I
More sin is attributed to the ruling passion of a man than to the
forbidden pleasures of the world, or the violent assaults of the Evil
One. Under its domination and tyranny the soul suffers shipwreck and
destruction on the rocks of despair and final impenitence. It frequently
lies buried beneath the most imperturbable countenance, manifesting
itself only at times, often on the occasion of some unusual joy or
sadness. It responds to one antidote; but the antidote requires a man of
coarse fiber for its self-administration.
In this respect General Arnold was not a strong man. If he had acted
upon himself wholly from without, as if he were not himself, and had
cultivated a spirit of humility and abnegation of self, together with a
considerateness and softness of manner towards those at whose hands he
had suffered, he would have stifled his pangs of wounded pride and
self-love, and emerged a victor over himself in the contest. He might
have recognized his own imperfections to a tolerable degree which would
have disinclined him to censoriousness, not to say rashness. By
maintaining an evenness of temper and equality of spirits during the
days of his sore affliction, he might have reconsidered his decisions of
haste and ultimate disaster, and be led to the achievement of newer and
nobler triumphs.
But he did not. Instead he gave way at once to a violence of anger which
was insurmountable. There was engendered within him feelings of revenge
of the most acrid nature. His self-love had been humiliated and crushed
before the eyes of a garrulous world. His vanity and his prestige had
been ground in the dust. There was no consideration save the
determination for an immediate and effectual revenge.
"Don't worry, my dear," Peggy had whispered to him on the way home. "Try
not to think of it."
"Think of it?... God! I'll show them. They'll pay for this."
Apart from that he had not spoken to her during the entire journey.
Morose, sullen, brutal, he had nursed his anger until his countenance
fairly burned from the tension within. He slammed the door with
violence; he tore the epaulets from his shoulders and threw them beyond
the bed; he ripped his coat and kicked it across the floor. No! He would
not eat. He wanted to be alone. Alone with himself, alone with his
wrath, alone with his designs for revenge.
"The cowards! And I trusted them."
He could not understand his guilt. There was no guilt, only the
insatiable lust on the part of his enemies for vengeance. The execution
came first, then the trial. There was no accusation; he had been
condemned from the start. The public, at whose hands he had long
suffered, who reviled and oppressed him with equal vehemence, who had
elevated him to the topmost niche of glory, and as promptly crumbled the
column beneath his feet and allowed him to crash to the ground, now
gloated over their ruined and heartbroken victim with outrageous
jubilation. They were on destruction bent, and he the victim of their
stupid spite.
If he could not understand his culpability, neither could he apprehend
fully and vividly the meaning of his sentence. To be reprimanded by the
Commander-in-chief! Better to be found guilty by the court and inflicted
with the usual military discipline. His great sense of pride could not,
would not suffer him to be thus humiliated at the hands of him from whom
he had previously been rewarded with so many favors, and in whom he had
lodged his most complete esteem and veneration. He could not endure it,
that was all; and what was more he would not.
He decided to leave the city forever. Then the howl of contumely could
not pursue him; it would grow faint with the distance. He was no longer
Military Governor, and never would he reassume that thankless burden. He
would retire to private life far removed from the savage envy of these
aspiring charlatans. Unhappy memories and wretched degradation would
close his unhappy days and shroud his name with an unmerited and unjust
obloquy.
His wife had been correct in her prognostications. The court, like the
public mind, which it only feebly reflected, had been prejudiced against
him from the start. The disgust which he entertained of the French
Alliance was only intensified the more by the recent proceedings of
Congress, and perhaps he might listen more attentively now to her
persuasions to go over to the British side. He would be indemnified, of
course; but it was revenge he was seeking, on which account he would not
become an ordinary deserter. He had been accustomed to playing heroic
roles, and he would not become a mere villain now at this important
juncture. This blundering Congress would be overwhelmed by the part he
would play in his new career, and he would carry back in triumph his
country to its old allegiance.
Gradually his anger resolved itself into vindictive machination, which
grew in intensity as it occupied him the more. He might obtain the
command of the right wing of the American army, and at one stroke
accomplish what George Monk had achieved for Charles the Second. It was
not so heinous a crime to change sides in a civil war, and history has
been known to reward the memory of those who performed such daring and
desperate exploits. His country will have benefited by his signal
effort, and his enemies routed at the same time in the shame of their
own confusion. He would open negotiations with Sir Henry Clinton over an
assumed name to test the value of his proposals.
"They'll pay me before I am through. I shall endure in history, with the
Dukes of Albemarle and Marlborough."
As he mused over the condition of affairs and the possibilities of the
situation, he wandered into the great room, where he saw two letters
lying on the center table. Picking them up, he saw that one was
addressed to Mrs. Arnold, the other to himself. He tore open his letter
and read the signature. It bore the name of John Anderson.
II
The writer went on to say that he had arrived in safety in the city of
New York, after a hurried and forced departure from Philadelphia. The
meeting was terminated in a tumult because of the deliberate and
fortunate appeal of an awkward mountebank, who was possessed with a fund
of information which was fed to the crowd both skillfully and
methodically; and by the successful coupling of the name of General
Arnold with the proposed plot, had overwhelmed the minds of the assembly
completely.
He revealed the fact that the members of the court had already bound
themselves in honor to prefer charges against General Arnold in order
that the powerful Commonwealth of Pennsylvania might be placated. He did
not know the result of the trial, but predicted that there would be but
one verdict and that utterly regardless of the evidence.
"Hm!" muttered Arnold to himself.
The British Government, he added, was already in communication with the
American Generals, with the exception of Washington, and was desirous of
opening correspondence with General Arnold. Every one knew that he was
the bravest and the most deserving of the American leaders and should be
the Second in Command of the rebel forces. The British knew, too, of the
indignities which had been heaped upon him by an unappreciative and
suspicious people, and they recommended that some heroic deed be
performed by him in the hope of bringing this unnecessary and bloody
contest to a close.
Seven thousand pounds would be offered at once, together with an equal
command, in the army of His Majesty, and with a peerage in the realm. In
return he would be asked to exert his influence in favor of an amicable
adjustment of the difficulties between the colonies and the mother
country. General Clinton was ready to begin negotiations after the
advice and under the conditions proposed by General Arnold, which might
be interchanged by means of a correspondence maintained with a certain
ambiguity.
"Egad!" He set his lips; then he turned to the beginning of the
paragraph. The offer was interesting.
Anderson then went on to relate what already had been suggested to him
during the night of their conversation in the park at his magnificent
home, the exigencies of the country, the opportunity for a master stroke
at the hands of a courageous man, who would unite His Majesty's people
under a common banner, and who might command thereby the highest honors
of life.
He reminded him that it was possible to obtain a command of the right
wing of the American Army, a post only commensurate with his ability,
which command might be turned against the rebel forces in the hope that
an immediate end might be made of the fratricidal war. There would be no
humiliating peace terms. There would be no indemnities, no reprisals, no
annexations nor disavowals. The principles for which the colonists
contended would be granted, with the sole exception of complete
independence. They would have their own Parliament; they would be
responsible for their own laws, their own taxes, their own trade. It
would be a consummation devoutly desired by both parties, and the
highest reward and honor awaited the American General who bound himself
to the effectual realization of these views.
"Announce your defection, return to the royal cause, agree to the terms
which His Majesty's peace commissioners will make, and earn the
everlasting gratitude of your countrymen, like Monk and Churchill."
So the letter concluded with the humble respects and obediences of John
Anderson. Arnold did not fold it, but continued to stare at it for
several minutes, as if trying to decide upon some definite course of
action in regard to it. At length he arose and limped to the desk, and,
drawing out from its small drawer several sheets of paper, began his
reply.
But he did not conclude it. Hearing footfalls in the hallway, he hastily
folded the several papers, Anderson's letter included, and stuck them
into his breast pocket. He sat motionless, with the pen poised in his
hand, as Peggy entered.
III
"You here?" she asked.
He did not reply, nor make any movement.
"Another resignation? or applying for a new command?"
He now turned full about and faced her.
"No. I was just thinking."
"Of what?"
She stood before him, her arms akimbo.
"Of many things. First of all we must leave here."
"When?"
"I don't know."
"Well then, where?"
"To New York."
"Do you mean it?"
Now she sat down, pulling a chair near to him in order that she might
converse the more readily.
"I am thinking of writing for a new command in the army."
He thought best not to tell her of his original purpose in writing, nor
of the letter which he had received from Anderson. Whatever foul schemes
he may have concocted, he did not desire to acquaint her with their full
nature. Enough for her to know that he intended to defect without her
being a party to the plot.
"Did I interrupt you? Pardon me!" she made as if to go.
"Stay. That can wait. You were right. They were against me."
"I felt it all the time. You know yourself how they despise you."
"But I never thought----"
"What?" was the interruption. "You never thought? You did, but you were
not man enough to realize it. Reed would stop at nothing, and if the
colonists gain complete independence, the Catholic population will give
you no peace. That you already know. You have persecuted them."
"What are they? A bare twenty or twenty-five thousand out of a
population of, let us say, three million."
"No matter. They will grow strong after the war. Unfortunately they have
stuck true to the cause."
"Bah! I despise them. It is the others, the Congress, Lincoln, Gates,
Lee, Wayne. They will acquire the honors. Washington will be king."
"And you?"
"I'm going to change my post."
She smiled complacently, and folded her arms.
"Under Washington?"
She knew better, but she made no attempt to conceal her feigned
simplicity.
He looked at her without comment.
Whether he shrunk from unfolding to her the sickening details of his
despicable plan, or whether he judged it sufficient for her to know only
the foul beginnings of his treason without being initiated into its
wretched consummation; whether it was due to any of these reasons or
simply to plain indifference or perhaps to both, he became unusually
silent on this subject from this moment onward. It was enough for her to
realize that he had been shabbily treated by the Congress and by the
people, that he had long considered the American cause hopeless and had
abandoned his interest in it on account of the recent alliance with the
government of France. In her eyes he thought it would be heroic for him
to resign his command, and even to defect to the side of the enemy on
these grounds,--on the strength of steadfastly adhering to his ancient
principles. He knew well that she had counseled such a step and was
enthusiastic in urging its completion, nevertheless he sensed that the
enormity and the depravity of his base design was too revolting, too
shocking, for even her ears. He would not even acquaint her with
Anderson's letter nor with the purpose he had of concurring with the
proposition it contained.
"Did you receive a letter from Anderson?" she asked suddenly.
"Yes. He wrote to inform me that he had escaped in safety and is now in
New York."
"No more?"
"No. He did comment on the frustration of the plot, and expressed a
desire to learn the identity of the disturber."
"You will tell him?"
"Later. Not now."
There was a pause.
"Do you intend to take active part in the coming campaigns? You know
your leg will prevent you from leading a strenuous life in the field.
Why not ask for some other post, or retire to private life? I want to
get out of this city."
"I am about to write for a new command. I have one friend left in the
person of His Excellency, and he will not leave me 'naked to mine
enemies,' as the great Wolsey once said."
"But he is to reprimand you," she reminded him.
"No matter. That is his duty. I blame the people and the court which was
enslaved to them for my humiliation. They shall pay for it, however."
"Let us leave together. Announce your desire of joining arms with the
British and let us set out at once for New York. Mr. Anderson will take
care of the details. You know his address?"
"Yes."
"You have fought the war alone; end it alone. Settle your claims with
the government and let us sell our house."
"Our house? This is yours, Margaret, and, by God, they shall not deprive
you of it. No! We will not sell our house. This is yours for life, and
our children's."
"Well, we can rent it for the present. For, if you go, I am going, too."
"Very well. We shall see what the future holds out for us. Give me that
stool."
He pointed to the small chair over against her. She arose at once and
set it before him. He placed his foot upon it.
"When I think of what I have done for them and then compare their
gratitude. Congress must owe me at least six or seven thousand pounds,
not to mention my life's blood which never can be replaced. I have been
a fool, a fool who does not know his own mind."
"Didn't I predict what the outcome would be? I felt this from the moment
Anderson left. And what were you charged with? A technical violation of
the code of war. There was no actual guilt nor any evidence in support
of the charge. Were the least shadow of a fault in evidence, you may be
assured that it would have been readily found. You were innocent of the
charge. But you were technically guilty that they might plead excuse for
their hate."
"I know it, girl ... I know it ... I see it all now. I tried hard to
disbelieve it." He seemed sad, as he muttered his reply and slowly shook
his head.
He was still for a moment and then sat suddenly upright.
"But by the living God!" It was surprising how quickly he could pass
from mood to mood. Now the old-time fire gleamed in his eyes. Now the
unrestrained, impetuous, passionate General, the intrepid, fearless
leader of Quebec, Ridgefield, Saratoga, revealed himself with all his
old-time energy and determination of purpose.
"By the living God!" he repeated with his hand high in the air, his fist
clenched, "They shall pay me double for every humiliation, for every
calumny, for every insult I have had to endure. They sought cause
against me; they shall find it."
"Hush! My dear," cautioned Peggy, "not so loud. The servants will
overhear you."
"The world shall overhear me before another month. Revenge knows no
limit and is a sweet consolation to a brave man. I shall shame this
profligate Congress, and overwhelm my enemies with no mean
accomplishment, but with an achievement worthy of my dignity and power.
They shall pay me. Ha! they shall; by God! They shall."
Peggy arose at his violent outbreak, fearing lest she might antagonize
him the more. It was useless to talk further, for he was enraged to a
point beyond all endurance. She would leave him alone, hoping that he
would recover his normal state again.
She walked to the window as if to look out. Then she turned and vanished
through the doorway into the hall.
IV
Several days later a courier rode up to the door and summoned General
Arnold before him, into whose care he delivered a letter from the
Headquarters of the Commander-in-chief. Strangely excited, the General
failed to perceive the identity of the messenger as he saluted and made
the usual brief inquiries. Only after the courier was well down the road
did the memory of his strangely familiar face recur to him. But he was
too preoccupied with the document to give him any more attention.
Breaking the seal he scanned the introductory addresses and read his
reprimand from his Commander-in-chief, a reprimand couched in the
tenderest language, a duty performed with the rarest delicacy and tact.
"Our profession is the chastest of all," it read. "Even the shadow of a
fault tarnishes the luster of our finest achievements. The least
inadvertence may rob us of the public favor so hard to be acquired. I
reprimand you for having forgotten that, in proportion as you have
rendered yourself formidable to our enemies, you should have been
guarded and temperate in your deportment towards your fellow citizens.
Exhibit anew those noble qualities which have placed you on the list of
our most valued commanders. I myself will furnish you, as far as it may
be in my power, with opportunities of regaining the esteem of your
country."
Slipping it again into its envelope, he slammed the door.
PART THREE
CHAPTER I
I
In one of those wide indentations along the eastern shore of the
Schuylkill River, there opens out in tranquil seclusion a spacious cove.
The waters wander here to rest, it seems, before resuming their
voluminous descent to the Delaware and the sea. Trees and saplings
wrapped about with close-clinging vines hang far over the water's edge
like so many silent sentinels on guard before the spot, their luxuriant
foliage weighing their bending twigs almost to the surface. Green
lily-pads and long ribboned water grass border the water's curve, and
toss gently in the wind ripples as they glide inwards with just murmur
enough to lull one to quiet and repose.
Into this scene, placid, clear, though of a deep and dark green under
the overhanging leaves, stole a small canoe with motion enough scarcely
to ruffle the top of the water. A paddle noiselessly dipped into the
undisturbed surface and as noiselessly emerged again, leaving behind
only a series of miniature eddies where the waters had closed after
their penetration. A small white hand, hanging lazily over the forward
side of the tiny craft, played in the soft, limpid water, and made a
furrow along the side of the boat that glistened like so many strings of
sparkling jewels.
"So you are going away again tomorrow?" Marjorie was saying as she
continued to dabble in the water.
She lay partly reclining in the bow of the canoe, her back supported by
a pillow. A meditative silence enshrouded her as she lay listless,
unconcerned to all appearances, as to her whereabouts or destination.
The while she thought, the more steadily she gazed at the waters as she
splashed them gently and playfully. Like a caress the silence of the
place descended upon her, and brought home to her the full import of her
loneliness.
"In view of what you have disclosed to me, I think it only my duty,"
Stephen replied as he lazily stroked the paddle.
Again there was silence.
"I wish you weren't going," she finally murmured.
He looked straight at her, holding his arm motionless for the space of a
moment.
"It is good of you to say that," was the measured reply. "This has been
a most delightful day, and I have enjoyed this glimpse of you very
much."
Raising her eyes she thanked him with a look.
"You must remember that it has been due to no fault of mine that I have
seen so little of you," he continued.
"Nor mine," came back the whisper.
"True," he said. "Events have moved so rapidly during the past month
that I was enabled to keep abreast of them only with the greatest
difficulty."
"I daresay we all are proud of your achievement."
"God has been good to us. I must thank you, too."
"Me?" She grinned with contempt. "I am sure when the truth is known
that I shall be found more an instrument of evil than of good."
"I wish you would not say that."
"I cannot say otherwise, for I know it to be true."
"Do not depreciate your efforts. They have been invaluable to me.
Remember, it was you who greatly confirmed my suspicions of Anderson. I
did acquire some facts myself; but it was due to the information which
you imparted to me that I was enabled to join together several ambiguous
clews."
"Really?"
"And you must remember that it was through your cooperation that my
attention was first drawn to General Arnold."
"You suspected him before our conversation. You, yourself, heard it from
his own lips in the garden."
"Yes, I did. But the note!"
"What note?"
"The note you gave me to read."
"Peggy's letter which I found at her house?"
"The same. Have I never told you?"
"Never!" was the slow response. "You know you returned it to me without
comment."
He was puzzled. For he wondered how he had failed to acquaint her with
so important an item.
"When you allowed me to take that letter you furnished me with my first
clew."
She aroused herself and looked seriously at him.
"I?... Why.... I never read it. What did it contain? I had supposed it
to be a personal letter."
"And so it was,--apparently. It proved to be a letter from one of
Peggy's New York friends."
"A Mischienza friend, undoubtedly."
"Yes, Captain Cathcart. But it contained more. There was a cipher
message."
"In cipher?" Then after a moment. "Did she know of it?"
"I am inclined to think that she did. Otherwise it would not have been
directed to her."
This was news indeed. No longer did she recline against the seat of the
canoe, but raised herself upright.
"How did you ever discover it?"
"My first reading of the note filled me with suspicion. Its tone was too
impersonal. When I asked for it, I was impelled by the sole desire to
study it the more carefully at my own leisure. That night I found
certain markings over some of the letters. These I jotted down and
rearranged until I had found the hidden message."
She gazed at him in wonder.
"It was directed to her, I presume, because of her friendship with the
Military Governor; and carried the suggestion that His Excellency be
interested in the proposed formation of the Regiment. From that moment
my energies were directed to one sole end. I watched Arnold and those
whom he was wont to entertain. Eventually the trail narrowed down to
Peggy and Anderson."
She drew a deep breath, but said nothing.
"The night I played the spy in the park my theory was confirmed."
"Yes, you told me of that incident. It was not far from here."
She turned to search the distance behind her.
"No. Just down the shore behind his great house." He pointed with his
finger in the direction of Mount Pleasant.
"And Peggy was a party to the conspiracy!" she exclaimed with an audible
sigh.
"She exercised her influence over Arnold from the start. She and
Anderson were in perfect accord."
"I am sorry. She has disappointed me greatly."
"She has a very pretty manner and a most winsome expression; but she is
extremely subtle and fully accomplished in all manner of artifice. She
was far too clever for your frank simplicity."
"I never suspected her for an instant."
"It was she who set the trap for Arnold; it was she who made it possible
for Anderson to rise to the heights of favor and influence; it was she
who encouraged her husband in his misuse of authority; and I venture to
say, it was she who rendered effective the degree of friendship which
began to exist between yourself and this gentleman."
Marjorie blushed at the irony.
They were drifting above the cove in the slowest manner. Only
occasionally did he dip the paddle into the water to change the course
of the little craft, or to push it ahead a little into the more shaded
places. Marjorie did not assist in this, for he desired her to sit in
the bow facing him, while he, himself, essayed the task of paddler.
There was little of exertion, however, for the two had no other object
in view than the company of their own selves. And so they drifted
aimlessly about the stream.
"Yes, I think that I ought to leave tomorrow for White Plains to confer
with His Excellency."
"I should be the last to hinder you in the performance of duty. By all
means, go."
"Of course it may be no more than a suspicion, but if you are sure of
what Anderson said, then I think that the matter should be brought to
the attention of the Commander-in-chief."
"Of course, you understand that Mr. Anderson told me nothing definite.
But he did hint that General Arnold should be placed in command of a
more responsible post in the American army; and that steps should be
taken to have him promoted to the Second in Command."
Stephen thought for a minute.
"That sounds innocent enough. But you must remember that events have
come to light in the past fortnight which for months had lain concealed
in the minds of these two men. Who knows but what this was included in
their nefarious scheme. I am uneasy about it all, and must see the
chief."
"But you will come back?"
"At once unless prevented by a detail to a new field. I am subject at
all times to the will of my leader."
Her face fell.
II
The solemn stillness, the almost noiseless motion of the boat, the livid
shades surrounding the place, all contributed to the mood of pensiveness
and meditation which was rapidly stealing upon them. The very silence of
the cove was infectious. Marjorie felt it almost immediately, and
relaxed without a murmur.
A stream of thoughts began to course in continuous procession through
her mind, awakening there whatever latent images lay buried in her
memory, and fashioning new ideas and seemingly possible situations from
her experiences of the past year. Now she suddenly discovered her former
interest quickened to a violent degree. She was living over again the
memories of the happy hours of other days.
Certainly Stephen was as constant as ever. To her discerning eye his
manner of action conveyed no other impression. But he was the same
enigma, however, as far as the communication of thought was concerned,
and she knew no more of his pleasures and desires than she did of the
inspirations of his soul.
It was the first time in months she had seen and taken delight in his
own old self. Never had he been so attentive quite as John Anderson, nor
so profuse in his protestations, nor so ready with his apologies. And
what was more she did not expect him to be. But he was more sincere when
it came to a question of unfolding one's own convictions, more engaging
where will-power, propriety, performance of duty, were concerned. He
alone possessed the rule to which all, in her own mind, were obliged to
conform. And so she was compelled to admire him.
These fond memories suffered an interruption by a vision of the extreme
disquietude produced upon Stephen by her unfortunate acquaintanceship
with Mr. Anderson. And yet she had been profoundly sincere with herself.
Never had she conveyed the impression to any man that she had given him
a second sobering thought. Her home constituted for her a chief delight,
her home, her devoted mother, her fond father. Peggy had been her sole
companion previous to her marriage with the Governor; and whatever men
she had met with were they who composed the gay assemblies at which her
friend was the pretty hostess and she the invited guest. As far as
Anderson was concerned, and Stephen, for that matter, she doubted if
she had been in the company of either more than a dozen times in the
course of her life. Certainly not enough to know either of them
intimately.
Of the two men who had effected the most complete entree into her
society, Stephen had, unquestionably, impressed her the more favorably.
For a time he seemed too far removed from her; and she failed to
experience that sense of proportion between them so necessary for mutual
regard. Perhaps it was due to this negation, or perhaps it was owing to
her modest reserve, or perhaps to both, that whatever familiar
intercourse, sympathy or affinity ought to have existed was naturally
excluded. True friendship requires a certain equality, or at least a
feeling of proportion between those whom it would bind together. And
this she felt had not prevailed.
She did not pause to consider the correctness or the incorrectness of
her inference. It was quite enough for her to know that this spirit of
inequality existed. In his presence, however, she felt at perfect ease,
wholly oblivious of everything save her own happiness, as she could now
bear witness to, but alone with her thoughts the horrible imagining
forced itself upon her and served to widen perceptibly the gulf between
them. Reflection disconcerted her.
Happily, her enterprise respecting Anderson and his nefarious scheme had
terminated successfully. Happily, too, Stephen's misconstruction of the
affair had been corrected. No longer would he doubt her. Their fortunes
had approached the crisis. It came. Anderson had fled town; Arnold and
Peggy were removed from their lives perhaps for ever. Stephen was with
her now and she experienced a sense of happiness beyond all human
estimation. She would she could read his mind to learn there his own
feelings. Was he, too, conscious of the same delights? A reciprocal
feeling was alone necessary to complete the measure of her joy. But he
was as non-communicative as ever, totally absorbed in this terrible
business that obsessed him. Her riddle, she feared, would remain
unanswered. Patriotism, it seemed, was more pressing than love.
The canoe had drifted nearer to the shore. At Stephen's suggestion she
aroused herself from her lethargy and alighted on the bank. He soon
followed, drawing the canoe on to the shore a little to prevent its
wandering away. Marjorie walked through the grass, stooping to pick here
and there a little flower which lay smiling at her feet. Stephen stood
to one side and looked after her.
III
"Stephen," she asked, as she returned to him and stood for a moment
smiling straight at him, "will you tell me something?"
"Anything you ask," he assured her. "What do you wish to know?"
But she did not inquire further. Her eyes were fixed in earnest
attention upon the flowers which she began to arrange into a little
bouquet.
"Are you still vexed with me?"
There! It was out. She looked at him coquettishly.
"Marjorie!" he exclaimed. "What ever caused you to say that?"
"I scarce know," she replied. "I suppose I just thought so, that was
all."
"Would I be here now?" He tried to assure her with a tone of sincerity.
"One need not hear a man speak to learn his mind."
"Yes. But I thought----"
He seized hold of her hand.
"Come," he said. "Won't you sit down while I tell you?"
She accepted his offer and allowed herself to be assisted.
"You thought that I was displeased with you on account of John
Anderson," he remarked as he took his place by her side. "Am I correct?"
She did not answer.
"And you thought, perhaps, that I scorned you?"
"Oh, no! Not that! I did not think that ... I ... I...."
"Well, then, that I lost all interest in you?"
She thought for a second. Then she smiled as if she dared not say what
was in her mind.
"Listen. I shall tell you. I did not reprove you with so much as a
fault. I know well that it is next to impossible to be in the frequent
presence of an individual without experiencing at some time some
emotion. He becomes continually repugnant, or else exceedingly
fascinating. The sentiments of the heart never stand still."
"Yes, I know,--but...."
"I did think that you had been fascinated. I concluded that you had been
charmed by John Anderson's manner. Because I had no desire of losing
your good will, I did ask you to avoid him, but at the same time, I did
not feel free enough to cast aspersions upon his character and so
change your good opinion of him. The outcome I never doubted, much as I
was disturbed over the whole affair. I felt that eventually you would
learn for yourself."
"But why did you not believe in me? I tried to give you every assurance
that I was loyal...."
"The fault lay in my enforced absence from you, and in the nature of the
circumstances which combined against you. I knew Anderson; but I was
unaware of your own thought or purpose. My business led me on one
occasion to your home where I found you ready to entertain him. The
several other times in which I found you together caused me to think
that you, too, had been impressed by him."
Marjorie sat silent. She was pondering deeply the while he spoke and
attempted to understand the emotions that had fought in his heart. She
knew very well that he was sincere in his confession, and that she had
been the victim of circumstances; still she thanked God that the truth
had been revealed to him.
"Sometimes I feel as if I had been simply a tool in his hands, and that
I had been worsted in the encounter."
"You have had no reason to think that. You perhaps unconsciously gave
him some information concerning the members of our faith, their number,
their lot, their ambitions,--but you must remember, too, that he had
given some valuable information to you in return. The man may have been
sincere with you from the beginning."
"No! I think neither of us were sincere. The memory of it all is
painful; and I regret exceedingly of having had to play the part of the
coquette."
A great silence stole upon them. He looked out over the river at the
wavelets dancing gleefully in the sunlight, as they ran downstream with
the current as if anxious to outstrip it to the sea. She grew tired of
the little flowers and looked about to gather others. Presently she
bethought herself and took from her bodice what appeared to be a golden
locket. Stephen, attracted by her emotion, saw the trinket at once, its
bright yellow frame glistening in the sun.
"Have you ever seen this?" she asked as she looked at it intently.
He extended his hand in anticipation. She gave it to him.
"Beautiful!" he exclaimed. "How long have you had this?"
"About a year," she replied nonchalantly, and clasped her hands about
her knees.
He leaned forward and continued to study it for the longest time. He
held it near to him and then at arm's length. Then he looked at her.
"It is beautiful," he repeated. "It is a wonderful likeness, and yet I
should say that it does not half express the winsomeness of your
countenance." He smiled generously at her blushes as he returned it to
her.
"It was given me by John Anderson," she declared.
"It is a treasure. And it is richly set."
"He painted it himself and brought it to me after that night at
Peggy's."
"I always said that he possessed extraordinary talents. I should keep
that as a commemoration of your daring enterprise."
"Never. I purpose to destroy all memory of him."
"You have lost nothing, and have gained what books cannot unfold.
Observation and experience are the prime educators."
"But exceedingly severe."
"Come," said Stephen. "Let us not allude to him again. It grieves you.
He has passed from your life forever."
"Forever!" she repeated.
And as if by a mighty effort she drew back her arm and flung the
miniature far from her in the direction of the river. On a sudden there
was a splash, a gulp of the waters, and a little commotion as they
hurriedly came together and folded over their prey.
"Marjorie!" he shouted making an attempt to restrain her. It was too
late.
"What have you done?" he asked.
She displayed her empty hands and laughed.
"Forever!" she repeated, opening her arms with a telling gesture. "I
never should have accepted it, but I was strangely fascinated by it, I
suppose."
For the moment neither spoke; he felt as if he could not speak; and she
looked like a child, her cheeks aglow with the exertion, and her eyes
alight with merriment. Stephen looked intently at her and as she
perceived his look, a very curious change came across her face. He saw
it at once, although he did not think of it until afterwards.
"Marjorie," he said as he moved nearer to her and slipped his arm very
gently about her. "You must have known for the longest time, from my
actions, from my incessant attentions, from my words, the extent of my
feeling for you. It were idle of me to attempt to give expression to it.
It cannot be explained. It must be perceived; and you, undoubtedly, have
perceived it."
There was no response. She remained passive, her eyes on the ground,
scarcely realizing what he was saying.
"I think you know what I am going to say. I am very fond of you. But you
must have felt more; some hidden voice must have whispered often to you
that I love you."
He drew her to him and raised both her hands to his lips.
She remonstrated.
"Stephen!" she said.
He drew back sadly. She became silent, her head lowered, her eyes
downcast, intent upon the hands in her lap. With her fingers she rubbed
away the caress. She was thinking rapidly, yet her face betrayed no
visible emotion, whether of joy, or surprise, or resentment. Only her
cheek danced with a ray of sunshine, a stolen reflection from the joyous
waves.
"Marjorie," he said gently, "please forgive me. I meant no harm."
She made a little movement as if to speak.
"I had to tell you," he continued. "I thought you understood."
She buried her face in her hands; her frame shook violently. Stephen was
confused a little; for he thought that she had taken offense. He
attempted to reassure her.
"Marjorie. Please.... I give you my word I shall never mention this
subject again. I am sorry, very sorry."
She dried her eyes and looked at her handkerchief. Then she stood up.
"Come, let us go," he said after he had assisted her.
They walked together towards the boat.
CHAPTER II
I
It has been said with more truth than poetic fancy that the descent to
Avernus is easy. It may be said, too, with equal assurance, that once
General Arnold had committed himself to treachery and perfidy, his story
becomes sickening, and in the judgment of his countrymen, devoid of no
element of horror whether in its foul beginnings or in its wretched end.
Once his mind had been definitely committed to the treacherous purpose,
which loomed like a beacon light before him in the shaping of his
destiny, his descent to the depths of degradation was rapid and fatal.
The court-martial, together with its subsequent reprimand, had been
accepted by him with the greatest animosity. From that hour his thirst
for vengeance knew no restraint. One thing alone was necessary to his
evil plans: he must secure an important command in the Continental Army.
Some time before he had asked for a change of post, or at least for a
grant of land with permission to retire to private life, but this was
under the inspiration of a motive of an entirely different nature. Now
he had specifically asked for a command in the army, adding that his leg
was quite healed and that he was fit physically for field duty. In
entering this demand, he was actuated by a different motive--the motive
of George Monk, the Duke of Albemarle, the Commander-in-chief of the
forces of three kingdoms.
It is true that Washington had been devoted to him and remained faithful
to him until the very end. To reprimand his favorite General was a
painful duty. But it was performed with delicate and genuine tenderness.
His Excellency had promised to do whatever lay within his power to
enable his beloved General to recover the esteem of his fellow-men and
he was glad to furnish him with every opportunity of effecting real and
lasting service. He wrote him at once offering him leave of absence.
Congress then ordered "That the sum of $25,000 be advanced to Major
General Arnold on account of his pay." Finally a general order was
issued by the Commander-in-chief himself appointing General Arnold
Commander of the Right Wing of the American Army. The restoration so
long awaited was at length achieved.
Arnold at once began to make preparations for his departure from the
city. His privateering ventures had been cleared up, but with profits
barely sufficient to meet his debts. Mount Pleasant, his sole
possession, had already been settled on his wife. His tenure of office
had been ended some time before, and whatever documents were destined
for preservation had been put in order pending the arrival of his
successor.
The plan for his defection had been evolved by him with elaborate
detail. Never had the time been more opportune for the execution of a
piece of business so nefarious. The country was without what could be
called a stable form of government. It was deprived of any recognized
means of exchange because of the total depreciation of the Continental
currency. The British had obtained possession of the great city of New
York and were threatening to overrun the country south of the
Susquehanna. Newport was menaced and the entire British fleet was
prepared to move up the Hudson where, at West Point, one poorly equipped
garrison interposed between them and the forces of General Carleton,
which were coming down from Canada. Washington was attempting to defend
Philadelphia and watch Clinton closely from the heights of Morristown,
while he threatened the position of the enemy in New York from West
Point. In all the American Commander had no more than four thousand men,
many of whom were raw recruits, mere boys, whose services had been
procured for nine months for fifteen hundred dollars each. Georgia and
the Carolinas were entirely reduced and it was only a question of time
before the junction of the two armies might be effected.
Clinton was to attack West Point at once, in order to break down the one
barrier which stood between his own army and the Canadian. Learning,
however, of the rapid progress of events on the American side and more
especially of the proposed defection of General Arnold, he suddenly
changed his plan. He determined to attack Washington as soon as Arnold
had been placed in command of the right wing of the main army. The
latter was to suffer the attack to be made, but at the psychological
moment he was to desert his Commander-in-chief in the field, and so
effect the total destruction of the entire force.
This was the plan which was being turned over in his mind as he sat on
this June afternoon in the great room of his mansion. He was again clad
in his American uniform and looked the warrior of old in his blue and
buff and gold. Care had marked his countenance with her heavy hand,
however, and had left deep furrows across his forehead and down the
sides of his mouth. His eyes, too, had lost their old-time flash and
vivacity, his movements were more sluggish, his step more halting. The
trials of the past year had left their visible tracings on him.
He sat and stroked his chin, and deliberated. In his hand he held a
letter, a letter without date or address or salutation. It had been
brought to him that day by messenger from the city. He understood it
perfectly.
He looked at it again.
"Knyphausen is in New Jersey," it read, "but, understanding Arnold is
about to command the American Army in the field, Clinton will attack
Washington at once. The bearer may be trusted.
"ANDERSON."
II
"It is either Westminster Abbey for me or the gallows," he remarked to
his wife that evening when they were quite alone.
"You have no apprehensions, I hope."
"There's many a slip----" he quoted.
"Come! Be an optimist. You have set your heart on it. So be brave."
"I have never lacked courage. At Saratoga while that scapegoat Gates
sulked in his tent, I burst from the camp on my big brown horse and rode
like a madman to the head of Larned's brigade, my old command, and we
took the hill. Fear? I never knew what the word meant. Dashing back to
the center, I galloped up and down before the line. We charged twice,
and the enemy broke and fled. Then I turned to the left and ordered
West and Livingston with Morgan's corps to make a general assault along
the line. Here we took the key to the enemy's position and there was
nothing for them to do but to retreat. At the same instant one bullet
killed my good brown horse under me and another entered my leg. But the
battle had been won."
"Never mind, my dear, the world yet lies before you."
"I won the war for them, damn 'em, in a single battle, and
single-handed. Lord North knew it. The Rockingham Whigs, with Burke as
their leader, knew it and were ready to concede independence, having
been convinced that conciliation was no longer practicable or possible.
Richmond urged the impossibility of final conquest, and even Gibbon
agreed that the American colonies had been lost. I accomplished all
that, I tell you, and I received--what?--a dead horse and a wounded
leg."
There was a flash of the old-time general, but only a flash. It was
evident that he was tiring easily. His old-time stamina had abandoned
him.
"Why do you so excite yourself?" Peggy cautioned him. "The veins are
bulging out on your forehead."
"When I think of it, it galls me. But I shall have my revenge," he
gloated maliciously. "Clinton is going to attack Washington as soon as I
have taken over my command. I shall outrival Albemarle yet."
"We may as well prepare to leave, then."
"There is no need of your immediate departure. You are not supposed to
be acquainted with my designs. You must remain here. Later you can join
me."
"But you are going at once?"
"Yes, I shall leave very soon now. Let me see." He paused to think. "It
is over a week now since I was appointed. The appointment was to take
effect immediately. I should report for duty at once."
"And I shall meet you----"
"In New York, very probably. It is too early yet to arrange for that.
You will know where I am stationed and can remain here until I send for
you."
While they were still engaged in conversation, a sound became very
audible as of a horseman ascending the driveway. A summons at the door
announced a courier from the Commander-in-chief to Major General Arnold.
The latter presented himself and received a packet on which had been
stamped the seal of official business. He took the document and
withdrew.
It proved to be an order from His Excellency transferring the command of
Major General Arnold on account of physical disability, which would not
permit of service in the field, from the right wing of the American Army
to Commander of the fortress at West Point. He was ordered to report for
duty as soon as circumstances would permit and was again assured of His
Excellency's highest respect and good wishes.
He handed the letter to Peggy without a word. He sat in deep meditation
while she hastily scanned the contents.
"Tricked again," was her sole comment.
He did not answer.
"This looks suspicious. Do you think he knows?"
"No one knows."
"What will you do now? This upsets all your plans."
"I do not know. I shall accept, of course. Later, not now, we can
decide."
"This means that I am going too."
"I suppose so. I shall have my headquarters there, and while they may
not be as commodious as Mount Pleasant, still I would rather have you
with me. We shall arrange for our departure accordingly."
"You will, of course, inform Anderson of the change?"
"He will hear of it. The news of the appointment will travel fast enough
you may be sure. Very likely Knyphausen will now be recalled from New
Jersey."
"So perishes your dream of a duchy!" she exclaimed.
"No. West Point is the most important post on the American side. It is
the connecting link between New England and the rest of the colonies. It
was the prize which Johnny Burgoyne was prevented from obtaining by me.
It commands the Hudson River and opens the way to upper New York and
Canada. It is the most strategic position in America, stored with
immense quantities of ammunition and believed to be impregnable. Without
doubt it is the most critical point in the American line."
"Bah! You need an army. Albemarle had an army. Marlborough had an army.
Of what use is a fortress with a large force still in the field? It's
the army that counts, I tell you. Territory, forts, cities mean nothing.
It's the size of the army that wins the war."
"I know it, but what can I do?"
He conceded the point.
"Insist on your former post," she advised.
He thought awhile and began to whistle softly to himself as he tapped
his finger tips one against the other.
"Listen," she continued. "There is some reason for this transfer at the
eleventh hour. Are you dense enough not to see it? Some one has reached
Washington's ear and whispered a secret. Else that order would never
have been written."
"Washington believes only what is true. Always has he trusted and
defended me from the vilifications of my enemies, knowing that these
reports only emanated from jealous and unscrupulous hearts. My leg has
caused this change of command; I know it."
She looked at him in scorn. She could not believe he could be so simple.
"Your leg! What has your leg to do with it? Once you are astride your
horse you are safe. And don't you think for one minute that Clinton is a
fool. He does not want you. I dare say if the truth were known, he has
no respect for you either. It is your command which is of value to him,
and the more authority you can master, the more valuable you become.
Then you can dictate your own terms instead of bargaining them away."
"It would realize nothing to attempt a protest. A soldier asks no
questions. Whatever I may be, I am still a soldier."
"As you will."
She shrugged her shoulders, and folded her arms.
"West Point it is," she observed, "but General Clinton may reconsider
his proposition. I would not be too sure."
"I am sure he will be satisfied with West Point. With that post he might
easily end the war. Anderson will write me soon again. I tell you I can
dictate to them now. You shall have your peerage after all."
"I am not so sure."
"Have it your own way. I know what I am about and I know where I stand.
At first it was a question only of my personal desertion. The betrayal
of an army was a later development. But I could not become a deserter on
a small scale. I have been accustomed all my life to playing signal
roles. If I am to sell myself at all, it shall be at the highest price
together with the greatest prize. I have only one regret, and that is
that I am obliged to take advantage of the confidence and respect of
Washington to render this at all possible."
"Don't let your heart become softened by tender condolences at this
stage. Your mind has been set; don't swerve."
He looked at her and wondered how she could remain so imperturbable.
Ordinarily she burned with compassion at the sight of misery and
affliction. He could not understand for the life of him, how stoically
she maintained her composure throughout this ordeal. Plainly her heart
was set on one ambition. She would be a duchess.
But she did not know that he had maintained a continual correspondence
with Sir Henry Clinton, or that West Point had long since been decided
upon, as a possible contingency. Much she did know, but most of the
details had been concealed from her. Not that he did not trust her, but
he wished her to be no party to his nefarious work.
And so he was not surprised that she expressed a genuine disappointment
over his change of command. In fact he had been prepared for a more
manifest display of disapproval. Perhaps it was due to the fact that she
was at length to accompany him which caused her to be more benign in her
appreciation of the transfer. For he knew that she detested the city
and longed for the day when she might be far removed from it forever.
"You will, of course, make ready to leave Mount Pleasant?" he asked of
her.
"Assuredly. I shall acquaint mother and father with the prospect this
evening. They do not want me to leave. But I am determined."
"They should be here. It is not early."
"The ride is long. They will come."
III
The last night spent by the Arnolds and the Shippen family at Mount
Pleasant was a happy one. The entire family was in attendance and the
Arnold silver was lavishly displayed for the occasion. American viands
cooked and served in the prevailing American fashion were offered at
table--hearty, simple food in great plenty washed down by quantities of
Madeira and sherry and other imported beverages.
Toasts and healths were freely drunk. After the more customary ones to
the "Success of the War," to the "Success of General Washington," to the
"Nation" there came the usual healths to the host and the hostess, and
more especially to the "Appointment of General Arnold." The ceremonies
were interspersed with serious and animated conversation on the
political situation and the chances of the army in the field. Throughout
the entire meal a marked simplicity, a purity of manner, and frank
cordiality was manifest, all indicative of the charming and unaffected
homelife of the Americans.
"Miss Franks would have been pleased to be with us," announced the
General as the company awaited another service.
"Could you believe it, General," said Mrs. Shippen, "not once have we
heard from that girl since she moved to New York," and she set her lips
firmly. "That is so unlike her; I cannot understand it."
"But you know, Mother," explained Peggy, "that the mail cannot be
depended upon."
"I know, my dear, but I think that she could send a line, if it were
only a line, by messenger if she thought enough of us. You know it was
at our house that she met the friends with whom she is now engaged."
"Our mail system is deplorable," Mr. Shippen remarked. "Only yesterday I
received a letter which apparently had been sent months ago."
"I can understand that very readily," Arnold rejoined. "Often letters
are entrusted to travelers. At times these men deposit a letter at some
inn at the cross-roads for the next traveler who is bound for the same
place as the epistle. It often happens that such a missive remains for
months upon a mantelpiece awaiting a favorable opportunity. Then again
sheer neglect may be responsible for an unusual delay. I myself have
experience of that."
This explanation seemed to satisfy Mrs. Shippen for she dropped the
subject immediately. The mode of travel then occasioned a critical
comment from her until she finally asked when they intended to leave for
West Point.
"Very likely I shall leave before the week is out," replied Arnold. "It
is most important that I assume command at once. We shall prepare to
depart tomorrow."
They talked far into the night, the men smoking while the ladies
retired to the great drawing-room. Peggy played and sang, and took her
mother aside at intervals for conference upon little matters which
required advice. At a late hour, after taking affectionate leaves, the
families parted. Peggy and her husband now abandoned themselves to their
destiny--to glorious triumph or to utter ruin.
They closed the door upon their kinsfolk and faced the situation.
Westminster Abbey or the gallows loomed before them.
IV
Late that same evening, alone before his desk, General Arnold penned the
following ambiguous letter to John Anderson. West Point it was. That was
settled. Still it was necessary that General Clinton be appraised
immediately of the change of command together with some inkling of the
military value of the new post. The business was such that he dared not
employ his true name; and so he assumed a title, referring to himself
throughout the note in the third person. The meaning of the message, he
knew, would be readily interpreted.
Sir:--On the 24th of last month I received a note from you without date,
in answer to mine; also a letter from your house in answer to mine, with
a note from B. of the 30th of June, with an extract of a letter from Mr.
J. Osborn. I have paid particular attention to the contents of the
several letters. Had they arrived earlier, you should have had my answer
sooner. A variety of circumstances has prevented my writing you before.
I expect to do it very fully in a few days, and to procure you an
interview with Mr. M--e, when you will be able to settle your commercial
plan, I hope, in a manner agreeable to all parties. Mr. M--e assures me
that he is still of opinion that his first proposal is by no means
unreasonable, and makes no doubt, that, when he has a conference with
you, you will close with it. He expects when you meet you will be fully
authorized from your House and that the risks and profits of the
co-partnership may be fully and clearly understood.
A speculation might at this time be easily made to some advantage with
ready money, but there is not the quantity of goods at market which your
partner seems to suppose, and the number of speculators below, I think,
will be against your making an immediate purchase. I apprehend goods
will be in greater plenty and much cheaper in the course of the season;
both dry and wet are much wanted and in demand at this juncture. Some
quantities are expected in this part of the country soon.
Mr. M--e flatters himself that in the course of ten days he will have
the pleasure of seeing you. He requests me to advise you that he has
ordered a draught on you in favor of our mutual friend, S--y for 1300,
which you will charge on account of the tobacco.
I am, in behalf of Mr. M--e and Co., Sir,
Your most obedient, humble servant,
Gustavus.
To Mr. John Anderson, Merchant,
New York.
CHAPTER III
I
In the meantime, Marjorie was tossing restlessly, nervously in her bed,
enduring hours of disconsolate remorse and lonely desolation. She could
not sleep. She cried her eyes wet with tears, and wiped them dry again
with her handkerchief; then stared up at the black ceiling, or gazed out
through the small window at the faint glow in the world beyond. Her
girlish heart, lay heavy within her, distended almost to the
breaking-point with grief, a grief which had sent her early to bed to
seek solitude and consolation; that solitude which alone brings relief
to a heart freighted with sorrow and woe. Now that Stephen had gone, she
had time to think over the meaning of it all, and she began to
experience the renewed agony of those terrible moments by the water's
edge. It was so awful, so frightful that her tender frame seemed to
yield beneath its load, she simply had to give way to the tears.
She could not sleep, and she knew it. Scrambling out of her bed and
wrapping a mantle about her, she sat beside the window and peered into
the night. There was not a breeze to break the solemn silence, not a
sound to distract her from her reverie. Two black and uncanny pine trees
stood like armed guards near by the corner of the house to challenge the
interloper from disturbing her meditation. Overhead the stars blinked
and glistened through the treetops in their lace of foliage and delicate
branches, and resembled for all the world an hundred diamonds set in a
band of filigree work. The moon had not yet risen, and all the world
seemed to be in abject despair, bristling in horrid shapes and
sights,--a fit dwelling-place for Marjorie and her grief-stricken heart.
Stephen had gone away that afternoon, perhaps never to return. For this
she could not reproach him, for she allowed that she had given him every
reason to feel offended. But she had hurt him, and very likely hurt him
to the quick. She knew his sensitive nature and she feared the
consequence. It was that thought more than the real contrition over her
fault which had overwhelmed her. Her return for his many acts of
kindness had been one of austere repulsion.
Now she felt acutely the bitterness of it all. That she had afforded him
some encouragement, that she had cooperated in the first place to make
the setting of it all quite perfect, that she had lent him her assurance
that she was amicably disposed towards him, and that her action in
regard to the miniature, while apparently innocent enough, was fraught
with significance for Stephen in view of his intimate connections with
the events of the past two years, that after all perhaps she had been
entirely unreasonable throughout it all; these were the thoughts which
excited, both in the truth of their reality and in the knowledge of the
hopes they had alternately raised and blasted in Stephen, the bitter
sorrow which was the cause of her mingled pain and regret.
What would he think of her now? What could he think? Plainly he must
consider her a cold, austere being, devoid of all feeling and
appreciation. He had given her the best that was in him and had made
bold enough to appraise her of it. Sincerity was manifest in his every
gesture and word, and yet she had made him feel as if his protestations
had been repugnant to her. She knew his nature, his extreme diffidence
in matters of this kind, his power of resolution, and she feared that
once having tried and failed, he was lost to her forever.
And yet she knew that she grieved not for herself but for him. Her stern
refusal had only caused him the greater pain. Stephen would, perhaps,
misunderstand as he had misunderstood her in the past and it was the
thought of the vast discomfiture she had occasioned in him that stung
her with sorrow.
Her warm, generous heart now chided her for her apparent indifference.
There was no other name for it. What could he deduce from her behavior
except that she was a cold, ungrateful, irresolute creature who did not
know her own mind or the promptings of her own heart! She had flung him
from her smarting and wounded, after he had summoned his entire strength
to whisper to her what she would have given worlds to hear, but which
had only confounded and startled her by its suddenness.
And yet she loved him. She knew it and kept repeating it over and over
again to her own self. No one before or since had struck so responsive a
chord from her heart strings. There had been no other ideal to which she
had shaped the pictures of her mind. Stephen was her paragon of
excellence and to him the faculties of her soul had turned of their own
mood and temper unknown even to the workings of her intellectual
consciousness, like the natural inclination of the heliotrope before the
rays of the rising sun.
Laying her head in the crook of her elbow she sobbed bitterly.
The thought that he was gone from her life brought inconsolable remorse.
She knew him, knew the intimate structure of his soul, and she knew that
a deep repentance would seize hold of him on account of his rash
presumption. He would be true to his word: he would not breathe the
subject again. Nay, more, he would ever permit her to disappear from his
life as gradually as she had entered into it. This was unendurable but
the consciousness that she had caused this bitter rupture was beyond all
endurance still.
She lifted her head and stared into the black depths of the night. All
was still except the shrill pipings of the frogs as they sounded their
dissonant notes to one another in the far-off Schuylkill meadows. They,
too, were filled with thoughts of love, Marjorie thought, which they had
made bold enough to publish in their own discordant way, and they seemed
to take eminent delight in having the whole world aware of the fact that
it, too, might rejoice with them.
If it were true that she loved him, it were equally true that he ought
to be apprised of it. There could be no love without a mutual
understanding, for to love alone would be admiration and entirely
one-sided. Let her unfold her soul to him in order that he might take
joy for his portion ere his ardor had cooled into mere civility. For if
it were licit to love, it were more licit to express it and this
expression should be reciprocal.
She would tell him before it were too late. Her silence at the very
moment when she should have acted was unfortunate. Perhaps his affection
had been killed by the blow and her protestations would be falling upon
barren soil. No matter! She would write and unfold her heart to him,
and tell him that she really and truly cared for him more than any one
else in the world, and she would beg him to return that she might
whisper in his ear those very words she had been softly repeating to
herself. Full repentance would take possession of her soul, and her
heart would rush unrestrained to the object of its love, telling him
that she was with him always, thinking of him, praying for him, and
waiting for him. She would write him at once.
II
But she did not mail the letter. Hidden carefully in her room, it lay
all the next day. Unworthy post-chaise to bear so precious a manuscript!
She would journey herself to its destination to safeguard it, were it at
all possible. A thousand and one misgivings haunted her concerning the
safety of its arrival,--Stephen might have been transferred to some
distant point, the letter itself might possibly fall into awkward hands,
it might lay for months in the post bag, or fall into a dark corner of
some obscure tavern, the roads were infested with robbers,--horrible
thoughts, too horrible to record.
She did not know just how long it had taken her to compose it. The end
of the candle had burned quite out during the process, and she lay
deliberating over its contents and wondering just what else might be
added. Twice she was on the point of arising to assure herself on the
style of her confession, but each time she changed her mind, deciding to
yield to her earlier thought. The darkness seemed to envelop her in
fancy, and when she again opened her eyes the darkness had disappeared
before the light. It was morning and she arose for the day.
Hour by hour she waited to tell her mother. It was only right that she
should know, and she proposed to tell her all, even the very episode on
the river bank. She needed counsel, especially during these lonely
moments, and she felt that she could obtain it only by unfolding her
heart unreservedly. Mother would know; in fact, she must have suspected
the gravity of the affair. But how would she begin it? She longed for an
opening, but no opening presented itself.
The meaning of his addresses she saw, or she thought she saw. Stephen
loved her; his words were very effective. Indeed, he had made no mention
of marriage, nevertheless she sensed that his ulterior purpose had been
revealed to her fully. Perhaps it was this consummation which caused her
heart to stand suddenly still; perhaps it was the vision of the new life
which was opening before her. She would have to go away with him as his
wife, away from her home, away from her beloved father and mother. The
summers would come and go and she would be far distant from her own, in
far-off New York, perhaps, or some other city better adapted for the
career of a young man of ability. They might live in Philadelphia, near
to her home, yet not in it. That would be preferable, yet the future
could lend her no assurance. She would be his for life, and with him
would be obliged to begin a new manner of living.
Such thoughts as these occupied her for the greater part of the day, and
before she was really aware of it, her father had come home for the
evening. She could not tell both at once; better to tell them in turn.
It would be more confidential and better to her liking. Once the secret
was common between them, it was easy to discuss it together, and so she
decided that she would put it off until the morrow. Then she would tell
mother, and let her mother talk it over with her father. Both then would
advise her.
"Next week is going to see the greatest event in the history of the
Church in America," Marjorie heard her father remark as he placed his
hat upon the rack behind the door.
"What is it now?" inquired her mother who chanced to be in the
sitting-room when he entered.
"The Congress is going to Mass."
"The Congress?" she exclaimed. "Praised be God!"
"What news, father?" asked Marjorie, hurrying into the room.
"The Congress, the President and the prominent men of the nation have
been invited to take part in the solemn Te Deum next Sunday. It is the
anniversary of the signing of the Declaration."
"Isn't that remarkable?"
"It is remarkable," he repeated. "The French Ambassador has issued the
invitations and all have signified their intentions of being present.
Here is one of them." Taking from his pocket a folded paper, he handed
it to Marjorie. She opened it at once and read aloud,
"Mr. Matthew Allison:--You are invited by the Minister Plenipotentiary
of France to attend the Te Deum, which will be chanted on Sunday, the
4th of this month, at noon, in the new Catholic Chapel, to celebrate the
anniversary of the Independence of the United States of America.
"Philadelphia, the Second of July. M. Gerard."
"The Congress going to Mass!" said his wife, apparently unable to
comprehend fully the meaning of it all.
"The more one thinks of it the more strange it becomes. They branded
Charles the First a Papist because he permitted his queen, who was born
and bred a Catholic, to attend Holy Mass. Now we have our newly-formed
government not alone countenancing Popery, but actually participating in
a supposedly pagan and idolatrous form of worship."
"This marks the end of religious prejudice in this country," observed
Marjorie. "At length all men are in all things equal, equal in the sight
of God and man. Don't you think our leaders must realize this and are
taking steps to prepare the minds of the people accordingly?"
"Yes," he replied, "and I don't know but what it is only right. We all
go to the market together, trade our goods together, rub elbows
together, clear the land together, fight together. Why shouldn't we live
together in peace? Intolerance and bigotry are dead and buried. We have
laid the foundations of the greatest country in the world."
"Thank God for that!" breathed Mrs. Allison.
"We are respected above all calculation," Mr. Allison continued. "Our
Loyalty now is unquestioned."
"We may thank God for that, too."
"And Captain Meagher!" added Marjorie.
Her eyes beamed.
"Yes, you are right, girl," said her father. "We can thank Captain
Meagher. The frustration and the exposure of that plot has increased our
reputation an hundredfold. Heretofore, the Catholic population had been
regarded as an insignificant element, but when the ambitions of the
enemy to secure their cooperation were discovered, the value of the
Catholics to the country suddenly rose."
"Our unity must have created a lasting impression," Marjorie remarked.