I
"I have always contended, Griff, that a bigot and a patriot are
incompatible," remarked Stephen as he sat on the side of his bed, and
looked across the room and out into the sunlit street beyond.
"Is that something you have just discovered?" answered Sergeant Griffin
without taking his eyes from the newspaper before him. He was seated by
the window, musing the morning news, his curved pipe hanging idle from
his mouth, from which incipient clouds of smoke lazily issued and as
lazily climbed upward and vanished through the open casement into
threads of nothingness.
"No," was the reply, "but I have come to the conclusion that the
philosophy of religious prejudice cannot be harmonized with true
patriotism. They stand against each other as night and day. The one
necessarily excludes the other."
"Do you know, Captain," the sergeant reasoned, pointing towards Stephen
with the stem of his pipe, "a hard shell and a fool are somewhat alike;
one won't reason; the other can't."
"I guess you're right," Stephen laughed. "But love of country and love
of one's neighbor should be synonymous. This I have found by actual
experience to be almost a truism."
He was idling about the room gathering wearing apparel from the closets
and drawers, pausing for a moment to feel a pile of wet clothing that
lay across the back of a straight chair.
"You must have fallen overboard last night," observed the sergeant.
"I didn't fall, Griff; I jumped."
"And let me tell you, Griff," Stephen continued, "Arnold has become one
of the most dangerous men in the whole American Army."
He was dressing quietly.
"And you discovered that, too?"
"I am certain of it, now."
"That is more like it. I don't suppose you ever had any doubts about it.
Now you have the facts, eh?"
"I have some of them; not all. But I have enough to court-martial him."
"And you got them last night?"
"I did."
"And got wet, too?"
"I almost got killed," was the grave response.
"How?"
"Anderson shot at me."
"Was he with you, also?"
"No. After me."
"Come, let us hear it. Where were you?"
"At Mount Pleasant."
"With Arnold and Anderson?"
"Yes. But they did not know it. I shadowed Anderson to the house and lay
concealed in the park. In the evening they came into the park, that is,
Arnold and Peggy and Anderson."
"And they discovered you?"
"I think they did not. I was unfortunate enough to break a branch
beneath my foot. They heard it. Of course, I was obliged to leave
hurriedly, but Anderson must have seen me running. The distance was too
great to allow him to recognize me. Then, again, I was not in uniform."
"And he shot at you, I suppose."
"He did, but the shots went wide. I decided the river was the safest
course, so I headed for that and dived in. I believe I was fortunate in
attempting to swim under water; this I did as long as I could hold my
breath. When I arose, I allowed myself to float close to the shore along
with the current until I had moved far down the river. After that I lost
all sight of him."
He was now dressed in his military uniform and looked little exhausted
from his experience of the night before, notwithstanding the fact that
he had enjoyed but a few hours' sleep. Still, it was past the hour of
ten, and he could tell from the appearance of the street that the sun
was already high in the heavens. He went to the window and looked out at
the citizens hurrying to and fro about their several errands. From an
open window directly across the way resounded the familiar strain of
"Yankee Doodle" drawn from a violin by a poor but extremely ambitious
musician. He stood for a minute to listen.
"There are a few of them in the colonies," he remarked.
"I would there were one less," was the reply.
Stephen turned from the window.
"We have some work ahead of us, Griff," he said after a long pause. "The
plot is about to sizzle. Are you ready?" he asked.
"Of course. When do you want me?"
"I cannot tell you now. I have learned that the work of recruiting is
about finished and that the organization will take place some time next
week. The company will leave the following day for New York on a vessel
for which Arnold has already issued a pass."
"Arnold?"
"Yes, Arnold," he repeated. "He has been in this scheme from the start.
Remember that note I told you about? I have watched him carefully since
then, awaiting just such a move. I can have him court-martialed for
this."
"For this pass?"
"Certainly. That is a violation of Section Eighteen of the Fifth Article
of War."
The sergeant whistled.
"And I am going to this meeting."
"You are going?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"That I do not know. But I shall find a way. They have forced Jim
Cadwalader into the company."
"Jim?"
"Yes. I learned that last night. Today I mean to see Jim to learn the
particulars. After that we shall be in a position to decide further. You
will be here when I return?"
"Yes. I shall stay here."
"I won't go until late this afternoon. Until then keep your eye open."
"Yes, sir," he replied, saluting.
II
When Stephen had presented himself that afternoon at Jim Cadwalader's
modest home, he had almost persuaded himself that all would not be
well. That the members of the Catholic regiment, whom Anderson boasted
had totaled nearly an hundred, could so easily be dissuaded from their
original purpose, he thought highly improbable. He was well aware that
some of his co-religionists had been subject to British official or
personal influence; that other some were vehemently opposed to the many
outrages which had been committed and condoned in the name of Liberty;
that others still were not unmindful of the spirit of hostility
displayed by the Colonists during the early days, and had now refused
for that reason to take sides with their intolerant neighbors in their
struggle for Independence. Hence it was quite true that many Catholics
were loyal to the mother country, more loyal, in fact, than they were to
the principles of American Independence and the land of their birth.
These, he feared, might have composed the bulk of the recruits and these
might be the less easily dissuaded. On the other hand, he was satisfied
that many who were unwilling to barter their allegiance had been
constrained to yield. If the complexion of the regiment was of the
latter variety, all would be well. His misgivings were not without
foundation.
He knocked upon the small white door of Jim's house and inquired of Mrs.
Cadwalader if he might see her husband. Jim was at the door even as he
spoke, and grasped his hand warmly, exchanging the greetings of the day.
He then led him to the chairs under the great tree.
"I want to see you on a matter of great importance," Stephen said with
no further delay. "Tell me about Mr. Anderson."
"I guess ther' ain't much t' tell," Jim replied.
"You have held conference with him?"
"'Twas him thet held it; not me."
"About the Regiment?"
"Aye!"
"Have you signed your name?"
"I hed t'."
He was all in a fever, for his manner and his hesitation indicated it.
"When do they meet?"
"Thursda' next."
"Are you sure?"
"Anderson hisself jest told me."
"He has been here already?"
"Ye-eh, this aft'rnoon."
He looked down upon the ground, considering.
"Where do they meet?"
"Th' basement o' th' Baptist Church."
"Tell me, Jim," Stephen asked quietly. "Why did you enlist in that
company?"
"I hed t', I told ye."
"Were you compelled to?"
"I was."
And then he told him of the number of debts which beset him, and the
starvation which was beginning to prick him. He told of the first visit
of Anderson and his offer of four pounds to every volunteer in the new
regiment of Catholic soldiers. He declared that he had refused
absolutely to take part in any disloyal act, however great might be the
reward, and had said that he preferred to starve until the colonists had
obtained their rights. He then told of Anderson's second visit, during
which he offered to relieve him of all financial obligations on
condition that he would sign with him; which offer he again refused. And
finally he related how he was threatened with imprisonment for his
indebtedness, and was actually served with the papers of arrest and
confinement in the stocks unless his signature was given, and how he was
at length obliged to yield and sign over the allegiance.
Stephen listened intently throughout it all, oddly studying the face of
his companion, reading into his very soul as he spoke. He was satisfied
now with Cadwalader's story.
"Jim," he said at length. "You do not want to join this regiment?"
"No, sir!" he exclaimed aloud. "Not a bit uv it."
"If I promise to assist you to escape from this man, will you lend me
your help?"
"Will I? Enythin' y' ask, sir."
His eyes brightened with manifest ardor.
"I want to go to that meeting, and I want you to let me take your
place."
"Sure, y' ken."
"And I want to borrow your clothes."
"I ain't got much," observed Jim, extending his hands and looking down
at his clothing, "but what I hev, is yours."
"And I want you to be in the vicinity of the building to join in any
agitation which may result against Mr. Anderson."
"I'll do thet, too."
"Of course, if we fail it may go hard with us. A crowd is an uncertain
element to deal with, you realize. But it is our only chance. Will you
take it?"
"O' course, I'll take it. I'll do enythin' y' say, enythin'."
"And Jim! You know of many so-called members of that company who have
been impressed in a manner similar to yours and who, very likely, are
of the same state of mind as you."
"I know meny, sir."
"Very good! Can you not move among them and acquaint them secretly with
what I have just told you? Secure their cooperation for me so that, when
the moment comes, I may depend upon them for support. Urge them, too, to
join in whatever demonstration may be made against the project."
"I'll do thet, sir, and y' may depend 'n me fur it."
"You say Thursday night? Keep me informed of any further developments.
At any rate, I shall see you before then. Remember, however," he
cautioned, "what I have just confided to you must be kept with the
utmost secrecy."
He raised his hand high above his head and stood up.
"I hope t' God I die----"
"Never mind swearing," interrupted Stephen, pulling him back again into
his chair. "Simply be on your guard, that is all."
"Yes, sir."
"You are right to come back," he said; "you should have persevered in
your resistance."
"I couldn't help it, could I? I was made t'."
"We become vigorous under persecution," answered Stephen.
"I'm sorry."
"Well then--tell me. Do you know aught of this Mr. Anderson?"
He stared at him with a questioning look. He was completely bewildered.
"Thet I don't. Why? What--what could I know?"
"I mean do you know who he is?"
He sat up.
"Why, I never thought o' him. He seem'd c'rrect 'nough, I thought.
Marj'rie brought 'im here, I think."
Stephen set his teeth.
"Marjorie?" he repeated. "Are you sure of that?"
"I am, sir."
"When was this?"
"It's a good time now. I jest can't r'member."
"Did she know of his purpose?"
He paused as if he would say more, but dared not.
"Thet I can't say. If I r'member c'rrectly she kept herself wid th' old
lady."
"How often did she accompany him?"
"Just thet once."
"You mean she simply made you acquainted with him?"
"Yes, sir."
A light began to glimmer in Stephen's mind, and gradually the truth
began to dawn upon him.
"In her presence, I presume, the conversation was more or less general.
He alluded to the scheme which was uppermost in his mind only secretly
with you?"
"Thet wuz all, sir."
He knew well enough now what his friend meant, though nothing of the
details, and from the uncertainty and the apprehension of his manner he
judged that there was much of which he was still in the dark. Anderson
had come to Jim with the girl to secure an advantageous introduction;
after that he had no immediate need of her company. He was of the
opinion that she was entirely ignorant of the man's character and
motives, although she was unwittingly an important instrument in his
hands. Stephen longed to reveal the truth of the situation to her, but
dared not; at any rate, thought he, not until the proper time came. Then
she would be enabled to appreciate for herself the trend of the whole
affair.
"Can I ask ye," inquired Jim in a voice that indicated timidity, "will
this affair--I mean, d'ye s'ppse this thing 'll bring us t' eny harm, 'r
thet they'll be a disorder?"
Stephen's eyes danced with excitement.
"Do they observe the courtesies of the law? If it comes to the worst,
yes,--there will be a scene and the grandest scene in which a villain
ever participated."
Marjorie entering through the gate posts immediately commanded their
attention.
III
"I should be happy to be permitted to accompany you home," Stephen
whispered to her at a moment when they chanced to be alone.
"I should be happy to have you," was the soft response.
"You look well," she said to him after they had made their adieus to the
Cadwaladers and begun their walk together down the street.
Her eyes twinkled, and a pretty smile stole across her face.
"I am as tired as I can be. I have endured some trying experiences."
"Can you not leave here and take a rest? I fear that you will overtax
yourself."
He turned and looked seriously at her.
"Honestly?" he asked.
"Yes. I mean it. Do you know that I have allowed no day to pass without
praying for you?"
"To know that, and to hear you say it is worth a series of adventures.
But, really, I could not think of leaving here now; not for another
fortnight at least. The moments are too critical."
"Are you still engaged in that pressing business?"
"Yes."
"For your success in that I have also prayed."
She was constant after all, he thought. Still he wondered if she could
be sincere in her protestations, and at the same time remain true to
Anderson. For he really believed that she had been deceived by his
apparent infatuation.
"I suppose you know that Jim has been ensnared?" he asked suddenly.
"Jim? No.... I,----What has happened?"
She was genuinely surprised.
"He has enlisted in the regiment."
"Has he forsworn?"
"Not yet. But he has signed the papers of enlistment."
"I am sorry, very sorry." Then after a pause: "It was I who brought
Anderson to Jim's house, you know."
"Yes. I know."
"But I must confess that I did not know the nature of his errand. I,
myself, was seeking an advantage."
"No matter. It may eventually redound to our credit."
"I regret exceedingly of having been the occasion of Jim's misfortune."
Her eyes were cast down, her head bent forward as she walked in what
one might characterize a meditative mood.
"I, too, am sorry. But there are others."
"Many?"
"That I do not know. Later I shall tell you."
"And why not now?"
"I cannot."
It was a troublesome situation in which the two found themselves. Here
were two souls who loved each other greatly, yet without being able to
arrive at a mutual understanding on the subject. They were separated by
a filmy veil. The girl, naturally frank and unreserved, was intimidated
by the restrained and melancholy mien of her companion. Yet she felt
constrained to speak lest deception might be charged against her.
Stephen, troubled in his own mind over the supposed unfavorable
condition of affairs, skeptical of the affections of his erstwhile
confidante, felt, too, a like necessity to be open and explain all.
So they walked for a time, he thinking, and she waiting for him to
speak.
"For two reasons I cannot tell you," he went on. "First, the nature of
the work is so obscure and so incomplete that I could give you no
logical nor concise account of what I am doing. As a matter of fact, I,
myself, am still wandering in a sort of maze. The other reason is that I
have taken the greatest care to say no word in any way derogatory to the
character of Mr. Anderson."
"You wouldn't do that."
"That's just it. I should not want to be the cause of your forming an
opinion one way or the other concerning him. I would much prefer you to
discover and to decide for yourself."
"That is charity."
"Perhaps!"
"And tact."
She peeped at him, her lips parted in a merry smile. Evidently she was
in a flippant mood.
"It would be most unfair to him were I to establish a prejudice in your
mind against him."
"Yet you have already disapproved of my friendship with him."
"I have, as I already have told you."
"Yet you have never told me the reason," she reminded him.
"I cannot."
He shook his head.
For he would not wound her feelings for the world; and still it pained
him to be compelled to leave her in a state bordering on perplexity, not
to say bewilderment, as a result of his strange silence. A delicate
subject requires a deft hand, and he sensed only too keenly his
impotency in this respect. He, therefore, thought it best to avoid as
much as possible any attempts at explanation, at least for the present.
Furthermore, he was entirely ignorant of her opinion of Anderson. Of
course, he would have given worlds to know this. But there seemed no
reasonable hope that that craving would be satisfied. He was persuaded
that the man had made a most favorable impression upon her, and if that
were true, he knew that it were fruitless to continue further, for
impressions once made are not easily obliterated. Poor girl! he thought.
She had seen only his best side; just that amount of good in a bad man
that makes him dangerous,--just that amount of interest which often
makes the cleverest person of a dullard.
Hence she was still an enigma. As far as he was concerned, however,
there had been little or no variation in his attachment to her. She was
ever the same interesting, lovely, tender, noble being; complete in her
own virtues, indispensable to his own happiness. Perhaps he had been
mistaken in his analysis of her; but no,--very likely she did care for
the other man, or at any rate was beginning to find herself in that
unfortunate state--fortunate, indeed, for Anderson, but unfortunate for
him.
For this reason, more than for any other, he had desisted from saying
anything that might have lessened Anderson in her regard. It would be
most unfair to interfere with her freedom of choice. When the facts of
the case were revealed in all their fullness, he felt certain that she
would repent of her infatuation, if he might be permitted to so term her
condition. It seemed best to him to await developments before further
pressing his suit.
"Stephen," she said at length. "What are you thinking of me?"
"I--Why?--That is a sudden question. Do you mean complimentary or
critical?"
"I mean this. Have you misjudged my relations with John Anderson?"
"I have thought in my mind----" he began, and stopped.
Marjorie started. The voice was quiet enough but significant in tone.
"Please tell me," she pleaded. "I must know."
"Well, I have thought that you have been unusually attentive to him."
"Yes."
"And that, perhaps, you do care for him,--just a little."
There! It was out. She had guessed aright.
"I thought as much," she said quietly.
"Then why did you ask me?"
"Listen," she began. "Do you recall the night you asked me to be of some
service to you?"
"Perfectly."
"I have thought over that subject long and often. I wondered wherein
that service could lie. During the night of Peggy's affair it dawned
upon me that this stranger to whom I was presented, might be more artful
than honest. I decided to form his acquaintance so that I might learn
his identity, together with his mission in the city. I cherished the
ambition of drawing certain information from him; and this I felt could
be accomplished only by an assumed intimacy with him."
Stephen stopped suddenly. His whole person was tense and magnetic as he
stared at her.
"Marjorie!" he exclaimed. "Do you mean it?"
"Truly. I read his character from the first. His critical attitude
displeased me. But I had to pretend. I had to."
"Please! Please forgive me." He turned and seized suddenly both her
hands. "I thought,--I thought,--I cannot say it. Won't you forgive me?"
Her eyes dropped. She freed her hands.
"Then I tricked you as well," she exclaimed with a laugh.
"And you mean it? I am made very happy today, happier than words can
express. What loyalty! You have been helping me all the time and I
never knew it. Why did you not tell me this before?"
"You never gave me leave. I wanted to talk to you so much, and you
seemed to forbid me.... I prayed for an opportunity, and none came."
"I am very sorry."
"Anderson interested me only in this,--he came into our society for a
very definite purpose, the nature of which I was most desirous of
learning. I know now that he is not of our faith, although he pretends
to be. He is not of French extraction, yet he would lead one to assume
that he was. He is a British officer and actively engaged in the service
of the enemy. At present the recruiting of the proposed regiment of
Catholic Volunteers for service with the enemy is his immediate work. He
hopes to find many displeased and disloyal members of our kind. Them he
would incorporate into a company of deserters."
"You have learned that from him?"
"Aye! And more. General Arnold has been initiated into the scheme. I do
not know what to think except that he has yielded to some influence. His
antipathy toward us would require none, nevertheless I feel that some
undue pressure has been brought to bear upon him."
"Anderson?" he asked.
"I do not know. At any rate he will bear watching. I think he is about
to ask for a more important command."
Stephen then told her of his adventures, relating to her wholly and
candidly the details of his suspicions, together with his plan for the
future. Throughout it all she listened with attention, so much
interested that she was scarce aware that they were crossing the wide
road before her own home. Her eyes had been about her everywhere as they
walked, yet they had failed to perceive anything.
"Won't you come in?" she asked. "You are almost a stranger here now."
"I would like to more than I can tell you; but truly I have business
before me which is pressing. Pardon me just once more, please."
"Mother would be pleased to see you, you know," she insisted.
"I should like, indeed, to see your mother. I shall stop to see her,
just to inquire for her."
"Will you come when this terrible business is completed?"
"Gladly. Let us say,--next week. Perhaps you might be pleased to come
canoeing with me for the space of an afternoon?"
"I should be delighted. Next week?"
"Yes. Next week. I shall let you know."
"Here is mother, now."
He went in and shook her hand, inquiring diligently concerning her.
IV
As Stephen walked away from the home of his beloved, ruminating over the
strange disclosures of the day and how satisfactory and gratifying they
were to him, his state of mind was such that he was eager for the
completion of the more serious business that was impending so that he
might return to her who had flooded his soul with new and sudden
delight. Never was he more buoyant or cheerful. He was cheerful,
notwithstanding his remorse.
For he did chide himself over his absurd stupidity. He should have
known her better than to have entertained, for even a passing moment, a
thought of her inconstancy, and that he should have so misjudged
her,--her whom he himself would have selected from among his host of
acquaintances as the one best fitted for the office assumed,--disturbed
him not a little. His own unworthiness filled him with shame. Why did he
question her?
And yet he would have given his own life to make her happy, he who was
quietly allowing her to vanish out of it. He tried to explain his
fallacy. First of all, the trend of circumstances was decidedly against
him. There was his arrest and subsequent trial, days when he had longed
to be at her side to pursue the advantages already gained. Then there
were the days of his absence from town, the long solid weeks spent in
trailing Anderson, and in meeting those who had been approached by him
in the matter of the recruiting. It was well nigh impossible, during
this time, to seize a moment for pleasure, precious moments during which
Anderson, as he thought, had been making favorable progress both with
his suit and with his sinister work. If Marjorie had forgotten him
quite, Stephen knew that he alone was responsible. Him she had seen but
seldom; Anderson was ever at her side. No girl should be put to this
test. It was too exacting.
Despite his appreciation of these facts, his soul had been seized with a
very great anguish over the thought of his lost prize; and if he had
failed to conceal his feelings in her presence, it was due to the fact
that his sensitive nature was not equal to the strain imposed upon it.
Who can imagine the great joy that now filled his heart to overflowing
as a result of his conversation today, when he learned from her own
lips that throughout it all she had been steadfast and true to him
alone? His great regard for her was increased immeasurably. Her
character had been put to the test, and she had emerged more beautiful,
more radiant, more steadfast than before.
This new analysis led him to a very clear decision. First of all he
would defeat the cunning Anderson at his own game; then he would rescue
his countrymen from their unfortunate and precarious condition; and,
finally, he would return to Marjorie to claim his reward. Altogether he
had spent an advantageous and a delightful afternoon. He was ready to
enter the meeting house with renewed energy.