learned that we have been ever true to the land of our birth, ever loyal
to the country of our adoption. It has thoughtfully considered the value
of our sacrifices, and has carefully estimated our contribution to the
cause of freedom. When the charter of liberty assumes a more definite
form our rights will specifically be determined. Of that I am reasonably
certain. The enemy failed to allure us from our country in its time of
need; our country will not abandon us in our time of need."
"Stephen did it," announced Marjorie.
"Stephen helped to do it," replied her father.
III
That same evening, during a stolen moment while her mother was busied
with the turning of the buckwheat cakes, Marjorie crept to her father's
knee and folded her arms over it.
"Daddy!" she looked up at him from her seated posture on the floor.
"What would you say to a very eligible young man who had told you that
he was very fond of you?"
"What would I say?" asked the father in surprise.
"Yes. What would you?"
"I would not say anything. I would have him examined."
"No, Daddy. This is serious," and she pushed his knee from her as she
spoke.
"I am serious. If a man told me that he was very fond of me, I would
question his sanity."
She laughed.
"You know what I mean. I mean if you were a girl and----"
"But I am not a girl."
"Well, if you were?"
"If I was what?"
"You know what I mean quite well. Would you hate him at first?"
"I hope not. I should want to strangle him, but I wouldn't hate him."
"And you would strangle him? For what?"
"For daring."
"Daring what?"
"You know."
He smiled.
"Oh, dear! Won't you listen to me? Tell me what to do."
"I could not tell you. You have not told me what has happened."
"I asked you what you would say to an attractive soldier who had told
you that he loved you."
"Yes. And I told you that if he had told that to me, I would ask what
ailed him."
"Oh, Daddy, you are too funny tonight. I can't reason with you."
She sat back on her heels and pouted.
He smiled and roused himself upright and put his arm around her and drew
her to him.
"There! There! I know what you mean, daughter. It means that I shall
have no say in the matter."
"Why?"
"You will do it all."
"No. I shall never leave you."
"Yes, you will. You will be happier. But why didn't Stephen ask me about
it?"
"How did you know it was Stephen?" she looked at him in astonishment.
"Well enough."
"But how?" she repeated.
"I knew it all the time and your mother and I have been prepared for
this occasion."
"But who told you?" Her eyes opened full and round in genuine wonder.
Here was one surprise after the other.
"There was no need of any one telling me. I have been watching the pair
of you, and sensed what the outcome would be some little while ago."
"But, Daddy. How should you know?"
He laughed outright.
"There! There! We are satisfied quite, I can assure you. I know what you
are about to say; and your mother knows it too."
"But I have not yet told her. I meant to tell her today but did not.
Then I thought of telling you and of whispering the whole story to her
after we were upstairs."
She was serious, very serious, absorbed for the most part in her story
although her mind was clouded with amazement at the want of surprise
which was manifested. Her innocent mind apparently was unable for the
time being to fathom the intricacies of this plot which seemed to be
laid bare to every one concerned save her own self.
"Of course you will tell her, but you will find that she will consent to
the proposal."
"What proposal?"
"Why, I suppose the proposal of your coming marriage."
"But!... But!... Daddy!... I never said anything about marriage."
"You did start to tell me that Stephen told you he was very fond of
you?"
"Yes."
"And you told him the same."
"No, I didn't."
"But you will tell him."
A hush followed. She looked askance at him from the corner of her eye.
"And so after you two have told one another as much as that you may as
well decide upon the date."
"But ... I ... I am not sure that I want to marry him."
"Well, that is your privilege, you know."
"And.... And ... perhaps he will never ask me again."
"Just wait a bit."
"And would you marry him?"
"I told you that I would not. I already have one wife...."
"Oh! You make me lose all patience," she cried rising from the floor and
leaving him. "I shall confide in mother."
"Remember," he cautioned her in a somewhat serious strain. "Do not ask
her to marry him."
She was gone.
The following day a letter was dispatched to the Headquarters at
Morristown, New Jersey. In the meantime a very large doubt began to take
form in the mind of one little girl concerning the manner of its
reception. A thousand and one impossible situations were conceived, but
there seemed nothing to do; he must now do it all. The possibility
loomed ghost-like before her: he might never return. The wound which she
had caused still smarted and ached. He might never return. Her eyes
wandered and strayed among the multitude of objects before them; her
lips had forgotten their usual smile. He might fail to receive her note
and if he did he might disdain to acknowledge it. But no! He would not
do that. There was naught else to do but wait. Oh! if the moments would
only hurry!
CHAPTER IV
I
It was a great day for Philadelphia when the Continental Congress went
to Mass. It was Independence Day, too, but this was of lesser importance
in the estimation of the people, especially of the Catholic portion of
them. Fully a quarter before the hour, the bell began to sound and the
streets became like so many avenues of commerce with people standing in
doorways, or leaning from their windows, or hurrying with feverish haste
in the direction of the New Chapel of St. Mary's, the parish church of
the city. There a number of them congregated in twos or threes to await
the procession of notables, who would soon approach with great solemnity
and dignity from the opposite corner of the street.
The celebration came about in this manner:
It was the desire of M. Gerard, the Minister Plenipotentiary of France,
to commemorate the anniversary day of the Independence of the United
States in a religious manner. Arrangements already had been made to hold
Divine worship earlier in the morning at Christ Church, at which the
guests of honor were invited to be present. At twelve o'clock the
congregation would march to the Church of St. Mary, where a military
Mass and a solemn Te Deum would be sung. The Reverend Seraphin Bandol,
chaplain to the French Embassy, would celebrate the Mass and deliver a
sermon appropriate to the occasion.
It had been fondly expected that the event would assume an international
tone. Events had been moving with extraordinary rapidity towards the
establishment of the Roman Catholic religion in the graces of the
government, and this celebration might demonstrate the patriotic motives
of the Catholic body beyond the shadow of a doubt. That a Congress,
which of late had condemned in the strongest terms the practices of the
Roman Catholic religion, could change in sentiment and action in so
short a time, would be an unequivocal proof of the countenance and good
will which the Catholic religion was beginning to acquire. At any rate
the example set by the governing body of the new republic attending Mass
in a Roman Catholic edifice, offering up their devout orisons in the
language, service and worship of Rome, would be a memorable one, an
augury of the new spirit of religious freedom which later would be
breathed into the Constitution of these same States by these same men.
Precisely at ten minutes before the hour they came, walking in pairs,
headed by John Hancock, the President of the Continental Congress, and
His Excellency M. Gerard, the French Ambassador. Immediately after the
Congress, marched the Supreme Executive Council of Philadelphia with
Joseph Reed at its head. Then came the French Embassy, resplendent in
its dress of blue and gold. Prominent civilians, military officers, men
of repute in city and nation, followed slowly along the crowded
thoroughfare and as slowly made their way into the small edifice.
General Washington was not present, having been prevented by duty in the
field.
Within, the little church murmured with low talking. Ordinarily, the
congregation would have been absorbed in silent contemplation before the
Presence of the Divine One, but the impressiveness of the occasion made
the people depart from their usual fervor. The little church was only
partly filled when the great procession arrived and every head
instinctively turned in the direction of the entrance at the sound of
their many footsteps. As they marched down the aisle every breath was
held; then as they began to file into the pews reserved for them, the
subdued murmur began again.
Marjorie and her father sat to the rear of the church in the company of
the early arrivals. In fact the entire Allison family occupied the same
pew, pressed, indeed, for room on account of the multitude which crowded
its way into the church and into the small aisles. Round about them on
every side sat the congregation, some of whom were already familiar to
them, the majority of whom, however, were total strangers. From their
appearance and demeanor it was not difficult to conclude, Marjorie
thought, that more than one-half of them were non-Catholic.
The inside of the church was adorned in splendid array with the emblems
of France and the United States. In the sanctuary, on each side of the
altar, stood two large flags of the allied nations, while across the
choir gallery in the rear of the church, there stretched in festoons,
the colors of the infant republic superimposed in the middle by a shield
bearing the likeness of Louis XVI. On the altar bloomed a variety of cut
flowers, arranged in an artistic and fanciful manner on the steps of the
reredos amidst a great profusion of white unlighted candles. The three
highest candlesticks on each side had been lighted, and the little
tongues of living flame were leaping from them joyfully. Over the
tabernacle a large crucifix raised aloft, while just before the door of
the tabernacle rested the chalice with its white veil, arranged in the
form of a truncated triangle, shielding it from view.
For several minutes after the honorable body had been seated there was a
confusion of feet and forms as the members of the congregation surged
into the church. The pews filled quickly, and the more tardy and less
fortunate individuals sought places along the aisles and along the rear.
Overhead the small organ gasped and panted the strains of a martial air,
the uneven throbbing of its bellows emphasizing the fatigue and
exhaustion of its faithful operator.
"Is that the French Ambassador?" whispered Marjorie to her father.
"With the brocade and lace. Yes. Next to him is Mr. Hancock, President
of the Congress."
She looked and saw the noble head and dignified bearing of the
statesman. He sat very erect and majestic, presenting an appearance of
taste and refinement in his suit of silken black.
"There is Mr. Adams, John Adams, with the great powdered periwig. The
tall thin man seated at his right is Thomas Jefferson, who wrote the
Declaration. He is, without doubt, the scholar of the Congress."
Marjorie followed his whispering with evident interest. Never had she
been in the company of such notable men.
"Who is that? See! He is turning sideways."
"Livingston. Robert Livingston. Then the great Robert Morris, whose
financial aid made possible the continuance of the war. His personal
sacrifice for the cause of independence will never be computed. He is
Washington's best friend."
She peered through the crowd to catch a glimpse of the famous financier.
"Do not overlook our staunch Catholic member of the Congress, Charles
Carroll. Lest he might be mistaken for any other man of the same name he
made bold to affix after his name on the Declaration of Independence,
'of Carrollton.' A representative Catholic and a true patriot!"
She recalled this, having seen the name of "Charles Carroll of
Carrollton" on the printed copy of the Declaration.
Mr. Allison again nudged his daughter with his elbow to attract her
attention.
"Can you see that elderly man with the sharp-pointed features over
across?" he asked.
She looked in the direction indicated but did not seem to be able to
locate him.
"The second pew, third man from the aisle."
"Yes! Yes!" she exclaimed.
"That is Richard Henry Lee of Virginia, the author of the resolution
'That these United Colonies are, and of right ought to be, free and
independent States.' That paved the way for the drawing up of the
Declaration."
The makers of history were before her, and her eyes danced at their
sober and grave demeanor. Here sat the Congress, not all of it, but a
goodly portion of it, which had voted unanimously in favor of complete
separation from the mother country. Here were those very men who had
risked their all, their fortunes, their homes, their lives for their
country's cause. Here they now assembled, visibly burdened with the
cares and the apprehensions of the past few years, still uncertain of
the future, but steadfastly determined to endure to the bitter end,
either to hang together or to rise to glorious triumphs together. And
here they sat or knelt in the temple of God to rededicate their fortunes
to Him, to accept from His hands the effects of His judgments, but at
the same time to implore Him to look with favor upon their efforts and
to render possible of realization those desires which were uppermost in
their hearts. Marjorie thought that they could not, they must not fail,
they, who were animated by such sincere devotion and by such sentiments
of genuine piety.
"Mr. Franklin isn't here?" she whispered.
"No," he softly answered. "I think he has not returned from France. He
was there, you know, when the Alliance was concluded. Lafayette only
joined Washington last month. Did you know that he brought with him a
commission from the French King to General Washington, appointing him
Lieutenant-General in the French army and Vice-Admiral of its navy?"
"No. I did not hear of it."
"I suppose Franklin is still over there. He would be here, although he
himself is an atheist. He believes in no form of religious worship. I
should not say that he is an atheist for he does believe in One God, but
that is about all."
The murmur about the little church began to die away. Still the surging
at the door continued until it seemed as if the small building would
burst its sides with its great burden.
The tinkle of a little bell sounding from the door leading from the
sanctuary announced that the Mass was about to begin. On the instant the
congregation rose and remained standing until Father Bandol, preceded
by the altar boys, had reached the foot of the altar and made the
genuflection.
II
High up in the gallery the choir broke into the strains of the "Kyrie"
of the Mass, while the priest in a profound bow before the altar made
his confession of sins. Marjorie took out her prayer-book and began to
follow the Mass, meditating upon the mysteries of Our Lord's life as
commemorated in the Holy Sacrifice.
Ascending the altar, the priest passed at once to the right hand side
where lay the Mass-Book, from which he read the Introit. He returned to
the center and chanted in soft clear tones the "Gloria in Excelsis," the
hymn of praise which the angels sang for the first time on Christmas
night when Christ, the Lord, was born. This was taken up immediately by
the choir. Meanwhile the congregation were seated during the singing of
this hymn of praise to the Most High.
The prayers of the Mass, prayers for our rulers, prayers for peace were
sung by the celebrant, the people kneeling in an attitude of prayer
while their priest interceded to God in their behalf. Having finished
the prayers for the people a Lesson from one of St. Paul's Epistles was
read, after which the priest passed to the left side of the altar to
sing a passage from the Gospel. The people now stood to profess their
belief in the faith and teachings of Jesus Christ.
Marjorie and her father and mother recollected themselves quite during
these solemn moments and no syllable of communication passed between
them, all assisting at the service with prayer-books or beads,
following every movement of the priest intelligently and with devotion.
The congregation were permitted to sit while the celebrant of the Mass
offered the materials for the sacrifice, unleavened bread and the pure
juice of the grape, to Almighty God, to adore Him above all other
things, to thank Him for all the graces and blessings bestowed by Him on
mankind, to satisfy His justice for the sins of man and to implore Him
for whatever favors He might deign to bestow.
Soon the voice of Father Bandol resounded through the church with the
opening tones of the Preface of the Mass, the responses to which were
made by the members of the choir. Slowly and solemnly he chanted the
notes of praise, ending with the "Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God of Hosts."
A sound from the bell gave the warning that the awful moment was about
to arrive, the moment when the ambassador of Christ would exercise the
power communicated to him from Jesus Himself through the Twelve and
their successors, the power of changing the substance of bread and wine
into the substance of the Body and Blood of Jesus Christ.
The people bent forward in an attitude of humble adoration. Marjorie
buried her face in her hands on the top of the forward pew, pouring out
her heart in praise and thanksgiving to her God and Master. In profound
reverence she remained while the priest pronounced the mystical words
"Hoc est enim corpus meum" over the species and effected the mystery of
mysteries, the translation of Christ's Mystical Body to the elements of
the earth, in the transubstantiation of the Mass. Now Her Lord was
present before her; now the Divinity of His Person was but a few feet
away, clothed, not in flesh and blood, but under the appearances of
bread and wine; now Her Creator was with her, lying on the white
corporal of the altar and she poured forth her soul to Him in accents of
adoration and supplication.
"O my God!" she breathed. "I adore Thee through Jesus; I beg pardon
through Jesus; I thank Thee through Jesus; I humbly ask every blessing
and grace through Jesus. May I lead a holy life and die a good death. My
Jesus! mercy! My Jesus! mercy! My Jesus! mercy!"
The prayers for the dead were read and the Pater Noster was chanted. A
signal from the bell announced that the priest's communion was about to
take place and that the distribution of the Sacred Body would be made to
as many as desired to partake of it. It was Sunday and the majority of
the Catholics present had been in attendance at an earlier Mass, on
which account there were no communicants at this later one. The closing
ceremonies were concluded with the reading of the Gospel of St. John,
when Father Bandol turned towards the congregation to begin his address.
Every member present sat upright in his seat and awaited the message
which was about to fall from the lips of the priest.
III
"My dear brethren," he said, "we are assembled to celebrate the
anniversary of that day which Providence had marked, in His eternal
decrees, to become the epoch of liberty and independence to the thirteen
United States of America."
There was a silence throughout the church which was breathless. Every
eye was focused on the vested form before the altar.
"That Being whose almighty hand holds all existence beneath its dominion
undoubtedly produces in the depths of His wisdom those great events
which astonish the world and of which the most presumptuous, though
instrumental in accomplishing them, dare not attribute to themselves the
merit. But the finger of God is still more peculiarly evidenced in that
happy, that glorious revolution which calls forth this day's festivity.
He hath struck the oppressors of a free people--free and peaceful, with
the spirit of delusion which renders the wicked artificers of their own
proper misfortunes.
"Permit me, my dear brethren, citizens of the United States, to address
you on this occasion. It is that God, that all powerful God, who hath
directed your steps; who, when you were without arms fought for you the
sword of justice; who, when you were in adversity, poured into your
hearts the spirit of courage, of wisdom, and fortitude, and who hath, at
length, raised up for your support a youthful sovereign whose virtues
bless and adorn a sensible, a fruitful and a generous nation."
The French Ambassador bowed his head in profound acquiescence.
"This nation hath blended her interest with your interest and her
sentiments with yours. She participates in all your joys, and this day
unites her voice to yours at the foot of the altars of the eternal God
to celebrate that glorious revolution which has placed the sons of
America among the free and independent nations of the earth.
"We have nothing now to apprehend but the anger of Heaven, or that the
measure of our guilt should exceed His mercy. Let us then prostrate
ourselves at the feet of the immortal God, who holds the fate of empires
in His hands, and raises them up at His pleasure, or breaks them down to
dust. Let us conjure Him to enlighten our enemies, and to dispose their
hearts to enjoy that tranquillity and happiness which the Revolution we
now celebrate has established for a great part of the human race. Let us
implore Him to conduct us by that way which His Providence has marked
out for arriving at so desirable an end. Let us offer unto Him hearts
imbued with sentiments of respect, consecrated by religion, humanity and
patriotism. Never is the august ministry of His altars more acceptable
to His Divine Majesty than when it lays at His feet homages, offerings
and vows, so pure, so worthy the common offerings of mankind.
"God will not regret our joy, for He is the author of it; nor will He
forget our prayers, for they ask but the fulfillment of the decrees He
has manifested. Filled with this spirit, let us, in concert with one
another, raise our hearts to the Eternal; let us implore His infinite
mercy to be pleased to inspire the rulers of both nations with the
wisdom and force necessary to perfect what He hath begun. Let us, in a
word, unite our voices to beseech Him to dispense His blessings upon the
counsels and the arms of the allies and that we may soon enjoy the
sweets of a peace which will soon cement the Union and establish the
prosperity of the two empires."
The same religious silence prevailed; indeed there sat many in the same
immovable posture. But it was evident that the words were being received
with pleasure and satisfaction. Signs of approval appeared on every
face.
"It is with this view," the priest concluded, "that we shall cause that
canticle to be chanted, which the custom of the Catholic Church hath
consecrated, to be at once a testimonial of public joy, a thanksgiving
for benefits received from heaven, and a prayer for the continuance of
its mercies."
IV
He had done. As he stepped to the floor of the sanctuary and took his
stand before the center of the altar a pronounced disturbance,
accompanied by much coughing, made itself manifest. This was followed by
a great rumble as the entire congregation rose to its feet to await the
intonation of the Te Deum.
Pleasant and sweet rose Father Bandol's voice above the rustling in the
opening notes of that most majestic of all hymns of praise:
"Te Deum laudamus: te Dominum confitemur."
And immediately the vast throng took up the melody and there
reverberated throughout the church, escaping through the open doors and
windows, across the streets and over the roof-tops, up to the topmost
regions of the heavens, to the very gates of heaven itself, the strains
of the Ambrosian hymn of thanksgiving and praise which the members of
the American Congress sang to the God of Nations and of Battles in the
little chapel of St. Mary's on the anniversary day of the signing of the
greatest exposition of a freeman's rights ever penned by the hand of
man.
CHAPTER V
I
The wayfarer on this July afternoon in the fifth year of American
Independence might have passed on the main thoroughfare leading into the
city of Philadelphia from the townships of Bristol and Trenton, a young
and powerfully built officer astride a spirited chestnut mare. The
countryside, through which he was journeying, stretched for miles around
in peaceful solitude, teeming and delightful with that leafy and rich
green livery which we are accustomed to associate with the idea of
abundance. Overhead the sky was clear, from which the sun blazed down
great billows of heat that hovered over the landscape, giving vigor and
enthusiasm to the various forms of vegetable life, but at the same time
causing the animal world to drowse and languish in discomfort.
It was plain to be seen that the horseman was an officer of the
Continental Army. His mount, young and well groomed, gave every
indication of a long ride, its nostrils dilated, its mouth moist with
foam, its sides streaky with strings of sweat. Haste was desired, it was
apparent, although in the more exposed portions of the roadway the mare
was allowed to walk, her rider affectionately patting her neck or
coaxing her along with an encouraging remark.
"Look, Dolly! There is some soft, tender grass to cool your lips. We
shall take some."
And he turned the mare to the side of the road and allowed her to
nibble at the greensward.
Soon they were again on their way, she munching the while on the last
mouthful, now walking, now impatiently breaking into a canter; Stephen,
holding her in check with his hand, looked far ahead at the roofs of the
city beyond. Through his mind there passed in review the incidents of
the day, the memory of his business just concluded, the speculation of
the future of the army, the contemplation of his reception by Marjorie.
He had been away for more than a month. During that time he was engaged
in business of the gravest nature. Many hours had been spent in the
company of the Commander-in-chief before whom he had laid an account of
his varied activities in the city. The proposed plan for the formation
of the regiment of Roman Catholic Volunteers, with all its ramifications
and side issues, together with an account of his own adventures in its
respect, was reported faithfully and accurately to his superior. The
person of John Anderson, his suspicions concerning him, the strangely
formed friendship of the spy with the Military Governor, were indicated
with only that amount of reserve necessary to distinguish a moral from
an absolute certitude. Events had moved with great rapidity, yet he felt
assured that the real crisis was only now impending, for which reason he
desired to return to the city so as to be ready for any service which
might be required.
"Go along, girl. We want to reach home by noon."
Dolly heeded him and began to canter.
Washington had not taken kindly to his suggestion for the recall of
General Arnold's command; in fact he had treated the proposal with a
scorn worthy of his strong sense and dauntless courage. It was plain to
be seen that His Excellency had placed much reliance and confidence in
his favorite officer. It was impossible to create so much as a suspicion
in the mind of him, who had been compelled to endure irksome suppression
at the hands of a cabalistic and jealous military party, and who, for
that very reason, took a magnanimous view of the plight of one beset
with similar persecutions. General Arnold was in his eyes a brave and
fearless leader, but one unfortunately annoyed and tormented by the
machinations of an ungrateful and intolerant populace.
And so when it came to pass that the one General, whom he had admired
and trusted, applied for an active command in the field, General
Washington cordially granted the request. If the wounded limb would
permit it, there was no doubt in the mind of His Excellency that General
Arnold would prove the most heroic and able officer along the line.
Lincoln was gone, having been forced to surrender with his entire army
at Charleston only six weeks before. Green was engaged with the army in
the Carolinas; Gates was a coward; Lee, a traitor. In the important
operations which were soon to take place with the main army in the
vicinity of New York, Arnold was the leader best qualified for the task.
Washington took extreme delight in appointing him to the command of the
Right Wing of his own army and the Second in Command of the Continental
forces.
It was with genuine reluctance that he consented to listen to the
strange story as unfolded by his aide-de-camp, Captain Meagher. That
General Arnold should openly countenance rebellion was preposterous; to
become a party to it was incredible. Yet the veracity of his aide was
unquestionable, and the wealth of evidence which he had presented left
little room for doubt. Still Washington's faith was unshaken. He felt
assured that his favorite General would redeem himself when the proper
time came. And every encouragement for this redemption would be afforded
him.
West Point was open. He would recall the order appointing him to the
command of the army and make him commander of the fortification there.
The exigencies of the times required a man of rare ability and genius at
this post. Should there prove to be a shadow of truth in the allegations
of his aide, the change of command would simplify the situation from
whatever viewpoint it might be regarded. The country might be preserved,
and Arnold's ambition at the same time given another opportunity.
Stephen ruminated over these events as he rode leisurely along. A
genuine satisfaction was derived from the knowledge that his chief's
confidence in him was still unshaken. He felt that he had effected a
change of post for the man whom, above all other men, Washington most
admired and respected; nevertheless he felt that at the same time he was
only executing a service which would ultimately prove to be of
incalculable value to the army and the nation. Arnold troubled him, but
in command of a fortress he would occasion infinitely less worry and
apprehension than in a responsible position in the field.
Marjorie delighted him. At Morristown he had found her letter; and his
plans for the immediate present underwent a decided alteration. He had
been ordered to make the journey to Hartford in attendance upon General
Washington, who had already completed arrangements with Count Rochambeau
and Admiral Ternay of the French navy for a conference there in
reference to the proposed naval operations of the combined fleets. With
the letter in his hand he had sought and obtained a further leave of
absence from his Commander-in-chief in order that his own campaign for
the winning of the lady of his heart might be brought to a quick and
decisive termination.
He had left the city, not hurt nor wounded as she had supposed, but
somewhat disappointed at the manner of her expression. Her apparent
coolness and unconcern he had ascribed rather to her extreme diffidence
and shyness than to want of appreciation or sincerity. That she truly
cared for him, he knew full well; that he would eventually win her to
him was a faltering conviction. But, now, there was no further doubt.
She had written him pages into which she had poured out her heart in
generous and unmistakable accents, and which he had read and re-read
with growing delight.
Washington could not refuse his request. He made no attempt to conceal
the nature of his mission and obtained not alone His Excellency's
gracious permission but his sincere wishes for success as well. With a
heart buoyant with joy and anticipation he spurred on his mare and
pushed her to her worth in the direction of the city and the object of
his quest.
II
He rode into the city well aware that the first news to reach him would
be that of the exodus of the Arnolds.
"You came straight through town, I suppose?"
"Yes," replied Stephen.
"And came here direct?" continued Mr. Allison.
"I quartered my mare, first. I thought immediately of the Inn as the
place to gather the news. So I hastened hither."
"There's been heaps doin'," Jim remarked casually.
"Never saw such excitement since the day of the regiment," observed the
keeper of the Inn, a well-mannered and well-educated gentleman, above
middle age, who held the enviable position of inn-keeper and lawyer
alike. Every inn-keeper of this age commanded much of respect in the
community, for it was he who received the money of the people, and money
commanded the necessities of life--a good bed, good things to eat,
attentive servants; but Mr. Smith, the keeper of the Old London Coffee
House, was the most respectable inn-keeper in the city, the proud
possessor of a very pretty library and an excellent table where
cleanliness and decency vied with dignity and self-respect.
"Arnold, you know, has left the city," volunteered Mr. Allison.
"Yes, I have surmised," was the reply.
"Gone, an' all belongin' to 'im."
"And closed his mansion?" Stephen inquired.
"Tight. Mrs. Arnold went with him. They left yesterday."
"But I thought----"
"To the army? I understand he had been appointed to field duty under
Washington. Second in Command, they say. But that has been changed. He
has gone to West Point."
Stephen did not answer.
"It seems," went on Mr. Allison, "that he has been seeking a change of
post for several months. His leg still bothers him, however, and very
likely prevented him from doing active duty in the field. On that
account, it has been said, he was given charge of the fortress. It is an
important post, nevertheless, and carries with it a certain amount of
distinction."
"Hope he gits along better with 'em up there 'n he did here," remarked
Jim. "He won't hev the s'ciety folks t' bother 'im now."
"When did he leave?"
"No one knows. There was no demonstration of any kind. It differed much
from the farewell of General Howe. Arnold left in disgrace, it would
seem," said the Inn-keeper, as he moved away to give his attention to
other business.
"And Peggy gone, too?" Stephen was genuinely surprised at this, for he
rather expected that she would remain with her mother.
"I am sure that the majority of our people are greatly pleased at the
change," said Mr. Allison. "I never saw one sink to such depths of
contempt. He came to the city as Military Governor in a blaze of
triumph, the most celebrated soldier in the army, whose rise to popular
esteem was only accelerated by the knowledge of the harsh treatment
received by him at the hands of Congress after the battle of Saratoga.
He was the idol alike of soldiers and civilians. Their hearts were his
without the asking. That was two years ago. Today he left the city in
the fullness of his years, in secret, after so many plaudits, in
obloquy, after so much honor."
"It is a sad commentary on human nature," Stephen observed. "Yet in all
things else I blame the woman. 'Cherchez la femme.'"
The room already was reeky from the clouds of tobacco smoke streaming
upwards from the pipes of the several guests who were lounging in small
groups about the room. There were several parties in as many corners,
each wholly unconcerned about the other. The conversation of our trio
was therefore private insofar as any privacy can be expected in an inn.
Only the boisterous individual made himself heard, and then only to the
displeasure of the others.
Leaving the two at the Inn, Stephen bade them adieu and directed his
journey in the direction of Second Street. Hastening his steps he soon
reached the Germantown road, and as he turned the bend perceived the
familiar outline of the Allison home. Little did he suspect, however,
that the curtains of one of the upper windows concealed a lithe form and
that his swift gait was being interpreted with a world of meaning. He
laid his hand on the gate, and even then Marjorie had opened the door to
meet him.
III
"First of all," she said, "how long may you remain? Will you dine with
us, or what?"
"I shall be most pleased. I have several days. His Excellency has gone
to Hartford to engage in conference. It was intended that I should
accompany the staff. I begged leave, however, to return to
Philadelphia."
They were seated on the sofa in the distant corner of the parlor. They
were quite alone now for the first time, the mother having asked to be
excused after many minutes with the announcement that since he would be
pleased to remain, the supper must needs be prepared. No, Marjorie need
not help her. She might entertain Captain Meagher.
"It's glorious to see you again," he said, sitting down beside her after
Mrs. Allison had departed from the room.
"I am glad you have come," she replied softly, rubbing her hand across
her apron as if to arrange it neatly.
"But you knew that I would come, didn't you?"
"I thought so."
"And yet I greatly feared that it would not be possible. Preparations
are being made for the final campaign, and it is expected that the
French will be asked to play an important part."
"It was very generous of His Excellency to grant you leave."
He began to smile.
"Could you guess how I obtained it?" he asked.
She turned to regard him.
"What have you done?" she asked soberly.
"Showed him your letter."
"Stephen!" she gasped as she drew back.
Neither spoke. He continued to smile at her apparent concern, while she
stared at him.
"Do you mean it?" she asked; then quickly--"or are you teasing?"
"I did. I showed the letter to him, and asked if I might return to you."
"He read it?"
"There! There! I am joking. He did not read it, but I did have it in my
hand, and I told him about you and that I was going back to take you
with me."
Satisfied, she allowed herself to assume a more relaxed composure.
"You are going to destroy it, aren't you?"
He took it from his pocket and looked at it. She, too, glanced at it,
and then at him.
"May I keep it? I treasure every word of it, you know."
"Did you but know how it was composed, you might ridicule me."
"I suppose you closed yourself behind some great veil to shut out the
world from your view. Your mind toiled with thought until you were
resolved upon the heroic. There was no scheme nor formula; your quill
ran on and on in obedience to the flood of ideas which inspired it."
She lapsed into meditation; but she recovered herself immediately.
"No," she shook her head slowly though steadily. "At midnight with the
aid of a little candle which burned itself out quite before the end."
He looked up sharply.
"That night?"
She nodded.
He put his arms around her and drew her close. She made no resistance,
but allowed herself to fall into his embrace.
"Marjorie!" he whispered.
She yielded both her hands to his grasp and felt them compressed within
it.
"You were not hurt at my seeming indiscretion?"
"I told you in my letter that I was not."
"Then you do love me?"
She drew back a little as if to glance at him.
"You know that I do," was the soft, reassuring answer.
"Won't you let me hear you say it?" he pleaded.
Reaching out, she put both arms about him and offered her lips to his,
whispering at the same time only what he was destined to hear.
Presently the old clock began to strike the hour of five.
CHAPTER VI
I
"Father! Father! Where are you? Arnold has betrayed! He has betrayed his
country!"
Breathless, Marjorie rushed into the hallway, leaving the door ajar
behind her. It was late in the afternoon of a September day. The air was
soft and hazy, tempered with just the chill of evening that comes at
this time of the year before sundown.
More than two months had passed, months crowded with happiness which had
filled her life with fancy. Her engagement to Captain Meagher had been
announced, quietly and simply; their marriage was to take place in the
fall. Day after day sped by and hid themselves in the records of time
until the event, anxiously awaited, yet equally dreaded, was but a bare
month distant. It would be a quiet affair after all, with no ostentation
or display; but that would in no wise prevent her from looking her
prettiest.
And so on this September afternoon while she was visiting the shops for
the purpose of discovering whatever tempting and choice bits of ware
they might have to offer, she thought she heard the blast of a trumpet
from the direction of the balcony of the old Governor's Mansion.
Attracted by the sound, which recalled to her mind a former occasion
when the news of the battle of Monmouth was brought to the city by
courier and announced to the public, she quickened her steps in the
direction of the venerable building. True, a man was addressing the
people who had congregated beneath the balcony. Straining every faculty
she caught the awful news.
Straightway she sped homewards, running as often as her panting breath
would allow. She did not wait to open the door, but seemed to burst
through it.
"What was that, child?" her father asked quickly as he met her in the
dining-room.
"Arnold ... Arnold ..." she repeated, waiting to catch her breath.
"Has betrayed, you say?"
"West Point."
"My God! We are lost."
He threw his hands heavenwards and started across the floor.
"What is it, Marjorie?" asked the mother, who now stood in the
passageway, a corner of her apron held in both hands, a look of wonder
and suspicion full upon her.
"No, Father!" the girl replied, apparently heedless of her mother's
presence, "West Point is saved. Arnold has gone."
"Let him go. But West Point is still ours? Thank God! He is with the
British, I suppose?"
"So they say. The plot was discovered in the nick of time. His
accomplice was captured and the papers found upon him."
"When did this happen?"
"Only a few days ago. The courier was dispatched at once to the members
of Congress. The message was delivered today."
"And General Arnold tried to sell West Point to the British?" commented
Mrs. Allison, who had listened as long as possible to the disconnected
story. "A scoundrel of a man."
"Three Americans arrested a suspicious man in the neighborhood of
Tarrytown. Upon searching him they discovered some papers in the
handwriting of Arnold containing descriptions of the fortress. They took
him for a spy."
"I thought as much," said Mrs. Allison. "Didn't I tell you that Arnold
would do something like that? I knew it. I knew it."
"Thank God he is not one of us," was Mr. Allison's grave reply. "His act
would only serve to fan into fury the dormant flames of Pope Day."
"This is an act of vengeance," Marjorie reflected. "He never forgot his
court-martial, and evidently sought his country's ruin in revenge.
Adversities he could contend with; humiliation he could not endure."
The little group presented a varied scene. The girl, young, tender, was
plainly animated with a strong undercurrent of excitement which thrilled
her entire frame, flushing her cheeks and sparkling in her eyes. Her
tender years, her inexperience with the world, her guileless mind and
frank open manner had not yet prepared her for the enormity of the crime
which had of a sudden been flashed full upon her. For the moment
realization had given way to wonder. She sensed only the magnitude of
the tragedy without its atrocious and more insidious details. On the
other hand there was the father, composed and imperturbable, to whom the
disclosure of this scheme of the blackest treason was but another
chapter added to the year of disasters which was just coming to a close.
His more astute mind, schooled by long experience with the world and its
artifices, had taught him to view the transit of events with a certain
philosophy, a sort of pragmatic philosophy, with reference to the causes
and the results of events and how they bore on the practical utility of
all concerned; and finally the mother, who in her devout and pious way,
saw only the Holy Will of God working in all things for His own praise
and glory.
"And they found the dispatches in his own writing?" the father asked
deliberately.
"In his stockings, beneath the soles of his feet."
Again there was silence.
"He is a prisoner?"
"Of course. He was arrested for a spy. They say he is an Adjutant in the
British army. He was in full disguise."
"Hm!"
Mr. Allison set his lips.
"I think," continued Marjorie, "that it was the effect of a stroke of
good fortune. He was taken by three men who were lying in wait for
robbers. Otherwise he might have continued his journey in safety and the
plot would have succeeded."
"Thank God and His Blessed Mother!" breathed Mrs. Allison as she clasped
her hands together before her in an attitude of prayer.
"And Arnold?" methodically asked Mr. Allison.
"He escaped to the British lines. I do not know how, but it seems that
he has departed. The one important item, which pleased and interested
the people, was the capture of the spy and the frustration of the plot."
The father left the chair and began to pace the room, his hands behind
him.
"It is a bad blow. Too bad! Too bad!" he repeated. "I do not like it,
for it will destroy the courage and confidence of our people. Arnold
was the idol of the army, and I fear that his defection will create a
great change of heart."
"The army will be better off without him," said Mrs. Allison.
"I agree with you," was the reply. "But the people may decide in a
different manner. There is reason for worry."
"What was the effect of Lee's attempted treason?" spoke up Marjorie.
"The people loathe him, and he will die an outcast."
"There is no punishment too severe for Lee. He has been from the start
nothing but a selfish adventurer. But the cases are not parallel. Lee
was never popular with the army. Arnold, you must remember, was the most
successful leader in the field and the officer most prized by the
Commander-in-chief."
"Nevertheless he will sink as fast as he climbed, I think. The country
must not tolerate a traitor."
"Must not! But will not the circumstance alter the case? I say that
unless the proofs of Arnold's treason are irrefutable, the people will
be slow to believe. I don't like it. I don't."
There was some logic in his argument which began to impress Marjorie.
Arnold could exercise a tremendous amount of influence over the army.
Whether the strings of loyalty which had united their hearts with his
would be now snapped by his act of perfidy was the mooted question. As a
matter of fact a spirit of mutiny already was beginning to make itself
manifest. The soldiers of Pennsylvania who were encamped on the heights
of Morristown marched out of camp the following January and set out for
Philadelphia. They were rebuked by Washington, who sent a letter by
General Wayne, whereupon they returned to their posts. Later in the same
month another mutiny occurred among the New Jersey troops, but this,
too, was quickly suppressed. Just how much responsibility for these
uprisings might be traced to the treason of Arnold can not be estimated.
There is no question, however, that his act was not wholly unproductive
of its psychological effects.
"I feel so sorry for Peggy," Marjorie sighed.
"The young wife has a sore burden thrown upon her. A sorry day it was
when she met him," was Mrs. Allison's comment.
"Strange, I never suspected Peggy for a moment," Marjorie said. "I had
been raised with her and thought we knew each other. I am sorry, very
sorry."
"We do not know how much she is concerned with this," announced Mr.
Allison, "but her ambition knew no restraint or limitation. She has her
peerage now."
"And her husband?"
"The grave of a traitor, the sole immortality of degraded ambition,
religious prejudice, treason and infamy."
"God help him!" exclaimed Mrs. Allison.
II
In July, 1780, General Arnold had been placed in command of West Point;
two months later he was safe on board the British sloop-of-war,
_Vulture_. He had attempted to betray his country; he received in
exchange six thousand pounds sterling, together with a brigadiership in
the British Army.
From the time he left Philadelphia until the morning of his flight he
had kept up a continual correspondence with John Anderson. Information
was at length conveyed to him that Sir Henry Clinton was in possession
of advices that the American Commander-in-chief contemplated an advance
on New York by way of King's Bridge. Clinton's scheme would allow the
army of General Washington to move upon the city, having collected all
his magazines at the fortification at West Point, but at a given moment
Arnold was expected to surrender the fort and garrison and compel the
army of Washington to retire immediately or else suffer capture in the
field.
Still Arnold felt that everything was not quite settled between Sir
Henry and himself, and wrote accordingly, advising that a written
guarantee be forwarded or delivered in person to him by an officer of
Sir Henry's staff of his own mensuration. He was informed by way of
reply that the necessary meeting might be arranged, and that the
emissary would be the Adjutant-General of the British Army.
Accordingly the British sloop _Vulture_ moved up the river as far as
Stony Point, bearing the Adjutant-General. Arnold had fixed on the house
of Joshua Smith as the place for the meeting. On the night of the
twenty-first of September, he sent a boat to the _Vulture_ which brought
the emissary shore. In a thick grove of cedars, in the shroud of the
blackest night, Arnold waited the return of the rowboat, its oars
muffled with sheepskins, its passenger on board. The latter sprang
lightly to the shore, his large blue watchcoat and high boots alone
visible. As he climbed the bank and approached the grove, he threw back
his cloak and revealed the full British uniform of a general officer.
"Anderson?" Arnold exclaimed. "You?"
"No! Andre, Major Andre," was the reply.
"Hm! I thought as much. I suspected you from the moment I met you in
Philadelphia."
"Come. Let us finish. I must return before daybreak."
"Where is your disguise? I advised you to come in disguise."
He understood the piercing glance.
"I have come thus under General Clinton's orders," was the reply. "My
safety lies in open uniform."
"Let it go at that. Here! I have with me the plans of West Point,
together with a full inventory of its armament and stores and a roster
of its garrison."
Andre took the papers and glanced at them as best he could by means of
the lantern light.
"But I do not see here a written promise to surrender the fortress?"
"No! Nor, by Heaven, you shall not receive it," Arnold snapped. "I have
given my word. That is enough. I have already placed myself in your
hands by these plans and inventories made in my own handwriting. This is
all.... No more."
"General Washington visits here on Saturday?"
"Yes."
"The surrender must take place that night."
Arnold looked fiercely at him. This was one matter which seemed
intolerable. To betray his country was treason; to betray his sole
friend and benefactor was unknown to him by any name in the English
language. He refused absolutely. Andre insisted, and the discussion
became violent.
Neither became aware of the dawn which was about to break through the
thicket of fir-trees which bounded the opposite bank of the Hudson.
Still the details had not been arranged; the matter of Arnold's reward
was still unsettled. There had been various promises of compensation,
maintenance of military rank, a peerage or a viceroyalty in one of the
colonies, but Andre was empowered to offer no more than compensation and
military rank. With the dawning light, the boatmen became alarmed and
refused to take Andre back to his ship, with the result that the two
conspirators were obliged to pass the time until the next night in the
house of Joshua Smith.
It so happened that the day brought to pass an unforeseen accident.
Livingston, the Colonel of "Congress' Own," in command of the batteries
on the opposite side of the river at Verplanck's Point, opened fire upon
the _Vulture_, compelling her to drop down the river. It was necessary,
therefore, for Major Andre to proceed by land down the opposite shore
until he had met with his vessel, and so late at night he departed, his
uniform and coat exchanged for a disguise, the six papers in Arnold's
handwriting crammed between his stockings and feet.
It also happened, by a strange irony of fate, that a party of American
soldiers had set out that very morning to intercept a band of robbers
who had infested the roadways of this neighborhood, and who had rendered
the highways impassable because of their depredations. Near Tarrytown,
three of this party confronted a passing traveler, and leveling their
muskets at him, ordered him to halt. They were obeyed on the instant,
and because of the suspicious manner of the stranger, a complete search
of him was made. The set of papers was found in their hiding place, and
he was placed under arrest, and sent to North Castle. There the papers
were examined, and instead of being sent to General Arnold himself,
were forwarded to His Excellency, who was known to be lodged at West
Point. At the same time a complementary letter was sent to General
Arnold, informing him of what had taken place.
He was at breakfast when the news was brought him. The letter was
crumbled in his hand as he hastily arose from the table and rushed to
Peggy's room where he acquainted her of his fate. She screamed and
fainted. He stooped to kiss his sleeping child; then rushing from the
house was soon mounted and on his way to the place where he knew a barge
had been anchored. Jumping aboard he ordered the oarsmen to take him to
the _Vulture_, eighteen miles down the river. Next morning he was safe
within the enemy's lines at New York.
III
The minute details of the attempted plot had not filtered into
Philadelphia when a demonstration had begun in celebration of its
frustration. Spontaneously and exuberantly the citizens of the city
gathered in the public square and for several hours the joy-making
continued with unabated energy and enthusiasm. Like a flash it seemed
that the full realization of what this news had meant broke like a
rushing tide upon their consciousness. The country had been threatened;
but the danger had been averted.
In a few hours the streets were mad with hundreds of people singing and
shouting and marching in unrestrained glee. Bulletins had been posted in
the public square acquainting the people of the great facts, yet this
did not begin to equal the amount of news which had been relayed from
mouth to mouth and grew in detail and magnitude as it went. Chains,
trays, broken iron were dragged in rattling bundles up and down the
streets amid the laughs and cheers of the mass of humanity that had
swarmed upon the roadways and sidewalks.
Marjorie and her father were among the early arrivals on Market Street.
Little by little items of information came to them as they alternately
talked with their many acquaintances. Out of the many and varied
accounts one or two points had stood out prominently--Arnold had
attempted to surrender the fortress while Washington was lodged there in
the hope that complete disaster would befall the American cause; he had
completed negotiations with the British emissary; who was known as Major
Andre, whom the people of Philadelphia associated with the person of
John Anderson, a frequent visitor of the Arnolds during their stay in
the city; the officer had been taken prisoner by the American forces and
the papers found upon him; while Arnold and his wife had escaped to the
British forces in the city of New York.
When the gayety seemed to have attained its climax, a procession began
to wend its way through the howling crowd. There was no attempt at
regular formation, the multitude trailing along in whatever order seemed
most desirable to them. In the midst of the line of march, two gaunt
figures towered aloft over the heads of the marchers, the one bearing a
placard upon which was scrawled the name "Arnold the traitor," the
other, "Andre the spy." These were carried with great acclaim several
times around the city until the procession rested at the square, where
amid cheers and huzzas they were publicly burned. This seemed to
satisfy the crowd, for they gradually began to disperse. The hour was
late and Marjorie and her father journeyed homewards, passing the
watchman at the corner as he announced the hour, "Eleven o'clock and
Arnold is burned."
The state bordering on frenzy into which the mob had been cast was
responsible, for the most part, for the violence of the celebration,
nevertheless there stood many sober and composed individuals apart from
the ranks who had looked on in silent acquiescence during the riotous
proceedings. Arnold had fallen to the lowest ebb of infamy and contempt
so that even his past services were entirely forgotten. There was no
palliation. There were no extenuating circumstances. The enormity of his
crime alone mattered. His name could not be mentioned without a shudder.
Mount Pleasant was not permitted to remain idle. It soon was seized by
the city authorities and rented to Baron Steuben, the disciplinarian of
the American Army and the author of its first Manual of Arms. The
household furniture, too, had been removed and offered for sale at
public auction, while the coach and four was bought by a trader at the
Coffee House. Arnold's presence in the city was now no more than a
memory--a memory, indeed, but a sad one.
"He would never escape the fury of that crowd," Mr. Allison observed to
his daughter as the two journeyed homewards.
"They would surely put him to death."
"If they ever lay hands on him--they might perhaps cut off his wounded
leg, but the rest of him they would burn."
She considered.
"I can scarce believe it--it seems too awful."
"Well! I never could see much good in a bigot. A man with a truly broad
and charitable soul has no room in him for base designs. Arnold would
crucify us if he could, yet we have lived to see him repudiated by his
own."
"It does seem after all that God takes care of His own. Even the sparrow
does not fall to the ground."
Plainly the spirit of the evening had awakened a serious vein of thought
in the two. They could take no delight in a tragedy so intimately
interwoven with pity and compassion. The fate of the two principal
actors, the courageous Arnold and the ambitious Andre, erstwhile known
as Anderson, could not fail to touch their hearts. Their lot was not
enviable; but it was lamentable.
"And John Anderson, too," said Marjorie, "I cannot believe it."
"When the truth is known, I am of the opinion that he will be more
pitied and less condemned. Arnold was the chief actor. Andre a mere
pawn."
"How brilliant he was! You remember his visits? The afternoon at the
piano?"
"Yes. He was talented. But to what purpose?"
"I am sorry."
And so were the many.
CHAPTER VII
I
"Stephen, wilt thou take Marjorie here present for thy lawful wife,
according to the rite of our Holy Mother, the Church?"
Audibly and distinctly resounded the voice of Father Farmer throughout
the little church as he read from the Roman Ritual the form of the
sacrament of Matrimony.
"I will," answered Stephen deliberately.
"Marjorie, wilt thou take Stephen here present for thy lawful husband,
according to the rite of our Holy Mother, the Church?"
"I will," was the soft response.
The two then joined their right hands and repeated one after the other
the pledge by which they took each other for man and wife; Stephen
first, then Marjorie.
"I, Stephen, take thee Marjorie for my lawful wife, to have and to hold,
from this day forward, for better; for worse, for richer, for poorer, in
sickness and in health, until death do us part."
Solemnly and reverently the priest raised his right hand over them as he
pronounced the blessing.
"Ego conjungo vos in matrimonium, in nomine Patris et Filii, et Spiritus
Sancti, Amen."
The ring having been blessed before them, Stephen placed it on
Marjorie's finger saying the prescribed words, after which they awaited
the prayers of the priest. Father Farmer turned to the altar and at
once began the Nuptial Mass, according to the ceremony of the Catholic
Church, and pronounced over them the Nuptial Blessing.
This made an end of the marriage ceremony.
It would be difficult to describe the feelings of Marjorie as she turned
from the sanctuary and made her way down the aisle of the little church.
Her hand lay on Stephen's arm, but it seemed to her as if she were
hanging from it. She was happy; that, of course. But she thought, too,
that she was extremely nervous, and the more she thought over herself,
the more she felt that she appeared extremely self-conscious.
The church was quite filled with friends, yet she dared not look up to
measure its capacity, but guarded her eyes with the strictest custody.
The organ was playing an appropriate march which she tried to follow in
her mind in order that she might thereby absorb the greater part of her
attention. Stephen was with her, for she could feel him, although she
was quite certain that she never laid an eye on him during the whole
time. Her people were there, so were her many friends and acquaintances,
and Stephen's relatives and friends as well, but these, too, were absent
as far as her concentration of mind was concerned. Only one thought was
uppermost in her mind and that was to leave the church as soon as
possible, for she felt that every eye was focused upon her.
It had been intended that the affair should be charmingly simple, both
on account of the sad and melancholy days through which the country was
passing and the natural tendencies of the parties concerned to avoid all
semblance of display. Their names had been published at three public
masses; the Catholic Church required that. They had been married by
Father Farmer with a nuptial high mass. The wedding breakfast would be
served at the home of the bride. But the number of invited guests would
be limited strictly to the members of the family and one or two intimate
friends so as to include Jim Cadwalader and Sergeant Griffin.
Furthermore there would be no honeymoon on account of the uncertainty
which invariably had defined the duration of Stephen's stay in the city.
It was only when the little party, Marjorie and Stephen's sister, her
maid of honor, and Stephen and Sergeant Griffin, his best man, had
settled down into the coach, that Marjorie for the first time became
composed. A great sigh of relief escaped from her as she sat back, her
bouquet in her hand, and looked at the dispersing crowd. She could not
tell yet whether she was happy or not; the excitement had not subsided
enough to allow her to regain her self-possession and equanimity.
Stephen was by her side. That was about all she knew,--or cared.
Stephen was in his characteristically reticent mood. Already had he
observed that he would have endured another Valley Forge with greater
pleasure than the ordeal of a wedding ceremony. Still he was nicely
dressed for the occasion, wearing for the first time a new full dress
uniform of buff and blue. The interested spectator might have discerned,
too, that he wore for the first time a new insignia of rank; for he was
now a Major of the Continental Army, having received that promotion,
upon the recommendation of His Excellency, for distinguished service,
together with a warm message of congratulation upon his approaching
marriage. Nevertheless he was unmoved through it all, betraying but one
concern, and that was administration to the most trivial wants of his
blushing and timid bride.
It was the time of joy, of pure, unalloyed joy, yet he could not banish
altogether from his mind the memories of the past two years, years
crowded with events in his life and that of his beloved. There was,
indeed, much to be thankful for, and notwithstanding his exceedingly
great glee and the day of gladness which had dawned for him flooding his
heart with exultation and complacent satisfaction, still a prayer of
praise poured forth from his lips to the Giver of every best and perfect
gift.
The American Revolution had unfolded a wonderful story, a story of
anti-Catholicism, of persecution and prejudice which had resolved itself
step by step into a state of complete freedom of action and religious
liberty. The Church was at length free, free to gather her children into
congregations where she might speak to them and instruct them without
any fear. Now she was at liberty to fulfill her mission of winning souls
to Christ. True, her children were widely scattered, a bare twenty-five
thousand out of a population of about three millions, whose wants were
administered to by no more than twenty-five priests. Yet out of this
contemptible little body there emerged a people, honorable, respectable,
and of such consequence as to deserve commendation from the First
President for "the patriotic part which you took in the accomplishment
of their Revolution and the establishment of your government," as well
as causing to be inserted in the Constitution of the new republic the
clause that "no religious test shall ever be required as a qualification
for any office or public trust under the United States." There was of
course much to be desired; but the foundations had been laid, and the
prospect for the future was auspicious.
And so they rode through the city streets joyfully, merrily,
light-heartedly. Conversation, interspersed with laughter and
jocularity, literally ran riot, so impatiently did each attempt to
relate what was uppermost in his or her mind. The ceremony, the music,
the procession, the multitude obtained their due amount of comment,
until the arrival of the coach at the door of the Allison home put an
end to the session.
II
"A health, ladies and gentlemen, to the bride. May she live long and
never form the acquaintanceship of sorrow!"
Stephen's father had arisen from his chair and with his goblet held
before him addressed the company.
It was drunk with evident pleasure. Then Mr. Allison arose.
"To Major Meagher, that his brilliant career be only the commencement of
a life of extraordinary achievement!"
This was followed by a round of applause. Stephen smiled and bowed his
head, but it was plain to be seen that his father's chest had expanded
more than an appreciable trifle. Marjorie was happy and whispered a word
to her newly formed sister-in-law who was seated by her side. It was a
jolly group who had surrounded the table, all bent on doing honor to the
happy couple, but none appeared more so than Jim Cadwalader and his
wife, Nancy.
"I tell you," said Jim, "they're a right fine pair."
"I am afraid, Jim, you have not forgiven me quite for excluding you
from that meeting," Stephen suggested.
"I'm the proud'st man this side o' the river t' think I gave y' me
clothes. Y'd never got on widout me."
There was an outburst of laughter.
"You would have been captured, had you gone in there. I saved you."
"Yes, an' the girl, there, did it. Don't ye furgit that, either. I'll
tell on y'," replied Jim, nodding his head emphatically. "She got me
caught."
"Jim!" Marjorie exclaimed loudly.
"Now do not lay the blame on her," Stephen cautioned with a smile. "You
yourself were only too anxious to get there. You wanted to see yourself
in a new uniform."
"I did, then. I was terr'bly anxious t' see meself in a red suit, wasn't
I?"
The company enjoyed this exchange of repartee and laughed continually.
Jim ever enjoyed the distinction of being tormented by the members of
whatever gathering he was in, yet it was never known when he was
powerless of providing for himself.
And so they talked far into the morning. They sat in groups of twos and
threes, long after the table had been cleared, while the willing
helpers, the good neighbors, plied themselves industriously out in the
kitchen with the cleaning of the dishes and the restoration of the house
again to its proper order. Marjorie and her mother looked in through the
doorway from time to time at the progress of the work, only to be
banished as quickly by the cohort of willing toilers. For once in their
lives the girl and her fond mother mingled entirely with the guests and
took their full measure of enjoyment with the company.
As the guests departed one after the other, leaving behind them many
benedictions and choice wishes for the bride and groom, the house
settled down to its accustomed quietude and uniformity with the
immediate family, Jim and his wife alone remaining. Jim, like every
recognized master in his own household, sat with his one leg across the
other, enjoying his tobacco, while his less aristocratic helpmate took
care that the kitchen affairs were given their due amount of attention.
With abatement of the excitement and commotion the members of the family
betook themselves upon various journeys, the father to look at his fire
so as to give it, if needed, a few generous pokes; the mother, to the
kitchen to add a touch here and there to the arrangement of its
utensils; Marjorie to her room in order that she might once more robe
herself in her plainer and more habitual apparel. The festivities were
at an end and the practical things of life again asserted their stern
reality.
III
At length Stephen and Marjorie were alone, alone in their own little
world of fancies and dreams. They were standing by the upstairs window
looking out at the little fence where they had stood together more than
two years before on the afternoon of his arrest. Stephen recalled his
impressions of her then, yet she was more beautiful now, he thought. She
had changed her gown of white for one of pink, and as she stood there,
her lips a little parted in a tiny smile, her soft cheeks heightened in
color, her bright eyes looking out into the memories of the past, she
seemed for all the world to Stephen like an enchanted being.
"What are you thinking of, girlie?" he asked as he stood behind her, his
arm about her waist.
There was no response.
"Tell me, won't you?" he pleaded.
She continued to gaze into the roadway.
"Aren't you happy?"
"Oh! Yes.... Yes.... I was never so happy. I ... I...."
"What is it? Please, tell me. I fear that you are disturbed over
something."
She did not answer but turned and seized the lapels of his coat with
both her hands. Then she raised her face to his and looked straight into
his eyes.
"I was thinking how much I have really cared for you without ever
knowing it."
"Is that all?" he laughed, as he folded his arms about her.
"And how unkind I have been to you all the while."
"There! There! You must not say that again. Promise me you will not so
much as think it."
Again there was silence, but only for a moment.
"But I must have hurt you often. And to think that I never realized it."
"You are happy now, aren't you?"
She looked up again with only love in her eyes.
"Stephen!" she whispered.
She was lost in his embrace and felt only his breath against her cheek.
The world lived in them.
THE END
_Printed in U. S. A_.