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 forher 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 littleor 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.
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 surprisingnature 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 theranks 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.
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 thathe 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.
"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.
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 torestrain 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. "Thereshould 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 softtexture 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.
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 incisiveremarks. 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 newsensations. 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 perceivedthat 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 understandfrom 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.
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 ordealwith 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 shehad 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 theconfident 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.
"'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 matchfrom 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 Howewas 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 theCity 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 neitherwithin 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.
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 thesequalities 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! Theseeds 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.
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 bitterpractices 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 theregiment 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.
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 thetable, 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 beready 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."