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 andheartbroken 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 wouldnot 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.
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 meetingwas 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 underthe 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.
"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 originalpurpose 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 andthen 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 sweetconsolation 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.
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. Ireprimand 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.
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 surewhen 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.
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 situationsfrom 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 happinessbeyond 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.
"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 hischaracter 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 outover 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 bookscannot 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.
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 ofGeorge 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 ofNew 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 countenancewith 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."
"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 leftand 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 denseenough 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 questiononly 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 cityand 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."
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 withus," 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 smokingwhile 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.
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 toprocure 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.