Tories. He is a disgrace to the

uniform he wears."

"Undoubtedly, the losses were heavy."

"No one seemed to know. The minor details of the engagement are still

unknown. They will come later. The consoling feature is that the enemy

were compelled to withdraw, which would indicate that they were worsted.

The remnants, I suppose, will concentrate at New York. There will occur

the next great battle."

"God grant that it will soon be over," exclaimed Mrs. Allison.

"And now, daughter, have you more news?" asked her father.

"Oh, yes! General Arnold is going to give a ball at the City Tavern on

the Fourth of July to the officers of the French Army. It will be under

the auspices of the American officers of Washington's command and in

honor of the loyal ladies who had withheld from the Mischienza. And I

have been invited to attend."

"I should think that we have had enough of social life here during the

past winter," quietly announced the father.

"Well," replied Marjorie, "this affair is to exclude all who

participated in the English Army festivities. Only Americans will be

present."

"How did you come by this report?" asked her mother.

"Peggy Shippen. I stopped there for a short time. They told me of the

proposed invitation and that I was included."

"How came they by the news?"

"I suppose General Arnold told them."

"Is he acquainted with them? I wonder----"

"Yes. They were presented to him, and he has already honored them with

his visit."

"I don't like this," said Mr. Allison, "and you can be assured that

there will be little restriction as to the company who will comprise

this assemblage. The Governor will take sides with the wealthy, be their

sympathies what they may. Well, if he establish the precedent, I dare

say, none will be so determined as to oppose him. Do you wish to go,

daughter?"

"I think I might enjoy it. The French soldiers are so gallant, I might

find much pleasure there."

"Very well, you shall attend," said her father.

III

And so it was decided that Marjorie would be present at the Governor's

Ball. As custom did not require mothers to accompany their daughters to

such functions, but allowed them to go unattended, Mrs. Allison

preferred to remain at home. To what splendor and gayety the affair

would lend itself was a matter of much speculation. This was the

Governor's first event, and no one was aware of his prowess on the

ballroom floor.

Once the list of invitations had become public, it was understood quite

generally that no distinction was made between those that had, and those

that had not, attended the Mischienza. Whether the number would be

surprisingly small, or whether the affair would fail of success without

the Mischienza ladies, could not be foretold. Indeed such speculations

were idle, since no discrimination had been made. There were a number of

young French Officers in the town and one or two of General Washington's

aides had remained because of the pressure of immediate business after

the British evacuation. These of course would attend. All the other

available young men belonged to the families who had held a more or less

neutral position in the war, and who had not offered their services to

the patriots nor yielded allegiance to the foe. As these neutrals were

among the most prominent people of the city, their presence would, of

course, be altogether desirable.

Marjorie was invited through the efforts of Peggy Shippen, who had

proposed her name to His Excellency on the occasion of his visit to her

house. She would be included in their party and would be assigned a

partner befitting her company. Because of the prominence of the

Shippens, it was thought that the gallant young French Officers, would

be assigned to them. Marjorie rejoiced at this although the Shippen

girls evinced no such sentiment. Whether it was because the French

alliance was distasteful to them or because their Tory leanings took

precedence, they preferred other guests for partners. But as the matter

was to be decided by lot, their likings were not consulted.

Ere long the city was agog with speculation respecting the coming ball.

The battle of Monmouth was accorded a second place. The disdain of the

middle class, who had been embittered against such demonstrations by the

profligacy displayed during the days of the British occupation, soon

began to make itself felt. That it was the first official or formal

function of the new republic mattered little. A precedent was about to

be established. There was to be a continuation of the shameful

extravagance which they had been compelled to witness during the winter

and which they feared they would be forced to maintain for another

protracted period. Living was high, extremely high, and the value of the

paper currency had depreciated to almost nothing. Indeed it was said

that a certain barber in the town had papered his entire shop with the

bills and that a dog had been led up and down the streets, smeared with

tar, and adorned cap-a-pie with paper money. To feed and clothe the army

was expense enough without being compelled to pay for the splendors of a

military ball. Small wonder that the coming event aroused no ordinary

speculation.

Nevertheless preparations went on with growing vigor and magnificence,

and not the least interested was Marjorie. The event was now awaited

with painful anxiety. Even the war for a moment was relegated to a place

of minor import.

CHAPTER III

I

An imposing spectacle greeted Marjorie's eyes as she made her way in

company with the Shippen girls into the ballroom of the City Tavern. The

hall was superb, of a charming style of architecture, well furnished and

lighted, and brilliantly decorated with a profusion of American and

French flags arranged in festoons and trianguloids and drapings

throughout its entire length and breadth, its atmosphere vocal with the

strains of martial music. Everywhere were women dressed with elegance

and taste. The Tory ladies, gowned in the height of fashion, were to

Marjorie a revelation at once amazing and impressive.

On a raised dais sat the Governor in his great chair. He was clothed in

the regulation buff and blue uniform of a Major General of the

Continental Army. On his shoulders he wore the epaulets and about his

waist the sword knots General Washington had presented to him the

preceding May. He bore also upon his person the most eloquent of martial

trophies, for his leg, wounded at Quebec and Saratoga, rested heavily on

a small cushion before him.

Marjorie who saw him for the first time, was attracted at once by his

manly bearing and splendid physique. His frame was large, his shoulders

broad, his body inclined to be fleshy. His very presence, however, was

magnetic, still his manner was plain and without affectation. He looked

the picture of dignity and power as he received the guests in their turn

and greeted each with a pointed and pleasant remark.

"Isn't he a handsome figure?" whispered Peggy to Marjorie as they made

their way slowly to the dais.

Marjorie acquiesced in the judgment. He was still young, hardly more

than thirty-five, his weather-beaten face darkened to bronze from

exposure. His features were large and clean cut with the power of

decision written full upon them. A firm and forcible chin, with heavy

lines playing about his mouth; eyes, large and black, that seemed to

take toll of everything that transpired about them, suggested a man of

extravagant energy, of violent and determined tenacity in the face of

opposition. No one could look upon his imposing figure without calling

to mind his martial achievements--the exploits of Canada, of the Mohawk,

of Bemis Heights.

"So this is your little friend," said he to Peggy, eyeing Marjorie as

she made her presentation courtesy. He was now standing, though resting

heavily on his cane with his left hand.

"Mistress Allison, this privilege is a happy one. I understand that you

are a violent little patriot." He smiled as he gently took her hand.

"I am very pleased, Your Excellency. This is an occasion of rare delight

to me."

"And are you so intensely loyal? Your friends love you for your

devotion, although I sometimes think that they miss General Howe," and

he smiled in the direction of Peggy as he turned to her with this

remark.

"You know, General," Peggy was always ready with an artful reply, "I

told you that I was neither the one nor the other; and that I wore

black and white at the Mischienza, the colors now worn by our American

soldiers in their cockades in token of the French and American

Alliance."

"So you did. I had almost forgotten."

"And that there were some American gentlemen present, as well, although

aged non-combatants," she continued with a subtle smile.

"For which reason," he responded, "you would, I suppose, have it assume

a less exclusive appearance."

"Oh, no! I do not mean that. It was after all a very private affair,

arranged solely in honor of General Howe."

"Were some of these young ladies at the Mischienza? And who were they

that rewarded the gallant knights?" he asked.

"Well, the Chew girls, and my sisters, and Miss Franks. There was Miss

White, and Miss Craig," she repeated the list one after the other as her

eyes searched the company assembled in the hall. "And that girl in the

corner, Miss Bond, and beyond her, her sister: then there was Miss

Smith. Miss Bond I am told is engaged to one of your best Generals, Mr.

John Robinson."

"We are accustomed to call Mr. Robinson, General Robinson in the army,"

he ventured with a smile.

She blushed slightly. "We call him Mr. Robinson in society, or sometimes

Jack."

"And who might have been your gallant knight? May I ask?"

"The Honorable Captain Cathcart," was her proud reply.

"And who has the good fortune to be your knight for this occasion?" he

questioned, seeking in their hands the billet of the evening.

"We do not know," Marjorie murmured. "We have not as yet met the Master

of Ceremonies."

He looked about him, in search evidently of some one. "Colonel

Wilkinson!" he called to a distinguished looking officer on his right,

"have these fair ladies been assigned to partners?"

The Colonel advanced and presented them with their billets, which were

numbered and which bore the name of the partner that was to accompany

them during the entire evening. Peggy opened hers and found the name of

Colonel Jean Boudinot, a young French Officer. Marjorie saw written upon

hers a name unknown to her, "Captain Stephen Meagher, aide-de-camp."

"Captain Meagher!" exclaimed the Governor. "He is one of General

Washington's aides, detailed for the present in the city. Do you know

him?"

"No," replied Marjorie timidly, "I do not, I am sorry to say. I have

never had the privilege of meeting him."

"There he is now," said he, indicating with a gesture of the eyes a tall

young officer who stood with his back toward them.

Marjorie looked in the direction indicated. A becomingly tall and erect

figure, clad in a long blue coat met her gaze. Further scrutiny

disclosed the details of a square cut coat, with skirts hooked back

displaying a buff lining, and with lappets, cuff-linings and standing

capes of like color. His bearing was overmastering as he stood at

perfect ease, his hand resting gently on a small sword hanging at his

side; his right wrist showed a delicate lace ruffle as he gestured to

and fro in his conversation. As he slightly turned in her direction, she

saw that he wore his hair drawn back from the face, with a gentle roll

on each side, well powdered and tied in a cue behind. His features were

pleasant to look upon, not large but finely chiseled and marked with

expression. Marjorie thought what a handsome figure he made as he stood

in earnest conversation, dominating the little group who surrounded him

and followed his every move with interest and attention.

"Let me call him," suggested the Governor to Marjorie who at that moment

stood with her eyes fixed on the Captain. "I am sure he will be pleased

to learn the identity of his fair partner," he added facetiously.

"Oh! do," agreed Peggy. "It would afford pleasure to all of us to meet

him."

The General whispered a word to an attendant who immediately set off in

the direction of the unconcerned Captain. As the latter received the

message he turned, looked in the direction of the dais and gazed

steadily at the Governor and his company. His eyes met Marjorie's and

she was sure that he saw her alone. The thought thrilled her through and

through. He excused himself from the company of his circle, and as he

directed his footsteps towards her, she noted his neat and close fitting

buff waistcoat, and his immaculate linen revealing itself at the throat

and ruffled wrists. Nor did she fail to observe that he wore a buff

cockade on his left breast and gilt epaulets upon his shoulders.

"Captain Meagher," announced General Arnold. "I have the honor of

presenting you to your partner for the evening, Mistress Allison."

Marjorie courtesied gracefully to his courtly acknowledgment.

"And the Misses Shippen, the belles of the Mischienza!"

Stephen bowed profoundly.

"I was just remarking, Captain, that General Washington has honored you

with a special mission, and that you have run away from your duties

tonight to mingle with the social life of the city."

"Or rather, Your Excellency, to acquaint myself with their society,"

Stephen replied good-naturedly.

"Then you do not relax, even for an evening," inquired Peggy, with a

coquettish turn of the head.

"It is the duty of a soldier never to relax." Stephen's reply was more

naive than usual.

"And yet one's hours are shortened by pleasure and action," continued

Peggy.

"As a recreation it is far sweeter than as a business. It soon exhausts

us, however, and it is the greatest incentive to evil."

"But you dance?" interrupted the General.

"Oh, yes! Your Excellency," replied Stephen, "after a fashion."

"Well, your partner is longing for the music. Come, let ye assemble."

And as the dance was announced, the first one being dedicated to "The

Success of the Campaign," Stephen and Marjorie moved off and took their

places. Peggy and her sisters were soon attended and followed. They were

soon lost in the swirl of excitement among the throng.

II

"And you live alone with your father and mother?"

Marjorie and her partner were sitting in a distant corner whither they

had wandered at the conclusion of the dance. Stephen began to find

himself taking an unusual interest in this girl and was inquiring

concernedly about her home life.

"Yes, Father's time is much consumed with his attention to the shop.

Mother and I find plenty to occupy us about the house. Then I relieve

Father at times, and so divide my hours between them," quietly answered

Marjorie.

"You have not as yet told me your name," Stephen reminded her.

"Marjorie," was the timid reply.

"Marjorie!" Then, taking advantage of her averted look, he stole secret

glances at her small round face, her lips, firmly set but curving

upwards, her rose-pink cheeks. Presently, his eye rested on her

finger-ring, a cameo with what looked like an ectypal miniature of the

"Ecce Homo." Was this girl of his faith?

"Marjorie Allison," he repeated again. "Do you know that sounds like a

Catholic name?"

"It is," Marjorie replied proudly. "Our family have been Catholics for

generations."

"Mine have, too," Stephen gladly volunteered the information. "Irish

Catholics with a history behind them."

"Is your home here?" asked Marjorie.

"Here in this country, yes," admitted her escort. "But I live in New

York and it was there I volunteered at the outbreak of the war, and saw

my first service in the New York campaign."

"And are your parents there, too?" inquired the girl.

And then he told her that his father and mother and only sister lived

there and that when the war broke out he determined to enlist in company

with a number of his friends, the younger men of the neighborhood. How

he took part in the campaign about New York and his "contribution to our

defeat," as he styled it. Of the severe winter at Valley Forge and his

appointment by Washington to his staff. She listened with keen interest

but remained silent until the end.

"And now you are in the city on detailed duty?"

"Yes. Work of a private nature for the Commander-in-chief."

"It must be a source of satisfaction to be responsive to duty," observed

Marjorie.

"It is God's medicine to detach us from the things of this world. For,

after all has been said and done, it is love alone which elevates one's

service above the domain of abject slavery. In such a manner do the

commands of heaven afford the richest consolations to the soul."

"And still, a certain routine must manifest itself at times."

"Not when the habit is turned to pleasure."

"You are a philosopher, then?"

"No. Just a mere observer of men and their destinies."

"Have you included the duration of the war in your legitimate

conclusions?"

"It is not over yet, and it will not terminate, I think, without an

improvement in the present condition of affairs. The proposed help from

France must become a reality of no ordinary proportion, else the

discordant factions will achieve dire results. Tell me," he said,

suddenly changing the topic of conversation, "were you in attendance at

the Mischienza?"

"No, I did not care to attend."

"I would I had been present."

"You would have been expelled in your present capacity."

"Ah, yes! But I would have affected a disguise."

"You would expect to obtain important information?" She fingered her

gown of pink satin as she spoke, oblivious of everything save the

interest of the conversation.

"I might possibly have stumbled across some items of value."

"None were there save the British Officers and their Tory friends, you

know."

"A still greater reason for my desire to be present. And why did you not

dance attendance?" This question was frank.

"Do you really want to know my sole reason?" She looked at him somewhat

suspicious, somewhat reliant, awaiting her womanly instinct to reveal to

her the rectitude of her judgment.

"I should not have asked, otherwise," Stephen gravely replied.

"Well, it was for the simple reason that my soul would burn within me if

I permitted myself to indulge in such extravagance and gayety the while

our own poor boys were bleeding to death at Valley Forge."

Stephen grasped her hand and pressed it warmly. "You are a true

patriot," was all he could say.

Whether it was his emotion for the cause of his country or the supreme

satisfaction afforded him by the knowledge that this girl was loyal to

the cause, Stephen did not know, nor did he try to discover. He knew

that he was thrilled with genuine gratification and that he was joyously

happy over the thought which now relieved his mind. Somehow or other he

earnestly desired to find this girl an ardent patriot, yet he had dared

not ask her too bluntly. From the moment she had entered the hall in

company with the other girls, he had singled her alone in the midst of

the company. And, when the summons came to him from the Governor, he had

seen her standing at the side of the dais, and her alone. Little did he

suspect, however, that she bore his billet, nor did he presume to wish

for the pleasure of her exclusive company for the evening.

She danced with grace and was wholly without affectation. How sweet she

looked; pink gown, pink flowers, pink ribbon, pink cheeks! How

interesting her conversation, yet so reserved and dignified! But she

lived in the city and the city he knew teemed with Loyalists. Was she

one of these! He dared not ask her. To have her so declare herself

enraptured him. She was one of his own after all.

Moreover she was one with him in religious belief--that was a distinct

comfort. Catholics were not numerous, and to preserve the faith was no

slight struggle. He was thoroughly conversant with the state of affairs

in the province of New York where Catholics could not, because of the

iniquitous law and the prescribed oath of office, become naturalized as

citizens of the state. He knew how New Jersey had excluded Roman

Catholics from office, and how North and South Carolina had adopted the

same iniquitous measure. Pennsylvania was one of the few colonies

wherein all penal laws directed against the Catholics had been

absolutely swept away. To meet with a member of his own persecuted

Church, especially one so engaging and so interesting as Marjorie, was a

source of keen joy and an unlooked-for happiness.

"You will not deny me the pleasure of paying my respects to your father

and mother?" Stephen asked.

She murmured something as he let go her hand. Stephen thought she had

said, "I had hoped that you would come."

"Tomorrow?" he ventured.

"I shall be pleased to have you sup with us," she smiled as she made the

soft reply.

"Tomorrow then it shall be."

They rose to take their part in the next dance.

III

As the evening wore on Peggy, wearied of the dance, sought a secluded

corner of the great room to compose herself. She had been disappointed

in her lottery, for she detested the thought of being a favor for a

French officer and had taken care to so express herself at home long

before. She could not rejoice at Marjorie's good fortune as she thought

it, and found little of interest and less of pleasure in the evening's

doings.

She was aroused from her solitude and made radiant on the instant at

sight of the Military Governor, limping his way across the hall in her

direction. He had seen her seated alone, and his heart urged him to her

side. With the lowest bow of which he was then capable, he sought the

pleasure of her company. Her color heightened, she smiled graciously

with her gray-blue eyes, and accepted his hand. He led the way to the

banquet room and thence to the balcony, where they might hear the music

and view the dancing, for his lameness made dancing impossible.

"I hesitate to condemn a young lady to a prison seat, when the stately

minuet sends a summons," he said as he led her to a chair a little to

one side of the balcony.

"You should have thought of that before you made us cast lots," she

replied quickly. "I was wearying of the rounds of pleasure."

"Is the company, then, all too gay?"

"No, rather extravagant."

"You insisted on the Mischienza ladies being present."

"And can you not distinguish them? Do they not appear to better

advantage than the others? Their gowns are superior, they give evidence

of more usage in society, their head-dress is higher and of the latest

fashion."

"And their hearts, their hopes, their sympathies! Where are they?"

"You know where mine lay," she adroitly replied.

"True, you did wear a French cockade," he laughed.

"Please do not call it 'French.' I scorn all things 'French.'"

"They are our allies now, you must know."

"For which I am most sorry. I expect no mercy from that scheming Papist

country," she replied bitterly.

"But they have lent us much money at a time when our paper currency is

practically worthless, and the assistance of their fleet is now

momentarily expected," the General went on to explain.

"And to what purpose? Lord North has proposed to meet our demands most

liberally and with our constitutional liberties secured, I fail to see

why further strife is necessary."

"But our independence is not yet secure."

"It was secure after your brilliant victory at Saratoga. With the

collapse of Burgoyne, England saw that further campaigning in a country

so far removed from home was disastrous. It only remained to formulate

some mutual agreement. We have triumphed. Why not be magnanimous? Why

subject the country to a terrible strain for years for a result neither

adequate nor secure?"

She talked rapidly, passionately. It was evident from the manner of her

address that the subject was no new one to her.

"You can be court-martialed for treason?" he remarked with a slight

smile playing about the heavy lines of his mouth.

"Is it treason to talk of the welfare of the country? I look upon the

alliance with this Catholic and despotic power as more of an act of

treason than the total surrender of our armies to King George. To lose

our independence is one thing; but to subject our fair land to the

tyranny of the Pope and his emissary, the King of France, is a total

collapse. Our hopes lie in England alone."

The Governor was struck by this strange reasoning. Why had this mere

child dared to express the very thoughts which were of late intruding

themselves upon his mind, but which he dared not permit to cross the

seal of his lips? She was correct, he thought, in her reasoning, but

bold in her denunciation. No one else had dared to address such

sentiments to him. And now he was confronted with a young lady of quick

wit and ready repartee who spoke passionately the identical reflections

of his more mature mind. Clearly her reasoning was not without some

consistency and method.

"I am afraid that you are a little Tory." He could not allow this girl

to think that she had impressed him in the least.

"Because I am frank in the expression of my views?" She turned and with

arched eyebrows surveyed him. "Pardon me, if you will, but I would have

taken no such liberty with any other person. You gave me that privilege

when you forbade my alluding to your former brilliant exploits."

"But I did not want you to become a Tory."

He spoke with emphasis.

"I am not a Tory I tell you."

"But you are not a Whig?"

"What, an ordinary shop maid!"

"They are true patriots."

"But of no social standing."

"Tell me why all the Mischienza ladies courtesied to me after so courtly

a fashion," he asked.

"They like it. It is part of their life. You must know that nothing

pleases a woman of fashion more than to bow and courtesy before every

person of royalty, and to count those who precede her out of a room."

"Surely, Margaret, you are no such menial?" He compressed his lips as he

glanced at her sharply. He had never before called her by her first name

nor presumed to take this liberty. It was more a slip of the tongue than

an act of deliberate choice, yet he would not have recalled the word.

His concern lay in her manner of action.

"And why not a menial?" Evidently she took no notice of his

presumption, or at least pretended not to do so. "Piety is by no means

the only motive which brings women to church. Position in life is

precisely what one makes it."

"Does social prestige appeal to you then?"

"I love it." She did not talk to him directly for her attention was

being centered upon the activities on the floor. "I think that a woman

who can dress with taste and distinction possesses riches above all

computation. See Mrs. Reed, there. How I envy her!"

"The wife of the President of the Council?" he asked apprehensively,

bending forward in the direction of the floor.

"The same. She enjoys a position of social eminence. How I hate her for

it." She tapped the floor with her foot as she spoke.

"You mean that you dislike her less than you envy her position?"

Just then her young squire came up and she gave him her hand for a

minuet, excusing herself to the Governor as graciously as possible.

Scarcely had she disappeared when he began to muse. What a fitting

companion she would make for a man of his rank and dignity! That she was

socially ambitious and obsessed with a passion for display he well knew.

She was not yet twenty but the disparity in their ages,--he was about

thirty-seven and a widower with three sons,--would be offset by the

disparity of their stations. No one in the city kept a finer stable of

horses nor gave more costly dinners than he. Everybody treated him with

deference, for no one presumed to question his social preeminence. The

Whigs admired him as their dashing and perhaps their most successful

General. The Tories liked him because of his aristocratic display and

his position in regard to the Declaration of Independence. Why not make

her his bride?

She possessed physical charms and graces in a singular degree. She

dressed with taste; her wardrobe was of the finest. Aristocratic in her

bearing, she would be well fitted to assume the position of the first

lady of the town. Peggy, moreover, possessed a will of her own. This was

revealed to him more than once during their few meetings, and if proof

had been wanting, the lack was now abundantly supplied. She would make

an ideal wife, and he resolved to enter the lists against all suitors.

Her mind was more mature than her years, he thought. This he gleaned

from her animated discussion of the alliance. And there was, after all,

more than an ounce of wisdom in her point of view. Mischief brewed in

the proposed help from a despotic power. His own signal victory ended

the war if only the Colonists would enter into negotiations or give an

attentive ear to the liberal proposals of Lord North. The people did not

desire complete independence and he, for one, had never fully endorsed

the Declaration. Her point of view was right. Better to accept the

overtures of our kinsmen than to cast our lot with that Catholic and

despotic power.

His musings were arrested by the arrival of an aide, who announced that

he was needed at headquarters. He arose at once to obey.

CHAPTER IV

I

Stephen awoke late the next morning. As he lay with eyes closed, half

asleep, half awake, the image of his partner of the evening sweetly

drifted into his dreamy brain, and called up a wealth of associations on

which he continued to dwell with rare pleasure. But the ominous

suggestion that her heart could not possibly be free, that perhaps some

gay officer, or brilliant member of Howe's staff, or a gallant French

official, many of whom had now infested the town, was a favored

contestant in the field, filled his mind with the thoughts of dread

possibilities, and chased away the golden vision that was taking shape.

He sat upright and, pulling aside the curtains of the little window that

flanked his bed, he peered into the garden behind the house. The birds

were singing, but not with the volume or rapture which is their wont in

the early morning. The sun was high in the heavens and flung its

reflecting rays from the trees and foliage; whence he concluded that the

morning was already far advanced and that it was well past the hour for

him to be astir.

And what a day it was! One of those rare July days when the tints of the

earth and the hues of the sky though varied in color, seem to blend in

one beautiful and harmonious whole. The cypress and the myrtle, emblems

of deeds of virtue and renown, had already donned their summer dress.

The many flowers bowed gently under the weight of the flitful butterfly,

or the industrious bee, or tossed to and fro lightly in the arms of the

morning breeze. Overhead maples, resplendent in their fabric of soft and

delicate green, arched themselves like fine-spun cobwebs, through which

filigree the sun projected his rays at irregular and frequent intervals,

lending only an occasional patch of sunlight here and there to the more

exposed portions of the garden.

But nature had no power to drive Marjorie's image from his mind. Try as

he would, he could not distract his attention to the many problems which

ordinarily would have engaged thoughts. What mattered it to him that the

French fleet was momentarily expected, or that the Continental Congress

was again meeting in the city, or that he had met with certain

suspicious looking individuals during the course of the day! There was

yet one who looked peculiarly suspicious and who was enveloped, as far

as his knowledge was concerned, in a veil of mystery of the strangest

depth. She, indeed, was a flower too fair to blush unseen or unattached.

His own unworthiness confounded him.

Nevertheless he was determined to call on her that very day, in response

to her generous invitation of last night, and in accordance too with the

custom of the time. He would there, perchance, learn more of her, of her

home, of her life, of her friends. But would he excite in her the

interest she was exciting in him? The thought of his possible remoteness

from her, pained him and made his heart sink. The noblest characters

experience strange sensations of desolation and wretchedness at the

thought of disapproval and rejection. Esteem, the testimony of our

neighbor's appreciation, the approval of those worth while, these are

the things for which we yearn with fondest hopes. To know that we have

done well is satisfaction, but to know that our efforts and our work are

valued by others is one of the noblest of pleasures. Stephen longed to

know how he stood in the lady's esteem, and so her little world was his

universe.

Dispatching the day's business as best he could, the expectant knight

set out to storm the castle of his lady. Eager as he was, he did not

fail to note the imposing majesty of the great trees which lined each

side of the wide road and arched themselves into a perfect canopy

overhead. An air of abundance pervaded the whole scene and made him

quite oblivious of the extreme warmth of the afternoon.

Ere long the little white house of her describing rose before him. He

had seen it many times in other days, but now it was invested with a new

and absorbing interest. There it stood, plain yet stately, with a great

pointed and shingled roof, its front and side walls unbroken save for a

gentle projection supported by two uniform Doric pillars which served as

a sort of a portal before the main entrance. Numerous windows with small

panes of glass, and with trim green shutters thrown full open revealing

neatly arranged curtains, glinted and glistened in the beams of the

afternoon sun. The nearer of the two great chimneys which ran up the

sides, like two great buttresses of an old English abbey, gave

indications of generous and well-fed fireplaces recessed in the walls of

the inner rooms. The lawns and walks were uncommonly well kept, and the

whole atmosphere of the little home was one of comfort and simplicity

and neatness, suggesting the sweet and serene happiness reigning within.

Stephen closed the gate behind him. A moment later he had seized the

brass knocker and delivered three moderate blows.

II

"Captain Meagher!" gasped a soft voice. "I am so pleased you have come."

"Mistress Allison, the pleasure is indeed mine, I assure you," replied

Stephen as he grasped her hand, releasing it with a gentle pressure.

She led the way into the narrow hall.

"Mother!" she addressed a sweetly smiling middle-aged woman who now

stood at her side, "I have the honor of presenting to you, Captain

Meagher, of the staff of General Washington, my partner of last

evening." And she betrayed a sense of pride in that bit of history.

Stephen took the matron's hand, for among the Americans the custom

prevailed of shaking hands, albeit the French visitors of the time

maintained that it was a "comic custom." Stephen thought it democratic,

and in keeping with the spirit of the country.

The parlor opened immediately to the right and thither Stephen was

conducted without further ceremony. Mr. Allison would be in shortly; he

was as yet busied with the trade at the shop. The old clock at the

corner of the room, with its quaint figure of Time adorning the top, and

its slowly moving pendulum, proclaimed the hour of five, the hour when

the duties of the day came to a close and social life began. The old

fireplace, black in this season of desuetude, but brilliant in its huge

brass andirons like two pilasters of gold, caught the eye at the extreme

end of the room, while in the corner near the window a round mahogany

tea-table, stood upright like an expanded fan or palm leaf.

Stephen seated himself in a great chair that lay to one side of the

room.

"I had the good fortune of being your daughter's partner for the

evening, and I am happy to be enabled to pay my respects to you."

Stephen addressed Mrs. Allison who was nearer to him on his left.

"Marjorie told me, Captain, of your extreme kindness to her. We

appreciate it very much. Did she conduct herself becomingly? She is a

stranger to such brilliant affairs."

"Splendidly!" answered Stephen. "And she danced charmingly," and he

slyly looked at her as he spoke and thought he detected a faint blush.

"I did not attend on account of its extravagance," remarked Mrs.

Allison. "I had duties at home, and Marjorie was well attended."

"Indeed!" pronounced Marjorie.

"It was magnificent, to be sure," went on Stephen, "but it will excite

no uncertain comment. Republican simplicity last night was lost from

sight."

"Which I scarce approve of," declared Marjorie.

"You did not suit your action to your thought," smiled her mother.

"True," replied the girl, "yet I told you that I was anxious to attend

simply to behold the novelty of it all. Now that it is over, I

disapprove of the splendor and extravagance especially in these times of

need."

"Yes," volunteered Stephen, "she did voice similar sentiments to me last

evening. Nevertheless she is not alone in her criticism. The _Gazette_

today publishes a leading article excoriating the Military Governor for

his use of the teams, which he had commanded under pretense of

revictualing of the army, for the transportation of his private effects

to and from the City Tavern. It spells dissatisfaction at best."

"There has been dissatisfaction from the first day on which he took up

residence at the Slate Roof House," said Mrs. Allison.

The figure of Mr. Allison appeared in the room to the rear. Stephen made

haste to stand to greet him, expressing his extreme pleasure.

It was a great day for a tradesman when an officer of the Continental

Army supped at his table. The house was in a mild uproar since Marjorie

announced the coming distinction on her return from the ball. From the

kitchen chimney went up a pillar of smoke. Mrs. Allison and two of her

neighbors who were proud to lend assistance on such an important

occasion could be seen passing in and out continually. A large roast lay

simmering and burnished in the pan diffusing savory and provoking fumes

throughout the house. And it was with distinct pride that Mrs. Allison

announced to the company that they might take their places about the

festive board.

The discourse bore on various matters, prominence being given to

politics and the affairs of the army. Mr. Allison took care to ask no

question that might give rise to embarrassment on the part of Stephen.

The complaints of the tradesmen, the charges of the Whigs, the

murmurings of the Tories and the annoying articles in the morning

_Gazette_, all, were touched upon in the course of the meal. Stephen

volunteered the information that Conway and Gates were in hiding and

that Clinton was driven to New York where Washington was watching his

every move, like a hawk, from the heights of Morristown.

"General Washington holds General Arnold in the highest esteem,"

remarked Mr. Allison.

"As the bravest general in the Continental Army," quietly replied

Stephen.

"He would make a poor statesman," went on the host.

"He is a soldier first and last."

"Should a soldier be wanting in tact and diplomacy?"

"A good soldier should possess both."

"Then General Arnold is not a good soldier," declared Mr. Allison.

"A criticism he hardly deserves," was the simple reply.

"You saw the _Gazette_?"

"Yes. I read that article to which you undoubtedly refer."

"And you agree with it?"

"No. I do not."

"I am sorry about it all. Yet I am inclined to hold the Governor

responsible to a great extent. He would be an aristocrat, and it is the

society of such that he covets."

"Perhaps jealousy might inspire criticism. Envy, you know, is the

antagonist of the fortunate."

"But it is not his deeds alone that cause the unrest among our citizens.

It is not what he does but what he says. It helps matters not in the

least to express dissatisfaction with the manner of conducting the war,

neither by criticizing the enactments of the Congress, nor vehemently

opposing the new foreign alliance. This does not sound well from the

lips of one of our foremost leaders and we do not like it."

"I was not aware that he voiced any opposition to the furtherance of the

alliance with France," declared Stephen.

"He might not have spoken in formal protest, but he has spoken in an

informal manner times without number," replied Mr. Allison.

"I am sorry to hear that. I did not expect such from General Arnold,"

muttered Stephen.

Marjorie had as yet taken no part in the conversation. She was

interested and alive, however, to every word, anxious, if possible, to

learn Stephen's attitude in respect to the common talk. She took delight

in his defense of his General, notwithstanding the overwhelming evidence

against him and was proud of the trait of loyalty her guest disclosed in

the face of her father's opposition.

Mrs. Allison and Marjorie participated in the conversation when the

topics bore, for the most part, on current events, uninteresting to Mr.

Allison, who munched in silence until some incomplete sentence called

for a remark or two from him by way of a conclusion. Stephen's animated

interest in the more common topics of the day led Mrs. Allison and

Marjorie to the conclusion that he was a more practical and a more

versatile man than the head of their own house.

All in all he made a profound impression on the family, and when the

repast was finished and the table had been cleared, they sat over the

fruit and the nuts, before retiring to the living room for the evening.

III

"You are not in the habit of frequenting brilliant functions?" Stephen

asked of Marjorie when they were quite alone. It was customary for the

older folks to retire from the company of the younger set shortly after

the dinner grace had been said. Of course grace had to be said; Mr.

Allison would permit no bread to be broken at his house without first

imploring benedictions from Heaven, and, when the formalities of the

meal had been concluded, of returning thanks for the good things

enjoyed.

"I never have attended before," answered Marjorie, smoothing out a side

of her apron with her hand.

"You are quite friendly with the Shippen family, I understand."

"Oh, yes! For several years we have been united. I am invited to all

their functions. Still I am not fond of society."

"And you spend your time alone?" Stephen was persistent in his questions

as he sat opposite to her and studied her expression.

"Between here and the store, and perhaps with Peggy. That is about all

for I seldom visit. I am hopelessly old-fashioned in some things, mother

tells me, and I suppose you will say the same if I tell you more," and

she looked at him slyly, with her head half-raised, her lips parted

somewhat in a quizzical smile.

"Not at all! You are what I rather hoped to find you, although I did not

dare to give expression to it. You can, possibly, be of some assistance

to me."

"Gladly would I perform any service, however humble, for the cause of

our country," Marjorie sat upright, all attention at the thought.

"You remember I told you that I was detailed in the city on special

work," Stephen went on.

"I do."

"Well, it is a special work but it also is a very indefinite work. There

is a movement afoot, but of its nature, and purpose, I at this moment am

entirely ignorant. I am here to discover clews."

"And have you no material to work on except that? It is very vague, to

say the least."

"That and suspicion. Howe found the city a nest of Tories; but he also

found it swarmed with patriots, whose enthusiasm, and vigor, and

patience, and determination must have impressed him profoundly, and

portended disaster for the British cause. With the morale of the people

so high, and renewed hope and confidence swelling their bosoms, a

complete military victory must have appeared hopeless to the British

General. What was left? Dissension, or rebellion, or treason, or

anything that will play havoc with the united determination of the

Colonists."

She breathed heavily as she rested her chin on her hand absorbed in the

vision that he was calling up.

"Arnold's victory at Saratoga has convinced Britain that the war over

here cannot be won," he continued. "Already has Lord North thrown a bomb

into the ranks of the proud Tories by his liberal proposals. Of course

they will be entirely rejected by us and the war will continue until

complete independence is acknowledged. True, we had no such idea in mind

when we entered this conflict, but now we are convinced that victory is

on our side and that a free and independent form of government is the

most suitable for us. We have enunciated certain principles which are

possible of realization only under a democratic form of government,

where the people rule and where the rulers are responsible to the

people. Such a system is possible only in a great republic, and that is

what England must now recognize. Otherwise the war must go on."

"Have our aims taken such definite form. I know----"

"No! They have not," interrupted Stephen, "they have not and that is

where trouble is to be expected. Such is the state of mind, however, of

many of the more experienced leaders, but their opinion will lose

weight. It is because all are not united in this, that there is room for

treason under the motive of misguided patriotism. And it is to scent

every possible form of that disloyalty that I have been sent here; sent

to the very place where the Tories most abound and where such a plot is

most liable to take root."

"And you expect me to be of assistance to you?" asked Marjorie, proud of

the confidence which she so readily gained.

"I expect much. But perhaps nothing will eventuate. I can rely on you,

however. For the present, naught is to be done. When the time comes, I

shall tell you."

"But what can I do? I am but a mere girl."

"Did I think you to be ordinary, I might not have asked you," quickly

exchanged Stephen.

Marjorie dropped her head and began studying the stitches in her gown.

But only for a second, for she as quickly raised her head and asked:

"Wherein, then, can I be of service to you?"

"Listen!" He brought his chair to a point nearly opposite hers. She was

seated on the settee, yet he made no attempt to share it with her.

"You are friendly with the Shippen family," he went on. "Now, do not

misinterpret me. I shall require no betrayal of confidence. But it is

generally known that the Shippens are Tories, not avowedly so, yet in

heart and in thought. It is also generally known that their house was

the center of society during the days of the British occupation, at

which all manner of men assembled. The walls of that house, could they

but speak, would be able to relate many momentous conversations held

over the teacups, or in quiet corners. The family themselves must know

many things which might be invaluable to us."

"And you want me to learn that for you?" inquired Marjorie in alarm as

the horrible thought forced itself upon her.

"I want you to do nothing of the kind," quickly answered Stephen. "Far

be it from me to require you to barter your benevolence. I should

deplore any such method as most dishonorable and unworthy of the noble

cause in which we are engaged. No! I ask this, simply, that through you

I might be permitted the honor of visiting the home of Miss Shippen and

that by being acquainted with the family I might acquire a general

entree to the Tory social circle. In this way I might effect my purpose

and perchance stumble across information of vital importance. Thus can

you be of great assistance to me."

"I shall be delighted to do this, and I shall tell you more--perhaps you

may ask me to do something more noble--sometime----" She hesitated to

express the wish which was father to her thought.

"Sometime I expect you to be of real service to me and to our

country--sometime----"

Marjorie did not answer. She knew what she would like to say, but dared

not. Why should he unfold his mission to her at this, almost their first

meeting? And why should he expect her to be of such assistance to him,

to him, first, and then to the country? And then, why should she feel so

responsive, so ready to spend herself, her energy, her whole being at

the mere suggestion of this young man, whom until last evening, she had

never thought to exist. She felt that she was as wax in the hands of

this soldier; she knew it and enjoyed it and only awaited the moment

when his seal would come down upon her and stamp her more to his liking.

She was slightly younger than he, and happily his contrary in nearly all

respects. He was fair, she was dark; his eyes were blue, hers brown; he

was lusty and showed promise of broadness, she was slender.

Twice she opened her mouth as if to speak to him, and each time she

dropped again her head in reflective silence. She did not talk to this

young man as she might to any number of her more intimate acquaintances.

Even the very silence was magnetic. Further utterance would dispel the

charm. That she would enlist in his service she knew as well as she knew

her own existence, but that he should arouse so keen an interest in her,

so buoyant an attitude, so secure an assurance, amazed her and filled

her with awe. She had never before experienced quite the same sensation

that now dismayed her nor had any one ever brought home to her her worth

as did this young soldier. Yes she would help him, but in what way?

And so they sat and considered and talked. They soon forgot to talk

about His Excellency, or the Army, or the Shippens. Neither did they

resolve the doubts that might have been entertained concerning the

manner of men who frequented the home of Peggy and her sisters; nor the

Alliance which had just been established, nor the vital signification of

the event. They just talked over a field of affairs none of which bore

any special relation to any one save their own selves. At length the old

clock felt constrained to speak up and frown at them for their unusual

delay and their profligate waste of tallow and dips.

Stephen rose at once. Marjorie saw him to the door, where she gave him

her hand in parting.

"We have indeed been honored this day, Captain, and I trust that the

near future will see a return of the same. I am entirely at your

service," whispered Marjorie, wondering why the words did not come to

her more readily.

"On the contrary, Miss Allison, it is I who have been privileged. My

humble respects to your parents. Adieu!"

He bowed gracefully, wheeled, and went out the door.

CHAPTER V

I

The Corner of Market and Front Streets was brisk with life and activity

at twelve, the change hour, every day. Here assembled the merchants of

the city, members of the upper class who cared enough about the rest of

the world to make an inquiry into its progress; men of leisure about

town whose vocation in life was to do nothing and who had the entire day

in which to do it. All conditions, all varieties of character joined the

ranks. Soldiers, restless from the monotony of army life and desirous of

the license usually associated with leave of absence; civilians eager in

the pursuit of truth or of scandal; patriots impatient with the yoke of

foreign rule; Tories exasperated with the turn of the war and its

accompanying privations;--all gathered together at the Old London Coffee

House day after day.

It stood, an imposing three-storied, square structure, with a great wing

extending far in the rear. Its huge roof, fashioned for all the world

after a truncated pyramid with immense gables projecting from its sides,

gave every indication of having sheltered many a guest from the snows

and rains of winter. A great chimney ran up the side and continually

belched forth smoke and sparks, volumes of them, during the days and

nights of the cold winter season. A portico of no particular style of

architecture ran around two sides of the ancient building and afforded

a meeting place for the majority of the guests. It was furnished with

many chairs, faithfully tenanted when the season was propitious.

Thither Stephen and Mr. Allison were directing their steps more than a

week after they had last met at the home of the latter. It was by the

merest chance they encountered. Stephen was seeking a healthful reaction

from a vigorous walk through the less-frequented part of the city; Mr.

Allison was making his daily visit to the Coffee House. Stephen had

often heard of the tavern, but had never been there. Still he was

resolved to seek an introduction to its clientele at the first

propitious moment. That moment had now come.

Upon entering, their attention was at once arrested by the animated

discussion in progress at a table in the nearest corner of the room. An

officer of the Governor's Guard, in full regimentals, booted and

spurred, in company with a gentleman, finely dressed, was talking loudly

to Jim Cadwalader, who was seated before them holding a half-opened

newspaper in his hand. It was plain to be seen that the soldier was

somewhat under the influence of liquor, yet one could not call him

intoxicated.

"Gi' me that an' I'll show y'," exclaimed the soldier as he grabbed the

paper from Cadwalader's hand.

"Y' were told," he went on to read from it, "that it was t' avoid the

'stabl'shment 'r count'nancin'," he half mumbled the words, "of Pop'ry;

an that Pop'ry was 'stabl'shed in Canada (where 't was only tol'rated).

And is not Pop'ry now as much 'stabl'shed by law in your state 's any

other rel'gion?" "Just what I was sayin'," he interpolated. "So that

your Gov'nor and all your rulers may be Papists, and you may have a

Mass-House in ev'ry corner o' your country (as some places already

'xper'ence)."

"There!" he snarled as he threw back the paper. "Isn't that what I wuz

tryin' t' tell y'."

"You can't tell me nothin', Forrest," retorted Jim.

"Course I can't. Nobody kin. Y' know 't all."

"I can mind my own bus'ness."

"There y' are agin," shouted Forrest, "y' know 't all, ye do."

"Don't say that again," Jim flared back at him. "I'll--I'll--I'll----.

Don't say it again, that's all."

"'Cause y' know 'ts true."

"It's a lie," Jim interrupted him. "Ye know it's a lie. But I don't

'spect much of ye, 'r of the Gov'nor either. None of ye 'll ever be

Papists."

"Now you're talkin' sens'ble; first sens'ble thing you've said t'day. No

Papists here if we kin help it."

Stephen and Mr. Allison, keenly interested in this remark, moved nearer

to the table. Cadwalader was well known to Mr. Allison. The others were

total strangers.

"What's he goin' t' do about the help from France? Refuse it 'cause it's

from a Catholic country?" asked Jim.

"He don't like it and never did."

"Is he fool 'nough t' think we can win this war without help?"

"He won it once."

"When?"

"Saratoga."

"That's his story. We didn't have it won and it won't be won without

troops and with somethin' besides shin-plasters." He turned sideways,

crossed one leg over the other and began to drum upon the table.

"We must hev help," he went on. "We must hev it and it must come from

France 'r Spain."

"They y' are agin," repeated Forrest, "as if one wuzn't as much under

th' Pope as th' other."

"Forrest!" he turned toward him and shook his finger at him in a

menacing sort of way. "Don't say that agin. Mind what I tell ye. Don't

say it again--that's all. When I'm mad, I'm not myself."

"Is that so? I s'pose I'm wrong agin, an' you're right. Tell me this.

What did yer fool leg'slature in Vi'ginya do th' other day?"

"I don't know," murmured Jim. "What did they do?"

"There y' are agin. I thought y' knew it all. Think y' know ev'rythin'

an' y' know nothin'. Passed a resolution fur a Papist priest, didn't

they?"

"And why?" pronounced Jim, flushed with anger, his lower lip quivering

with emotion. "'Cause he did more fur his country, than you or I'll ever

do. Father Gibault! And if it wazn't fur him, Colonel Clark'd never hev

op'nd th' Northwest."

"That's just what I say. The Papists'll soon own the whole damn

country."

Stephen and Mr. Allison moved as if to join the discussion, which had at

this juncture become loud enough to lose the character of intimacy. Jim

was well known to the guests of the house. The man who was known as

Forrest, was, it was plain from his uniform, a Colonel in the army. The

other man was a stranger. Much younger than his companion, tall, manly,

clad in a suit of black, with his hair in full dress, well-powdered and

gathered behind in a large silken bag, he gave every appearance of

culture and refinement. He wore a black cocked hat, whose edges were

adorned with a black feather about an inch in depth, his knees as well

as his shoes adorned with silver buckles.

"If they did own th' country," was Jim's grave reply, "we'd hev a

healthier place to live in than we now hev."

"An' whose doin' it?" shouted Forrest. "The Papists."

"Thou liest!" interrupted Mr. Allison, intruding himself into their

midst, "a confounded lie. Remember, the Catholics have given their all

to this war--their goods, their money, their sons."

"Heigh-ho! who're you?" asked the soldier. "What d' you know 'bout the

army? Hardly 'nough 'f them to go aroun'."

"A malicious untruth. Why, half the rebel army itself is reported to

have come from Ireland."

"How do you know?"

"From the testimony of General Robertson in the House of Lords. And if

these soldiers are Irishmen, you can wager they're Catholics. And why

should we pass laws 'gainst these crowds of Irish Papists and convicts

who are yearly poured upon us, unless they were Catholic convicts

fleeing from the laws of persecution?"

"What ails ye, Forrest," rejoined Jim, "can't be cured."

"Take care 'f yourself," angrily retorted the Colonel, "an' I'll take

care o' myself."

"If ye did, and yer likes did the same, we'd git along better and the

war'd be over. I s'pose ye know that yer friend Jay lost Canada to us."

"What if he did. Wazn't he right?"

And then he explained to him.

II

Canada had been surrendered to England by France in a clause of the

Treaty of Paris in 1763, with a stipulation, however, that the people of

the territory in question would be permitted the free use of the French

language, the prescriptions of the French code of laws, and the practice

of the Catholic religion.

South of this region and west of the English colonies between the Ohio

and the Mississippi rivers, stretched a vast expanse of territory known

as the Northwest Territory, where dwelt a large population without laws,

with no organized form of government save the mere caprices of petty

military tyrants, placed over them by the various seaboard colonies who

severally laid claim to the district. At the request of the people of

Canada it was voted by the English Parliament to reannex the territory

northwest of the Ohio to Canada and to permit the settlers to share in

the rights and privileges of the Canadian province. This was effected by

the Quebec Act in 1774.

It was truly a remarkable concession. The inhabitants of this vast

stretch of territory were freed for all time from the tyranny of

military despots, their lands and churches secured to them and their

priests given a legal title to their tithes. It was the freest exercise

of the Catholic religion under the laws of the English Government.

But what a storm of abuse and protestation was raised by the fanatical

portion of the Protestant population! The newspapers of the day abounded

with articles, with songs and squibs against the King and His

Parliament. The mother country witnessed no less virulent a campaign

than the colonies themselves. "We may live to see our churches," writes

one writer to the _Pennsylvania Packet_, "converted into mass-houses,

and our lands plundered of tithes for the support of a Popish clergy.

The Inquisition may erect her standard in Pennsylvania and the city of

Philadelphia may yet experience the carnage of St. Bartholomew's day."

Processions were formed about the country and in some places the bust of

George III, adorned with miter, beads and a pectoral cross, was carried

in triumphal march.

The forms of protest found their way ultimately into the halls of the

First American Congress which convened in Philadelphia in 1774. The

recent legislation was enumerated among the wrongs done the colonies by

the mother country. Feeling became so bitter that an address was issued

by the Congress on the fifth of September, 1774, "to the people of Great

Britain" saying: "We think the Legislature of Great Britain is not

authorized by the Constitution to establish a religion, fraught with

sanguinary and impious tenets, or to erect an arbitrary form of

government in any quarter of the globe." "By another act the Dominion of

Canada is to be extended, modeled and governed, as that being disunited

from us, detached from our interests by civil as well as religious

prejudices, that by their numbers daily swelling with Catholic emigrants

from Europe, and by their devotion to administration so friendly to

their religion, they might become formidable to us, and on occasion be

fit instruments in the hands of power to reduce the ancient free

Protestant colonies to the same state of slavery with themselves."

Little did they think that the breach they were attempting to heal was

widened by their procedure. The author of the address was John Jay, a

lawyer from New York, with whom Papaphobia was a mania.

Nor did the failure of this method of diplomacy become apparent until

several years later. The measure of appreciation and the expression of

sentiment of the Canadian people in regard to this ill-timed and

unchristian address, conceived in a fit of passion and by no means

representative of the sentiments of the saner portion of the population,

took expression at a more critical time. When, in 1776, the members of

the same Congress, viewing with alarm the magnitude of the struggle upon

which they had entered and to whose success they had pledged their

honor, their fortunes and their lives, sought to enlist the resources of

their neighbors in Canada, they met with a sudden and calamitous

disappointment. To effect an alliance with the border brethren, three

commissioners were appointed--Benjamin Franklin, Samuel Chase, and

Charles Carroll of Carrollton. Father John Carroll, a Jesuit priest, was

invited by the Congress to accompany the party.

Arriving in Canada, it soon became evident to the committee, that their

mission was to be unproductive of results. The government did not take

kindly to them, nor would the Bishop of Quebec and his clergy trust the

vague expressions of the United Colonies, whose statute books, they

pointed out, still bore the most bitter and unchristian sentiments

against all priests and adherents of the ancient church. Bigotry had

apparently defeated their purpose. How it had done this was still quite

obscure, until it was discovered that the British Government had taken

John Jay's address, translated it into French and spread it broadcast

throughout Canada. "Behold the spirit of the Colonists," it went on to

remind the people, "and if you join forces with them, they will turn on

you and extirpate your religion, in the same manner as they did in the

Catholic colony of Maryland."

The effect is historical. The commissioners were compelled to return;

the brave Montgomery was killed before the walls of the city; Canada was

lost to the Colonies and forever forfeited as an integral part of the

United States; all of which was due to the narrowness and intolerance of

those who in the supreme hour could not refrain from the fanaticism of

bigotry.

It must be said, however, out of justice to the colonists that they did

not persist in their spirit of antagonism towards the Catholics. The

commencement of the struggle against the common foe, together with the

sympathetic and magnanimous concurrence of the Catholics with the

patriots in all things, soon changed their prejudice in favor of a more

united and vigorous effort in behalf of their joint claims. The despised

Papists now became ardent and impetuous patriots. The leaders in the

great struggle soon began to reflect an added luster to the nation that

gave them birth and to the Church which taught them devotion to their

land. The rank and file began to swarm with men of the Catholic faith,

so many, indeed, that their great Archbishop, John Carroll, could write

of them that "their blood flowed as freely (in proportion to their

numbers) to cement the fabric of independence, as that of any of their

fellow citizens. They concurred with perhaps greater unanimity than any

other body of men in recommending and promoting that government from

whose influence America anticipates all the blessings of justice, peace,

plenty, good order, and civil and religious liberty."

Only among the few was the spirit of intolerance still rampant, and

among these might be numbered Colonel Forrest.

III

"See now who's t' blame, don't ye? The likes o' ye an' that poltroon,

Jay, up there in New York. See who started this affair, don't ye?"

"That's what you say. Egad, I could say all that an' save half the

breath. I've got my 'pinion, though, and that'll do fur me."

"Ye're so narrow, Forrest, ye've only one side."

"Is that so? Well, so is the Governor."

"Is that his opinion, too?" impatiently asked Mr. Allison.

"What?"

"Does he view matters in that light?"

"Did I say he did."

"Yes."

There was no further response.

Stephen had, by this time, become thoroughly exasperated with this man,

and was about to eject him forcibly from the room. His better judgment,

however, bade him restrain himself. A tilt in a public drinking house

would only noise his name abroad and perhaps give rise to much

unpleasantness.

"How can a man consistently be subject to any civil ruler when he

already has pledged his allegiance, both in soul and in body, to another

potentate?"

This from the man in black, the fourth member of the party, who

heretofore had maintained an impartial and respectful silence, not so

much from choice perhaps as through necessity. His name proved to be

John Anderson.

"You mean an alien?" Stephen inquired.

"If you are pleased so to term it. The Pope is a temporal lord, you

understand, and as such is due allegiance from every one of his

subjects."

And then Stephen took pains to explain, clearly and concisely, the great

difference between the two authorities--the civil and the religious. The

Prince of Peace had said, "Render unto Caeesar the things that are

Caeesar's, and to God the things that are God's," which declaration

admitted of an interpretation at once comprehensive and exclusive. He

explained how the Catholic found himself a member of two distinct and

perfect societies, each independent and absolute within its own sphere,

the one deriving its charter from the natural law, the other directly

from God. He then pointed out how these societies lived in perfect

harmony, although armed with two swords, the one spiritual, the other

temporal, weapons which were intended never to clash but to fight side

by side for the promotion of man's happiness, temporal and eternal.

"But it is inconceivable how a clash can be avoided," Mr. Anderson

reminded him.

"Not when it is remembered that each authority is independent of the

other. The Church has no power over civil legislation in matters purely

secular, nor has the state a right to interfere in ecclesiastical

legislation, in matters purely spiritual, nor over spiritual persons

considered strictly as such. In every Catholic country the King, as well

as the humblest peasant, is subject to the laws of his country in

secular matters, and to the laws of his church in matters spiritual."

"Yet at the same time he cannot fail to recognize that the one is

superior to the other."

"Only in so far as the spiritual order is superior to the secular."

"Not in temporal affairs as well?"

"Not in the least. Only in the recognition of the fact that the

salvation of the soul is of more importance than the welfare of the

body. In this is the mission of the state considered inferior to that of

the Church."

"If this be true, how can a Catholic pay allegiance to a society which

he believes to be a subordinate one?"

"He does not consider it subordinate. It is supreme within its own

sphere. Theoretically it is subordinate in this: that the care of the

soul comes first; then that of the body. The state is the greatest

institution in matters secular, and in this respect superior to the

Church. The Church makes no pretense of infallibility in statesmanship.

Hence, a Catholic who is true to his Church and her teachings makes the

best citizen."

"Why?"

"Because, to him, patriotism is inculcated by religion. Throughout his

whole life his soul has been nurtured by his Church on a twofold

pabulum,--love of God and love of country."

"The Catholic Church expressly teaches that? I thought----"

"Exactly," agreed Stephen, interrupting him. "The Catholic has been

taught that the civil authority, to which he owes and pays allegiance,

is something divine; for him it is the authority of God vested in His

creatures and he gives ear to its voice and yields to it a sweet and

humble submission as befits a child of God, doing His Will in all

things. For he recognizes therein the sound of the Divine Voice."

"I see."

"He remembers the teaching of his Church, derived from the words of St.

Paul writing on this subject to the citizens of Rome, 'Let every man be

subject to higher powers, for there is no power but from God; and those

that are, are ordained of God,' and the letter of St. Peter, the first

Pope, 'Be ye subject, therefore, to every human creature for God's sake;

whether it be to the king as excelling; or to governors as sent by

him--for so is the will of God.'"

"You must have been reading the Bible," interrupted Mr. Allison with a

smile.

"I have," answered Stephen, as he continued with little or no attention

to the interruption.

"The Catholic obeys the voice of his rightly constituted authority

because he feels that he is obeying the voice of his God, and when he

yields obedience to the law of his land, he feels that he is yielding

obedience to God Himself. His ruler is the mouthpiece of God; the

Constitution of his state a most sacred thing because it is the

embodiment of the authority of God and he would rather die than commit

any untoward or unlawful deed which might undermine or destroy it,

precisely because it is from God."

There was no response. All had listened with attention to Stephen as he

emphasized point after point. All, save Colonel Forrest, who wore a

sardonic smile throughout it all.

"You should 've talked like that on Guy Fawkes' Day," he muttered, "if

you wanted t' hev some fun. We'd hev some hot tar fur you."

"Thank God!" replied Stephen. "We shall witness no more such outbreaks

of fanaticism. They have long enough disgraced our country. They are, I

trust, forever ended."

"The Pope Day Celebration ended?" asked Anderson in surprise.

"I hope so. Since General Washington issued the order soon after taking

command of the army, abolishing the celebration, the practice has never

been resumed."

"Wash'ton thinks he owns th' country," mumbled Forrest in a half

articulate manner. "Likes th' Papists, he does. No more Pope Day!

Cath'lic gen'rals! French al-lies! P'rhaps 'll send fur th' Pope next.

Give 'm 'is house, p'rhaps. Give 'im th' whole coun'ry. No damn good to

us, he ain't. No damn good----"

The next moment Stephen was upon him with his hands about his throat,

his face flaming with rage and passion.

"You hound! No more of that; or your treason will end forever."

He shook his head violently, tightening his fingers about his throat. As

he did, Forrest writhing in the chair under his attack, began to fumble

with his hand at his hip as if instinctively seeking something there.

Stephen's eyes followed the movement, even while he, too, relaxed his

hold to seize with his free hand the arm of his adversary. Only for a

moment, however; for he immediately felt himself seized from behind by

the shoulders and dragged backwards from his man and completely

overpowered.

The man who was known as Anderson took charge of the Colonel, helping

him to his feet, and without further words led him to one side of the

room, talking softly but deliberately to him as he did so.

A moment later they had passed through the door and vanished down the

street in the direction of the Square.

CHAPTER VI

I

The morrow was one of those rare days when all nature seems to invite

one to go forth and enjoy the good things within her keeping. The

sunrise was menacing; unless the wind shifted before noon it would be

uncomfortably warm. Still, the air was bracing and fragrant with the

soft perfume distilled by the pines.

Stephen felt in tune with nature as he made his early morning toilet. He

gazed the while into the garden from his widely opened window, and

responded instinctively to the call of the countryside. The disagreeable

episode of the preceding day had left unpleasant recollections in his

mind which disconcerted him not a little during his waking hours, the

time when the stream of consciousness begins to flow with an

unrestrained rapidity, starting with the more impressive memories of the

night before. He did not repent his action; he might have repeated the

performance under similar circumstances, yet he chided himself for his

lack of reserve and composure and his great want of respect to a

superior officer.

He was early mounted and on his way, striking off in the direction of

the Germantown Road. He had left word with his landlady of his intended

destination, with the added remark that he would be back in a short

time, a couple of hours at the most, and that he would attend to the

business of the day upon his return. What that might amount to he had

no idea at all, being preoccupied entirely with what he had to do in the

immediate present, for he made it a point never to permit the more

serious affairs of life to intrude upon his moments of relaxation.

He was a pleasant figure to look upon; smooth-faced and athletic, well

mounted and dressed with great preciseness. On his well shaped hands he

wore leathern gauntlets; he was in his uniform of buff and blue; beneath

his coat he had his steel-buckled belt with his holster and pistol in

it; he wore his cocked hat with a buff cockade affixed, the insignia of

his rank in the service.

The road lay in the direction of Marjorie's house. Perhaps he chose to

ride along this way in order that he might be obliged to pass her door,

and then again, perhaps, that was but of secondary import. This was no

time for analysis, and so he refused to study his motives. He did know

that he had not seen her for a long time, the longest time it seemed,

and that he had had no word from her since their last meeting, save the

intelligence received from her father yesterday in response to his

repeated inquiries concerning her welfare and that of her mother.

"Let us turn up here, Dolly, old girl." He leaned forward a little to

pat the mare's neck affectionately as he spoke; while at the same time

he pulled the right rein slightly, turning her head in the direction

indicated. "And, if we are fortunate, we shall catch a glimpse of her."

Dolly raised her ears very erect and opened full her nostrils as if to

catch some possible scent of her, of whom he spoke. She pierced the

distance with her eyes, but saw no one and so settled herself into an

easy canter, for she knew it to be more to her rider's advantage to

proceed at a slowing pace until they had passed the house in question.

"You are an intelligent old girl, Dolly, but I must not let you too far

into the secrets of my mind. Still, you have shared my delights and woes

alike and have been my one faithful friend. Why should I not tell you?"

And yet they had been friends for no great length of time. It was at

Valley Forge they had met, shortly after Stephen's appointment to

General Washington's staff. As an aide he was required to be mounted and

it was by a piece of good fortune that he had been allowed to choose

from several the chestnut mare that now bore him. He had given her the

best of care and affection and she reciprocated in as intelligent a

manner as she knew how.

"You have served well, but I feel that there is much greater work before

us, much greater than our quest of the present."

They were nearing the house. For some reason or other, Dolly whinnied as

he spoke, probably in acquiescence to his thought, probably in

recognition of the presence of her rival. She might have seen, had she

cared to turn her head, a trim, lithe form passing to the rear of the

house. Stephen took pains to see her, however, and, as she turned her

head, doffed his hat in salute. The next moment Dolly felt the reins

tighten, and, whether she desired it or not, found her head turned in

that direction. Her rider was soon dismounted and was leading her to the

side of the road.

"You are early astir, Mistress Marjorie. I had anticipated no such

pleasure this morning."

"It is indeed mutual," replied Marjorie, smiling as she offered him her

hand. "How came you so early? No new turn of events, I hope!"

"Not in the least. I desired a few hours in the saddle before the heat

of the day set in, and my guardian angel must have directed me along

this path."

Dolly raised both her ears and turned towards him, while she noisily

brought her hoof down upon the sod.

"What a rascal!" she thought to herself.

The girl dropped her eyes demurely and then asked hurriedly:

"There are no new developments?"

"None that I know of."

"Nothing came of the trouble at the Inn?"

"Then you know?"

"All. Father told me."

"He should not have told you."

"It was my doing. I gave him no peace until I had learned all."

Dolly grew weary of this pleasantry and wandered away to gladden her

lips on the choice morsels of the tender grass.

"I deeply regret my indiscretion, though it was for his sake."

"You mean----?"

"His Excellency."

"I might have done likewise, were I able. Colonel Forrest is most

disagreeable."

"He was not wholly culpable and so I forgave his insulting remarks

against us, but I forgot myself entirely when General Washington's name

was besmirched."

"I fear further trouble," she sighed.

"From him?"

She nodded her head.

"Nonsense! There will be naught said about the whole affair and it will

end where it began. Forrest is no fool."

"I have other news for you, Captain," announced Marjorie, her eyes

beaming at the prospect.

"And how long have you been preserving it for me?" asked Stephen.

"But a few days."

"And you made no attempt to see me?"

"Had I not met you now, I would have done so this day," answered

Marjorie.

"You would have written?"

"Perhaps."

"It is my forfeiture to your reserve."

"And made gallantly."

"Come now! What had you to tell?"

"This. Peggy desires the honor of your company. You will receive the

invitation in a day or two. Just an informal affair, yet I sensed the

possibility of your pleasure."

"You did right. I am pleased as I am honored, but neither so much as I

am elated at the hopes for the future. Of course, I shall accept, but

you will have to promise to denote my path for me in the tangled maze of

society, in whose company I am as yet merely a novice."

"Lud! I ne'er heard one so illiberal of his graces."

"Nor one more candid," Stephen rejoined as quickly. If he were good at

repartee he had met with one who was equally as apt.

"You know the Governor will be in attendance," she declared in a

matter-of-fact manner.

"How should I know that? Is it unusual for him to frequent the company

of the gay?"

"Not of late, the more especially where the presence of Peggy is

concerned," added the little tale-bearer with a keen though reckless

wit.

"And why Peggy?" He was innocent enough in his question.

"Have you not heard of His Excellency's courting? Mr. Shippen has

already made public the rumor that a certain great General is laying

close siege to the heart of Peggy. And I have Peggy's own word for it."

"To Peggy?" He asked with evident surprise. "Why, she but halves his

age, and he is already a widower."

"With three sons," Marjorie gayly added. "No matter. Peggy will meet the

disparity of ages by the disparity of stations. She has avowed to me

that no one dares to question the social preeminence of the Military

Governor, nor the fact that he is the most dashing and perhaps most

successful general of the Continental Army. Position in life is of prime

importance to her."

"Is that so? I had not so judged her," was the comment.

"She admits that herself, and makes no secret of it before any one. Did

you not observe her sullen silence at the Ball upon learning of the

identity of her inferior partner? And that she sat out the major portion

of the dance in company with the Military Governor?"

"It escaped my attention, for I was too deeply concerned with another

matter which distracted me for the entire evening," he answered with a

smile.

She pretended to take no notice, however, and continued.

"Well, he has been calling regularly since that evening, and this quiet

and informal function has been arranged primarily in his honor, although

it will not be announced as such. You will go?" she asked.

"I shall be pleased to accept her invitation. May I accompany you?"

"Thank you. I almost hoped you would say that. Men folks are so sadly

wanting in intuition."

"Friday, then? Adieu! The pleasure that awaits me is immeasurable."

"Until Friday."

She extended to him her hand, which he pressed. A moment later he was

mounted.

"My kindest to your mother. She will understand." Dolly broke into a

gallop.

II

Marjorie stood at the gate post until he was quite lost from view around

the turn of the road. He did not look back, yet she thought that he

might have. She slowly turned and as slowly began to walk towards the

house, there to resume the duties which had suffered a pleasant

interruption.

Meanwhile, she tried to analyze this young man. He was rather deep, of

few words on any given subject, but wholly non-communicative as regards

himself. He perhaps was possessed of more intuition than his manner

would reveal, although he gave every appearance of arriving at his

conclusions by the sheer force of logic. His words and deeds never

betrayed his whole mind, of that she was certain, yet he could assert

himself rather forcibly when put to the test, as in the painful incident

at the Coffee House. He would never suffer from soul-paralysis, thought

she, for want of decision or resolution, for both were written full

upon him.

That she was strangely attracted to him she knew very well, but why and

how she was unable to discover. This was but their third meeting, yet

she felt as if she had known him all her life, so frank, so unreserved,

so open, so secure did she feel in his presence. It seemed the most

natural thing in the world for her to have waved her hand in salute to

him that morning as he passed; she did it with the same unconcern as if

she had known him all her life. She felt it within her, that was all,

and could give no other possible interpretation to her action.

There was something prepossessing about him. Perhaps it was his faculty

for doing the unexpected. Most women desire to meet a man who is

possessed of a distinctive individuality, who lends continual interest

to them by his departure from the trite and commonplace. What Stephen

might say or do was an entirely unknown quantity until it had actually

taken place, and this attracted her on the instant, whether she was

conscious of it or not. His manner, too, was affable, and gave him an

air at once pleasing and good-natured. He never flattered, yet said most

agreeable things, putting one perfectly at ease and inspiring sympathy

and courage. He bore himself well; erect, manly, dignified, without

ostentation or display. His seriousness, his evenness, his gravity, his

constancy and his decision stamped him with a certain authority, a man

of marked personality and character.

So she mused as she entered the door, her thoughts in a lofty hegira to

the far off land of make believe--her better self striving to marshal

them to the cold realities of duty that lay before her. She had been

cleaning the little addition at the rear of the dwelling proper, used as

a kitchen, and her work took her into the yard. Dolly's whinny had

caused her to turn her head, and the next moment cares and

responsibilities and all else were forgotten. Now she wondered what she

had been about! Seizing a cloth she began to dust industriously. The

crash of one of the dishes on the kitchen floor brought her to her

senses. Her mother heard the noise from the adjoining room.

"What ails thee, child? Hast thou lost thy reason?"

"I believe so, mommy. I must have been thinking of other things." And

she stooped to gather the fragments.

"Was it Captain Meagher? I saw you two at the gate."

A guilty smile stole over the corners of her mouth.

"He was passing while I was in the yard, and he stopped only to wish me

the greetings of the day. I was right glad that he did, for I had an

opportunity of extending to him the invitation from Peggy."

"He will go, I suppose?" she queried, knowing well what the answer might

be. She did not spare the time to stop for conversation, but continued

with her duties.

"He is quite pleased. And, mommy, he will call for me."

"Be careful, now, to break no more dishes."

"Lud! I have not lost my head yet. That was purely an accident which

will not happen again."

"That poor unfortunate Spangler made a better defense."

"He deserved what he got. So did Lieutenant Lyons and the other officers

of the Ranger who deserted to the enemy. But my sympathies go out to the

old man who kept the gates under the city. These court-martials are

becoming too common and I don't like them."

"That is the horrible side of war, my dear. And until our people learn

the value of patriotism, the need of abolishing all foreign ties and

strongly adhering to the land that has offered them a home and a living,

the necessity of these dreadful measures will never cease."

"A little power is a dangerous weapon to thrust into a man's hand,

unless he be great enough to wield it."

"Now you are going to say that General Arnold is to blame for these

tragedies."

"No, I am not. But I do think that a great deal more of clemency could

be exercised. Many of those poor tradesmen who were convicted and

sentenced to be hanged could have been pardoned with equal security."

"That is the law, my dear, and the law is God's will. Leave all to Him."

Mrs. Allison was one of those good souls who saw no harm in the vilest

of creatures; faults were hidden by her veil of sympathy. When

distressing reverses or abject despair visited any one, Mrs. Allison's

affability and indescribable tenderness smoothed over the troubled

situation and brought forth a gleam of gladness. Quiet, kindly,

magnanimous, tolerant, she could touch hearts to the depths in a manner

both winning and lasting. Whether the fault entailed a punishment

undeserved or inevitable, her feeling of pity was excited. She always

sympathized without accusing or probing the source of the evil. She

stretched forth a helping hand merely to aid. No nature, however hard,

could be impervious to the sympathy and the sweetness of her

affectionate disposition.

Motherly was the quality written full upon Mrs. Allison's face. Her

thoughts, her schemes, her purposes, her ambitions of life, were all

colored by this maternal attribute. In her daily homage and obeisance to

God, Whom she worshiped with the most childlike faith and simplicity; in

the execution of the manifold duties of her home, Marjorie was to her

ever a treasure of great price. She was sustained in her aims and

purposes by an enduring power of will,--a power clothed with the soft,

warm, living flesh of a kindly heart.

Her marriage with Matthew Allison had been happy, a happiness

intensified and concretely embodied in Marjorie, the only child

vouchsafed to them by the Creator. How often, at the time when the

deepening shadows moved their way across the dimming landscape,

announcing to the work worn world the close of another day, would she

sit for a brief while in silence and take complacence in the object of

her hopes and aspirations! It was Marjorie for whom she lived and toiled

and purposed. And it was Marjorie who embodied the sum-total of her

fancies and ambitions and aspirations, and translated them into definite

forms and realities.

III

A beautiful landscape unrolled itself before Stephen as he leisurely

rode along the Germantown road. The midsummer sun was now high in the

heavens, with just a little stir in the air to temper its warmth and

oppressiveness. Fragments of clouds, which seemed to have torn

themselves loose from some great heap massed beyond the ridge of low

hills to the westward, drifted lazily across the waste of blue sky,

wholly unconcerned as to their ultimate lot or destination. Breaths of

sweet odor, from freshly cut hay or the hidden foliage bounding the

road, were wafted along in the embraces of the gentle breeze. Away to

the left and before him, as his horse cantered along, swelled the

countryside in gentle undulations of green and brown, disfigured now and

again by irregular patches of field and orchard yielding to cultivation;

while to the side a stone wall humped itself along the winding road into

the distance, its uniformity of contour broken here and there by a

trellis work of yellow jasmine or crimson rambler, alternately

reflecting lights and shadows from the passing clouds and sunshine. It

was a day when all nature was in perfect tune, its harmony sweetly

blending with the notes of gladness that throbbed in Stephen's heart.

Yet he was scarce aware of it all, so completely absorbed was he in the

confusion of his own thought.

Stephen had a very clear idea of what he was to do in the immediate

present, but he had no idea at all of what was to be done in the

immediate future. First of all he would attend Mistress Marjorie at this

informal affair, where, perhaps, he might learn more about the Military

Governor. He half surmised that His Excellency was not kindly disposed

towards Catholics in general, although he could not remember any

concrete case in particular to substantiate his claim. Still he knew

that he was avowedly opposed to the French Alliance, as were many

illustrious citizens; and he presumed his feelings were due in part at

least to the fact that France was a recognized Catholic country. There

was a negative argument, too: no Catholic name was ever found among his

appointments. These were but surmises, not evidence upon which to base

even a suspicion. Nevertheless, they were worthy of some consideration

until a conclusion of a more definite nature was warranted.

That the Governor was becoming decidedly more unpopular every day and

that this unpopularity was quite consequential, more consequential if

anything than preconceived,--for it cannot be gainsaid that many had

frowned upon his appointment from the very beginning,--Meagher knew very

well. Unfavorable comparisons already had been drawn between the gayety

of life under a free country and that of a colonial government. The fact

that Arnold possessed the finest stable of horses in the city, and

entertained at the most costly of dinners, at a time when the manner of

living was extremely frugal, not so much from choice as from necessity,

and at a time when the value of the Continental currency had depreciated

to almost nothing, occasioned a host of acrid criticisms not only in the

minds of the displeased populace, but also in the less friendly columns

of the daily press.

Censures of the harshest nature were continually uttered against the

Governor's conduct of the affairs of the city government together with

his earlier order closing the shops. Now, the use that he began to make

of the government wagons in moving the stores excited further complaints

of a more public nature, the more so that no particular distinction was

being made as to whether the stores belonged to the Whigs or the

offending Tories. It was no idle gossip that he curried favor with the

upper Tory class of the city, now particular mention was made of his

infatuation with the daughter of Edward Shippen. It was whispered, too,

that the misuse of his authority in the grant of safe passes to and from

New York had led to the present act of the Congress in recalling all

passes. Stephen knew all this and he logically surmised more; so he

longed for the opportunity to study intimately this man now occupying

the highest military post in the city and the state.

For the present he would return home and bide his time until Friday

evening when he would have the happiness of escorting Marjorie to the

home of Peggy Shippen.

"I wonder, Dolly, old girl, if I can make myself bold enough to call her

'Marjorie.' 'Marjorie,' Margaret,'" he repeated them over to himself. "I

don't know which is the prettier. She would be a pearl among women, and

she is, isn't she, Dolly?"

He would ask her at any rate. He would be her partner for the evening,

would dance with her, and would sit by her side. Peggy would be there,

too, and the General. He would observe them closely, and perchance,

converse with them. Colonel Forrest and the General's active

aide-de-camp, Major Franks, a Philadelphian, and a Jew would also be

present. Altogether the evening promised to be interesting as well as

happy.

He was musing in this manner when he heard the hoof beats of a horse,

heavily ridden, gaining upon him in the rear. He drew up and half turned

instinctively at the strange yet familiar sound. Suddenly there hove

into view at the bend of the road an officer of the Continental Army, in

full uniform, booted and spurred, whose appearance caused him to turn

full about to await him. It was not long before he recognized the

familiar figure of the aide, Major Franks, and he lifted his arm to

salute.

"Captain Meagher, I have orders for your arrest."

"Sir?" answered Stephen in alarm.

"On charges preferred by Colonel Forrest. You are to come with me at

once."

An embarrassing silence ensued.

Stephen then saluted, and handed over his side arms. He wheeled his

horse and set off in the direction indicated, his thoughts in a turmoil.

The Major fell in at the rear.

CHAPTER VII

I

"For still my mem'ry lingers on the scenes

And pleasures of the days beyond recall."

Peggy's voice, timid, soft though pretty, died away into an enraptured

silence which seemed to endure for the longest while before the room

burst into a generous measure of applause. She was very well accompanied

on the clavichord by Miss Rutteledge and on the harp by Monsieur Ottow,

Secretary to the French Minister. The evening had been delightful; the

assembly brilliant in quality, and unaffectedly congenial and diverting.

The music had contributed much to the pleasures of the function, for the

Shippens' was one of the few homes in the city where such a resource was

at all possible.

"Major! Major Franks! What do you think of my little girl? Do you think

'twould be well for her to cultivate such a voice?"

Mrs. Shippen turned sideways. There was gratification, genuine,

complacent gratification, visible in every line of her smiling face.

"Splendid! Splendid! Of course. Madame, she sings very prettily,"

replied the Major, gathering himself from the state of partial repose

into which he had fallen.

He sat up.

"And do you know, Major," went on the fond mother, "she never had a

tutor, except some of our dear friends who made this their home during

the winter."

"You mean the British?"

"Of course they did not make so free with everybody in the city, with

only a few, you know. It was for General Howe himself that Margaret

first made bold enough to sing."

"She does very well, I am sure," was the reply.

The little group again lapsed into silence as Peggy responded with an

encore, this selection being a patriotic air of a lighter vein. The

Major again lapsed into an easy attitude, but Mrs. Shippen was visibly

intent upon every motion of the singer and followed her every syllable.

"How much does music contribute to one's pleasure!" she remarked when

the conversation began to stir.

"It is charming," Mr. Anderson observed.

"And do you know that we inherited that clavichord? It is one of the

oldest in the country."

"It appears to be of rare design," remarked Mr. Anderson, as his eyes

pierced the distance in a steady observance of it.

"It belonged to Mr. Shippen's father," she boasted. "This house, you

know, was the home of Edward Shippen, who was Mayor of the city over an

hundred years ago. It was then, if I do say it, the most pretentious

home in the city. My husband was for disposing of it and removing to

less fashionable quarters, but I would not hear of it. Never!"

Major Franks surveyed the great room deliberately.

"'Twould make a fine castle!" he commented as he half turned and crossed

one knee over the other. He felt that this would be his last visit if

he continued to take any less interest, yet even that apparently caused

him no great concern.

And yet, a great house it was, the quondam residence of Edward Shippen,

the progenitor of the present family, a former Mayor of the city, who

had fled thither from Boston where he had suffered persecution at the

hands of the Puritans who could not allow him to be a Quaker. It stood

on an eminence outside the city. It was well surrounded, with its great

orchard, its summer house, its garden smiling with roses, and lilies;

bordered by rows of yellow pines shading the rear, with a spacious green

lawn away to the front affording an unobstructed view of the city and

the Delaware shore. It was a residence of pretentious design and at the

time of its construction was easily the most sumptuous home in the city.

The Shippens had been the leaders of the fashionable set, not alone in

days gone by, the days of colonial manners when diversions and

enjoyments were indulged in as far as the austerities of the staid old

Quaker code would allow; but also during the days of the present

visitation of the British, when emulation in the entertainment of the

visitors ran riot among the townsfolk. Small wonder that the present

lord of the manor felt constrained to write to his father that he should

be under the necessity of removing from this luxurious abode to

Lancaster, "for the style of living my fashionable daughters have

introduced into my family and their dress will I fear before long oblige

me to change the scene." Yet if the truth were told, the style of living

inaugurated by the ambitious daughters was no less a heritage than a

part of the discipline in which they had been reared.

If the sudden and forced departure of the dashing as well as the

eligible British Officers from the city had totally upset the cherished

social aspirations of the mother of the Shippen girls, the advent of the

gallant and unmarried Military Governor had lifted them to a newer and

much higher plane of endeavor. The termination of a matrimonial alliance

with the second in command of the patriotic forces not less than the

foremost in rank of the city gentry, would more than compensate for the

loss of a possible British peerage. Theirs was a proud lineage to boast

of and a mode of unfeigned comfort and display. And it took but the

briefest possible time for the artful mother to discern that her clever

and subtle devices were beginning to meet with some degree of success.

The present function was wholly her affair, and while it was announced

as a purely informal gathering, the manner and the scheme of the

decorations, the elegance and the care with which the women dressed, the

order, the appointments, the refreshments, not to mention the

distinguished French visitors, would permit no one to surmise that, even

for a moment. Care had been taken to issue invitations to the

representative members of the city's upper class, more especially to the

newly arrived French Officers and their wives, as well as the

commissioned members of the Continental Army. There were the Shippen

girls, their persistent friend, Miss Chew, as well as Miss Franks, whose

brother was now attached to the staff of General Arnold, and a dozen

other young ladies, all attractive, and dressed in the prevailing

elegance of fashion; the hair in an enormous coiffure, in imitation of

the fashions of the French, with turbans of gauze and spangles and ropes

of pearls, the low bodices with the bow in front, the wide sashes

below. It was an altogether brilliant assembly, with the Military

Governor the most brilliant of all.

"Tell me, Major," asked Mrs. Shippen in measured and subdued language as

she leaned forward in an apparently confidential manner, "does General

Arnold visit often?"

"Oh, yes!" replied the Major at once, "he is very generous with his

company."

Her face fell somewhat.

"Now, isn't that strange? I was told that he made a practice of calling

at no home outside of ours."

He uncrossed his leg and shifted in his chair rather uneasily.

"Quite true." He saw at once that he had made an unhappy remark. "But of

course he makes no social calls, none whatsoever. You must know that the

affairs of state require all of his time, for which duty he is obliged

to visit many people on matters of pure business."

"Oh!"

She appeared satisfied at this explanation.

"It seems as if we had known him all our lives. He feels so perfectly at

home with us."

"Exactly."

"You have met him often with us, haven't you, Marjorie?"

"I first met him at the Military Ball through Peggy," Marjorie replied

naively.

"But you must have met him here. He has been here so often," she

insisted.

"Then I vow our General has felt the smite of your fair daughter's

charms," remarked Mr. Anderson.

Marjorie breathed a sigh of relief at the timely interruption.

"Do you really think so?" asked Mrs. Shippen, with no attempt to conceal

her impatience.

"Unquestionably.

'Smiles from reason flow,

To brute denied, and are of love the food.'

So sang the bard, and so sing I of His Excellency."

"But his age! He cannot now be thinking of matrimony."

"Age, my dear Mrs. Shippen, is a matter of feeling, not of years. The

greatest miracle of love is to eradicate all disparity. Before it age,

rank, lineage, distinction dissolve like the slowly fading light of the

sun at eventide. The General is bent on conquest; that I'll wager. What

say you, Major? A five pound note?"

"Not I. 'Old men are twice children,' you know."

"Well, if I do say it," remarked Mrs. Shippen, "my daughter has had a

splendid education and is as cultured a girl as there is in the city and

would make a fitting helpmate for any man, no matter what his position

in life may be."

The orchestra began to fill the room with the strains of the minuet. Mr.

Anderson arose and advanced towards Marjorie.

"May I have the pleasure of your company?" he said.

Marjorie arose and gave him her arm.

II

She tripped through the graces of the minuet in a mechanical sort of a

fashion, her thoughts in a far off land of amazement and gloomy

desolation. The unexpected and adverse stroke of fortune which had

descended with hawk-like velocity upon Stephen had thoroughly

disconcerted her. Try as she would, her imagination could not be brought

under her control. There was one image that would not out, and that was

Stephen's.

A short note from him gave the first inkling to her. He had been placed

under arrest by order of Major-General Arnold on the charge of striking

his superior officer, in violation of the Fifth Article, Second Section

of the American Articles of War. The charge had been preferred on the

evening previous to his arrest and bore the signature of Colonel

Forrest, with whom, she called to mind, he had participated in the

affray at the Inn.

Little would come of it. Of that she could rest assured. For if he chose

to present his side of the case, cause might be found against the

Colonel in the matter of disrespectful language against the

Commander-in-chief. On that account the affair would very probably end

where it had begun and his sword would once more be restored to him.

Should the Colonel press the case, however, it would result in a

court-martial, that being the usual tribunal before which such matters

were tried.

For the present he was under arrest. He was not confined and no limits

were assigned to him in the order of his arrest, yet he was deprived of

his sword and therefore without power to exercise any military command

pending his trial. Since it was considered indecorous in an officer

under arrest to appear at public places, it would be impossible for him

to accompany her to the home of the Shippens on Friday evening. This

caused him the greater concern, yet his word of honor obliged him to

await either the issue of his trial or his enlargement by the proper

authority.

He bade her be of good cheer and asked a remembrance in her prayers,

assuring her she would be ever present in his thoughts. Since he was

allowed the use of his personal liberty, he would soon make use of a

favorable opportunity to pay her a call. Until then, he could tell her

no more, save the desire to have her attend the party and to enjoy

herself to the utmost.

From the moment of her receipt of this letter, she had rehearsed the

incidents therein narrated over and over again. Go where she would her

thought followed her as instinctively as the homeward trail of the bee.

Reflection possessed her and she was lost in the intricate maze of the

world of fancy.

To follow mere instinct does not beseem a man, yet for woman this

faculty is the height of reason and will be trusted by her to the very

end. Marjorie's instinct told her that all would not be well with

Stephen, notwithstanding his place of honor on the staff of the

Commander-in-chief, to whom he might readily appeal should the occasion

require. The charge was of minor consequence, and could under ordinary

circumstances be dismissed; but it would not be dismissed. He would be

tried, found guilty, and sentenced. A consummation too horrible for

thought!

She could not enjoy herself at Peggy's function, that she knew. But she

must attend, if for no other reason than for appearance. The strange

regard for this officer, which she had discovered to be growing daily in

intensity and depth, had been brought to definite realization by the

sudden crisis in Stephen's fortunes. The sudden revelation of this truth

from which she was wont to recoil with petulant diffidence alarmed her

not a little. She must not allow herself to be perturbed over this

incident, and no one, not even her mother, must ever be permitted to

detect the slightest concern on her part.

"You seem unusually preoccupied this evening, Mistress Allison,"

remarked Mr. Anderson as he led her to one side of the room at the

conclusion of the dance.

Marjorie started. She could feel herself coloring into a deep scarlet,

which endured the more as she strove desperately to retain her natural

composure.

"I? Why? No! Did I appear absent-minded?"

"As if sojourning in some far off land."

She thought for a moment.

"We all inhabit dream countries."

"True. We do. And there is no swifter vehicle to that fair land than an

inattentive companion."

"You mean----"

"That I am entirely at fault for allowing you to wander there."

"You are unkind to yourself to say that."

"I vow I mean it."

They neared the settee into which he gallantly assisted her. She made

room for him by drawing back the folds of her gown.

"Have you ever had a miniature made?" he asked of her.

"Never. I scarce gave it a thought," she replied nonchalantly.

"In that gown, you would make a perfect picture."

"Couldst thou paint it?" she asked quickly with the attitude of one who

has proposed an impossible question.

"Aye, and willingly, would I," he smartly replied.

"I should love to see it. I should scarce know mine own face."

She regarded the subject with ridicule, observing as she spoke the end

of the sash with which her fingers had been fumbling.

"You shall see it as it is with no artful flattery to disfigure it. May

I bring it in person? The post-rider's bag is too unworthy a messenger."

"Lud! I shall be unable to restrain my curiosity and await the carrier."

"Then I shall be the carrier."

"Nothing would afford me more pleasure."

Neither of the two spoke for a moment.

She wondered if she were imprudent. While she had not known this man

before this evening, still she knew of him as the one who took part in

the disturbance at the Coffee House.

He seemed unusually attentive to her, although not unpleasantly so, and

innocently enough the question presented itself to her as to the import

of his motives. He had sought no information nor did he disclose any

concerning himself, for at no time did their conversation arise to any

plane above the commonplace. Yet she was willing to see him again and to

discover, if possible, the true state of his mind.

Stephen, she knew, would approve of her action; not only because of the

personal satisfaction which might be derived therefrom, but also because

of the possibilities which such a meeting might unfold. That Anderson

was prompted by some ulterior motive and that he was not attracted so

much by her charms as by the desire of seeking some advantage, she was

keen enough to sense. Just what this quest might lead to could not be

fathomed, yet it presented at all hazards a situation worthy of more

than a passing notice.

She mistrusted General Arnold, a mere opinion it was true, for she

possessed no evidence to warrant even a suspicion, yet something about

the man created within her heart a great want of confidence and

reliance. He was supremely overbearing and unusually sensitive. This,

together with his vaulting ambition and love of display,--traits which

even the merest novice could not fail to observe,--might render him

capable of the most brilliant achievements, such as his exploits before

the walls of Quebec and on the field of Saratoga, or of unwise and

wholly irresponsible actions, of some of which, although of minor

consequence, he had been guilty during the past few months. He disliked

her form of religious worship, and she strongly suspected this was the

reason he so openly opposed the alliance with the French. She regarded

this prejudice as a sad misfortune in a man of authority. His judgments

were liable to be clouded and unfair.

She knew Peggy like a book and she could easily imagine the influence

such a girl could exert, as a wife, on a man so constituted. Peggy's

social ambition and her marked passion for display and domination,

traits no less apparent in her than in her mother, would lead her to

view the overtures of her impetuous suitor with favor, notwithstanding

the fact that he was almost double her own age. As his wife she would

attain a social prestige. She was a Tory at heart, and he evidenced at

sundry times the same inclinations. She was a Quaker, while he belonged

to the religion of His Majesty, the King; nevertheless, both agreed in

this, that the miserable Papists were an ambitious and crafty lot, who

were bent on obtaining an early and complete mastery over this country.

The pair were well mated in many respects, thought Marjorie, the

disparity in their ages was all that would render the match at all

irregular, although Peggy's more resolute will and intense ambition

would make her the dominant member of the alliance. Little as the

General suspected it, Marjorie thought, he was slowly, though surely,

being encircled in the web which Peggy and her artful mother were

industriously spinning about him.

III

Marjorie and Anderson sat conversing long and earnestly. Several dances

were announced and engaged in, with little or no manifest attention on

their part, so engrossed were they in the matter of more serious import.

At length they deserted their vantage ground for the more open and

crowded room, pausing before Peggy and the General, who were sheltered

near the entrance.

"Heigho, John!" exclaimed His Excellency upon their approach, "what

strange absconding is this? Have a care, my boy, lest you have to answer

to Captain Meagher."

Marjorie felt the gaze of the group full upon her. She flushed a little.

"Little or no danger, nor cause alleged," she laughed.

"Captain Meagher!" recollected Anderson, "does he excel?"

"I scarce know," replied Marjorie. "I have met him not over thrice in my

life."

"Once is quite sufficient," said the General. "First impressions often

endure. But stay. Draw your chairs. I was only saying that I may be

required to leave here shortly."

"You have been transferred?" asked Marjorie.

"No! But I have written to Washington begging for a command in the navy.

My wounds are in a fair way and less painful than usual, though there is

little prospect of my being able to be in the field for a considerable

time."

They sat down as requested, opposite Peggy and the General.

"But, General, have you not taken us into your consideration?" asked

Anderson.

"I have, yet the criticism is becoming unendurable. Of course you have

heard that matters have already become strained between the civil

government and myself. Only last week my head aide-de-camp sent for a

barber who was attached to a neighboring regiment, using as a messenger

the orderly whom I had stationed at the door. For this trifling order

there has been aroused a hornet's nest."

"Wherein lay the fault?" asked Marjorie.

"In this. It appears from a letter which I have already received from

the father of the sergeant (Matlack is his name, to be exact) that the

boy was hurt by the order itself and the manner of it, and as a freeman

would not submit to such an indignity as to summon a barber for the aide

of a commanding officer. We have a proud, stubborn people to rule, who

are no more fitted for self-government than the Irish----"

He stopped short.

Marjorie bit her lip. "I wish, General, you would withdraw your

comparison. It is painful to me."

"I am sorry, Mistress Allison. As a matter of fact I hardly knew what I

had said. I do withdraw it."

"Thank you so much."

Then he went on.

"These Americans are not only ungrateful, but stupidly arrogant. What

comparison can be drawn between this dullard, Matlack, whose feelings as

a citizen were hurt by an order of an aide-de-camp, and I, when I was

obliged to serve a whole campaign under the command of a gentleman who

was not known as a soldier until I had been some time a brigadier. My

feelings had to be sacrificed to the interest of my country. Does not

the fool know that I became a soldier and bear the marks upon me, to

vindicate the rights of citizens?"

He talked rapidly, yet impassionately. It was plain, however, that he

was seriously annoyed over the turn of events, on which subject he

conversed with his whole being. He made gestures with violence. His face

became livid. His attitude was menacing.

"On my arrival here, my very first act was condemned. It became my duty,

because of sealed orders from the Commander-in-chief, who enclosed a

resolution adopted by Congress, to close the shops. From the day,

censure was directed against me. I was not the instigator of it. Yet I

was all to blame."

He sat up with his hands on his knees, looking fiercely into the next

room.

"I would not feel so bitter, your Excellency," volunteered Anderson.

"Military orders, however necessary, always seem oppressive to civilians

and shopkeepers."

"I have labored well for the cause, and my reward has been this. I took

Ticonderoga, although Allen got the credit for it. I would have taken

Canada, if Congress had not blundered. I saved Lake Champlain with my

flotilla,--a fleet that lived to no better purpose nor died more

gloriously,--and for this I got no promotion, nor did I expect one. I

won at Ridgefield and received a Major-Generalship, only to find myself

outranked by five others. At Saratoga I was without a command, yet I

succeeded in defeating an army. For that service I was accused of being

drunk by the general in command, who, for his service, received a gold

medal with a vote of thanks from Congress, while I--well, the people

gave me their applause; Congress gave me a horse, but what I prize more

than all,--these sword knots," he took hold of them as he spoke, "a

personal offering from the Commander-in-chief. I gave my all. I received

a few empty honors and the ingratitude of a jealous people."

He paused.

"General," began Marjorie, "you know the people still worship you and

they do want you for their popular leader."

"I know differently," he snapped back. "I have already petitioned

Congress for a grant of land in western New York, where I intend to lead

the kind of life led by my friend Schuyler in Livingston, or the Van

Renssalaers and other country gentlemen. My ambition now is to be a good

citizen, for I intend never to draw a sword on the American side."

He again grew silent.

Whether he was sincere in his remarks, and his manner of expression

seemingly revealed no other disposition of mind, or was swayed simply by

some unfounded antipathy which caused the image of his aversion to

become a sort of hallucination, Marjorie could not decide. She knew him

to be impulsive and irrepressible, a man who, because of his deficiency

in breadth, scope of intelligence, and strong moral convictions,

invariably formed his opinions in public matter on his personal

feelings. He was a man of moods, admirably suited withal for a command

in the field where bluntness and abruptness of manner could cause him to

rise to an emergency, but wholly unfitted for this reason for a

diplomatic office where the utmost delicacy of tact and nicety of

decision are habitually required.

She knew, moreover, that he ever bore a fierce grudge towards Congress

for the slights which it had put upon him, and that this intense

feeling, together with his indomitable self-will, had brought him into

conflict with the established civil authority. He was Military Governor

of the city and adjacent countryside, yet there existed an Executive

Council of Pennsylvania for the care of the state, and the line of

demarcation between the two powers never had been clearly drawn.

Accordingly there soon arose many occasions for dispute, which a more

even-tempered man would have had the foresight to avoid. His point of

view was narrow, not only in affairs civil and political, but it must be

said, in social and religious as well. Of all commanders, he was the

most unsuited for the task.

Furthermore she knew that he was becoming decidedly more unpopular each

day, not only because of the extravagance in his manner of living, but

also because of his too frequent association with the Tory element of

the city. While the British had held the city many of the more

aristocratic inhabitants had given them active aid and encouragement,

much to the displeasure of the more loyal though less important lower

class. Consequently when the days of the evacuation had come and the

city had settled down once again to its former style of living, many of

the Tory element were compelled to leave town while those who had

remained behind were practically proscribed. Small wonder was it that

indignation ran riot when the first Military Governor openly cast his

lot with the enemies of the cause and consorted with them freely and

frequently.

It was entirely possible that he would abide by his decision to resign

all public office and retire to private life, notwithstanding the fact

that he already had at this same moment despatched a letter to General

Washington requesting a command in the navy. But she read him

differently and found herself surprised to learn of his intended

withdrawal, for his very nature seemed to indicate that he would fight

his cause to the bitter end, and that end one of personal satisfaction

and revenge.

Several of the guests prepared to depart. The little group disbanded as

Peggy made her way to their side.

Marjorie and John Anderson lost each other for the first time in the

melee which ensued.

IV

"Perhaps I ought to return," Marjorie muttered to herself, now that she

was quite alone. "I am sure that he dropped something."

And she began to retrace her steps.

She felt positive that she saw General Arnold accidentally dislodge what

appeared to be a folded note from his belt when he took hold of the

sword knots in the course of his conversation. Very likely it was a

report of some nature, which had been hurriedly thrust into his belt

during some more preoccupied moment. At any rate it might be safer in

her hands than to be left to some less interested person. She would

investigate at any rate and resolve her doubts.

Sure enough, there it was. Just behind the armchair in which he had been

seated but a few moments before. None of the others had observed it, she

thought, for she alone was in a position, a little to his left, to

notice it, when it had become loosed.

She picked it up and regarded it carelessly, nervously, peering the

while into the great room beyond to discover, if possible, an

eye-witness to her secret. From its appearance it was no more than a

friendly communication written on conventional letter paper. It was

unsealed, or rather the seal had been broken and from the wrinkled

condition of the paper gave evidence of not a little handling. It

belonged to Peggy. There was no doubt about that, for there was her name

in heavy bold script on the outside.

She balanced it in her hand, weighing, at the same time, within her

mind, one or two possibilities. She might read it and then, if the

matter required it, return it immediately to His Excellency with an

explanation. Yet it would smack of dishonor to read the private

correspondence of another without a sufficiently grave reason. It

belonged to Peggy, who, in all probability, had been acquainting the

General with its contents as Mr. Anderson and herself intruded upon the

scene. She therefore resolved to return it unread.

Hastily folding it, she stuck it into her bodice, and made her way into

the room where she became lost among the guests. There would be time

enough when the formalities of the departure were over, when Peggy was

less occupied, to hand it her. She would wait at any rate until later in

the evening.

CHAPTER VIII

I

But she did not return the paper. For with the commotion of the guests

in the several orders of their going, a serious business of felicitation

and devoir was demanded alongside of which all other matters only served

as distractions. Consequently, the note once placed within her bodice,

all thought of it vanished for the remainder of the evening.

Only when she had returned home that night, fatigued and almost

disgusted with the perfunctory performances of the evening, did she

discover it, and then not until she was about to remove the garment

within whose folds it lay concealed. It fell to the ground; she stooped

to pick it up.

"Oh, dear! I quite forgot it. I must attend to it the first thing in the

morning."

And she placed it on the dresser where it could not escape her eye. Then

she retired.

But she did not sleep. There she lay wide awake tossing nervously to and

fro. She tried to close her eyes only to find them wandering about the

room in the obscure dimness, focusing themselves now on the old mahogany

dresser, now on the little prie-Dieu against the inner wall with the

small ivory crucifix outlined faintly above it, now on the chintz

hangings that covered the window. She could hear her heart, pounding its

great weight of bitterness against the pillow; and as she listened she

thought of Stephen's arrest and of its thousand and one horrible

consequences. She tried to congratulate herself on her sweet serenity

and the serenity only mocked her and anticipation loomed as fiercely as

before.

The next she knew was a quiet awakening, as if her mother's hand had

been put gently on her arm. Outside ten thousand light leaves shivered

gently and the birds were calling to one another in melodious tones.

This was her first glimpse of the day and it sent her suddenly to her

knees.

Stephen came late that afternoon. He had not been expected; yet she was

happy because he came. She had done little that day; had not left the

house, nor dressed for the occasion. The note was where she had left it,

and all reference to it buried with her thoughts of the evening.

"I cannot yet tell how it has been decided. They went into executive

session at once."

"But,... Surely,... They could not find you guilty?"

"Oh, well."

"Please.... Won't you tell me?"

"There is little to tell. It was very brief."

He could not become enthusiastic.

"Then you were put to trial?" she asked with an apprehension uncertain

in quality.

"Yes."

"Go on. Tell me."

He was silent. He desired to withhold nothing from her, yet he could not

find the words he wanted.

"What happened?" She was persistent.

"Well.... I don't know.... I soured on the whole proceeding. The

court-martial met, the Regimental Court Martial, with three members.

This was permissible. They began, reading the charge as preferred by

Colonel Forrest, which was to the effect that I had been guilty of

striking my superior officer, Colonel Forrest, by attempting to choke

him. To this was added the accusation of abusive, threatening language

as well as a threat of murder. I, of course, pleaded not guilty; nor did

I prepare any defense. The affair was so trivial that I was surprised

that it ever had been brought to trial."

"How long did the proceedings last?"

"They were very brief. Several witnesses were examined, the chief one

being Mr. Anderson."

"I know him," remarked Marjorie.

"You know him?"

"I met him last evening at Shippens'."

"Did he say aught about me?"

"Not a word."

"Well, he appeared against me. After a few more preliminary questions I

was put on the stand in my own defense. I told briefly the circumstances

which led to the incident (I would not call it an assault, for I

continually maintained it to be of a trivial nature and worthy only of

an explanation). I told how the Colonel had used certain derogatory

remarks against the faith that I believed and practiced, which

occasioned a violent argument. This, I think, was the great mistake I

made, for it appeared to make an unfavorable impression upon the Court.

In this respect they were unquestionably on the side of Forrest. Then I

related the remark incident to my action, and announced that I would

repeat the deed under similar circumstances were the same disrespectful

language directed against the Commander-in-chief. This, I fear, made

little impression either since I was already attached to the staff of

General Washington. And a jealous rival general was about to decide my

guilt. That ended it. I was excused and the Court adjourned."

He paused.

"For these reasons I have serious misgivings as to my fate."

"What can happen to you?"

"I do not know. It may result in a suspension, and it may result in a

verdict of 'not guilty.'"

"Will you know very soon?"

"I shall be summoned before them."

Neither spoke for a time.

"Do you know," observed Marjorie, "I greatly mistrust General Arnold and

I fear that he already has decided against you."

"What causes you to say that?"

"Well ... I don't know ... I just think it. While listening to him last

evening I drew that impression."

"Did he say anything against us?"

"He is enraged at Congress and he has long felt persecuted and insulted

by the people. He desires a command in the navy and has already written

Washington to that effect; and again he would petition Congress for a

grant of land in New York where he would retire to private life, for he

vows he never will again draw sword on the American side."

"Did he say this?" asked Stephen.

"He did."

"Do you think that he was sincere?"

"I really do. He talked with all the earnestness of a man of

conviction. Somehow or other I greatly mistrust him. And he is extremely

bigoted."

"I rather suspect this, although I have had no proofs of it. If he is,

it will out very soon."

"And you may be assured, too, that he will have an able adjutant in

Peggy. She is his counterpart in every particular."

He looked at her as she spoke, and was amazed by the excitement in her

face. She talked excitedly; her eyes, those large vivacious brown eyes

that looked out of her pretty oval face, were alight, and her face had

gone pale.

"I was interested in them last evening and with the apparent zeal

displayed by Peggy's mother in favor of the match. I would not be

surprised to hear of an announcement from that source at any time."

"Has it reached that stage?"

"Most assuredly! I decided that they already are on terms of intimacy

where secrets now obtain a common value."

"You think that?"

"Well.... I do.... Yes. I know, for instance that he had a letter in his

possession which was addressed to her, which letter had its origin in

New York."

"How came he by it?"

"She must have given it to him. I have it now."

"You have it?"

He sat up very much surprised.

"Where did you get it?"

"I found it."

"Did you read it?"

"No."

She smiled at him, and at his great perplexity over the apparent

mystery.

And then she told him of the little party; of herself and Mr. Anderson,

and their intrusion upon General Arnold and Peggy; of their conversation

and the falling of the note; of her subsequent return for it together

with the placing of it within her bodice and the state of temporary

oblivion into which the incident finally had lapsed.

"You have that letter now?" he asked with no attempt to conceal his

anxiety.

"Yes. Upstairs."

"May I see it? Really I would not ask this did I not think it quite

important."

"Very well."

She left to fetch it.

"Who is this man, Anderson?" Stephen asked upon her return. "Do you know

him?"

"No. But he is very engaging. He was my partner during the evening."

She did not deem it wise to tell him everything, at least not at this

time.

"How long have you known him?" he inquired impatiently.

She smiled sweetly at him.

"Since last night," was the brief response.

"Where did he come from?"

"I scarce know. You yourself mentioned his name for the first time to

me. I was greatly surprised when presented to him last night."

"Did he come with General Arnold's party, or is he a friend of Peggy's?"

"I don't think Peggy knew him before, although she may have met him

with some of the officers before last evening. I should imagine from

what you already know that he is acquainted with the Governor's party

and through them received an invitation to be present.

"Did he say aught of himself?"

"Scarcely a thing. He has not been a resident of the city for any length

of time, but where he originated, or what he purposes, I did not learn.

I rather like him. He is well-mannered, refined and richly talented."

"I sensed immediately that he was endowed with engaging personal

qualities, and gifted with more than ordinary abilities," Stephen

commented. "I have yet to learn his history, which is one of my duties,

notwithstanding the unfortunate state of affairs which has lately come

to pass."

He stopped and took the letter which she held out to him. He opened it

and read it carefully. Then he deliberately read it again.

"You say no one knows of this?"

"I am quite sure. Certainly no one saw me find it, although I am not

certain that I alone saw it fall."

"You are sure that it was in the Governor's possession?"

"Quite. I saw it distinctly in his belt. I saw it fall to the ground

when he caught hold of the sword knots."

He leaned forward and reflected for a moment with his eyes intent on the

note which he held opened before him. Suddenly he sat back in his chair

and looked straight at her.

"Marjorie," he said, "you promised to be of whatever assistance you

could. Do you recall that promise?"

"Very well."

"Will you lend your assistance to me now?"

She hesitated, wondering to what extent the demand might be made.

"Are you unwilling?" he asked, for he perceived her timid misgiving.

"No. What is it you want me to do?"

"Simply this. Let me have this note."

She deliberated.

"Would not that be unfair to Peggy?"

She feared that her sense of justice was being violated.

"She does not know that you have it."

"But I mean to tell her."

"Please!... Well!... Well!... Need you do that immediately? Could you

not let me have it for a few days? I shall return it to you. You can

then take it to her."

"You will let no one see it?"

"Absolutely!"

"Very well. And you will return it to me?"

"I promise."

And so it was agreed that Stephen should take the letter with him, which

he promised to return together with the earliest news of the result of

his court-martial.

He stood up.

II

Stephen came out the little white gate closing it very deliberately

behind him and immediately set off at a brisk pace down the street.

Every fiber within him thrilled with energy. The road was dusty and hot,

and his pace grew very strenuous and fervent. There was no breeze;

there was no sound of wheels; all was quiet as the bells tolled out the

hour of six. Nevertheless he trudged along with great haste without once

stopping until he had reached the door of his lodgings.

He turned the key and entered, closing the door behind him and taking

the greatest of care to see that it was properly bolted. Flinging his

hat into a chair as he passed, he went immediately to the table which

served as his desk. While he pulled himself close to it, he reached into

his pocket for the letter. He opened it before him and read it. Then he

sat back and read it again; this time aloud:

Co. 13

Headquarters, New York.

15 July, 1778.

Madame:--I am happy to have this opportunity to once again express my

humble respects to you and to assure you that yourself together with

your generous and hospitable friends are causing us much concern

separated as we are by the duress of a merciless war. We lead a

monotonous life, for outside of the regularities of army life, there is

little to entertain us. Our hearts are torn with pangs of regret as we

recall the golden days of the Mischienza.

I would I could be of some service to you here, that you may understand

that my protestations of zeal made on former occasions were not without

some degree of sincerity. Let me add, too, that your many friends here

present unite with me in these same sentiments of unaffected and genuine

devotion.

I beg you to present my best respects to your sisters, to the Misses

Chew, and to Mrs. Shippen and Mrs. Chew.

I have the honor to be with the greatest regard, Madame, your most

obedient and most humble servant.

W. CATHCART.

Miss Peggy Shippen,

Philadelphia.

His face was working oddly, as if with mingled perplexity and pleasure;

and he caught his lip in his teeth, as his manner was. What was this

innocent note? Could it be so simple as it appeared? Vague possibilities

passed through his mind.

The longer he gazed at it the more simple it became, so that he was on

the point of folding it and replacing it in his pocket, sadly

disconcerted at its insignificance. He had hoped that he might have

stumbled across something of real value, not only some secret

information concerning the designs of the enemy, but also some evidence

of an incriminating nature against his own acquaintances in the city.

Suddenly he thought he saw certain letters dotted over, not entirely

perceptible, yet quite discernible. He turned the paper over. The

reverse was perfectly clear. He held it to the light but nothing

appeared through.

"By Jove!" he exclaimed softly.

He looked closely again. Sure enough there were faint markings on

several of the letters. The "H" was marked. So with the "V" in "have,"

and the "A" and the "L." Snatching a pencil and a sheet of paper he made

a list of the letters so marked.

HVANLADERIIGAERODIRCUTN

This meant nothing. That was apparent; nor could he make sense out of

any combination of letters. He knew that there were certain codes

whereby the two progressions, arithmetical and geometric were employed

in their composition, but this seemingly answered to none of them. He

went over the list again, comparing them with the marked letters as

found in the note. Yes, they were identical. He had copied them

faithfully.

He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair.

"So this was sent to Peggy from New York," he muttered to himself. "I

strongly suspected that she was in communication with her British

friends, although I never came in contact with the slightest evidence.

This certainly proves it."

He held the letter at a distance from him, attentively surveying it.

"And General Arnold has been interested, too. Very likely, Marjorie's

hypothesis is the true one. They had been reading the note when the

newcomers arrived on the scene and the General stuck it in his belt

until their greetings had been ended. Neither of them now know of its

whereabouts; that much is certain."

He stood up suddenly and strode about the room, his hands clasped behind

him. Going to the window, he peered out through the small panes of glass

of the uncurtained upper half. There burned the light across the dusk--a

patch of jeweled color in the far off western sky. Yet it awakened no

emotion at all.

His mind was engaged in the most intricate process of thought. He

deduced a hundred conclusions and rejected them with equal promptitude.

He greatly admired General Arnold as the bravest leader in the line,

whose courage, whose heroism, whose fearlessness had brought him signal

successes. There was no more popular soldier in the army, nor one more

capable of more effective service. To have his career clogged or goaded

by a woman, who when she either loves or hates will dare anything, would

be a dreadful calamity. Yet it seemed as if he had surrendered his

better self.

This man Anderson puzzled him. Personally he was disposed to dislike

him, that being the logical effect of his relations with him. At the

Coffee House, where he had met him, and where he had suffered his better

judgment to become dormant, it was this man who had brought him to the

pitch of irritation by means of a religious argument, while at the trial

it was the same Anderson who appeared as an excellent witness and who by

his clever, deliberate and self-possessed manner, made a strong point

for the Colonel in the minds of the court.

What was his origin? That he might never know, for of all subjects, this

was the most artfully avoided. In the capacity of a civilian he was

engaged in no fixed occupation so far as could be learned, and it was

commonly known that he was a frequent visitor at the Governor's mansion.

That he did not belong to the service, he knew very well, unless the man

was affecting a disguise; this, however, he thought highly improbable.

The French Alliance had been further confirmed by the arrival of the

fleet, which brought many strangers to the city. Now as he thought of

it, he had a certain manner about him somewhat characteristic of the

French people, and it was entirely possible that he might have

disembarked with the French visitors. He was a mystery anyhow.

"Strange I should stumble across this chap," he mumbled to himself.

III

He awoke with a start.

Just what the hour was, he could not know, for it was intensely dark. He

reckoned that it could not be long after midnight, for it seemed as if

he had scarcely fallen asleep. But there was a wonderful burst of light

to his mind, a complete clarity of thought into which often those do

awake who have fallen asleep in a state of great mental conflict. He

opened his eyes and, as it were, beheld all that he was about to do;

there was also a very vivid memory of his experience of the evening.

He arose hurriedly and struck a light. He seized the letter in search of

the momentous something that had dawned upon him with wonderful

intensity.

"Company Thirteen," he remarked with deliberate emphasis. "That must be

the key."

And seizing a paper he wrote the order of letters which he had copied

from the note a few hours before.

HVANLADERIIG

He stopped at the thirteenth, and began a second line immediately under

the line he had just written.

AERODIRCUTN

It inserted perfectly when read up and down beginning with the letter

"H". He completed the sentence.

HAVE ARNOLD AID RECRUITING

He could not believe his eyes. What did it all mean? What regiment was

this? Why should this be sent from a British officer to Peggy Shippen?

There were mixed considerations here.

There was a satisfaction, a very great satisfaction, in the knowledge

that he was not entirely mistaken in his suspicions concerning Peggy.

She was in communication with the British and perhaps had been for some

time. This fact in itself was perfectly plain. The proof of it lay in

his hand. Whether or not His Excellency was involved in the nefarious

work was another question quite. The mere fact of the note being in his

possession signified nothing, or if anything, no more than a

coincidence. He might have read the note and, at the same time, have

been entirely ignorant of the cipher, or he might have received this

hidden information from the lips of Peggy herself, who undoubtedly had

deciphered it at once.

Yet what was the meaning of it all? There was no new call for

volunteers, although, Heaven knows, there was an urgent need for them,

the more especially after the severe winter at Valley Forge. Recruits

had become exceedingly scarce, many of whom were already deserting to

the British army at the rate of over a hundred a month while those who

remained were without food or clothing. And when they were paid, they

could buy, only with the greatest difficulty, a single bushel of wheat

from the fruits of their four month's labor. And did it prove to be true

that a new army was about to be recruited, why should the enemy manifest

so much interest? The new set of difficulties into which he was now

involved were more intricate than ever before.

He extinguished the light and went to bed.

The next day a number of copies of the New York _Gazette_ and _Weekly

Mercury_ of the issue of July 13, 1778, found their way into the city.

They were found to contain the following advertisement:

For the encouragement of all

Gentlemen Volunteers,

Who are willing to serve in his Majesty's Regt. of

Roman Catholic Volunteers,

Commanded by

Lieut.--Col. Commandant,

ALFRED CLIFTON

During the present wanton and unnatural Rebellion,

AND NO LONGER,

The sum of FOUR POUNDS,

will be given above the usual Bounty,

A suit of NEW CLOTHES,

And every other necessary to complete a Gentleman soldier.

Those who are willing to show their attachment to their King and

country by engaging in the above regiment, will call at Captain

M'Kennon, at No. 51, in Cherry-street, near the Ship Yards, NEW

YORK, or at Major John Lynch, encamped at Yellow-Hook, where

they will receive present pay and good quarters.

N. B.--Any person bringing a well-bodied loyal subject to either

of the above places, shall receive ONE GUINEA for his trouble.

God Save the King.

CHAPTER IX

I

It was not until the following Wednesday night that John Anderson was

ready to pay his respects to Mistress Marjorie.

He had worked on the miniature since Saturday, and had regarded his

finished product with eminent satisfaction. He had drawn her as she

appeared to him on the night of the reception in the pose which he had

best remembered her during the interval when she sat out the dance with

him; her head turned partly towards him, revealing her small oval face

surmounted by a wealth of brown hair, powdered to a gray; her small nose

with just a suggestion of a dilatation lending to the face an expression

of strength that the rest of the countenance only gave color to; the

mouth, firmly set, its lines curving upward, as it should be, to

harmonize with her disposition; the eyes, a soft brown, full of candor

and sincerity, delicately shadowed by slender and arched eyebrows on a

smooth forehead.

Marjorie could not conceal her enthusiasm as he handed it to her. Unable

to restrain her curiosity, she arose hurriedly and went to the window to

benefit by the less obscure light.

"Is--am I as pretty as that?" she exclaimed from her vantage point,

without lifting her eyes from the portrait.

"Only more so," responded Anderson. "My memory poorly served me."

"Lud!" she remarked, holding it at arms length from her, "'Tis vastly

flattering. I scarce recognize myself."

She returned to her chair.

"I swear on my honor, that it fails to do you full justice."

She continued to study it, paying but little heed to his remark. It was

a water-colored portrait done on ivory of the most delicate workmanship

and design, set in a fine gold case, delicately engraved, the whole

presenting an appearance of beauty, richly colored. She turned it over

and saw the letters J.A.M.A. interlaced over the triplet:

"Hours fly; flowers die;

New days, new ways,

Pass by. Love stays."

"It is very pretty," was her only comment.

"Hast no one told thee how well thou might appear in a ball gown?"

"I ne'er gave thought to such."

"Nor what an impression thou wouldst make at court?"

"Hast thou seen court beauties?"

She resolved to learn more about him.

"Aye! Oft have I been in their company."

"At St. James?"

"No. Much as I would have been pleased to. I know only Versailles."

So she thought he must be a French nobleman, who like Lafayette had

incurred the royal displeasure by running away from court to fit out a

vessel at his own expense in the hope of furthering the cause of the

Colonists. The great impulse given to the hopes of the disheartened

population by the chivalrous exploit of the latter, the sensation

produced both by his departure from Europe and by his appearance in this

country, might behold a glorious repetition in the person of this

unknown visitor.

Her interest accordingly grew apace.

"It was magnanimous of His Majesty to take our cause to his heart. We

can never fail in our gratitude."

"It is only natural for man to resist oppression. It has been written

that it is only the meek who should possess the land."

"An ideal which is often badly shattered by the selfish ambitions and

perverse passions of godless men."

"You are a Catholic?" he asked suddenly.

"I am proud of it."

"And your fellow patriots are of the same form of worship?"

"A goodly proportion of them."

"How many might you assume?"

"I scarce know. We have no method of compiling our numbers, not even our

total population."

"Surely there must be a great percentage, if one considers the influx

from France and England, not to mention Ireland, whence many fled from

persecution."

"I once heard Father Farmer say that there must be over seven thousand

Catholics in Pennsylvania, while Maryland has about fifteen thousand.

Whatever there remain are much scattered, except of course New York with

its thousand."

"I never dreamt they were so numerous! So great is the spirit of

intolerance, that the wonder is that a single Catholic would remain in

the Colonies."

"I know it. Formerly Maryland and Pennsylvania were the two only

colonies where Catholics were allowed to reside, and even there were

excluded from any civil or military office. And the time has not yet

arrived for complete religious freedom, though the arrival of the French

fleet with its Catholic army and Catholic chaplains will make a

favorable impression upon our less enlightened oppressors."

"It seems strange that you should throw in your lot with a people who

prove so intolerant."

"Father Farmer, our pastor, says that no influence must ever be used

except for the national cause, for we must be quickened by the hope of

better days. He pleads with his people to remain faithful and promises

the undivided sympathy of his fellow priests with their kinsmen in the

struggle. For these reasons I hardly think that many Catholics will

desert our cause."

"Yet you must know that it was England that bestowed the most liberal

grants to the inhabitants of the Northwest territory."

"You mean the Quebec Act?" she asked.

"Yes. And you know that Canada would be allied with you, heart and soul,

were it not for the intolerant spirit of your fellow colonists."

"Perhaps it would."

"Now, would it not be better----"

"Do you mean to suggest to me that we turn traitor?" she interrupted,

turning full upon him, her eyes flashing with intense feeling.

"No ... pardon ... I meant no offense.... The fact is I was only

remarking on the sad plight of our co-religionists."

"I fail to perceive how ill we fare. Our compatriots render us honor,

and as Father Farmer says, 'we may cherish the hope of better days,

which are inevitable.' You must know that one of the signers of the

Declaration of Independence is a Catholic; and that the army and navy

boast of a considerable quota."

"We are not ungenerous of our service, it seems."

"Rather are we proud of our efforts. We are proud of the fact that there

has been found among us not one false to his country. We point with

pride to him who was privileged to first read the Declaration of

Independence to the public. We are proud of the composition of

Washington's 'Life Guard'; and we are proud of our mutual friend, whom,

perhaps, you know," and she glanced at him with a merry twinkle,

"Captain Meagher, Washington's aide-de-camp."

And so they talked. Marjorie became completely absorbed in her subject,

once her religion became the topic, and she almost forgot her game in

regard to her visitor. She desired to appear to the best advantage,

however, for which purpose she talked freely, in the hope of extracting

from him some information concerning himself and his intents. Still,

however, there was another extreme which, though apparently less

dangerous, she must be careful to avoid. The imaginations of men are in

a great measure under the control of their feelings and it was

absolutely necessary for her to refrain from imparting too much

information lest it might deflect from its purpose the very object she

was seeking to obtain.

There was a subtle influence about him, an adroitness of speech, a

precision of movement which, unless sufficiently safeguarded against,

was insidious. He had the most wonderful way of getting one's

confidence, not only by reason of his genial and affable disposition,

but also by his apparent and deliberate sincerity. And while it was true

that she had determined upon a method which was originally intended to

redound to her own advantage, she soon learned that she was playing with

a boomerang which soon put her upon the defensive against the very

strategy which she had herself directly planned.

He was not sincere in his protestations of admiration; that she

perceived immediately. But she was resolved to let him think that she

believed him in order that she might discover his true intents and

purposes. Her knowledge of human nature was sufficient to enable her to

conclude that one cannot unite the incompatible elements of truth and

deception, the discernment of reality and the enjoyment of fiction for

any great length of time. The reality is bound to appear.

For this reason she was not disposed to dismiss him at once but rather

to allow him to call and see her frequently, if need be, until she had

been thoroughly satisfied as to his true character. Nevertheless she

sensed, at this very moment, that she was playing with a skillful

adversary, one thoroughly versed in the game of diplomacy, against whom

she would be called upon to employ every manner of weapon at her

command. She realized the weight of the foe, and thought she understood

his tactics. So she accepted the challenge.

"You are interested in Captain Meagher?" he asked serenely.

There was a pause. Marjorie looked slightly perturbed.

"Well," she confessed, "there is this much about him. I chanced to know

the details of the offense with which he has been charged and I am

naturally interested to learn the result of his trial."

"He may be found guilty," he quietly announced.

"Why do you say that?"

"The evidence was wholly against him."

"And there was no testimony to the effect that Colonel Forrest was

somewhat intoxicated, or that he spoke disparaging words against the

Captain's co-religionists, or that he attacked the character of the

Commander-in-chief?"

"There was to some extent, but it did not seem to make any impression."

"I presume that you know the reason."

Her eyes gleamed a little.

"Why?"

There was a pause.

"The verdict has not been given. I shall be pleased to inform you of it

at the earliest opportunity."

"Thank you. I shall be delighted. But let's not talk about it any more,"

she added. "Let's leave it."

Mr. Anderson smiled.

II

It was perhaps an hour after dawn that Stephen awoke for about the third

or fourth time that night; for the conflict still surged within him and

would give him no peace. And, as he lay there, awake in an instant,

staring into the brightness of the morn, once more weighing the

mysterious disclosures of the evening, swayed by the desire for action

at one moment, overcome with sadness at the next, the thought of the

impending verdict of his trial occurred at him and made him rise very

hurriedly.

He was an early arrival at Headquarters. There had been several matters

disposed of during the preceding day and the verdicts would be announced

together. The room where the court was being held was already stirring

with commotion; his judge-advocate was there, as was Colonel Forrest,

Mr. Anderson, several members of the General's staff, and Mr. Allison,

who had sought entry to learn the decision. Suddenly a dull solemn

silence settled over all as the members of the court filed slowly into

the room.

They took their places with their usual dignity, and began to dispose of

the several cases in their turn. When that of Captain Meagher was

reached Stephen was ordered to appear before the court to hear his

sentence.

He took his place before them with perfect calmness. He observed that

not one of them ventured to meet his eye as he awaited their utterance.

They found that he was not justified in making the attack upon a

superior officer, notwithstanding the alleged cause for provocation, and

that he was imprudent in his action, yet because of his good character,

as testified to by his superior officers, because of the mitigating

circumstances which had been brought to light by the testimony of the

witnesses during the course of the trial and because the act had been

committed without malice or criminal intent, he was found not guilty of

any violation of the Articles of War, but imprudent in his action, for

which cause he had been sentenced to receive a reprimand from the

Military Governor.

Stephen spoke not a word to any one as he made his way back to his seat.

Why could they not have given him a clear verdict? Either he was guilty

or he was not guilty. He could not be misled by the sugary phrases in

which the vote of censure had been couched. The court had been against

him from the start.

At any rate, he thought, the reprimand would be only a matter of form.

Its execution lay wholly with him who was to administer it. The court

could not, by law, indicate its severity, nor its lenity, nor indeed add

anything in regard to its execution, save to direct that it should be

administered by the commander who convened the court. And while it was

undoubtedly the general intention of the court-martial to impose a mild

punishment, yet the quality of the reprimand was left entirely to the

discretion of the authority commissioned to utter it.

When Stephen appeared before the Military Governor at the termination of

the business of the day, he was seized with a great fury, one of those

angers which, for a while, poison the air without obscuring the mind.

There was an unkind look on the face of the Governor, which he did not

like and which indicated to him that all would not be pleasant. He bowed

his head in answer to his name.

"Captain Meagher," the Governor began. "You have been found guilty by

the Regimental Court-Martial of an action which was highly imprudent.

You have been led perhaps by an infatuate zeal in behalf of those, whom

you term your co-religionists, to the committal of an offense upon the

person of your superior officer. It is because of this fact that I find

it my sad duty to reprimand you severely for your misguided ardor and to

admonish you, together with the other members of your sect, of whom an

unfair representation is already found in the halls of our Congress and

in the ranks of our forces, lest similar outbreaks occur again. Did you

but know that this eye only lately saw the members of that same Congress

at Mass for the soul of a Roman Catholic in purgatory, and participating

in the rites of a Church against whose anti-Christian corruptions your

pious ancestors would have witnessed with their blood? The army must not

witness similar outbreaks of religious zeal in the future."

He finished. Stephen left the room without a word, turned on his heel

and made his way down the street.

III

Nature is a great restorer when she pours into the gaping wounds of the

jaded system the oil and wine of repose. Divine grace administers the

same narcotic to the soul crushed by torture and anguish. It is then

that tears are dried, and that afflictions and crosses become sweet.

Desolation, a very lonely desolation, and a deep sense of helplessness

filled the soul of Stephen as he retraced his steps from the court room.

His life seemed a great burden to him, his hopes swallowed up in his

bereavement. If he could but remove his mind from his travail of

disappointments and bitterness, if his soul could only soar aloft in

prayer to the realms of bliss and repose, he might endure this bitter

humiliation. He felt the great need of prayer, humble, submissive

prayer. Oh! If he could only pray!

He was invisibly directed into the little doorway of St. Joseph's. His

feeling was like that of the storm tossed mariner as he securely steers

for the beacon light. The church was nearly empty, save for a bare

half-dozen people who occupied seats at various intervals. They were

alone in their contemplation, as Catholics are wont to be, before their

God, without beads or prayer-book, intent only upon the Divine Person

concealed within the tabernacle walls, and announced by the flickering

red flame in the little lamp before the altar. Here he felt himself

removed from the world and its affairs, as if enclosed in a strange

parenthesis, set off from all other considerations. And straightway, his

soul was carried off into a calm, pure, lofty region of consolation and

repose.

To the human soul, prayer is like the beams of light which seem to

connect sun and earth. It raises the soul aloft and transports it to

another and a better world. There basking in the light of the divine

presence it is strengthened to meet the impending conflict. Nothing

escapes the all-seeing eye of God. He only waits for the prayer of his

children eager to grant their requests. Nothing is denied to faith and

love. Neither can measure be set to the divine bounty.

"Miserere mei, Deus; secundum magnam misericordiam tuam."--"Have mercy

on me, O God, according to Thy great mercy."

Stephen buried his face in his hands, in an agony of conflict.

The tone of the Military Governor's reprimand had left no room for

speculation as to his true intents and purposes. Whatever rebuke had

been administered to him was intended for the Catholic population,

otherwise there was no earthly reason for holding up to reprobation the

conduct of the body governing the republic. The mere fact that the

Governor despised the Congress was an unworthy as well as an

insufficient motive for the base attack.

The humiliated soldier felt incapable of bearing the insult without

murmuring, yet he chose to accept it with perfect resignation and

submission. For a time he had fought against it. But in the church he

felt seized by an invisible force. On a sudden this invisible tension

seemed to dissolve like a gray mist, hovering over a lake, and began to

give place to a solemn and tender sweetness.

"Miserere mei Deus."

He sought refuge in the arms of God, crying aloud to Him for His mercy.

He would give his soul up to prayer and commit his troubled spirit into

the hands of his intercessors before the throne of Heaven.

"Accept my punishments for the soul who is about to be released."

To the souls in Purgatory, then, he poured forth the bitterness of his

heart, offering in their behalf through the intercession of the Virgin

Mary, the cross which had been imposed upon him. The injustice of his

trial which he knew, or thought he knew, had been tempered by the spirit

of intolerance, was brought home to him now in full vigor by the

severity of his reprimand. He did not deserve it, no--he could not force

himself to believe that he did. Still he accepted it generously though

painfully, in behalf of the sufferings of his friends.

He besought them to pray for him, that he might the more worthily endure

his cross. He prayed for his tormentors that they might be not held

culpable for their error. He entrusted himself entirely into the hands

of his departed ones and renewed with a greater fervor his act of

consecration.

"I beseech Thee, O my God, to accept and confirm this offering for Thy

honor and the salvation of my soul. Amen."

He arose from his pew, made a genuflection before the Blessed

Sacrament, pronouncing as he did, "My Lord and My God," crossed himself

with the holy water, and left the church.

IV

In the meantime an event of rare importance had occurred in the garden

of the Shippen home. There, in the recesses of the tulips sheltered

behind the clustering hydrangeas, Peggy accepted the fervent suit of the

Military Governor and gave him her promise to become his bride. A few

days later the world was informed of the betrothal and nodded its head

in astonishment, and opening its lips, sought relief in many words.

The wheels of destiny began to turn.

PART TWO

CHAPTER I

I

It was a hot October day.

A torrid wave generated somewhere in the far west, and aided by the

prevailing trade winds had swept relentlessly across the country,

reaching the city at a most unusual time. It had not come unheralded,

however, for the sun of yesterday had gone down a blazing red,

illuminating the sky like rays from a mighty furnace, and tinging the

evening landscape with the reddish and purplish hues of an Indian

summer. And what a blanket of humidity accompanied it! Like a cloak it

settled down upon the land, making breathing laborious and driving every

living creature out of doors.

Jim Cadwalader and his wife sat on the lawn, if the patch of brown grass

to the side of their little house could be termed a lawn, and awaited

the close of the day. Three huge elms, motionless in the still sunshine

and, like all motionless things, adding to the stillness, afforded a

canopy against the burning rays of the sun. What mattered it that the

cool shaded air was infested with mosquitoes and house-flies or that the

coarse grass was uneven and unkempt, from the low mounds which ran all

over it or, from the profusion of leaves which had here and there

fluttered down from the great trees. For it must be confessed that

neither Jim nor his wife had found the time for the proper care of the

premises, or if perchance, they had found the time the inclination

itself had been wanting.

"Sumthins got t' turn up in sum way 'r other b'fore long. I ain't seen

the sight o' work here in nigh two year."

"Guess you won't see it fur a while," responded the wife, from her

straight-backed chair, her arms folded, her body erect.

"Like as not a man 'd starve t' death in these here times, with nuthin'

t' do."

Jim sat with his elbows resting upon his yellow buckskin breeches, his

rough stubby fingers interlocked, his small fiery eyes piercing the

distance beyond the fields.

"If this business o' war was through with, things 'd git right agin."

"But it ain't goin' t' be over, let me tell you that."

They became silent.

Sad as was their plight, it was no sadder than the plight of many of

their class. The horrors of a protracted war had visited with equal

severity the dwelling places of the rich and the poor. It was not a

question of the provision of the sinews of war; tax had been enacted of

all classes alike. But it did seem as if the angel of poverty had

tarried the longer at the doorposts of the less opulent and had, in

proportion to their indigence, inflicted the greater suffering and

privation. Figuratively speaking, this was the state of affairs with

Jim's house.

Everything that could stimulate, and everything that could gratify the

propensities of a middle-aged couple, the blessings of health, the daily

round of occupation, the joys of life and the hopes of at length

obtaining possession of a little home, all these and the contentment of

living, had at once been swept away from Jim Cadwalader and his wife by

the calamities of war. They had lived as many had lived who have no

different excuse to plead for their penury. The wages of their day's

labor had been their sole means of support, and when this source of

income had vanished, nothing was left. In the low and dingy rooms which

they called their home there were no articles of adornment and many

necessary for use were wanting. Sand sprinkled on the floor did duty as

a carpet. There was no glass upon their table; no china on the cupboard;

no prints on the wall. Matches were a treasure and coal was never seen.

Over a fire of broken boxes and barrels, lighted with sparks from the

flint, was cooked a rude meal to be served in pewter dishes. Fresh meat

was rarely tasted--at most but once a week, and then paid for at a

higher price than their scanty means could justly allow.

"The way things 're goin' a pair o' boots 'll soon cost a man 'most six

hundr' dollars. I heard a man say who 's good at figurin' out these

things, that it now takes forty dollar bills t' make a dollar o' coin.

We can't stand that much longer."

"Unless a great blow is struck soon," observed Nancy.

"But it won't be struck. Washington's watchin' Clinton from Morristown.

The Americans are now on the offensive an' Clinton 's busy holdin' New

York. The French 're here an' who knows but they may do somethin'. 'Twas

too bad they missed Howe's army when it left here."

"Were they here?"

"They were at the capes when the chase was over. Lord Howe's ships had

gone."

Again there was silence.

"I guess Washington can't do much without an army. He has only a handful

an' I heard that the volunteers won't stay. Three thousan' o' them left

t' other day. Can't win a war that way. If they'd only listen to Barry

they'd have a navy now, an' if they want to catch Clinton in New York

they'll need a navy."

"Is the Captain home?"

"I saw him t' other day. He is goin' t' Boston t' command the _Raleigh_,

a thirty-two gunner. But one's no good. He needs a fleet."

"Thank God! The French have come. Peace is here now."

"It's money we need more'n soldiers. We can git an army right here if we

could only pay 'em. No one 'll fight fur nuthin'. They're starvin' as

much as us."

The fact that the hopes of this American couple had suffered a partial

collapse, must be attributed rather to the internal state of affairs

than to the military situation. While it is true that no great military

objective had been gained as a result of the three years of fighting,

yet the odds at the present moment were decidedly on the American side.

Still the country was without anything fit to be called a general

government. The Articles of Confederation, which were intended to

establish a league of friendship between the thirteen states, had not

yet been adopted. The Continental Congress, continuing to decline in

reputation and capacity, provoked a feeling of utter weariness and

intense depression. The energies and resources of the people were

without organization.

Resources they had. There was also a vigorous and an animated spirit of

patriotism, but there were no means of concentrating and utilizing

these assets. It was the general administrative paralysis rather than

any real poverty that tried the souls of the colonists. They heartily

approved of the war; Washington now held a higher place in their hearts

than he had ever held before; peace seemed a certainty the longer the

war endured. But they were weary of the struggle and handicapped by the

internal condition of affairs.

Jim and his wife typified the members of the poorer class, the class

upon whom the war had descended with all its horror and cruelty and

desolation. Whatever scanty possessions they had, cows, corn, wheat or

flour, had been seized by the foraging parties of the opposing forces,

while their horse and wagon had been impressed into the service of the

British, at the time of the evacuation of the city, to cart away the

stores and provisions. A means of occupation had been denied Jim during

the period of stagnation and what mere existence could now be eked out

depended solely in the tillage of the land upon which he dwelled.

Nevertheless the Cadwaladers maintained their outward cheer and apparent

optimism throughout it all but still they yearned inwardly for the day

when strife would be no more.

"I can't see as t' how we're goin' to git off eny better when this here

whole thin's over. We're fightin' fur independence, but the peopul don't

want to change their guver'ment; Washington 'll be king when this is

over."

Jim was ruminating aloud, stripping with his thumb nail the bark from a

small branch which he had picked from the ground.

"'Twas the Quebec Act th' done it. It was supposed to reestablish Popery

in Canada, and did by right. But th' Americans, and mostly those in New

England who are the worst kind of Dissenters and Whigs got skeered

because they thought the Church o' England or the Church o' Rome 'd be

the next thing established in the Colonies. That's what brought on the

war."

"We all don't believe that. Some do; but I don't."

"You don't?" he asked, without lifting his eyes to look at her. "Well

you kin. Wasn't the first thing they did up in New England to rush t'

Canada t' capture the country or else t' form an alliance with it? And

didn't our own Arnold try t' git revenge on it fur not sidin' in with

him by plunderin' th' homes of th' peopul up there and sendin' the goods

back to Ticonderoga?"

She made no reply, but continued to peer into the distance.

"And didn't our Congress send a petition to King George t' have 'm

repeal the limits o' Quebec and to the peopul t' tell 'm the English

Guver'ment 'is not authorized to establish a religion fraught with

sanguary 'r impius tenets'? I know 'cause I read it."

"It makes no diff'rence now. It's over."

"Well it shows the kind o' peopul here. They're so afreed o' the Pope."

She waved her hand in a manner of greeting.

"Who's that?" asked Jim.

"Marjorie."

He turned sideways looking over his shoulder.

Then he stood up.

II

That there was more than a grain of truth in the assertion of Jim

Cadwalader that the war for Independence had, like the great rivers of

the country, many sources, cannot be gainsaid. There were oppressive tax

laws as well as restrictions on popular rights. There were odious

navigation acts together with a host of iniquitous, tyrannical measures

which were destined to arouse the ire of any people however loyal. But

there were religious prejudices which were likewise a moving cause of

the revolt, a moving force upon the minds of the people at large. And

these were utilized and systematized most effectively by the active

malcontents and leaders of the strife.

The vast majority of the population of the Colonies were Dissenters,

subjects of the crown who disagreed with it in matters of religious

belief and who had emigrated thither to secure a haven where they might

worship their God according to the dictates of their own conscience

rather than at the dictates of a body politic. The Puritans had sought

refuge in Massachusetts and Connecticut where the white spires of their

meeting houses, projecting above the angles of the New England hills,

became indicative of Congregationalism. Roger Williams and the Baptists

found a harbor in Rhode Island. William Penn brought the Quaker colony

to Pennsylvania. Captain Thomas Webb lent active measures to the

establishment of Methodism in New York and in Maryland, while the colony

of Virginia afforded protection to the adherents of the Established

Church. The country was in the main Protestant, save for the vestiges of

Catholicity left by the Franciscan and Jesuit Missionary Fathers, who

penetrated the boundless wastes in an heroic endeavor to plant the seeds

of their faith in the rich and fertile soil of the new and unexplored

continent.

Consequently with the passage of the Quebec Act in 1774 a wave of

indignation and passionate apprehension swept the country from the

American Patriots of Boston to the English settlements on the west. That

large and influential members of the Protestant religion were being

assailed and threatened with oppression and that the fear of Popery,

recently reestablished in Canada, became an incentive for armed

resistance, proved to be motives of great concern. They even reminded

King George of these calamities and emphatically declared themselves

Protestants, faithful to the principles of 1688, faithful to the ideals

of the "Glorious Revolution" against James II, faithful to the House of

Hanover, then seated on the throne.

"Can a free government possibly exist with the Roman Catholic Church?"

asked John Adams of Thomas Jefferson. This simple question embodied in

concrete form the apprehensions of the country at large, whose

inhabitants had now become firmly convinced that King George, in

granting the Quebec Bill, had become a traitor, had broken his

coronation oath, was a Papist at heart, and was scheming to submit this

country to the unconstitutional power of the English monarch. It was not

so much a contest between peoples as a conflict of principles, political

and religious, the latter of which contributed the active force that

brought on the revolt and gave it power.

III

Strange to relate, there came a decided reversal of position after the

formation of the French Alliance. No longer was the Catholic religion

simply tolerated; it was openly professed, and, owing in a great measure

to the unwearied labors of the Dominican and Franciscan friars, made the

utmost progress among all ranks of people. The fault of the Catholic

population was anything but disloyalty, it was found, and their manner

of life, their absolute sincerity in their religious convictions, their

generous and altruistic interest in matters of concern to the public

good, proved irrefutable arguments against the calumnies and

vilifications of earlier days. The Constitutions adopted by the several

states and the laws passed to regulate the new governments show that the

principles of religious freedom and equality had made progress during

the war and were to be incorporated as vital factors in the shaping of

the destinies of the new nation.

The supreme importance of the French Alliance at this juncture cannot be

overestimated. Coming, as it did, at a time when the depression of the

people had reached the lowest ebb, when the remnant of the army of the

Americans was enduring the severities of the winter season at Valley

Forge, when the enemy was in possession of the fairest part of the

country together with the two most important cities, when Congress could

not pay its bills, nor meet the national debt which alone exceeded forty

million dollars,--when the medium of exchange would not circulate

because of its worthlessness, when private debts could not be collected

and when credit was generally prostrated, the Alliance proved a benefit

of incalculable value to the struggling nation, not only in the

enormous resources which it supplied to the army but in the general

morale of the people which it made buoyant.

The capture of Burgoyne and the announcement that Lord North was about

to bring in conciliatory measures furnished convincing proof to France

that the American Alliance was worth having. A treaty was drawn up by

virtue of which the Americans solemnly agreed, in consideration of armed

support to be furnished by France, never to entertain proposals of peace

with Great Britain until their independence should be acknowledged, and

never to conclude a treaty of peace except with the concurrence of their

new ally.

Large sums of money were at once furnished the American Congress. A

strong force of trained soldiers was sent to act under Washington's

command. A powerful fleet was soon to set sail for American waters and

the French forces at home were directed to cripple the military power of

England and to lock up and neutralize much British energy which would

otherwise be directed against the Americans. Small wonder that a new era

began to dawn for the Colonists!

When we remember the anti-Catholic spirit of the first years of the

Revolution and consider the freedom of action which came to the

Catholics as a consequence of the French Alliance, another and a

striking phase of its influence is revealed. The Catholic priests

hitherto seen in the colonies had been barely tolerated in the limited

districts where they labored. Now came Catholic chaplains of foreign

embassies; army and navy chaplains celebrating mass with pomp on the

men-of-war and in the camps and cities. The French chaplains were

brought in contact with all classes of the people in all parts of the

country and the masses said in the French lines were attended by many

who had never before witnessed a Catholic ceremony. Even Rhode Island,

with a French fleet in her waters, blotted from her statute-book a law

against Catholics.

IV

"What have we here, Marjorie?" asked Jim as he walked part of the way to

meet her.

"Just a few ribs of pork. I thought that you might like them."

She gave Jim the basket and walked over to Mrs. Cadwalader and kissed

her.

"Heaven bless you, Marjorie," exclaimed Nancy as she took hold of the

girl's hands and held them.

"Oh, thank you! But it is nothing, I assure you."

"You kin bet it is," announced Jim as he removed from the basket a long

side of pork. "Look 't that, Nancy." And he held it up for her

observation.

Marjorie had been accustomed to render some relief to Jim and his wife

since the time when reverses had first visited them. Her good nature, as

well as her consideration of the long friendship which had existed

between the two families, had prompted her to this service. Jim would

never be in want through any fault of hers, yet she was discreet enough

never to proffer any avowed financial assistance. The mode she employed

was that of an occasional visit in which she never failed to bring some

choice morsel for the table.

"How's the dad?" asked Jim.

"Extremely well, thank you. He has been talking all day on the failure

of the French to take Newport."

"What's that?" asked Jim, thoroughly excited. "Has there been news in

town?"

"Haven't you heard? The fleet made an attack."

"Where? What about it?"

"They tried to enter New York to destroy the British, but it was found,

I think, that they were too large for the harbor. So they sailed to

Newport to attack the garrison there."

"Yeh?"

"General Sullivan operated on the land, and the French troops were about

to disembark to assist him. But then Lord Howe arrived with his fleet

and Count d'Estaing straightway put out to sea to engage him."

"And thrashed 'm----"

"No," replied Marjorie. "A great storm came up and each had to save

himself. From the reports Father gave, General Sullivan has been left

alone on the island and may be fortunate if he is enabled to withdraw in

safety."

"What ails that Count!" exclaimed Jim thoroughly aroused. "I don't think

he's much good."

"Now don't git excited," interrupted Nancy. "That's you all th' time.

Just wait a bit."

"Just when we want 'im he leaves us. That's no good."

"Any more news, girl?"

"No. Everything is quiet except for the news we received about the

regiment of Catholic volunteers that is being recruited in New York."

"In New York? Clinton is there."

"I know it. This is a British regiment."

"I see. Tryin' t' imitate 'The Congress' Own?"

"So it seems."

"And do they think they will git many Cath'lics, or that there 're

enough o' them here?"

"I do not know," answered Marjorie. "But some handbills have appeared

in the city which came from New York."

"And they want the Cath'lics? What pay are they goin' t' give?"

"Four pounds."

"That's a lot o' money nowadays."

"That is all I know about it. I can't think what success they will have.

We are sure of some loyalists, however."

"I guess I'll hev to git down town t' see what's goin' on. Things were

quiet fur so long that I stayed pretty well t' home here. What does yur

father think?"

"He is angry, of course. But he has said little."

"I never saw anything like it. What'll come next?"

He folded his arms and crossed his knee.

An hour later she stood at the gate taking her leave of Jim and Nancy at

the termination of a short but pleasant visit.

"Keep a stout heart," she was saying to Jim, "for better days are

coming."

"I know 't, girl. Washington won't fail."

"He is coming here shortly."

"To Philadelphia?" asked Nancy.

"Yes. So he instructed Captain Meagher."

"I hope he removes Arnold."

"Hardly. He is a sincere friend to him. He wishes to see Congress."

"Has he been summon'd?"

"No! Captain Meagher intimated to me that a letter had been sent to His

Excellency from the former chaplain of Congress, the Rev. Mr. Duche,

complaining that the most respectable characters had withdrawn and were

being succeeded by a great majority of illiberal and violent men. He

cited the fact that Maryland had sent the Catholic Charles Carroll of

Carrollton instead of the Protestant Tilghman."

"Who is this Duche?"

"I do not know. But he has since fled to the British. He warmly

counseled the abandonment of Independence."

"If that's his style, he's no good. Will we see the Gin'ral?"

"Perhaps. Then again he may come and go secretly."

"God help the man," breathed Nancy.