_ PART TWO
CHAPTER II
I
"Simply a written statement. A public utterance from you denouncing the Catholics would prove of incalculable value to us."
John Anderson had been for an hour or more in the company of the Military Governor. Seemingly great progress had been made in the recruiting of the regiment, much of which had, of necessity, been effected in a secret manner, for now the city was under the domination of the Continental forces. Anderson had made the most of his time and was in a fair way to report progress for the past month.
"Don't be a fool, Anderson. You know that it would be the height of folly for me to make any such statement. I can do no more than I am doing. How many have you?"
"Nearly an hundred."
"There are several miserable Papists in Congress. If they could be prevailed upon to resign, it would create a considerable impression upon the minds of the people."
"I did see Carroll."
"How did he receive you?"
"He replied to me that he had entered zealously into the Revolution to obtain religious as well as civil liberty, and he hoped that God would grant that this religious liberty would be preserved in these states to the end of time."
"Confound him! We cannot reach him, I suppose."
"So it appears. He is intensely patriotic."
"You have an hundred, you say? All common folk, I venture. We should have several influential men."
"But they cannot be reached. I know well the need of a person of influence, which thought urged me to ask such a statement from you."
He looked at him savagely.
"Do you think I'm a fool?"
"'The fool knows more in his own house than a wise man does in another's.' I merely suggest, that is all."
"My answer is,--absolutely, No!"
There was silence.
"I know that Roman Catholic influence is beginning to reveal itself in the army. Washington is well disposed toward them and they are good soldiers. Time was when they were less conspicuous; but nowadays every fool legislature is throwing public offices open to them and soon France will exercise the same control over these states as she now wields across the seas."
"Would you be in league with France?" asked Anderson with a wavering tremor in his voice.
"God knows how I detest it! But I have sworn to defend the cause of my country and I call this shattered limb to witness how well I have spent myself in her behalf. I once entertained the hope that our efforts would be crowned with success, nevertheless I must confess that the more protracted grows the struggle, the more the conviction is forced upon me that our cause is mistaken, if not entirely wrong, and destined to perish miserably. Still, I shall not countenance open rebellion. I could not."
"You will continue to advise me. I am little acquainted with the city, you know, and it would be difficult for me to avoid dangerous risks."
Arnold thought for a minute, his features overcast by a scowl which closed his eyes to the merest chinks.
"I shall do no more than I have already done. I cannot permit myself to be entangled. There is too much at stake."
He was playing a dangerous game, inspirited by no genuine love for country but by feelings of wounded pride. He was urged on, not through any fears of personal safety but through misguided intimidations of a foreign alliance; not because of any genuine desire to aid or abet the cause of the enemy but to cast suspicion upon a certain unit within his own ranks. To be deprived of active duty in the field was to his warm and impulsive nature an ignominious calamity. To learn subsequently of the appointment of Gates to the second in command, the one general whom he despised and hated, was more than his irritable temperament could stand. The American cause now appeared hopeless to him, nevertheless he entertained no thought of deserting it. He had performed his duty in its behalf, as his wounded limb often reminded him, and it was only fitting that he, who alone had destroyed a whole army of the enemy, should be rewarded with due consideration. Congress had ever been unfriendly to him and he had resented their action, or their failure to take proper action, most bitterly. Throughout it all his personal feelings had guided to a large extent his faculty of judgment, and for that reason he viewed with mistrust and suspicion every intent and purpose, however noble or exalted.
He had been violently opposed to the alliance with France from the start. It was notorious that he abhorred Catholics and all things Catholic. To take sides with a Catholic and despotic power which had been a deadly foe to the colonists ten or twenty years before, during the days of the French and Indian wars, was to his mind a measure at once unpatriotic and indiscreet. In this also, he had been actuated by his personal feelings more than by the study of the times. For he loathed Popery and the thousand and one machinations and atrocities which he was accustomed to link with the name.
The idea of forming a regiment of Catholic soldiers interested him not in the numerical strength which might be afforded the enemy but in the defection which would be caused to the American side. His scheme lay in the hope that the Catholic members of Congress would be tempted to resign. In that event he would obtain evident satisfaction not alone in the weakness to which the governing body would be exposed but also in the ill repute to which American Catholics and their protestations of loyalty would fall.
Arnold deep down in his own heart knew that his motives were not unmixed. He could not accuse himself of being outrageously mercenary, yet he was ashamed to be forced to acknowledge even to himself that the desire of gain was present to his mind. His debts were enormous. He entertained in a manner and after a style far in excess of his modest allowance. His dinners were the most sumptuous in the town; his stable the finest; his dress the richest. And no wonder that his play, his table, his balls, his concerts, his banquets had soon exhausted his fortune. Congress owed him money, his speculations proved unfortunate, his privateering ventures met with disaster. With debts accumulating and creditors giving him no peace he turned to the gap which he saw opening before him. This was an opportunity not to be despised.
"About that little matter--how soon might I be favored?" the Governor asked, rising from his chair and limping with his cane across the room.
"You refer to the matter of reimbursements?" Anderson asked nonchalantly.
"I do."
He gazed from the window with his back turned to his visitor.
"I shall draw an order for you at once."
"You shall do nothing of the kind."
He looked fiercely at him.
"You are playing a clever game, are you not? But you have to cope now with a clever adversary."
He walked deliberately before him, and continued:
"Anderson," he said, "I want to tell you I know who you are and for what purpose you have been sent here. I know too by whom you have been sent. I knew it before you were here twenty-four hours and I want to tell you now before we continue that we may as well understand each other in a thorough manner. If you desire my assistance you must pay me well for it. And it must be in legal tender."
"Of course--but--but--the truth is that I am in no way prepared to make any offer now. I can communicate with you in a few days, or a week."
"Don't come here. You must not be seen here again. Send it to me or better still meet me."
"Can you trust the Shippens?"
"Absolutely."
"Why not there?"
"You mean to confer with me there?"
"If it is safe, as you say, where would be more suitable?"
"True. But I must have some money as soon as possible. The nation is bankrupt and my pay is long overdue. I cannot, however, persuade the creditors any longer. I must have money."
"You shall have it. At Shippen's then."
He rose and walked directly to the door.
"Next week."
He shut the door after him and hurried along the corridor. As he turned he came face to face with a countenance entirely familiar to him but momentarily lost to his consciousness by its sudden and unexpected appearance. In a second, however, he had recovered himself.
"Captain! I am pleased indeed."
He put out his hand.
Stephen thought for a moment. Then he grasped it.
"Mr. Anderson. What good fortune is this?"
"Complimentary. Simply paying my respects for kindness rendered."
"Have a care lest your zeal overwhelm you."
Anderson colored at the allusion.
"Thank you. I shall exercise all moderation."
Stephen watched him as he moved away, deliberating hurriedly on the advisability of starting after him. Whatever his mission or his purpose, he would not learn in this house certainly, nor from him nor from Arnold for that matter. If he was intent on securing information concerning this man he must do it in a surreptitious manner. There was no other method of dealing with him, he thought, and in view of such circumstances he deemed it perfectly legitimate to follow him at a safe distance.
The more he thought over it the more readily did he resolve to take action to the end that he might see more of him. Whatever mischief was afoot, and he had no more than a mere suspicion that there was mischief afoot, must reveal itself sooner or later. His object in all probability had already been accomplished, nevertheless his errand, if he was engaged on an errand, might be disclosed. He would follow him if for no other purpose than to learn of his destination.
Second Street was now astir with a lively procession. There, every day when business was over, when the bank was closed, when the exchange was deserted, crowds of seekers came to enjoy the air and to display their rich garments. There might be found the gentlemen of fashion and of means, with their great three-cornered cocked hats, resting majestically upon their profusely powdered hair done up in cues, their light colored coats, with their diminutive capes and long backs, their striped stockings, pointed shoes, and lead-laden cuffs, paying homage to the fair ladies of the town. These, too, were gorgeous in their brocades and taffetas, luxuriantly displayed over cumbrous hoops, tower-built hats, adorned with tall feathers, high wooden heels and fine satin petticoats. It was an imposing picture to behold these gayly dressed damsels gravely return the salutations of their gallant admirers and courtesy almost to the ground before them.
Stephen searched deliberately for his man throughout the length of the crowded thoroughfare, standing the while on the topmost step of the Governor's Mansion--that great old-fashioned structure resembling in many details a fortification, with its two wings like bastions extending to the rear, its spacious yard enclosed with a high wall and ornamented with two great rows of lofty pine trees. It was the most stately house within the confines of the city and, with Christ Church, helped to make Second Street one of the aristocratic thoroughfares of the town.
It was with difficulty that Stephen discerned Anderson walking briskly in the direction of Market Street. He set off immediately, taking care to keep at a safe distance behind him. He met several acquaintances, to whom he doffed his hat and returned their afternoon greeting, while he pursued his quest with lively interest and attention. Market Street was reached, and here he was obliged to pause near a shop window lest he might overtake Anderson, who had halted to exchange pleasantries with a young and attractive couple. On they went again deliberately and persistently until at length it began to dawn upon Stephen that they were headed for the Germantown road, and for Allison's house.
What strange relation was arising between Marjorie and that man? Anderson was paying marked attention to her, he began to muse to himself, too much attention perhaps, for one whose whole existence was clouded with a veil of mystery. Undoubtedly he was meeting with some encouragement, if not reciprocation (perish the thought!), for he was persistent in his attention. Yet this man was not without charm. There was something fascinating about him which even Stephen must confess was compelling. What if she had been captivated by him, by his engaging personal qualities, by his prepossessing appearance, by his habit of gentle speech, by his dignity and his ease of manner! His irritation was justifiable.
There was little doubt now as to Anderson's destination. Plainly he was bent on one purpose. The more he walked, the more evident this became. Stephen would be assured, however, and pursued his way until he had seen with his own eyes his man turn into Allison's house. And not until then did he halt. Turning deliberately he began to retrace his steps.
II
"This looks like the kind of book. Has it the 'Largo'?"
Anderson sat on the music-stool before the clavichord turning over the pages of a volume that rested on the rack.
"Perhaps. I scarce think I know what it is. I have never heard it."
Marjorie was nearby. She had been musing over the keys, letting her fingers wander where they would, when he had called. He would not disturb her for all the world, nevertheless he did yield to her entreaties to take her place on the stool.
"You have never heard Handel? The 'Largo' or the greatest of all oratorios, his 'Messiah'?"
"Never!"
He did not reply to this. Instead he broke into the opening chords, the sweetly solemn, majestic harmony of the 'Largo'. He played it entirely from memory, very slowly, very softly at first, until the measured notes, swelling into volume, filled the room in a loud arpeggio.
"That is beautiful," she exclaimed with enthusiasm, "I should have said 'exquisite'. May I learn it?"
"Surely there must be a copy in the city. I shall consider it a favor to procure one for you."
"I should be delighted, I am sure."
He played it again. She regarded him from above. It was astonishing to note the perfect ease and grace with which he performed. The erect carriage, the fine cut of the head, the delicately carved features became the objects of her attention in their inverse order, and the richly endowed talents, with which he was so signally accomplished, furnished objects of special consideration to her reflective soul. He was exceedingly fascinating and a dangerous object to pit against the heart of any woman. Still Marjorie was shrewd enough to peer beneath his superficial qualities, allowing herself to become absorbed in a penetrating study of the man, his character, his peculiarities;--so absorbed, in fact, that the door behind her opened and closed without attracting her attention.
"I must obtain that copy," she announced as she turned towards her chair.
"Why, Father!" she exclaimed. "When did you come? Mr. Anderson, Father. You already know him."
"Well met, my boy. You are somewhat of a musician. I was listening."
"Just enough for my own amusement," laughed the younger man. "I know a few notes."
"Be not quick to believe him, Father. He plays beautifully."
Mr. Allison sat down.
"Accomplishments are useful ornaments. Nowadays a man succeeds best who can best impress. People want to see one's gifts."
"The greatest of talents often lie buried. Prosperity thrives on pretense."
"True. I'm beginning to think that way myself, the way things 're going."
"With the war?" he asked.
"With everything. I think Congress will fail to realize its boasts, and Arnold is a huge pretender, and----"
"He has lost favor with the people."
"Lost it? He never had it from the day he arrived. People do not like that sort of thing."
Anderson watched him intently and Marjorie watched Anderson.
"He may resign for a command in the army. I have heard it said that he dislikes his office."
"Would to God he did! Or else go over to the other side."
Anderson's head turned--the least little fraction--so that Marjorie could see the flash light up his eyes.
"He could not desert the cause now without becoming a traitor."
A pause followed.
"Men of lofty patriotism often disagree in the manner of political action. We have many Loyalists among us."
"Yet they are not patriots."
"No! They are not, viewed from our standpoint. But every colony has a different motive in the war. Now that some have obtained their rights, they are satisfied with the situation. I don't know but that we would be as well off if the present state of affairs were allowed to stand."
"What do the Catholics of the Colonies think?"
This was a bold question, yet he ventured to ask it.
"We would fare as well with England as with some of our own," answered Marjorie decisively.
Anderson looked at her for a minute.
"Never!" replied Mr. Allison with emphasis.
"See how Canada fared," insisted Marjorie.
"Tush!"
Anderson listened attentively. Here was a division of opinion within the same family; the father intensely loyal, the daughter somewhat inclined to analysis. A new light was thrown upon her from this very instant which afforded him a very evident satisfaction, a very definite and conscious enjoyment as well. To have discovered this mind of apparent candor and unaffected breadth was of supreme import to him at this critical moment. And he felt assured that he had met with a character of more than ordinary self-determination which might, if tuned properly, display a capacity for prodigious possibilities, for in human nature he well knew the chord of self-interest to be ever responsive to adequate and opportune appeal.
Marjorie might unconsciously prove advantageous to him. It was essential for the maturing of his plans to obtain Catholic cooperation. She was a devout adherent and had been, insofar as he had been able to discover, an ardent Whig. True, he had but few occasions to study her, nevertheless today had furnished him with an inkling which gave her greater breadth in his eyes than he was before conscious of. The remark just made might indicate that she favored foreign rule in the interest of religious toleration, yet such a declaration was by no means decisive. Still he would labor to this end in the hope that she might ultimately see her way clear to cooperate with him in his designs.
"We are losing vast numbers through the Alliance," volunteered Anderson.
"I suppose so," admitted Mr. Allison. "Many of the colonists cannot endure the thought of begging assistance from a great Roman Catholic power. They fear, perhaps, that France will use the opportunity to inflict on us the worst form of colonialism and destroy the Protestant religion."
"But it isn't the Protestants who are deserting," persisted Anderson. "The Catholics are not unmindful of the hostile spirit displayed by the colonists in the early days. They, too, are casting different lots."
"Not we. Every one of us is a Whig. Some have faltered, but we do not want them."
"And yet the reports from New York seem to indicate that the recruiting there is meeting with success."
"The Catholic regiment? I'll wager that it never will exist except on paper. There are no Tories, no falterers, no final deserters among the American Catholics."
"What efforts are being made in Philadelphia?" asked Marjorie.
"None--that I know of," was the grave reply. "I did hear, however, that an opportunity would be given those who are desirous of enlisting in New York."
Marjorie sat and watched him.
"I heard Father Farmer was invited to become its chaplain," observed Mr. Allison.
"Did he?"
"He did not. He told me himself that he wrote a kind letter with a stern refusal."
And so they talked; talked into the best part of an hour, now of the city's activities, now of the Governor, now of the success of the campaign, until Anderson felt that he had long overstayed his leave.
"I am sorry to leave your company." Then to Marjorie, "At Shippen's tomorrow?"
"Yes. Will you come for me? If you won't I daresay I shall meet you there."
"Of course I shall come. Please await me."
III
That there was a state of pure sensation and of gay existence for Marjorie in the presence of this man, she knew very well; and while she felt that she did not care for him, nevertheless she was conscious of a certain subtle influence about him which she was powerless to define. It has been said that not all who know their mind know their own heart; for the heart often perceives and reasons in a manner wholly peculiar to itself. Marjorie was aware of this and the utmost effort was required of her to respond solely to the less alluring promptings of her firm will.
She would allow him to see her again that she might learn more about him and his strange origin. Stephen had suggested to her the merest suspicion concerning him. There was the possibility that the germ of this suspicion might develop,--and in her very presence. The contingency was certainly equal to the adventure.
It was not required that she pay a formal call on Peggy. Already had that been done, immediately after the announcement of the engagement, when she had come to offer congratulations to the prospective bride upon her enviable and happy fortune. The note, which again had come into her possession upon Stephen's return of it, whose contents were still unknown to her, she had restored to Peggy, together with a full explanation of its loss and its subsequent discovery. One phase of its history, however, she had purposely overlooked. It might have proved embarrassing for her to relate how it chanced to fall into the hands of Stephen. And inasmuch as he had made no comment upon its return, she was satisfied that the incident was unworthy of the mention.
Anderson called promptly on the hour and found her waiting. They left the house at once and by mutual agreement walked the entire distance. This was preferable, for there was no apparent haste to reach their destination, and for the present no greater desire throbbed within them than the company of their own selves. For they talked continually of themselves and for that reason could never weary of each other's company.
The country about them was superb. The fields stood straight in green and gold on every side of the silvery road. Beside them as they passed, great trees reared themselves aloft from the greensward, which divided the road from the footpath, and rustled in the breeze, allowing the afternoon sunshine to reveal itself in patches and glimpses; and the air between was a sea of subdued light, resonant with the liquid notes of the robin and the whistle of the quail, intruders upon the uniform tranquillity of the hot Sunday afternoon.
"Does it not strike you that there are but few persons with whom it is possible to converse seriously?"
"Seriously?" asked Marjorie. "What do you call seriously?"
"In an intelligent manner, together with perfect ease and attention."
"I suppose that this is true on account of the great want of sincerity among men."
"That, as well as the impatient desire we possess of intruding our own thoughts upon our hearer with little or no desire of listening to those which he himself may want to express."
"We are sincere with no one but ourselves, don't you think? The mere fact of the entrance of a second person means that we must try to impress him. You have said that prosperity thrives on pretense."
"And I repeat it. But with friends all guile and dissimulation ceases. We often praise the merits of our neighbor in the hope that he in turn will praise us. Only a few have the humility and the whole-hearted simplicity to listen well and to answer well. Sincerity to my mind is often a snare to gain the confidence of others."
There was depth to his reasoning, Marjorie thought, which was riddle-like as well. It was amazing to her how well he could talk on any given topic, naturally, easily, seriously, as the case might be. He never seemed to assume the mastery of any conversation, nor to talk with an air of authority on any subject, for he was alive to all topics and entered into them with the same apparent cleverness and animated interest.
He stopped suddenly and exerted a gentle though firm pressure on her arm, obliging her to halt her steps. Surprised, she turned and looked at him.
"What is it?" she asked.
There was no response. Instead, she looked in the direction of his gaze. Then she saw.
A large black snake lay in graceful curves across their path several rods ahead. Its head was somewhat elevated and rigid. Before it fluttered a small chickadee in a sort of strange, though powerless fascination, its wings partly open in a trembling manner, its chirp noisy and incessant, its movement rapid and nervous, as it partly advanced, partly retreated before its enchanter. Nearer and nearer it came, with a great scurrying of the feet and wings, towards the motionless head of the serpent. Until Anderson, picking a stone from the roadside, threw a well-aimed shot which bounded over the head of the snake, causing it to turn immediately and crawl into the recesses of the deep underbrush of the adjoining field. The bird, freed from the source of its sinister charm, flew out of sight into safety.
"Thank God!" Marjorie breathed. "I was greatly frightened."
"Nothing would have saved that bird," was the reply. "It already was powerless."
Marjorie did not answer to this, but became very quiet and pensive. They walked on in silence.
Nearing the home of Peggy, they beheld General Arnold seated before them on the spacious veranda in the company of his betrothed. Here was intrusion with a vengeance, Marjorie thought, but the beaming face and the welcoming expression soon dispelled her fears.
"Miss Shippen," Anderson said, as he advanced immediately toward her to seize her hand, "allow me to offer my tender though tardy congratulations. It was with the greatest joy that I listened to the happy announcement."
"You are most kind, Mr. Anderson, and I thank you for it," was the soft response.
"And you, General," said Marjorie. "Let me congratulate you upon your excellent choice."
"Rather upon my good fortune," the Governor replied with a generous smile.
Peggy blushed at the compliment.
"How long before we may be enabled to offer similar greetings to you?" he asked of Mr. Anderson, who was assisting Marjorie into a chair by the side of Peggy.
"Oh! Love rules his own kingdom and I am an alien."
He drew himself near to the Governor and the conversation turned naturally and generally to the delicious evening. The very atmosphere thrilled with romance. _