_ PART TWO
CHAPTER III
I
Stephen was sitting in his room, his feet crossed on a foot-rest before him, his eyes gazing into the side street that opened full before his window. He had been reading a number of dispatches and letters piled in a small heap in his lap; but little by little had laid them down again to allow his mind to run into reflection and study. And so he sat and smoked.
It seemed incredible that events of prime importance were transpiring in the city and that the crisis was so soon upon him. For nearly three months he had been accumulating, methodically and deliberately, a chain of incriminating evidence around the Military Governor and John Anderson, still he was utterly unaware of its amazing scope and magnitude. Perfidy was at work all around him and he was powerless to interfere; for the intrigue had yet to reach that point where conviction could be assured. Nevertheless, he continued to advance step by step with the events, and sensed keenly the while, the tension which was beginning to exist but which he could not very well point out.
He had kept himself fully informed of the progress of affairs in New York, where the recruiting was being accomplished in an undisguised manner. The real facts, however, were being adroitly concealed from the bulk of the populace. Information of a surprising nature had been forwarded to him from time to time in the form of dispatches and letters, all of which now lay before him, while a certain Sergeant Griffin had already been detailed by him to carry out the more hazardous work of espionage in the city of the enemy. The latter was in a fair way to report now on the progress of the work and had returned to Philadelphia for this very purpose.
Irish Catholics had been found in the British Army at New York, but they had been impressed into the service. Sergeant Griffin had spoken to many deserters who avowed that they had been brought to the colonies against their own will, declaring that they had been "compelled to go on board the transports where they were chained down to the ring-bolts and fed with bread and water; several of whom suffered this torture before they could be made to yield and sign the papers of enlistment." In confirmation of this declaration, he had in his lap a letter written to General Washington by Arthur Lee, June 15, 1777, which read: "Every man of a regiment raised in Ireland last year had to be shipped off tied and bound, and most certainly they will desert more than any troops whatsoever." To corroborate this claim he had obtained several clippings, advertisements that had appeared in the New York newspapers, offering rewards for the apprehension of Irish soldiers who had deserted to the rebels.
The same methods he learned were now being employed in the recruiting of the Catholic regiment. Blackmail had been resorted to with splendid results. In several instances enormous debts had been liquidated in favor of the recruits. Even commissions in the army of His Majesty had been offered as a bounty. There was success, if the few hundred faces in the ranks could be reckoned as a fair catch, yet the methods of recruiting did not begin to justify the fewness of the numbers.
Just how this idea had taken root, he was at a loss to discover. Certainly not from the disloyalty manifested by the Catholic population during the war. The exploits of the famous "Congress' Own" Regiments might, he thought, have contributed much to the enemy's scheme. It was commonly known that two regiments of Catholics from Canada, raised in that northern province during the winter of 1775-76, had done valiant service against the British. A great number of the Canadian population had welcomed the patriots under Generals Schuyler, Montgomery and Arnold upon their attempted invasion of the country, and had given much assistance towards the success of their operations. Inasmuch as many had sought enlistment in the ranks as volunteers, an opportunity was furnished them by an act of Congress on January 20, 1776, authorizing the formation of two Canadian regiments of soldiers to be known as "Congress' Own." The First was organized by Colonel James Livingston; the Second by Colonel Moses Hazen. Both of these regiments continued in active service for the duration of the war, and both obtained a vote of thanks from the American Congress upon its termination.
Herein, then, must lay the germ of the project of the British Regiment of Roman Catholic Volunteers.
He sat and considered.
"You tell me, then," he said quietly, "that this is the state of affairs in New York."
"Yes, sir," replied the soldier.
There was a further silence.
II
The progress of the work in the city of Philadelphia had been less evident to him. Certain it was that Anderson was directing his undivided attention to the furtherance of the plan, for which task he had been admirably endowed by Nature. That Arnold, too, was greatly interested in the success of the plot, he already suspected, but in this he had no more than a suspicion, for he could not discover the least incriminating objective evidence against him. There were several whose names had been associated with the work; yet these, too, had revealed nothing, when confronted with a direct question. And whatever influence he might have had, whatever lurking suspicions he might have accumulated from the contributory details, these when simmered down amounted to little or nothing. The plan had not progressed to the extent required. There was nothing to do but to await further developments.
This man Anderson was ingenuous. The most striking characteristic about him, that towards which and in support of which every energy and every talent had been schooled and bent, was an intrepid courage. A vast and complicated scheme of ambition possessed his whole soul, yet his disposition and address generally appeared soft and humane, especially when no political object was at stake.
During the four or five months spent in the city, he had made a host of friends among all classes of people. His agreeable manner and his fluency of speech at once gained for him the confidence even of the most phlegmatic. No man was endowed with more engaging qualities for the work, if it may be assumed that he was engaged solely in the recruiting of a Tory Regiment from among the supporters of the Whigs. Everything seemed to declare that he was associated with the work. And because he was associated with it, it progressed.
The names of several who had yielded allegiance to the opposite side were in the hands of Stephen. The Major of the new regiment was a Catholic, John Lynch. So were Lieutenant Eck, Lieutenant Kane, and Quartermaster Nowland. These were at present in New York, whither they had journeyed soon after the British occupation of the city. Of the hundred-odd volunteers, who were supposed to constitute the company, little could be learned because of the veil of secrecy which had from the very beginning enshrouded the whole movement.
Pressure had been brought to bear on several, it was discovered, with the result that there was no alternative left them but to sign the papers of enlistment. In this Anderson had been materially aided by the Military Governor's intimate knowledge of the fortunes and prospects of the bulk of the citizenry. To imply this, however, was one thing; to prove it quite another. For whatever strength the accusation might bear in his own mind, he could not forget that it was still a mere suspicion, which must be endorsed by investigation if the people were to be convinced. And Stephen was unprepared to offer the results of his investigation to a populace which was too indolent and hasty to investigate them as facts and to discriminate nicely between the shades of guilt. Anderson was loved and admired by his countrymen and more especially by his countrywomen. Everything, it seemed, would be forgiven his youth, rank and genius.
Even Marjorie had been captivated by him, it appeared. The relationship which was beginning to thrive between them he disliked, and some day he would make that known to her. How attentive he had been to her was easily recognizable, but to what degree she returned this attention was another matter. What she thought of this stranger and to what extent he had impressed her, he longed to know, for it was weeks since he had laid eyes on her; and the last two attempts made by him to see her had found her in the company of Anderson, once at Shippen's, and again on a ride through the country. True, he himself had been absent from town for a brief time, immediately after his court-martial, when he returned to headquarters to file a report with his Commander-in-chief, and the few moments spent with her upon his return was the last visit. Undoubtedly he was a stranger to her now; she was absorbed with the other man.
Still Stephen wished that he might see her. An insatiable longing filled his whole soul, like the eternal cravings of the heart for communion with the Infinite. There was certain situations where a man or woman must confide in some person to obtain advice or sympathy, or simply to unload the soul, and there was no one more becoming to Stephen than this girl. She understood him and could alleviate by her sole presence, not through any gift properly made, but by that which radiated from her alone, the great weight which threatened to overwhelm his whole being. Simply to converse with her might constitute the prophecy of a benign existence.
He determined to see her that very evening.
III
"Marjorie," said Stephen, "of course you've a perfect right to do exactly as you like. But, you know, you did ask my opinion; didn't you?"
"I did," said Marjorie, frowning. "But I disagree with you. And I think you do him a grave injustice."
She had been seated in a large comfortable chair in the middle of the side yard when he entered. A ball of black yarn which, with the aid of two great needles, she was industriously engaged in converting into an article of wearing apparel, lay by her side. Indeed, so engrossed was she, that he had opened and closed the gate before her attention was aroused. She rose immediately, laying her knitting upon the chair, and advanced to meet him.
"I haven't seen you in ages. Where have you been?"
He looked at her.
"Rather let me ask that question," was his query by way of reply. "Already twice have I failed to find you."
They walked together to the chairs; she to her own, he to a smaller one that stood over against them.
"That you called once, I know. Mother informed me."
"You were similarly engaged on both occasions."
He brought his chair near to her.
"With Mr. Anderson?"
She smiled straight in his face.
"Of course."
He, too, smiled.
"Well!" then after a pause, "do you object?"
He did not answer. His fingers drummed nervously on the arm of his chair and he looked far up the road.
"You do not like him?" she asked quickly.
"It would be impossible for me to now tell you. As a matter of fact, I myself have been unable to form a definite opinion. I may let you know later. Not now."
A deep sigh escaped her.
"I should imagine you could read a man at first sight," she exclaimed.
"I never allowed myself that presumption. Men are best discovered at intervals. They are most natural when off their guard. Habit may restrain vice, and passion obscures virtue. I prefer to let them alone."
She bit her lip, as her manner was, and continued to observe him. How serious he was! The buoyant, tender, blithesome disposition which characterized his former self, had yielded to a temper of saturnine complexion, a mien of grave and thoughtful composure. He was analytic and she began to feel herself a simple compound in the hands of an expert chemist.
"I am sorry to have caused you a disappointment."
"Please, let me assure you there is no need of an apology."
"And you were not disappointed?"
A smile began to play about the corners of her small mouth. She tried to be humorous.
"Perhaps. But not to the extent of requiring an apology."
"You might have joined us."
"You know better than that."
"I mean it. Peggy would have been pleased to have you."
"Did she say so?"
"No. But I know that she would."
"Alas!" He raised his arm in a slight gesture.
She was knitting now, talking as she did. She paused to raise her eyes.
"I think you dislike Peggy," she said with evident emphasis.
"Why?"
"I scarce know. My instinct, I suppose."
"I distrust her, if that is what you mean?"
"Have you had reason?"
"I cannot answer you now, for which I am very sorry. You will find my reasoning correct at some future time, I hope."
"Do you approve of my friendship with her?"
She did not raise her eyes this time, but allowed them to remain fixed upon the needles.
"It is not mine to decide. You are mistress of your own destinies."
Her face grew a shade paler, and the look in her eyes deepened.
"I simply asked your advice, that was all."
The words hit so hard that he drew his breath. He realized that he had been brusque and through his soul there poured a kind of anger first, then wounded pride, then a sense of crushing pain.
"I regret having said that," he tried to explain to her. "But I cannot tell you what is in my mind. Since you do ask me, I fear Peggy greatly, but I would not say that your friendship with her should cease. Not at present, anyhow."
"Well, did you approve of my going there with Mr. Anderson?"
"With him? No."
"Can you tell me the reason?"
And then he explained briefly to her of his reasons for disliking this man and of the veil of suspicion and of mystery with which he was surrounded. He did not think him a suitable companion for her, and wished for her own good that she would see no more of him.
There was no reply to his observations. On the contrary Marjorie lapsed into a meditative silence which seemed to grow deeper and deeper as the moments passed. Stephen watched her until the suspense became almost beyond endurance, wondering what thoughts were coursing through her mind.
At length he broke the silence with the words recorded at the beginning of the chapter; and Marjorie answered him quietly and deliberately.
She continued with her knitting.
IV
A great melancholy fell upon him, if it were indeed possible for him to become more dispirited, against which he was powerless to contend. There was revealed to him on the instant a seeming predilection on the part of Marjorie for this man, Anderson. The longer they conversed, the deeper did that conviction grow. This made him careless and petulant. Now a feeling of deep regret stole over him because he had been so unsympathetic. In presence of her feeling of grief and disappointment, his pity was aroused.
"I deeply regret the pain I have caused you," he said to her quietly and kindly. "It was altogether rude of me."
She bit her lip violently, tremulously, in an effort to restrain the flood of emotion which surged within, which threatened to burst forth with the pronunciation of the merest syllable.
She did not reply, but fumbled with the knitted portion of her garment, running its edges through her fingers.
"I had no intention of speaking of him as I did," he went on. "I would not, did you not ask me."
"I am not offended."
"Your composure reveals to me that you have been hurt."
"I did not mean that you should know it."
"Very likely. But you could not disguise the fact. I shall give you the assurance, however, that the subject shall not be a topic for discussion by us again. He must not be mentioned."
"Please! I--I----"
"It was solely for yourself that I was concerned. Believe me when I say this. Insofar as I myself am concerned, I am wholly disinterested. I thought you desired to know and I told you as much as it was possible for me to tell. You must ask me no more."
"He has not revealed this side of his character to me and I have been in his company on several occasions. Always has he been kind, gentlemanly, sincere, upright."
Her eyes were centered full upon him, those large brown eyes that seemed to contain her whole being. Whether she was gay or sad, jocose or sober, enthusiastic or despondent, the nature of her feelings could be communicated solely by her eyes. She need not speak; they spoke for her.
"You are right in believing every man virtuous until he has proved himself otherwise," he replied. "There should be one weight and one measure. But I regulate my intercourse with men by the opposite standard. I distrust every man until he has proved himself worthy, and it was that principle which guided me, undoubtedly, in my application of it to you."
"Do you consider that upright?"
"Do not misunderstand me. I do not form a rash judgment of every person I meet. As a matter of fact I arrive at no judgment at all. I defer judgment until after the investigation, and I beware of him until this investigation has been completed."
"You are then obliged to live in a world of suspicion."
"No. Rather in a world of security. How often has the knave paraded under the banner of innocence! The greatest thieves wear golden chains."
"I could not live after such manner."
She became impatient.
"Were you thrown into daily relation with the world you would soon learn the art of discrimination. The trusty sentinel lives a life of suspicion."
At length a truce was silently proclaimed. Composure reigned. The unpleasant episode had to all appearances been obliterated from their minds. There was even a touch of that old humor dancing in her eyes.
"Some one has said," she observed, "that 'suspicion is the poison of friendship.'"
"And a Latin proverb runs, 'Be on such terms with your friend as if you knew he may one day become your enemy.' Friendship, I realize, is precious and gained only after long days of probation. The tough fibers of the heart constitute its essence, not the soft texture of favors and dreams. We do not possess the friends we imagine, for the world is self-centered."
"Have you no friends?"
Now she smiled for the second time, but it was only a smile of humor about the corners of her mouth.
"Only those before whom I may be sincere."
He was serious, inclined to analysis, one might say.
"Can you expect to find sincerity in others without yourself being sincere?"
"No. But my friend possesses my other soul. I think aloud before him. It does not matter. I reveal my heart to him, share my joys, unburden my grief. There is a simplicity and a wholesomeness about it all. We are mutually sincere."
"Your test is severe."
"But its fruits imperishable."
"I cannot adopt your method," was the deliberate reply as she began to gather together her ball and needles.
"Let's leave it at that."
And they left it.
V
Long after he had gone she sat there until it was well into the evening, until the stars began to blink and nod and wrap themselves in the great cloak of the night, as they kept a silent vigil over the subdued silence which had settled down upon the vast earth and herself.
The longer she sat and considered, the more melancholy did she become. Stephen was displeased with her conduct and made no effort to conceal it, inflicting only the greater wound by his ambiguous and incisive remarks. His apparent unconcern and indifference of manner frightened her, and she saw, or she thought she saw a sudden deprivation of that esteem with which she was vain enough to presuppose he was wont to regard her. And yet he was mistaken, greatly mistaken. Furthermore, he was unfair to himself and unjust to her in the misinterpretation of her behavior. His displeasure pained her beyond endurance.
In her relations with John Anderson, she had been genuinely sincere both with herself and with Stephen. The latter had asked her to help him; and this she was trying to do in her own way. That there was something suspicious about Anderson, she knew; but whether the cause lay in his manner of action or in the possession of documentary evidence, she could not so much as conjecture. What more apt method could be employed than to associate with him in the hope that at some time or other important information might be imparted to her? She did not intend to play the part of the spy; still if that was the role in which she hoped to find Anderson, she was ready to assume a similar role for the very purpose of outwitting him and defeating him on his own ground. If Stephen would only trust her. Oh, dear! And she wrung her hands in abject despair.
Little by little her experiences of the summer just past came before her with a vividness which her experience with Stephen served only to intensify. First, there was the night of the Governor's Ball. He had come into her life there, filling a vacancy not realized before. Hitherto, she had been quite content in the company of almost any one, and especially with those of the sterner sex. But with the advent of this dashing young officer she began to experience a set of new sensations. The incompleteness of her life was brought before her.
He seemed to perfect her being, sharing her pleasures, lessening her woes, consoling her heart. Still, there was one office that he had failed to perform; he was not obsequious. Not that he was ever wanting in attention and deferential courtesy, or that he ever failed to betray a warmth of feeling or a generous devotion; but his manner was prosaic, thoroughly practical both in action and in expression. He spoke his thoughts directly and forcibly. He was never enthusiastic, never demonstrative, never warm or impulsive, but definite, well-ordered, positive. It was quite true that he was capable of bestowing service to the point of heroism when the occasion required, but such a quality was not spontaneous, because his heart, while intensely sympathetic, appeared cold and absolutely opposed to any sort of outburst. He was too prudent, too wise, too thoughtful, it seemed, acting only when sure of his ground, turning aside from all obstacles liable to irritate or confuse him.
Then John Anderson came and initiated her into a newer world. He appeared to worship her, and tried to make her feel his devotion in his every act. He was gallant, dignified, charming, lavishing attention upon her to the point of prodigality. He said things which were pleasant to hear, and equally as pleasant to remember. What girl would not be attracted by such engaging personal qualities; but Marjorie decided that he was too much of the Prince Charming whose gentle arts proved to be his sole weapons for the major encounters of life.
Hence she was not fascinated by his soft accomplishments. He interested her, but she readily perceived that there was not in him that real depth which she had found in Stephen. True, he made her feel more like a superior being than as a mere equal; he yielded ever to her slightest whim, and did not discomfort her with weighty arguments. But her acumen was such that she was enabled to penetrate the gloss and appraise the man at his true value. The years spent at her mother's knee, the numberless hours in her father's shop where she came in contact with many men, her own temperament, prudent by nature, enabled her to perceive at a glance the contrast between a man of great and noble heart clothed in severe garments, and the charlatan garbed in the bright finery of festal dress.
And now the boomerang against which she was defending herself struck her from a most unexpected angle. That Stephen should misunderstand her motives was preposterous; yet there was no other inference to be drawn from the tone of his conversation during the few distressful minutes of his last visit. In all probability, he had gone away laboring under the hateful impression that she was untrue, that she had permitted her heart to be taken captive by the first knight errant who had entered the lists. And what was more, the subject would never again be alluded to. He had promised that; and she knew that he was absolute in his determinations. His groundless displeasure disconcerted her greatly.
Whether it became her to take the initiative in the healing of the breach which she felt growing wide between them, or simply to await the development of the course of action she had chosen to pursue, now became a problem to her perplexed mind. So much depended upon the view he would take of the whole situation that it was necessary for him to understand from the very beginning. She would write him. But, no! That might be premature. She would wait and tell him, so great was her assurance that all would be well. She would tell him of her great and impassionate desire to be of assistance to him; she would put into words her analysis of this man's character, this man about whom he himself had first cast the veil of suspicion; she would relate her experience with him. She smiled to herself as she contemplated how pleased he would be once the frown of bewilderment had disappeared from his countenance.
"Marjorie! Dost know the hour is late?"
"Yes, Mother! I am coming directly."
It was late, though she scarce knew it. Gathering her things, she brought the chairs into the house. _