I
"Simply a written statement. A public utterance from you denouncing the
Catholics would prove of incalculable value to us."
John Anderson had been for an hour or more in the company of the
Military Governor. Seemingly great progress had been made in the
recruiting of the regiment, much of which had, of necessity, been
effected in a secret manner, for now the city was under the domination
of the Continental forces. Anderson had made the most of his time and
was in a fair way to report progress for the past month.
"Don't be a fool, Anderson. You know that it would be the height of
folly for me to make any such statement. I can do no more than I am
doing. How many have you?"
"Nearly an hundred."
"There are several miserable Papists in Congress. If they could be
prevailed upon to resign, it would create a considerable impression upon
the minds of the people."
"I did see Carroll."
"How did he receive you?"
"He replied to me that he had entered zealously into the Revolution to
obtain religious as well as civil liberty, and he hoped that God would
grant that this religious liberty would be preserved in these states to
the end of time."
"Confound him! We cannot reach him, I suppose."
"So it appears. He is intensely patriotic."
"You have an hundred, you say? All common folk, I venture. We should
have several influential men."
"But they cannot be reached. I know well the need of a person of
influence, which thought urged me to ask such a statement from you."
He looked at him savagely.
"Do you think I'm a fool?"
"'The fool knows more in his own house than a wise man does in
another's.' I merely suggest, that is all."
"My answer is,--absolutely, No!"
There was silence.
"I know that Roman Catholic influence is beginning to reveal itself in
the army. Washington is well disposed toward them and they are good
soldiers. Time was when they were less conspicuous; but nowadays every
fool legislature is throwing public offices open to them and soon France
will exercise the same control over these states as she now wields
across the seas."
"Would you be in league with France?" asked Anderson with a wavering
tremor in his voice.
"God knows how I detest it! But I have sworn to defend the cause of my
country and I call this shattered limb to witness how well I have spent
myself in her behalf. I once entertained the hope that our efforts would
be crowned with success, nevertheless I must confess that the more
protracted grows the struggle, the more the conviction is forced upon me
that our cause is mistaken, if not entirely wrong, and destined to
perish miserably. Still, I shall not countenance open rebellion. I could
not."
"You will continue to advise me. I am little acquainted with the city,
you know, and it would be difficult for me to avoid dangerous risks."
Arnold thought for a minute, his features overcast by a scowl which
closed his eyes to the merest chinks.
"I shall do no more than I have already done. I cannot permit myself to
be entangled. There is too much at stake."
He was playing a dangerous game, inspirited by no genuine love for
country but by feelings of wounded pride. He was urged on, not through
any fears of personal safety but through misguided intimidations of a
foreign alliance; not because of any genuine desire to aid or abet the
cause of the enemy but to cast suspicion upon a certain unit within his
own ranks. To be deprived of active duty in the field was to his warm
and impulsive nature an ignominious calamity. To learn subsequently of
the appointment of Gates to the second in command, the one general whom
he despised and hated, was more than his irritable temperament could
stand. The American cause now appeared hopeless to him, nevertheless he
entertained no thought of deserting it. He had performed his duty in its
behalf, as his wounded limb often reminded him, and it was only fitting
that he, who alone had destroyed a whole army of the enemy, should be
rewarded with due consideration. Congress had ever been unfriendly to
him and he had resented their action, or their failure to take proper
action, most bitterly. Throughout it all his personal feelings had
guided to a large extent his faculty of judgment, and for that reason he
viewed with mistrust and suspicion every intent and purpose, however
noble or exalted.
He had been violently opposed to the alliance with France from the
start. It was notorious that he abhorred Catholics and all things
Catholic. To take sides with a Catholic and despotic power which had
been a deadly foe to the colonists ten or twenty years before, during
the days of the French and Indian wars, was to his mind a measure at
once unpatriotic and indiscreet. In this also, he had been actuated by
his personal feelings more than by the study of the times. For he
loathed Popery and the thousand and one machinations and atrocities
which he was accustomed to link with the name.
The idea of forming a regiment of Catholic soldiers interested him not
in the numerical strength which might be afforded the enemy but in the
defection which would be caused to the American side. His scheme lay in
the hope that the Catholic members of Congress would be tempted to
resign. In that event he would obtain evident satisfaction not alone in
the weakness to which the governing body would be exposed but also in
the ill repute to which American Catholics and their protestations of
loyalty would fall.
Arnold deep down in his own heart knew that his motives were not
unmixed. He could not accuse himself of being outrageously mercenary,
yet he was ashamed to be forced to acknowledge even to himself that the
desire of gain was present to his mind. His debts were enormous. He
entertained in a manner and after a style far in excess of his modest
allowance. His dinners were the most sumptuous in the town; his stable
the finest; his dress the richest. And no wonder that his play, his
table, his balls, his concerts, his banquets had soon exhausted his
fortune. Congress owed him money, his speculations proved unfortunate,
his privateering ventures met with disaster. With debts accumulating and
creditors giving him no peace he turned to the gap which he saw opening
before him. This was an opportunity not to be despised.
"About that little matter--how soon might I be favored?" the Governor
asked, rising from his chair and limping with his cane across the room.
"You refer to the matter of reimbursements?" Anderson asked
nonchalantly.
"I do."
He gazed from the window with his back turned to his visitor.
"I shall draw an order for you at once."
"You shall do nothing of the kind."
He looked fiercely at him.
"You are playing a clever game, are you not? But you have to cope now
with a clever adversary."
He walked deliberately before him, and continued:
"Anderson," he said, "I want to tell you I know who you are and for what
purpose you have been sent here. I know too by whom you have been sent.
I knew it before you were here twenty-four hours and I want to tell you
now before we continue that we may as well understand each other in a
thorough manner. If you desire my assistance you must pay me well for
it. And it must be in legal tender."
"Of course--but--but--the truth is that I am in no way prepared to make
any offer now. I can communicate with you in a few days, or a week."
"Don't come here. You must not be seen here again. Send it to me or
better still meet me."
"Can you trust the Shippens?"
"Absolutely."
"Why not there?"
"You mean to confer with me there?"
"If it is safe, as you say, where would be more suitable?"
"True. But I must have some money as soon as possible. The nation is
bankrupt and my pay is long overdue. I cannot, however, persuade the
creditors any longer. I must have money."
"You shall have it. At Shippen's then."
He rose and walked directly to the door.
"Next week."
He shut the door after him and hurried along the corridor. As he turned
he came face to face with a countenance entirely familiar to him but
momentarily lost to his consciousness by its sudden and unexpected
appearance. In a second, however, he had recovered himself.
"Captain! I am pleased indeed."
He put out his hand.
Stephen thought for a moment. Then he grasped it.
"Mr. Anderson. What good fortune is this?"
"Complimentary. Simply paying my respects for kindness rendered."
"Have a care lest your zeal overwhelm you."
Anderson colored at the allusion.
"Thank you. I shall exercise all moderation."
Stephen watched him as he moved away, deliberating hurriedly on the
advisability of starting after him. Whatever his mission or his purpose,
he would not learn in this house certainly, nor from him nor from Arnold
for that matter. If he was intent on securing information concerning
this man he must do it in a surreptitious manner. There was no other
method of dealing with him, he thought, and in view of such
circumstances he deemed it perfectly legitimate to follow him at a safe
distance.
The more he thought over it the more readily did he resolve to take
action to the end that he might see more of him. Whatever mischief was
afoot, and he had no more than a mere suspicion that there was mischief
afoot, must reveal itself sooner or later. His object in all probability
had already been accomplished, nevertheless his errand, if he was
engaged on an errand, might be disclosed. He would follow him if for no
other purpose than to learn of his destination.
Second Street was now astir with a lively procession. There, every day
when business was over, when the bank was closed, when the exchange was
deserted, crowds of seekers came to enjoy the air and to display their
rich garments. There might be found the gentlemen of fashion and of
means, with their great three-cornered cocked hats, resting majestically
upon their profusely powdered hair done up in cues, their light colored
coats, with their diminutive capes and long backs, their striped
stockings, pointed shoes, and lead-laden cuffs, paying homage to the
fair ladies of the town. These, too, were gorgeous in their brocades and
taffetas, luxuriantly displayed over cumbrous hoops, tower-built hats,
adorned with tall feathers, high wooden heels and fine satin petticoats.
It was an imposing picture to behold these gayly dressed damsels gravely
return the salutations of their gallant admirers and courtesy almost to
the ground before them.
Stephen searched deliberately for his man throughout the length of the
crowded thoroughfare, standing the while on the topmost step of the
Governor's Mansion--that great old-fashioned structure resembling in
many details a fortification, with its two wings like bastions extending
to the rear, its spacious yard enclosed with a high wall and ornamented
with two great rows of lofty pine trees. It was the most stately house
within the confines of the city and, with Christ Church, helped to make
Second Street one of the aristocratic thoroughfares of the town.
It was with difficulty that Stephen discerned Anderson walking briskly
in the direction of Market Street. He set off immediately, taking care
to keep at a safe distance behind him. He met several acquaintances, to
whom he doffed his hat and returned their afternoon greeting, while he
pursued his quest with lively interest and attention. Market Street was
reached, and here he was obliged to pause near a shop window lest he
might overtake Anderson, who had halted to exchange pleasantries with a
young and attractive couple. On they went again deliberately and
persistently until at length it began to dawn upon Stephen that they
were headed for the Germantown road, and for Allison's house.
What strange relation was arising between Marjorie and that man?
Anderson was paying marked attention to her, he began to muse to
himself, too much attention perhaps, for one whose whole existence was
clouded with a veil of mystery. Undoubtedly he was meeting with some
encouragement, if not reciprocation (perish the thought!), for he was
persistent in his attention. Yet this man was not without charm. There
was something fascinating about him which even Stephen must confess was
compelling. What if she had been captivated by him, by his engaging
personal qualities, by his prepossessing appearance, by his habit of
gentle speech, by his dignity and his ease of manner! His irritation was
justifiable.
There was little doubt now as to Anderson's destination. Plainly he was
bent on one purpose. The more he walked, the more evident this became.
Stephen would be assured, however, and pursued his way until he had seen
with his own eyes his man turn into Allison's house. And not until then
did he halt. Turning deliberately he began to retrace his steps.
II
"This looks like the kind of book. Has it the 'Largo'?"
Anderson sat on the music-stool before the clavichord turning over the
pages of a volume that rested on the rack.
"Perhaps. I scarce think I know what it is. I have never heard it."
Marjorie was nearby. She had been musing over the keys, letting her
fingers wander where they would, when he had called. He would not
disturb her for all the world, nevertheless he did yield to her
entreaties to take her place on the stool.
"You have never heard Handel? The 'Largo' or the greatest of all
oratorios, his 'Messiah'?"
"Never!"
He did not reply to this. Instead he broke into the opening chords, the
sweetly solemn, majestic harmony of the 'Largo'. He played it entirely
from memory, very slowly, very softly at first, until the measured
notes, swelling into volume, filled the room in a loud arpeggio.
"That is beautiful," she exclaimed with enthusiasm, "I should have said
'exquisite'. May I learn it?"
"Surely there must be a copy in the city. I shall consider it a favor to
procure one for you."
"I should be delighted, I am sure."
He played it again. She regarded him from above. It was astonishing to
note the perfect ease and grace with which he performed. The erect
carriage, the fine cut of the head, the delicately carved features
became the objects of her attention in their inverse order, and the
richly endowed talents, with which he was so signally accomplished,
furnished objects of special consideration to her reflective soul. He
was exceedingly fascinating and a dangerous object to pit against the
heart of any woman. Still Marjorie was shrewd enough to peer beneath his
superficial qualities, allowing herself to become absorbed in a
penetrating study of the man, his character, his peculiarities;--so
absorbed, in fact, that the door behind her opened and closed without
attracting her attention.
"I must obtain that copy," she announced as she turned towards her
chair.
"Why, Father!" she exclaimed. "When did you come? Mr. Anderson, Father.
You already know him."
"Well met, my boy. You are somewhat of a musician. I was listening."
"Just enough for my own amusement," laughed the younger man. "I know a
few notes."
"Be not quick to believe him, Father. He plays beautifully."
Mr. Allison sat down.
"Accomplishments are useful ornaments. Nowadays a man succeeds best who
can best impress. People want to see one's gifts."
"The greatest of talents often lie buried. Prosperity thrives on
pretense."
"True. I'm beginning to think that way myself, the way things 're
going."
"With the war?" he asked.
"With everything. I think Congress will fail to realize its boasts, and
Arnold is a huge pretender, and----"
"He has lost favor with the people."
"Lost it? He never had it from the day he arrived. People do not like
that sort of thing."
Anderson watched him intently and Marjorie watched Anderson.
"He may resign for a command in the army. I have heard it said that he
dislikes his office."
"Would to God he did! Or else go over to the other side."
Anderson's head turned--the least little fraction--so that Marjorie
could see the flash light up his eyes.
"He could not desert the cause now without becoming a traitor."
A pause followed.
"Men of lofty patriotism often disagree in the manner of political
action. We have many Loyalists among us."
"Yet they are not patriots."
"No! They are not, viewed from our standpoint. But every colony has a
different motive in the war. Now that some have obtained their rights,
they are satisfied with the situation. I don't know but that we would be
as well off if the present state of affairs were allowed to stand."
"What do the Catholics of the Colonies think?"
This was a bold question, yet he ventured to ask it.
"We would fare as well with England as with some of our own," answered
Marjorie decisively.
Anderson looked at her for a minute.
"Never!" replied Mr. Allison with emphasis.
"See how Canada fared," insisted Marjorie.
"Tush!"
Anderson listened attentively. Here was a division of opinion within the
same family; the father intensely loyal, the daughter somewhat inclined
to analysis. A new light was thrown upon her from this very instant
which afforded him a very evident satisfaction, a very definite and
conscious enjoyment as well. To have discovered this mind of apparent
candor and unaffected breadth was of supreme import to him at this
critical moment. And he felt assured that he had met with a character of
more than ordinary self-determination which might, if tuned properly,
display a capacity for prodigious possibilities, for in human nature he
well knew the chord of self-interest to be ever responsive to adequate
and opportune appeal.
Marjorie might unconsciously prove advantageous to him. It was essential
for the maturing of his plans to obtain Catholic cooperation. She was a
devout adherent and had been, insofar as he had been able to discover,
an ardent Whig. True, he had but few occasions to study her,
nevertheless today had furnished him with an inkling which gave her
greater breadth in his eyes than he was before conscious of. The remark
just made might indicate that she favored foreign rule in the interest
of religious toleration, yet such a declaration was by no means
decisive. Still he would labor to this end in the hope that she might
ultimately see her way clear to cooperate with him in his designs.
"We are losing vast numbers through the Alliance," volunteered Anderson.
"I suppose so," admitted Mr. Allison. "Many of the colonists cannot
endure the thought of begging assistance from a great Roman Catholic
power. They fear, perhaps, that France will use the opportunity to
inflict on us the worst form of colonialism and destroy the Protestant
religion."
"But it isn't the Protestants who are deserting," persisted Anderson.
"The Catholics are not unmindful of the hostile spirit displayed by the
colonists in the early days. They, too, are casting different lots."
"Not we. Every one of us is a Whig. Some have faltered, but we do not
want them."
"And yet the reports from New York seem to indicate that the recruiting
there is meeting with success."
"The Catholic regiment? I'll wager that it never will exist except on
paper. There are no Tories, no falterers, no final deserters among the
American Catholics."
"What efforts are being made in Philadelphia?" asked Marjorie.
"None--that I know of," was the grave reply. "I did hear, however, that
an opportunity would be given those who are desirous of enlisting in New
York."
Marjorie sat and watched him.
"I heard Father Farmer was invited to become its chaplain," observed Mr.
Allison.
"Did he?"
"He did not. He told me himself that he wrote a kind letter with a stern
refusal."
And so they talked; talked into the best part of an hour, now of the
city's activities, now of the Governor, now of the success of the
campaign, until Anderson felt that he had long overstayed his leave.
"I am sorry to leave your company." Then to Marjorie, "At Shippen's
tomorrow?"
"Yes. Will you come for me? If you won't I daresay I shall meet you
there."
"Of course I shall come. Please await me."
III
That there was a state of pure sensation and of gay existence for
Marjorie in the presence of this man, she knew very well; and while she
felt that she did not care for him, nevertheless she was conscious of a
certain subtle influence about him which she was powerless to define. It
has been said that not all who know their mind know their own heart; for
the heart often perceives and reasons in a manner wholly peculiar to
itself. Marjorie was aware of this and the utmost effort was required of
her to respond solely to the less alluring promptings of her firm will.
She would allow him to see her again that she might learn more about him
and his strange origin. Stephen had suggested to her the merest
suspicion concerning him. There was the possibility that the germ of
this suspicion might develop,--and in her very presence. The contingency
was certainly equal to the adventure.
It was not required that she pay a formal call on Peggy. Already had
that been done, immediately after the announcement of the engagement,
when she had come to offer congratulations to the prospective bride upon
her enviable and happy fortune. The note, which again had come into her
possession upon Stephen's return of it, whose contents were still
unknown to her, she had restored to Peggy, together with a full
explanation of its loss and its subsequent discovery. One phase of its
history, however, she had purposely overlooked. It might have proved
embarrassing for her to relate how it chanced to fall into the hands of
Stephen. And inasmuch as he had made no comment upon its return, she was
satisfied that the incident was unworthy of the mention.
Anderson called promptly on the hour and found her waiting. They left
the house at once and by mutual agreement walked the entire distance.
This was preferable, for there was no apparent haste to reach their
destination, and for the present no greater desire throbbed within them
than the company of their own selves. For they talked continually of
themselves and for that reason could never weary of each other's
company.
The country about them was superb. The fields stood straight in green
and gold on every side of the silvery road. Beside them as they passed,
great trees reared themselves aloft from the greensward, which divided
the road from the footpath, and rustled in the breeze, allowing the
afternoon sunshine to reveal itself in patches and glimpses; and the air
between was a sea of subdued light, resonant with the liquid notes of
the robin and the whistle of the quail, intruders upon the uniform
tranquillity of the hot Sunday afternoon.
"Does it not strike you that there are but few persons with whom it is
possible to converse seriously?"
"Seriously?" asked Marjorie. "What do you call seriously?"
"In an intelligent manner, together with perfect ease and attention."
"I suppose that this is true on account of the great want of sincerity
among men."
"That, as well as the impatient desire we possess of intruding our own
thoughts upon our hearer with little or no desire of listening to those
which he himself may want to express."
"We are sincere with no one but ourselves, don't you think? The mere
fact of the entrance of a second person means that we must try to
impress him. You have said that prosperity thrives on pretense."
"And I repeat it. But with friends all guile and dissimulation ceases.
We often praise the merits of our neighbor in the hope that he in turn
will praise us. Only a few have the humility and the whole-hearted
simplicity to listen well and to answer well. Sincerity to my mind is
often a snare to gain the confidence of others."
There was depth to his reasoning, Marjorie thought, which was
riddle-like as well. It was amazing to her how well he could talk on any
given topic, naturally, easily, seriously, as the case might be. He
never seemed to assume the mastery of any conversation, nor to talk with
an air of authority on any subject, for he was alive to all topics and
entered into them with the same apparent cleverness and animated
interest.
He stopped suddenly and exerted a gentle though firm pressure on her
arm, obliging her to halt her steps. Surprised, she turned and looked at
him.
"What is it?" she asked.
There was no response. Instead, she looked in the direction of his gaze.
Then she saw.
A large black snake lay in graceful curves across their path several
rods ahead. Its head was somewhat elevated and rigid. Before it
fluttered a small chickadee in a sort of strange, though powerless
fascination, its wings partly open in a trembling manner, its chirp
noisy and incessant, its movement rapid and nervous, as it partly
advanced, partly retreated before its enchanter. Nearer and nearer it
came, with a great scurrying of the feet and wings, towards the
motionless head of the serpent. Until Anderson, picking a stone from the
roadside, threw a well-aimed shot which bounded over the head of the
snake, causing it to turn immediately and crawl into the recesses of the
deep underbrush of the adjoining field. The bird, freed from the source
of its sinister charm, flew out of sight into safety.
"Thank God!" Marjorie breathed. "I was greatly frightened."
"Nothing would have saved that bird," was the reply. "It already was
powerless."
Marjorie did not answer to this, but became very quiet and pensive. They
walked on in silence.
Nearing the home of Peggy, they beheld General Arnold seated before them
on the spacious veranda in the company of his betrothed. Here was
intrusion with a vengeance, Marjorie thought, but the beaming face and
the welcoming expression soon dispelled her fears.
"Miss Shippen," Anderson said, as he advanced immediately toward her to
seize her hand, "allow me to offer my tender though tardy
congratulations. It was with the greatest joy that I listened to the
happy announcement."
"You are most kind, Mr. Anderson, and I thank you for it," was the soft
response.
"And you, General," said Marjorie. "Let me congratulate you upon your
excellent choice."
"Rather upon my good fortune," the Governor replied with a generous
smile.
Peggy blushed at the compliment.
"How long before we may be enabled to offer similar greetings to you?"
he asked of Mr. Anderson, who was assisting Marjorie into a chair by the
side of Peggy.
"Oh! Love rules his own kingdom and I am an alien."
He drew himself near to the Governor and the conversation turned
naturally and generally to the delicious evening. The very atmosphere
thrilled with romance.