I
Stephen was sitting in his room, his feet crossed on a foot-rest before
him, his eyes gazing into the side street that opened full before his
window. He had been reading a number of dispatches and letters piled in
a small heap in his lap; but little by little had laid them down again
to allow his mind to run into reflection and study. And so he sat and
smoked.
It seemed incredible that events of prime importance were transpiring in
the city and that the crisis was so soon upon him. For nearly three
months he had been accumulating, methodically and deliberately, a chain
of incriminating evidence around the Military Governor and John
Anderson, still he was utterly unaware of its amazing scope and
magnitude. Perfidy was at work all around him and he was powerless to
interfere; for the intrigue had yet to reach that point where conviction
could be assured. Nevertheless, he continued to advance step by step
with the events, and sensed keenly the while, the tension which was
beginning to exist but which he could not very well point out.
He had kept himself fully informed of the progress of affairs in New
York, where the recruiting was being accomplished in an undisguised
manner. The real facts, however, were being adroitly concealed from the
bulk of the populace. Information of a surprising nature had been
forwarded to him from time to time in the form of dispatches and
letters, all of which now lay before him, while a certain Sergeant
Griffin had already been detailed by him to carry out the more hazardous
work of espionage in the city of the enemy. The latter was in a fair way
to report now on the progress of the work and had returned to
Philadelphia for this very purpose.
Irish Catholics had been found in the British Army at New York, but they
had been impressed into the service. Sergeant Griffin had spoken to many
deserters who avowed that they had been brought to the colonies against
their own will, declaring that they had been "compelled to go on board
the transports where they were chained down to the ring-bolts and fed
with bread and water; several of whom suffered this torture before they
could be made to yield and sign the papers of enlistment." In
confirmation of this declaration, he had in his lap a letter written to
General Washington by Arthur Lee, June 15, 1777, which read: "Every man
of a regiment raised in Ireland last year had to be shipped off tied and
bound, and most certainly they will desert more than any troops
whatsoever." To corroborate this claim he had obtained several
clippings, advertisements that had appeared in the New York newspapers,
offering rewards for the apprehension of Irish soldiers who had deserted
to the rebels.
The same methods he learned were now being employed in the recruiting of
the Catholic regiment. Blackmail had been resorted to with splendid
results. In several instances enormous debts had been liquidated in
favor of the recruits. Even commissions in the army of His Majesty had
been offered as a bounty. There was success, if the few hundred faces in
the ranks could be reckoned as a fair catch, yet the methods of
recruiting did not begin to justify the fewness of the numbers.
Just how this idea had taken root, he was at a loss to discover.
Certainly not from the disloyalty manifested by the Catholic population
during the war. The exploits of the famous "Congress' Own" Regiments
might, he thought, have contributed much to the enemy's scheme. It was
commonly known that two regiments of Catholics from Canada, raised in
that northern province during the winter of 1775-76, had done valiant
service against the British. A great number of the Canadian population
had welcomed the patriots under Generals Schuyler, Montgomery and Arnold
upon their attempted invasion of the country, and had given much
assistance towards the success of their operations. Inasmuch as many had
sought enlistment in the ranks as volunteers, an opportunity was
furnished them by an act of Congress on January 20, 1776, authorizing
the formation of two Canadian regiments of soldiers to be known as
"Congress' Own." The First was organized by Colonel James Livingston;
the Second by Colonel Moses Hazen. Both of these regiments continued in
active service for the duration of the war, and both obtained a vote of
thanks from the American Congress upon its termination.
Herein, then, must lay the germ of the project of the British Regiment
of Roman Catholic Volunteers.
He sat and considered.
"You tell me, then," he said quietly, "that this is the state of affairs
in New York."
"Yes, sir," replied the soldier.
There was a further silence.
II
The progress of the work in the city of Philadelphia had been less
evident to him. Certain it was that Anderson was directing his undivided
attention to the furtherance of the plan, for which task he had been
admirably endowed by Nature. That Arnold, too, was greatly interested in
the success of the plot, he already suspected, but in this he had no
more than a suspicion, for he could not discover the least incriminating
objective evidence against him. There were several whose names had been
associated with the work; yet these, too, had revealed nothing, when
confronted with a direct question. And whatever influence he might have
had, whatever lurking suspicions he might have accumulated from the
contributory details, these when simmered down amounted to little or
nothing. The plan had not progressed to the extent required. There was
nothing to do but to await further developments.
This man Anderson was ingenuous. The most striking characteristic about
him, that towards which and in support of which every energy and every
talent had been schooled and bent, was an intrepid courage. A vast and
complicated scheme of ambition possessed his whole soul, yet his
disposition and address generally appeared soft and humane, especially
when no political object was at stake.
During the four or five months spent in the city, he had made a host of
friends among all classes of people. His agreeable manner and his
fluency of speech at once gained for him the confidence even of the most
phlegmatic. No man was endowed with more engaging qualities for the
work, if it may be assumed that he was engaged solely in the recruiting
of a Tory Regiment from among the supporters of the Whigs. Everything
seemed to declare that he was associated with the work. And because he
was associated with it, it progressed.
The names of several who had yielded allegiance to the opposite side
were in the hands of Stephen. The Major of the new regiment was a
Catholic, John Lynch. So were Lieutenant Eck, Lieutenant Kane, and
Quartermaster Nowland. These were at present in New York, whither they
had journeyed soon after the British occupation of the city. Of the
hundred-odd volunteers, who were supposed to constitute the company,
little could be learned because of the veil of secrecy which had from
the very beginning enshrouded the whole movement.
Pressure had been brought to bear on several, it was discovered, with
the result that there was no alternative left them but to sign the
papers of enlistment. In this Anderson had been materially aided by the
Military Governor's intimate knowledge of the fortunes and prospects of
the bulk of the citizenry. To imply this, however, was one thing; to
prove it quite another. For whatever strength the accusation might bear
in his own mind, he could not forget that it was still a mere suspicion,
which must be endorsed by investigation if the people were to be
convinced. And Stephen was unprepared to offer the results of his
investigation to a populace which was too indolent and hasty to
investigate them as facts and to discriminate nicely between the shades
of guilt. Anderson was loved and admired by his countrymen and more
especially by his countrywomen. Everything, it seemed, would be forgiven
his youth, rank and genius.
Even Marjorie had been captivated by him, it appeared. The relationship
which was beginning to thrive between them he disliked, and some day he
would make that known to her. How attentive he had been to her was
easily recognizable, but to what degree she returned this attention was
another matter. What she thought of this stranger and to what extent he
had impressed her, he longed to know, for it was weeks since he had laid
eyes on her; and the last two attempts made by him to see her had found
her in the company of Anderson, once at Shippen's, and again on a ride
through the country. True, he himself had been absent from town for a
brief time, immediately after his court-martial, when he returned to
headquarters to file a report with his Commander-in-chief, and the few
moments spent with her upon his return was the last visit. Undoubtedly
he was a stranger to her now; she was absorbed with the other man.
Still Stephen wished that he might see her. An insatiable longing filled
his whole soul, like the eternal cravings of the heart for communion
with the Infinite. There was certain situations where a man or woman
must confide in some person to obtain advice or sympathy, or simply to
unload the soul, and there was no one more becoming to Stephen than this
girl. She understood him and could alleviate by her sole presence, not
through any gift properly made, but by that which radiated from her
alone, the great weight which threatened to overwhelm his whole being.
Simply to converse with her might constitute the prophecy of a benign
existence.
He determined to see her that very evening.
III
"Marjorie," said Stephen, "of course you've a perfect right to do
exactly as you like. But, you know, you did ask my opinion; didn't you?"
"I did," said Marjorie, frowning. "But I disagree with you. And I think
you do him a grave injustice."
She had been seated in a large comfortable chair in the middle of the
side yard when he entered. A ball of black yarn which, with the aid of
two great needles, she was industriously engaged in converting into an
article of wearing apparel, lay by her side. Indeed, so engrossed was
she, that he had opened and closed the gate before her attention was
aroused. She rose immediately, laying her knitting upon the chair, and
advanced to meet him.
"I haven't seen you in ages. Where have you been?"
He looked at her.
"Rather let me ask that question," was his query by way of reply.
"Already twice have I failed to find you."
They walked together to the chairs; she to her own, he to a smaller one
that stood over against them.
"That you called once, I know. Mother informed me."
"You were similarly engaged on both occasions."
He brought his chair near to her.
"With Mr. Anderson?"
She smiled straight in his face.
"Of course."
He, too, smiled.
"Well!" then after a pause, "do you object?"
He did not answer. His fingers drummed nervously on the arm of his
chair and he looked far up the road.
"You do not like him?" she asked quickly.
"It would be impossible for me to now tell you. As a matter of fact, I
myself have been unable to form a definite opinion. I may let you know
later. Not now."
A deep sigh escaped her.
"I should imagine you could read a man at first sight," she exclaimed.
"I never allowed myself that presumption. Men are best discovered at
intervals. They are most natural when off their guard. Habit may
restrain vice, and passion obscures virtue. I prefer to let them alone."
She bit her lip, as her manner was, and continued to observe him. How
serious he was! The buoyant, tender, blithesome disposition which
characterized his former self, had yielded to a temper of saturnine
complexion, a mien of grave and thoughtful composure. He was analytic
and she began to feel herself a simple compound in the hands of an
expert chemist.
"I am sorry to have caused you a disappointment."
"Please, let me assure you there is no need of an apology."
"And you were not disappointed?"
A smile began to play about the corners of her small mouth. She tried to
be humorous.
"Perhaps. But not to the extent of requiring an apology."
"You might have joined us."
"You know better than that."
"I mean it. Peggy would have been pleased to have you."
"Did she say so?"
"No. But I know that she would."
"Alas!" He raised his arm in a slight gesture.
She was knitting now, talking as she did. She paused to raise her eyes.
"I think you dislike Peggy," she said with evident emphasis.
"Why?"
"I scarce know. My instinct, I suppose."
"I distrust her, if that is what you mean?"
"Have you had reason?"
"I cannot answer you now, for which I am very sorry. You will find my
reasoning correct at some future time, I hope."
"Do you approve of my friendship with her?"
She did not raise her eyes this time, but allowed them to remain fixed
upon the needles.
"It is not mine to decide. You are mistress of your own destinies."
Her face grew a shade paler, and the look in her eyes deepened.
"I simply asked your advice, that was all."
The words hit so hard that he drew his breath. He realized that he had
been brusque and through his soul there poured a kind of anger first,
then wounded pride, then a sense of crushing pain.
"I regret having said that," he tried to explain to her. "But I cannot
tell you what is in my mind. Since you do ask me, I fear Peggy greatly,
but I would not say that your friendship with her should cease. Not at
present, anyhow."
"Well, did you approve of my going there with Mr. Anderson?"
"With him? No."
"Can you tell me the reason?"
And then he explained briefly to her of his reasons for disliking this
man and of the veil of suspicion and of mystery with which he was
surrounded. He did not think him a suitable companion for her, and
wished for her own good that she would see no more of him.
There was no reply to his observations. On the contrary Marjorie lapsed
into a meditative silence which seemed to grow deeper and deeper as the
moments passed. Stephen watched her until the suspense became almost
beyond endurance, wondering what thoughts were coursing through her
mind.
At length he broke the silence with the words recorded at the beginning
of the chapter; and Marjorie answered him quietly and deliberately.
She continued with her knitting.
IV
A great melancholy fell upon him, if it were indeed possible for him to
become more dispirited, against which he was powerless to contend. There
was revealed to him on the instant a seeming predilection on the part of
Marjorie for this man, Anderson. The longer they conversed, the deeper
did that conviction grow. This made him careless and petulant. Now a
feeling of deep regret stole over him because he had been so
unsympathetic. In presence of her feeling of grief and disappointment,
his pity was aroused.
"I deeply regret the pain I have caused you," he said to her quietly and
kindly. "It was altogether rude of me."
She bit her lip violently, tremulously, in an effort to restrain the
flood of emotion which surged within, which threatened to burst forth
with the pronunciation of the merest syllable.
She did not reply, but fumbled with the knitted portion of her garment,
running its edges through her fingers.
"I had no intention of speaking of him as I did," he went on. "I would
not, did you not ask me."
"I am not offended."
"Your composure reveals to me that you have been hurt."
"I did not mean that you should know it."
"Very likely. But you could not disguise the fact. I shall give you the
assurance, however, that the subject shall not be a topic for discussion
by us again. He must not be mentioned."
"Please! I--I----"
"It was solely for yourself that I was concerned. Believe me when I say
this. Insofar as I myself am concerned, I am wholly disinterested. I
thought you desired to know and I told you as much as it was possible
for me to tell. You must ask me no more."
"He has not revealed this side of his character to me and I have been in
his company on several occasions. Always has he been kind, gentlemanly,
sincere, upright."
Her eyes were centered full upon him, those large brown eyes that seemed
to contain her whole being. Whether she was gay or sad, jocose or sober,
enthusiastic or despondent, the nature of her feelings could be
communicated solely by her eyes. She need not speak; they spoke for her.
"You are right in believing every man virtuous until he has proved
himself otherwise," he replied. "There should be one weight and one
measure. But I regulate my intercourse with men by the opposite
standard. I distrust every man until he has proved himself worthy, and
it was that principle which guided me, undoubtedly, in my application of
it to you."
"Do you consider that upright?"
"Do not misunderstand me. I do not form a rash judgment of every person
I meet. As a matter of fact I arrive at no judgment at all. I defer
judgment until after the investigation, and I beware of him until this
investigation has been completed."
"You are then obliged to live in a world of suspicion."
"No. Rather in a world of security. How often has the knave paraded
under the banner of innocence! The greatest thieves wear golden chains."
"I could not live after such manner."
She became impatient.
"Were you thrown into daily relation with the world you would soon learn
the art of discrimination. The trusty sentinel lives a life of
suspicion."
At length a truce was silently proclaimed. Composure reigned. The
unpleasant episode had to all appearances been obliterated from their
minds. There was even a touch of that old humor dancing in her eyes.
"Some one has said," she observed, "that 'suspicion is the poison of
friendship.'"
"And a Latin proverb runs, 'Be on such terms with your friend as if you
knew he may one day become your enemy.' Friendship, I realize, is
precious and gained only after long days of probation. The tough fibers
of the heart constitute its essence, not the soft texture of favors and
dreams. We do not possess the friends we imagine, for the world is
self-centered."
"Have you no friends?"
Now she smiled for the second time, but it was only a smile of humor
about the corners of her mouth.
"Only those before whom I may be sincere."
He was serious, inclined to analysis, one might say.
"Can you expect to find sincerity in others without yourself being
sincere?"
"No. But my friend possesses my other soul. I think aloud before him. It
does not matter. I reveal my heart to him, share my joys, unburden my
grief. There is a simplicity and a wholesomeness about it all. We are
mutually sincere."
"Your test is severe."
"But its fruits imperishable."
"I cannot adopt your method," was the deliberate reply as she began to
gather together her ball and needles.
"Let's leave it at that."
And they left it.
V
Long after he had gone she sat there until it was well into the evening,
until the stars began to blink and nod and wrap themselves in the great
cloak of the night, as they kept a silent vigil over the subdued silence
which had settled down upon the vast earth and herself.
The longer she sat and considered, the more melancholy did she become.
Stephen was displeased with her conduct and made no effort to conceal
it, inflicting only the greater wound by his ambiguous and incisive
remarks. His apparent unconcern and indifference of manner frightened
her, and she saw, or she thought she saw a sudden deprivation of that
esteem with which she was vain enough to presuppose he was wont to
regard her. And yet he was mistaken, greatly mistaken. Furthermore, he
was unfair to himself and unjust to her in the misinterpretation of her
behavior. His displeasure pained her beyond endurance.
In her relations with John Anderson, she had been genuinely sincere both
with herself and with Stephen. The latter had asked her to help him; and
this she was trying to do in her own way. That there was something
suspicious about Anderson, she knew; but whether the cause lay in his
manner of action or in the possession of documentary evidence, she could
not so much as conjecture. What more apt method could be employed than
to associate with him in the hope that at some time or other important
information might be imparted to her? She did not intend to play the
part of the spy; still if that was the role in which she hoped to find
Anderson, she was ready to assume a similar role for the very purpose of
outwitting him and defeating him on his own ground. If Stephen would
only trust her. Oh, dear! And she wrung her hands in abject despair.
Little by little her experiences of the summer just past came before her
with a vividness which her experience with Stephen served only to
intensify. First, there was the night of the Governor's Ball. He had
come into her life there, filling a vacancy not realized before.
Hitherto, she had been quite content in the company of almost any one,
and especially with those of the sterner sex. But with the advent of
this dashing young officer she began to experience a set of new
sensations. The incompleteness of her life was brought before her.
He seemed to perfect her being, sharing her pleasures, lessening her
woes, consoling her heart. Still, there was one office that he had
failed to perform; he was not obsequious. Not that he was ever wanting
in attention and deferential courtesy, or that he ever failed to betray
a warmth of feeling or a generous devotion; but his manner was prosaic,
thoroughly practical both in action and in expression. He spoke his
thoughts directly and forcibly. He was never enthusiastic, never
demonstrative, never warm or impulsive, but definite, well-ordered,
positive. It was quite true that he was capable of bestowing service to
the point of heroism when the occasion required, but such a quality was
not spontaneous, because his heart, while intensely sympathetic,
appeared cold and absolutely opposed to any sort of outburst. He was too
prudent, too wise, too thoughtful, it seemed, acting only when sure of
his ground, turning aside from all obstacles liable to irritate or
confuse him.
Then John Anderson came and initiated her into a newer world. He
appeared to worship her, and tried to make her feel his devotion in his
every act. He was gallant, dignified, charming, lavishing attention upon
her to the point of prodigality. He said things which were pleasant to
hear, and equally as pleasant to remember. What girl would not be
attracted by such engaging personal qualities; but Marjorie decided that
he was too much of the Prince Charming whose gentle arts proved to be
his sole weapons for the major encounters of life.
Hence she was not fascinated by his soft accomplishments. He interested
her, but she readily perceived that there was not in him that real
depth which she had found in Stephen. True, he made her feel more like a
superior being than as a mere equal; he yielded ever to her slightest
whim, and did not discomfort her with weighty arguments. But her acumen
was such that she was enabled to penetrate the gloss and appraise the
man at his true value. The years spent at her mother's knee, the
numberless hours in her father's shop where she came in contact with
many men, her own temperament, prudent by nature, enabled her to
perceive at a glance the contrast between a man of great and noble heart
clothed in severe garments, and the charlatan garbed in the bright
finery of festal dress.
And now the boomerang against which she was defending herself struck her
from a most unexpected angle. That Stephen should misunderstand her
motives was preposterous; yet there was no other inference to be drawn
from the tone of his conversation during the few distressful minutes of
his last visit. In all probability, he had gone away laboring under the
hateful impression that she was untrue, that she had permitted her heart
to be taken captive by the first knight errant who had entered the
lists. And what was more, the subject would never again be alluded to.
He had promised that; and she knew that he was absolute in his
determinations. His groundless displeasure disconcerted her greatly.
Whether it became her to take the initiative in the healing of the
breach which she felt growing wide between them, or simply to await the
development of the course of action she had chosen to pursue, now became
a problem to her perplexed mind. So much depended upon the view he would
take of the whole situation that it was necessary for him to understand
from the very beginning. She would write him. But, no! That might be
premature. She would wait and tell him, so great was her assurance that
all would be well. She would tell him of her great and impassionate
desire to be of assistance to him; she would put into words her analysis
of this man's character, this man about whom he himself had first cast
the veil of suspicion; she would relate her experience with him. She
smiled to herself as she contemplated how pleased he would be once the
frown of bewilderment had disappeared from his countenance.
"Marjorie! Dost know the hour is late?"
"Yes, Mother! I am coming directly."
It was late, though she scarce knew it. Gathering her things, she
brought the chairs into the house.