_ PART THREE
CHAPTER III
I
In the meantime, Marjorie was tossing restlessly, nervously in her bed, enduring hours of disconsolate remorse and lonely desolation. She could not sleep. She cried her eyes wet with tears, and wiped them dry again with her handkerchief; then stared up at the black ceiling, or gazed out through the small window at the faint glow in the world beyond. Her girlish heart, lay heavy within her, distended almost to the breaking-point with grief, a grief which had sent her early to bed to seek solitude and consolation; that solitude which alone brings relief to a heart freighted with sorrow and woe. Now that Stephen had gone, she had time to think over the meaning of it all, and she began to experience the renewed agony of those terrible moments by the water's edge. It was so awful, so frightful that her tender frame seemed to yield beneath its load, she simply had to give way to the tears.
She could not sleep, and she knew it. Scrambling out of her bed and wrapping a mantle about her, she sat beside the window and peered into the night. There was not a breeze to break the solemn silence, not a sound to distract her from her reverie. Two black and uncanny pine trees stood like armed guards near by the corner of the house to challenge the interloper from disturbing her meditation. Overhead the stars blinked and glistened through the treetops in their lace of foliage and delicate branches, and resembled for all the world an hundred diamonds set in a band of filigree work. The moon had not yet risen, and all the world seemed to be in abject despair, bristling in horrid shapes and sights,--a fit dwelling-place for Marjorie and her grief-stricken heart.
Stephen had gone away that afternoon, perhaps never to return. For this she could not reproach him, for she allowed that she had given him every reason to feel offended. But she had hurt him, and very likely hurt him to the quick. She knew his sensitive nature and she feared the consequence. It was that thought more than the real contrition over her fault which had overwhelmed her. Her return for his many acts of kindness had been one of austere repulsion.
Now she felt acutely the bitterness of it all. That she had afforded him some encouragement, that she had cooperated in the first place to make the setting of it all quite perfect, that she had lent him her assurance that she was amicably disposed towards him, and that her action in regard to the miniature, while apparently innocent enough, was fraught with significance for Stephen in view of his intimate connections with the events of the past two years, that after all perhaps she had been entirely unreasonable throughout it all; these were the thoughts which excited, both in the truth of their reality and in the knowledge of the hopes they had alternately raised and blasted in Stephen, the bitter sorrow which was the cause of her mingled pain and regret.
What would he think of her now? What could he think? Plainly he must consider her a cold, austere being, devoid of all feeling and appreciation. He had given her the best that was in him and had made bold enough to appraise her of it. Sincerity was manifest in his every gesture and word, and yet she had made him feel as if his protestations had been repugnant to her. She knew his nature, his extreme diffidence in matters of this kind, his power of resolution, and she feared that once having tried and failed, he was lost to her forever.
And yet she knew that she grieved not for herself but for him. Her stern refusal had only caused him the greater pain. Stephen would, perhaps, misunderstand as he had misunderstood her in the past and it was the thought of the vast discomfiture she had occasioned in him that stung her with sorrow.
Her warm, generous heart now chided her for her apparent indifference. There was no other name for it. What could he deduce from her behavior except that she was a cold, ungrateful, irresolute creature who did not know her own mind or the promptings of her own heart! She had flung him from her smarting and wounded, after he had summoned his entire strength to whisper to her what she would have given worlds to hear, but which had only confounded and startled her by its suddenness.
And yet she loved him. She knew it and kept repeating it over and over again to her own self. No one before or since had struck so responsive a chord from her heart strings. There had been no other ideal to which she had shaped the pictures of her mind. Stephen was her paragon of excellence and to him the faculties of her soul had turned of their own mood and temper unknown even to the workings of her intellectual consciousness, like the natural inclination of the heliotrope before the rays of the rising sun.
Laying her head in the crook of her elbow she sobbed bitterly.
The thought that he was gone from her life brought inconsolable remorse. She knew him, knew the intimate structure of his soul, and she knew that a deep repentance would seize hold of him on account of his rash presumption. He would be true to his word: he would not breathe the subject again. Nay, more, he would ever permit her to disappear from his life as gradually as she had entered into it. This was unendurable but the consciousness that she had caused this bitter rupture was beyond all endurance still.
She lifted her head and stared into the black depths of the night. All was still except the shrill pipings of the frogs as they sounded their dissonant notes to one another in the far-off Schuylkill meadows. They, too, were filled with thoughts of love, Marjorie thought, which they had made bold enough to publish in their own discordant way, and they seemed to take eminent delight in having the whole world aware of the fact that it, too, might rejoice with them.
If it were true that she loved him, it were equally true that he ought to be apprised of it. There could be no love without a mutual understanding, for to love alone would be admiration and entirely one-sided. Let her unfold her soul to him in order that he might take joy for his portion ere his ardor had cooled into mere civility. For if it were licit to love, it were more licit to express it and this expression should be reciprocal.
She would tell him before it were too late. Her silence at the very moment when she should have acted was unfortunate. Perhaps his affection had been killed by the blow and her protestations would be falling upon barren soil. No matter! She would write and unfold her heart to him, and tell him that she really and truly cared for him more than any one else in the world, and she would beg him to return that she might whisper in his ear those very words she had been softly repeating to herself. Full repentance would take possession of her soul, and her heart would rush unrestrained to the object of its love, telling him that she was with him always, thinking of him, praying for him, and waiting for him. She would write him at once.
II
But she did not mail the letter. Hidden carefully in her room, it lay all the next day. Unworthy post-chaise to bear so precious a manuscript! She would journey herself to its destination to safeguard it, were it at all possible. A thousand and one misgivings haunted her concerning the safety of its arrival,--Stephen might have been transferred to some distant point, the letter itself might possibly fall into awkward hands, it might lay for months in the post bag, or fall into a dark corner of some obscure tavern, the roads were infested with robbers,--horrible thoughts, too horrible to record.
She did not know just how long it had taken her to compose it. The end of the candle had burned quite out during the process, and she lay deliberating over its contents and wondering just what else might be added. Twice she was on the point of arising to assure herself on the style of her confession, but each time she changed her mind, deciding to yield to her earlier thought. The darkness seemed to envelop her in fancy, and when she again opened her eyes the darkness had disappeared before the light. It was morning and she arose for the day.
Hour by hour she waited to tell her mother. It was only right that she should know, and she proposed to tell her all, even the very episode on the river bank. She needed counsel, especially during these lonely moments, and she felt that she could obtain it only by unfolding her heart unreservedly. Mother would know; in fact, she must have suspected the gravity of the affair. But how would she begin it? She longed for an opening, but no opening presented itself.
The meaning of his addresses she saw, or she thought she saw. Stephen loved her; his words were very effective. Indeed, he had made no mention of marriage, nevertheless she sensed that his ulterior purpose had been revealed to her fully. Perhaps it was this consummation which caused her heart to stand suddenly still; perhaps it was the vision of the new life which was opening before her. She would have to go away with him as his wife, away from her home, away from her beloved father and mother. The summers would come and go and she would be far distant from her own, in far-off New York, perhaps, or some other city better adapted for the career of a young man of ability. They might live in Philadelphia, near to her home, yet not in it. That would be preferable, yet the future could lend her no assurance. She would be his for life, and with him would be obliged to begin a new manner of living.
Such thoughts as these occupied her for the greater part of the day, and before she was really aware of it, her father had come home for the evening. She could not tell both at once; better to tell them in turn. It would be more confidential and better to her liking. Once the secret was common between them, it was easy to discuss it together, and so she decided that she would put it off until the morrow. Then she would tell mother, and let her mother talk it over with her father. Both then would advise her.
"Next week is going to see the greatest event in the history of the Church in America," Marjorie heard her father remark as he placed his hat upon the rack behind the door.
"What is it now?" inquired her mother who chanced to be in the sitting-room when he entered.
"The Congress is going to Mass."
"The Congress?" she exclaimed. "Praised be God!"
"What news, father?" asked Marjorie, hurrying into the room.
"The Congress, the President and the prominent men of the nation have been invited to take part in the solemn Te Deum next Sunday. It is the anniversary of the signing of the Declaration."
"Isn't that remarkable?"
"It is remarkable," he repeated. "The French Ambassador has issued the invitations and all have signified their intentions of being present. Here is one of them." Taking from his pocket a folded paper, he handed it to Marjorie. She opened it at once and read aloud,
"Mr. Matthew Allison:--You are invited by the Minister Plenipotentiary of France to attend the Te Deum, which will be chanted on Sunday, the 4th of this month, at noon, in the new Catholic Chapel, to celebrate the anniversary of the Independence of the United States of America.
"Philadelphia, the Second of July. M. Gerard."
"The Congress going to Mass!" said his wife, apparently unable to comprehend fully the meaning of it all.
"The more one thinks of it the more strange it becomes. They branded Charles the First a Papist because he permitted his queen, who was born and bred a Catholic, to attend Holy Mass. Now we have our newly-formed government not alone countenancing Popery, but actually participating in a supposedly pagan and idolatrous form of worship."
"This marks the end of religious prejudice in this country," observed Marjorie. "At length all men are in all things equal, equal in the sight of God and man. Don't you think our leaders must realize this and are taking steps to prepare the minds of the people accordingly?"
"Yes," he replied, "and I don't know but what it is only right. We all go to the market together, trade our goods together, rub elbows together, clear the land together, fight together. Why shouldn't we live together in peace? Intolerance and bigotry are dead and buried. We have laid the foundations of the greatest country in the world."
"Thank God for that!" breathed Mrs. Allison.
"We are respected above all calculation," Mr. Allison continued. "Our Loyalty now is unquestioned."
"We may thank God for that, too."
"And Captain Meagher!" added Marjorie.
Her eyes beamed.
"Yes, you are right, girl," said her father. "We can thank Captain Meagher. The frustration and the exposure of that plot has increased our reputation an hundredfold. Heretofore, the Catholic population had been regarded as an insignificant element, but when the ambitions of the enemy to secure their cooperation were discovered, the value of the Catholics to the country suddenly rose."
"Our unity must have created a lasting impression," Marjorie remarked.
"Not alone our unity, but our loyalty as well. The government has learned that we have been ever true to the land of our birth, ever loyal to the country of our adoption. It has thoughtfully considered the value of our sacrifices, and has carefully estimated our contribution to the cause of freedom. When the charter of liberty assumes a more definite form our rights will specifically be determined. Of that I am reasonably certain. The enemy failed to allure us from our country in its time of need; our country will not abandon us in our time of need."
"Stephen did it," announced Marjorie.
"Stephen helped to do it," replied her father.
III
That same evening, during a stolen moment while her mother was busied with the turning of the buckwheat cakes, Marjorie crept to her father's knee and folded her arms over it.
"Daddy!" she looked up at him from her seated posture on the floor. "What would you say to a very eligible young man who had told you that he was very fond of you?"
"What would I say?" asked the father in surprise.
"Yes. What would you?"
"I would not say anything. I would have him examined."
"No, Daddy. This is serious," and she pushed his knee from her as she spoke.
"I am serious. If a man told me that he was very fond of me, I would question his sanity."
She laughed.
"You know what I mean. I mean if you were a girl and----"
"But I am not a girl."
"Well, if you were?"
"If I was what?"
"You know what I mean quite well. Would you hate him at first?"
"I hope not. I should want to strangle him, but I wouldn't hate him."
"And you would strangle him? For what?"
"For daring."
"Daring what?"
"You know."
He smiled.
"Oh, dear! Won't you listen to me? Tell me what to do."
"I could not tell you. You have not told me what has happened."
"I asked you what you would say to an attractive soldier who had told you that he loved you."
"Yes. And I told you that if he had told that to me, I would ask what ailed him."
"Oh, Daddy, you are too funny tonight. I can't reason with you."
She sat back on her heels and pouted.
He smiled and roused himself upright and put his arm around her and drew her to him.
"There! There! I know what you mean, daughter. It means that I shall have no say in the matter."
"Why?"
"You will do it all."
"No. I shall never leave you."
"Yes, you will. You will be happier. But why didn't Stephen ask me about it?"
"How did you know it was Stephen?" she looked at him in astonishment.
"Well enough."
"But how?" she repeated.
"I knew it all the time and your mother and I have been prepared for this occasion."
"But who told you?" Her eyes opened full and round in genuine wonder. Here was one surprise after the other.
"There was no need of any one telling me. I have been watching the pair of you, and sensed what the outcome would be some little while ago."
"But, Daddy. How should you know?"
He laughed outright.
"There! There! We are satisfied quite, I can assure you. I know what you are about to say; and your mother knows it too."
"But I have not yet told her. I meant to tell her today but did not. Then I thought of telling you and of whispering the whole story to her after we were upstairs."
She was serious, very serious, absorbed for the most part in her story although her mind was clouded with amazement at the want of surprise which was manifested. Her innocent mind apparently was unable for the time being to fathom the intricacies of this plot which seemed to be laid bare to every one concerned save her own self.
"Of course you will tell her, but you will find that she will consent to the proposal."
"What proposal?"
"Why, I suppose the proposal of your coming marriage."
"But!... But!... Daddy!... I never said anything about marriage."
"You did start to tell me that Stephen told you he was very fond of you?"
"Yes."
"And you told him the same."
"No, I didn't."
"But you will tell him."
A hush followed. She looked askance at him from the corner of her eye.
"And so after you two have told one another as much as that you may as well decide upon the date."
"But ... I ... I am not sure that I want to marry him."
"Well, that is your privilege, you know."
"And.... And ... perhaps he will never ask me again."
"Just wait a bit."
"And would you marry him?"
"I told you that I would not. I already have one wife...."
"Oh! You make me lose all patience," she cried rising from the floor and leaving him. "I shall confide in mother."
"Remember," he cautioned her in a somewhat serious strain. "Do not ask her to marry him."
She was gone.
The following day a letter was dispatched to the Headquarters at Morristown, New Jersey. In the meantime a very large doubt began to take form in the mind of one little girl concerning the manner of its reception. A thousand and one impossible situations were conceived, but there seemed nothing to do; he must now do it all. The possibility loomed ghost-like before her: he might never return. The wound which she had caused still smarted and ached. He might never return. Her eyes wandered and strayed among the multitude of objects before them; her lips had forgotten their usual smile. He might fail to receive her note and if he did he might disdain to acknowledge it. But no! He would not do that. There was naught else to do but wait. Oh! if the moments would only hurry! _