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Title: The Loyalist
A Story of the American Revolution
Author: James Francis Barrett
Release Date: August 8, 2008 [EBook #26217]
Language: English
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THE LOYALIST
_A Story of the American Revolution_
BY
JAMES FRANCIS BARRETT
[Illustration: Publisher's logo]
P. J. KENEDY & SONS
NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY
P. J. KENEDY & SONS, NEW YORK
_Printed in U. S. A._
TO MY SISTER
AS A SLIGHT TOKEN OF LOVE AND ESTEEM
FOREWORD
Historical facts constitute the background of this story. Its hero and
its heroine are, of course, fictitious; but the deportment of General
Arnold, the Shippen family, the several military and civic personages
throughout the story is described, for the most part, accurately and in
conformity with the sober truths of history. Pains have been taken to
depict the various historical episodes which enter into the story--such
as the attempted formation of the Regiment of Roman Catholic Volunteers,
the court-martial of Major General Arnold, the Military Mass on the
occasion of the anniversary of American Independence--with as much
fidelity to truth as possible. The anti-Catholic sentences, employed in
the reprimand of Captain Meagher, are anachronisms; they are identical,
however, with utterances made in the later life of Benedict Arnold. The
influence of Peggy Shippen upon her husband is vouched for by eminent
authority.
Due appreciation and sincere gratitude must be expressed to those
authors from whom much information has been taken,--to John Gilmary
Shea, in his "History of the Catholic Church in the United States"; to
Martin I. J. Griffin's "Catholics and the American Revolution"; to F. J.
Stimson's excellent work, "Memoirs of Benedict Arnold"; to John Fiske's
"American Revolution," and to the many other works which have freely
been made use of in the course of this writing. Cordial thanks are also
due to those who have generously assisted by suggestions and criticisms,
and especially to those who have devoted their valuable moments to the
revision of the proof sheets.
J. F. B.
THE LOYALIST
PART ONE
CHAPTER I
"Please continue, Peggy. You were telling me who were there and what
they wore. Oh, dear! I am so sorry mother would not give me leave to go.
Was it all too gay?"
"It was wonderful!" was the deliberate reply. "We might have danced till
now had not Washington planned that sudden attack. We had to leave
then,--that was early this morning,--and I spent the day abed."
It was now well into the evening and the two girls had been seated for
the longest time, it seemed, on the small sofa which flanked the east
wall of the parlor. The dusk, which had begun to grow thick and fast
when Marjorie had come to visit Peggy, was now quite absorbed into
darkness; still the girls had not lighted the candles, choosing to
remain in the dark until the story of the wonderful experience of the
preceding day had been entirely related.
The grand pageant and mock tournament, the celebrated Mischienza,
arranged in honor of General Howe, who had resigned his office as
Commander-in-chief of His Majesty's forces in America to return to
England, there to defend himself against his enemies in person, as
General Burgoyne was now doing from his seat in Parliament, was an event
long to be remembered not alone from the extravagance of its display,
but from the peculiar prominence it afforded the foremost families of
the city, particularly that of the Shippens.
Edward Shippen was a gentleman of rank, of character, of fortune, a
member of one of the oldest and most respected families in the city of
Philadelphia, whose ancestor, of the same name, had been Mayor of the
city nigh an hundred years before. He belonged to the Society of
Friends, or Quakers, and while he took no active interest on either side
during the years of the war, still he was generally regarded as one of
the sympathizers of the Crown. Because of the social eminence which the
family enjoyed and the brilliance and genial hospitality which
distinguished their affairs, the Shippens were considered the undisputed
leaders of the social set of Philadelphia. The three lovely Misses
Shippen were the belles of the more aristocratic class. They were
toasted frequently by the gay English officers during the days of the
British occupation, for their father's house was often the rendezvous of
the titled celebrities of the day.
"And was your Captain there, too?" continued Marjorie, referring, of
course, to Captain Monstresor, the engineer of the undertaking, an
erstwhile admirer of Mistress Peggy.
"You must know, my dear, that he arranged the spectacle. I saw little of
him until the dance. In truth, he seemed more popular than General Howe
himself."
Marjorie sat up.
"Tell me! Did the tournament begin the program?"
"No!" replied Peggy. "The military procession of boats and barges with
Lords Howe and Rawdon, General Howe and General Clinton, opened the
event in the late morning, sailing up the river to the Wharton House,
the scene of the tournament."
Marjorie nodded.
"The noise of the guns was deafening. When the flotilla arrived at
Walnut Grove, which was lined with troops and bedecked brilliantly with
flags and bunting, the pageant opened."
"Where were you in the meantime?" asked Marjorie, careful to lose no
detail.
"We were seated in the pavilions,--seven ladies in each,--clothed in
Turkish garments, each wearing in her turban the favor to be bestowed on
her victorious knight."
"And who was your knight?"
"The Honorable Captain Cathcart," quickly replied Peggy, her eyes
beaming with a smile of evident satisfaction and proud joy.
"Lord Cathcart, whom I met here?"
"The same," answered Peggy. "He was the leader of the 'Knights of the
Blended Rose.'"
"What an odd name!" she exclaimed.
"I know it. They were named after their device. They were dressed in
white and red silk, mounted on gray horses and attended by esquires.
They were preceded by a herald who bore their device, two roses
intertwined above the motto, 'We droop when separated.' My knight rode
at the head, attended by two British Officers, and his two esquires, the
one bearing his lance, the other his shield emblazoned with his
device--Cupid astride a lion--over the motto, Surrounded by love.'"
"You little Tory," interrupted Marjorie. "I shall tell General
Washington that you are disloyal and have lent your sympathy to a
British Officer."
"I care little. The Yankees are without refinement----"
"Don't you dare say that," snapped Marjorie, her whole being animated
with sudden anger. "It is untrue and you know it. They are patriots
and----"
"Forgive me, dear," murmured Peggy, laying her hand on the arm of her
irate friend. "I said that only in jest. I shan't continue if you are
vexed."
There was silence.
"Please! I am not angry," Marjorie pleaded. "Do continue."
"I forget my story now. What did I tell? There was so much that I am
confused."
"The Knights of the Rose!" suggested Marjorie.
"Oh, yes! Well, this body of knights made the circuit of the square and
then saluted their ladies. On a sudden, a herald advanced with a
flourish of trumpets and announced that the ladies of the Blended Rose
excelled in wit, beauty, grace, charm and accomplishments those of the
whole world and challenged a denial by deeds of arms. Whereupon a
counter sound of trumpets was heard from afar and another herald
galloped before a body of knights in black and orange silk with the
device--a wreath of flowers surrounding a burning heart--over the motto,
'Love and Glory.' These were the Knights of the Burning Mountain, who
came to dispute the claim of the Knights of the Blended Rose."
"It must have been gorgeous!" exclaimed Marjorie, clasping her hands
before her.
"Indeed it was. Well, after several preliminaries, the encounter took
place, the knights receiving their lances together with their shields
from their esquires, whereupon they saluted and encountered at full
speed, shivering their spears against the shield of their adversaries.
They next encountered and discharged their pistols and then fought with
swords. Again the two chiefs of the warring factions, Captain Cathcart
of the Blended Rose and Captain Watson of the Burning Mountain, met in
mid field to try their arms as champions of their respective parties.
They parried and thrust with true knightly valor until Major Grayson, as
marshal of the field, intervened at the critical moment, declaring the
ladies of both parties to be fully satisfied with the proofs of love and
the feats of valor displayed by their knights. He then commanded the
combatants to desist. Thus ended the tournament."
"How wonderful!" sighed Marjorie. "I would I had been present. And your
knight was the hero?"
"Of course," replied Peggy with a smile. "I am sure that he would have
worsted Captain Watson, had not the Major stepped in. But the banquet
was splendid."
"And Captain Cathcart!" reminded Marjorie, with a slight manifestation
of instinctive envy.
"Why! He attended me, of course," was the proud response. "Each knight
escorted his lady through the triumphal arches erected in honor of the
Generals who were present, along the long avenue lined on both sides
with the troops and the colors of the army. At the third arch, which was
dedicated to General Howe and which bore on its top a huge flying figure
of Fame, we entered the great Hall. There refreshments were served and
the dancing began. It continued until midnight. The windows were then
thrown open and we witnessed the wonderful display of fireworks. And
then the supper!
"Gorgeous, of course!" exclaimed Marjorie.
"Gorgeous, indeed!" Peggy repeated--"a great room, with fifty or more
pier glasses, draped with green silk and hundreds of varieties of
flowers of as many hues and shades. An hundred branches of lights,
thousands of tapers, four hundred and thirty covers, and there must have
been more than twelve hundred dishes. The attendants were twenty-four
black slaves garbed oriental fashion with silver collars and bracelets.
And then we danced and danced until dawn, when we were interrupted by
the sound of distant cannon."
"And then your knights were called to real war," remarked Marjorie.
"For the moment all thought this to be part of the program, the signal
for another great spectacle. Suddenly everything broke into confusion.
The officers rushed to their commands. The rest of us betook ourselves
as best we could. We came home and went to bed, tired in every bone.
Mother is sorry that I attended, for she thought it too gay. But I would
not have lost it for the world."
And perhaps her mother was right. For Peggy was but eighteen, the
youngest of the Shippen family. The other girls were somewhat older, yet
the three were considered the most beautiful débutantes of the city, the
youngest, if in anything, the more renowned for grace and manner. Her
face was of that plumpness to give it charm, delicate in contour, rich
with the freshness of the bloom of youth. Her carriage betrayed
breeding and dignity. And all was sweetened by a magnetism and vivacity
that charmed all who came within her influence. Still her attitude was
the more prepossessing than permanent.
Like her father, she was a Quaker in many of her observances. To that
creed she adhered with a rigorous determination. She had so often
manifested her political sympathies, which were intensified to an
irrational degree as appeared from passionate disclosures, that her
father was led to observe that she was more a Tory at heart than General
Howe himself.
Her companion, Marjorie Allison, was about her own age, but as intensely
American as she was English. Her parents had always lived in
Philadelphia, as their parents had before them, coming originally from
the Mother country to which they were now opposed in martial strife. The
thrill of patriotism for the cause of the infant republic, which
throbbed violently within her breast, had been inspired to enthusiasm
more by the intense antipathy for the Church of England than for the
government itself. This antipathy was kept alive and invigorated by the
doleful memory of the privations and adversities endured by her
ancestors from the agents of this same government because of their
Catholic worship and their heroic efforts to follow their religious
convictions.
The sympathies of the Allisons were undivided. They were notorious
Whigs, ardent champions of the rights which the new government so
strongly asserted, and which they had pledged themselves stoutly to
defend; ardent champions of the eternal principles on which the new
republic was built. The psychology of the Allisons' allegiance did not
differ from that of innumerable other families. Usually, strange to
relate, society, while constantly moving forward with eager speed, is
just as constantly looking backward with tender regrets. But no regrets
were here. Religious persecution leaves no tender memories in its trail.
Dissatisfaction with the past is seldom rendered more memorable than by
the fanatic attempt to separate the soul from its God.
Marjorie and Peggy had been friends from girlhood. They understood each
other very well. Each knew and appreciated the other's peculiarities,
her virtues and her foibles, her political propensities and religious
convictions. They never discussed their religious differences. They
avoided such a clash out of respect for each other's convictions. Not
so, however, in matters relating to the form of government. Marjorie was
a Whig, an ardent champion of the rights of the Colonists, while her
more aristocratic friend was Tory in her sentiments, moderate, it is
true, but nevertheless at times much inclined to the extreme.
Notwithstanding these differences, their friendship had been constant
and they had always shared their joys and sorrows.
The days of the British occupation of the city had been glorious ones
for Peggy and her sisters. The love of display and finery which was
characteristic of them was satiated by the brilliance and the gayety of
the winter season during which the titled British Officers were fêted
and entertained extravagantly. None outshone the Shippens in the
magnificence of their entertainments. Their house was ever open in
hospitality, and more than once it had been whispered about that their
resources had reached the point of exhaustion.
At these functions Marjorie found herself a welcome guest. For Peggy
took care that her little friend was never overlooked, even if on one
occasion a pang of regret sent her to bed with copious tears when the
favor for the evening had been bestowed upon her fair guest. Marjorie,
however, maintained a mature composure and a marked concern, as was her
wont, throughout it all, and Peggy again reassured herself that her
misgivings were without foundation. For Marjorie disliked the titled
gentry. They were without exception hostile to the faith to which she so
steadfastly adhered. She bore with them merely for the pleasure which
she derived from the coterie made brilliant by their participation.
And so the winter passed, giving way to lovely, spring, whose gentle
zephyrs dispelled the cold, the ice and the snow that had sent the
British into the ballrooms for protection, and had afflicted and
distressed the patriots at Valley Forge. With the advent of favorable
weather, operations began anew; the hopes and the courage of the
colonists were now exalted to the highest pitch. The disasters of Long
Island and Fort Washington had been offset by the victory at Saratoga.
While the British had taken and held the important cities of New York
and Philadelphia as well as the town of Newport, still they had lost an
army and had gained nothing but the ground on which they were encamped.
Now, at the beginning of the fourth period of the war, the joyful news
was heralded far and wide that the government of France had formally
acknowledged the independence of the United States and that help was on
the way to assist the Colonists in their struggle. At the same time the
conciliatory measures of Lord North in Parliament gave indication to
the patriots that the British Government was weakening. The joy of the
Whigs knew no bounds, and Marjorie was beside herself as she related the
glad tidings over and over again. The fourth epoch of the war augured
well for the success of the cause.
II
In all the Colonies there was at this stage of the war no city more
important than Philadelphia. Whatever there was among the Colonists of
wealth, of comfort, of social refinement, of culture and of courtly
manners was here centered. Even the houses were more imposing than
elsewhere throughout the country. They were usually well constructed of
stone or brick with either thatched or slated roofs. They were supplied
with barns bursting with the opulence of the fields. The countryside
round about was teeming with fatness. Indeed, in all the colonies no
other place was so replete with affluence and comfort.
Nor was it without its gentry, cultured and dignified. Its inhabitants
were, for the most part, made up of members of old Quaker families and
others faithful to the Church of England and devoted to the political
principles of the Mother country,--the proud possessors of wealth and
the exemplars of the most dignified deportment. Already were its fair
sex renowned abroad as well as at home for their "beauty, grace and
intelligence." They moved with all the gayety and charm of court ladies.
The wealth and luxury of a capital city were there; for even in the
infancy of the republic, Philadelphia had attained a distinction,
unique and preëminent. What was more natural, then, than that their
allegiance should be divided; the so-called fashionable set adhering to
the crown; the common townsfolk, the majority of whom were refugees from
an obnoxious autocracy, zealously espousing the colonists' cause, and
the middle class, who were comprised of those families holding a more or
less neutral position in the war, and who were willing to preserve their
estates and possessions, remaining undecided, and in their manner
maintaining good offices with both sides throughout the strife.
The British Army took possession of the city, after its victorious
encounter on the Brandywine, on the twenty-sixth of September, 1777. Sir
William Howe selected for his headquarters the finest house in the city,
the mansion which was once the home of Governor Richard Penn, grandson
of William Penn. Here General Howe and his staff of officers passed a
gay winter. They were much more interested in the amusements, the
gayeties, the dissipations carried on in this old Quaker City than in
any efforts to capture the army of General Washington.
The infatuate populace, indifferent to the progress of the Revolution,
unaffected for the most part by the righteousness of the cause of the
Colonists, became enamored of the brilliance and the fashion and the
display of the English nobility. They cordially welcomed General Howe
and his young officers, electing them the leaders and the favorites in
all the social gayeties and amusements of the season. Such was the
luxury and dissipation of the British in the city, at dinner parties,
cock-fights, amateur theatrical performances, that Dr. Franklin was led
to remark in Paris that General Howe had not taken Philadelphia as much
as Philadelphia had taken General Howe.
The general plan of campaign for the year 1777 did not include the
capture of Philadelphia. Howe had been ordered to march from New York,
which he had taken the preceding August, to the vicinity of Albany.
There he was to join forces with the army from Canada under General
Burgoyne, which was to penetrate northern New York. Why he elected to
march against Philadelphia and be obliged to retrace his steps in order
to reach Burgoyne was unknown at the time. The total collapse of
Burgoyne's expedition at Saratoga and the menace of the American Army
under General Washington obliged him to alter his plan and to remain in
the vicinity of Philadelphia, which city he made his headquarters for
the winter.
In the meantime the army of General Washington, which had been
continually harassing the English forces, went into winter quarters in
close proximity, at Valley Forge, a bare twenty miles distant, northwest
of the city. Here the little army of the Colonists menaced the position
of the British while enduring with heroic fortitude the severities of
the winter season. Shoeless and shivering, the soldiers prepared these
winter quarters of cold huts, rudely constructed; themselves overcoated
in torn blankets, with stuffed straw in their boots for want of
stockings. Their food was as scarce as their clothing and at one time
more than two thousand men were reported unfit for duty because barefoot
and otherwise naked. Many a night the men were compelled to remain
seated by the fire for want of blankets. Day by day the supply of fuel
diminished, and the neighborhood became more destitute of trees and
timber.
The morale of the troops seemed to feed on misfortune; but their hopes
and courage were suddenly intensified when the news of the Alliance with
France reverberated throughout the camp to the booming of cannon and the
shouts of the whole army. There was no respite, however. While the enemy
was living in luxury and comfort in the gay city, the Continentals under
the patience of Washington, and the military genius of Von Steuben, were
being rounded into a toughened and well drilled fighting machine, strong
in organization and bold in spirit, a worthy match for the rapid and
accurate movements for which the better equipped British army was
becoming famous.
That Sir William Howe found it easier to loiter in Philadelphia than to
play a strategic game against Washington in the depths of an American
winter, was due no less to the want of decision which characterized all
of his actions than to the stupid mismanagement with which the campaign
of 1777 was directed. The British had gained the two most important
American cities, New York and Philadelphia, but the entire American army
was still in the field. The acquisition of territory was of no military
importance while the forces of the enemy remained intact and well
organized. Moreover, Burgoyne was left to his fate and at Saratoga an
army was lost.
Nor was any advantage to be derived from the possession of the American
capital. Washington's position at Valley Forge had held the British in
check all winter. And whatever of work the Congress was required to do
could as well be done at York as at Philadelphia. As a basis for
military operation the city was without value, for it was difficult to
defend and hard to supply with foodstuffs. But it was rich,
extravagant, fashionable, a "place of crucifying expenses," and its
fine houses, good pavements, and regular arrangement of streets,
impressed Howe as the most fitting place for the British Army to
establish winter quarters. And so they sat down to wait for spring.
III
"We shall never forget the splendor of it all; it was wonderful!"
exclaimed Peggy with a deep sigh.
"A farewell party!" said Marjorie. "Undoubtedly the gallant Britishers
outdid themselves. Howe leaves soon, does he not?"
"Yes. Next week."
"Which means that the period of entertaining is about to come to an
end."
"I suppose. But wasn't the winter glorious? I shall never forget it."
A smile covered her face, dotting her cheeks with two tiny dimples. She
held her hands together over her knees while she sat quite motionless,
her eyes looking out into the darkness of the room.
Presently she bethought herself.
"Let us light the tapers!" she announced, jumping up from the sofa.
"It is late," Marjorie remarked, as she, too, prepared to arise. "I must
leave for home."
"Stay! It is still early. Soon we shall be obliged to settle into
quietude. Dark days are before us."
"Why!" Marjorie exclaimed. "I should think that the future augurs well.
I do wish the soldiers would evacuate the city."
"When General Howe leaves, all may as well leave with him."
"When does he leave, did you say?" impatiently asked her true American
friend.
"Next week, I understand. The great Mischienza, you know, was arranged
in his honor as a farewell celebration."
"General Clinton, I presume, will succeed. He seems the most logical
choice."
"Yes. He already has been appointed to the supreme command."
"I hope he decides to evacuate."
"I do not know. Perhaps," was the sole response.
But it already had been decided. Upon the departure of General Howe,
instructions were forwarded from the ministry to Sir Henry Clinton, the
new Commander-in-chief, to evacuate the city at once. The imminent
arrival of the French fleet, together with the increasing menace of the
Continental Army at Valley Forge, constituted a grave peril to the
isolated army of the British. Hence it was determined that the capital
city must be abandoned.
Clinton intended to transfer his army to New York by water in order that
the bulk of his forces might be concentrated for the spring campaign. On
account of the vast number of Tories who, apprehensive of their personal
effects, had begged to be transferred with him, he was obliged to forego
his original intention of sailing by water in favor of a march overland.
Accordingly on the morning of June 18, 1778, the rear-guard of the
British marched out of the city and on that same afternoon the American
advance entered and took possession with Major General Benedict Arnold,
the hero of Saratoga, as Military Governor.
The joy of the Whig populace knew no bounds. No longer would the
shadows of dark despair and abandoned hope hang like a pall over the
capital city. No longer would the stately residences of the Tory element
be thrown open for the diversion and the junket of the titled gentry. No
more would the soldiery of an hostile army loiter about the street
corners or while away the hours at the Taverns or at the Coffee Houses.
The Congress was about to return. The city would again become the
political as well as the civic center of American affairs. The people
would be ruled by a governor of their own accord and sympathy.
Philadelphia was to enter into its own.
CHAPTER II
I
"It won't do, I tell you. And the sooner he realizes this the more
satisfactory will it become for all concerned."
"Sh-h-h," answered Mrs. Allison in a seemingly heedless manner. She was
seated by the side window in her old rocker, intent only on her three
needles and the ball of black yarn. "Judge not, that you may not be
judged!" she reminded him.
"He is too imprudent. Only today he contemptuously dismissed the Colonel
and the secretary; later he requested them to dine with him. We don't
like it, I tell you."
As a matter of fact, there was no more staunch defender or constant
advocate of the cause of the Colonists than Matthew Allison himself; and
when the proclamation of the new Military Governor ordering the closing
of the shops and the suspension of business in general until the
question of ownership was established, had been issued, he was among the
first of the citizens to comply with it. True, his sole source of income
had been temporarily suspended. But what matter? It meant order and
prevented the wares from falling into the hands of the enemy. His small
shop had enabled himself together with his wife and daughter to eke out
a comfortable existence. Their cozy home while unmistakably plain and
unadorned with the finer appointments indicative of opulence,
nevertheless was not without charm and cheeriness. It was delightful in
simplicity and neat arrangement.
Allison had welcomed the entry of General Arnold into the city as a hero
coming into his own, but he was not slow in perceiving that the
temperament of the man rendered him an unhappy choice for the
performance of the onerous duties which the successful administration of
the office required. Readily and with genuine satisfaction did he yield
to the initial mandate of the Governor; but when the scent of luxury
from this same Governor's house, the finest mansion in the city and the
identical one lately occupied by the British commander, was diffused
throughout the city causing murmurs of criticism and dissension, Matthew
Allison forgot for the moment his oath of fealty and gave expression to
pain and dissatisfaction.
"Why allow yourself to be disturbed at his manner of living?" asked his
wife, picking up the conversation at the point where he had left it.
"And you and I and the vast majority of us sacrificing our all. Why they
tell me that his quarters abound in luxury to a degree never excelled by
Howe himself."
"Well!" was the simple reply.
"And the Massachusetts Regiment has been appointed his guard of honor;
and that two armed soldiers have been stationed at the doorposts."
Allison spoke with evident passion, the ardor of which pervaded his
entire being.
"And yet I dare say you would be the first to disapprove of the other
extreme," admonished Mrs. Allison in her soft and gentle way. "Under
martial law you know, there must be no relaxation of discipline,
notwithstanding the fact that the Americans once more control the city."
"Laxity or no laxity, it is extravagant for him to be housed in the
finest mansion in the city with a retinue of servants and attendants
only excelled by Sir William Howe; to be surrounded by a military guard
of selective choice; to maintain a coach and four with footmen and
servants, all equipped with livery of the most exclusive design; to live
in the greatest splendor, notwithstanding the avowed republican
simplicity of the country as well as the distressed condition of our
affairs and finances. Who is paying for this extravagance? We, of
course. We are being taxed and supertaxed for this profligate waste
while our shops are closed to all future trade. These are not alone my
opinions; they are the expressions of the men about town. This was the
sole topic of conversation today at the Coffee House."
For where else would the news of the day be found if not on the street
corners or at the Coffee House? This latter institution, like its London
prototype, was the chief organ through which the public opinion of the
metropolis continually asserted itself. Its convenience lay in its
adaptability for the making of appointments at any hour of the day, or
for the passing of an evening socially for a very small charge. It had
its characters who became as famous as the institution itself, its
orators to whose eloquence the crowd listened with admiration, its
medical men who might be consulted on any malady merely for the asking,
its poets and humorists who in winter occupied the chairs of learning
nearest the stove and in summer held the choice places on the balcony,
and who discoursed fables and politics with renewed embellishment upon
the advent of every newcomer. The atmosphere always reeked with the
fumes of tobacco. Nowhere else was smoking more constant than at the
Coffee House. And why any one would leave his own home and fireside to
sit amid such eternal fog, was a mystery to every good housewife. But
every man of the upper or the middle class went daily to the Coffee
House to learn and discuss the news of the day.
"I suppose Jim Cadwalader waxed warm today on the subject and gave you
inspiration," submitted Mrs. Allison. "Why do you not suspend your
judgment for a while until you learn more about the Governor,--at any
rate give him the benefit of a doubt until you have some facts," mildly
replied Mrs. Allison with that gentle manner and meekness of temper
which was characteristic of her.
"Facts!" said he, "I am telling you that these are facts. The Colonel
saw this, I tell you, for he dined with him. And I want to tell you
this," he announced pointing towards her, "he hates the Catholics and is
strongly opposed to any alliance with a Catholic country."
"Never mind, my dear. We cannot suffer for that."
"I know, but it may concern us sooner or later. Our fathers endured
severe tortures at the hands of a bigoted Government, and if the new
republic gives promise of such unhappy tidings, we may as well leave the
earth."
"I would not take any undue alarm," quietly answered Mrs. Allison as her
deft fingers sped on with the knitting. "General Washington is
broad-minded enough to appreciate our loyalty and our spirit of
self-sacrifice. And besides the new French Alliance will prevent any of
the intolerance which made itself manifest in the person of King
George. With a Catholic ally, the government cannot very well denounce
the Catholics as you will discover from the repealing of several of the
laws which rendered life more or less obnoxious in some of the colonies.
And I think, too, that we have given more than our share to the cause.
With so much to our credit, no public official, whatever his natural
inclination, can afford to visit his bigotry on us. I would not worry
about General Arnold. He will not molest us, I am sure."
"I don't think that he pleases me anyway."
"And why?" she paused to ask. "Because he maintains too expensive a
livery, or has surrounded himself by too many attendants?"
"No. I dislike the man. I do not like his traits."
"It is unkind of you to say that. Who enjoys a greater reputation for
skill or bravery or personal courage than he? What would have become of
Gates, or our army, or the French Alliance were he not at Saratoga, and
there too without a command, you must remember."
"I know all that, but he is too blunt, too headstrong, too proud,
too----"
Marjorie's figure at the door interrupted him.
II
Although Mistress Allison was not twenty, she maintained the composure
of a married woman, sedate and reserved like the matrons of this period.
Her dress was neat and well chosen, a chintz cotton gown, of a very
pretty blue stamp, blue silk quilt and a spotted figured apron. The
vivacity of her manner and the winsomeness of her behavior were
prepossessing, and she was beautiful to look upon: her complexion as
dazzling white as snow in sunshine; except her cheeks, which were a
bright red; and her lips, of a still deeper crimson. Her small oval face
was surmounted by a wealth of dark brown hair, craped up with two rolls
on each side and topped with a small cap of beautiful gauze and rich
lace,--a style most becoming to a girl of her age. Health, activity,
decision were written full upon her, whether in the small foot which
planted itself on the ground, firm but flexible, or in the bearing of
her body, agile or lofty.
She was the only child of Mr. Allison and a much admired member of the
city's middle class. And while it is true that a certain equality in
class and social refinement was an attribute of the American people
which found great favor in the eyes of the older world inhabitants, it
is equally true that this equality was more seeming than real. This was
due to a great extent to the distinction established by the wealth and
the liberties enjoyed by the various classes of people. It was said, and
not without a semblance of truth, that the inhabitants of Philadelphia
were rated according to their fortunes. The first class was known as the
carriage folk, who proclaimed, almost without exception, their pretended
descent from the ancient English families by their coats of arms
imprinted upon their carriage doors. The second class was composed of
the merchants, lawyers, and business men of the city; and the third
class, were those who exercised the mechanical arts. These felt their
social inferiority and never hoped for any association with the upper
classes. The Allisons were of the middle rank, and were looked upon as
its most respected members.
Plain, simple-living folk, they made no pretense to display. Neither did
they affect aristocracy. Their manner of living was as comfortable as
their modest means would allow. It was a common habit for the people of
this class to indulge in luxury far beyond their resources and no small
amount of this love of ostentation was attributed to the daughters of
the families. In this respect Marjorie offended not in the least.
Whether assisting her father in the shop during the busy hours, or
presiding at the Coffee House, or helping her mother with the affairs of
the household, she was equally at home. Neither the brilliance of the
social function, nor the pleasures of the dance roused unusual desires
in her. Indeed she seldom participated in such entertainments, unless on
the invitation and in company with the Shippen family with whom she was
on the most intimate terms of friendship. The gay winter season of the
British occupation of the city produced no change in her manner or
attire. The dazzling spectacle of the Mischienza found her secluded in
her home, more from her own desire than from her pretended deference to
the wishes of her mother.
Her happiness was in her homelife. This was the center of her affection
as well as of her tenderest solicitude. Here she busied herself daily,
either in the care of the house, and the preparation of the meals, which
were by no means sumptuous owing to the scarcity of all foodstuffs, or
at the wheel where she made shirtings and the sheetings for the army. A
touch of her hand here and there, to this chair, slightly out of place,
to this cup or that plate in the china-chest, to the miniature on the
wall, leaning slightly to one side, or the whisk of her sweeping-brush
through the silver-sand on the floor, transformed a disorderly aspect
into one of neatness and taste. It was here that she spent her days,
enduring their unvarying monotony, with sweet and unbroken contentment.
As she hurriedly entered the house, she arrested the attention of her
father and put a period to the conversation.
"Oh, Father, have you heard?"
"What news now, child!"
"Washington has engaged the British."
"And how fared?"
"They were compelled to withdraw."
"Thank God."
"Where, Marjorie, did you come by this good news?" inquired the mother.
"At the State House. A courier arrived from Monmouth with the tidings,"
answered Marjorie, still nervous to narrate the story, and forgetting to
remove her hat.
"When did this happen?" asked her father, impatiently.
"It seems that General Washington started in pursuit of Clinton as soon
as he had evacuated the city. He had decided that an attack must be made
as soon as possible. When the British reached Allentown, they found the
American army gaining the front and so they turned towards Monmouth.
Near the Court House the British were outflanked and the Americans
gained the superior ground and so the battle was won. Then General Lee
ordered a retreat."
"A retreat?" exploded Mr. Allison. "What for?"
"I do not know, but that was the report. Lee retreated when Washington
arrived on the scene," continued Marjorie.
"And then?"
"He rallied the troops to another front and began the attack anew,
driving the British back a considerable distance. Nightfall ended the
battle, and when day broke, Clinton had withdrawn."
"And Lee ordered a retreat!" exclaimed Mr. Allison. "A damned poltroon!"
"All say the same. The crowd was furious upon hearing the message,
although some thought it too incredible. The joy of victory, however,
made them forget the disgraceful part."
"My faith in him has never faltered," quietly observed Mrs. Allison, as
she prepared to resume the knitting from which she had ceased on the
sudden entry of Marjorie.
"And his pretended friends must now croak forth his praises," rejoined
her husband.
"There were shouts and cheers," continued Marjorie, "as the news was
being announced. Each newcomer would add another detail to the story
with beaming delight. All said that the retreat from the city and the
defeat of the British augured a speedy termination of the war. The
country is wholly united again under General Washington."
"And what will become of Lee?" asked the father.
"The traitor!" snapped Marjorie. "They ought to court-martial him. The
crowd greeted his name with hisses when the details began to impress
themselves upon them. I dare say, he has few friends in the city
tonight, expect perhaps among the Tories. He is a disgrace to the
uniform he wears."
"Undoubtedly, the losses were heavy."
"No one seemed to know. The minor details of the engagement are still
unknown. They will come later. The consoling feature is that the enemy
were compelled to withdraw, which would indicate that they were worsted.
The remnants, I suppose, will concentrate at New York. There will occur
the next great battle."
"God grant that it will soon be over," exclaimed Mrs. Allison.
"And now, daughter, have you more news?" asked her father.
"Oh, yes! General Arnold is going to give a ball at the City Tavern on
the Fourth of July to the officers of the French Army. It will be under
the auspices of the American officers of Washington's command and in
honor of the loyal ladies who had withheld from the Mischienza. And I
have been invited to attend."
"I should think that we have had enough of social life here during the
past winter," quietly announced the father.
"Well," replied Marjorie, "this affair is to exclude all who
participated in the English Army festivities. Only Americans will be
present."
"How did you come by this report?" asked her mother.
"Peggy Shippen. I stopped there for a short time. They told me of the
proposed invitation and that I was included."
"How came they by the news?"
"I suppose General Arnold told them."
"Is he acquainted with them? I wonder----"
"Yes. They were presented to him, and he has already honored them with
his visit."
"I don't like this," said Mr. Allison, "and you can be assured that
there will be little restriction as to the company who will comprise
this assemblage. The Governor will take sides with the wealthy, be their
sympathies what they may. Well, if he establish the precedent, I dare
say, none will be so determined as to oppose him. Do you wish to go,
daughter?"
"I think I might enjoy it. The French soldiers are so gallant, I might
find much pleasure there."
"Very well, you shall attend," said her father.
III
And so it was decided that Marjorie would be present at the Governor's
Ball. As custom did not require mothers to accompany their daughters to
such functions, but allowed them to go unattended, Mrs. Allison
preferred to remain at home. To what splendor and gayety the affair
would lend itself was a matter of much speculation. This was the
Governor's first event, and no one was aware of his prowess on the
ballroom floor.
Once the list of invitations had become public, it was understood quite
generally that no distinction was made between those that had, and those
that had not, attended the Mischienza. Whether the number would be
surprisingly small, or whether the affair would fail of success without
the Mischienza ladies, could not be foretold. Indeed such speculations
were idle, since no discrimination had been made. There were a number of
young French Officers in the town and one or two of General Washington's
aides had remained because of the pressure of immediate business after
the British evacuation. These of course would attend. All the other
available young men belonged to the families who had held a more or less
neutral position in the war, and who had not offered their services to
the patriots nor yielded allegiance to the foe. As these neutrals were
among the most prominent people of the city, their presence would, of
course, be altogether desirable.
Marjorie was invited through the efforts of Peggy Shippen, who had
proposed her name to His Excellency on the occasion of his visit to her
house. She would be included in their party and would be assigned a
partner befitting her company. Because of the prominence of the
Shippens, it was thought that the gallant young French Officers, would
be assigned to them. Marjorie rejoiced at this although the Shippen
girls evinced no such sentiment. Whether it was because the French
alliance was distasteful to them or because their Tory leanings took
precedence, they preferred other guests for partners. But as the matter
was to be decided by lot, their likings were not consulted.
Ere long the city was agog with speculation respecting the coming ball.
The battle of Monmouth was accorded a second place. The disdain of the
middle class, who had been embittered against such demonstrations by the
profligacy displayed during the days of the British occupation, soon
began to make itself felt. That it was the first official or formal
function of the new republic mattered little. A precedent was about to
be established. There was to be a continuation of the shameful
extravagance which they had been compelled to witness during the winter
and which they feared they would be forced to maintain for another
protracted period. Living was high, extremely high, and the value of the
paper currency had depreciated to almost nothing. Indeed it was said
that a certain barber in the town had papered his entire shop with the
bills and that a dog had been led up and down the streets, smeared with
tar, and adorned cap-a-pie with paper money. To feed and clothe the army
was expense enough without being compelled to pay for the splendors of a
military ball. Small wonder that the coming event aroused no ordinary
speculation.
Nevertheless preparations went on with growing vigor and magnificence,
and not the least interested was Marjorie. The event was now awaited
with painful anxiety. Even the war for a moment was relegated to a place
of minor import.
CHAPTER III
I
An imposing spectacle greeted Marjorie's eyes as she made her way in
company with the Shippen girls into the ballroom of the City Tavern. The
hall was superb, of a charming style of architecture, well furnished and
lighted, and brilliantly decorated with a profusion of American and
French flags arranged in festoons and trianguloids and drapings
throughout its entire length and breadth, its atmosphere vocal with the
strains of martial music. Everywhere were women dressed with elegance
and taste. The Tory ladies, gowned in the height of fashion, were to
Marjorie a revelation at once amazing and impressive.
On a raised dais sat the Governor in his great chair. He was clothed in
the regulation buff and blue uniform of a Major General of the
Continental Army. On his shoulders he wore the epaulets and about his
waist the sword knots General Washington had presented to him the
preceding May. He bore also upon his person the most eloquent of martial
trophies, for his leg, wounded at Quebec and Saratoga, rested heavily on
a small cushion before him.
Marjorie who saw him for the first time, was attracted at once by his
manly bearing and splendid physique. His frame was large, his shoulders
broad, his body inclined to be fleshy. His very presence, however, was
magnetic, still his manner was plain and without affectation. He looked
the picture of dignity and power as he received the guests in their turn
and greeted each with a pointed and pleasant remark.
"Isn't he a handsome figure?" whispered Peggy to Marjorie as they made
their way slowly to the dais.
Marjorie acquiesced in the judgment. He was still young, hardly more
than thirty-five, his weather-beaten face darkened to bronze from
exposure. His features were large and clean cut with the power of
decision written full upon them. A firm and forcible chin, with heavy
lines playing about his mouth; eyes, large and black, that seemed to
take toll of everything that transpired about them, suggested a man of
extravagant energy, of violent and determined tenacity in the face of
opposition. No one could look upon his imposing figure without calling
to mind his martial achievements--the exploits of Canada, of the Mohawk,
of Bemis Heights.
"So this is your little friend," said he to Peggy, eyeing Marjorie as
she made her presentation courtesy. He was now standing, though resting
heavily on his cane with his left hand.
"Mistress Allison, this privilege is a happy one. I understand that you
are a violent little patriot." He smiled as he gently took her hand.
"I am very pleased, Your Excellency. This is an occasion of rare delight
to me."
"And are you so intensely loyal? Your friends love you for your
devotion, although I sometimes think that they miss General Howe," and
he smiled in the direction of Peggy as he turned to her with this
remark.
"You know, General," Peggy was always ready with an artful reply, "I
told you that I was neither the one nor the other; and that I wore
black and white at the Mischienza, the colors now worn by our American
soldiers in their cockades in token of the French and American
Alliance."
"So you did. I had almost forgotten."
"And that there were some American gentlemen present, as well, although
aged non-combatants," she continued with a subtle smile.
"For which reason," he responded, "you would, I suppose, have it assume
a less exclusive appearance."
"Oh, no! I do not mean that. It was after all a very private affair,
arranged solely in honor of General Howe."
"Were some of these young ladies at the Mischienza? And who were they
that rewarded the gallant knights?" he asked.
"Well, the Chew girls, and my sisters, and Miss Franks. There was Miss
White, and Miss Craig," she repeated the list one after the other as her
eyes searched the company assembled in the hall. "And that girl in the
corner, Miss Bond, and beyond her, her sister: then there was Miss
Smith. Miss Bond I am told is engaged to one of your best Generals, Mr.
John Robinson."
"We are accustomed to call Mr. Robinson, General Robinson in the army,"
he ventured with a smile.
She blushed slightly. "We call him Mr. Robinson in society, or sometimes
Jack."
"And who might have been your gallant knight? May I ask?"
"The Honorable Captain Cathcart," was her proud reply.
"And who has the good fortune to be your knight for this occasion?" he
questioned, seeking in their hands the billet of the evening.
"We do not know," Marjorie murmured. "We have not as yet met the Master
of Ceremonies."
He looked about him, in search evidently of some one. "Colonel
Wilkinson!" he called to a distinguished looking officer on his right,
"have these fair ladies been assigned to partners?"
The Colonel advanced and presented them with their billets, which were
numbered and which bore the name of the partner that was to accompany
them during the entire evening. Peggy opened hers and found the name of
Colonel Jean Boudinot, a young French Officer. Marjorie saw written upon
hers a name unknown to her, "Captain Stephen Meagher, aide-de-camp."
"Captain Meagher!" exclaimed the Governor. "He is one of General
Washington's aides, detailed for the present in the city. Do you know
him?"
"No," replied Marjorie timidly, "I do not, I am sorry to say. I have
never had the privilege of meeting him."
"There he is now," said he, indicating with a gesture of the eyes a tall
young officer who stood with his back toward them.
Marjorie looked in the direction indicated. A becomingly tall and erect
figure, clad in a long blue coat met her gaze. Further scrutiny
disclosed the details of a square cut coat, with skirts hooked back
displaying a buff lining, and with lappets, cuff-linings and standing
capes of like color. His bearing was overmastering as he stood at
perfect ease, his hand resting gently on a small sword hanging at his
side; his right wrist showed a delicate lace ruffle as he gestured to
and fro in his conversation. As he slightly turned in her direction, she
saw that he wore his hair drawn back from the face, with a gentle roll
on each side, well powdered and tied in a cue behind. His features were
pleasant to look upon, not large but finely chiseled and marked with
expression. Marjorie thought what a handsome figure he made as he stood
in earnest conversation, dominating the little group who surrounded him
and followed his every move with interest and attention.
"Let me call him," suggested the Governor to Marjorie who at that moment
stood with her eyes fixed on the Captain. "I am sure he will be pleased
to learn the identity of his fair partner," he added facetiously.
"Oh! do," agreed Peggy. "It would afford pleasure to all of us to meet
him."
The General whispered a word to an attendant who immediately set off in
the direction of the unconcerned Captain. As the latter received the
message he turned, looked in the direction of the dais and gazed
steadily at the Governor and his company. His eyes met Marjorie's and
she was sure that he saw her alone. The thought thrilled her through and
through. He excused himself from the company of his circle, and as he
directed his footsteps towards her, she noted his neat and close fitting
buff waistcoat, and his immaculate linen revealing itself at the throat
and ruffled wrists. Nor did she fail to observe that he wore a buff
cockade on his left breast and gilt epaulets upon his shoulders.
"Captain Meagher," announced General Arnold. "I have the honor of
presenting you to your partner for the evening, Mistress Allison."
Marjorie courtesied gracefully to his courtly acknowledgment.
"And the Misses Shippen, the belles of the Mischienza!"
Stephen bowed profoundly.
"I was just remarking, Captain, that General Washington has honored you
with a special mission, and that you have run away from your duties
tonight to mingle with the social life of the city."
"Or rather, Your Excellency, to acquaint myself with their society,"
Stephen replied good-naturedly.
"Then you do not relax, even for an evening," inquired Peggy, with a
coquettish turn of the head.
"It is the duty of a soldier never to relax." Stephen's reply was more
naïve than usual.
"And yet one's hours are shortened by pleasure and action," continued
Peggy.
"As a recreation it is far sweeter than as a business. It soon exhausts
us, however, and it is the greatest incentive to evil."
"But you dance?" interrupted the General.
"Oh, yes! Your Excellency," replied Stephen, "after a fashion."
"Well, your partner is longing for the music. Come, let ye assemble."
And as the dance was announced, the first one being dedicated to "The
Success of the Campaign," Stephen and Marjorie moved off and took their
places. Peggy and her sisters were soon attended and followed. They were
soon lost in the swirl of excitement among the throng.
II
"And you live alone with your father and mother?"
Marjorie and her partner were sitting in a distant corner whither they
had wandered at the conclusion of the dance. Stephen began to find
himself taking an unusual interest in this girl and was inquiring
concernedly about her home life.
"Yes, Father's time is much consumed with his attention to the shop.
Mother and I find plenty to occupy us about the house. Then I relieve
Father at times, and so divide my hours between them," quietly answered
Marjorie.
"You have not as yet told me your name," Stephen reminded her.
"Marjorie," was the timid reply.
"Marjorie!" Then, taking advantage of her averted look, he stole secret
glances at her small round face, her lips, firmly set but curving
upwards, her rose-pink cheeks. Presently, his eye rested on her
finger-ring, a cameo with what looked like an ectypal miniature of the
"Ecce Homo." Was this girl of his faith?
"Marjorie Allison," he repeated again. "Do you know that sounds like a
Catholic name?"
"It is," Marjorie replied proudly. "Our family have been Catholics for
generations."
"Mine have, too," Stephen gladly volunteered the information. "Irish
Catholics with a history behind them."
"Is your home here?" asked Marjorie.
"Here in this country, yes," admitted her escort. "But I live in New
York and it was there I volunteered at the outbreak of the war, and saw
my first service in the New York campaign."
"And are your parents there, too?" inquired the girl.
And then he told her that his father and mother and only sister lived
there and that when the war broke out he determined to enlist in company
with a number of his friends, the younger men of the neighborhood. How
he took part in the campaign about New York and his "contribution to our
defeat," as he styled it. Of the severe winter at Valley Forge and his
appointment by Washington to his staff. She listened with keen interest
but remained silent until the end.
"And now you are in the city on detailed duty?"
"Yes. Work of a private nature for the Commander-in-chief."
"It must be a source of satisfaction to be responsive to duty," observed
Marjorie.
"It is God's medicine to detach us from the things of this world. For,
after all has been said and done, it is love alone which elevates one's
service above the domain of abject slavery. In such a manner do the
commands of heaven afford the richest consolations to the soul."
"And still, a certain routine must manifest itself at times."
"Not when the habit is turned to pleasure."
"You are a philosopher, then?"
"No. Just a mere observer of men and their destinies."
"Have you included the duration of the war in your legitimate
conclusions?"
"It is not over yet, and it will not terminate, I think, without an
improvement in the present condition of affairs. The proposed help from
France must become a reality of no ordinary proportion, else the
discordant factions will achieve dire results. Tell me," he said,
suddenly changing the topic of conversation, "were you in attendance at
the Mischienza?"
"No, I did not care to attend."
"I would I had been present."
"You would have been expelled in your present capacity."
"Ah, yes! But I would have affected a disguise."
"You would expect to obtain important information?" She fingered her
gown of pink satin as she spoke, oblivious of everything save the
interest of the conversation.
"I might possibly have stumbled across some items of value."
"None were there save the British Officers and their Tory friends, you
know."
"A still greater reason for my desire to be present. And why did you not
dance attendance?" This question was frank.
"Do you really want to know my sole reason?" She looked at him somewhat
suspicious, somewhat reliant, awaiting her womanly instinct to reveal to
her the rectitude of her judgment.
"I should not have asked, otherwise," Stephen gravely replied.
"Well, it was for the simple reason that my soul would burn within me if
I permitted myself to indulge in such extravagance and gayety the while
our own poor boys were bleeding to death at Valley Forge."
Stephen grasped her hand and pressed it warmly. "You are a true
patriot," was all he could say.
Whether it was his emotion for the cause of his country or the supreme
satisfaction afforded him by the knowledge that this girl was loyal to
the cause, Stephen did not know, nor did he try to discover. He knew
that he was thrilled with genuine gratification and that he was joyously
happy over the thought which now relieved his mind. Somehow or other he
earnestly desired to find this girl an ardent patriot, yet he had dared
not ask her too bluntly. From the moment she had entered the hall in
company with the other girls, he had singled her alone in the midst of
the company. And, when the summons came to him from the Governor, he had
seen her standing at the side of the dais, and her alone. Little did he
suspect, however, that she bore his billet, nor did he presume to wish
for the pleasure of her exclusive company for the evening.
She danced with grace and was wholly without affectation. How sweet she
looked; pink gown, pink flowers, pink ribbon, pink cheeks! How
interesting her conversation, yet so reserved and dignified! But she
lived in the city and the city he knew teemed with Loyalists. Was she
one of these! He dared not ask her. To have her so declare herself
enraptured him. She was one of his own after all.
Moreover she was one with him in religious belief--that was a distinct
comfort. Catholics were not numerous, and to preserve the faith was no
slight struggle. He was thoroughly conversant with the state of affairs
in the province of New York where Catholics could not, because of the
iniquitous law and the prescribed oath of office, become naturalized as
citizens of the state. He knew how New Jersey had excluded Roman
Catholics from office, and how North and South Carolina had adopted the
same iniquitous measure. Pennsylvania was one of the few colonies
wherein all penal laws directed against the Catholics had been
absolutely swept away. To meet with a member of his own persecuted
Church, especially one so engaging and so interesting as Marjorie, was a
source of keen joy and an unlooked-for happiness.
"You will not deny me the pleasure of paying my respects to your father
and mother?" Stephen asked.
She murmured something as he let go her hand. Stephen thought she had
said, "I had hoped that you would come."
"Tomorrow?" he ventured.
"I shall be pleased to have you sup with us," she smiled as she made the
soft reply.
"Tomorrow then it shall be."
They rose to take their part in the next dance.
III
As the evening wore on Peggy, wearied of the dance, sought a secluded
corner of the great room to compose herself. She had been disappointed
in her lottery, for she detested the thought of being a favor for a
French officer and had taken care to so express herself at home long
before. She could not rejoice at Marjorie's good fortune as she thought
it, and found little of interest and less of pleasure in the evening's
doings.
She was aroused from her solitude and made radiant on the instant at
sight of the Military Governor, limping his way across the hall in her
direction. He had seen her seated alone, and his heart urged him to her
side. With the lowest bow of which he was then capable, he sought the
pleasure of her company. Her color heightened, she smiled graciously
with her gray-blue eyes, and accepted his hand. He led the way to the
banquet room and thence to the balcony, where they might hear the music
and view the dancing, for his lameness made dancing impossible.
"I hesitate to condemn a young lady to a prison seat, when the stately
minuet sends a summons," he said as he led her to a chair a little to
one side of the balcony.
"You should have thought of that before you made us cast lots," she
replied quickly. "I was wearying of the rounds of pleasure."
"Is the company, then, all too gay?"
"No, rather extravagant."
"You insisted on the Mischienza ladies being present."
"And can you not distinguish them? Do they not appear to better
advantage than the others? Their gowns are superior, they give evidence
of more usage in society, their head-dress is higher and of the latest
fashion."
"And their hearts, their hopes, their sympathies! Where are they?"
"You know where mine lay," she adroitly replied.
"True, you did wear a French cockade," he laughed.
"Please do not call it 'French.' I scorn all things 'French.'"
"They are our allies now, you must know."
"For which I am most sorry. I expect no mercy from that scheming Papist
country," she replied bitterly.
"But they have lent us much money at a time when our paper currency is
practically worthless, and the assistance of their fleet is now
momentarily expected," the General went on to explain.
"And to what purpose? Lord North has proposed to meet our demands most
liberally and with our constitutional liberties secured, I fail to see
why further strife is necessary."
"But our independence is not yet secure."
"It was secure after your brilliant victory at Saratoga. With the
collapse of Burgoyne, England saw that further campaigning in a country
so far removed from home was disastrous. It only remained to formulate
some mutual agreement. We have triumphed. Why not be magnanimous? Why
subject the country to a terrible strain for years for a result neither
adequate nor secure?"
She talked rapidly, passionately. It was evident from the manner of her
address that the subject was no new one to her.
"You can be court-martialed for treason?" he remarked with a slight
smile playing about the heavy lines of his mouth.
"Is it treason to talk of the welfare of the country? I look upon the
alliance with this Catholic and despotic power as more of an act of
treason than the total surrender of our armies to King George. To lose
our independence is one thing; but to subject our fair land to the
tyranny of the Pope and his emissary, the King of France, is a total
collapse. Our hopes lie in England alone."
The Governor was struck by this strange reasoning. Why had this mere
child dared to express the very thoughts which were of late intruding
themselves upon his mind, but which he dared not permit to cross the
seal of his lips? She was correct, he thought, in her reasoning, but
bold in her denunciation. No one else had dared to address such
sentiments to him. And now he was confronted with a young lady of quick
wit and ready repartee who spoke passionately the identical reflections
of his more mature mind. Clearly her reasoning was not without some
consistency and method.
"I am afraid that you are a little Tory." He could not allow this girl
to think that she had impressed him in the least.
"Because I am frank in the expression of my views?" She turned and with
arched eyebrows surveyed him. "Pardon me, if you will, but I would have
taken no such liberty with any other person. You gave me that privilege
when you forbade my alluding to your former brilliant exploits."
"But I did not want you to become a Tory."
He spoke with emphasis.
"I am not a Tory I tell you."
"But you are not a Whig?"
"What, an ordinary shop maid!"
"They are true patriots."
"But of no social standing."
"Tell me why all the Mischienza ladies courtesied to me after so courtly
a fashion," he asked.
"They like it. It is part of their life. You must know that nothing
pleases a woman of fashion more than to bow and courtesy before every
person of royalty, and to count those who precede her out of a room."
"Surely, Margaret, you are no such menial?" He compressed his lips as he
glanced at her sharply. He had never before called her by her first name
nor presumed to take this liberty. It was more a slip of the tongue than
an act of deliberate choice, yet he would not have recalled the word.
His concern lay in her manner of action.
"And why not a menial?" Evidently she took no notice of his
presumption, or at least pretended not to do so. "Piety is by no means
the only motive which brings women to church. Position in life is
precisely what one makes it."
"Does social prestige appeal to you then?"
"I love it." She did not talk to him directly for her attention was
being centered upon the activities on the floor. "I think that a woman
who can dress with taste and distinction possesses riches above all
computation. See Mrs. Reed, there. How I envy her!"
"The wife of the President of the Council?" he asked apprehensively,
bending forward in the direction of the floor.
"The same. She enjoys a position of social eminence. How I hate her for
it." She tapped the floor with her foot as she spoke.
"You mean that you dislike her less than you envy her position?"
Just then her young squire came up and she gave him her hand for a
minuet, excusing herself to the Governor as graciously as possible.
Scarcely had she disappeared when he began to muse. What a fitting
companion she would make for a man of his rank and dignity! That she was
socially ambitious and obsessed with a passion for display he well knew.
She was not yet twenty but the disparity in their ages,--he was about
thirty-seven and a widower with three sons,--would be offset by the
disparity of their stations. No one in the city kept a finer stable of
horses nor gave more costly dinners than he. Everybody treated him with
deference, for no one presumed to question his social preëminence. The
Whigs admired him as their dashing and perhaps their most successful
General. The Tories liked him because of his aristocratic display and
his position in regard to the Declaration of Independence. Why not make
her his bride?
She possessed physical charms and graces in a singular degree. She
dressed with taste; her wardrobe was of the finest. Aristocratic in her
bearing, she would be well fitted to assume the position of the first
lady of the town. Peggy, moreover, possessed a will of her own. This was
revealed to him more than once during their few meetings, and if proof
had been wanting, the lack was now abundantly supplied. She would make
an ideal wife, and he resolved to enter the lists against all suitors.
Her mind was more mature than her years, he thought. This he gleaned
from her animated discussion of the alliance. And there was, after all,
more than an ounce of wisdom in her point of view. Mischief brewed in
the proposed help from a despotic power. His own signal victory ended
the war if only the Colonists would enter into negotiations or give an
attentive ear to the liberal proposals of Lord North. The people did not
desire complete independence and he, for one, had never fully endorsed
the Declaration. Her point of view was right. Better to accept the
overtures of our kinsmen than to cast our lot with that Catholic and
despotic power.
His musings were arrested by the arrival of an aide, who announced that
he was needed at headquarters. He arose at once to obey.
CHAPTER IV
I
Stephen awoke late the next morning. As he lay with eyes closed, half
asleep, half awake, the image of his partner of the evening sweetly
drifted into his dreamy brain, and called up a wealth of associations on
which he continued to dwell with rare pleasure. But the ominous
suggestion that her heart could not possibly be free, that perhaps some
gay officer, or brilliant member of Howe's staff, or a gallant French
official, many of whom had now infested the town, was a favored
contestant in the field, filled his mind with the thoughts of dread
possibilities, and chased away the golden vision that was taking shape.
He sat upright and, pulling aside the curtains of the little window that
flanked his bed, he peered into the garden behind the house. The birds
were singing, but not with the volume or rapture which is their wont in
the early morning. The sun was high in the heavens and flung its
reflecting rays from the trees and foliage; whence he concluded that the
morning was already far advanced and that it was well past the hour for
him to be astir.
And what a day it was! One of those rare July days when the tints of the
earth and the hues of the sky though varied in color, seem to blend in
one beautiful and harmonious whole. The cypress and the myrtle, emblems
of deeds of virtue and renown, had already donned their summer dress.
The many flowers bowed gently under the weight of the flitful butterfly,
or the industrious bee, or tossed to and fro lightly in the arms of the
morning breeze. Overhead maples, resplendent in their fabric of soft and
delicate green, arched themselves like fine-spun cobwebs, through which
filigree the sun projected his rays at irregular and frequent intervals,
lending only an occasional patch of sunlight here and there to the more
exposed portions of the garden.
But nature had no power to drive Marjorie's image from his mind. Try as
he would, he could not distract his attention to the many problems which
ordinarily would have engaged thoughts. What mattered it to him that the
French fleet was momentarily expected, or that the Continental Congress
was again meeting in the city, or that he had met with certain
suspicious looking individuals during the course of the day! There was
yet one who looked peculiarly suspicious and who was enveloped, as far
as his knowledge was concerned, in a veil of mystery of the strangest
depth. She, indeed, was a flower too fair to blush unseen or unattached.
His own unworthiness confounded him.
Nevertheless he was determined to call on her that very day, in response
to her generous invitation of last night, and in accordance too with the
custom of the time. He would there, perchance, learn more of her, of her
home, of her life, of her friends. But would he excite in her the
interest she was exciting in him? The thought of his possible remoteness
from her, pained him and made his heart sink. The noblest characters
experience strange sensations of desolation and wretchedness at the
thought of disapproval and rejection. Esteem, the testimony of our
neighbor's appreciation, the approval of those worth while, these are
the things for which we yearn with fondest hopes. To know that we have
done well is satisfaction, but to know that our efforts and our work are
valued by others is one of the noblest of pleasures. Stephen longed to
know how he stood in the lady's esteem, and so her little world was his
universe.
Dispatching the day's business as best he could, the expectant knight
set out to storm the castle of his lady. Eager as he was, he did not
fail to note the imposing majesty of the great trees which lined each
side of the wide road and arched themselves into a perfect canopy
overhead. An air of abundance pervaded the whole scene and made him
quite oblivious of the extreme warmth of the afternoon.
Ere long the little white house of her describing rose before him. He
had seen it many times in other days, but now it was invested with a new
and absorbing interest. There it stood, plain yet stately, with a great
pointed and shingled roof, its front and side walls unbroken save for a
gentle projection supported by two uniform Doric pillars which served as
a sort of a portal before the main entrance. Numerous windows with small
panes of glass, and with trim green shutters thrown full open revealing
neatly arranged curtains, glinted and glistened in the beams of the
afternoon sun. The nearer of the two great chimneys which ran up the
sides, like two great buttresses of an old English abbey, gave
indications of generous and well-fed fireplaces recessed in the walls of
the inner rooms. The lawns and walks were uncommonly well kept, and the
whole atmosphere of the little home was one of comfort and simplicity
and neatness, suggesting the sweet and serene happiness reigning within.
Stephen closed the gate behind him. A moment later he had seized the
brass knocker and delivered three moderate blows.
II
"Captain Meagher!" gasped a soft voice. "I am so pleased you have come."
"Mistress Allison, the pleasure is indeed mine, I assure you," replied
Stephen as he grasped her hand, releasing it with a gentle pressure.
She led the way into the narrow hall.
"Mother!" she addressed a sweetly smiling middle-aged woman who now
stood at her side, "I have the honor of presenting to you, Captain
Meagher, of the staff of General Washington, my partner of last
evening." And she betrayed a sense of pride in that bit of history.
Stephen took the matron's hand, for among the Americans the custom
prevailed of shaking hands, albeit the French visitors of the time
maintained that it was a "comic custom." Stephen thought it democratic,
and in keeping with the spirit of the country.
The parlor opened immediately to the right and thither Stephen was
conducted without further ceremony. Mr. Allison would be in shortly; he
was as yet busied with the trade at the shop. The old clock at the
corner of the room, with its quaint figure of Time adorning the top, and
its slowly moving pendulum, proclaimed the hour of five, the hour when
the duties of the day came to a close and social life began. The old
fireplace, black in this season of desuetude, but brilliant in its huge
brass andirons like two pilasters of gold, caught the eye at the extreme
end of the room, while in the corner near the window a round mahogany
tea-table, stood upright like an expanded fan or palm leaf.
Stephen seated himself in a great chair that lay to one side of the
room.
"I had the good fortune of being your daughter's partner for the
evening, and I am happy to be enabled to pay my respects to you."
Stephen addressed Mrs. Allison who was nearer to him on his left.
"Marjorie told me, Captain, of your extreme kindness to her. We
appreciate it very much. Did she conduct herself becomingly? She is a
stranger to such brilliant affairs."
"Splendidly!" answered Stephen. "And she danced charmingly," and he
slyly looked at her as he spoke and thought he detected a faint blush.
"I did not attend on account of its extravagance," remarked Mrs.
Allison. "I had duties at home, and Marjorie was well attended."
"Indeed!" pronounced Marjorie.
"It was magnificent, to be sure," went on Stephen, "but it will excite
no uncertain comment. Republican simplicity last night was lost from
sight."
"Which I scarce approve of," declared Marjorie.
"You did not suit your action to your thought," smiled her mother.
"True," replied the girl, "yet I told you that I was anxious to attend
simply to behold the novelty of it all. Now that it is over, I
disapprove of the splendor and extravagance especially in these times of
need."
"Yes," volunteered Stephen, "she did voice similar sentiments to me last
evening. Nevertheless she is not alone in her criticism. The _Gazette_
today publishes a leading article excoriating the Military Governor for
his use of the teams, which he had commanded under pretense of
revictualing of the army, for the transportation of his private effects
to and from the City Tavern. It spells dissatisfaction at best."
"There has been dissatisfaction from the first day on which he took up
residence at the Slate Roof House," said Mrs. Allison.
The figure of Mr. Allison appeared in the room to the rear. Stephen made
haste to stand to greet him, expressing his extreme pleasure.
It was a great day for a tradesman when an officer of the Continental
Army supped at his table. The house was in a mild uproar since Marjorie
announced the coming distinction on her return from the ball. From the
kitchen chimney went up a pillar of smoke. Mrs. Allison and two of her
neighbors who were proud to lend assistance on such an important
occasion could be seen passing in and out continually. A large roast lay
simmering and burnished in the pan diffusing savory and provoking fumes
throughout the house. And it was with distinct pride that Mrs. Allison
announced to the company that they might take their places about the
festive board.
The discourse bore on various matters, prominence being given to
politics and the affairs of the army. Mr. Allison took care to ask no
question that might give rise to embarrassment on the part of Stephen.
The complaints of the tradesmen, the charges of the Whigs, the
murmurings of the Tories and the annoying articles in the morning
_Gazette_, all, were touched upon in the course of the meal. Stephen
volunteered the information that Conway and Gates were in hiding and
that Clinton was driven to New York where Washington was watching his
every move, like a hawk, from the heights of Morristown.
"General Washington holds General Arnold in the highest esteem,"
remarked Mr. Allison.
"As the bravest general in the Continental Army," quietly replied
Stephen.
"He would make a poor statesman," went on the host.
"He is a soldier first and last."
"Should a soldier be wanting in tact and diplomacy?"
"A good soldier should possess both."
"Then General Arnold is not a good soldier," declared Mr. Allison.
"A criticism he hardly deserves," was the simple reply.
"You saw the _Gazette_?"
"Yes. I read that article to which you undoubtedly refer."
"And you agree with it?"
"No. I do not."
"I am sorry about it all. Yet I am inclined to hold the Governor
responsible to a great extent. He would be an aristocrat, and it is the
society of such that he covets."
"Perhaps jealousy might inspire criticism. Envy, you know, is the
antagonist of the fortunate."
"But it is not his deeds alone that cause the unrest among our citizens.
It is not what he does but what he says. It helps matters not in the
least to express dissatisfaction with the manner of conducting the war,
neither by criticizing the enactments of the Congress, nor vehemently
opposing the new foreign alliance. This does not sound well from the
lips of one of our foremost leaders and we do not like it."
"I was not aware that he voiced any opposition to the furtherance of the
alliance with France," declared Stephen.
"He might not have spoken in formal protest, but he has spoken in an
informal manner times without number," replied Mr. Allison.
"I am sorry to hear that. I did not expect such from General Arnold,"
muttered Stephen.
Marjorie had as yet taken no part in the conversation. She was
interested and alive, however, to every word, anxious, if possible, to
learn Stephen's attitude in respect to the common talk. She took delight
in his defense of his General, notwithstanding the overwhelming evidence
against him and was proud of the trait of loyalty her guest disclosed in
the face of her father's opposition.
Mrs. Allison and Marjorie participated in the conversation when the
topics bore, for the most part, on current events, uninteresting to Mr.
Allison, who munched in silence until some incomplete sentence called
for a remark or two from him by way of a conclusion. Stephen's animated
interest in the more common topics of the day led Mrs. Allison and
Marjorie to the conclusion that he was a more practical and a more
versatile man than the head of their own house.
All in all he made a profound impression on the family, and when the
repast was finished and the table had been cleared, they sat over the
fruit and the nuts, before retiring to the living room for the evening.
III
"You are not in the habit of frequenting brilliant functions?" Stephen
asked of Marjorie when they were quite alone. It was customary for the
older folks to retire from the company of the younger set shortly after
the dinner grace had been said. Of course grace had to be said; Mr.
Allison would permit no bread to be broken at his house without first
imploring benedictions from Heaven, and, when the formalities of the
meal had been concluded, of returning thanks for the good things
enjoyed.
"I never have attended before," answered Marjorie, smoothing out a side
of her apron with her hand.
"You are quite friendly with the Shippen family, I understand."
"Oh, yes! For several years we have been united. I am invited to all
their functions. Still I am not fond of society."
"And you spend your time alone?" Stephen was persistent in his questions
as he sat opposite to her and studied her expression.
"Between here and the store, and perhaps with Peggy. That is about all
for I seldom visit. I am hopelessly old-fashioned in some things, mother
tells me, and I suppose you will say the same if I tell you more," and
she looked at him slyly, with her head half-raised, her lips parted
somewhat in a quizzical smile.
"Not at all! You are what I rather hoped to find you, although I did not
dare to give expression to it. You can, possibly, be of some assistance
to me."
"Gladly would I perform any service, however humble, for the cause of
our country," Marjorie sat upright, all attention at the thought.
"You remember I told you that I was detailed in the city on special
work," Stephen went on.
"I do."
"Well, it is a special work but it also is a very indefinite work. There
is a movement afoot, but of its nature, and purpose, I at this moment am
entirely ignorant. I am here to discover clews."
"And have you no material to work on except that? It is very vague, to
say the least."
"That and suspicion. Howe found the city a nest of Tories; but he also
found it swarmed with patriots, whose enthusiasm, and vigor, and
patience, and determination must have impressed him profoundly, and
portended disaster for the British cause. With the morale of the people
so high, and renewed hope and confidence swelling their bosoms, a
complete military victory must have appeared hopeless to the British
General. What was left? Dissension, or rebellion, or treason, or
anything that will play havoc with the united determination of the
Colonists."
She breathed heavily as she rested her chin on her hand absorbed in the
vision that he was calling up.
"Arnold's victory at Saratoga has convinced Britain that the war over
here cannot be won," he continued. "Already has Lord North thrown a bomb
into the ranks of the proud Tories by his liberal proposals. Of course
they will be entirely rejected by us and the war will continue until
complete independence is acknowledged. True, we had no such idea in mind
when we entered this conflict, but now we are convinced that victory is
on our side and that a free and independent form of government is the
most suitable for us. We have enunciated certain principles which are
possible of realization only under a democratic form of government,
where the people rule and where the rulers are responsible to the
people. Such a system is possible only in a great republic, and that is
what England must now recognize. Otherwise the war must go on."
"Have our aims taken such definite form. I know----"
"No! They have not," interrupted Stephen, "they have not and that is
where trouble is to be expected. Such is the state of mind, however, of
many of the more experienced leaders, but their opinion will lose
weight. It is because all are not united in this, that there is room for
treason under the motive of misguided patriotism. And it is to scent
every possible form of that disloyalty that I have been sent here; sent
to the very place where the Tories most abound and where such a plot is
most liable to take root."
"And you expect me to be of assistance to you?" asked Marjorie, proud of
the confidence which she so readily gained.
"I expect much. But perhaps nothing will eventuate. I can rely on you,
however. For the present, naught is to be done. When the time comes, I
shall tell you."
"But what can I do? I am but a mere girl."
"Did I think you to be ordinary, I might not have asked you," quickly
exchanged Stephen.
Marjorie dropped her head and began studying the stitches in her gown.
But only for a second, for she as quickly raised her head and asked:
"Wherein, then, can I be of service to you?"
"Listen!" He brought his chair to a point nearly opposite hers. She was
seated on the settee, yet he made no attempt to share it with her.
"You are friendly with the Shippen family," he went on. "Now, do not
misinterpret me. I shall require no betrayal of confidence. But it is
generally known that the Shippens are Tories, not avowedly so, yet in
heart and in thought. It is also generally known that their house was
the center of society during the days of the British occupation, at
which all manner of men assembled. The walls of that house, could they
but speak, would be able to relate many momentous conversations held
over the teacups, or in quiet corners. The family themselves must know
many things which might be invaluable to us."
"And you want me to learn that for you?" inquired Marjorie in alarm as
the horrible thought forced itself upon her.
"I want you to do nothing of the kind," quickly answered Stephen. "Far
be it from me to require you to barter your benevolence. I should
deplore any such method as most dishonorable and unworthy of the noble
cause in which we are engaged. No! I ask this, simply, that through you
I might be permitted the honor of visiting the home of Miss Shippen and
that by being acquainted with the family I might acquire a general
entrée to the Tory social circle. In this way I might effect my purpose
and perchance stumble across information of vital importance. Thus can
you be of great assistance to me."
"I shall be delighted to do this, and I shall tell you more--perhaps you
may ask me to do something more noble--sometime----" She hesitated to
express the wish which was father to her thought.
"Sometime I expect you to be of real service to me and to our
country--sometime----"
Marjorie did not answer. She knew what she would like to say, but dared
not. Why should he unfold his mission to her at this, almost their first
meeting? And why should he expect her to be of such assistance to him,
to him, first, and then to the country? And then, why should she feel so
responsive, so ready to spend herself, her energy, her whole being at
the mere suggestion of this young man, whom until last evening, she had
never thought to exist. She felt that she was as wax in the hands of
this soldier; she knew it and enjoyed it and only awaited the moment
when his seal would come down upon her and stamp her more to his liking.
She was slightly younger than he, and happily his contrary in nearly all
respects. He was fair, she was dark; his eyes were blue, hers brown; he
was lusty and showed promise of broadness, she was slender.
Twice she opened her mouth as if to speak to him, and each time she
dropped again her head in reflective silence. She did not talk to this
young man as she might to any number of her more intimate acquaintances.
Even the very silence was magnetic. Further utterance would dispel the
charm. That she would enlist in his service she knew as well as she knew
her own existence, but that he should arouse so keen an interest in her,
so buoyant an attitude, so secure an assurance, amazed her and filled
her with awe. She had never before experienced quite the same sensation
that now dismayed her nor had any one ever brought home to her her worth
as did this young soldier. Yes she would help him, but in what way?
And so they sat and considered and talked. They soon forgot to talk
about His Excellency, or the Army, or the Shippens. Neither did they
resolve the doubts that might have been entertained concerning the
manner of men who frequented the home of Peggy and her sisters; nor the
Alliance which had just been established, nor the vital signification of
the event. They just talked over a field of affairs none of which bore
any special relation to any one save their own selves. At length the old
clock felt constrained to speak up and frown at them for their unusual
delay and their profligate waste of tallow and dips.
Stephen rose at once. Marjorie saw him to the door, where she gave him
her hand in parting.
"We have indeed been honored this day, Captain, and I trust that the
near future will see a return of the same. I am entirely at your
service," whispered Marjorie, wondering why the words did not come to
her more readily.
"On the contrary, Miss Allison, it is I who have been privileged. My
humble respects to your parents. Adieu!"
He bowed gracefully, wheeled, and went out the door.
CHAPTER V
I
The Corner of Market and Front Streets was brisk with life and activity
at twelve, the change hour, every day. Here assembled the merchants of
the city, members of the upper class who cared enough about the rest of
the world to make an inquiry into its progress; men of leisure about
town whose vocation in life was to do nothing and who had the entire day
in which to do it. All conditions, all varieties of character joined the
ranks. Soldiers, restless from the monotony of army life and desirous of
the license usually associated with leave of absence; civilians eager in
the pursuit of truth or of scandal; patriots impatient with the yoke of
foreign rule; Tories exasperated with the turn of the war and its
accompanying privations;--all gathered together at the Old London Coffee
House day after day.
It stood, an imposing three-storied, square structure, with a great wing
extending far in the rear. Its huge roof, fashioned for all the world
after a truncated pyramid with immense gables projecting from its sides,
gave every indication of having sheltered many a guest from the snows
and rains of winter. A great chimney ran up the side and continually
belched forth smoke and sparks, volumes of them, during the days and
nights of the cold winter season. A portico of no particular style of
architecture ran around two sides of the ancient building and afforded
a meeting place for the majority of the guests. It was furnished with
many chairs, faithfully tenanted when the season was propitious.
Thither Stephen and Mr. Allison were directing their steps more than a
week after they had last met at the home of the latter. It was by the
merest chance they encountered. Stephen was seeking a healthful reaction
from a vigorous walk through the less-frequented part of the city; Mr.
Allison was making his daily visit to the Coffee House. Stephen had
often heard of the tavern, but had never been there. Still he was
resolved to seek an introduction to its clientèle at the first
propitious moment. That moment had now come.
Upon entering, their attention was at once arrested by the animated
discussion in progress at a table in the nearest corner of the room. An
officer of the Governor's Guard, in full regimentals, booted and
spurred, in company with a gentleman, finely dressed, was talking loudly
to Jim Cadwalader, who was seated before them holding a half-opened
newspaper in his hand. It was plain to be seen that the soldier was
somewhat under the influence of liquor, yet one could not call him
intoxicated.
"Gi' me that an' I'll show y'," exclaimed the soldier as he grabbed the
paper from Cadwalader's hand.
"Y' were told," he went on to read from it, "that it was t' avoid the
'stabl'shment 'r count'nancin'," he half mumbled the words, "of Pop'ry;
an that Pop'ry was 'stabl'shed in Canada (where 't was only tol'rated).
And is not Pop'ry now as much 'stabl'shed by law in your state 's any
other rel'gion?" "Just what I was sayin'," he interpolated. "So that
your Gov'nor and all your rulers may be Papists, and you may have a
Mass-House in ev'ry corner o' your country (as some places already
'xper'ence)."
"There!" he snarled as he threw back the paper. "Isn't that what I wuz
tryin' t' tell y'."
"You can't tell me nothin', Forrest," retorted Jim.
"Course I can't. Nobody kin. Y' know 't all."
"I can mind my own bus'ness."
"There y' are agin," shouted Forrest, "y' know 't all, ye do."
"Don't say that again," Jim flared back at him. "I'll--I'll--I'll----.
Don't say it again, that's all."
"'Cause y' know 'ts true."
"It's a lie," Jim interrupted him. "Ye know it's a lie. But I don't
'spect much of ye, 'r of the Gov'nor either. None of ye 'll ever be
Papists."
"Now you're talkin' sens'ble; first sens'ble thing you've said t'day. No
Papists here if we kin help it."
Stephen and Mr. Allison, keenly interested in this remark, moved nearer
to the table. Cadwalader was well known to Mr. Allison. The others were
total strangers.
"What's he goin' t' do about the help from France? Refuse it 'cause it's
from a Catholic country?" asked Jim.
"He don't like it and never did."
"Is he fool 'nough t' think we can win this war without help?"
"He won it once."
"When?"
"Saratoga."
"That's his story. We didn't have it won and it won't be won without
troops and with somethin' besides shin-plasters." He turned sideways,
crossed one leg over the other and began to drum upon the table.
"We must hev help," he went on. "We must hev it and it must come from
France 'r Spain."
"They y' are agin," repeated Forrest, "as if one wuzn't as much under
th' Pope as th' other."
"Forrest!" he turned toward him and shook his finger at him in a
menacing sort of way. "Don't say that agin. Mind what I tell ye. Don't
say it again--that's all. When I'm mad, I'm not myself."
"Is that so? I s'pose I'm wrong agin, an' you're right. Tell me this.
What did yer fool leg'slature in Vi'ginya do th' other day?"
"I don't know," murmured Jim. "What did they do?"
"There y' are agin. I thought y' knew it all. Think y' know ev'rythin'
an' y' know nothin'. Passed a resolution fur a Papist priest, didn't
they?"
"And why?" pronounced Jim, flushed with anger, his lower lip quivering
with emotion. "'Cause he did more fur his country, than you or I'll ever
do. Father Gibault! And if it wazn't fur him, Colonel Clark'd never hev
op'nd th' Northwest."
"That's just what I say. The Papists'll soon own the whole damn
country."
Stephen and Mr. Allison moved as if to join the discussion, which had at
this juncture become loud enough to lose the character of intimacy. Jim
was well known to the guests of the house. The man who was known as
Forrest, was, it was plain from his uniform, a Colonel in the army. The
other man was a stranger. Much younger than his companion, tall, manly,
clad in a suit of black, with his hair in full dress, well-powdered and
gathered behind in a large silken bag, he gave every appearance of
culture and refinement. He wore a black cocked hat, whose edges were
adorned with a black feather about an inch in depth, his knees as well
as his shoes adorned with silver buckles.
"If they did own th' country," was Jim's grave reply, "we'd hev a
healthier place to live in than we now hev."
"An' whose doin' it?" shouted Forrest. "The Papists."
"Thou liest!" interrupted Mr. Allison, intruding himself into their
midst, "a confounded lie. Remember, the Catholics have given their all
to this war--their goods, their money, their sons."
"Heigh-ho! who're you?" asked the soldier. "What d' you know 'bout the
army? Hardly 'nough 'f them to go aroun'."
"A malicious untruth. Why, half the rebel army itself is reported to
have come from Ireland."
"How do you know?"
"From the testimony of General Robertson in the House of Lords. And if
these soldiers are Irishmen, you can wager they're Catholics. And why
should we pass laws 'gainst these crowds of Irish Papists and convicts
who are yearly poured upon us, unless they were Catholic convicts
fleeing from the laws of persecution?"
"What ails ye, Forrest," rejoined Jim, "can't be cured."
"Take care 'f yourself," angrily retorted the Colonel, "an' I'll take
care o' myself."
"If ye did, and yer likes did the same, we'd git along better and the
war'd be over. I s'pose ye know that yer friend Jay lost Canada to us."
"What if he did. Wazn't he right?"
And then he explained to him.
II
Canada had been surrendered to England by France in a clause of the
Treaty of Paris in 1763, with a stipulation, however, that the people of
the territory in question would be permitted the free use of the French
language, the prescriptions of the French code of laws, and the practice
of the Catholic religion.
South of this region and west of the English colonies between the Ohio
and the Mississippi rivers, stretched a vast expanse of territory known
as the Northwest Territory, where dwelt a large population without laws,
with no organized form of government save the mere caprices of petty
military tyrants, placed over them by the various seaboard colonies who
severally laid claim to the district. At the request of the people of
Canada it was voted by the English Parliament to reannex the territory
northwest of the Ohio to Canada and to permit the settlers to share in
the rights and privileges of the Canadian province. This was effected by
the Quebec Act in 1774.
It was truly a remarkable concession. The inhabitants of this vast
stretch of territory were freed for all time from the tyranny of
military despots, their lands and churches secured to them and their
priests given a legal title to their tithes. It was the freest exercise
of the Catholic religion under the laws of the English Government.
But what a storm of abuse and protestation was raised by the fanatical
portion of the Protestant population! The newspapers of the day abounded
with articles, with songs and squibs against the King and His
Parliament. The mother country witnessed no less virulent a campaign
than the colonies themselves. "We may live to see our churches," writes
one writer to the _Pennsylvania Packet_, "converted into mass-houses,
and our lands plundered of tithes for the support of a Popish clergy.
The Inquisition may erect her standard in Pennsylvania and the city of
Philadelphia may yet experience the carnage of St. Bartholomew's day."
Processions were formed about the country and in some places the bust of
George III, adorned with miter, beads and a pectoral cross, was carried
in triumphal march.
The forms of protest found their way ultimately into the halls of the
First American Congress which convened in Philadelphia in 1774. The
recent legislation was enumerated among the wrongs done the colonies by
the mother country. Feeling became so bitter that an address was issued
by the Congress on the fifth of September, 1774, "to the people of Great
Britain" saying: "We think the Legislature of Great Britain is not
authorized by the Constitution to establish a religion, fraught with
sanguinary and impious tenets, or to erect an arbitrary form of
government in any quarter of the globe." "By another act the Dominion of
Canada is to be extended, modeled and governed, as that being disunited
from us, detached from our interests by civil as well as religious
prejudices, that by their numbers daily swelling with Catholic emigrants
from Europe, and by their devotion to administration so friendly to
their religion, they might become formidable to us, and on occasion be
fit instruments in the hands of power to reduce the ancient free
Protestant colonies to the same state of slavery with themselves."
Little did they think that the breach they were attempting to heal was
widened by their procedure. The author of the address was John Jay, a
lawyer from New York, with whom Papaphobia was a mania.
Nor did the failure of this method of diplomacy become apparent until
several years later. The measure of appreciation and the expression of
sentiment of the Canadian people in regard to this ill-timed and
unchristian address, conceived in a fit of passion and by no means
representative of the sentiments of the saner portion of the population,
took expression at a more critical time. When, in 1776, the members of
the same Congress, viewing with alarm the magnitude of the struggle upon
which they had entered and to whose success they had pledged their
honor, their fortunes and their lives, sought to enlist the resources of
their neighbors in Canada, they met with a sudden and calamitous
disappointment. To effect an alliance with the border brethren, three
commissioners were appointed--Benjamin Franklin, Samuel Chase, and
Charles Carroll of Carrollton. Father John Carroll, a Jesuit priest, was
invited by the Congress to accompany the party.
Arriving in Canada, it soon became evident to the committee, that their
mission was to be unproductive of results. The government did not take
kindly to them, nor would the Bishop of Quebec and his clergy trust the
vague expressions of the United Colonies, whose statute books, they
pointed out, still bore the most bitter and unchristian sentiments
against all priests and adherents of the ancient church. Bigotry had
apparently defeated their purpose. How it had done this was still quite
obscure, until it was discovered that the British Government had taken
John Jay's address, translated it into French and spread it broadcast
throughout Canada. "Behold the spirit of the Colonists," it went on to
remind the people, "and if you join forces with them, they will turn on
you and extirpate your religion, in the same manner as they did in the
Catholic colony of Maryland."
The effect is historical. The commissioners were compelled to return;
the brave Montgomery was killed before the walls of the city; Canada was
lost to the Colonies and forever forfeited as an integral part of the
United States; all of which was due to the narrowness and intolerance of
those who in the supreme hour could not refrain from the fanaticism of
bigotry.
It must be said, however, out of justice to the colonists that they did
not persist in their spirit of antagonism towards the Catholics. The
commencement of the struggle against the common foe, together with the
sympathetic and magnanimous concurrence of the Catholics with the
patriots in all things, soon changed their prejudice in favor of a more
united and vigorous effort in behalf of their joint claims. The despised
Papists now became ardent and impetuous patriots. The leaders in the
great struggle soon began to reflect an added luster to the nation that
gave them birth and to the Church which taught them devotion to their
land. The rank and file began to swarm with men of the Catholic faith,
so many, indeed, that their great Archbishop, John Carroll, could write
of them that "their blood flowed as freely (in proportion to their
numbers) to cement the fabric of independence, as that of any of their
fellow citizens. They concurred with perhaps greater unanimity than any
other body of men in recommending and promoting that government from
whose influence America anticipates all the blessings of justice, peace,
plenty, good order, and civil and religious liberty."
Only among the few was the spirit of intolerance still rampant, and
among these might be numbered Colonel Forrest.
III
"See now who's t' blame, don't ye? The likes o' ye an' that poltroon,
Jay, up there in New York. See who started this affair, don't ye?"
"That's what you say. Egad, I could say all that an' save half the
breath. I've got my 'pinion, though, and that'll do fur me."
"Ye're so narrow, Forrest, ye've only one side."
"Is that so? Well, so is the Governor."
"Is that his opinion, too?" impatiently asked Mr. Allison.
"What?"
"Does he view matters in that light?"
"Did I say he did."
"Yes."
There was no further response.
Stephen had, by this time, become thoroughly exasperated with this man,
and was about to eject him forcibly from the room. His better judgment,
however, bade him restrain himself. A tilt in a public drinking house
would only noise his name abroad and perhaps give rise to much
unpleasantness.
"How can a man consistently be subject to any civil ruler when he
already has pledged his allegiance, both in soul and in body, to another
potentate?"
This from the man in black, the fourth member of the party, who
heretofore had maintained an impartial and respectful silence, not so
much from choice perhaps as through necessity. His name proved to be
John Anderson.
"You mean an alien?" Stephen inquired.
"If you are pleased so to term it. The Pope is a temporal lord, you
understand, and as such is due allegiance from every one of his
subjects."
And then Stephen took pains to explain, clearly and concisely, the great
difference between the two authorities--the civil and the religious. The
Prince of Peace had said, "Render unto Cæesar the things that are
Cæesar's, and to God the things that are God's," which declaration
admitted of an interpretation at once comprehensive and exclusive. He
explained how the Catholic found himself a member of two distinct and
perfect societies, each independent and absolute within its own sphere,
the one deriving its charter from the natural law, the other directly
from God. He then pointed out how these societies lived in perfect
harmony, although armed with two swords, the one spiritual, the other
temporal, weapons which were intended never to clash but to fight side
by side for the promotion of man's happiness, temporal and eternal.
"But it is inconceivable how a clash can be avoided," Mr. Anderson
reminded him.
"Not when it is remembered that each authority is independent of the
other. The Church has no power over civil legislation in matters purely
secular, nor has the state a right to interfere in ecclesiastical
legislation, in matters purely spiritual, nor over spiritual persons
considered strictly as such. In every Catholic country the King, as well
as the humblest peasant, is subject to the laws of his country in
secular matters, and to the laws of his church in matters spiritual."
"Yet at the same time he cannot fail to recognize that the one is
superior to the other."
"Only in so far as the spiritual order is superior to the secular."
"Not in temporal affairs as well?"
"Not in the least. Only in the recognition of the fact that the
salvation of the soul is of more importance than the welfare of the
body. In this is the mission of the state considered inferior to that of
the Church."
"If this be true, how can a Catholic pay allegiance to a society which
he believes to be a subordinate one?"
"He does not consider it subordinate. It is supreme within its own
sphere. Theoretically it is subordinate in this: that the care of the
soul comes first; then that of the body. The state is the greatest
institution in matters secular, and in this respect superior to the
Church. The Church makes no pretense of infallibility in statesmanship.
Hence, a Catholic who is true to his Church and her teachings makes the
best citizen."
"Why?"
"Because, to him, patriotism is inculcated by religion. Throughout his
whole life his soul has been nurtured by his Church on a twofold
pabulum,--love of God and love of country."
"The Catholic Church expressly teaches that? I thought----"
"Exactly," agreed Stephen, interrupting him. "The Catholic has been
taught that the civil authority, to which he owes and pays allegiance,
is something divine; for him it is the authority of God vested in His
creatures and he gives ear to its voice and yields to it a sweet and
humble submission as befits a child of God, doing His Will in all
things. For he recognizes therein the sound of the Divine Voice."
"I see."
"He remembers the teaching of his Church, derived from the words of St.
Paul writing on this subject to the citizens of Rome, 'Let every man be
subject to higher powers, for there is no power but from God; and those
that are, are ordained of God,' and the letter of St. Peter, the first
Pope, 'Be ye subject, therefore, to every human creature for God's sake;
whether it be to the king as excelling; or to governors as sent by
him--for so is the will of God.'"
"You must have been reading the Bible," interrupted Mr. Allison with a
smile.
"I have," answered Stephen, as he continued with little or no attention
to the interruption.
"The Catholic obeys the voice of his rightly constituted authority
because he feels that he is obeying the voice of his God, and when he
yields obedience to the law of his land, he feels that he is yielding
obedience to God Himself. His ruler is the mouthpiece of God; the
Constitution of his state a most sacred thing because it is the
embodiment of the authority of God and he would rather die than commit
any untoward or unlawful deed which might undermine or destroy it,
precisely because it is from God."
There was no response. All had listened with attention to Stephen as he
emphasized point after point. All, save Colonel Forrest, who wore a
sardonic smile throughout it all.
"You should 've talked like that on Guy Fawkes' Day," he muttered, "if
you wanted t' hev some fun. We'd hev some hot tar fur you."
"Thank God!" replied Stephen. "We shall witness no more such outbreaks
of fanaticism. They have long enough disgraced our country. They are, I
trust, forever ended."
"The Pope Day Celebration ended?" asked Anderson in surprise.
"I hope so. Since General Washington issued the order soon after taking
command of the army, abolishing the celebration, the practice has never
been resumed."
"Wash'ton thinks he owns th' country," mumbled Forrest in a half
articulate manner. "Likes th' Papists, he does. No more Pope Day!
Cath'lic gen'rals! French al-lies! P'rhaps 'll send fur th' Pope next.
Give 'm 'is house, p'rhaps. Give 'im th' whole coun'ry. No damn good to
us, he ain't. No damn good----"
The next moment Stephen was upon him with his hands about his throat,
his face flaming with rage and passion.
"You hound! No more of that; or your treason will end forever."
He shook his head violently, tightening his fingers about his throat. As
he did, Forrest writhing in the chair under his attack, began to fumble
with his hand at his hip as if instinctively seeking something there.
Stephen's eyes followed the movement, even while he, too, relaxed his
hold to seize with his free hand the arm of his adversary. Only for a
moment, however; for he immediately felt himself seized from behind by
the shoulders and dragged backwards from his man and completely
overpowered.
The man who was known as Anderson took charge of the Colonel, helping
him to his feet, and without further words led him to one side of the
room, talking softly but deliberately to him as he did so.
A moment later they had passed through the door and vanished down the
street in the direction of the Square.
CHAPTER VI
I
The morrow was one of those rare days when all nature seems to invite
one to go forth and enjoy the good things within her keeping. The
sunrise was menacing; unless the wind shifted before noon it would be
uncomfortably warm. Still, the air was bracing and fragrant with the
soft perfume distilled by the pines.
Stephen felt in tune with nature as he made his early morning toilet. He
gazed the while into the garden from his widely opened window, and
responded instinctively to the call of the countryside. The disagreeable
episode of the preceding day had left unpleasant recollections in his
mind which disconcerted him not a little during his waking hours, the
time when the stream of consciousness begins to flow with an
unrestrained rapidity, starting with the more impressive memories of the
night before. He did not repent his action; he might have repeated the
performance under similar circumstances, yet he chided himself for his
lack of reserve and composure and his great want of respect to a
superior officer.
He was early mounted and on his way, striking off in the direction of
the Germantown Road. He had left word with his landlady of his intended
destination, with the added remark that he would be back in a short
time, a couple of hours at the most, and that he would attend to the
business of the day upon his return. What that might amount to he had
no idea at all, being preoccupied entirely with what he had to do in the
immediate present, for he made it a point never to permit the more
serious affairs of life to intrude upon his moments of relaxation.
He was a pleasant figure to look upon; smooth-faced and athletic, well
mounted and dressed with great preciseness. On his well shaped hands he
wore leathern gauntlets; he was in his uniform of buff and blue; beneath
his coat he had his steel-buckled belt with his holster and pistol in
it; he wore his cocked hat with a buff cockade affixed, the insignia of
his rank in the service.
The road lay in the direction of Marjorie's house. Perhaps he chose to
ride along this way in order that he might be obliged to pass her door,
and then again, perhaps, that was but of secondary import. This was no
time for analysis, and so he refused to study his motives. He did know
that he had not seen her for a long time, the longest time it seemed,
and that he had had no word from her since their last meeting, save the
intelligence received from her father yesterday in response to his
repeated inquiries concerning her welfare and that of her mother.
"Let us turn up here, Dolly, old girl." He leaned forward a little to
pat the mare's neck affectionately as he spoke; while at the same time
he pulled the right rein slightly, turning her head in the direction
indicated. "And, if we are fortunate, we shall catch a glimpse of her."
Dolly raised her ears very erect and opened full her nostrils as if to
catch some possible scent of her, of whom he spoke. She pierced the
distance with her eyes, but saw no one and so settled herself into an
easy canter, for she knew it to be more to her rider's advantage to
proceed at a slowing pace until they had passed the house in question.
"You are an intelligent old girl, Dolly, but I must not let you too far
into the secrets of my mind. Still, you have shared my delights and woes
alike and have been my one faithful friend. Why should I not tell you?"
And yet they had been friends for no great length of time. It was at
Valley Forge they had met, shortly after Stephen's appointment to
General Washington's staff. As an aide he was required to be mounted and
it was by a piece of good fortune that he had been allowed to choose
from several the chestnut mare that now bore him. He had given her the
best of care and affection and she reciprocated in as intelligent a
manner as she knew how.
"You have served well, but I feel that there is much greater work before
us, much greater than our quest of the present."
They were nearing the house. For some reason or other, Dolly whinnied as
he spoke, probably in acquiescence to his thought, probably in
recognition of the presence of her rival. She might have seen, had she
cared to turn her head, a trim, lithe form passing to the rear of the
house. Stephen took pains to see her, however, and, as she turned her
head, doffed his hat in salute. The next moment Dolly felt the reins
tighten, and, whether she desired it or not, found her head turned in
that direction. Her rider was soon dismounted and was leading her to the
side of the road.
"You are early astir, Mistress Marjorie. I had anticipated no such
pleasure this morning."
"It is indeed mutual," replied Marjorie, smiling as she offered him her
hand. "How came you so early? No new turn of events, I hope!"
"Not in the least. I desired a few hours in the saddle before the heat
of the day set in, and my guardian angel must have directed me along
this path."
Dolly raised both her ears and turned towards him, while she noisily
brought her hoof down upon the sod.
"What a rascal!" she thought to herself.
The girl dropped her eyes demurely and then asked hurriedly:
"There are no new developments?"
"None that I know of."
"Nothing came of the trouble at the Inn?"
"Then you know?"
"All. Father told me."
"He should not have told you."
"It was my doing. I gave him no peace until I had learned all."
Dolly grew weary of this pleasantry and wandered away to gladden her
lips on the choice morsels of the tender grass.
"I deeply regret my indiscretion, though it was for his sake."
"You mean----?"
"His Excellency."
"I might have done likewise, were I able. Colonel Forrest is most
disagreeable."
"He was not wholly culpable and so I forgave his insulting remarks
against us, but I forgot myself entirely when General Washington's name
was besmirched."
"I fear further trouble," she sighed.
"From him?"
She nodded her head.
"Nonsense! There will be naught said about the whole affair and it will
end where it began. Forrest is no fool."
"I have other news for you, Captain," announced Marjorie, her eyes
beaming at the prospect.
"And how long have you been preserving it for me?" asked Stephen.
"But a few days."
"And you made no attempt to see me?"
"Had I not met you now, I would have done so this day," answered
Marjorie.
"You would have written?"
"Perhaps."
"It is my forfeiture to your reserve."
"And made gallantly."
"Come now! What had you to tell?"
"This. Peggy desires the honor of your company. You will receive the
invitation in a day or two. Just an informal affair, yet I sensed the
possibility of your pleasure."
"You did right. I am pleased as I am honored, but neither so much as I
am elated at the hopes for the future. Of course, I shall accept, but
you will have to promise to denote my path for me in the tangled maze of
society, in whose company I am as yet merely a novice."
"Lud! I ne'er heard one so illiberal of his graces."
"Nor one more candid," Stephen rejoined as quickly. If he were good at
repartee he had met with one who was equally as apt.
"You know the Governor will be in attendance," she declared in a
matter-of-fact manner.
"How should I know that? Is it unusual for him to frequent the company
of the gay?"
"Not of late, the more especially where the presence of Peggy is
concerned," added the little tale-bearer with a keen though reckless
wit.
"And why Peggy?" He was innocent enough in his question.
"Have you not heard of His Excellency's courting? Mr. Shippen has
already made public the rumor that a certain great General is laying
close siege to the heart of Peggy. And I have Peggy's own word for it."
"To Peggy?" He asked with evident surprise. "Why, she but halves his
age, and he is already a widower."
"With three sons," Marjorie gayly added. "No matter. Peggy will meet the
disparity of ages by the disparity of stations. She has avowed to me
that no one dares to question the social preëminence of the Military
Governor, nor the fact that he is the most dashing and perhaps most
successful general of the Continental Army. Position in life is of prime
importance to her."
"Is that so? I had not so judged her," was the comment.
"She admits that herself, and makes no secret of it before any one. Did
you not observe her sullen silence at the Ball upon learning of the
identity of her inferior partner? And that she sat out the major portion
of the dance in company with the Military Governor?"
"It escaped my attention, for I was too deeply concerned with another
matter which distracted me for the entire evening," he answered with a
smile.
She pretended to take no notice, however, and continued.
"Well, he has been calling regularly since that evening, and this quiet
and informal function has been arranged primarily in his honor, although
it will not be announced as such. You will go?" she asked.
"I shall be pleased to accept her invitation. May I accompany you?"
"Thank you. I almost hoped you would say that. Men folks are so sadly
wanting in intuition."
"Friday, then? Adieu! The pleasure that awaits me is immeasurable."
"Until Friday."
She extended to him her hand, which he pressed. A moment later he was
mounted.
"My kindest to your mother. She will understand." Dolly broke into a
gallop.
II
Marjorie stood at the gate post until he was quite lost from view around
the turn of the road. He did not look back, yet she thought that he
might have. She slowly turned and as slowly began to walk towards the
house, there to resume the duties which had suffered a pleasant
interruption.
Meanwhile, she tried to analyze this young man. He was rather deep, of
few words on any given subject, but wholly non-communicative as regards
himself. He perhaps was possessed of more intuition than his manner
would reveal, although he gave every appearance of arriving at his
conclusions by the sheer force of logic. His words and deeds never
betrayed his whole mind, of that she was certain, yet he could assert
himself rather forcibly when put to the test, as in the painful incident
at the Coffee House. He would never suffer from soul-paralysis, thought
she, for want of decision or resolution, for both were written full
upon him.
That she was strangely attracted to him she knew very well, but why and
how she was unable to discover. This was but their third meeting, yet
she felt as if she had known him all her life, so frank, so unreserved,
so open, so secure did she feel in his presence. It seemed the most
natural thing in the world for her to have waved her hand in salute to
him that morning as he passed; she did it with the same unconcern as if
she had known him all her life. She felt it within her, that was all,
and could give no other possible interpretation to her action.
There was something prepossessing about him. Perhaps it was his faculty
for doing the unexpected. Most women desire to meet a man who is
possessed of a distinctive individuality, who lends continual interest
to them by his departure from the trite and commonplace. What Stephen
might say or do was an entirely unknown quantity until it had actually
taken place, and this attracted her on the instant, whether she was
conscious of it or not. His manner, too, was affable, and gave him an
air at once pleasing and good-natured. He never flattered, yet said most
agreeable things, putting one perfectly at ease and inspiring sympathy
and courage. He bore himself well; erect, manly, dignified, without
ostentation or display. His seriousness, his evenness, his gravity, his
constancy and his decision stamped him with a certain authority, a man
of marked personality and character.
So she mused as she entered the door, her thoughts in a lofty hegira to
the far off land of make believe--her better self striving to marshal
them to the cold realities of duty that lay before her. She had been
cleaning the little addition at the rear of the dwelling proper, used as
a kitchen, and her work took her into the yard. Dolly's whinny had
caused her to turn her head, and the next moment cares and
responsibilities and all else were forgotten. Now she wondered what she
had been about! Seizing a cloth she began to dust industriously. The
crash of one of the dishes on the kitchen floor brought her to her
senses. Her mother heard the noise from the adjoining room.
"What ails thee, child? Hast thou lost thy reason?"
"I believe so, mommy. I must have been thinking of other things." And
she stooped to gather the fragments.
"Was it Captain Meagher? I saw you two at the gate."
A guilty smile stole over the corners of her mouth.
"He was passing while I was in the yard, and he stopped only to wish me
the greetings of the day. I was right glad that he did, for I had an
opportunity of extending to him the invitation from Peggy."
"He will go, I suppose?" she queried, knowing well what the answer might
be. She did not spare the time to stop for conversation, but continued
with her duties.
"He is quite pleased. And, mommy, he will call for me."
"Be careful, now, to break no more dishes."
"Lud! I have not lost my head yet. That was purely an accident which
will not happen again."
"That poor unfortunate Spangler made a better defense."
"He deserved what he got. So did Lieutenant Lyons and the other officers
of the Ranger who deserted to the enemy. But my sympathies go out to the
old man who kept the gates under the city. These court-martials are
becoming too common and I don't like them."
"That is the horrible side of war, my dear. And until our people learn
the value of patriotism, the need of abolishing all foreign ties and
strongly adhering to the land that has offered them a home and a living,
the necessity of these dreadful measures will never cease."
"A little power is a dangerous weapon to thrust into a man's hand,
unless he be great enough to wield it."
"Now you are going to say that General Arnold is to blame for these
tragedies."
"No, I am not. But I do think that a great deal more of clemency could
be exercised. Many of those poor tradesmen who were convicted and
sentenced to be hanged could have been pardoned with equal security."
"That is the law, my dear, and the law is God's will. Leave all to Him."
Mrs. Allison was one of those good souls who saw no harm in the vilest
of creatures; faults were hidden by her veil of sympathy. When
distressing reverses or abject despair visited any one, Mrs. Allison's
affability and indescribable tenderness smoothed over the troubled
situation and brought forth a gleam of gladness. Quiet, kindly,
magnanimous, tolerant, she could touch hearts to the depths in a manner
both winning and lasting. Whether the fault entailed a punishment
undeserved or inevitable, her feeling of pity was excited. She always
sympathized without accusing or probing the source of the evil. She
stretched forth a helping hand merely to aid. No nature, however hard,
could be impervious to the sympathy and the sweetness of her
affectionate disposition.
Motherly was the quality written full upon Mrs. Allison's face. Her
thoughts, her schemes, her purposes, her ambitions of life, were all
colored by this maternal attribute. In her daily homage and obeisance to
God, Whom she worshiped with the most childlike faith and simplicity; in
the execution of the manifold duties of her home, Marjorie was to her
ever a treasure of great price. She was sustained in her aims and
purposes by an enduring power of will,--a power clothed with the soft,
warm, living flesh of a kindly heart.
Her marriage with Matthew Allison had been happy, a happiness
intensified and concretely embodied in Marjorie, the only child
vouchsafed to them by the Creator. How often, at the time when the
deepening shadows moved their way across the dimming landscape,
announcing to the work worn world the close of another day, would she
sit for a brief while in silence and take complacence in the object of
her hopes and aspirations! It was Marjorie for whom she lived and toiled
and purposed. And it was Marjorie who embodied the sum-total of her
fancies and ambitions and aspirations, and translated them into definite
forms and realities.
III
A beautiful landscape unrolled itself before Stephen as he leisurely
rode along the Germantown road. The midsummer sun was now high in the
heavens, with just a little stir in the air to temper its warmth and
oppressiveness. Fragments of clouds, which seemed to have torn
themselves loose from some great heap massed beyond the ridge of low
hills to the westward, drifted lazily across the waste of blue sky,
wholly unconcerned as to their ultimate lot or destination. Breaths of
sweet odor, from freshly cut hay or the hidden foliage bounding the
road, were wafted along in the embraces of the gentle breeze. Away to
the left and before him, as his horse cantered along, swelled the
countryside in gentle undulations of green and brown, disfigured now and
again by irregular patches of field and orchard yielding to cultivation;
while to the side a stone wall humped itself along the winding road into
the distance, its uniformity of contour broken here and there by a
trellis work of yellow jasmine or crimson rambler, alternately
reflecting lights and shadows from the passing clouds and sunshine. It
was a day when all nature was in perfect tune, its harmony sweetly
blending with the notes of gladness that throbbed in Stephen's heart.
Yet he was scarce aware of it all, so completely absorbed was he in the
confusion of his own thought.
Stephen had a very clear idea of what he was to do in the immediate
present, but he had no idea at all of what was to be done in the
immediate future. First of all he would attend Mistress Marjorie at this
informal affair, where, perhaps, he might learn more about the Military
Governor. He half surmised that His Excellency was not kindly disposed
towards Catholics in general, although he could not remember any
concrete case in particular to substantiate his claim. Still he knew
that he was avowedly opposed to the French Alliance, as were many
illustrious citizens; and he presumed his feelings were due in part at
least to the fact that France was a recognized Catholic country. There
was a negative argument, too: no Catholic name was ever found among his
appointments. These were but surmises, not evidence upon which to base
even a suspicion. Nevertheless, they were worthy of some consideration
until a conclusion of a more definite nature was warranted.
That the Governor was becoming decidedly more unpopular every day and
that this unpopularity was quite consequential, more consequential if
anything than preconceived,--for it cannot be gainsaid that many had
frowned upon his appointment from the very beginning,--Meagher knew very
well. Unfavorable comparisons already had been drawn between the gayety
of life under a free country and that of a colonial government. The fact
that Arnold possessed the finest stable of horses in the city, and
entertained at the most costly of dinners, at a time when the manner of
living was extremely frugal, not so much from choice as from necessity,
and at a time when the value of the Continental currency had depreciated
to almost nothing, occasioned a host of acrid criticisms not only in the
minds of the displeased populace, but also in the less friendly columns
of the daily press.
Censures of the harshest nature were continually uttered against the
Governor's conduct of the affairs of the city government together with
his earlier order closing the shops. Now, the use that he began to make
of the government wagons in moving the stores excited further complaints
of a more public nature, the more so that no particular distinction was
being made as to whether the stores belonged to the Whigs or the
offending Tories. It was no idle gossip that he curried favor with the
upper Tory class of the city, now particular mention was made of his
infatuation with the daughter of Edward Shippen. It was whispered, too,
that the misuse of his authority in the grant of safe passes to and from
New York had led to the present act of the Congress in recalling all
passes. Stephen knew all this and he logically surmised more; so he
longed for the opportunity to study intimately this man now occupying
the highest military post in the city and the state.
For the present he would return home and bide his time until Friday
evening when he would have the happiness of escorting Marjorie to the
home of Peggy Shippen.
"I wonder, Dolly, old girl, if I can make myself bold enough to call her
'Marjorie.' 'Marjorie,' Margaret,'" he repeated them over to himself. "I
don't know which is the prettier. She would be a pearl among women, and
she is, isn't she, Dolly?"
He would ask her at any rate. He would be her partner for the evening,
would dance with her, and would sit by her side. Peggy would be there,
too, and the General. He would observe them closely, and perchance,
converse with them. Colonel Forrest and the General's active
aide-de-camp, Major Franks, a Philadelphian, and a Jew would also be
present. Altogether the evening promised to be interesting as well as
happy.
He was musing in this manner when he heard the hoof beats of a horse,
heavily ridden, gaining upon him in the rear. He drew up and half turned
instinctively at the strange yet familiar sound. Suddenly there hove
into view at the bend of the road an officer of the Continental Army, in
full uniform, booted and spurred, whose appearance caused him to turn
full about to await him. It was not long before he recognized the
familiar figure of the aide, Major Franks, and he lifted his arm to
salute.
"Captain Meagher, I have orders for your arrest."
"Sir?" answered Stephen in alarm.
"On charges preferred by Colonel Forrest. You are to come with me at
once."
An embarrassing silence ensued.
Stephen then saluted, and handed over his side arms. He wheeled his
horse and set off in the direction indicated, his thoughts in a turmoil.
The Major fell in at the rear.
CHAPTER VII
I
"For still my mem'ry lingers on the scenes
And pleasures of the days beyond recall."
Peggy's voice, timid, soft though pretty, died away into an enraptured
silence which seemed to endure for the longest while before the room
burst into a generous measure of applause. She was very well accompanied
on the clavichord by Miss Rutteledge and on the harp by Monsieur Ottow,
Secretary to the French Minister. The evening had been delightful; the
assembly brilliant in quality, and unaffectedly congenial and diverting.
The music had contributed much to the pleasures of the function, for the
Shippens' was one of the few homes in the city where such a resource was
at all possible.
"Major! Major Franks! What do you think of my little girl? Do you think
'twould be well for her to cultivate such a voice?"
Mrs. Shippen turned sideways. There was gratification, genuine,
complacent gratification, visible in every line of her smiling face.
"Splendid! Splendid! Of course. Madame, she sings very prettily,"
replied the Major, gathering himself from the state of partial repose
into which he had fallen.
He sat up.
"And do you know, Major," went on the fond mother, "she never had a
tutor, except some of our dear friends who made this their home during
the winter."
"You mean the British?"
"Of course they did not make so free with everybody in the city, with
only a few, you know. It was for General Howe himself that Margaret
first made bold enough to sing."
"She does very well, I am sure," was the reply.
The little group again lapsed into silence as Peggy responded with an
encore, this selection being a patriotic air of a lighter vein. The
Major again lapsed into an easy attitude, but Mrs. Shippen was visibly
intent upon every motion of the singer and followed her every syllable.
"How much does music contribute to one's pleasure!" she remarked when
the conversation began to stir.
"It is charming," Mr. Anderson observed.
"And do you know that we inherited that clavichord? It is one of the
oldest in the country."
"It appears to be of rare design," remarked Mr. Anderson, as his eyes
pierced the distance in a steady observance of it.
"It belonged to Mr. Shippen's father," she boasted. "This house, you
know, was the home of Edward Shippen, who was Mayor of the city over an
hundred years ago. It was then, if I do say it, the most pretentious
home in the city. My husband was for disposing of it and removing to
less fashionable quarters, but I would not hear of it. Never!"
Major Franks surveyed the great room deliberately.
"'Twould make a fine castle!" he commented as he half turned and crossed
one knee over the other. He felt that this would be his last visit if
he continued to take any less interest, yet even that apparently caused
him no great concern.
And yet, a great house it was, the quondam residence of Edward Shippen,
the progenitor of the present family, a former Mayor of the city, who
had fled thither from Boston where he had suffered persecution at the
hands of the Puritans who could not allow him to be a Quaker. It stood
on an eminence outside the city. It was well surrounded, with its great
orchard, its summer house, its garden smiling with roses, and lilies;
bordered by rows of yellow pines shading the rear, with a spacious green
lawn away to the front affording an unobstructed view of the city and
the Delaware shore. It was a residence of pretentious design and at the
time of its construction was easily the most sumptuous home in the city.
The Shippens had been the leaders of the fashionable set, not alone in
days gone by, the days of colonial manners when diversions and
enjoyments were indulged in as far as the austerities of the staid old
Quaker code would allow; but also during the days of the present
visitation of the British, when emulation in the entertainment of the
visitors ran riot among the townsfolk. Small wonder that the present
lord of the manor felt constrained to write to his father that he should
be under the necessity of removing from this luxurious abode to
Lancaster, "for the style of living my fashionable daughters have
introduced into my family and their dress will I fear before long oblige
me to change the scene." Yet if the truth were told, the style of living
inaugurated by the ambitious daughters was no less a heritage than a
part of the discipline in which they had been reared.
If the sudden and forced departure of the dashing as well as the
eligible British Officers from the city had totally upset the cherished
social aspirations of the mother of the Shippen girls, the advent of the
gallant and unmarried Military Governor had lifted them to a newer and
much higher plane of endeavor. The termination of a matrimonial alliance
with the second in command of the patriotic forces not less than the
foremost in rank of the city gentry, would more than compensate for the
loss of a possible British peerage. Theirs was a proud lineage to boast
of and a mode of unfeigned comfort and display. And it took but the
briefest possible time for the artful mother to discern that her clever
and subtle devices were beginning to meet with some degree of success.
The present function was wholly her affair, and while it was announced
as a purely informal gathering, the manner and the scheme of the
decorations, the elegance and the care with which the women dressed, the
order, the appointments, the refreshments, not to mention the
distinguished French visitors, would permit no one to surmise that, even
for a moment. Care had been taken to issue invitations to the
representative members of the city's upper class, more especially to the
newly arrived French Officers and their wives, as well as the
commissioned members of the Continental Army. There were the Shippen
girls, their persistent friend, Miss Chew, as well as Miss Franks, whose
brother was now attached to the staff of General Arnold, and a dozen
other young ladies, all attractive, and dressed in the prevailing
elegance of fashion; the hair in an enormous coiffure, in imitation of
the fashions of the French, with turbans of gauze and spangles and ropes
of pearls, the low bodices with the bow in front, the wide sashes
below. It was an altogether brilliant assembly, with the Military
Governor the most brilliant of all.
"Tell me, Major," asked Mrs. Shippen in measured and subdued language as
she leaned forward in an apparently confidential manner, "does General
Arnold visit often?"
"Oh, yes!" replied the Major at once, "he is very generous with his
company."
Her face fell somewhat.
"Now, isn't that strange? I was told that he made a practice of calling
at no home outside of ours."
He uncrossed his leg and shifted in his chair rather uneasily.
"Quite true." He saw at once that he had made an unhappy remark. "But of
course he makes no social calls, none whatsoever. You must know that the
affairs of state require all of his time, for which duty he is obliged
to visit many people on matters of pure business."
"Oh!"
She appeared satisfied at this explanation.
"It seems as if we had known him all our lives. He feels so perfectly at
home with us."
"Exactly."
"You have met him often with us, haven't you, Marjorie?"
"I first met him at the Military Ball through Peggy," Marjorie replied
naïvely.
"But you must have met him here. He has been here so often," she
insisted.
"Then I vow our General has felt the smite of your fair daughter's
charms," remarked Mr. Anderson.
Marjorie breathed a sigh of relief at the timely interruption.
"Do you really think so?" asked Mrs. Shippen, with no attempt to conceal
her impatience.
"Unquestionably.
'Smiles from reason flow,
To brute denied, and are of love the food.'
So sang the bard, and so sing I of His Excellency."
"But his age! He cannot now be thinking of matrimony."
"Age, my dear Mrs. Shippen, is a matter of feeling, not of years. The
greatest miracle of love is to eradicate all disparity. Before it age,
rank, lineage, distinction dissolve like the slowly fading light of the
sun at eventide. The General is bent on conquest; that I'll wager. What
say you, Major? A five pound note?"
"Not I. 'Old men are twice children,' you know."
"Well, if I do say it," remarked Mrs. Shippen, "my daughter has had a
splendid education and is as cultured a girl as there is in the city and
would make a fitting helpmate for any man, no matter what his position
in life may be."
The orchestra began to fill the room with the strains of the minuet. Mr.
Anderson arose and advanced towards Marjorie.
"May I have the pleasure of your company?" he said.
Marjorie arose and gave him her arm.
II
She tripped through the graces of the minuet in a mechanical sort of a
fashion, her thoughts in a far off land of amazement and gloomy
desolation. The unexpected and adverse stroke of fortune which had
descended with hawk-like velocity upon Stephen had thoroughly
disconcerted her. Try as she would, her imagination could not be brought
under her control. There was one image that would not out, and that was
Stephen's.
A short note from him gave the first inkling to her. He had been placed
under arrest by order of Major-General Arnold on the charge of striking
his superior officer, in violation of the Fifth Article, Second Section
of the American Articles of War. The charge had been preferred on the
evening previous to his arrest and bore the signature of Colonel
Forrest, with whom, she called to mind, he had participated in the
affray at the Inn.
Little would come of it. Of that she could rest assured. For if he chose
to present his side of the case, cause might be found against the
Colonel in the matter of disrespectful language against the
Commander-in-chief. On that account the affair would very probably end
where it had begun and his sword would once more be restored to him.
Should the Colonel press the case, however, it would result in a
court-martial, that being the usual tribunal before which such matters
were tried.
For the present he was under arrest. He was not confined and no limits
were assigned to him in the order of his arrest, yet he was deprived of
his sword and therefore without power to exercise any military command
pending his trial. Since it was considered indecorous in an officer
under arrest to appear at public places, it would be impossible for him
to accompany her to the home of the Shippens on Friday evening. This
caused him the greater concern, yet his word of honor obliged him to
await either the issue of his trial or his enlargement by the proper
authority.
He bade her be of good cheer and asked a remembrance in her prayers,
assuring her she would be ever present in his thoughts. Since he was
allowed the use of his personal liberty, he would soon make use of a
favorable opportunity to pay her a call. Until then, he could tell her
no more, save the desire to have her attend the party and to enjoy
herself to the utmost.
From the moment of her receipt of this letter, she had rehearsed the
incidents therein narrated over and over again. Go where she would her
thought followed her as instinctively as the homeward trail of the bee.
Reflection possessed her and she was lost in the intricate maze of the
world of fancy.
To follow mere instinct does not beseem a man, yet for woman this
faculty is the height of reason and will be trusted by her to the very
end. Marjorie's instinct told her that all would not be well with
Stephen, notwithstanding his place of honor on the staff of the
Commander-in-chief, to whom he might readily appeal should the occasion
require. The charge was of minor consequence, and could under ordinary
circumstances be dismissed; but it would not be dismissed. He would be
tried, found guilty, and sentenced. A consummation too horrible for
thought!
She could not enjoy herself at Peggy's function, that she knew. But she
must attend, if for no other reason than for appearance. The strange
regard for this officer, which she had discovered to be growing daily in
intensity and depth, had been brought to definite realization by the
sudden crisis in Stephen's fortunes. The sudden revelation of this truth
from which she was wont to recoil with petulant diffidence alarmed her
not a little. She must not allow herself to be perturbed over this
incident, and no one, not even her mother, must ever be permitted to
detect the slightest concern on her part.
"You seem unusually preoccupied this evening, Mistress Allison,"
remarked Mr. Anderson as he led her to one side of the room at the
conclusion of the dance.
Marjorie started. She could feel herself coloring into a deep scarlet,
which endured the more as she strove desperately to retain her natural
composure.
"I? Why? No! Did I appear absent-minded?"
"As if sojourning in some far off land."
She thought for a moment.
"We all inhabit dream countries."
"True. We do. And there is no swifter vehicle to that fair land than an
inattentive companion."
"You mean----"
"That I am entirely at fault for allowing you to wander there."
"You are unkind to yourself to say that."
"I vow I mean it."
They neared the settee into which he gallantly assisted her. She made
room for him by drawing back the folds of her gown.
"Have you ever had a miniature made?" he asked of her.
"Never. I scarce gave it a thought," she replied nonchalantly.
"In that gown, you would make a perfect picture."
"Couldst thou paint it?" she asked quickly with the attitude of one who
has proposed an impossible question.
"Aye, and willingly, would I," he smartly replied.
"I should love to see it. I should scarce know mine own face."
She regarded the subject with ridicule, observing as she spoke the end
of the sash with which her fingers had been fumbling.
"You shall see it as it is with no artful flattery to disfigure it. May
I bring it in person? The post-rider's bag is too unworthy a messenger."
"Lud! I shall be unable to restrain my curiosity and await the carrier."
"Then I shall be the carrier."
"Nothing would afford me more pleasure."
Neither of the two spoke for a moment.
She wondered if she were imprudent. While she had not known this man
before this evening, still she knew of him as the one who took part in
the disturbance at the Coffee House.
He seemed unusually attentive to her, although not unpleasantly so, and
innocently enough the question presented itself to her as to the import
of his motives. He had sought no information nor did he disclose any
concerning himself, for at no time did their conversation arise to any
plane above the commonplace. Yet she was willing to see him again and to
discover, if possible, the true state of his mind.
Stephen, she knew, would approve of her action; not only because of the
personal satisfaction which might be derived therefrom, but also because
of the possibilities which such a meeting might unfold. That Anderson
was prompted by some ulterior motive and that he was not attracted so
much by her charms as by the desire of seeking some advantage, she was
keen enough to sense. Just what this quest might lead to could not be
fathomed, yet it presented at all hazards a situation worthy of more
than a passing notice.
She mistrusted General Arnold, a mere opinion it was true, for she
possessed no evidence to warrant even a suspicion, yet something about
the man created within her heart a great want of confidence and
reliance. He was supremely overbearing and unusually sensitive. This,
together with his vaulting ambition and love of display,--traits which
even the merest novice could not fail to observe,--might render him
capable of the most brilliant achievements, such as his exploits before
the walls of Quebec and on the field of Saratoga, or of unwise and
wholly irresponsible actions, of some of which, although of minor
consequence, he had been guilty during the past few months. He disliked
her form of religious worship, and she strongly suspected this was the
reason he so openly opposed the alliance with the French. She regarded
this prejudice as a sad misfortune in a man of authority. His judgments
were liable to be clouded and unfair.
She knew Peggy like a book and she could easily imagine the influence
such a girl could exert, as a wife, on a man so constituted. Peggy's
social ambition and her marked passion for display and domination,
traits no less apparent in her than in her mother, would lead her to
view the overtures of her impetuous suitor with favor, notwithstanding
the fact that he was almost double her own age. As his wife she would
attain a social prestige. She was a Tory at heart, and he evidenced at
sundry times the same inclinations. She was a Quaker, while he belonged
to the religion of His Majesty, the King; nevertheless, both agreed in
this, that the miserable Papists were an ambitious and crafty lot, who
were bent on obtaining an early and complete mastery over this country.
The pair were well mated in many respects, thought Marjorie, the
disparity in their ages was all that would render the match at all
irregular, although Peggy's more resolute will and intense ambition
would make her the dominant member of the alliance. Little as the
General suspected it, Marjorie thought, he was slowly, though surely,
being encircled in the web which Peggy and her artful mother were
industriously spinning about him.
III
Marjorie and Anderson sat conversing long and earnestly. Several dances
were announced and engaged in, with little or no manifest attention on
their part, so engrossed were they in the matter of more serious import.
At length they deserted their vantage ground for the more open and
crowded room, pausing before Peggy and the General, who were sheltered
near the entrance.
"Heigho, John!" exclaimed His Excellency upon their approach, "what
strange absconding is this? Have a care, my boy, lest you have to answer
to Captain Meagher."
Marjorie felt the gaze of the group full upon her. She flushed a little.
"Little or no danger, nor cause alleged," she laughed.
"Captain Meagher!" recollected Anderson, "does he excel?"
"I scarce know," replied Marjorie. "I have met him not over thrice in my
life."
"Once is quite sufficient," said the General. "First impressions often
endure. But stay. Draw your chairs. I was only saying that I may be
required to leave here shortly."
"You have been transferred?" asked Marjorie.
"No! But I have written to Washington begging for a command in the navy.
My wounds are in a fair way and less painful than usual, though there is
little prospect of my being able to be in the field for a considerable
time."
They sat down as requested, opposite Peggy and the General.
"But, General, have you not taken us into your consideration?" asked
Anderson.
"I have, yet the criticism is becoming unendurable. Of course you have
heard that matters have already become strained between the civil
government and myself. Only last week my head aide-de-camp sent for a
barber who was attached to a neighboring regiment, using as a messenger
the orderly whom I had stationed at the door. For this trifling order
there has been aroused a hornet's nest."
"Wherein lay the fault?" asked Marjorie.
"In this. It appears from a letter which I have already received from
the father of the sergeant (Matlack is his name, to be exact) that the
boy was hurt by the order itself and the manner of it, and as a freeman
would not submit to such an indignity as to summon a barber for the aide
of a commanding officer. We have a proud, stubborn people to rule, who
are no more fitted for self-government than the Irish----"
He stopped short.
Marjorie bit her lip. "I wish, General, you would withdraw your
comparison. It is painful to me."
"I am sorry, Mistress Allison. As a matter of fact I hardly knew what I
had said. I do withdraw it."
"Thank you so much."
Then he went on.
"These Americans are not only ungrateful, but stupidly arrogant. What
comparison can be drawn between this dullard, Matlack, whose feelings as
a citizen were hurt by an order of an aide-de-camp, and I, when I was
obliged to serve a whole campaign under the command of a gentleman who
was not known as a soldier until I had been some time a brigadier. My
feelings had to be sacrificed to the interest of my country. Does not
the fool know that I became a soldier and bear the marks upon me, to
vindicate the rights of citizens?"
He talked rapidly, yet impassionately. It was plain, however, that he
was seriously annoyed over the turn of events, on which subject he
conversed with his whole being. He made gestures with violence. His face
became livid. His attitude was menacing.
"On my arrival here, my very first act was condemned. It became my duty,
because of sealed orders from the Commander-in-chief, who enclosed a
resolution adopted by Congress, to close the shops. From the day,
censure was directed against me. I was not the instigator of it. Yet I
was all to blame."
He sat up with his hands on his knees, looking fiercely into the next
room.
"I would not feel so bitter, your Excellency," volunteered Anderson.
"Military orders, however necessary, always seem oppressive to civilians
and shopkeepers."
"I have labored well for the cause, and my reward has been this. I took
Ticonderoga, although Allen got the credit for it. I would have taken
Canada, if Congress had not blundered. I saved Lake Champlain with my
flotilla,--a fleet that lived to no better purpose nor died more
gloriously,--and for this I got no promotion, nor did I expect one. I
won at Ridgefield and received a Major-Generalship, only to find myself
outranked by five others. At Saratoga I was without a command, yet I
succeeded in defeating an army. For that service I was accused of being
drunk by the general in command, who, for his service, received a gold
medal with a vote of thanks from Congress, while I--well, the people
gave me their applause; Congress gave me a horse, but what I prize more
than all,--these sword knots," he took hold of them as he spoke, "a
personal offering from the Commander-in-chief. I gave my all. I received
a few empty honors and the ingratitude of a jealous people."
He paused.
"General," began Marjorie, "you know the people still worship you and
they do want you for their popular leader."
"I know differently," he snapped back. "I have already petitioned
Congress for a grant of land in western New York, where I intend to lead
the kind of life led by my friend Schuyler in Livingston, or the Van
Renssalaers and other country gentlemen. My ambition now is to be a good
citizen, for I intend never to draw a sword on the American side."
He again grew silent.
Whether he was sincere in his remarks, and his manner of expression
seemingly revealed no other disposition of mind, or was swayed simply by
some unfounded antipathy which caused the image of his aversion to
become a sort of hallucination, Marjorie could not decide. She knew him
to be impulsive and irrepressible, a man who, because of his deficiency
in breadth, scope of intelligence, and strong moral convictions,
invariably formed his opinions in public matter on his personal
feelings. He was a man of moods, admirably suited withal for a command
in the field where bluntness and abruptness of manner could cause him to
rise to an emergency, but wholly unfitted for this reason for a
diplomatic office where the utmost delicacy of tact and nicety of
decision are habitually required.
She knew, moreover, that he ever bore a fierce grudge towards Congress
for the slights which it had put upon him, and that this intense
feeling, together with his indomitable self-will, had brought him into
conflict with the established civil authority. He was Military Governor
of the city and adjacent countryside, yet there existed an Executive
Council of Pennsylvania for the care of the state, and the line of
demarcation between the two powers never had been clearly drawn.
Accordingly there soon arose many occasions for dispute, which a more
even-tempered man would have had the foresight to avoid. His point of
view was narrow, not only in affairs civil and political, but it must be
said, in social and religious as well. Of all commanders, he was the
most unsuited for the task.
Furthermore she knew that he was becoming decidedly more unpopular each
day, not only because of the extravagance in his manner of living, but
also because of his too frequent association with the Tory element of
the city. While the British had held the city many of the more
aristocratic inhabitants had given them active aid and encouragement,
much to the displeasure of the more loyal though less important lower
class. Consequently when the days of the evacuation had come and the
city had settled down once again to its former style of living, many of
the Tory element were compelled to leave town while those who had
remained behind were practically proscribed. Small wonder was it that
indignation ran riot when the first Military Governor openly cast his
lot with the enemies of the cause and consorted with them freely and
frequently.
It was entirely possible that he would abide by his decision to resign
all public office and retire to private life, notwithstanding the fact
that he already had at this same moment despatched a letter to General
Washington requesting a command in the navy. But she read him
differently and found herself surprised to learn of his intended
withdrawal, for his very nature seemed to indicate that he would fight
his cause to the bitter end, and that end one of personal satisfaction
and revenge.
Several of the guests prepared to depart. The little group disbanded as
Peggy made her way to their side.
Marjorie and John Anderson lost each other for the first time in the
mêlée which ensued.
IV
"Perhaps I ought to return," Marjorie muttered to herself, now that she
was quite alone. "I am sure that he dropped something."
And she began to retrace her steps.
She felt positive that she saw General Arnold accidentally dislodge what
appeared to be a folded note from his belt when he took hold of the
sword knots in the course of his conversation. Very likely it was a
report of some nature, which had been hurriedly thrust into his belt
during some more preoccupied moment. At any rate it might be safer in
her hands than to be left to some less interested person. She would
investigate at any rate and resolve her doubts.
Sure enough, there it was. Just behind the armchair in which he had been
seated but a few moments before. None of the others had observed it, she
thought, for she alone was in a position, a little to his left, to
notice it, when it had become loosed.
She picked it up and regarded it carelessly, nervously, peering the
while into the great room beyond to discover, if possible, an
eye-witness to her secret. From its appearance it was no more than a
friendly communication written on conventional letter paper. It was
unsealed, or rather the seal had been broken and from the wrinkled
condition of the paper gave evidence of not a little handling. It
belonged to Peggy. There was no doubt about that, for there was her name
in heavy bold script on the outside.
She balanced it in her hand, weighing, at the same time, within her
mind, one or two possibilities. She might read it and then, if the
matter required it, return it immediately to His Excellency with an
explanation. Yet it would smack of dishonor to read the private
correspondence of another without a sufficiently grave reason. It
belonged to Peggy, who, in all probability, had been acquainting the
General with its contents as Mr. Anderson and herself intruded upon the
scene. She therefore resolved to return it unread.
Hastily folding it, she stuck it into her bodice, and made her way into
the room where she became lost among the guests. There would be time
enough when the formalities of the departure were over, when Peggy was
less occupied, to hand it her. She would wait at any rate until later in
the evening.
CHAPTER VIII
I
But she did not return the paper. For with the commotion of the guests
in the several orders of their going, a serious business of felicitation
and devoir was demanded alongside of which all other matters only served
as distractions. Consequently, the note once placed within her bodice,
all thought of it vanished for the remainder of the evening.
Only when she had returned home that night, fatigued and almost
disgusted with the perfunctory performances of the evening, did she
discover it, and then not until she was about to remove the garment
within whose folds it lay concealed. It fell to the ground; she stooped
to pick it up.
"Oh, dear! I quite forgot it. I must attend to it the first thing in the
morning."
And she placed it on the dresser where it could not escape her eye. Then
she retired.
But she did not sleep. There she lay wide awake tossing nervously to and
fro. She tried to close her eyes only to find them wandering about the
room in the obscure dimness, focusing themselves now on the old mahogany
dresser, now on the little prie-Dieu against the inner wall with the
small ivory crucifix outlined faintly above it, now on the chintz
hangings that covered the window. She could hear her heart, pounding its
great weight of bitterness against the pillow; and as she listened she
thought of Stephen's arrest and of its thousand and one horrible
consequences. She tried to congratulate herself on her sweet serenity
and the serenity only mocked her and anticipation loomed as fiercely as
before.
The next she knew was a quiet awakening, as if her mother's hand had
been put gently on her arm. Outside ten thousand light leaves shivered
gently and the birds were calling to one another in melodious tones.
This was her first glimpse of the day and it sent her suddenly to her
knees.
Stephen came late that afternoon. He had not been expected; yet she was
happy because he came. She had done little that day; had not left the
house, nor dressed for the occasion. The note was where she had left it,
and all reference to it buried with her thoughts of the evening.
"I cannot yet tell how it has been decided. They went into executive
session at once."
"But,... Surely,... They could not find you guilty?"
"Oh, well."
"Please.... Won't you tell me?"
"There is little to tell. It was very brief."
He could not become enthusiastic.
"Then you were put to trial?" she asked with an apprehension uncertain
in quality.
"Yes."
"Go on. Tell me."
He was silent. He desired to withhold nothing from her, yet he could not
find the words he wanted.
"What happened?" She was persistent.
"Well.... I don't know.... I soured on the whole proceeding. The
court-martial met, the Regimental Court Martial, with three members.
This was permissible. They began, reading the charge as preferred by
Colonel Forrest, which was to the effect that I had been guilty of
striking my superior officer, Colonel Forrest, by attempting to choke
him. To this was added the accusation of abusive, threatening language
as well as a threat of murder. I, of course, pleaded not guilty; nor did
I prepare any defense. The affair was so trivial that I was surprised
that it ever had been brought to trial."
"How long did the proceedings last?"
"They were very brief. Several witnesses were examined, the chief one
being Mr. Anderson."
"I know him," remarked Marjorie.
"You know him?"
"I met him last evening at Shippens'."
"Did he say aught about me?"
"Not a word."
"Well, he appeared against me. After a few more preliminary questions I
was put on the stand in my own defense. I told briefly the circumstances
which led to the incident (I would not call it an assault, for I
continually maintained it to be of a trivial nature and worthy only of
an explanation). I told how the Colonel had used certain derogatory
remarks against the faith that I believed and practiced, which
occasioned a violent argument. This, I think, was the great mistake I
made, for it appeared to make an unfavorable impression upon the Court.
In this respect they were unquestionably on the side of Forrest. Then I
related the remark incident to my action, and announced that I would
repeat the deed under similar circumstances were the same disrespectful
language directed against the Commander-in-chief. This, I fear, made
little impression either since I was already attached to the staff of
General Washington. And a jealous rival general was about to decide my
guilt. That ended it. I was excused and the Court adjourned."
He paused.
"For these reasons I have serious misgivings as to my fate."
"What can happen to you?"
"I do not know. It may result in a suspension, and it may result in a
verdict of 'not guilty.'"
"Will you know very soon?"
"I shall be summoned before them."
Neither spoke for a time.
"Do you know," observed Marjorie, "I greatly mistrust General Arnold and
I fear that he already has decided against you."
"What causes you to say that?"
"Well ... I don't know ... I just think it. While listening to him last
evening I drew that impression."
"Did he say anything against us?"
"He is enraged at Congress and he has long felt persecuted and insulted
by the people. He desires a command in the navy and has already written
Washington to that effect; and again he would petition Congress for a
grant of land in New York where he would retire to private life, for he
vows he never will again draw sword on the American side."
"Did he say this?" asked Stephen.
"He did."
"Do you think that he was sincere?"
"I really do. He talked with all the earnestness of a man of
conviction. Somehow or other I greatly mistrust him. And he is extremely
bigoted."
"I rather suspect this, although I have had no proofs of it. If he is,
it will out very soon."
"And you may be assured, too, that he will have an able adjutant in
Peggy. She is his counterpart in every particular."
He looked at her as she spoke, and was amazed by the excitement in her
face. She talked excitedly; her eyes, those large vivacious brown eyes
that looked out of her pretty oval face, were alight, and her face had
gone pale.
"I was interested in them last evening and with the apparent zeal
displayed by Peggy's mother in favor of the match. I would not be
surprised to hear of an announcement from that source at any time."
"Has it reached that stage?"
"Most assuredly! I decided that they already are on terms of intimacy
where secrets now obtain a common value."
"You think that?"
"Well.... I do.... Yes. I know, for instance that he had a letter in his
possession which was addressed to her, which letter had its origin in
New York."
"How came he by it?"
"She must have given it to him. I have it now."
"You have it?"
He sat up very much surprised.
"Where did you get it?"
"I found it."
"Did you read it?"
"No."
She smiled at him, and at his great perplexity over the apparent
mystery.
And then she told him of the little party; of herself and Mr. Anderson,
and their intrusion upon General Arnold and Peggy; of their conversation
and the falling of the note; of her subsequent return for it together
with the placing of it within her bodice and the state of temporary
oblivion into which the incident finally had lapsed.
"You have that letter now?" he asked with no attempt to conceal his
anxiety.
"Yes. Upstairs."
"May I see it? Really I would not ask this did I not think it quite
important."
"Very well."
She left to fetch it.
"Who is this man, Anderson?" Stephen asked upon her return. "Do you know
him?"
"No. But he is very engaging. He was my partner during the evening."
She did not deem it wise to tell him everything, at least not at this
time.
"How long have you known him?" he inquired impatiently.
She smiled sweetly at him.
"Since last night," was the brief response.
"Where did he come from?"
"I scarce know. You yourself mentioned his name for the first time to
me. I was greatly surprised when presented to him last night."
"Did he come with General Arnold's party, or is he a friend of Peggy's?"
"I don't think Peggy knew him before, although she may have met him
with some of the officers before last evening. I should imagine from
what you already know that he is acquainted with the Governor's party
and through them received an invitation to be present.
"Did he say aught of himself?"
"Scarcely a thing. He has not been a resident of the city for any length
of time, but where he originated, or what he purposes, I did not learn.
I rather like him. He is well-mannered, refined and richly talented."
"I sensed immediately that he was endowed with engaging personal
qualities, and gifted with more than ordinary abilities," Stephen
commented. "I have yet to learn his history, which is one of my duties,
notwithstanding the unfortunate state of affairs which has lately come
to pass."
He stopped and took the letter which she held out to him. He opened it
and read it carefully. Then he deliberately read it again.
"You say no one knows of this?"
"I am quite sure. Certainly no one saw me find it, although I am not
certain that I alone saw it fall."
"You are sure that it was in the Governor's possession?"
"Quite. I saw it distinctly in his belt. I saw it fall to the ground
when he caught hold of the sword knots."
He leaned forward and reflected for a moment with his eyes intent on the
note which he held opened before him. Suddenly he sat back in his chair
and looked straight at her.
"Marjorie," he said, "you promised to be of whatever assistance you
could. Do you recall that promise?"
"Very well."
"Will you lend your assistance to me now?"
She hesitated, wondering to what extent the demand might be made.
"Are you unwilling?" he asked, for he perceived her timid misgiving.
"No. What is it you want me to do?"
"Simply this. Let me have this note."
She deliberated.
"Would not that be unfair to Peggy?"
She feared that her sense of justice was being violated.
"She does not know that you have it."
"But I mean to tell her."
"Please!... Well!... Well!... Need you do that immediately? Could you
not let me have it for a few days? I shall return it to you. You can
then take it to her."
"You will let no one see it?"
"Absolutely!"
"Very well. And you will return it to me?"
"I promise."
And so it was agreed that Stephen should take the letter with him, which
he promised to return together with the earliest news of the result of
his court-martial.
He stood up.
II
Stephen came out the little white gate closing it very deliberately
behind him and immediately set off at a brisk pace down the street.
Every fiber within him thrilled with energy. The road was dusty and hot,
and his pace grew very strenuous and fervent. There was no breeze;
there was no sound of wheels; all was quiet as the bells tolled out the
hour of six. Nevertheless he trudged along with great haste without once
stopping until he had reached the door of his lodgings.
He turned the key and entered, closing the door behind him and taking
the greatest of care to see that it was properly bolted. Flinging his
hat into a chair as he passed, he went immediately to the table which
served as his desk. While he pulled himself close to it, he reached into
his pocket for the letter. He opened it before him and read it. Then he
sat back and read it again; this time aloud:
Co. 13
Headquarters, New York.
15 July, 1778.
Madame:--I am happy to have this opportunity to once again express my
humble respects to you and to assure you that yourself together with
your generous and hospitable friends are causing us much concern
separated as we are by the duress of a merciless war. We lead a
monotonous life, for outside of the regularities of army life, there is
little to entertain us. Our hearts are torn with pangs of regret as we
recall the golden days of the Mischienza.
I would I could be of some service to you here, that you may understand
that my protestations of zeal made on former occasions were not without
some degree of sincerity. Let me add, too, that your many friends here
present unite with me in these same sentiments of unaffected and genuine
devotion.
I beg you to present my best respects to your sisters, to the Misses
Chew, and to Mrs. Shippen and Mrs. Chew.
I have the honor to be with the greatest regard, Madame, your most
obedient and most humble servant.
W. CATHCART.
Miss Peggy Shippen,
Philadelphia.
His face was working oddly, as if with mingled perplexity and pleasure;
and he caught his lip in his teeth, as his manner was. What was this
innocent note? Could it be so simple as it appeared? Vague possibilities
passed through his mind.
The longer he gazed at it the more simple it became, so that he was on
the point of folding it and replacing it in his pocket, sadly
disconcerted at its insignificance. He had hoped that he might have
stumbled across something of real value, not only some secret
information concerning the designs of the enemy, but also some evidence
of an incriminating nature against his own acquaintances in the city.
Suddenly he thought he saw certain letters dotted over, not entirely
perceptible, yet quite discernible. He turned the paper over. The
reverse was perfectly clear. He held it to the light but nothing
appeared through.
"By Jove!" he exclaimed softly.
He looked closely again. Sure enough there were faint markings on
several of the letters. The "H" was marked. So with the "V" in "have,"
and the "A" and the "L." Snatching a pencil and a sheet of paper he made
a list of the letters so marked.
HVANLADERIIGAERODIRCUTN
This meant nothing. That was apparent; nor could he make sense out of
any combination of letters. He knew that there were certain codes
whereby the two progressions, arithmetical and geometric were employed
in their composition, but this seemingly answered to none of them. He
went over the list again, comparing them with the marked letters as
found in the note. Yes, they were identical. He had copied them
faithfully.
He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair.
"So this was sent to Peggy from New York," he muttered to himself. "I
strongly suspected that she was in communication with her British
friends, although I never came in contact with the slightest evidence.
This certainly proves it."
He held the letter at a distance from him, attentively surveying it.
"And General Arnold has been interested, too. Very likely, Marjorie's
hypothesis is the true one. They had been reading the note when the
newcomers arrived on the scene and the General stuck it in his belt
until their greetings had been ended. Neither of them now know of its
whereabouts; that much is certain."
He stood up suddenly and strode about the room, his hands clasped behind
him. Going to the window, he peered out through the small panes of glass
of the uncurtained upper half. There burned the light across the dusk--a
patch of jeweled color in the far off western sky. Yet it awakened no
emotion at all.
His mind was engaged in the most intricate process of thought. He
deduced a hundred conclusions and rejected them with equal promptitude.
He greatly admired General Arnold as the bravest leader in the line,
whose courage, whose heroism, whose fearlessness had brought him signal
successes. There was no more popular soldier in the army, nor one more
capable of more effective service. To have his career clogged or goaded
by a woman, who when she either loves or hates will dare anything, would
be a dreadful calamity. Yet it seemed as if he had surrendered his
better self.
This man Anderson puzzled him. Personally he was disposed to dislike
him, that being the logical effect of his relations with him. At the
Coffee House, where he had met him, and where he had suffered his better
judgment to become dormant, it was this man who had brought him to the
pitch of irritation by means of a religious argument, while at the trial
it was the same Anderson who appeared as an excellent witness and who by
his clever, deliberate and self-possessed manner, made a strong point
for the Colonel in the minds of the court.
What was his origin? That he might never know, for of all subjects, this
was the most artfully avoided. In the capacity of a civilian he was
engaged in no fixed occupation so far as could be learned, and it was
commonly known that he was a frequent visitor at the Governor's mansion.
That he did not belong to the service, he knew very well, unless the man
was affecting a disguise; this, however, he thought highly improbable.
The French Alliance had been further confirmed by the arrival of the
fleet, which brought many strangers to the city. Now as he thought of
it, he had a certain manner about him somewhat characteristic of the
French people, and it was entirely possible that he might have
disembarked with the French visitors. He was a mystery anyhow.
"Strange I should stumble across this chap," he mumbled to himself.
III
He awoke with a start.
Just what the hour was, he could not know, for it was intensely dark. He
reckoned that it could not be long after midnight, for it seemed as if
he had scarcely fallen asleep. But there was a wonderful burst of light
to his mind, a complete clarity of thought into which often those do
awake who have fallen asleep in a state of great mental conflict. He
opened his eyes and, as it were, beheld all that he was about to do;
there was also a very vivid memory of his experience of the evening.
He arose hurriedly and struck a light. He seized the letter in search of
the momentous something that had dawned upon him with wonderful
intensity.
"Company Thirteen," he remarked with deliberate emphasis. "That must be
the key."
And seizing a paper he wrote the order of letters which he had copied
from the note a few hours before.
HVANLADERIIG
He stopped at the thirteenth, and began a second line immediately under
the line he had just written.
AERODIRCUTN
It inserted perfectly when read up and down beginning with the letter
"H". He completed the sentence.
HAVE ARNOLD AID RECRUITING
He could not believe his eyes. What did it all mean? What regiment was
this? Why should this be sent from a British officer to Peggy Shippen?
There were mixed considerations here.
There was a satisfaction, a very great satisfaction, in the knowledge
that he was not entirely mistaken in his suspicions concerning Peggy.
She was in communication with the British and perhaps had been for some
time. This fact in itself was perfectly plain. The proof of it lay in
his hand. Whether or not His Excellency was involved in the nefarious
work was another question quite. The mere fact of the note being in his
possession signified nothing, or if anything, no more than a
coincidence. He might have read the note and, at the same time, have
been entirely ignorant of the cipher, or he might have received this
hidden information from the lips of Peggy herself, who undoubtedly had
deciphered it at once.
Yet what was the meaning of it all? There was no new call for
volunteers, although, Heaven knows, there was an urgent need for them,
the more especially after the severe winter at Valley Forge. Recruits
had become exceedingly scarce, many of whom were already deserting to
the British army at the rate of over a hundred a month while those who
remained were without food or clothing. And when they were paid, they
could buy, only with the greatest difficulty, a single bushel of wheat
from the fruits of their four month's labor. And did it prove to be true
that a new army was about to be recruited, why should the enemy manifest
so much interest? The new set of difficulties into which he was now
involved were more intricate than ever before.
He extinguished the light and went to bed.
The next day a number of copies of the New York _Gazette_ and _Weekly
Mercury_ of the issue of July 13, 1778, found their way into the city.
They were found to contain the following advertisement:
For the encouragement of all
Gentlemen Volunteers,
Who are willing to serve in his Majesty's Regt. of
Roman Catholic Volunteers,
Commanded by
Lieut.--Col. Commandant,
ALFRED CLIFTON
During the present wanton and unnatural Rebellion,
AND NO LONGER,
The sum of FOUR POUNDS,
will be given above the usual Bounty,
A suit of NEW CLOTHES,
And every other necessary to complete a Gentleman soldier.
Those who are willing to show their attachment to their King and
country by engaging in the above regiment, will call at Captain
M'Kennon, at No. 51, in Cherry-street, near the Ship Yards, NEW
YORK, or at Major John Lynch, encamped at Yellow-Hook, where
they will receive present pay and good quarters.
N. B.--Any person bringing a well-bodied loyal subject to either
of the above places, shall receive ONE GUINEA for his trouble.
God Save the King.
CHAPTER IX
I
It was not until the following Wednesday night that John Anderson was
ready to pay his respects to Mistress Marjorie.
He had worked on the miniature since Saturday, and had regarded his
finished product with eminent satisfaction. He had drawn her as she
appeared to him on the night of the reception in the pose which he had
best remembered her during the interval when she sat out the dance with
him; her head turned partly towards him, revealing her small oval face
surmounted by a wealth of brown hair, powdered to a gray; her small nose
with just a suggestion of a dilatation lending to the face an expression
of strength that the rest of the countenance only gave color to; the
mouth, firmly set, its lines curving upward, as it should be, to
harmonize with her disposition; the eyes, a soft brown, full of candor
and sincerity, delicately shadowed by slender and arched eyebrows on a
smooth forehead.
Marjorie could not conceal her enthusiasm as he handed it to her. Unable
to restrain her curiosity, she arose hurriedly and went to the window to
benefit by the less obscure light.
"Is--am I as pretty as that?" she exclaimed from her vantage point,
without lifting her eyes from the portrait.
"Only more so," responded Anderson. "My memory poorly served me."
"Lud!" she remarked, holding it at arms length from her, "'Tis vastly
flattering. I scarce recognize myself."
She returned to her chair.
"I swear on my honor, that it fails to do you full justice."
She continued to study it, paying but little heed to his remark. It was
a water-colored portrait done on ivory of the most delicate workmanship
and design, set in a fine gold case, delicately engraved, the whole
presenting an appearance of beauty, richly colored. She turned it over
and saw the letters J.A.M.A. interlaced over the triplet:
"Hours fly; flowers die;
New days, new ways,
Pass by. Love stays."
"It is very pretty," was her only comment.
"Hast no one told thee how well thou might appear in a ball gown?"
"I ne'er gave thought to such."
"Nor what an impression thou wouldst make at court?"
"Hast thou seen court beauties?"
She resolved to learn more about him.
"Aye! Oft have I been in their company."
"At St. James?"
"No. Much as I would have been pleased to. I know only Versailles."
So she thought he must be a French nobleman, who like Lafayette had
incurred the royal displeasure by running away from court to fit out a
vessel at his own expense in the hope of furthering the cause of the
Colonists. The great impulse given to the hopes of the disheartened
population by the chivalrous exploit of the latter, the sensation
produced both by his departure from Europe and by his appearance in this
country, might behold a glorious repetition in the person of this
unknown visitor.
Her interest accordingly grew apace.
"It was magnanimous of His Majesty to take our cause to his heart. We
can never fail in our gratitude."
"It is only natural for man to resist oppression. It has been written
that it is only the meek who should possess the land."
"An ideal which is often badly shattered by the selfish ambitions and
perverse passions of godless men."
"You are a Catholic?" he asked suddenly.
"I am proud of it."
"And your fellow patriots are of the same form of worship?"
"A goodly proportion of them."
"How many might you assume?"
"I scarce know. We have no method of compiling our numbers, not even our
total population."
"Surely there must be a great percentage, if one considers the influx
from France and England, not to mention Ireland, whence many fled from
persecution."
"I once heard Father Farmer say that there must be over seven thousand
Catholics in Pennsylvania, while Maryland has about fifteen thousand.
Whatever there remain are much scattered, except of course New York with
its thousand."
"I never dreamt they were so numerous! So great is the spirit of
intolerance, that the wonder is that a single Catholic would remain in
the Colonies."
"I know it. Formerly Maryland and Pennsylvania were the two only
colonies where Catholics were allowed to reside, and even there were
excluded from any civil or military office. And the time has not yet
arrived for complete religious freedom, though the arrival of the French
fleet with its Catholic army and Catholic chaplains will make a
favorable impression upon our less enlightened oppressors."
"It seems strange that you should throw in your lot with a people who
prove so intolerant."
"Father Farmer, our pastor, says that no influence must ever be used
except for the national cause, for we must be quickened by the hope of
better days. He pleads with his people to remain faithful and promises
the undivided sympathy of his fellow priests with their kinsmen in the
struggle. For these reasons I hardly think that many Catholics will
desert our cause."
"Yet you must know that it was England that bestowed the most liberal
grants to the inhabitants of the Northwest territory."
"You mean the Quebec Act?" she asked.
"Yes. And you know that Canada would be allied with you, heart and soul,
were it not for the intolerant spirit of your fellow colonists."
"Perhaps it would."
"Now, would it not be better----"
"Do you mean to suggest to me that we turn traitor?" she interrupted,
turning full upon him, her eyes flashing with intense feeling.
"No ... pardon ... I meant no offense.... The fact is I was only
remarking on the sad plight of our co-religionists."
"I fail to perceive how ill we fare. Our compatriots render us honor,
and as Father Farmer says, 'we may cherish the hope of better days,
which are inevitable.' You must know that one of the signers of the
Declaration of Independence is a Catholic; and that the army and navy
boast of a considerable quota."
"We are not ungenerous of our service, it seems."
"Rather are we proud of our efforts. We are proud of the fact that there
has been found among us not one false to his country. We point with
pride to him who was privileged to first read the Declaration of
Independence to the public. We are proud of the composition of
Washington's 'Life Guard'; and we are proud of our mutual friend, whom,
perhaps, you know," and she glanced at him with a merry twinkle,
"Captain Meagher, Washington's aide-de-camp."
And so they talked. Marjorie became completely absorbed in her subject,
once her religion became the topic, and she almost forgot her game in
regard to her visitor. She desired to appear to the best advantage,
however, for which purpose she talked freely, in the hope of extracting
from him some information concerning himself and his intents. Still,
however, there was another extreme which, though apparently less
dangerous, she must be careful to avoid. The imaginations of men are in
a great measure under the control of their feelings and it was
absolutely necessary for her to refrain from imparting too much
information lest it might deflect from its purpose the very object she
was seeking to obtain.
There was a subtle influence about him, an adroitness of speech, a
precision of movement which, unless sufficiently safeguarded against,
was insidious. He had the most wonderful way of getting one's
confidence, not only by reason of his genial and affable disposition,
but also by his apparent and deliberate sincerity. And while it was true
that she had determined upon a method which was originally intended to
redound to her own advantage, she soon learned that she was playing with
a boomerang which soon put her upon the defensive against the very
strategy which she had herself directly planned.
He was not sincere in his protestations of admiration; that she
perceived immediately. But she was resolved to let him think that she
believed him in order that she might discover his true intents and
purposes. Her knowledge of human nature was sufficient to enable her to
conclude that one cannot unite the incompatible elements of truth and
deception, the discernment of reality and the enjoyment of fiction for
any great length of time. The reality is bound to appear.
For this reason she was not disposed to dismiss him at once but rather
to allow him to call and see her frequently, if need be, until she had
been thoroughly satisfied as to his true character. Nevertheless she
sensed, at this very moment, that she was playing with a skillful
adversary, one thoroughly versed in the game of diplomacy, against whom
she would be called upon to employ every manner of weapon at her
command. She realized the weight of the foe, and thought she understood
his tactics. So she accepted the challenge.
"You are interested in Captain Meagher?" he asked serenely.
There was a pause. Marjorie looked slightly perturbed.
"Well," she confessed, "there is this much about him. I chanced to know
the details of the offense with which he has been charged and I am
naturally interested to learn the result of his trial."
"He may be found guilty," he quietly announced.
"Why do you say that?"
"The evidence was wholly against him."
"And there was no testimony to the effect that Colonel Forrest was
somewhat intoxicated, or that he spoke disparaging words against the
Captain's co-religionists, or that he attacked the character of the
Commander-in-chief?"
"There was to some extent, but it did not seem to make any impression."
"I presume that you know the reason."
Her eyes gleamed a little.
"Why?"
There was a pause.
"The verdict has not been given. I shall be pleased to inform you of it
at the earliest opportunity."
"Thank you. I shall be delighted. But let's not talk about it any more,"
she added. "Let's leave it."
Mr. Anderson smiled.
II
It was perhaps an hour after dawn that Stephen awoke for about the third
or fourth time that night; for the conflict still surged within him and
would give him no peace. And, as he lay there, awake in an instant,
staring into the brightness of the morn, once more weighing the
mysterious disclosures of the evening, swayed by the desire for action
at one moment, overcome with sadness at the next, the thought of the
impending verdict of his trial occurred at him and made him rise very
hurriedly.
He was an early arrival at Headquarters. There had been several matters
disposed of during the preceding day and the verdicts would be announced
together. The room where the court was being held was already stirring
with commotion; his judge-advocate was there, as was Colonel Forrest,
Mr. Anderson, several members of the General's staff, and Mr. Allison,
who had sought entry to learn the decision. Suddenly a dull solemn
silence settled over all as the members of the court filed slowly into
the room.
They took their places with their usual dignity, and began to dispose of
the several cases in their turn. When that of Captain Meagher was
reached Stephen was ordered to appear before the court to hear his
sentence.
He took his place before them with perfect calmness. He observed that
not one of them ventured to meet his eye as he awaited their utterance.
They found that he was not justified in making the attack upon a
superior officer, notwithstanding the alleged cause for provocation, and
that he was imprudent in his action, yet because of his good character,
as testified to by his superior officers, because of the mitigating
circumstances which had been brought to light by the testimony of the
witnesses during the course of the trial and because the act had been
committed without malice or criminal intent, he was found not guilty of
any violation of the Articles of War, but imprudent in his action, for
which cause he had been sentenced to receive a reprimand from the
Military Governor.
Stephen spoke not a word to any one as he made his way back to his seat.
Why could they not have given him a clear verdict? Either he was guilty
or he was not guilty. He could not be misled by the sugary phrases in
which the vote of censure had been couched. The court had been against
him from the start.
At any rate, he thought, the reprimand would be only a matter of form.
Its execution lay wholly with him who was to administer it. The court
could not, by law, indicate its severity, nor its lenity, nor indeed add
anything in regard to its execution, save to direct that it should be
administered by the commander who convened the court. And while it was
undoubtedly the general intention of the court-martial to impose a mild
punishment, yet the quality of the reprimand was left entirely to the
discretion of the authority commissioned to utter it.
When Stephen appeared before the Military Governor at the termination of
the business of the day, he was seized with a great fury, one of those
angers which, for a while, poison the air without obscuring the mind.
There was an unkind look on the face of the Governor, which he did not
like and which indicated to him that all would not be pleasant. He bowed
his head in answer to his name.
"Captain Meagher," the Governor began. "You have been found guilty by
the Regimental Court-Martial of an action which was highly imprudent.
You have been led perhaps by an infatuate zeal in behalf of those, whom
you term your co-religionists, to the committal of an offense upon the
person of your superior officer. It is because of this fact that I find
it my sad duty to reprimand you severely for your misguided ardor and to
admonish you, together with the other members of your sect, of whom an
unfair representation is already found in the halls of our Congress and
in the ranks of our forces, lest similar outbreaks occur again. Did you
but know that this eye only lately saw the members of that same Congress
at Mass for the soul of a Roman Catholic in purgatory, and participating
in the rites of a Church against whose anti-Christian corruptions your
pious ancestors would have witnessed with their blood? The army must not
witness similar outbreaks of religious zeal in the future."
He finished. Stephen left the room without a word, turned on his heel
and made his way down the street.
III
Nature is a great restorer when she pours into the gaping wounds of the
jaded system the oil and wine of repose. Divine grace administers the
same narcotic to the soul crushed by torture and anguish. It is then
that tears are dried, and that afflictions and crosses become sweet.
Desolation, a very lonely desolation, and a deep sense of helplessness
filled the soul of Stephen as he retraced his steps from the court room.
His life seemed a great burden to him, his hopes swallowed up in his
bereavement. If he could but remove his mind from his travail of
disappointments and bitterness, if his soul could only soar aloft in
prayer to the realms of bliss and repose, he might endure this bitter
humiliation. He felt the great need of prayer, humble, submissive
prayer. Oh! If he could only pray!
He was invisibly directed into the little doorway of St. Joseph's. His
feeling was like that of the storm tossed mariner as he securely steers
for the beacon light. The church was nearly empty, save for a bare
half-dozen people who occupied seats at various intervals. They were
alone in their contemplation, as Catholics are wont to be, before their
God, without beads or prayer-book, intent only upon the Divine Person
concealed within the tabernacle walls, and announced by the flickering
red flame in the little lamp before the altar. Here he felt himself
removed from the world and its affairs, as if enclosed in a strange
parenthesis, set off from all other considerations. And straightway, his
soul was carried off into a calm, pure, lofty region of consolation and
repose.
To the human soul, prayer is like the beams of light which seem to
connect sun and earth. It raises the soul aloft and transports it to
another and a better world. There basking in the light of the divine
presence it is strengthened to meet the impending conflict. Nothing
escapes the all-seeing eye of God. He only waits for the prayer of his
children eager to grant their requests. Nothing is denied to faith and
love. Neither can measure be set to the divine bounty.
"Miserere mei, Deus; secundum magnam misericordiam tuam."--"Have mercy
on me, O God, according to Thy great mercy."
Stephen buried his face in his hands, in an agony of conflict.
The tone of the Military Governor's reprimand had left no room for
speculation as to his true intents and purposes. Whatever rebuke had
been administered to him was intended for the Catholic population,
otherwise there was no earthly reason for holding up to reprobation the
conduct of the body governing the republic. The mere fact that the
Governor despised the Congress was an unworthy as well as an
insufficient motive for the base attack.
The humiliated soldier felt incapable of bearing the insult without
murmuring, yet he chose to accept it with perfect resignation and
submission. For a time he had fought against it. But in the church he
felt seized by an invisible force. On a sudden this invisible tension
seemed to dissolve like a gray mist, hovering over a lake, and began to
give place to a solemn and tender sweetness.
"Miserere mei Deus."
He sought refuge in the arms of God, crying aloud to Him for His mercy.
He would give his soul up to prayer and commit his troubled spirit into
the hands of his intercessors before the throne of Heaven.
"Accept my punishments for the soul who is about to be released."
To the souls in Purgatory, then, he poured forth the bitterness of his
heart, offering in their behalf through the intercession of the Virgin
Mary, the cross which had been imposed upon him. The injustice of his
trial which he knew, or thought he knew, had been tempered by the spirit
of intolerance, was brought home to him now in full vigor by the
severity of his reprimand. He did not deserve it, no--he could not force
himself to believe that he did. Still he accepted it generously though
painfully, in behalf of the sufferings of his friends.
He besought them to pray for him, that he might the more worthily endure
his cross. He prayed for his tormentors that they might be not held
culpable for their error. He entrusted himself entirely into the hands
of his departed ones and renewed with a greater fervor his act of
consecration.
"I beseech Thee, O my God, to accept and confirm this offering for Thy
honor and the salvation of my soul. Amen."
He arose from his pew, made a genuflection before the Blessed
Sacrament, pronouncing as he did, "My Lord and My God," crossed himself
with the holy water, and left the church.
IV
In the meantime an event of rare importance had occurred in the garden
of the Shippen home. There, in the recesses of the tulips sheltered
behind the clustering hydrangeas, Peggy accepted the fervent suit of the
Military Governor and gave him her promise to become his bride. A few
days later the world was informed of the betrothal and nodded its head
in astonishment, and opening its lips, sought relief in many words.
The wheels of destiny began to turn.
PART TWO
CHAPTER I
I
It was a hot October day.
A torrid wave generated somewhere in the far west, and aided by the
prevailing trade winds had swept relentlessly across the country,
reaching the city at a most unusual time. It had not come unheralded,
however, for the sun of yesterday had gone down a blazing red,
illuminating the sky like rays from a mighty furnace, and tinging the
evening landscape with the reddish and purplish hues of an Indian
summer. And what a blanket of humidity accompanied it! Like a cloak it
settled down upon the land, making breathing laborious and driving every
living creature out of doors.
Jim Cadwalader and his wife sat on the lawn, if the patch of brown grass
to the side of their little house could be termed a lawn, and awaited
the close of the day. Three huge elms, motionless in the still sunshine
and, like all motionless things, adding to the stillness, afforded a
canopy against the burning rays of the sun. What mattered it that the
cool shaded air was infested with mosquitoes and house-flies or that the
coarse grass was uneven and unkempt, from the low mounds which ran all
over it or, from the profusion of leaves which had here and there
fluttered down from the great trees. For it must be confessed that
neither Jim nor his wife had found the time for the proper care of the
premises, or if perchance, they had found the time the inclination
itself had been wanting.
"Sumthins got t' turn up in sum way 'r other b'fore long. I ain't seen
the sight o' work here in nigh two year."
"Guess you won't see it fur a while," responded the wife, from her
straight-backed chair, her arms folded, her body erect.
"Like as not a man 'd starve t' death in these here times, with nuthin'
t' do."
Jim sat with his elbows resting upon his yellow buckskin breeches, his
rough stubby fingers interlocked, his small fiery eyes piercing the
distance beyond the fields.
"If this business o' war was through with, things 'd git right agin."
"But it ain't goin' t' be over, let me tell you that."
They became silent.
Sad as was their plight, it was no sadder than the plight of many of
their class. The horrors of a protracted war had visited with equal
severity the dwelling places of the rich and the poor. It was not a
question of the provision of the sinews of war; tax had been enacted of
all classes alike. But it did seem as if the angel of poverty had
tarried the longer at the doorposts of the less opulent and had, in
proportion to their indigence, inflicted the greater suffering and
privation. Figuratively speaking, this was the state of affairs with
Jim's house.
Everything that could stimulate, and everything that could gratify the
propensities of a middle-aged couple, the blessings of health, the daily
round of occupation, the joys of life and the hopes of at length
obtaining possession of a little home, all these and the contentment of
living, had at once been swept away from Jim Cadwalader and his wife by
the calamities of war. They had lived as many had lived who have no
different excuse to plead for their penury. The wages of their day's
labor had been their sole means of support, and when this source of
income had vanished, nothing was left. In the low and dingy rooms which
they called their home there were no articles of adornment and many
necessary for use were wanting. Sand sprinkled on the floor did duty as
a carpet. There was no glass upon their table; no china on the cupboard;
no prints on the wall. Matches were a treasure and coal was never seen.
Over a fire of broken boxes and barrels, lighted with sparks from the
flint, was cooked a rude meal to be served in pewter dishes. Fresh meat
was rarely tasted--at most but once a week, and then paid for at a
higher price than their scanty means could justly allow.
"The way things 're goin' a pair o' boots 'll soon cost a man 'most six
hundr' dollars. I heard a man say who 's good at figurin' out these
things, that it now takes forty dollar bills t' make a dollar o' coin.
We can't stand that much longer."
"Unless a great blow is struck soon," observed Nancy.
"But it won't be struck. Washington's watchin' Clinton from Morristown.
The Americans are now on the offensive an' Clinton 's busy holdin' New
York. The French 're here an' who knows but they may do somethin'. 'Twas
too bad they missed Howe's army when it left here."
"Were they here?"
"They were at the capes when the chase was over. Lord Howe's ships had
gone."
Again there was silence.
"I guess Washington can't do much without an army. He has only a handful
an' I heard that the volunteers won't stay. Three thousan' o' them left
t' other day. Can't win a war that way. If they'd only listen to Barry
they'd have a navy now, an' if they want to catch Clinton in New York
they'll need a navy."
"Is the Captain home?"
"I saw him t' other day. He is goin' t' Boston t' command the _Raleigh_,
a thirty-two gunner. But one's no good. He needs a fleet."
"Thank God! The French have come. Peace is here now."
"It's money we need more'n soldiers. We can git an army right here if we
could only pay 'em. No one 'll fight fur nuthin'. They're starvin' as
much as us."
The fact that the hopes of this American couple had suffered a partial
collapse, must be attributed rather to the internal state of affairs
than to the military situation. While it is true that no great military
objective had been gained as a result of the three years of fighting,
yet the odds at the present moment were decidedly on the American side.
Still the country was without anything fit to be called a general
government. The Articles of Confederation, which were intended to
establish a league of friendship between the thirteen states, had not
yet been adopted. The Continental Congress, continuing to decline in
reputation and capacity, provoked a feeling of utter weariness and
intense depression. The energies and resources of the people were
without organization.
Resources they had. There was also a vigorous and an animated spirit of
patriotism, but there were no means of concentrating and utilizing
these assets. It was the general administrative paralysis rather than
any real poverty that tried the souls of the colonists. They heartily
approved of the war; Washington now held a higher place in their hearts
than he had ever held before; peace seemed a certainty the longer the
war endured. But they were weary of the struggle and handicapped by the
internal condition of affairs.
Jim and his wife typified the members of the poorer class, the class
upon whom the war had descended with all its horror and cruelty and
desolation. Whatever scanty possessions they had, cows, corn, wheat or
flour, had been seized by the foraging parties of the opposing forces,
while their horse and wagon had been impressed into the service of the
British, at the time of the evacuation of the city, to cart away the
stores and provisions. A means of occupation had been denied Jim during
the period of stagnation and what mere existence could now be eked out
depended solely in the tillage of the land upon which he dwelled.
Nevertheless the Cadwaladers maintained their outward cheer and apparent
optimism throughout it all but still they yearned inwardly for the day
when strife would be no more.
"I can't see as t' how we're goin' to git off eny better when this here
whole thin's over. We're fightin' fur independence, but the peopul don't
want to change their guver'ment; Washington 'll be king when this is
over."
Jim was ruminating aloud, stripping with his thumb nail the bark from a
small branch which he had picked from the ground.
"'Twas the Quebec Act th' done it. It was supposed to reëstablish Popery
in Canada, and did by right. But th' Americans, and mostly those in New
England who are the worst kind of Dissenters and Whigs got skeered
because they thought the Church o' England or the Church o' Rome 'd be
the next thing established in the Colonies. That's what brought on the
war."
"We all don't believe that. Some do; but I don't."
"You don't?" he asked, without lifting his eyes to look at her. "Well
you kin. Wasn't the first thing they did up in New England to rush t'
Canada t' capture the country or else t' form an alliance with it? And
didn't our own Arnold try t' git revenge on it fur not sidin' in with
him by plunderin' th' homes of th' peopul up there and sendin' the goods
back to Ticonderoga?"
She made no reply, but continued to peer into the distance.
"And didn't our Congress send a petition to King George t' have 'm
repeal the limits o' Quebec and to the peopul t' tell 'm the English
Guver'ment 'is not authorized to establish a religion fraught with
sanguary 'r impius tenets'? I know 'cause I read it."
"It makes no diff'rence now. It's over."
"Well it shows the kind o' peopul here. They're so afreed o' the Pope."
She waved her hand in a manner of greeting.
"Who's that?" asked Jim.
"Marjorie."
He turned sideways looking over his shoulder.
Then he stood up.
II
That there was more than a grain of truth in the assertion of Jim
Cadwalader that the war for Independence had, like the great rivers of
the country, many sources, cannot be gainsaid. There were oppressive tax
laws as well as restrictions on popular rights. There were odious
navigation acts together with a host of iniquitous, tyrannical measures
which were destined to arouse the ire of any people however loyal. But
there were religious prejudices which were likewise a moving cause of
the revolt, a moving force upon the minds of the people at large. And
these were utilized and systematized most effectively by the active
malcontents and leaders of the strife.
The vast majority of the population of the Colonies were Dissenters,
subjects of the crown who disagreed with it in matters of religious
belief and who had emigrated thither to secure a haven where they might
worship their God according to the dictates of their own conscience
rather than at the dictates of a body politic. The Puritans had sought
refuge in Massachusetts and Connecticut where the white spires of their
meeting houses, projecting above the angles of the New England hills,
became indicative of Congregationalism. Roger Williams and the Baptists
found a harbor in Rhode Island. William Penn brought the Quaker colony
to Pennsylvania. Captain Thomas Webb lent active measures to the
establishment of Methodism in New York and in Maryland, while the colony
of Virginia afforded protection to the adherents of the Established
Church. The country was in the main Protestant, save for the vestiges of
Catholicity left by the Franciscan and Jesuit Missionary Fathers, who
penetrated the boundless wastes in an heroic endeavor to plant the seeds
of their faith in the rich and fertile soil of the new and unexplored
continent.
Consequently with the passage of the Quebec Act in 1774 a wave of
indignation and passionate apprehension swept the country from the
American Patriots of Boston to the English settlements on the west. That
large and influential members of the Protestant religion were being
assailed and threatened with oppression and that the fear of Popery,
recently reëstablished in Canada, became an incentive for armed
resistance, proved to be motives of great concern. They even reminded
King George of these calamities and emphatically declared themselves
Protestants, faithful to the principles of 1688, faithful to the ideals
of the "Glorious Revolution" against James II, faithful to the House of
Hanover, then seated on the throne.
"Can a free government possibly exist with the Roman Catholic Church?"
asked John Adams of Thomas Jefferson. This simple question embodied in
concrete form the apprehensions of the country at large, whose
inhabitants had now become firmly convinced that King George, in
granting the Quebec Bill, had become a traitor, had broken his
coronation oath, was a Papist at heart, and was scheming to submit this
country to the unconstitutional power of the English monarch. It was not
so much a contest between peoples as a conflict of principles, political
and religious, the latter of which contributed the active force that
brought on the revolt and gave it power.
III
Strange to relate, there came a decided reversal of position after the
formation of the French Alliance. No longer was the Catholic religion
simply tolerated; it was openly professed, and, owing in a great measure
to the unwearied labors of the Dominican and Franciscan friars, made the
utmost progress among all ranks of people. The fault of the Catholic
population was anything but disloyalty, it was found, and their manner
of life, their absolute sincerity in their religious convictions, their
generous and altruistic interest in matters of concern to the public
good, proved irrefutable arguments against the calumnies and
vilifications of earlier days. The Constitutions adopted by the several
states and the laws passed to regulate the new governments show that the
principles of religious freedom and equality had made progress during
the war and were to be incorporated as vital factors in the shaping of
the destinies of the new nation.
The supreme importance of the French Alliance at this juncture cannot be
overestimated. Coming, as it did, at a time when the depression of the
people had reached the lowest ebb, when the remnant of the army of the
Americans was enduring the severities of the winter season at Valley
Forge, when the enemy was in possession of the fairest part of the
country together with the two most important cities, when Congress could
not pay its bills, nor meet the national debt which alone exceeded forty
million dollars,--when the medium of exchange would not circulate
because of its worthlessness, when private debts could not be collected
and when credit was generally prostrated, the Alliance proved a benefit
of incalculable value to the struggling nation, not only in the
enormous resources which it supplied to the army but in the general
morale of the people which it made buoyant.
The capture of Burgoyne and the announcement that Lord North was about
to bring in conciliatory measures furnished convincing proof to France
that the American Alliance was worth having. A treaty was drawn up by
virtue of which the Americans solemnly agreed, in consideration of armed
support to be furnished by France, never to entertain proposals of peace
with Great Britain until their independence should be acknowledged, and
never to conclude a treaty of peace except with the concurrence of their
new ally.
Large sums of money were at once furnished the American Congress. A
strong force of trained soldiers was sent to act under Washington's
command. A powerful fleet was soon to set sail for American waters and
the French forces at home were directed to cripple the military power of
England and to lock up and neutralize much British energy which would
otherwise be directed against the Americans. Small wonder that a new era
began to dawn for the Colonists!
When we remember the anti-Catholic spirit of the first years of the
Revolution and consider the freedom of action which came to the
Catholics as a consequence of the French Alliance, another and a
striking phase of its influence is revealed. The Catholic priests
hitherto seen in the colonies had been barely tolerated in the limited
districts where they labored. Now came Catholic chaplains of foreign
embassies; army and navy chaplains celebrating mass with pomp on the
men-of-war and in the camps and cities. The French chaplains were
brought in contact with all classes of the people in all parts of the
country and the masses said in the French lines were attended by many
who had never before witnessed a Catholic ceremony. Even Rhode Island,
with a French fleet in her waters, blotted from her statute-book a law
against Catholics.
IV
"What have we here, Marjorie?" asked Jim as he walked part of the way to
meet her.
"Just a few ribs of pork. I thought that you might like them."
She gave Jim the basket and walked over to Mrs. Cadwalader and kissed
her.
"Heaven bless you, Marjorie," exclaimed Nancy as she took hold of the
girl's hands and held them.
"Oh, thank you! But it is nothing, I assure you."
"You kin bet it is," announced Jim as he removed from the basket a long
side of pork. "Look 't that, Nancy." And he held it up for her
observation.
Marjorie had been accustomed to render some relief to Jim and his wife
since the time when reverses had first visited them. Her good nature, as
well as her consideration of the long friendship which had existed
between the two families, had prompted her to this service. Jim would
never be in want through any fault of hers, yet she was discreet enough
never to proffer any avowed financial assistance. The mode she employed
was that of an occasional visit in which she never failed to bring some
choice morsel for the table.
"How's the dad?" asked Jim.
"Extremely well, thank you. He has been talking all day on the failure
of the French to take Newport."
"What's that?" asked Jim, thoroughly excited. "Has there been news in
town?"
"Haven't you heard? The fleet made an attack."
"Where? What about it?"
"They tried to enter New York to destroy the British, but it was found,
I think, that they were too large for the harbor. So they sailed to
Newport to attack the garrison there."
"Yeh?"
"General Sullivan operated on the land, and the French troops were about
to disembark to assist him. But then Lord Howe arrived with his fleet
and Count d'Estaing straightway put out to sea to engage him."
"And thrashed 'm----"
"No," replied Marjorie. "A great storm came up and each had to save
himself. From the reports Father gave, General Sullivan has been left
alone on the island and may be fortunate if he is enabled to withdraw in
safety."
"What ails that Count!" exclaimed Jim thoroughly aroused. "I don't think
he's much good."
"Now don't git excited," interrupted Nancy. "That's you all th' time.
Just wait a bit."
"Just when we want 'im he leaves us. That's no good."
"Any more news, girl?"
"No. Everything is quiet except for the news we received about the
regiment of Catholic volunteers that is being recruited in New York."
"In New York? Clinton is there."
"I know it. This is a British regiment."
"I see. Tryin' t' imitate 'The Congress' Own?"
"So it seems."
"And do they think they will git many Cath'lics, or that there 're
enough o' them here?"
"I do not know," answered Marjorie. "But some handbills have appeared
in the city which came from New York."
"And they want the Cath'lics? What pay are they goin' t' give?"
"Four pounds."
"That's a lot o' money nowadays."
"That is all I know about it. I can't think what success they will have.
We are sure of some loyalists, however."
"I guess I'll hev to git down town t' see what's goin' on. Things were
quiet fur so long that I stayed pretty well t' home here. What does yur
father think?"
"He is angry, of course. But he has said little."
"I never saw anything like it. What'll come next?"
He folded his arms and crossed his knee.
An hour later she stood at the gate taking her leave of Jim and Nancy at
the termination of a short but pleasant visit.
"Keep a stout heart," she was saying to Jim, "for better days are
coming."
"I know 't, girl. Washington won't fail."
"He is coming here shortly."
"To Philadelphia?" asked Nancy.
"Yes. So he instructed Captain Meagher."
"I hope he removes Arnold."
"Hardly. He is a sincere friend to him. He wishes to see Congress."
"Has he been summon'd?"
"No! Captain Meagher intimated to me that a letter had been sent to His
Excellency from the former chaplain of Congress, the Rev. Mr. Duche,
complaining that the most respectable characters had withdrawn and were
being succeeded by a great majority of illiberal and violent men. He
cited the fact that Maryland had sent the Catholic Charles Carroll of
Carrollton instead of the Protestant Tilghman."
"Who is this Duche?"
"I do not know. But he has since fled to the British. He warmly
counseled the abandonment of Independence."
"If that's his style, he's no good. Will we see the Gin'ral?"
"Perhaps. Then again he may come and go secretly."
"God help the man," breathed Nancy.
CHAPTER II
I
"Simply a written statement. A public utterance from you denouncing the
Catholics would prove of incalculable value to us."
John Anderson had been for an hour or more in the company of the
Military Governor. Seemingly great progress had been made in the
recruiting of the regiment, much of which had, of necessity, been
effected in a secret manner, for now the city was under the domination
of the Continental forces. Anderson had made the most of his time and
was in a fair way to report progress for the past month.
"Don't be a fool, Anderson. You know that it would be the height of
folly for me to make any such statement. I can do no more than I am
doing. How many have you?"
"Nearly an hundred."
"There are several miserable Papists in Congress. If they could be
prevailed upon to resign, it would create a considerable impression upon
the minds of the people."
"I did see Carroll."
"How did he receive you?"
"He replied to me that he had entered zealously into the Revolution to
obtain religious as well as civil liberty, and he hoped that God would
grant that this religious liberty would be preserved in these states to
the end of time."
"Confound him! We cannot reach him, I suppose."
"So it appears. He is intensely patriotic."
"You have an hundred, you say? All common folk, I venture. We should
have several influential men."
"But they cannot be reached. I know well the need of a person of
influence, which thought urged me to ask such a statement from you."
He looked at him savagely.
"Do you think I'm a fool?"
"'The fool knows more in his own house than a wise man does in
another's.' I merely suggest, that is all."
"My answer is,--absolutely, No!"
There was silence.
"I know that Roman Catholic influence is beginning to reveal itself in
the army. Washington is well disposed toward them and they are good
soldiers. Time was when they were less conspicuous; but nowadays every
fool legislature is throwing public offices open to them and soon France
will exercise the same control over these states as she now wields
across the seas."
"Would you be in league with France?" asked Anderson with a wavering
tremor in his voice.
"God knows how I detest it! But I have sworn to defend the cause of my
country and I call this shattered limb to witness how well I have spent
myself in her behalf. I once entertained the hope that our efforts would
be crowned with success, nevertheless I must confess that the more
protracted grows the struggle, the more the conviction is forced upon me
that our cause is mistaken, if not entirely wrong, and destined to
perish miserably. Still, I shall not countenance open rebellion. I could
not."
"You will continue to advise me. I am little acquainted with the city,
you know, and it would be difficult for me to avoid dangerous risks."
Arnold thought for a minute, his features overcast by a scowl which
closed his eyes to the merest chinks.
"I shall do no more than I have already done. I cannot permit myself to
be entangled. There is too much at stake."
He was playing a dangerous game, inspirited by no genuine love for
country but by feelings of wounded pride. He was urged on, not through
any fears of personal safety but through misguided intimidations of a
foreign alliance; not because of any genuine desire to aid or abet the
cause of the enemy but to cast suspicion upon a certain unit within his
own ranks. To be deprived of active duty in the field was to his warm
and impulsive nature an ignominious calamity. To learn subsequently of
the appointment of Gates to the second in command, the one general whom
he despised and hated, was more than his irritable temperament could
stand. The American cause now appeared hopeless to him, nevertheless he
entertained no thought of deserting it. He had performed his duty in its
behalf, as his wounded limb often reminded him, and it was only fitting
that he, who alone had destroyed a whole army of the enemy, should be
rewarded with due consideration. Congress had ever been unfriendly to
him and he had resented their action, or their failure to take proper
action, most bitterly. Throughout it all his personal feelings had
guided to a large extent his faculty of judgment, and for that reason he
viewed with mistrust and suspicion every intent and purpose, however
noble or exalted.
He had been violently opposed to the alliance with France from the
start. It was notorious that he abhorred Catholics and all things
Catholic. To take sides with a Catholic and despotic power which had
been a deadly foe to the colonists ten or twenty years before, during
the days of the French and Indian wars, was to his mind a measure at
once unpatriotic and indiscreet. In this also, he had been actuated by
his personal feelings more than by the study of the times. For he
loathed Popery and the thousand and one machinations and atrocities
which he was accustomed to link with the name.
The idea of forming a regiment of Catholic soldiers interested him not
in the numerical strength which might be afforded the enemy but in the
defection which would be caused to the American side. His scheme lay in
the hope that the Catholic members of Congress would be tempted to
resign. In that event he would obtain evident satisfaction not alone in
the weakness to which the governing body would be exposed but also in
the ill repute to which American Catholics and their protestations of
loyalty would fall.
Arnold deep down in his own heart knew that his motives were not
unmixed. He could not accuse himself of being outrageously mercenary,
yet he was ashamed to be forced to acknowledge even to himself that the
desire of gain was present to his mind. His debts were enormous. He
entertained in a manner and after a style far in excess of his modest
allowance. His dinners were the most sumptuous in the town; his stable
the finest; his dress the richest. And no wonder that his play, his
table, his balls, his concerts, his banquets had soon exhausted his
fortune. Congress owed him money, his speculations proved unfortunate,
his privateering ventures met with disaster. With debts accumulating and
creditors giving him no peace he turned to the gap which he saw opening
before him. This was an opportunity not to be despised.
"About that little matter--how soon might I be favored?" the Governor
asked, rising from his chair and limping with his cane across the room.
"You refer to the matter of reimbursements?" Anderson asked
nonchalantly.
"I do."
He gazed from the window with his back turned to his visitor.
"I shall draw an order for you at once."
"You shall do nothing of the kind."
He looked fiercely at him.
"You are playing a clever game, are you not? But you have to cope now
with a clever adversary."
He walked deliberately before him, and continued:
"Anderson," he said, "I want to tell you I know who you are and for what
purpose you have been sent here. I know too by whom you have been sent.
I knew it before you were here twenty-four hours and I want to tell you
now before we continue that we may as well understand each other in a
thorough manner. If you desire my assistance you must pay me well for
it. And it must be in legal tender."
"Of course--but--but--the truth is that I am in no way prepared to make
any offer now. I can communicate with you in a few days, or a week."
"Don't come here. You must not be seen here again. Send it to me or
better still meet me."
"Can you trust the Shippens?"
"Absolutely."
"Why not there?"
"You mean to confer with me there?"
"If it is safe, as you say, where would be more suitable?"
"True. But I must have some money as soon as possible. The nation is
bankrupt and my pay is long overdue. I cannot, however, persuade the
creditors any longer. I must have money."
"You shall have it. At Shippen's then."
He rose and walked directly to the door.
"Next week."
He shut the door after him and hurried along the corridor. As he turned
he came face to face with a countenance entirely familiar to him but
momentarily lost to his consciousness by its sudden and unexpected
appearance. In a second, however, he had recovered himself.
"Captain! I am pleased indeed."
He put out his hand.
Stephen thought for a moment. Then he grasped it.
"Mr. Anderson. What good fortune is this?"
"Complimentary. Simply paying my respects for kindness rendered."
"Have a care lest your zeal overwhelm you."
Anderson colored at the allusion.
"Thank you. I shall exercise all moderation."
Stephen watched him as he moved away, deliberating hurriedly on the
advisability of starting after him. Whatever his mission or his purpose,
he would not learn in this house certainly, nor from him nor from Arnold
for that matter. If he was intent on securing information concerning
this man he must do it in a surreptitious manner. There was no other
method of dealing with him, he thought, and in view of such
circumstances he deemed it perfectly legitimate to follow him at a safe
distance.
The more he thought over it the more readily did he resolve to take
action to the end that he might see more of him. Whatever mischief was
afoot, and he had no more than a mere suspicion that there was mischief
afoot, must reveal itself sooner or later. His object in all probability
had already been accomplished, nevertheless his errand, if he was
engaged on an errand, might be disclosed. He would follow him if for no
other purpose than to learn of his destination.
Second Street was now astir with a lively procession. There, every day
when business was over, when the bank was closed, when the exchange was
deserted, crowds of seekers came to enjoy the air and to display their
rich garments. There might be found the gentlemen of fashion and of
means, with their great three-cornered cocked hats, resting majestically
upon their profusely powdered hair done up in cues, their light colored
coats, with their diminutive capes and long backs, their striped
stockings, pointed shoes, and lead-laden cuffs, paying homage to the
fair ladies of the town. These, too, were gorgeous in their brocades and
taffetas, luxuriantly displayed over cumbrous hoops, tower-built hats,
adorned with tall feathers, high wooden heels and fine satin petticoats.
It was an imposing picture to behold these gayly dressed damsels gravely
return the salutations of their gallant admirers and courtesy almost to
the ground before them.
Stephen searched deliberately for his man throughout the length of the
crowded thoroughfare, standing the while on the topmost step of the
Governor's Mansion--that great old-fashioned structure resembling in
many details a fortification, with its two wings like bastions extending
to the rear, its spacious yard enclosed with a high wall and ornamented
with two great rows of lofty pine trees. It was the most stately house
within the confines of the city and, with Christ Church, helped to make
Second Street one of the aristocratic thoroughfares of the town.
It was with difficulty that Stephen discerned Anderson walking briskly
in the direction of Market Street. He set off immediately, taking care
to keep at a safe distance behind him. He met several acquaintances, to
whom he doffed his hat and returned their afternoon greeting, while he
pursued his quest with lively interest and attention. Market Street was
reached, and here he was obliged to pause near a shop window lest he
might overtake Anderson, who had halted to exchange pleasantries with a
young and attractive couple. On they went again deliberately and
persistently until at length it began to dawn upon Stephen that they
were headed for the Germantown road, and for Allison's house.
What strange relation was arising between Marjorie and that man?
Anderson was paying marked attention to her, he began to muse to
himself, too much attention perhaps, for one whose whole existence was
clouded with a veil of mystery. Undoubtedly he was meeting with some
encouragement, if not reciprocation (perish the thought!), for he was
persistent in his attention. Yet this man was not without charm. There
was something fascinating about him which even Stephen must confess was
compelling. What if she had been captivated by him, by his engaging
personal qualities, by his prepossessing appearance, by his habit of
gentle speech, by his dignity and his ease of manner! His irritation was
justifiable.
There was little doubt now as to Anderson's destination. Plainly he was
bent on one purpose. The more he walked, the more evident this became.
Stephen would be assured, however, and pursued his way until he had seen
with his own eyes his man turn into Allison's house. And not until then
did he halt. Turning deliberately he began to retrace his steps.
II
"This looks like the kind of book. Has it the 'Largo'?"
Anderson sat on the music-stool before the clavichord turning over the
pages of a volume that rested on the rack.
"Perhaps. I scarce think I know what it is. I have never heard it."
Marjorie was nearby. She had been musing over the keys, letting her
fingers wander where they would, when he had called. He would not
disturb her for all the world, nevertheless he did yield to her
entreaties to take her place on the stool.
"You have never heard Handel? The 'Largo' or the greatest of all
oratorios, his 'Messiah'?"
"Never!"
He did not reply to this. Instead he broke into the opening chords, the
sweetly solemn, majestic harmony of the 'Largo'. He played it entirely
from memory, very slowly, very softly at first, until the measured
notes, swelling into volume, filled the room in a loud arpeggio.
"That is beautiful," she exclaimed with enthusiasm, "I should have said
'exquisite'. May I learn it?"
"Surely there must be a copy in the city. I shall consider it a favor to
procure one for you."
"I should be delighted, I am sure."
He played it again. She regarded him from above. It was astonishing to
note the perfect ease and grace with which he performed. The erect
carriage, the fine cut of the head, the delicately carved features
became the objects of her attention in their inverse order, and the
richly endowed talents, with which he was so signally accomplished,
furnished objects of special consideration to her reflective soul. He
was exceedingly fascinating and a dangerous object to pit against the
heart of any woman. Still Marjorie was shrewd enough to peer beneath his
superficial qualities, allowing herself to become absorbed in a
penetrating study of the man, his character, his peculiarities;--so
absorbed, in fact, that the door behind her opened and closed without
attracting her attention.
"I must obtain that copy," she announced as she turned towards her
chair.
"Why, Father!" she exclaimed. "When did you come? Mr. Anderson, Father.
You already know him."
"Well met, my boy. You are somewhat of a musician. I was listening."
"Just enough for my own amusement," laughed the younger man. "I know a
few notes."
"Be not quick to believe him, Father. He plays beautifully."
Mr. Allison sat down.
"Accomplishments are useful ornaments. Nowadays a man succeeds best who
can best impress. People want to see one's gifts."
"The greatest of talents often lie buried. Prosperity thrives on
pretense."
"True. I'm beginning to think that way myself, the way things 're
going."
"With the war?" he asked.
"With everything. I think Congress will fail to realize its boasts, and
Arnold is a huge pretender, and----"
"He has lost favor with the people."
"Lost it? He never had it from the day he arrived. People do not like
that sort of thing."
Anderson watched him intently and Marjorie watched Anderson.
"He may resign for a command in the army. I have heard it said that he
dislikes his office."
"Would to God he did! Or else go over to the other side."
Anderson's head turned--the least little fraction--so that Marjorie
could see the flash light up his eyes.
"He could not desert the cause now without becoming a traitor."
A pause followed.
"Men of lofty patriotism often disagree in the manner of political
action. We have many Loyalists among us."
"Yet they are not patriots."
"No! They are not, viewed from our standpoint. But every colony has a
different motive in the war. Now that some have obtained their rights,
they are satisfied with the situation. I don't know but that we would be
as well off if the present state of affairs were allowed to stand."
"What do the Catholics of the Colonies think?"
This was a bold question, yet he ventured to ask it.
"We would fare as well with England as with some of our own," answered
Marjorie decisively.
Anderson looked at her for a minute.
"Never!" replied Mr. Allison with emphasis.
"See how Canada fared," insisted Marjorie.
"Tush!"
Anderson listened attentively. Here was a division of opinion within the
same family; the father intensely loyal, the daughter somewhat inclined
to analysis. A new light was thrown upon her from this very instant
which afforded him a very evident satisfaction, a very definite and
conscious enjoyment as well. To have discovered this mind of apparent
candor and unaffected breadth was of supreme import to him at this
critical moment. And he felt assured that he had met with a character of
more than ordinary self-determination which might, if tuned properly,
display a capacity for prodigious possibilities, for in human nature he
well knew the chord of self-interest to be ever responsive to adequate
and opportune appeal.
Marjorie might unconsciously prove advantageous to him. It was essential
for the maturing of his plans to obtain Catholic coöperation. She was a
devout adherent and had been, insofar as he had been able to discover,
an ardent Whig. True, he had but few occasions to study her,
nevertheless today had furnished him with an inkling which gave her
greater breadth in his eyes than he was before conscious of. The remark
just made might indicate that she favored foreign rule in the interest
of religious toleration, yet such a declaration was by no means
decisive. Still he would labor to this end in the hope that she might
ultimately see her way clear to coöperate with him in his designs.
"We are losing vast numbers through the Alliance," volunteered Anderson.
"I suppose so," admitted Mr. Allison. "Many of the colonists cannot
endure the thought of begging assistance from a great Roman Catholic
power. They fear, perhaps, that France will use the opportunity to
inflict on us the worst form of colonialism and destroy the Protestant
religion."
"But it isn't the Protestants who are deserting," persisted Anderson.
"The Catholics are not unmindful of the hostile spirit displayed by the
colonists in the early days. They, too, are casting different lots."
"Not we. Every one of us is a Whig. Some have faltered, but we do not
want them."
"And yet the reports from New York seem to indicate that the recruiting
there is meeting with success."
"The Catholic regiment? I'll wager that it never will exist except on
paper. There are no Tories, no falterers, no final deserters among the
American Catholics."
"What efforts are being made in Philadelphia?" asked Marjorie.
"None--that I know of," was the grave reply. "I did hear, however, that
an opportunity would be given those who are desirous of enlisting in New
York."
Marjorie sat and watched him.
"I heard Father Farmer was invited to become its chaplain," observed Mr.
Allison.
"Did he?"
"He did not. He told me himself that he wrote a kind letter with a stern
refusal."
And so they talked; talked into the best part of an hour, now of the
city's activities, now of the Governor, now of the success of the
campaign, until Anderson felt that he had long overstayed his leave.
"I am sorry to leave your company." Then to Marjorie, "At Shippen's
tomorrow?"
"Yes. Will you come for me? If you won't I daresay I shall meet you
there."
"Of course I shall come. Please await me."
III
That there was a state of pure sensation and of gay existence for
Marjorie in the presence of this man, she knew very well; and while she
felt that she did not care for him, nevertheless she was conscious of a
certain subtle influence about him which she was powerless to define. It
has been said that not all who know their mind know their own heart; for
the heart often perceives and reasons in a manner wholly peculiar to
itself. Marjorie was aware of this and the utmost effort was required of
her to respond solely to the less alluring promptings of her firm will.
She would allow him to see her again that she might learn more about him
and his strange origin. Stephen had suggested to her the merest
suspicion concerning him. There was the possibility that the germ of
this suspicion might develop,--and in her very presence. The contingency
was certainly equal to the adventure.
It was not required that she pay a formal call on Peggy. Already had
that been done, immediately after the announcement of the engagement,
when she had come to offer congratulations to the prospective bride upon
her enviable and happy fortune. The note, which again had come into her
possession upon Stephen's return of it, whose contents were still
unknown to her, she had restored to Peggy, together with a full
explanation of its loss and its subsequent discovery. One phase of its
history, however, she had purposely overlooked. It might have proved
embarrassing for her to relate how it chanced to fall into the hands of
Stephen. And inasmuch as he had made no comment upon its return, she was
satisfied that the incident was unworthy of the mention.
Anderson called promptly on the hour and found her waiting. They left
the house at once and by mutual agreement walked the entire distance.
This was preferable, for there was no apparent haste to reach their
destination, and for the present no greater desire throbbed within them
than the company of their own selves. For they talked continually of
themselves and for that reason could never weary of each other's
company.
The country about them was superb. The fields stood straight in green
and gold on every side of the silvery road. Beside them as they passed,
great trees reared themselves aloft from the greensward, which divided
the road from the footpath, and rustled in the breeze, allowing the
afternoon sunshine to reveal itself in patches and glimpses; and the air
between was a sea of subdued light, resonant with the liquid notes of
the robin and the whistle of the quail, intruders upon the uniform
tranquillity of the hot Sunday afternoon.
"Does it not strike you that there are but few persons with whom it is
possible to converse seriously?"
"Seriously?" asked Marjorie. "What do you call seriously?"
"In an intelligent manner, together with perfect ease and attention."
"I suppose that this is true on account of the great want of sincerity
among men."
"That, as well as the impatient desire we possess of intruding our own
thoughts upon our hearer with little or no desire of listening to those
which he himself may want to express."
"We are sincere with no one but ourselves, don't you think? The mere
fact of the entrance of a second person means that we must try to
impress him. You have said that prosperity thrives on pretense."
"And I repeat it. But with friends all guile and dissimulation ceases.
We often praise the merits of our neighbor in the hope that he in turn
will praise us. Only a few have the humility and the whole-hearted
simplicity to listen well and to answer well. Sincerity to my mind is
often a snare to gain the confidence of others."
There was depth to his reasoning, Marjorie thought, which was
riddle-like as well. It was amazing to her how well he could talk on any
given topic, naturally, easily, seriously, as the case might be. He
never seemed to assume the mastery of any conversation, nor to talk with
an air of authority on any subject, for he was alive to all topics and
entered into them with the same apparent cleverness and animated
interest.
He stopped suddenly and exerted a gentle though firm pressure on her
arm, obliging her to halt her steps. Surprised, she turned and looked at
him.
"What is it?" she asked.
There was no response. Instead, she looked in the direction of his gaze.
Then she saw.
A large black snake lay in graceful curves across their path several
rods ahead. Its head was somewhat elevated and rigid. Before it
fluttered a small chickadee in a sort of strange, though powerless
fascination, its wings partly open in a trembling manner, its chirp
noisy and incessant, its movement rapid and nervous, as it partly
advanced, partly retreated before its enchanter. Nearer and nearer it
came, with a great scurrying of the feet and wings, towards the
motionless head of the serpent. Until Anderson, picking a stone from the
roadside, threw a well-aimed shot which bounded over the head of the
snake, causing it to turn immediately and crawl into the recesses of the
deep underbrush of the adjoining field. The bird, freed from the source
of its sinister charm, flew out of sight into safety.
"Thank God!" Marjorie breathed. "I was greatly frightened."
"Nothing would have saved that bird," was the reply. "It already was
powerless."
Marjorie did not answer to this, but became very quiet and pensive. They
walked on in silence.
Nearing the home of Peggy, they beheld General Arnold seated before them
on the spacious veranda in the company of his betrothed. Here was
intrusion with a vengeance, Marjorie thought, but the beaming face and
the welcoming expression soon dispelled her fears.
"Miss Shippen," Anderson said, as he advanced immediately toward her to
seize her hand, "allow me to offer my tender though tardy
congratulations. It was with the greatest joy that I listened to the
happy announcement."
"You are most kind, Mr. Anderson, and I thank you for it," was the soft
response.
"And you, General," said Marjorie. "Let me congratulate you upon your
excellent choice."
"Rather upon my good fortune," the Governor replied with a generous
smile.
Peggy blushed at the compliment.
"How long before we may be enabled to offer similar greetings to you?"
he asked of Mr. Anderson, who was assisting Marjorie into a chair by the
side of Peggy.
"Oh! Love rules his own kingdom and I am an alien."
He drew himself near to the Governor and the conversation turned
naturally and generally to the delicious evening. The very atmosphere
thrilled with romance.
CHAPTER III
I
Stephen was sitting in his room, his feet crossed on a foot-rest before
him, his eyes gazing into the side street that opened full before his
window. He had been reading a number of dispatches and letters piled in
a small heap in his lap; but little by little had laid them down again
to allow his mind to run into reflection and study. And so he sat and
smoked.
It seemed incredible that events of prime importance were transpiring in
the city and that the crisis was so soon upon him. For nearly three
months he had been accumulating, methodically and deliberately, a chain
of incriminating evidence around the Military Governor and John
Anderson, still he was utterly unaware of its amazing scope and
magnitude. Perfidy was at work all around him and he was powerless to
interfere; for the intrigue had yet to reach that point where conviction
could be assured. Nevertheless, he continued to advance step by step
with the events, and sensed keenly the while, the tension which was
beginning to exist but which he could not very well point out.
He had kept himself fully informed of the progress of affairs in New
York, where the recruiting was being accomplished in an undisguised
manner. The real facts, however, were being adroitly concealed from the
bulk of the populace. Information of a surprising nature had been
forwarded to him from time to time in the form of dispatches and
letters, all of which now lay before him, while a certain Sergeant
Griffin had already been detailed by him to carry out the more hazardous
work of espionage in the city of the enemy. The latter was in a fair way
to report now on the progress of the work and had returned to
Philadelphia for this very purpose.
Irish Catholics had been found in the British Army at New York, but they
had been impressed into the service. Sergeant Griffin had spoken to many
deserters who avowed that they had been brought to the colonies against
their own will, declaring that they had been "compelled to go on board
the transports where they were chained down to the ring-bolts and fed
with bread and water; several of whom suffered this torture before they
could be made to yield and sign the papers of enlistment." In
confirmation of this declaration, he had in his lap a letter written to
General Washington by Arthur Lee, June 15, 1777, which read: "Every man
of a regiment raised in Ireland last year had to be shipped off tied and
bound, and most certainly they will desert more than any troops
whatsoever." To corroborate this claim he had obtained several
clippings, advertisements that had appeared in the New York newspapers,
offering rewards for the apprehension of Irish soldiers who had deserted
to the rebels.
The same methods he learned were now being employed in the recruiting of
the Catholic regiment. Blackmail had been resorted to with splendid
results. In several instances enormous debts had been liquidated in
favor of the recruits. Even commissions in the army of His Majesty had
been offered as a bounty. There was success, if the few hundred faces in
the ranks could be reckoned as a fair catch, yet the methods of
recruiting did not begin to justify the fewness of the numbers.
Just how this idea had taken root, he was at a loss to discover.
Certainly not from the disloyalty manifested by the Catholic population
during the war. The exploits of the famous "Congress' Own" Regiments
might, he thought, have contributed much to the enemy's scheme. It was
commonly known that two regiments of Catholics from Canada, raised in
that northern province during the winter of 1775-76, had done valiant
service against the British. A great number of the Canadian population
had welcomed the patriots under Generals Schuyler, Montgomery and Arnold
upon their attempted invasion of the country, and had given much
assistance towards the success of their operations. Inasmuch as many had
sought enlistment in the ranks as volunteers, an opportunity was
furnished them by an act of Congress on January 20, 1776, authorizing
the formation of two Canadian regiments of soldiers to be known as
"Congress' Own." The First was organized by Colonel James Livingston;
the Second by Colonel Moses Hazen. Both of these regiments continued in
active service for the duration of the war, and both obtained a vote of
thanks from the American Congress upon its termination.
Herein, then, must lay the germ of the project of the British Regiment
of Roman Catholic Volunteers.
He sat and considered.
"You tell me, then," he said quietly, "that this is the state of affairs
in New York."
"Yes, sir," replied the soldier.
There was a further silence.
II
The progress of the work in the city of Philadelphia had been less
evident to him. Certain it was that Anderson was directing his undivided
attention to the furtherance of the plan, for which task he had been
admirably endowed by Nature. That Arnold, too, was greatly interested in
the success of the plot, he already suspected, but in this he had no
more than a suspicion, for he could not discover the least incriminating
objective evidence against him. There were several whose names had been
associated with the work; yet these, too, had revealed nothing, when
confronted with a direct question. And whatever influence he might have
had, whatever lurking suspicions he might have accumulated from the
contributory details, these when simmered down amounted to little or
nothing. The plan had not progressed to the extent required. There was
nothing to do but to await further developments.
This man Anderson was ingenuous. The most striking characteristic about
him, that towards which and in support of which every energy and every
talent had been schooled and bent, was an intrepid courage. A vast and
complicated scheme of ambition possessed his whole soul, yet his
disposition and address generally appeared soft and humane, especially
when no political object was at stake.
During the four or five months spent in the city, he had made a host of
friends among all classes of people. His agreeable manner and his
fluency of speech at once gained for him the confidence even of the most
phlegmatic. No man was endowed with more engaging qualities for the
work, if it may be assumed that he was engaged solely in the recruiting
of a Tory Regiment from among the supporters of the Whigs. Everything
seemed to declare that he was associated with the work. And because he
was associated with it, it progressed.
The names of several who had yielded allegiance to the opposite side
were in the hands of Stephen. The Major of the new regiment was a
Catholic, John Lynch. So were Lieutenant Eck, Lieutenant Kane, and
Quartermaster Nowland. These were at present in New York, whither they
had journeyed soon after the British occupation of the city. Of the
hundred-odd volunteers, who were supposed to constitute the company,
little could be learned because of the veil of secrecy which had from
the very beginning enshrouded the whole movement.
Pressure had been brought to bear on several, it was discovered, with
the result that there was no alternative left them but to sign the
papers of enlistment. In this Anderson had been materially aided by the
Military Governor's intimate knowledge of the fortunes and prospects of
the bulk of the citizenry. To imply this, however, was one thing; to
prove it quite another. For whatever strength the accusation might bear
in his own mind, he could not forget that it was still a mere suspicion,
which must be endorsed by investigation if the people were to be
convinced. And Stephen was unprepared to offer the results of his
investigation to a populace which was too indolent and hasty to
investigate them as facts and to discriminate nicely between the shades
of guilt. Anderson was loved and admired by his countrymen and more
especially by his countrywomen. Everything, it seemed, would be forgiven
his youth, rank and genius.
Even Marjorie had been captivated by him, it appeared. The relationship
which was beginning to thrive between them he disliked, and some day he
would make that known to her. How attentive he had been to her was
easily recognizable, but to what degree she returned this attention was
another matter. What she thought of this stranger and to what extent he
had impressed her, he longed to know, for it was weeks since he had laid
eyes on her; and the last two attempts made by him to see her had found
her in the company of Anderson, once at Shippen's, and again on a ride
through the country. True, he himself had been absent from town for a
brief time, immediately after his court-martial, when he returned to
headquarters to file a report with his Commander-in-chief, and the few
moments spent with her upon his return was the last visit. Undoubtedly
he was a stranger to her now; she was absorbed with the other man.
Still Stephen wished that he might see her. An insatiable longing filled
his whole soul, like the eternal cravings of the heart for communion
with the Infinite. There was certain situations where a man or woman
must confide in some person to obtain advice or sympathy, or simply to
unload the soul, and there was no one more becoming to Stephen than this
girl. She understood him and could alleviate by her sole presence, not
through any gift properly made, but by that which radiated from her
alone, the great weight which threatened to overwhelm his whole being.
Simply to converse with her might constitute the prophecy of a benign
existence.
He determined to see her that very evening.
III
"Marjorie," said Stephen, "of course you've a perfect right to do
exactly as you like. But, you know, you did ask my opinion; didn't you?"
"I did," said Marjorie, frowning. "But I disagree with you. And I think
you do him a grave injustice."
She had been seated in a large comfortable chair in the middle of the
side yard when he entered. A ball of black yarn which, with the aid of
two great needles, she was industriously engaged in converting into an
article of wearing apparel, lay by her side. Indeed, so engrossed was
she, that he had opened and closed the gate before her attention was
aroused. She rose immediately, laying her knitting upon the chair, and
advanced to meet him.
"I haven't seen you in ages. Where have you been?"
He looked at her.
"Rather let me ask that question," was his query by way of reply.
"Already twice have I failed to find you."
They walked together to the chairs; she to her own, he to a smaller one
that stood over against them.
"That you called once, I know. Mother informed me."
"You were similarly engaged on both occasions."
He brought his chair near to her.
"With Mr. Anderson?"
She smiled straight in his face.
"Of course."
He, too, smiled.
"Well!" then after a pause, "do you object?"
He did not answer. His fingers drummed nervously on the arm of his
chair and he looked far up the road.
"You do not like him?" she asked quickly.
"It would be impossible for me to now tell you. As a matter of fact, I
myself have been unable to form a definite opinion. I may let you know
later. Not now."
A deep sigh escaped her.
"I should imagine you could read a man at first sight," she exclaimed.
"I never allowed myself that presumption. Men are best discovered at
intervals. They are most natural when off their guard. Habit may
restrain vice, and passion obscures virtue. I prefer to let them alone."
She bit her lip, as her manner was, and continued to observe him. How
serious he was! The buoyant, tender, blithesome disposition which
characterized his former self, had yielded to a temper of saturnine
complexion, a mien of grave and thoughtful composure. He was analytic
and she began to feel herself a simple compound in the hands of an
expert chemist.
"I am sorry to have caused you a disappointment."
"Please, let me assure you there is no need of an apology."
"And you were not disappointed?"
A smile began to play about the corners of her small mouth. She tried to
be humorous.
"Perhaps. But not to the extent of requiring an apology."
"You might have joined us."
"You know better than that."
"I mean it. Peggy would have been pleased to have you."
"Did she say so?"
"No. But I know that she would."
"Alas!" He raised his arm in a slight gesture.
She was knitting now, talking as she did. She paused to raise her eyes.
"I think you dislike Peggy," she said with evident emphasis.
"Why?"
"I scarce know. My instinct, I suppose."
"I distrust her, if that is what you mean?"
"Have you had reason?"
"I cannot answer you now, for which I am very sorry. You will find my
reasoning correct at some future time, I hope."
"Do you approve of my friendship with her?"
She did not raise her eyes this time, but allowed them to remain fixed
upon the needles.
"It is not mine to decide. You are mistress of your own destinies."
Her face grew a shade paler, and the look in her eyes deepened.
"I simply asked your advice, that was all."
The words hit so hard that he drew his breath. He realized that he had
been brusque and through his soul there poured a kind of anger first,
then wounded pride, then a sense of crushing pain.
"I regret having said that," he tried to explain to her. "But I cannot
tell you what is in my mind. Since you do ask me, I fear Peggy greatly,
but I would not say that your friendship with her should cease. Not at
present, anyhow."
"Well, did you approve of my going there with Mr. Anderson?"
"With him? No."
"Can you tell me the reason?"
And then he explained briefly to her of his reasons for disliking this
man and of the veil of suspicion and of mystery with which he was
surrounded. He did not think him a suitable companion for her, and
wished for her own good that she would see no more of him.
There was no reply to his observations. On the contrary Marjorie lapsed
into a meditative silence which seemed to grow deeper and deeper as the
moments passed. Stephen watched her until the suspense became almost
beyond endurance, wondering what thoughts were coursing through her
mind.
At length he broke the silence with the words recorded at the beginning
of the chapter; and Marjorie answered him quietly and deliberately.
She continued with her knitting.
IV
A great melancholy fell upon him, if it were indeed possible for him to
become more dispirited, against which he was powerless to contend. There
was revealed to him on the instant a seeming predilection on the part of
Marjorie for this man, Anderson. The longer they conversed, the deeper
did that conviction grow. This made him careless and petulant. Now a
feeling of deep regret stole over him because he had been so
unsympathetic. In presence of her feeling of grief and disappointment,
his pity was aroused.
"I deeply regret the pain I have caused you," he said to her quietly and
kindly. "It was altogether rude of me."
She bit her lip violently, tremulously, in an effort to restrain the
flood of emotion which surged within, which threatened to burst forth
with the pronunciation of the merest syllable.
She did not reply, but fumbled with the knitted portion of her garment,
running its edges through her fingers.
"I had no intention of speaking of him as I did," he went on. "I would
not, did you not ask me."
"I am not offended."
"Your composure reveals to me that you have been hurt."
"I did not mean that you should know it."
"Very likely. But you could not disguise the fact. I shall give you the
assurance, however, that the subject shall not be a topic for discussion
by us again. He must not be mentioned."
"Please! I--I----"
"It was solely for yourself that I was concerned. Believe me when I say
this. Insofar as I myself am concerned, I am wholly disinterested. I
thought you desired to know and I told you as much as it was possible
for me to tell. You must ask me no more."
"He has not revealed this side of his character to me and I have been in
his company on several occasions. Always has he been kind, gentlemanly,
sincere, upright."
Her eyes were centered full upon him, those large brown eyes that seemed
to contain her whole being. Whether she was gay or sad, jocose or sober,
enthusiastic or despondent, the nature of her feelings could be
communicated solely by her eyes. She need not speak; they spoke for her.
"You are right in believing every man virtuous until he has proved
himself otherwise," he replied. "There should be one weight and one
measure. But I regulate my intercourse with men by the opposite
standard. I distrust every man until he has proved himself worthy, and
it was that principle which guided me, undoubtedly, in my application of
it to you."
"Do you consider that upright?"
"Do not misunderstand me. I do not form a rash judgment of every person
I meet. As a matter of fact I arrive at no judgment at all. I defer
judgment until after the investigation, and I beware of him until this
investigation has been completed."
"You are then obliged to live in a world of suspicion."
"No. Rather in a world of security. How often has the knave paraded
under the banner of innocence! The greatest thieves wear golden chains."
"I could not live after such manner."
She became impatient.
"Were you thrown into daily relation with the world you would soon learn
the art of discrimination. The trusty sentinel lives a life of
suspicion."
At length a truce was silently proclaimed. Composure reigned. The
unpleasant episode had to all appearances been obliterated from their
minds. There was even a touch of that old humor dancing in her eyes.
"Some one has said," she observed, "that 'suspicion is the poison of
friendship.'"
"And a Latin proverb runs, 'Be on such terms with your friend as if you
knew he may one day become your enemy.' Friendship, I realize, is
precious and gained only after long days of probation. The tough fibers
of the heart constitute its essence, not the soft texture of favors and
dreams. We do not possess the friends we imagine, for the world is
self-centered."
"Have you no friends?"
Now she smiled for the second time, but it was only a smile of humor
about the corners of her mouth.
"Only those before whom I may be sincere."
He was serious, inclined to analysis, one might say.
"Can you expect to find sincerity in others without yourself being
sincere?"
"No. But my friend possesses my other soul. I think aloud before him. It
does not matter. I reveal my heart to him, share my joys, unburden my
grief. There is a simplicity and a wholesomeness about it all. We are
mutually sincere."
"Your test is severe."
"But its fruits imperishable."
"I cannot adopt your method," was the deliberate reply as she began to
gather together her ball and needles.
"Let's leave it at that."
And they left it.
V
Long after he had gone she sat there until it was well into the evening,
until the stars began to blink and nod and wrap themselves in the great
cloak of the night, as they kept a silent vigil over the subdued silence
which had settled down upon the vast earth and herself.
The longer she sat and considered, the more melancholy did she become.
Stephen was displeased with her conduct and made no effort to conceal
it, inflicting only the greater wound by his ambiguous and incisive
remarks. His apparent unconcern and indifference of manner frightened
her, and she saw, or she thought she saw a sudden deprivation of that
esteem with which she was vain enough to presuppose he was wont to
regard her. And yet he was mistaken, greatly mistaken. Furthermore, he
was unfair to himself and unjust to her in the misinterpretation of her
behavior. His displeasure pained her beyond endurance.
In her relations with John Anderson, she had been genuinely sincere both
with herself and with Stephen. The latter had asked her to help him; and
this she was trying to do in her own way. That there was something
suspicious about Anderson, she knew; but whether the cause lay in his
manner of action or in the possession of documentary evidence, she could
not so much as conjecture. What more apt method could be employed than
to associate with him in the hope that at some time or other important
information might be imparted to her? She did not intend to play the
part of the spy; still if that was the rôle in which she hoped to find
Anderson, she was ready to assume a similar rôle for the very purpose of
outwitting him and defeating him on his own ground. If Stephen would
only trust her. Oh, dear! And she wrung her hands in abject despair.
Little by little her experiences of the summer just past came before her
with a vividness which her experience with Stephen served only to
intensify. First, there was the night of the Governor's Ball. He had
come into her life there, filling a vacancy not realized before.
Hitherto, she had been quite content in the company of almost any one,
and especially with those of the sterner sex. But with the advent of
this dashing young officer she began to experience a set of new
sensations. The incompleteness of her life was brought before her.
He seemed to perfect her being, sharing her pleasures, lessening her
woes, consoling her heart. Still, there was one office that he had
failed to perform; he was not obsequious. Not that he was ever wanting
in attention and deferential courtesy, or that he ever failed to betray
a warmth of feeling or a generous devotion; but his manner was prosaic,
thoroughly practical both in action and in expression. He spoke his
thoughts directly and forcibly. He was never enthusiastic, never
demonstrative, never warm or impulsive, but definite, well-ordered,
positive. It was quite true that he was capable of bestowing service to
the point of heroism when the occasion required, but such a quality was
not spontaneous, because his heart, while intensely sympathetic,
appeared cold and absolutely opposed to any sort of outburst. He was too
prudent, too wise, too thoughtful, it seemed, acting only when sure of
his ground, turning aside from all obstacles liable to irritate or
confuse him.
Then John Anderson came and initiated her into a newer world. He
appeared to worship her, and tried to make her feel his devotion in his
every act. He was gallant, dignified, charming, lavishing attention upon
her to the point of prodigality. He said things which were pleasant to
hear, and equally as pleasant to remember. What girl would not be
attracted by such engaging personal qualities; but Marjorie decided that
he was too much of the Prince Charming whose gentle arts proved to be
his sole weapons for the major encounters of life.
Hence she was not fascinated by his soft accomplishments. He interested
her, but she readily perceived that there was not in him that real
depth which she had found in Stephen. True, he made her feel more like a
superior being than as a mere equal; he yielded ever to her slightest
whim, and did not discomfort her with weighty arguments. But her acumen
was such that she was enabled to penetrate the gloss and appraise the
man at his true value. The years spent at her mother's knee, the
numberless hours in her father's shop where she came in contact with
many men, her own temperament, prudent by nature, enabled her to
perceive at a glance the contrast between a man of great and noble heart
clothed in severe garments, and the charlatan garbed in the bright
finery of festal dress.
And now the boomerang against which she was defending herself struck her
from a most unexpected angle. That Stephen should misunderstand her
motives was preposterous; yet there was no other inference to be drawn
from the tone of his conversation during the few distressful minutes of
his last visit. In all probability, he had gone away laboring under the
hateful impression that she was untrue, that she had permitted her heart
to be taken captive by the first knight errant who had entered the
lists. And what was more, the subject would never again be alluded to.
He had promised that; and she knew that he was absolute in his
determinations. His groundless displeasure disconcerted her greatly.
Whether it became her to take the initiative in the healing of the
breach which she felt growing wide between them, or simply to await the
development of the course of action she had chosen to pursue, now became
a problem to her perplexed mind. So much depended upon the view he would
take of the whole situation that it was necessary for him to understand
from the very beginning. She would write him. But, no! That might be
premature. She would wait and tell him, so great was her assurance that
all would be well. She would tell him of her great and impassionate
desire to be of assistance to him; she would put into words her analysis
of this man's character, this man about whom he himself had first cast
the veil of suspicion; she would relate her experience with him. She
smiled to herself as she contemplated how pleased he would be once the
frown of bewilderment had disappeared from his countenance.
"Marjorie! Dost know the hour is late?"
"Yes, Mother! I am coming directly."
It was late, though she scarce knew it. Gathering her things, she
brought the chairs into the house.
CHAPTER IV
I
Week after week sped by, summer ripened into fall, and fall faded into
winter. All was monotony: the bleak winter season, the shorter days, the
longer evenings, the city settling down into a period of seclusion and
social inaction. There would be little of gayety this year. No foreign
visitors would be entertained by the townsfolk. There would be no
Mischienza to look forward to. It would be a lonely winter for the
fashionable element, with no solemn functions, with no weekly dancing
assemblies, with no amateur theatricals to rehearse. Indeed were it not
for the approaching marriage of Peggy Shippen to the Military Governor,
Philadelphia would languish for want of zest and excitement.
The wedding took place at the home of the bride on Fourth Street. The
élite of the city, for the most part Tories, were in attendance. Mrs.
Anne Willing Morris, Mrs. Bingham--all the leaders were there. So were
Marjorie, John Anderson, Stephen, the Chews and Miss Franks from New
York. The reception was brilliant, eclipsing anything of its kind in the
history of the social life of the city, for Mrs. Shippen had vowed that
the affair would establish her definitely and for all time the leader of
the fashionable set of the town.
The center of attraction was of course Peggy; and she carried herself
well, enduring the trying ordeal with grace and composure. And if one
were to judge by the number and the quality of the gifts which loaded
down one whole room, or by the throng which filled the house to
overflowing, or by the motley crowd which surged without, impatient for
one last look at the bride as she stepped into the splendid coach, a
more popular couple was never united in matrimony. It was a great day
for all concerned, and none was more happy nor more radiant than Peggy
as she sat back in the coach and looked into the face of her husband and
sighed with that contentment and complacency which one experiences in
the possession of a priceless gem.
Their homecoming, after the brief honeymoon, was delightful. No longer
would they live in the great slate roof house on Second Street at the
corner of Norris Alley, but in the more elegant old country seat in
Fairmount, on the Schuylkill,--Mount Pleasant. Since Arnold had
purchased this great estate and settled it immediately upon his bride,
subject of course to the mortgage, its furnishings and its appointments
were of her own choice and taste.
It rose majestically before them on a bluff overlooking the river, a
courtly pile of colonial Georgian architecture whose balustraded and
hipped roof seemed to rear itself above the neighboring woodland, so as
to command a magnificent broad view of the Schuylkill River and valley
for miles around.
"There! See, General! Isn't it heavenly?"
She could not conceal her joy. Arnold looked and smiled graciously with
evident satisfaction at the quiet homelike aspect of the place.
Peggy was on the stone landing almost as soon as she emerged from the
coach,--eager to peep inside, anxious to sit at last in her own home.
Although she had already seen all that there was to see, and had spent
many days previous to the marriage in arranging and planning the
interior so as to have all in readiness for their return on this day,
still she seemed to manifest a newer and a livelier joy, so pleasant and
so perfect did all appeal.
"Oh, General! Isn't this just delicious?" And she threw her arms around
his neck to give him a generous hug.
"Are you happy now?" he questioned.
"Perfectly. Come let us sit and enjoy it."
She went to the big chair and began to rock energetically; but only for
a minute, for she spied in the corner of the room the great sofa, and
with a sudden movement threw herself on that. She was like a small boy
with a host of toys about him, anxious to play with all at the same
time, and trying to give to each the same undivided attention. The
massive candelabra on the table attracted her, so she turned her
attention to that, fixing one of its candles as she neared it. Finally,
a small water color of her father, which hung on the wall a little to
one side, appealed to her as needing adjustment. She paused to regard
the profile as she straightened it.
The General observed her from the large chair into which he had flung
himself to rest after the journey, following her with his eyes as she
flitted about the great drawing-room. For the moment there was no object
in that space to determine the angle of his vision, save Peggy, no other
objective reality to convey any trace of an image to his imagination but
that of his wife. She was the center, the sum-total of all his thoughts,
the vivid and appreciable good that regulated his emotions, that
controlled his impulses. And the confident assurance that she was
happy, reflected from her very countenance, emphasized by her every
gesture as she hurried here and there about the room in joyous
contemplation of the divers objects that delighted her fancy, reanimated
him with a rapture of ecstasy which he thought for the moment impossible
to corporeal beings. The mere pleasure of beholding her supremely happy
was for him a source of whole-souled bliss, illimitable and ineffable.
"Would you care to dine now?" she asked of him as she approached his
chair and leaned for support on its arms. "I'll ask Cynthia to make
ready."
"Yes, if you will. That last stage of the trip was exhausting."
And so these two with all the world in their possession, in each other's
company, partook of their first meal together in their own dining-room,
in their own private home.
II
"'Thou hast it now,--king, Cawdor, Glamis, all----'" remarked Arnold to
his wife as they made their way from the dining-room into the spacious
hallway that ran through the house.
"Yet it was not foully played," replied Peggy. "The tourney was fair."
"I had thought of losing you."
"Did you but read my heart aright at our first meeting, you might have
consoled yourself otherwise."
"It was the fear of my letter; the apprehension of its producing a
contrary effect that furnished my misgiving. I trembled over the consent
of your parents."
"Dost know, too, that my mother favored the match from the start? In
truth she gave me every encouragement, perhaps awakened my soul to the
flame."
"No matter. We are in the morning of our bliss; its sun is about to
remain fixed. Wish for a cloudless sky."
They were now in the great drawing-room which ran the full depth of the
building, with windows looking both east and west. In the middle of the
great side wall lodged a full-throated fireplace above which rose
imposingly an elaborately wrought overmantel, whose central panel was
devoid of any ornamentation. The door frames with their heavily molded
pediments, the cornices, pilasters, doortrims and woodwork rich in
elaboration of detail were all distinctive Georgian, tempered, however,
with much dignified restraint and consummate good taste.
"We can thank the privateer for this. Still it was a fair profit and
wisely expended, wiser to my mind than the methods of Robert Morris. At
any rate it is the more satisfactory."
"He has made excellent profits."
"Nevertheless, he has lost as many as an hundred and fifty vessels.
These have affected his earnings greatly. Were he not so generous to an
ungrateful people, a great part of his loss might now have been
retrieved."
"I have heard it said, too, that he alone has provided the sinews of the
revolt," said Peggy.
"Unquestionably. On one occasion, at a time of great want, I remember
one of his vessels arrived with a cargo of stores and clothing, whose
whole contents were given to Washington without any remuneration
whatsoever. And you, yourself, remember that during the winter at Valley
Forge, just about the time Howe was evacuating the city, when there
were no cartridges in the army but those in the men's boxes, it was he
who rose to the emergency by giving all the lead ballast of his favorite
privateer. He has made money, but he has lost a vast amount. I made
money, too, just before I bought this house. And I have lost money."
"And have been cheated of more."
"Yes. Cheated. More generosity from my people! I paid the sailors their
share of the prize money of the British sloop that they as members of
the crew had captured, that is, with the help of two other privateers
which came to their assistance. The court allowed the claims of the
rival vessels but denied mine. I had counted upon that money but found
myself suddenly deprived of it. Now they are charging me with having
illegally bought up the lawsuit."
He was seated now and lay back in his chair with his disabled limb
propped upon a stool before him.
"They continue to say horrid things about you. I wish you were done with
them," Peggy remarked.
He removed his finely powdered periwig and ran his heavy fingers through
his dark hair.
"I treat such aspersions with the contempt their pettiness deserves. I
am still Military Governor of Philadelphia and as such am beholden to no
one save Washington. The people have given me nothing and I have nothing
to return save bitter memories."
"I wish we were away from here!" she sighed.
"Margaret!" He never called her Peggy. He disliked it. "Are you not
happy in this home which I have provided for you?"
His eyes opened full.
"It isn't that," she replied, "I am afraid of Reed."
"Reed? He is powerless. He is president of the City Council which under
English law is, in time of peace, the superior governing body of the
people. But this is war, and he must take second place. I despise him."
Peggy looked up inquiringly.
"Suppose that the worst should happen?" she said.
"But--how--what can happen?" he repeated.
"Some great calamity."
"How--what do you mean?" he asked.
"If you should be removed, say, or transferred to some less important
post?"
A thought flashed into his mind.
"Further humiliated?"
"Yes. What then?"
"Why,--I don't know. I had thought of no possible contingency. I wished
for a command in the Navy and wrote to Washington to that effect; but
nothing came of it. I suppose my increasing interest in domestic affairs
in the city, as well as my attentions to you, caused me to discontinue
the application. Then again, I thought I was fitted for the kind of life
led by my friend Schuyler in New York and had hoped to obtain a grant of
land in the West where I might lead a retired life as a good citizen."
"I would die in such a place. The Indians would massacre us. Imagine me
hunting buffalo in Ohio!"
Her face wore a sardonic smile. It was plain to be seen that she was in
a flippant mood.
"Have you given the matter a thought? Tell me," he questioned.
"No! I could not begin to think."
"Are you not happy?"
"Happiness springs not from a large fortune, and is often obtained when
often unexpected. It is neither within us nor without us and only
evident to us by the deliverance from evil."
He glanced sharply. There was fire in his eye.
"I know of what you are thinking. You are disturbed by these persistent
rumors about me."
She gave a little laugh, a chuckle, in a hopeless manner.
"Yes, I am. Go on." She answered mechanically and fell back in her
chair.
"You need not be disturbed. They are groundless, I tell you. Simply
engendered by spite. And I blame partly the Papist Whigs. Damn 'em."
"It isn't that alone."
"That is some of it. The origin of the hostility to me was the closing
of the shops for a week under an order direct from Washington himself,
and a resolution of the Congress. Yet I was blamed. The next incident
pounced upon by them was my use of the government wagons in moving
stores. As you know I had this done to revictual and supply the army.
But I permitted the empty wagons to bring back stores from the direction
of New York and was charged with being in communication with the enemy."
"Which would be more praiseworthy."
He paid no attention to her remark but continued:
"I was honest in supposing the goods to be bonafide household goods
belonging to non-combatants. As a matter of fact some of the decorations
at our wedding were obtained in this manner. What followed? A public
complaint."
"I know."
"Then that scheming interloper Matlack! You know of him?"
"I think so."
"You've heard of his father, of course!"
"No."
"The Secretary to Reed, the President of the Council? Timothy Matlack?
His social aspirations were somewhat curtailed by my interest in public
affairs. He has borne me in mind and evidently intends my ruin."
"In that he differs not from many other so-called friends."
"I did all in my power to soothe his ruffled feelings in a long,
considerate letter in answer to his note of grievance. Only later I
learned that it was his son whose haughty nature had been offended."
"You were no party to the offense. In fact you knew naught of it until
the episode had been concluded."
"True, but Franks had taken part in it, and Franks was my head
aide-de-camp. It was trivial. He wanted a barber and sent young Matlack
who was doing sentry duty at the door to fetch one. Naturally I defended
his action in my letter of reply."
"I tell you, they do not want you here. Can't you sense that? Else these
charges would never have been uttered. They are mere pretexts. They are
weary of you and desire your resignation."
She talked rapidly, violently. Her face assumed a stern expression.
He did not reply but peered into the distance.
"The 'American Fabius', I suppose, is still watching General Clinton,"
Peggy continued.
"He has thrown a cordon about him at New York. With a sufficient force
he might take him."
"Never! The Americans never were a match for His Majesty's well-trained
troops. The longer the struggle endures the sooner this will be
learned."
"Time is with us, dear. The mother country knows this."
She looked at him. It was astonishing to her that he could be so
transparent and so unaware of it. Really he was not clever.
"Why do you say that?" she asked. "Every day our lot grows worse. The
troops perish from misery; they are badly armed; scarcely clothed; they
need bread and many of them are without arms. Our lands lie fallow. The
education of a generation has been neglected, a loss that can never be
repaired. Our youths have been dragged by the thousands from their
occupations and harvested by the war; and those who return have lost
their vigor or have been mutilated for life."
"You are partly right," he mused. "America lost the opportunity for
reconciliation immediately after my victory at Saratoga. Since then, as
you say, the land has become a waste of widows, beggars and orphans.
Then came the French Alliance, a sacrifice of the great interests, as
well as the religion of this country to the biased views of a proud,
ancient, crafty and priest-ridden nation. I always thought this a
defensive war until the French joined in the combination. Now I look
with disfavor upon this peril to our dominion, this enemy of our faith."
Peggy became interested immediately. She sat straight up in her chair.
"You never spoke these thoughts to me before!" she exclaimed.
"I feared it. You are a Tory, at least at heart. And I knew that you
would only encourage me in my manner of thought. God knows, I am unable
to decide between my perplexities."
"You know how General Monk decided?"
"My God! He was a traitor!"
"He restored Charles," insisted Peggy.
"And sold his soul."
"For the Duchy of Albemarle."
"Good God! girl, don't talk thoughts like that, I--I---- He has endured
universal execration. It was an act of perfidy." He scowled fiercely. He
was in a rage.
Peggy smiled. She did not press the subject, but allowed it to drop.
"My! How dark it has become!" she exclaimed.
She struck a light and touched the wicks of the candles.
III
Dizzy was the eminence to which General Arnold and his girl bride
ascended! On a sudden they found themselves on the highest pinnacle--the
one of military fame--with Gates, Lee, Wayne, Greene and many other
distinguished generals at their feet, the other of social prestige the
observed of all observers! For a time Arnold's caprices had been looked
upon as only the flash and outbreak of that fiery mind which had
directed his military genius. He attacked religion; yet in religious
circles his name was mentioned with fondness. He lampooned Congress; yet
he was condoned by the Whigs.
Then came the reaction. Society flew into a rage with its idol. He had
been worshiped with an irrational idolatry. He was censured with an
irrational fury. In the first place the position in which he was placed
as Military Governor required the exercise of the utmost patience and
tact. Neither of these qualities did he possess. The order to close the
shops caused discontent. People became incensed at the sight of a
dictator interfering with their private life. There was thrust upon them
in his person the very type that they were striving to expel. His manner
of action suddenly became obnoxious.
What was merely criticism in respect to his public life, became a
violent passion respecting the affairs of his private life. There were
many rumors of his intercourse with the Tory element. Brilliant
functions were arranged, it was said, with the sole view of gaining
their friendship and good will. He spent the major portion of his free
time in their company, nay more, he had taken to wife the most notorious
of their number. Small wonder was it that his sentiments on the question
of the war were undergoing a marked alteration. The thirst of the
political Whigs for vengeance was insatiable.
Then he had repaired to a mansion, the most elegant seat in
Pennsylvania, where he entertained in a style and after a manner far in
excess of his means. A coach and four he maintained with the greatest
ostentation. His livery and appointments were extravagant and wholly
unbecoming an officer of a country so poor and struggling. He drove to
town in the company of his wife and paid every attention to the
aristocratic leaders of the city. He disdained the lot of the common
citizen. Even his head aide-de-camp had submitted a free man to the
indignity of fetching a barber to shave him, an act countenanced by the
General himself in a letter of reply to the boy's father.
His entertainments were frequent, altogether too frequent for the
conservative instincts of the community. Upon the arrival of the French
Ambassador M. Gerard, a grand banquet was tendered him, after which he
was entertained with his entire suite for several days at Mount
Pleasant. Foreigners were seldom absent from the mansion and members of
Congress, the relatives of his wife, the titled gentry of Europe were
treated with marked and lavish attention. The visit of General
Washington was an event memorable for its display and magnificence, the
ball alone at the City Tavern entailing a vast expenditure. With Madeira
selling at eight hundred pounds a pipe and other things in proportion to
the depreciation of the paper currency, the wonder was often expressed
as to the source of so much munificence.
It was known that General Arnold was not a man of wealth. Whatever
fortune he had amassed had been obtained mainly through the profits
accrued from his privateering ventures. The great estate which he now
possessed, had been bought only a few months previous to his marriage
out of the profits of one of his vessels, just then returning to port.
He was continually in debt, and ruin was imminent. Yet he was living at
the rate of five thousand pounds a year. Whence then came the funds?
He had married a Tory wife, and presently it was discovered that among
his bosom friends, his table companions, were to be found the enemies of
America. Rumors began to whisper with nods and shrugs and shakings of
the head that his wife was imparting profitable information to the
enemy, and betimes the question was raised as to who was profiting most.
What was more natural than that she who had been the toasted and lauded
favorite of the British Officers when they were in possession of the
city, should now be in communication with them in far-away New York!
The seeds of suspicion and ill-will were sedulously sown--and the yield
was bound to be luxuriant.
So the days rolled into weeks, and the weeks clustered into months, and
the months fell into the procession of the seasons, and in the meantime,
Arnold and his wife passed their time in conjugal felicity and regal
splendor. Their affection was constant, tender and uninterrupted; and
this alone afforded him consolation and happiness; for his countrymen
were in a bad mood with him. His wife, his home, his estate now defined
the extent of his ambition. The world had turned against him.
CHAPTER V
I
A busier man in the city of Philadelphia during the winter and spring
season of '78 than John Anderson, would have been hard to find. For
weeks he had applied himself with relentless energy to the work before
him; for months he had deprived himself of the customary rounds of
pleasure in the interests of the seemingly gigantic task allotted to
him; until at length, for the first time, he was enabled to appreciate
to some degree the results of his toil. It was now past Easter-tide and
the moments were hurrying faster and faster in their haste towards the
culmination of the conspiracy that was forming little by little in the
heart of the community like an abscess in the body of a sick man.
Progress had been made at New York although it was acknowledged that the
recruiting there had fallen far short of all expectations. Still it was
a much simpler matter to effect the formation of such a regiment where
the work could be carried on openly and under the protection of General
Clinton; and where no sympathizer of the colonists, however loyal, would
dare to enter a formal protest against the proceedings. It is quite true
that Catholics were divided there as elsewhere; for not every one lent
his spontaneous, complete, and energetic adhesion to the cause of
American independence. And who would dare condemn their restraint; when
the memory of the intolerable and bitter practices of the early
patriots was recalled? They could not forget; and what was more, many
did not want to forget.
It was found impossible to gather in the city, now held by the enemy, a
thousand or more men sufficient to compose a regiment. Hence it was
necessary to draw from the neighboring colonies. Anderson had come to
Philadelphia with this object in view and, as an aid to his work, had
established himself immediately in the graces of the military
authorities. Quietly, privately, secretly, he pursued his quest, seeking
out likely individuals whom he impressed into the service of His Majesty
with not so much as a scruple as to means, fair or foul. Blackmail he
employed freely and the pressure of unpaid debts reaped for him a
harvest of names.
The currency was then worthless and the cost of living enormous. He was
the odd individual who could boast of being free from debt, and the
common jail and the stocks in the market place at Second and High
Streets were tireless in meting out their punishments to the delinquent
debtors. Anderson took royal advantage of this state of affairs, either
by resolving the debt in favor of an enlistment in the company or by
effecting a threatened punishment on the part of the creditor unless his
wishes were complied with. Many recruits who otherwise would have
rejected flatly the base proposition, were secured by such means.
At length he had registered about an hundred names, drawn from all
classes of the city. The services of Father Farmer had been sought as
chaplain, but this worthy servant of God gently but firmly declined
because of the weight of age and "several other reasons." Colonel
Clifton was still in charge of the regiment but the other officers were
to be Roman Catholics and appointed by the colonels. A meeting for the
purpose of organization would be held in the Provincial Hall in the
course of a few weeks. Then the company would be shipped as soon as
possible to New York for incorporation in the regiment there.
Anderson found General Arnold a ready and effective instrument in the
perfection of the plot. Not only had the latter supplied him with all
manner of information, but his authority had been employed on more than
one occasion in the matter of impressment. Whatever motives actuated the
General were ascribed by Anderson solely to his profound dislike of
Catholics and all things Catholic. A further incentive to the success of
the project was furnished by the issuance of a pass by the Military
Governor enabling a vessel to leave the port of Philadelphia, where it
had been tied up, for New York, for the purpose of transporting to that
city the members of the recruited company. This was, of course, a
violation of the military code, but the affair was done so secretly that
it was known only to Anderson and the Governor. The remote preparations
were now completed. All was in readiness for the meeting of the
so-called volunteers.
Meanwhile, Marjorie had continued to be an object of interest to the
busy Anderson, and he had paid attention to her with a marked gallantry.
Through the late winter and early spring he had been a frequent visitor
at her home and had often escorted her in public to the theater and
dancing assemblies. He flattered himself that her confidence had early
been gained and much information helpful to his scheme had been
obtained. He had played his part well, although on one occasion, he had
almost revealed himself; nevertheless he was completely satisfied that
she not for a moment suspected the real purpose of his designs.
Now he felt obliged to hold one more conference with the Military
Governor, for it was required that he know definitely the time set for
the vessel's departure. That was the sole obstacle to his plans, for the
date of the assembly depended upon the day of the sailing of the
transport. Arnold would know of its readiness; its clearance was then a
matter of personal convenience.
And so, this fine afternoon in early May, he resolved to direct his
steps in the direction of Mount Pleasant where he would complete his
plans. It was a long walk but less attention would be aroused by his
going afoot, and so he started early. Little did he suspect, however,
that his every move was being observed and that a pair of eyes had
pursued him to the very park, watching him even as he ascended the great
stone steps of the mansion.
He lifted the brass knocker and gave two or three slight taps, and even
as he did so the blue eyes continued to observe him.
II
The dining-hall at Mount Pleasant was such as was befitting the noble
proportions of the mansion. It adjoined the hall in opposition to the
great drawing-room, its eastern side terminating in an ell extension
from the hall proper where a wide easy staircase with a balustrade of
gracefully turned spindles ascended to the second floor. It was lighted,
not only by the fire that burned in the reredos at the northern wall,
but also by eight cresset-lamps and as many candles set in huge silver
candelabra on the center table.
Anderson was hungry from his long walk and ate well. A great roast
goose reposing in a huge silver platter was brought in by the servants
and set before them. There were vegetables of every sort, jellies,
sweetmeats, floating islands, and a dessert of fruits, raisins and
almonds. Madeira was drunk freely by all without any apparent
disadvantage.
"And how were all at home?" asked Peggy when they were seated. The
conversation was on general topics--for the servants were coming in and
out with the food.
"I saw only your sister when I called with Marjorie. Mr. Shippen was
away and Mrs. Shippen had a cold, a very slight one I believe."
"She is susceptible to asthmatic attacks," observed the General.
"Quite!" replied Anderson.
"She bears up remarkably. I think she has never missed a function."
"Her will-power alone," replied Peggy. "She can surmount obstacles; she
has never lost an opportunity."
They lapsed into silence, occupying themselves with the delicious
repast. Sometimes they talked of this, that and the other quite freely
and easily--of the society news, of the presence of Miss Franks at the
wedding, of the splendor of it all. Indeed, there was nothing to
indicate more than a company of old-time friends.
"I am ready to take my charges along with me," announced Anderson at
length.
"Hush! Not so loud," cautioned Arnold. "Later,--in the park, we shall
treat of that."
Then the servants came again and removed the dishes. After another
goblet of Madeira they left the table, going immediately out of doors,
for it was now dusk.
"I can do no more with the recruiting. I have in round numbers, an
hundred," Anderson began when they had been seated in the cypress walk.
The moon was not yet half way to the zenith and lay a dull copper color
in the eastern sky, partially eclipsed by the chimney of the great
house. A solemn silence, terrifying and rife with mysterious sensations,
seemed to pervade the place. It was a setting well fitted to shroud deep
and dark designs. No one would dare to venture near.
"You have done well. Egad! I know of none who could have done better."
"Yet it was no easy task, I assure you. They thrill with the very spirit
of rebellion. Cadwalader will never forgive me, and will haunt me when
he dies."
"You got him?" Arnold asked.
"I did. But I had to take proceedings against him which portended the
stocks. I promised him a wheelbarrow to be pushed every day in the
resolution of his debt. Only when I had the jailer at hand did he
reconsider. The debt has been paid, and he has already signed."
"I am glad you got him. He's a Papist, isn't he?" inquired Peggy.
"He is, and a staunch one at that," replied her husband.
"Let's get down to business," interrupted Anderson. "How soon may your
vessel sail?"
"This week, or the early part of next," replied Arnold. "I drew the pass
three weeks ago. With the time for clearance and sailing allowed, she
should be ready now. You had better make an allowance of a week."
"How about the crew?"
"They can be depended upon. They are beholden to her owner. Have no
fears concerning them."
"How soon may she clear?"
He was persistent in this.
"In a few days. Tomorrow if pressed."
"I want to get through with this business as soon as I can and get out
of this town. It may get too hot for me. If I had that meeting off my
mind and the men on board bound for New York I would enjoy greater
repose."
"I thought you were never apprehensive," remarked Peggy. "With your
composure and gallantry the world would judge that cares set lightly
upon your head."
"Happy is he who can abandon everything with which his conscience is
burdened. I have enjoyed no peace of soul for years and I see an
untimely end."
"Be not so melancholy," observed Arnold. "My boy, the future and the
world lie before you."
"Like a yawning abyss," was the grave reply.
"Oh! spare us your terrible verdicts," cried Peggy with a smile.
"I believe that I should have crushed with my scorn the philosopher who
first uttered this terrible but profoundly true thought," said Anderson.
"'Prudence is the first thing to forsake the wretched!'"
"Have you been imprudent?" she asked.
"I did find a charm in my escapades. At first I tingled with fear, but I
gradually laid aside that cloak of suspicion which guards safety, and
stalked about naked. A despicable contempt arises from an unreserved
intimacy. We grow bolder with our efforts."
"What is success?" asked Peggy.
Their mood was heavy; their tone morose. A sadness had settled upon them
like the blanket of the night. Only the moon climbing into the heavens
radiated glory.
"Come! Away with those dismal topics!" exclaimed the General. "This is
the time for rejoicing."
"Can you rejoice?" inquired the visitor.
"I, too, should be happy, but I fear, alas, I am not. My people give me
no peace."
"Why not render your country a lasting service?"
"How?"
"By performing a heroic deed that will once for all put an end to this
unseemly conflict."
"Never! I have been shattered twice for my efforts. I am done with
active field duty."
"I do not think of that," Anderson assured him.
"Of what, then?"
"You know that the mother country had already offered conciliation. The
colonies shall have an American Parliament composed of two chambers; all
the members to be Americans by birth, and those of the upper chamber to
have the same title, the same rank, as those of the House of Lords in
England."
"What? A Marquis of Pennsylvania, a Duke of Massachusetts Bay?" he
laughed aloud at this.
"No less fitting than the Duke of Albemarle."
"Why do you mention him?" Arnold inquired immediately. A thought flashed
before his mind. Had Peggy and this man conversed on that point?
"He simply came into my mind. Why?"
"Oh! Nothing. Continue."
"As I was saying, all laws, and especially tax laws, shall be the work
of this legislature, with the signature of the Viceroy. They shall
enjoy in every relation the advantage of the best government. They
shall, if necessary, be supported by all the naval and military force of
England, without being exposed to the dangers or subjected to the taxes
from which such a military state is inseparable."
"But how? What can I do that I have not already done?"
"You have the courage, you have the ingenuity to render that important
service. Why allow your countrymen to shed more blood when the enemy is
willing to grant all you are fighting for? You can save them from
anarchy. You can save them from the factions of Congress."
"God knows how ardently I desire such a consummation," breathed the
Governor.
"I am confident that he would perform any act, however heroic or signal,
to benefit the cause of his country," remarked Peggy with deliberate
emphasis.
"Name it. What shall I do?" he asked.
"Act the part of General Monk in history," announced Anderson.
Arnold recoiled. He could not believe his ears. Then the awful truth
dawned upon him.
"Is this your work?" he turned to Peggy fiercely.
"On my honor, I never thought of it." His wife was frightened at his
sudden change of manner.
There was silence. The trio sat in thought, one awaiting the other to
speak the first word.
"Never," blurted Arnold. "Never, so long as I wear this uniform."
"And yet the world resounds with his praises, for he performed a
disinterested and humane act."
"A treacherous and cowardly act!"
"Listen, I shall confide in you. If you would but exert your influence
in favor of an amicable adjustment of the difficulties between the
colonies and the mother country, you might command ten thousand guineas
and the best post in the service of the government."
"Would that mean a peerage?" asked Peggy suddenly.
"Assuredly," was the reply.
She stood up and strutted in a pompous and stately manner before them;
then she turned and courtesied before her husband.
"Your Grace, the carriage waits without. The Duchess is already in
waiting," she announced with a sweeping gesture.
He scowled at her but did not answer.
"Clive saved the British Empire in India and you can save the colonies,"
insisted Anderson.
"Would not a proud position at court, the comfortable income of a royal
estate, the possession of a peerage on home soil more than reward a man
as was the case with General Monk?" challenged Peggy, with a flash of
sudden anger.
"And leave my country in its hour of need," he finished the sentence for
her.
"Your country!" she taunted. "What has your country done for you? The
empty honors you have gained were wrung from her. The battle scars you
bear with you were treated with ingratitude. You were deprived of your
due honors of command. Even now you are attacked and hounded from every
angle. Your country! Pooh! A scornful mistress!"
She sat down and folded her arms, looking fiercely into the dark.
It is strange how human nature could be touched by so small affairs.
The war of continents meant very little to her imagination. Certainly
the parallel was not perfect; but it seemed to her to fit.
He looked around slowly.
"You took me for what I am," he said to her. "I gave you prestige,
wealth, happiness. But I have promised my life to my country if she
requires it and I shall never withdraw that promise while I live. Better
the grave of the meanest citizen than the mausoleum of a traitor."
"But think of your country!" insisted Anderson.
"Anderson," was the reply, "I know the needs of the country and I know
deeply my own grievances. Suppose I yield to your suggestions and
Britain fails,"--he paused as if to measure the consequences. "I shall
be doomed. I shall be called a bigot. My children will hate me."
He seemed to waver. His earlier enthusiasm apparently diminished before
their attack.
"But," continued Anderson, "with your aid Britain cannot fail. And
remember how England rewards those who render her great and signal
services. Look at the majestic column at Blenheim Palace reared to the
memory of John Churchill, Duke of Marlborough. Contrast with it what
Peggy has just said, the ingratitude, the injustice, the meanness, with
which Congress has treated you."
"Must the end justify the means?" he mused. "Can you continue to urge me
to duplicate the treachery of Churchill, who can never be forgiven for
his treason? Whatever else he may have achieved, you must remember he
was first and last a traitor."
"He was doubly a traitor, if you are pleased to so stigmatize him. He
first betrayed his benefactor, James, to ally himself with the Prince
of Orange; and then, on the pretext of remorse, broke faith with
William; acted the part of a spy in his court and camp; offered to
corrupt his troops and lead them over to James; and still all was
forgotten in the real service which he rendered to his country, and his
name has gone into history----"
He was interrupted by a sharp sound, as if some one had stepped upon a
branch or a twig, causing it to snap beneath his feet. On the instant,
Anderson was upon his feet, his hand feeling instinctively for his
pistol.
"We are betrayed," he whispered. "There is a spy here."
All had arisen in silence and were peering into the blackness of the
night whence the sound apparently came. Anderson thought he saw a figure
emerge from behind a tree far off in the distance and he immediately
gave chase, opening fire as he did so. Several times he fired into the
dark space before him, for it was bristling with shade, notwithstanding
the obscure light of the moon. As he covered the wide area between him
and the river, the lithe form of a man emerged from the wooded area and
disappeared down the incline which led to the water. Nearing the bank he
heard distinctly the splash of the body and he fired again into the spot
whence the noise arose. The waters were still in commotion when he
reached them, but there was no one to be found; nothing save the gentle
undulation of the surface as it closed over its burden, and gradually
became placid under the soft stillness of the night. After several
minutes of intense vigilance, he slowly retraced his steps.
III
"The river has swallowed him," he exclaimed as he neared Arnold and
Peggy, who were standing quite motionless at the side of the settees.
"Who was it?" the General asked eagerly.
"I did not see him. He disappeared into the river. I heard the splash of
his dive and fired several times in its direction, but saw no one."
"Did he swim it?"
"No! I would have seen him. The water was unruffled except for the
disturbance caused by his dive. The poor devil must have sunk to the
bottom. Perhaps one of my shots took effect."
"I don't like this," muttered Arnold. "I would not have that
conversation overheard for the crown of England. An enemy was near. I
hope to God he is in the bottom of the river."
"Still, I may have hit him. I was no more than fifty yards away."
"I shall have the bed dragged in the morning. I could not rest without
finding him. His identity must be learned."
Leaving the settees, they set off in the direction of the house,
entering by the rear door. The servants were already in alarm over the
shooting and were standing in a group behind the threshold motionless
with awe. Peggy paused to assure them of their safety, narrating briefly
the cause of the disturbance, together with the probable fate of the
spy. She rejoined her husband and his guest in the drawing-room.
"I wonder who the intruder was?" Arnold muttered. There was a look of
worry and anxiety on his face. His fingers nervously locked and
interlocked, and the next moment grasped his chin and rubbed his cheek.
He put his foot upon the stool and took it down again. Then he sat
forward in his chair.
"Reed is behind this," he ejaculated. "You will find out that I am
right. Reed has done this, or has sent one of his lieutenants. Damn him!
He has hounded me."
"I may have been tracked. Perhaps it was I who was sought. My late
movements might have created suspicion, and it is possible that I was
shadowed here."
"No, Anderson. No! It was not you they were seeking. It is I, I tell
you. Reed has been watching me like a sharpshooter from the day I
arrived. He has been the author of the rumors which you have heard about
town, and he would risk his life to be enabled to establish a serious
charge against me. I am sure of it. Reed is behind this; Reed and the
City Council."
"It was a nimble form----"
"Did you say you thought you hit him?" he asked nervously, seeking some
source of comfort and assurance.
"As I live, I hit him," Anderson promised him. "Else I would have
discovered him in the act of swimming. He is in the bottom of the
river."
"That's good, damn him. Oh! If it were but Reed himself! He haunts me."
"He would not haunt you did you but remove yourself from here,"
volunteered Peggy.
"I know it. I know it," he repeated. "But how can I?"
"I suggested one avenue to you," proposed Anderson.
"Which?"
He awaited the answer.
"Via England."
His face glared with a livid red. He brought his fist high above his
head.
"By heavens!" he roared. "I won't hear that again. I won't listen to it,
I tell you. I'm afraid to do it. I cannot do it. I cannot."
He shook his head as he slowly repeated the words.
"Pardon me," Anderson pleaded, "I intended no harm. I apologize most
sincerely for my impertinence. It will not happen again, I assure you."
"That will do. Drop it at that."
"The vessel will be ready next week? The meeting, then, can take place a
week from Thursday."
"Undoubtedly."
"You will assure me of your interest?"
He was on the point of going. Though he had conquered, still, he did not
know that he had conquered. He believed, as he turned and faced his
friend for the last time in Mount Pleasant, that his mind was fully made
up and that he had decided for all time in favor of the cause, at the
sacrifice of himself.
"I shall do what I can," Arnold whispered, "but no more."
He parted from them at the threshold.
CHAPTER VI
I
"I have always contended, Griff, that a bigot and a patriot are
incompatible," remarked Stephen as he sat on the side of his bed, and
looked across the room and out into the sunlit street beyond.
"Is that something you have just discovered?" answered Sergeant Griffin
without taking his eyes from the newspaper before him. He was seated by
the window, musing the morning news, his curved pipe hanging idle from
his mouth, from which incipient clouds of smoke lazily issued and as
lazily climbed upward and vanished through the open casement into
threads of nothingness.
"No," was the reply, "but I have come to the conclusion that the
philosophy of religious prejudice cannot be harmonized with true
patriotism. They stand against each other as night and day. The one
necessarily excludes the other."
"Do you know, Captain," the sergeant reasoned, pointing towards Stephen
with the stem of his pipe, "a hard shell and a fool are somewhat alike;
one won't reason; the other can't."
"I guess you're right," Stephen laughed. "But love of country and love
of one's neighbor should be synonymous. This I have found by actual
experience to be almost a truism."
He was idling about the room gathering wearing apparel from the closets
and drawers, pausing for a moment to feel a pile of wet clothing that
lay across the back of a straight chair.
"You must have fallen overboard last night," observed the sergeant.
"I didn't fall, Griff; I jumped."
"And let me tell you, Griff," Stephen continued, "Arnold has become one
of the most dangerous men in the whole American Army."
He was dressing quietly.
"And you discovered that, too?"
"I am certain of it, now."
"That is more like it. I don't suppose you ever had any doubts about it.
Now you have the facts, eh?"
"I have some of them; not all. But I have enough to court-martial him."
"And you got them last night?"
"I did."
"And got wet, too?"
"I almost got killed," was the grave response.
"How?"
"Anderson shot at me."
"Was he with you, also?"
"No. After me."
"Come, let us hear it. Where were you?"
"At Mount Pleasant."
"With Arnold and Anderson?"
"Yes. But they did not know it. I shadowed Anderson to the house and lay
concealed in the park. In the evening they came into the park, that is,
Arnold and Peggy and Anderson."
"And they discovered you?"
"I think they did not. I was unfortunate enough to break a branch
beneath my foot. They heard it. Of course, I was obliged to leave
hurriedly, but Anderson must have seen me running. The distance was too
great to allow him to recognize me. Then, again, I was not in uniform."
"And he shot at you, I suppose."
"He did, but the shots went wide. I decided the river was the safest
course, so I headed for that and dived in. I believe I was fortunate in
attempting to swim under water; this I did as long as I could hold my
breath. When I arose, I allowed myself to float close to the shore along
with the current until I had moved far down the river. After that I lost
all sight of him."
He was now dressed in his military uniform and looked little exhausted
from his experience of the night before, notwithstanding the fact that
he had enjoyed but a few hours' sleep. Still, it was past the hour of
ten, and he could tell from the appearance of the street that the sun
was already high in the heavens. He went to the window and looked out at
the citizens hurrying to and fro about their several errands. From an
open window directly across the way resounded the familiar strain of
"Yankee Doodle" drawn from a violin by a poor but extremely ambitious
musician. He stood for a minute to listen.
"There are a few of them in the colonies," he remarked.
"I would there were one less," was the reply.
Stephen turned from the window.
"We have some work ahead of us, Griff," he said after a long pause. "The
plot is about to sizzle. Are you ready?" he asked.
"Of course. When do you want me?"
"I cannot tell you now. I have learned that the work of recruiting is
about finished and that the organization will take place some time next
week. The company will leave the following day for New York on a vessel
for which Arnold has already issued a pass."
"Arnold?"
"Yes, Arnold," he repeated. "He has been in this scheme from the start.
Remember that note I told you about? I have watched him carefully since
then, awaiting just such a move. I can have him court-martialed for
this."
"For this pass?"
"Certainly. That is a violation of Section Eighteen of the Fifth Article
of War."
The sergeant whistled.
"And I am going to this meeting."
"You are going?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"That I do not know. But I shall find a way. They have forced Jim
Cadwalader into the company."
"Jim?"
"Yes. I learned that last night. Today I mean to see Jim to learn the
particulars. After that we shall be in a position to decide further. You
will be here when I return?"
"Yes. I shall stay here."
"I won't go until late this afternoon. Until then keep your eye open."
"Yes, sir," he replied, saluting.
II
When Stephen had presented himself that afternoon at Jim Cadwalader's
modest home, he had almost persuaded himself that all would not be
well. That the members of the Catholic regiment, whom Anderson boasted
had totaled nearly an hundred, could so easily be dissuaded from their
original purpose, he thought highly improbable. He was well aware that
some of his co-religionists had been subject to British official or
personal influence; that other some were vehemently opposed to the many
outrages which had been committed and condoned in the name of Liberty;
that others still were not unmindful of the spirit of hostility
displayed by the Colonists during the early days, and had now refused
for that reason to take sides with their intolerant neighbors in their
struggle for Independence. Hence it was quite true that many Catholics
were loyal to the mother country, more loyal, in fact, than they were to
the principles of American Independence and the land of their birth.
These, he feared, might have composed the bulk of the recruits and these
might be the less easily dissuaded. On the other hand, he was satisfied
that many who were unwilling to barter their allegiance had been
constrained to yield. If the complexion of the regiment was of the
latter variety, all would be well. His misgivings were not without
foundation.
He knocked upon the small white door of Jim's house and inquired of Mrs.
Cadwalader if he might see her husband. Jim was at the door even as he
spoke, and grasped his hand warmly, exchanging the greetings of the day.
He then led him to the chairs under the great tree.
"I want to see you on a matter of great importance," Stephen said with
no further delay. "Tell me about Mr. Anderson."
"I guess ther' ain't much t' tell," Jim replied.
"You have held conference with him?"
"'Twas him thet held it; not me."
"About the Regiment?"
"Aye!"
"Have you signed your name?"
"I hed t'."
He was all in a fever, for his manner and his hesitation indicated it.
"When do they meet?"
"Thursda' next."
"Are you sure?"
"Anderson hisself jest told me."
"He has been here already?"
"Ye-eh, this aft'rnoon."
He looked down upon the ground, considering.
"Where do they meet?"
"Th' basement o' th' Baptist Church."
"Tell me, Jim," Stephen asked quietly. "Why did you enlist in that
company?"
"I hed t', I told ye."
"Were you compelled to?"
"I was."
And then he told him of the number of debts which beset him, and the
starvation which was beginning to prick him. He told of the first visit
of Anderson and his offer of four pounds to every volunteer in the new
regiment of Catholic soldiers. He declared that he had refused
absolutely to take part in any disloyal act, however great might be the
reward, and had said that he preferred to starve until the colonists had
obtained their rights. He then told of Anderson's second visit, during
which he offered to relieve him of all financial obligations on
condition that he would sign with him; which offer he again refused. And
finally he related how he was threatened with imprisonment for his
indebtedness, and was actually served with the papers of arrest and
confinement in the stocks unless his signature was given, and how he was
at length obliged to yield and sign over the allegiance.
Stephen listened intently throughout it all, oddly studying the face of
his companion, reading into his very soul as he spoke. He was satisfied
now with Cadwalader's story.
"Jim," he said at length. "You do not want to join this regiment?"
"No, sir!" he exclaimed aloud. "Not a bit uv it."
"If I promise to assist you to escape from this man, will you lend me
your help?"
"Will I? Enythin' y' ask, sir."
His eyes brightened with manifest ardor.
"I want to go to that meeting, and I want you to let me take your
place."
"Sure, y' ken."
"And I want to borrow your clothes."
"I ain't got much," observed Jim, extending his hands and looking down
at his clothing, "but what I hev, is yours."
"And I want you to be in the vicinity of the building to join in any
agitation which may result against Mr. Anderson."
"I'll do thet, too."
"Of course, if we fail it may go hard with us. A crowd is an uncertain
element to deal with, you realize. But it is our only chance. Will you
take it?"
"O' course, I'll take it. I'll do enythin' y' say, enythin'."
"And Jim! You know of many so-called members of that company who have
been impressed in a manner similar to yours and who, very likely, are
of the same state of mind as you."
"I know meny, sir."
"Very good! Can you not move among them and acquaint them secretly with
what I have just told you? Secure their coöperation for me so that, when
the moment comes, I may depend upon them for support. Urge them, too, to
join in whatever demonstration may be made against the project."
"I'll do thet, sir, and y' may depend 'n me fur it."
"You say Thursday night? Keep me informed of any further developments.
At any rate, I shall see you before then. Remember, however," he
cautioned, "what I have just confided to you must be kept with the
utmost secrecy."
He raised his hand high above his head and stood up.
"I hope t' God I die----"
"Never mind swearing," interrupted Stephen, pulling him back again into
his chair. "Simply be on your guard, that is all."
"Yes, sir."
"You are right to come back," he said; "you should have persevered in
your resistance."
"I couldn't help it, could I? I was made t'."
"We become vigorous under persecution," answered Stephen.
"I'm sorry."
"Well then--tell me. Do you know aught of this Mr. Anderson?"
He stared at him with a questioning look. He was completely bewildered.
"Thet I don't. Why? What--what could I know?"
"I mean do you know who he is?"
He sat up.
"Why, I never thought o' him. He seem'd c'rrect 'nough, I thought.
Marj'rie brought 'im here, I think."
Stephen set his teeth.
"Marjorie?" he repeated. "Are you sure of that?"
"I am, sir."
"When was this?"
"It's a good time now. I jest can't r'member."
"Did she know of his purpose?"
He paused as if he would say more, but dared not.
"Thet I can't say. If I r'member c'rrectly she kept herself wid th' old
lady."
"How often did she accompany him?"
"Just thet once."
"You mean she simply made you acquainted with him?"
"Yes, sir."
A light began to glimmer in Stephen's mind, and gradually the truth
began to dawn upon him.
"In her presence, I presume, the conversation was more or less general.
He alluded to the scheme which was uppermost in his mind only secretly
with you?"
"Thet wuz all, sir."
He knew well enough now what his friend meant, though nothing of the
details, and from the uncertainty and the apprehension of his manner he
judged that there was much of which he was still in the dark. Anderson
had come to Jim with the girl to secure an advantageous introduction;
after that he had no immediate need of her company. He was of the
opinion that she was entirely ignorant of the man's character and
motives, although she was unwittingly an important instrument in his
hands. Stephen longed to reveal the truth of the situation to her, but
dared not; at any rate, thought he, not until the proper time came. Then
she would be enabled to appreciate for herself the trend of the whole
affair.
"Can I ask ye," inquired Jim in a voice that indicated timidity, "will
this affair--I mean, d'ye s'ppse this thing 'll bring us t' eny harm, 'r
thet they'll be a disorder?"
Stephen's eyes danced with excitement.
"Do they observe the courtesies of the law? If it comes to the worst,
yes,--there will be a scene and the grandest scene in which a villain
ever participated."
Marjorie entering through the gate posts immediately commanded their
attention.
III
"I should be happy to be permitted to accompany you home," Stephen
whispered to her at a moment when they chanced to be alone.
"I should be happy to have you," was the soft response.
"You look well," she said to him after they had made their adieus to the
Cadwaladers and begun their walk together down the street.
Her eyes twinkled, and a pretty smile stole across her face.
"I am as tired as I can be. I have endured some trying experiences."
"Can you not leave here and take a rest? I fear that you will overtax
yourself."
He turned and looked seriously at her.
"Honestly?" he asked.
"Yes. I mean it. Do you know that I have allowed no day to pass without
praying for you?"
"To know that, and to hear you say it is worth a series of adventures.
But, really, I could not think of leaving here now; not for another
fortnight at least. The moments are too critical."
"Are you still engaged in that pressing business?"
"Yes."
"For your success in that I have also prayed."
She was constant after all, he thought. Still he wondered if she could
be sincere in her protestations, and at the same time remain true to
Anderson. For he really believed that she had been deceived by his
apparent infatuation.
"I suppose you know that Jim has been ensnared?" he asked suddenly.
"Jim? No.... I,----What has happened?"
She was genuinely surprised.
"He has enlisted in the regiment."
"Has he forsworn?"
"Not yet. But he has signed the papers of enlistment."
"I am sorry, very sorry." Then after a pause: "It was I who brought
Anderson to Jim's house, you know."
"Yes. I know."
"But I must confess that I did not know the nature of his errand. I,
myself, was seeking an advantage."
"No matter. It may eventually redound to our credit."
"I regret exceedingly of having been the occasion of Jim's misfortune."
Her eyes were cast down, her head bent forward as she walked in what
one might characterize a meditative mood.
"I, too, am sorry. But there are others."
"Many?"
"That I do not know. Later I shall tell you."
"And why not now?"
"I cannot."
It was a troublesome situation in which the two found themselves. Here
were two souls who loved each other greatly, yet without being able to
arrive at a mutual understanding on the subject. They were separated by
a filmy veil. The girl, naturally frank and unreserved, was intimidated
by the restrained and melancholy mien of her companion. Yet she felt
constrained to speak lest deception might be charged against her.
Stephen, troubled in his own mind over the supposed unfavorable
condition of affairs, skeptical of the affections of his erstwhile
confidante, felt, too, a like necessity to be open and explain all.
So they walked for a time, he thinking, and she waiting for him to
speak.
"For two reasons I cannot tell you," he went on. "First, the nature of
the work is so obscure and so incomplete that I could give you no
logical nor concise account of what I am doing. As a matter of fact, I,
myself, am still wandering in a sort of maze. The other reason is that I
have taken the greatest care to say no word in any way derogatory to the
character of Mr. Anderson."
"You wouldn't do that."
"That's just it. I should not want to be the cause of your forming an
opinion one way or the other concerning him. I would much prefer you to
discover and to decide for yourself."
"That is charity."
"Perhaps!"
"And tact."
She peeped at him, her lips parted in a merry smile. Evidently she was
in a flippant mood.
"It would be most unfair to him were I to establish a prejudice in your
mind against him."
"Yet you have already disapproved of my friendship with him."
"I have, as I already have told you."
"Yet you have never told me the reason," she reminded him.
"I cannot."
He shook his head.
For he would not wound her feelings for the world; and still it pained
him to be compelled to leave her in a state bordering on perplexity, not
to say bewilderment, as a result of his strange silence. A delicate
subject requires a deft hand, and he sensed only too keenly his
impotency in this respect. He, therefore, thought it best to avoid as
much as possible any attempts at explanation, at least for the present.
Furthermore, he was entirely ignorant of her opinion of Anderson. Of
course, he would have given worlds to know this. But there seemed no
reasonable hope that that craving would be satisfied. He was persuaded
that the man had made a most favorable impression upon her, and if that
were true, he knew that it were fruitless to continue further, for
impressions once made are not easily obliterated. Poor girl! he thought.
She had seen only his best side; just that amount of good in a bad man
that makes him dangerous,--just that amount of interest which often
makes the cleverest person of a dullard.
Hence she was still an enigma. As far as he was concerned, however,
there had been little or no variation in his attachment to her. She was
ever the same interesting, lovely, tender, noble being; complete in her
own virtues, indispensable to his own happiness. Perhaps he had been
mistaken in his analysis of her; but no,--very likely she did care for
the other man, or at any rate was beginning to find herself in that
unfortunate state--fortunate, indeed, for Anderson, but unfortunate for
him.
For this reason, more than for any other, he had desisted from saying
anything that might have lessened Anderson in her regard. It would be
most unfair to interfere with her freedom of choice. When the facts of
the case were revealed in all their fullness, he felt certain that she
would repent of her infatuation, if he might be permitted to so term her
condition. It seemed best to him to await developments before further
pressing his suit.
"Stephen," she said at length. "What are you thinking of me?"
"I--Why?--That is a sudden question. Do you mean complimentary or
critical?"
"I mean this. Have you misjudged my relations with John Anderson?"
"I have thought in my mind----" he began, and stopped.
Marjorie started. The voice was quiet enough but significant in tone.
"Please tell me," she pleaded. "I must know."
"Well, I have thought that you have been unusually attentive to him."
"Yes."
"And that, perhaps, you do care for him,--just a little."
There! It was out. She had guessed aright.
"I thought as much," she said quietly.
"Then why did you ask me?"
"Listen," she began. "Do you recall the night you asked me to be of some
service to you?"
"Perfectly."
"I have thought over that subject long and often. I wondered wherein
that service could lie. During the night of Peggy's affair it dawned
upon me that this stranger to whom I was presented, might be more artful
than honest. I decided to form his acquaintance so that I might learn
his identity, together with his mission in the city. I cherished the
ambition of drawing certain information from him; and this I felt could
be accomplished only by an assumed intimacy with him."
Stephen stopped suddenly. His whole person was tense and magnetic as he
stared at her.
"Marjorie!" he exclaimed. "Do you mean it?"
"Truly. I read his character from the first. His critical attitude
displeased me. But I had to pretend. I had to."
"Please! Please forgive me." He turned and seized suddenly both her
hands. "I thought,--I thought,--I cannot say it. Won't you forgive me?"
Her eyes dropped. She freed her hands.
"Then I tricked you as well," she exclaimed with a laugh.
"And you mean it? I am made very happy today, happier than words can
express. What loyalty! You have been helping me all the time and I
never knew it. Why did you not tell me this before?"
"You never gave me leave. I wanted to talk to you so much, and you
seemed to forbid me.... I prayed for an opportunity, and none came."
"I am very sorry."
"Anderson interested me only in this,--he came into our society for a
very definite purpose, the nature of which I was most desirous of
learning. I know now that he is not of our faith, although he pretends
to be. He is not of French extraction, yet he would lead one to assume
that he was. He is a British officer and actively engaged in the service
of the enemy. At present the recruiting of the proposed regiment of
Catholic Volunteers for service with the enemy is his immediate work. He
hopes to find many displeased and disloyal members of our kind. Them he
would incorporate into a company of deserters."
"You have learned that from him?"
"Aye! And more. General Arnold has been initiated into the scheme. I do
not know what to think except that he has yielded to some influence. His
antipathy toward us would require none, nevertheless I feel that some
undue pressure has been brought to bear upon him."
"Anderson?" he asked.
"I do not know. At any rate he will bear watching. I think he is about
to ask for a more important command."
Stephen then told her of his adventures, relating to her wholly and
candidly the details of his suspicions, together with his plan for the
future. Throughout it all she listened with attention, so much
interested that she was scarce aware that they were crossing the wide
road before her own home. Her eyes had been about her everywhere as they
walked, yet they had failed to perceive anything.
"Won't you come in?" she asked. "You are almost a stranger here now."
"I would like to more than I can tell you; but truly I have business
before me which is pressing. Pardon me just once more, please."
"Mother would be pleased to see you, you know," she insisted.
"I should like, indeed, to see your mother. I shall stop to see her,
just to inquire for her."
"Will you come when this terrible business is completed?"
"Gladly. Let us say,--next week. Perhaps you might be pleased to come
canoeing with me for the space of an afternoon?"
"I should be delighted. Next week?"
"Yes. Next week. I shall let you know."
"Here is mother, now."
He went in and shook her hand, inquiring diligently concerning her.
IV
As Stephen walked away from the home of his beloved, ruminating over the
strange disclosures of the day and how satisfactory and gratifying they
were to him, his state of mind was such that he was eager for the
completion of the more serious business that was impending so that he
might return to her who had flooded his soul with new and sudden
delight. Never was he more buoyant or cheerful. He was cheerful,
notwithstanding his remorse.
For he did chide himself over his absurd stupidity. He should have
known her better than to have entertained, for even a passing moment, a
thought of her inconstancy, and that he should have so misjudged
her,--her whom he himself would have selected from among his host of
acquaintances as the one best fitted for the office assumed,--disturbed
him not a little. His own unworthiness filled him with shame. Why did he
question her?
And yet he would have given his own life to make her happy, he who was
quietly allowing her to vanish out of it. He tried to explain his
fallacy. First of all, the trend of circumstances was decidedly against
him. There was his arrest and subsequent trial, days when he had longed
to be at her side to pursue the advantages already gained. Then there
were the days of his absence from town, the long solid weeks spent in
trailing Anderson, and in meeting those who had been approached by him
in the matter of the recruiting. It was well nigh impossible, during
this time, to seize a moment for pleasure, precious moments during which
Anderson, as he thought, had been making favorable progress both with
his suit and with his sinister work. If Marjorie had forgotten him
quite, Stephen knew that he alone was responsible. Him she had seen but
seldom; Anderson was ever at her side. No girl should be put to this
test. It was too exacting.
Despite his appreciation of these facts, his soul had been seized with a
very great anguish over the thought of his lost prize; and if he had
failed to conceal his feelings in her presence, it was due to the fact
that his sensitive nature was not equal to the strain imposed upon it.
Who can imagine the great joy that now filled his heart to overflowing
as a result of his conversation today, when he learned from her own
lips that throughout it all she had been steadfast and true to him
alone? His great regard for her was increased immeasurably. Her
character had been put to the test, and she had emerged more beautiful,
more radiant, more steadfast than before.
This new analysis led him to a very clear decision. First of all he
would defeat the cunning Anderson at his own game; then he would rescue
his countrymen from their unfortunate and precarious condition; and,
finally, he would return to Marjorie to claim his reward. Altogether he
had spent an advantageous and a delightful afternoon. He was ready to
enter the meeting house with renewed energy.
CHAPTER VII
I
The hall was very ordinary within. Small in proportion to its great high
ceiling, bleak in its white-washed walls and scantily covered floor,
oppressive from its damp, stifling air and poor ventilation, it gave
every indication of the state of disuse into which it had fallen. It was
no more than an anteroom to the vestry of the church, though quite
detached from it, yet one could almost feel through the stout south wall
the impenetrable weight of darkness which had settled down within the
great building beyond. The gloomy shadows had penetrated here, too, for
although the antechamber contained a half dozen windows, they were
shuttered and barred against every hue of twilight from the outside. The
very atmosphere was indicative of the sinister nature of the business at
hand.
To the front of the room a small platform stood surmounted by a table,
surrounded by chairs. Several men occupied these, interested in a
conversation, somewhat subdued in its tone and manner. The chairs,
settees, and benches throughout the rest of the room, were being filled
by the so-called volunteers, who entered and took their places with an
air of wonder and indecision. Already two-thirds of the seats were
taken, and every face turned and re-turned to the door at every
footfall.
The small door to the side was, of course, barred; but, in response to
the slightest knock, it was opened by an attendant, assigned for that
purpose. Names were asked and the cards of admission were collected with
a certain formality before the aspirant gained admittance. There was no
introduction, no hurry, no excitement.
"What's your name?" the man at the door was heard to say to one who
already had tapped for admittance.
"Cadwalader," was the reply. "James Cadwalader."
"Got your card?"
There was no response, only the production of a small white card.
A strong, athletic individual, clad in a checked shirt and a red flannel
jacket, a leathern apron, and a pair of yellow buckskin breeches,
entered and stood for a moment looking about the hall. His eyes fell
upon the group gathered around the table at the forward end of the room.
Two of them he recognized, Colonel Clifton and John Anderson, the latter
with his back to the audience. There were many familiar faces in the
chairs throughout the room, some of whom had expected him, and
accordingly gave him a slight recognition. Slowly, and in a manifestly
indifferent manner, he made his way to the front of the chairs where he
seated himself, and listened sharply to the little group conversing upon
the platform until he had satisfied himself that there was nothing of
importance under discussion.
The room was filling rapidly. It was one of those mixed assemblies
wherein one could discern many states of mind written upon the faces of
those present. Some wore the appearance of contentment and composure;
some laughed and talked in a purely disinterested and indifferent
manner; others looked the picture of unrest and dissatisfaction, and
wore a scowl of disappointment and defeat. These latter Stephen
recognized at once and hurriedly made an estimate of their number.
Together with the neutral representation he seemed satisfied with the
majority.
The most remarkable feature of all was the silence. Not a voice was
raised above a whisper. The man at the door at the side of the hall, the
little group away to the front of the hall, peeping at the audience and
talking in subdued tones, the people in the chairs, those at the back of
the hall,--all seemed to hold their tongues to a whisper for interest
and a kind of fear. Drama was in the air.
The guard at the door advanced to the front of the hall to announce to
Mr. Anderson that the full quota was present. Whereupon the latter arose
from his chair and swept with his gaze the entire room, which the dim
light of the torches only partly revealed. Satisfied with his scrutiny,
he turned and again conferred with his associates who nodded their heads
in acceptance of his suggestion. They sat back in their chairs while he
came to the center of the platform and awaited the cessation of the hum
which was now becoming audible.
"Let me begin by taking further assurance of your number," he said, "for
which purpose I shall call the roll of names to which I respectfully ask
you to respond."
Then followed the reading of the roll-call to which each man at the
mention of his name signified his presence in the room. Stephen's heart
fluttered as he replied boldly to the name of "James Cadwalader."
There were eight names to which no reply was given. These very likely
would come later, or perhaps they had reconsidered their action and had
decided not to come at all. Those present numbered eighty-six, Stephen
learned from the count.
"I shall take this opportunity of distributing among you the papers of
enlistment that you may read the terms of agreement, and these I shall
ask you to sign at the close of this meeting."
As Anderson finished this sentence, he passed to several aids, a bundle
of papers which they promptly dealt out to the members of the proposed
company.
Then Mr. Anderson began.
II
"You have assembled this evening, my dear friends and co-religionists,
to translate into definite action the convictions by which you have been
impelled to undertake this important business. Our presence means that
we are ready to put into deeds the inspirations which have always
dominated our minds. It means that we are about to make a final thrust
for our religious convictions, and to prove that we are worthy
descendants of the men who established in this land freedom of religious
worship, and bequeathed it to us as a priceless heritage."
This Anderson is a clever fellow, thought Stephen, and a fluent talker.
Already his eloquence had brought quiet to the room and caused those who
were fumbling with the papers to let them fall motionless in their laps.
But what a knave! Here he was deliberately playing upon the sympathies
of his audience in the rôle of a Catholic.
"We have signified our intention of taking this momentous step, because
we are of the undivided opinion that our rights have been attained. We
have accomplished our purpose and we have now no cause for martial
strife. No longer do grounds of contention between us and the mother
country exist. Our bill of rights has been read abroad and honored, and
overtures of conciliation have already been made. The object for which
we linked our forces with the rebel standard, the happiness, the supreme
happiness of our country, has been gained. We no longer desire open
warfare.
"The idea of an American Parliament, with its members of American birth,
is a welcome one. It is a fitting, a worthy ambition. We are confident
that we are capable, at this juncture, of enacting our own laws and of
giving them the proper sanction. We are capable of raising our own
taxes. We are worthy of conducting our own commerce in every part of the
civilized globe as free citizens of the British Empire. And we are
convinced that we should enjoy for this purpose the blessings of good
government, not necessarily self-government, and that we should be
sustained by all the power requisite to uphold it, as befits free and
independent children bonded together in a concert of purpose.
"This we desire. But we seek also that freedom in matters of religious
worship without which no nation can attain to any degree of greatness.
Under a government conducted solely and independently by the colonists
we know that such a consummation would be impossible. I need not remind
you of the deplorable state of affairs which obtained previous to the
opening of hostilities. I need not recall to your minds the
anti-Catholic declarations of the Continental Congresses. I need not
recall to you the machinations of John Jay, or the manifest antipathy of
the Adamses, or the Hamiltons, or the Paines. I need not recall to you
how the vaunted defenders of American liberties and freedom expressed
their supreme detestation of Catholics and all things Catholic, and how
they were determined that the nightmare of Popery would never hold sway
over these free and independent colonies as it does even now in Canada.
I need not recall how the colonies, with the sole exception of this
colony of Pennsylvania, debarred the free and legitimate exercise of
your religion within their bounds, and restricted its public ceremonies;
how you were restricted by oaths required by law, even here in
Pennsylvania, which you could not take had you been so successful as to
be chosen to office. I need not remind you of these truths. You already
know them. It would be idle to repeat them."
"This man is exceedingly dangerous," muttered Stephen, "and exceedingly
well-informed." He jotted down several notes on the reverse of his
paper.
"We have been displeased with the conduct of the war, immeasurably so.
And we have lost all faith in the good will of our fellow-colonists, in
matters religious as well as in matters political. They have refused to
treat with the ministers of conciliation. We are about to join our
forces to those of the mother country in order that we may render our
own poverty-stricken land an everlasting service. We are destined to
take our places among a band of true and genuine patriots, who have,
above all things else, the welfare of their own land at heart, and we
are about to commit ourselves to this course, together with our
fortunes and our lives. Since our people are blinded by the avarice and
the prejudice of their leaders, we shall take into our own hands the
decision and the fortunes of this war, trusting that our cause may be
heard at the bar of history when strict judgment shall be meted out. We
have broken with our people in the hope that the dawn of better days may
break through the clouds that now overshadow us."
He paused, for a moment to study the temper of his audience. There was
no sound, and so he continued.
"It is the glory of the British soldier that he is the defender, not the
destroyer, of the civil and the religious rights of the people. Witness
the tolerant care of your mother country in the bestowal of religious
liberties to the inhabitants of our once oppressed neighbor, Canada. The
Quebec Act was the greatest concession ever granted in the history of
the British Parliament, and it secured for the Canadians the freedom of
that worship so dear and so precious to them. So great was the tolerance
granted to the Catholics of the North, that your fellow-colonists flew
to arms lest a similar concession be made here. It was the last straw
that broke the bonds of unity. For, henceforth, it was decreed that only
a complete and independent separation from the British Parliament could
secure to the people the practice of the Protestant faith.
"Now we come to the real purpose of this organization. We are about to
pledge ourselves to the restoration of our faith through the ultimate
triumph of the British arms. Nobody outside of America believes that she
can ever make good her claims of independence. No one has ever taken
seriously her attempt at self-government. France, alone, actuated by
that ancient hatred for England, inspired by the lust of conquest and
the greed of spoliation, has sent her ships to our aid. But has she
furnished the Colonies with a superior force of arms? Has she rendered
herself liable for any indebtedness? Your mother country alone has made
this benign offer to you, and it is to her alone that you can look and
be assured of any reconciliation and peace.
"Victory, once assured, will establish peace and everlasting happiness.
Victory, now made possible only by the force of arms, will assure us
toleration in religious matters. And why not? This fratricidal strife
should not occasion any personal hatred. England is not our foe, but our
mother in arms against whom we have conceived an unjust grievance. Let
us lay aside our guns for the olive. Since our fellow-citizens will not
accept just terms of conciliation let us compel them to do so by the
strength of our arms.
"Tomorrow we embark for New York at the place of landing indicated on
the papers of enlistment. There we shall be incorporated into a regiment
of a thousand men. The recruiting there has met with unlooked-for
success. Colonel Clifton reports that the ranks already are filled. Your
admission alone is required, and the ship, which will bear you down the
waters of the Susquehanna tomorrow, will carry a message of cheer to
them who have already entrusted themselves, their destinies, their all
to the realization of our common hope.
"You will now take the oath of allegiance to the government of His
Majesty, which I shall administer to you in a body. Tomorrow at the hour
of eight I shall meet you at the pier of embarkation. I shall be glad to
accompany you to reveal to you my interest in your behalf. Only with a
united front can we hope for success and to this purpose we have
dedicated our lives and our fortunes. I shall ask you to rise to a man,
with your right arm upraised, to take the oath of allegiance to your
king."
III
The spell that held them broke, and the bustle began. A mumble filled
the room, followed by moments of animated discussion. Neighbor spoke to
neighbor in terms of approval or plied him with questions menacing and
entreating. Anderson maintained his composure to allow them to settle
again into a period of quietude before the administration of the oath.
At length Stephen arose as if to question, and was given permission to
speak by the chairman, Mr. Anderson.
"What immunity does His Majesty's Government guarantee to us after the
war?"
"The usual guarantee will of course be made," Anderson replied.
"Does that mean that we shall be reëstablished in the good-will of our
fellow-citizens?" Stephen again inquired.
"Unquestionably. When the colonists see the immense benefits which they
have acquired, they will readily condone all wrongs."
Intense interest was already manifest throughout the room. Faces were
eagerly bent forward lest a word be lost.
"Such considerations, however, are irrelevant to our purpose," dismissed
Anderson with a wave of the hand.
"But it is of vital consequence to us. We must return to our people to
live with them, and we cannot live in an atmosphere of hatred. Who
knows that our lives may not be placed in jeopardy! My question deals
with this. Will any provision be made against such a contingency?"
"It is too early to discuss the final settlement, but you have my
assurance that suitable protection will be given."
"Your assurance?" repeated Stephen. "What amount of assurance may you
offer to us, you who admittedly are one of ourselves?"
"I consider that an impertinent question, sir, and in no way connected
with the business before us."
"It is of vital concern to us, I should say; and I for one am desirous
of knowing more about this affair before yielding my consent."
"You have signed your papers of enlistment already, I believe. There is
no further course then for you to pursue."
There was a rustle among the seats. Some had begun to realize their
fate; some had realized it from the start but were powerless to prevent
it. Two or three faces turned a shade paler, and they became profoundly
silent. The others, too, held their tongues to await the result of the
controversy. For here was a matter of vital concern to all. Up to now
very few deserters, especially among the Catholics, had been discovered
among the American forces. They had heard of an individual or two
surrendering himself to the enemy, or of whole families going over to
the other side in order to retain their possessions and lands. But a
mutiny was another matter altogether. What if they failed and the
Colonists gained their independence!
"I suppose we are powerless," admitted Stephen in a low tone of voice
as he watched the effect of his words on the gathering. "We are
confronted," he continued, "with the dilemma of estrangement no matter
what side gains."
"England can't lose," interrupted Colonel Clifton, who heretofore had
been seated, an attentive observer. "And with victory comes the
establishment of the will of the conqueror. Care will be taken that
there shall be adequate reparation."
"Very good!" answered Stephen. "Now together with that privilege of
immunity, can we be assured of the extension of the Quebec Act? Has
England so decreed?"
"Not yet," Anderson admitted, "but that extension, or one equal to it,
will be made one of the conditions of peace."
"We are sure of that, then?"
"Well, we are not sure, but it is only logical to infer such a
condescension will be made."
"I don't agree with you, I am sorry to say, for the English Parliament
may be of another mind when peace and victory have been established."
"You are interrupting the meeting. Please let us continue with our
business," Anderson sharply reproved him.
"I speak for my fellow-citizens here," said Stephen as he turned toward
them with an appealing gesture, "and I maintain that it is our privilege
to know certain matters before we transfer our allegiance."
It was now plain to the company that Anderson was worried. His white
thin lips were firmly compressed as the wrath in his heart blazed within
him. He was aghast at the blow. It had come from a quarter wholly
unexpected. That this fellow in these shabby clothes should be gifted
with a freedom of speech such as to confound him when he thought his
plans realized to the letter, was astounding. Why, he might sway the
minds of the entire assembly! Better to silence him at once, or better
still banish him from the hall than to cope with the possibility of
losing the entire multitude.
"You have interrupted this meeting more than I care to have you, sir. If
you will kindly allow me to proceed with the business before the house I
shall consider it a favor."
"I ask my fellow-citizens here," shouted Stephen by way of reply, "if
you or any man possesses the right to deprive us of free speech,
especially at a time as momentous as this. I ask you, my friends, if I
may continue?"
"Yes!... Go on!... We will hear you!..." were the several acclamations
from the throng.
Anderson heard it with perceptible confusion. He fumbled nervously with
his fingers, wholly ignorant of what to say.
"Let me ask, then," said Stephen, "if the idea of independence is wholly
exclusive of religious toleration. Why are we, a mere handful of men,
about to pledge ourselves to the accomplishment by force of arms what
already is accomplished in our very midst? Freedom of religious worship
is already assured. The several actions of the colonial governing bodies
lend us that assurance. England can do no more for us than already has
been done; and what has been done by the Colonies will be guaranteed by
the elective body of the people in the days of independence. I am
fearful of the hazards that will accompany this enlistment. Give me
leave to address you on this topic that you may understand my troubled
state of mind. I appeal to you. Give me leave to talk."
Whether it was the spontaneous sound issuing from the ranks of those
already initiated into the secret, or whether a chord already attuned in
the hearts and minds of the entire assembly, had been marvelously struck
by him, there was a reverberation of approval throughout the room in
answer to Stephen's plea. So unanimous was the demonstration that
Anderson took alarm. The air of democracy was revealing itself in their
instinctive enthusiasm. And while nothing might result from Stephen's
rambling remarks, still it would afford them consolation that their side
of the question had been aired. To a man they voiced their approval of
the privilege which had been begged.
"Aye!... Speech!... Take the floor!"
CHAPTER VIII
I
"I have no desire to make a speech," Stephen began, "but I have asked
for this privilege of addressing you because we are moving through
critical times and because there are serious decisions to be made this
evening, which it is neither right nor possible for us to make without a
full consideration of the state of affairs. I have devoted much serious
thought to this subject. I have labored to arrive at a just conclusion,
and it is in that spirit that I would speak. I feel, too, that I have an
inalienable right as a free-born citizen to express my views freely and
publicly, as befits a loyal adherent of the principles which we are now
defending with our blood. And first among those principles is that which
guarantees representation in all matters that are of vital concern to
us."
He had not left his chair but continued to talk from his place beside
it, turning, however, somewhat in the direction of his audience. Silence
reigned throughout the room and every face was turned full upon him.
"I, too, had accepted the terms of enlistment on the plea of the
acquisition of our rights, so admirably exposed to us by our good
friend, Mr. Anderson. As I pondered the matter, however, I seriously
questioned whether this were the proper time for the employment of such
methods. What assurance have we,--if indeed assurance be needed,--that
this is not another trick of the enemy? Bear with me, please, while I
unfold to you my thoughts.
"Our leader and our guide in these matters, Mr. Anderson, has made known
to us that this business of recruiting has been a great success. But did
he tell us of the sinister methods which often had been resorted to, of
the many threats which had been exercised over a great number of us, of
the debts which had been relieved, of the intimidation which had been
employed? He declared with manifest satisfaction that the recruiting in
the city of New York had been marvelous in its results, yet he did not
explain to our satisfaction the reason which impelled the leaders of
this revolt to seek members from the neighboring cities to help swell
the ranks; nor did he tell of the means which had been made use of to
secure that marvelous number in the city, of all cities, where such
recruiting would be most successful because of the present British
occupation of the territory. Furthermore, he failed to tell us that he
himself is not a Catholic, or that his true name is not Anderson, or of
his history previous to his appearance in this city. Neither did he tell
us that Lieutenant-Colonel Clifton, while a Philadelphia Catholic, is a
British subject, having accepted British allegiance on the capture of
the city a year ago last September. There were many items of importance
which were not revealed to us. Shall I continue? I have an abundance of
facts to disclose to you, if you give me leave."
So favorable had been the impression produced by the speech of Anderson
that Stephen felt apprehensive lest his own criticism and contradiction
would not be accepted as true. And so he paused to learn if possible the
nature of his reception.
"Yes!... We want to hear them!... Tell us more!..."
There was a wild outburst of approval, followed by a generous
handclapping. In the confusion, Stephen observed Anderson together with
Colonel Clifton leave their places on the platform and take seats on the
side of the room.
"It is quite true that we have no quarrel with the English people. We
have no quarrel with their king or the framers of their laws. It is
equally true that the governments of Great Britain and the United
Colonies have become involved in a military struggle, a struggle to the
death; nevertheless we would be the last to imply that there exists any
essential antagonism of interests or purposes between the two peoples.
We are not engaged in a contest between Englishmen and Americans, but
between two antagonistic principles of government, each of which has its
advocates and its opponents among us who sit here, among those who live
with us in our own country, among those who reside in far-off England.
The contest is a political contest, the ancient contest between the Whig
and the Tory principles of government, the contest of Chatham and North,
and Richmond, Rockingham and Burke transferred to this side of the
Atlantic. The political liberty to which we have dedicated ourselves is
no product of our imaginations; our forefathers of the seventeenth
century brought it to our shores and now we naturally refuse to
surrender it. It is the principle for which we are contending,--the
principles that these United Colonies are and of a right ought to be
free and independent states; and in all matters else we are loyal foster
children of His Majesty the King, as loyal and as interested a people in
the welfare of the mother country as the most devoted subject of the
crown residing in the city of London.
"War was inevitable. This has been known for some time; but there has
been no lack of cordiality between the people of the United Kingdom and
the people of the United Colonies. We are opposed to certain principles
of statecraft, to the principle of taxation without representation, to
the same degree as are the Whigs of our mother country. We cherish the
warmest sentiments of love and admiration for the English people and we
are ready to become their brothers in arms at any future date for the
defense of those very ideals which we are now trying to establish,--the
blessings of democracy; but we abominate autocracy and will have none of
it. In this regard we may be said to have disinfected our anger, but
never to have diluted it."
The Tory element moved about in their seats, and Stephen suspected for a
moment that he was being treated with an air of disdain. He shifted his
point of view suddenly.
"To say that the Catholic people of this country are dissatisfied with
the conduct of the war is begging the question, and brands them with a
stigma which they wholly undeserve. We admit for the sake of argument
that our early cousins may have proved themselves somewhat intolerant,
and, perhaps, rendered conditions of life disagreeable to us; still gold
must be tried by the fire. We grow vigorous under storms of persecution.
And while it is true that the American Congress of 1774 protested
against the legislature of Great Britain establishing a 'religion
fraught with impious tenets,' yet it is equally true that the Congress
of 1776 resolved to protect 'all foreigners in the free exercise of
their respective religions.' The past has been buried by this; the
future lies before us.
"We do not grieve on that account. Rather are we proud of our adhesion
to the cause of independence, and you, yourselves, are no less proud of
your own efforts in this regard. The Commander-in-chief is warmly
disposed towards the Catholic element, not alone in the army, but among
the citizenry. His own bodyguard is composed of men, more than thirty of
whom bear Catholic names. One of his aides, Colonel Fitzgerald, is a
Catholic. His Captain and Commander of the Navy, nominated and appointed
by himself, is a Catholic, John Barry. We are appreciative of the
services of our General, and we are ready to render ourselves worthy of
the esteem and the respect in which we are held by him, as was evidenced
by his abolition of the celebration of Guy Fawkes Day, so detestable to
us.
"I repeat this to impress upon you that this is not the time for
religious controversy or for nicely calculating the scope and the extent
of our service. The temper of the times requires unity of action and
definition of purpose. Our people respect us. Whatever restrictions were
lodged against us in the past have been broken down now before the
battering ram of public opinion. The guarantees for the future given by
our own brethren, that we shall be permitted the free and unrestricted
exercise of our religious observances as well as the right to worship
God according to the dictates of our own consciences, are of more
endurable texture than the flimsy promises of the enemy. Our noble and
generous ally, France, already has procured for us that respect and
recognition so indispensable to our safety and, contrary to the opinion
already expressed here tonight, has sent us six thousand men, the first
installment of an army of at least twelve thousand trained soldiers,
destined to be put directly under General Washington's command. Together
with these she has already furnished Congress with large sums of money
to enable us to carry on the war. The dawn of a brighter day is now
breaking over the horizon and in the east the sun of justice and of
toleration and of liberty may be seen breaking through the low-hung
clouds of oppression, prejudice and tyranny which have so long obscured
it. In our history there has been no coward, no Tory, no traitor of our
faith. We are still Loyalists; but of different type. That precious and
historic document of July 4, 1776, definitely and for all time absolved
us from all allegiance to the British Crown. By nature, then, we have
become citizens of a new government, a government instituted by and
subject to the peoples of these free and independent states. Henceforth,
Loyalty assumes a newer and most lasting significance;--it has suddenly
become for us synonymous with the best and dearest interests of our
country."
He paused.
II
The sigh throughout the room was distinctly audible as he ended his
paragraph with a rhetorical pause. He caught the sound on the instant
and understood its meaning as the orator, holding his audience in
breathless intensity, allows them to drop suddenly that he may
appreciate his control of their feelings. Their pent-up energies give
way to an abrupt relaxation followed by a slight scuffling of the body
or an intermittent cough. From these unconscious indications, Stephen
knew that he had held their interest and he did not intend that they
should be allowed to compose themselves quite, until he had finished. He
began at once on the evidence of the plot.
"The members of this proposed company before whom I have the privilege
of speaking, have been the victims of a gigantic plot, a plot that found
its origin in the headquarters of the British army at New York City. It
was to advance the plan that John Anderson came to Philadelphia. He had
carried on communication with the enemy almost without interruption.
Because the work of recruiting in the city of the enemy was a failure,
it was decreed that the city of Philadelphia, as the most Tory of the
American cities, be called upon for the requisite number. Of the
progress here, you already know. Of the multifarious means employed, you
yourselves can bear excellent witness. Of the ultimate success of the
venture you are now about to decide.
"The Military Governor, General Arnold, was early initiated into the
scheme. For a long time he has borne a fierce grudge against Congress,
and he hoped that the several Catholic members of the body might be
induced to forsake the American cause. They sought Father Farmer, our
good pastor, as chaplain of the regiment, but he refused with mingled
delicacy and tact. Indeed, were it not for the hostile state of the
public mind, a campaign of violence would have been resorted to; but
Arnold felt the pulse of dislike throbbing in the heart of the community
and very wisely refrained from increasing its fervor. All possible aid
was furnished by him, however, in a secret manner. His counsel was
generously given. Many of your names were supplied by him together with
an estimate of your financial standing, your worth in the community,
your political tendencies, the strength of your religious convictions.
And what a comparatively simple matter it was for one thus equipped to
accomplish so marvelous and so satisfactory results!
"I repeat, then, General Arnold is strongly prejudiced against us. It is
an open secret that Catholic soldiers have fared ill at his hands.
Tories and Jews compose his retinue, but no Catholics. I am not critical
in this respect for I observe that he is enjoying but a personal
privilege. But I allude to this fact at this moment to assure you that
this scheme of forming a regiment of Roman Catholic Volunteers is
directed solely to subvert the good relations already existing between
us and our brethren in arms. The promises made bore no hope of
fulfillment. The guarantees of immunity deserve no consideration. The
Quebec Act, and for this I might say in passing that we are duly
grateful, was never to be extended. In view of these observations, I ask
you: are you willing to continue with this nefarious business? Are you?"
"No!" was the interruption. The outburst was riotous. "Arrest the
traitor!... I move we adjourn!..."
Stephen held out his hands in supplication to beseech them to hear him
further.
"Please, gentlemen! Just one more word," he pleaded.
They stood still and listened.
"Has it occurred to you, let me ask, that the vessel which has been
engaged to transport you to the city of New York is named the _Isis_, a
sloop well known to sea-faring men of this city? She is owned by
Philadelphia citizens and manned by a local crew. Does not this strike
you as remarkably strange and significant,--that a vessel of this
character should clear this port and enter the port of the enemy without
flying the enemy's flag? Think of it, gentlemen! An American vessel with
an American crew employed by the enemy, and chartered to aid and abet
the enemy's cause!"
They resumed their seats to give their undivided attention to this new
topic of interest. Some sat alert, only partly on the chair; some sat
forward with their chins resting in the palms of their hands. So
absorbed were all in astonishment and amazement, that no other thought
gave them any concern save that of the vessel. The side door had opened
and closed, yet no one seemed to notice the occurrence. Even Stephen had
failed to observe it.
"As a matter of fact," he continued, "the ship has not been chartered by
the enemy. She is about to clear this port and enter the port of the
enemy by virtue of a pass issued through General Arnold.... Please, just
a moment, until I conclude," he exclaimed, holding out his hand with a
restraining gesture. "This matter has heretofore been a close secret,
but it is necessary now that the truth should be known. To issue a pass
for such an errand is a violation of the American Articles of War and
for this offense I now formally charge Major-General Benedict Arnold
with treason."
"The traitor!... Court-martial him!..." shouted several voices.
"I charge him with being unfaithful to his trust. He had made use of our
wagons to transport the property of the enemy at a time when the lines
of communication of the enemy were no farther distant than Egg Harbor.
He has allowed many of our people to enter and leave the lines of the
enemy. He has illegally concerned himself over the profits of a
privateer. He has imposed, or at any rate has given his sanction to the
imposition of menial offices upon the sons of freedom who are now
serving in the militia, as was the case with young Matlack, which you
will remember. And he has of late improperly granted a pass for a vessel
to clear for the port of the enemy. I desire to make these charges
publicly in order that you may know that my criticisms are not without
foundation. I have in view your welfare alone."
"Aye!... We believe you!... Let us adjourn!"
"Let me ask Mr. Anderson one or two questions. If they can be answered
to your satisfaction we shall accept his overtures. On the other hand
let us dispense once and for all with this nefarious business and
frustrate this insidious conspiracy so that we may renew our energies
for the task before us which alone matters--the task of overcoming the
enemy.
"First! Who has financed the organization, equipment, transportation of
this regiment of Roman Catholic Volunteers?
"Second: From what source or sources originated the various methods of
blackmail?
"Third: Who first suggested the coöperation of General Arnold?
"Fourth: What pressure was brought to bear in the obtaining of the
passport for the vessel to clear port?"
III
But there was no Anderson to give answer. It was found that he, together
with Colonel Clifton and several members of the party, had disappeared
from the room. No one had remembered seeing them take their departure,
yet it was observed that they had left the platform in the course of
Stephen's speech to take seats on the further side of the hall, near to
the door. This might have opened and closed several times during
Stephen's speech, and, more especially, at the time when they had
crowded the aisles near the close of the address, and little or no
attention would have been paid to it. Very likely Anderson had taken
advantage of such an opportunity to make an escape.
It was a very different room now. What had been a state of remarkable
quiet with every man in his seat, with the conversation hardly above the
tone of a whisper, with the uniform tranquillity disturbed solely by the
remarks of the two speakers, was now giving way to a precipitous uproar
which approached a riot. Men surged about one another and about Stephen
in an endeavor to learn the details of the plot. Groups separated
themselves from other equally detached groups, all absorbed, however, in
the same topic. Voices, formerly hushed, now became vociferous. The
walls reverberated with the tumultuous confusion.
"What dupes!" one was remarking to his neighbor. "How easily were we led
by his smooth talk!"
"We were misguided in our motives of allegiance. We might have sensed a
trick of the enemy," was the reply.
"Let us win the war, first," shouted a third.
"Aye! Freedom first; then religious liberty."
"Who is he?" another asked. "It cannot be Cadwalader."
"No," answered the neighbor. "This was prearranged. He borrowed
Cadwalader's card to come here."
"I always told you Arnold was no good," sounded a great voice. "He'd
sell us to the devil if he could get paid for it. I suppose he'll go to
New York sure."
"Let him. Wish he was out of here."
"Say!" one asked Stephen rather abruptly. "How did you get all this
straight?"
"I interested myself the moment the scheme took root. I assured myself
that all was not as it should be and I took pains to verify my
suspicions," was the grave reply.
"I know, but how did ye get 'em?"
"By following every move this Anderson made. I tracked him even to Mount
Pleasant."
"And got beforehand with Arnold?"
"I overheard the major portion of the conversation."
"Pardon me," asked another individual, neater in appearance than the
majority, and evidently of more education, "but have I not seen you
before?"
"Perhaps you have," laughed Stephen.
"Where?"
"I could not begin to imagine."
"Where do you live? In town?"
"For the present, yes."
"Who are you?"
"Can't you see? Just one of you?"
"Never saw you in those clothes before. If I am not greatly mistaken you
are the one who came to the Coffee House one day with Matt. Allison."
"Yes," admitted Stephen, "I am the same."
"How did you come by those clothes?"
"Borrowed them."
"In disguise, eh?"
"It was necessary to simulate a disguise. Otherwise I could never have
gained admission here. I learned that Jim Cadwalader had been impressed
into the company and I arranged to come in his place."
"Oh!"
"You took a mighty big risk."
"It was required. But I knew that there was but one way of playing this
game and that was to defeat them openly by their own tactics. I had to
depend, of course, upon the temper of the proposed members. All might be
lost or won at one throw of the dice. I worded my remarks to that
effect, and I won."
"What did you say your name was?"
"I did not say what it was," Stephen exchanged in good-natured repartee,
"but since you ask, it is Meagher."
"Captain Meagher?"
Stephen smiled.
It must have been fully half-past nine when the meeting broke up; and
that was at the departure of Stephen. He had lingered long enough to
assure himself that the company was of a mind far different from that
which had engaged them upon their arrival. They were now to go forth
wiser men. But they knew that the people of the city could be moved
quickly to indignation--as quickly, indeed, as they could be moved to
favor. And how were they to explain their conduct? They resolved to lay
the story with all its details before the very table of public opinion
and allow that tribunal to discriminate between the shades of guilt.
Anderson, of course, had fled. That in itself was a confession and a
point in their favor. It was plain to their minds that they had been
victimized by the clever machinations of this man. If there had been any
lack of unity of opinion concerning the righteousness of the project
before, there was no divided opinion now. They knew what they were about
to do, and they made all possible haste to put their thought into
execution.
The ancient antipathy against the Military Governor was only intensified
the more. Rumor would confirm the charges that would be published
against him, of that they would take proper care. It was enough that
they had been deluded by Anderson, but to be mere pawns in the hands of
Arnold was more than they could stand. Too long had he been tolerated
with his Tory wife and her manner of living, and now was an opportunity.
Their path of duty was outlined before them.
Thoroughly satisfied with his evening's work, Stephen turned down the
street whistling softly to himself.
CHAPTER IX
I
"Come!" said Stephen in response to the soft knock upon his door panel.
"Just a minute."
He arose from his knees from the side of his bed. It was his custom to
pray in this posture both morning and night; in the morning to thank his
Lord for having brought him safely through the night and to offer Him
all his prayers and works and sufferings of the day. At night to implore
pardon for his shortcomings of the day and to commend himself into the
hands of his Creator. This morning, however, the noise of heavy
footsteps on the stairway had caused him to abbreviate somewhat his
devotional exercise.
"Come in!" he repeated as he slipped back the bolt and opened the door.
"Oh! Good morning! You're out early. How are you?"
He shook the hands of his early morning visitors warmly.
"Fine morning!" replied Mr. Allison. "Sorry to have disturbed you, but
Jim was around early and desired to see you."
"Sure! No disturbance at all, I assure you. I was on the point of
leaving for breakfast."
"Go right ahead. Please don't delay on our account. We can wait. Go
ahead," expostulated Mr. Allison.
"We want'd t' be sure an' git ye, thet wuz all," remarked Jim. "Eat
first. We'll be here when y' git back."
"Sit down and make yourselves comfortable," and he arranged several
chairs about the room. "I overslept, I fear. Last night taxed me."
"You did justice to yourself and to us last night. The splendid result
was your reward."
They were seated, Jim by the window, Mr. Allison at Stephen's desk. The
disorder of early morning was apparent in the room, the furniture
disarranged and all manner of clothing, bed covering, wearing apparel,
towels, piled or thrown carelessly about. No one seemed to mind it,
however, for no one paused to rearrange it.
"It wuz a big night. Tell us how did ye git along with 'em?" asked Jim.
"Much better than I had anticipated," Stephen replied. "I thought that
Anderson's talk had won them entirely, but when I asked for the floor, I
saw at once that many were with me. Had you instructed them?" This
question was directed towards Jim.
"I did. I saw a doz'n at least. You know they had no use fur th' thing
and were glad o' th' chance. I made a big secret out o' it, and they
watch'd fur my ol' clothes."
"I thought I felt their glances. They stuck true, you may be assured. I
knew, too, that I possessed a reserve blow in the affair of the _Isis_.
The mention of Arnold's name inflamed them."
"I am sorry to have missed that," Mr. Allison said.
"How did they avoid you?" Stephen asked.
"I don't know. I was never approached although I had been acquainted
with the rumors of the thing right along. I suppose they figured that I
would threaten them with exposure. They knew where I stood; and then
again they knew that they could threaten me with no debts. For some
reason or other they thought best to avoid me."
"I guess we killed it for good."
"Kill'd it?" exclaimed Jim. "It's deader 'n a six-day corpse. An'
there's great talk goin' on t'day on all th' corners. We're right wid
th' peepul y' kin bet, and they thought best to avoid me."
"Have you noticed any agitation?"
"There has been a little disturbance," Mr. Allison admitted, "but no
violence. It has been talk more than anything. Many are wondering who
you are and how you obtained your information. Others are considerably
taken back by the unveiling of Anderson. The greatest of respect is
being shown to us on the street, and congratulations are being offered
to us from all sides."
"I am glad the sentiment has changed. It now looks like the dawn of a
better day. We should be spurred on, however, to greater endeavor in the
manifestation of our loyalty, especially among the minority Tory
element."
Outside, the street was beginning to feel the impulse of life. Over
across, the buildings shone with the brightness of the morning sun which
was reflected mildly from the glassy windows. There was a silent
composure about it all, with no sound save the footfalls of the passing
horse or the rattle of the business wagon. Somewhere across the street
the man with the violin continued his fiddling.
"Does that keep up all day?"
"Almost! It is amusing to hear Griff swearing at him. The humorous part
of it is that he plays but one tune, 'Yankee Doodle.'"
"Can't ye steal it some night?" asked Jim, "an' bust it over 's head."
"I don't care," laughed Stephen, "he doesn't bother me."
The door opened and shut. Sergeant Griffin entered, saluted Stephen and
took the hands of the visitors.
"Well, what do you think of the boy?"
"I alwa's said he wuz a good boy."
"The fun hasn't begun yet," announced the Sergeant. "I have just learned
that the City Council has met, and is about to issue formal charges
against General Arnold."
Stephen whistled.
"They are glad of this opportunity," he announced quietly.
"Reed never took kindly to him, not from the first day," declared Mr.
Allison.
"Well, if Reed gits after 'm he'll make the fur fly. He's a bad man when
he gits goin'."
"Did you say they had met?" Stephen inquired.
"I understand they have. The affair of last night is being talked of
freely on the street. And they are talking about you, most of all, and
wonder if you had been sent by Washington to uncover this. One thing is
certain: Arnold is in disgrace and the sooner he gets out of here the
better it will be for him."
"The General likes 'im and p'rhaps 'll give 'im a transf'r."
"By the way!" interrupted Mr. Allison. "My girl wants to see you."
"See me?" Stephen quickly repeated, pointing to himself.
"She told me on leaving to tell you."
"Very well. Is it urgent?"
"No. I guess not. She didn't say it as if it were."
"Tell her for me, I shall go as soon as I can."
"What's th' next thin' t' do?" asked Jim.
"Matters will take care of themselves for awhile," Stephen replied.
"Anderson, I suppose, has left town together with Clifton and the
others. If the City Council has met to publish charges against Arnold,
there is nothing to do but await the result of these. The people, I
presume, are of one mind now and if they are not they will soon be
converted once the news of last night's affair has reached their ears."
"Are you going to remain here?" asked Mr. Allison.
"I am going to take some breakfast, first; then I shall busy myself with
a report. I may be busy for several days away from the city. In the
meantime I would advise that the whole affair be aired as much as
possible. There is nothing like supplying the public mind with food.
Meet me, Jim, at the Coffee House; or are you coming with me?"
"Guess I'll go. This man wants t' eat."
II
The City Council did meet, as rumor announced to Sergeant Griffin, and
immediately published charges against David Franks, the father of the
aide-de-camp of the Military Governor, charging him with being in
correspondence with his brother in London, who was holding the office of
Commissary for British prisoners. He was ordered to be placed under
immediate arrest. At the same time formal charges, partly of a military
nature, partly of a civil, were preferred against the Military Governor.
Copies of indictment were laid before Congress and before the Governors
of the states, who were asked to communicate them to their respective
legislatures.
The press became wildly excited. Great headlines announced the startling
news to the amazement of the country. For, it must be remembered,
Philadelphia was the center of government and colonial life, and the
eyes of the infant nation were turned continually in its direction.
General Arnold's name soon became a subject for conversation on every
side.
None took the news more to heart than the General himself, as he sat in
his great drawing-room with a copy of the evening news sheet before him.
Being of an imaginative, impulsive nature it was natural for him to
worry, but tonight there was the added feature of the revelation of his
guilt. Reed had pursued him relentlessly, and the public announcement of
his participation in the attempted formation of this detestable regiment
only furnished the President of the Council with the opening he had so
long desired. He re-read the charges preferred against him, his name
across the front in big bold type. In substance they were as follows:
First: That the Military Governor had issued a pass for a vessel
employed by the enemy, to come into port without the knowledge of the
State authorities or of the Commander-in-chief.
Second: That upon taking possession of the city he had closed the shops
and stores, preventing the public from purchasing, while at the same
time, "as was believed," he had made considerable purchases for his own
benefit.
Third: That he imposed menial offices upon the militia when called into
service.
Fourth: That in a dispute over the capture of a prize brought in by a
state privateer he had purchased the suit at a low and inadequate price.
Fifth: That he had devoted the wagons of the state to transporting the
private property of Tories.
Sixth: That, contrary to law, he had given a pass to an unworthy person
to go within the enemy's lines.
Seventh: That the Council had been met with a disrespectful refusal when
they asked him to explain the subject-matter of the Fifth charge.
Eighth: That the patriotic authorities, both civil and military, were
treated coldly and neglectfully, in a manner entirely different from his
line of conduct towards the adherents of the king.
A further account of the Council meeting was then given wherein it was
stated that a motion had been made to suspend General Arnold from all
command during the time the inquiry was being made into these
accusations, but it had been voted down. Congress was asked, the story
went on, to decide on the value of these charges and to refer them to
the proper tribunal, the necessary amount of evidence being promised at
the proper time.
"The fools!" he muttered. "They think that these can hold water."
He continued to read, and holding the paper at a distance from him,
gazed at it.
"What a shame! Every paper in the country will have this story before
the week is out. I'm disgraced."
He fell back in his chair with his head propped up by his elbow. In his
other hand, thrown across the arm of the chair, was held the paper. His
brows were contracted, his eyes closed, his face flushed in indication
of the tumult that surged within him. His mind was engaged in a long
process of thought which began with his memories of his early campaigns
and traced themselves down to the events of the present moment. There
was no decision, no constancy of resolution, no determination; just
worry, and apprehension, and solicitude, and the loud, rapid beatings of
his temple against his hand.
"Suspend me! I'll forestall them, damn 'em. I'll resign first."
He wondered where Anderson had gone or what fortune he had met with. The
morning brought the first report of the disruption of the meeting and of
the unknown person who had single-handed accomplished it. There must be
a traitor somewhere, for no one save Anderson and himself had been
initiated into the secret. Margaret knew, of course, but she could be
trusted. Perhaps after all the man had escaped that night. Perhaps it
was this very person who had created the furore at the meeting. Who was
he? How did he get in? Why were proper steps not taken to safeguard the
room against all possibilities of this nature? Bah! Anderson had bungled
the thing from the start. He was a boy sent on a man's errand.
The regiment was defunct. To speculate further on that subject would be
futile. It never had existed, as far as he could see, except on paper,
and there it remained, a mere potentiality. The single-handed disruption
of it proved how utterly deprived it was of cohesion and organization.
That one man, alone and in disguise, could have acquainted himself
thoroughly with the whole proceeding, could have found his way with no
attempt at interference into the meeting place, and with a few
well-chosen words could have moved an entire audience to espouse the
very contrary of their original purpose, indicated the stability and the
temper of the assembly. To coerce men is a useless endeavor. Even the
Almighty finds it well not to interfere with man's power of choice. They
might be led or enticed or cajoled; but to force them, or intimidate
them, or overwhelm them, is an idle and unavailing adventure.
Anderson had failed miserably and his conspiracy had perished with him.
Not a prominent Catholic had been reached in the first place; not a
member of the poorest class would now leave the city. The affair with
its awful disclosures only added strength to their position, for
whatever aspersions might have been cast upon their loyalty in the event
of the successful deportation of the company, were now turned like a
boomerang against the very ones who had engineered the scheme. The
community would respect the Catholics more for the future. They were to
profit by his undoing. They would be valued for the test that their
patriotism had stood.
There was another consideration, however, which wore a graver complexion
and tormented him beyond endurance. This was the solicitude for his own
safety. The people had hated him for years and had proceeded to invent
stories about him which might justify its anger. It had been a
satisfaction for him to reflect that, for the most part, these stories
had not been the causes, but rather the effects of public indignation.
But what answer could he make now, what apology could he offer for this
late transaction, this conspiracy at once so evident and palpable? As
far as the question of his guilt was concerned there would be little
conjecture about that. Ten or twenty accounts of the venture,
inconsistent with one another and with themselves, would be circulated
simultaneously. Of that he had no doubt. People would neither know nor
care about the evidence. It was enough that he had been implicated.
He would ask for a court-martial. That, of course. Through no other
tribunal could a just and a satisfactory decision be reached, and it was
paramount that another verdict besides that pronounced by public opinion
be obtained. Unquestionably, he would be acquitted. His past service,
his influence, his character would prove themselves determining factors
during his trial. Fully one-half of the charges were ridiculous and
would be thrown out of court as incontestable, and of the remainder only
one would find him technically culpable. Still it were better for a
court to decide upon these matters, and to that end he decided to
request a general court-martial.
III
"You have removed your uniform?" Peggy asked in surprise as she beheld
him entering the doorway of the drawing-room.
"Yes," was the solemn reply. "I am no longer a confederate of France."
He limped slowly across the room, leaning on his cane. He had laid aside
his buff and blue uniform, with the epaulets and sword knots, and was
clad in a suit of silken black. His hose and shoes were of the same
color, against which his blouse, cuffs and periwig were emphasized, a
pale white.
"But you are still a Major-General," she corrected.
"I was; but am no longer. I have resigned."
She started at the announcement. Obviously she had not anticipated this
move.
"You have resigned? When?"
"I wrote the letter a short time ago. I precluded their designs."
He sat in his great chair, and, reaching for his stool, placed his foot
upon it.
"But ... I ... I don't understand."
"I do perfectly. I shall be tried by court-martial, of course; they have
moved already to suspend me pending the course of my trial. I want to
anticipate any such possibility, that is all."
"But you will be reinstated?"
"I don't know,--nor care," he added.
"And what about us, our home, our life here," she asked with a marked
concern.
"Oh! That will go on. This is your house, remember, if it comes to the
worst; you are mistress here. This is your home."
"If it comes to the worst? To what?"
"Well, if I should be found guilty ... and ... sentenced."
"I should not stay here a minute," she cried, stamping her foot. "Not
one minute after the trial! In this town? With that element? Not for an
hour!"
"Well!" he exclaimed, making a gesture with both hands, together with a
slight shrug of the shoulders.
"Where is Anderson?" she asked quickly.
"In New York, I presume, ere this. I have not seen him."
"Fled?"
"The only proper thing. It's a great wonder to me that he escaped at
all. I should have expected him torn to pieces by that mob."
"A bungled piece of business. I imagined that he was assured of success.
A sorry spectacle to allow them to slip from his grasp so easily."
"Margaret, you do not understand a mob. They are as fickle as a
weather-cock. The least attraction sways them."
"Who did it? Have you yet learned?"
"No. A bedraggled loafer, gifted with more talk than occupation. He was
acquainted with the whole scheme from beginning to end, and worked upon
their feelings with evidences of treason. The sudden mention of my name
in connection with the plot threw cold water on the whole business. They
were on their feet in an instant."
"You are quite popular," was the taunt.
"Evidently. The pass inspired them. It would defeat any purpose, and
Anderson must have sensed it and taken his hurried departure. No one has
since heard or seen aught of him."
"He was a fool to drag you into this, and you were as great a fool to
allow it."
"Margaret, don't chide me in that manner. I did what I thought best. But
I'm through now with these cursed Catholics and with France."
"You are a free man now," she murmured.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that this court-martial relieves you of any further obligation
to the colonies," was the answer.
"But I may still be Second in command."
She paused to regard him. Did he continue to cherish ambitions of this
nature; or was he attempting to jest with her?
"You seem to forget Gates and the Congress," she said with manifest
derision.
"No. In spite of them."
She lost all patience.
"Listen! Don't flatter yourself any longer. Your cause is hopeless, as
hopeless as the cause for which the stupid colonists are contending. You
are now free to put an end to this strife. Go over to the enemy and
persuade Washington and the leaders of the revolt to discuss terms."
"Impossible!"
"What is impossible? Simply announce your defection; accept the terms of
His Majesty's government; and invite Adams, Franklin, Jefferson,
Hamilton and Washington to meet you. There is the assurance of all save
complete independence."
"I shall wait."
"For what? The court-martial will be against you from the start. Mark my
words. You will be found guilty, if not actually, at least technically.
They are determined upon revenge and they are going to have it. You saw
the paper?"
"I did."
"You read the list of charges?"
He did not answer. He had sunk into his chair and his hands were clasped
before him. He was engaged in a detailed series of thought.
"How many of them were artificial? Except for the first, that about the
pass, none are worth the reading, and the first never can be proved.
They have no evidence apart from the fanatical ravings of a drunken
Catholic. But wait! You shall be adjudged guilty in the end. See if I am
not correct."
"I have the right to question the composition of the court!"
"What matter! You know the people detest you. They have hated you from
the moment you set foot in this city. Every issue of the paper found
some new grievance against you. And when you married me the bomb was
exploded. You yourself know that it was the mere fact of your
participation in this scheme that quelled it. They loathe you, I tell
you. They hate you."
Silence reigned in the room as she finished. His eyes were closed and he
gave every appearance of having fallen into a deep sleep. His mind was
keenly alert, however, and digested every word she uttered. At length he
arose from his composure and limped to the window at the further end of
the room.
"I shall ask for a new command," he said quietly, "and we shall be
removed for all time from this accursed place. I shall do service
again."
"Better to await developments. Attend to your trial first. Plan for the
future later."
"I shall obey the wishes of the people."
"The people! A motley collection of fools! They have eyes and ears but
no more. They know everything and can do nothing."
"I don't know what to do. I...."
"I told you what to do," she interrupted his thought and finished it for
him. "I told you to join Anderson. I told you to go to New York and make
overtures to General Clinton. That's what you should do. Seek respect
and power and honor for your old age."
"That I shall not do. Washington loves me and my people will not desert
me to my enemies. The court-martial is the thing."
"As you say. But remember my prophecy."
He turned and again sought his chair. She arose to assist him into it.
"I wonder who that fellow could be! He knew it all."
"Did you not hear?"
"No. I have seen no one who could report to me. The details were
missing."
"Did you ever stop to think of the spy in the garden?"
"I did."
"That was the man, I am sure. You know his body has not been found, and
if I am not mistaken, it was present at that meeting hall."
"We shall learn of his identity. We shall learn."
"Too late! Too late!"
He again dozed off while she watched him. For several minutes they sat
in this manner until she stole out of the room and left him alone. Soon
he was wrapped in the arms of a gentle slumber. Some time later she
aroused him.
CHAPTER X
I
A fortnight later there came to the Allison home a messenger from
Stephen in the person of Sergeant Griffin. He appeared at the doorway
just as the shroud of eventide was being enfolded about the landscape,
changing its hues of green and gray to the more somber ones of blue or
purple; just at the time when the indoor view of things is about to be
made apparent only by the artificial beams of the tallow and dip.
"Hail!" he said; "I have business with Matthew Allison."
"From Stephen?" Marjorie asked with evident interest.
He shook his head.
"The trial----"
"Oh!" exclaimed Marjorie. Plainly she was relieved at the nature of the
message. Then she turned.
"Father!" she called.
"I am coming directly," cried Mr. Allison from the rear.
She had clear forgotten to invite the sergeant into the room, so
absorbed was she in the nature of the business at hand. Expectancy
breeds cowardice. When great issues are at stake every act wears an
awful meaning. For this reason she stood transfixed at the threshold,
before this unexpected arrival, whom she associated with the image of
Stephen. With the sudden and delightful lessening of her anxiety,
however, she bethought herself.
"Won't you come in? It was stupid of me not to have asked you before."
The sergeant acted promptly. Marjorie followed at a little distance, but
had no sooner entered the room herself than her father came through the
other door.
"What news? Arnold?"
"Found guilty," was the response.
"The court-martial has come to an end?" asked the girl.
"Yes, Miss. And he has been found guilty," he repeated.
"I thought so," muttered Mr. Allison.
They were seated now in the parlor, the two men at opposite ends of the
table, the girl at the side of the room.
"They met at Morristown?" asked Mr. Allison.
"Yes. At Norris' Tavern. Major-General Howe was chairman of the court.
Only four charges were pressed for trial: the matter of the pass; the
affair of the wagons; the shops; and the imposition upon the militia."
"And Arnold?"
"He managed his own trial, and conducted his own cross-examination. He
made an imposing spectacle as he limped before the court. The sword
knots of Washington were about his waist and he took pains to allude to
them several times during the defense. It was astonishing to hear his
remarkable flow of language and his display of knowledge of military
law. He created a wonderful impression."
"He was found guilty, you say?" interposed Mr. Allison.
"Technically guilty of one charge and imprudent in another," was the
deliberate reply.
"And sentenced?"
"To receive a reprimand from the Commander-in-chief."
Mr. Allison assented by a move of his head.
"How did he take it?" he then asked. "I cannot imagine his proud nature
to yield readily to rebuke."
The visitor thought for a moment.
"His face was ashen pale; there was a haggard look upon it; the eyes
were marked with deep circles and his step faltered as he turned on his
heel and, without a word, made his way from the court room."
"Were you present at the trial?" Marjorie inquired.
"Yes, Miss Allison."
"Was Stephen?"
"No." The sergeant answered mildly, smiling as he did so.
Marjorie smiled, too.
"Tell me," Mr. Allison asked. "Was the evidence conclusive?"
"The _Isis_ occupied the court to some length. It was contended that
General Arnold had issued the pass with evil intent. The affair of the
regiment was referred to in connection with this, but no great stress
was brought to bear upon it because of the fear of arousing a possible
prejudice in the minds of the court. That fact was introduced solely as
a motive."
Allison shook his head again.
"It was proved," the sergeant continued, "that the _Isis_ was a
Philadelphia schooner, manned by Philadelphia men, and engaged in the
coastwise trade. The pass itself was introduced as an exhibit, to
support the contention that the General, while Military Governor, had
given military permission for the vessel to leave the harbor of
Philadelphia for the port of New York, then in possession of the enemy."
"That was proved?"
"Yes, sir."
"Was the Regiment alluded to?"
"Yes. But at no great length."
"And the pass?"
"It was there. The Regiment was the motive for the pass. The affair of
the recruiting was scarcely mentioned."
There was an abrupt silence.
"What was the next charge?" Mr. Allison asked.
"That of the wagons."
"Yes."
"The prosecution made a strong point. Jesse Jordan was introduced.
Testimony was given by him to the effect that he himself had drawn back
a train of twelve wagons loaded with stores from Egg Harbor."
"Where?"
"Egg Harbor. Where the traffic between the British Army and the Tories
of the city was carried on."
"Was this sustained?"
"The General denied most of the accusation, but he was found imprudent
in his actions. In regard to the other two charges, that of the shops
and that of the militia, absolute acquittal was decided. The verdict was
announced the following morning and the sentence was published
immediately after adjournment."
"He was sentenced to be reprimanded, you tell me?"
"Yes. By General Washington."
"That will break Arnold's heart. He will never endure it."
"Others were obliged to endure it," sounded a soft voice.
"Yes, I know," replied the father of the girl. "But you do not know
General Arnold. Undoubtedly the city has the news."
"Yes," said the sergeant. "I have told several. All know it ere this."
II
And what subject could possibly afford more of concern or consequence to
the city folk than the court-martial of General Arnold! Those of the
upper class, because of their intimate association with the man; those
of the middle class, interested more or less in the great significance
attached to the event itself and the influence it would exert upon the
future; those of the lower class because of their supreme contempt for
the erstwhile Military Governor and the biased manner of his
administration, all, without exception, found themselves manifesting an
uncommon interest in the progress and the issue of the trial.
It was commonly known that General Arnold had requested a court-martial;
but it was not so commonly understood that the matter of his guilt,
especially his collusion with the Catholic Regiment and the matter of
its transportation, was so intricate or profound. Stephen's speech at
the meeting house had given the public the first inkling of the
Governor's complicity in the affair; still this offense had been
condoned by the many, as usually happens with the crimes of great men
who occupy stations of honor, whose misdemeanors are often enshrouded
and borne away into oblivion beneath the veil of expediency and interest
of the common weal. A court-martial would indeed take place; but its
verdict would be one of absolute acquittal.
To hold court at some neutral post was just. No charge of unfairness
could then be lodged. Nor could the personnel of the court be regarded
as hostile to the accused, for the latter had already raised an
objection to its composition which had been sustained and heeded. The
charges were dealt with fairly, only four of the eight counts in the
original indictment being allowed to come within the jurisdiction of a
military tribunal. Even the General was permitted to conduct his own
trial and every courtesy and attention was granted him.
Only two charges bore any evidence of guilt. The pass was issued with
deliberate intent. That was proved by the testimony of several witnesses
as well as by the introduction of the pass itself. Arnold defended
himself on the ground that there were no authorities in the city of New
York to be offended by the entrance of the vessel, and also the fact
that since the Commander-in-chief had lodged no complaint over the
alleged offense to his dignity, it was logical to infer that His
Excellency took no offense at the order. In regard to the charge of
misuse of the government wagons, it was revealed that traffic had been
carried on between Egg Harbor and the city of Philadelphia, and that
full loads had been delivered to several private families of the city.
Arnold denied any knowledge of the destination of these wagons, although
he was aware that they were being used.
His defense, it was learned, consisted of a long plea, in which he
rehearsed in detail the leading events of his life. He was fond of
alluding to his past and entertained no diffidence whatsoever in regard
to his own abilities. He hoped thereby to impress the court and to
intimidate them.
The charges he denounced as false, malicious, and scandalous, inspired
solely by motives of animosity and revenge. He was not accustomed to
carry on a warfare with women, he told the court, nor did he ever bask
in the sunshine of any one's favor. Honorable acquittal of all the
charges brought against him was pleasantly expected by him and he looked
forward to the day when he might share again with his fellow-soldiers
the glory and the dangers of the war.
But he was not acquitted, and the verdict of the court came no less as a
surprise to the people of the city and of the nation than to the General
himself. The following morning they met to pronounce the verdict and
they found that on the first charge Major General Arnold had exceeded
his rights in giving permission for a vessel to leave port without the
knowledge of the City Authorities or of the Commander-in-chief; and as
such he was found to have violated technically Article Five, Section
Eighteen of the American Articles of War. The second and third charges
were dismissed, but he was found to have been imprudent in his temporary
use of the wagons. Because of his guilt on these two counts he was
sentenced to receive a reprimand from His Excellency, the
Commander-in-chief.
He left the court room without a word.
III
"It is precisely what I fear most," Mr. Allison said. "If he curried
less the favor of the public, little or naught would come of it, and the
reprimand would end the case. But you know Arnold is a conceited man;
one who carries his head high. Better to deprive him of life itself than
to apply vinegar and gall to his parched lips."
"His return will be hard," Sergeant Griffin observed. He, too, knew the
character of the man.
"I doubt if he will return. He has resigned, you know, and may dislike
the sight of the city which witnessed his misfortune. Still this is his
home and a man's heart is in his home regardless of its environment."
"Do not forget Peggy," Marjorie reminded them. "I know she will never
consent to live in the city. I know it. Dear me! The shame of it all
would confuse her."
"She might become accustomed to it," replied her father. "All school
themselves to the mutations of life."
"Not Peggy. I know her. She will not forgive. Why, I recall quite
vividly the violence of her temper and the terror of her wrath. Her own
aunt, with whom she was staying for a brief space, took occasion to
reprove her for a slight indiscretion. Peggy resented the correction
fiercely, and leaving the house at once vowed she never would set foot
into it again. That was seven years ago. She has, to my knowledge, never
violated that pledge."
Her father shook his head.
"I see it all quite clearly," continued Marjorie. "The General will
resent the wrong; Peggy will nurture a fierce indignation. Whatever
thoughts of revenge will come to his mind she will ably promote. Have a
care to her; her wrath will know no mitigation."
"He never expected the verdict," the sergeant remarked.
"How did he appear?" asked Mr. Allison.
"Splendid. As he entered the court he laughed and jested with several
officers with all the self-possession of one of the eye-witnesses.
Flashes of the old-time energy and courage were manifest at intervals.
There was jubilation displayed on his every feature."
"He was jocose, you say?"
"Extremely so."
"Was this before the trial?"
"Yes. As he entered the Tavern."
"Was Peggy with him?"
"No, indeed. It was not permissible for her to enter. She awaited him
outside."
"And yet he maintained his composure throughout."
"He seemed to take delight in relating the resolutions of Congress, its
thanks, its gifts, for the many campaigns and the brilliant services
rendered his country. His promotions, his horse, his sword, his epaulets
and sword-knots, all were recounted and recited enthusiastically."
Mr. Allison looked at Marjorie and smiled.
"Only once did he lose his self-possession. Near the end of his plea he
forgot himself and called his accusers a lot of 'women.' This produced a
smile throughout the court room; then he regained his composure."
He paused.
"That was all?" asked Mr. Allison.
"I think so. The court adjourned for the day. On the following morning
the verdict was announced. I came here direct."
When he had finished he sat quite still. It was approaching a late hour
and he saw that he had overstayed his leave. Still the gravity of the
occasion required it.
It was these thoughts regarding the future, far more than any great
poignancy of grief respecting General Arnold and his present misfortune,
that affected this small group. It seemed to them that the events which
had of late happened were not without grave and serious consequence.
General Arnold was a man of prominence and renown. To lead such a figure
to the bar of justice and to examine and determine there in a definite
manner his guilt before the whole world was a solemn piece of business.
It meant that the new republic was fearless in its denunciation of
wrong; that it was intent upon the exercise of those precepts of justice
and equity which were written into the bill of rights, the violation of
which by a foreign power had constituted originally a set of true
grievances; and that it was actuated by a solemn resolution never to
permit within its own borders the commission of any of those wrongs
which it had staked its life and consecrated its purpose as a nation to
destroy. General Arnold was a big man, generous in service to his
country, honored as one of its foremost sons, but he was no bigger than
the institution he was helping to rear. The chastisement inflicted upon
him was a reflection upon the state; but it also was a medication for
its own internal disorders.
The fact that the ruling powers of the city were bitterly opposed to the
Military Governor was not wholly indicative of the pulse of the people.
General Arnold was ever regarded with the highest esteem by the members
of the army. A successful leader, a brave soldier, a genial comrade, he
was easily the most beloved general after General Washington. With the
citizen body of Philadelphia he was on fairly good terms,--popular
during the early days of his administration, although somewhat offensive
of late because of his indiscretion and impetuosity. Still he was not
without his following, and whereas he had made himself odious to a great
number of people by his manner of life and of command, there were a
greater number of people who were ready to condone his faults out of
regard for his brilliant services in the past.
His enemies gloated over his misfortune. Everybody believed that, and it
was commonly understood that General Arnold believed it, too. But would
he overcome his enemies by retrieving the past and put to shame their
vulgar enthusiasm by rising to heights of newer and greater glory? Or
would he yield to the more natural propensities of retaliation or
despair? A man is no greater than the least of his virtues; but he who
has acquired self-control has founded a virtuous inheritance.
With thoughts of this nature were the trio occupied. For several minutes
no one spoke. Mr. Allison leaned against the table, his right arm
extended along its side, playing with a bodkin that lay within reach;
the sergeant sat in silence, watching the face of his entertainer; while
Marjorie lolled in her great chair, her eyes downcast, heavy, like two
great weights. At length Sergeant Griffin made as if to go. Marjorie
arose at once to bid him adieu.
"You said you came direct?" she reminded him.
"Yes, Miss Allison."
"You saw----" she hesitated, but quickly added, "Captain Meagher?"
She would have said "Stephen" but bethought herself.
"No, Miss. Not since the trial."
"He was not present?"
"No. He is with His Excellency. Several days ago I saw him and he bade
me come here with the report of the finding."
"That was all?"
"Yes, Miss."
"Thank you. We can never repay your kindness."
"Its performance was my greatest delight."
"Thank you. Good night!"
She withdrew into the hall.
CHAPTER XI
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
rôles, 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 coöperation 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 entrée 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
rôles. 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 coöperated 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 coöperation were discovered, the value of the
Catholics to the country suddenly rose."
"Our unity must have created a lasting impression," Marjorie remarked.
"Not alone our unity, but our loyalty as well. The government has
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! André, Major André," 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."
André 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. André 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 André was empowered to offer no more than compensation and
military rank. With the dawning light, the boatmen became alarmed and
refused to take André 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 André 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
André, 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, "André 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 André, 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. André 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_.
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