_ PART THREE
CHAPTER V
I
The wayfarer on this July afternoon in the fifth year of American Independence might have passed on the main thoroughfare leading into the city of Philadelphia from the townships of Bristol and Trenton, a young and powerfully built officer astride a spirited chestnut mare. The countryside, through which he was journeying, stretched for miles around in peaceful solitude, teeming and delightful with that leafy and rich green livery which we are accustomed to associate with the idea of abundance. Overhead the sky was clear, from which the sun blazed down great billows of heat that hovered over the landscape, giving vigor and enthusiasm to the various forms of vegetable life, but at the same time causing the animal world to drowse and languish in discomfort.
It was plain to be seen that the horseman was an officer of the Continental Army. His mount, young and well groomed, gave every indication of a long ride, its nostrils dilated, its mouth moist with foam, its sides streaky with strings of sweat. Haste was desired, it was apparent, although in the more exposed portions of the roadway the mare was allowed to walk, her rider affectionately patting her neck or coaxing her along with an encouraging remark.
"Look, Dolly! There is some soft, tender grass to cool your lips. We shall take some."
And he turned the mare to the side of the road and allowed her to nibble at the greensward.
Soon they were again on their way, she munching the while on the last mouthful, now walking, now impatiently breaking into a canter; Stephen, holding her in check with his hand, looked far ahead at the roofs of the city beyond. Through his mind there passed in review the incidents of the day, the memory of his business just concluded, the speculation of the future of the army, the contemplation of his reception by Marjorie.
He had been away for more than a month. During that time he was engaged in business of the gravest nature. Many hours had been spent in the company of the Commander-in-chief before whom he had laid an account of his varied activities in the city. The proposed plan for the formation of the regiment of Roman Catholic Volunteers, with all its ramifications and side issues, together with an account of his own adventures in its respect, was reported faithfully and accurately to his superior. The person of John Anderson, his suspicions concerning him, the strangely formed friendship of the spy with the Military Governor, were indicated with only that amount of reserve necessary to distinguish a moral from an absolute certitude. Events had moved with great rapidity, yet he felt assured that the real crisis was only now impending, for which reason he desired to return to the city so as to be ready for any service which might be required.
"Go along, girl. We want to reach home by noon."
Dolly heeded him and began to canter.
Washington had not taken kindly to his suggestion for the recall of General Arnold's command; in fact he had treated the proposal with a scorn worthy of his strong sense and dauntless courage. It was plain to be seen that His Excellency had placed much reliance and confidence in his favorite officer. It was impossible to create so much as a suspicion in the mind of him, who had been compelled to endure irksome suppression at the hands of a cabalistic and jealous military party, and who, for that very reason, took a magnanimous view of the plight of one beset with similar persecutions. General Arnold was in his eyes a brave and fearless leader, but one unfortunately annoyed and tormented by the machinations of an ungrateful and intolerant populace.
And so when it came to pass that the one General, whom he had admired and trusted, applied for an active command in the field, General Washington cordially granted the request. If the wounded limb would permit it, there was no doubt in the mind of His Excellency that General Arnold would prove the most heroic and able officer along the line. Lincoln was gone, having been forced to surrender with his entire army at Charleston only six weeks before. Green was engaged with the army in the Carolinas; Gates was a coward; Lee, a traitor. In the important operations which were soon to take place with the main army in the vicinity of New York, Arnold was the leader best qualified for the task. Washington took extreme delight in appointing him to the command of the Right Wing of his own army and the Second in Command of the Continental forces.
It was with genuine reluctance that he consented to listen to the strange story as unfolded by his aide-de-camp, Captain Meagher. That General Arnold should openly countenance rebellion was preposterous; to become a party to it was incredible. Yet the veracity of his aide was unquestionable, and the wealth of evidence which he had presented left little room for doubt. Still Washington's faith was unshaken. He felt assured that his favorite General would redeem himself when the proper time came. And every encouragement for this redemption would be afforded him.
West Point was open. He would recall the order appointing him to the command of the army and make him commander of the fortification there. The exigencies of the times required a man of rare ability and genius at this post. Should there prove to be a shadow of truth in the allegations of his aide, the change of command would simplify the situation from whatever viewpoint it might be regarded. The country might be preserved, and Arnold's ambition at the same time given another opportunity.
Stephen ruminated over these events as he rode leisurely along. A genuine satisfaction was derived from the knowledge that his chief's confidence in him was still unshaken. He felt that he had effected a change of post for the man whom, above all other men, Washington most admired and respected; nevertheless he felt that at the same time he was only executing a service which would ultimately prove to be of incalculable value to the army and the nation. Arnold troubled him, but in command of a fortress he would occasion infinitely less worry and apprehension than in a responsible position in the field.
Marjorie delighted him. At Morristown he had found her letter; and his plans for the immediate present underwent a decided alteration. He had been ordered to make the journey to Hartford in attendance upon General Washington, who had already completed arrangements with Count Rochambeau and Admiral Ternay of the French navy for a conference there in reference to the proposed naval operations of the combined fleets. With the letter in his hand he had sought and obtained a further leave of absence from his Commander-in-chief in order that his own campaign for the winning of the lady of his heart might be brought to a quick and decisive termination.
He had left the city, not hurt nor wounded as she had supposed, but somewhat disappointed at the manner of her expression. Her apparent coolness and unconcern he had ascribed rather to her extreme diffidence and shyness than to want of appreciation or sincerity. That she truly cared for him, he knew full well; that he would eventually win her to him was a faltering conviction. But, now, there was no further doubt. She had written him pages into which she had poured out her heart in generous and unmistakable accents, and which he had read and re-read with growing delight.
Washington could not refuse his request. He made no attempt to conceal the nature of his mission and obtained not alone His Excellency's gracious permission but his sincere wishes for success as well. With a heart buoyant with joy and anticipation he spurred on his mare and pushed her to her worth in the direction of the city and the object of his quest.
II
He rode into the city well aware that the first news to reach him would be that of the exodus of the Arnolds.
"You came straight through town, I suppose?"
"Yes," replied Stephen.
"And came here direct?" continued Mr. Allison.
"I quartered my mare, first. I thought immediately of the Inn as the place to gather the news. So I hastened hither."
"There's been heaps doin'," Jim remarked casually.
"Never saw such excitement since the day of the regiment," observed the keeper of the Inn, a well-mannered and well-educated gentleman, above middle age, who held the enviable position of inn-keeper and lawyer alike. Every inn-keeper of this age commanded much of respect in the community, for it was he who received the money of the people, and money commanded the necessities of life--a good bed, good things to eat, attentive servants; but Mr. Smith, the keeper of the Old London Coffee House, was the most respectable inn-keeper in the city, the proud possessor of a very pretty library and an excellent table where cleanliness and decency vied with dignity and self-respect.
"Arnold, you know, has left the city," volunteered Mr. Allison.
"Yes, I have surmised," was the reply.
"Gone, an' all belongin' to 'im."
"And closed his mansion?" Stephen inquired.
"Tight. Mrs. Arnold went with him. They left yesterday."
"But I thought----"
"To the army? I understand he had been appointed to field duty under Washington. Second in Command, they say. But that has been changed. He has gone to West Point."
Stephen did not answer.
"It seems," went on Mr. Allison, "that he has been seeking a change of post for several months. His leg still bothers him, however, and very likely prevented him from doing active duty in the field. On that account, it has been said, he was given charge of the fortress. It is an important post, nevertheless, and carries with it a certain amount of distinction."
"Hope he gits along better with 'em up there 'n he did here," remarked Jim. "He won't hev the s'ciety folks t' bother 'im now."
"When did he leave?"
"No one knows. There was no demonstration of any kind. It differed much from the farewell of General Howe. Arnold left in disgrace, it would seem," said the Inn-keeper, as he moved away to give his attention to other business.
"And Peggy gone, too?" Stephen was genuinely surprised at this, for he rather expected that she would remain with her mother.
"I am sure that the majority of our people are greatly pleased at the change," said Mr. Allison. "I never saw one sink to such depths of contempt. He came to the city as Military Governor in a blaze of triumph, the most celebrated soldier in the army, whose rise to popular esteem was only accelerated by the knowledge of the harsh treatment received by him at the hands of Congress after the battle of Saratoga. He was the idol alike of soldiers and civilians. Their hearts were his without the asking. That was two years ago. Today he left the city in the fullness of his years, in secret, after so many plaudits, in obloquy, after so much honor."
"It is a sad commentary on human nature," Stephen observed. "Yet in all things else I blame the woman. 'Cherchez la femme.'"
The room already was reeky from the clouds of tobacco smoke streaming upwards from the pipes of the several guests who were lounging in small groups about the room. There were several parties in as many corners, each wholly unconcerned about the other. The conversation of our trio was therefore private insofar as any privacy can be expected in an inn. Only the boisterous individual made himself heard, and then only to the displeasure of the others.
Leaving the two at the Inn, Stephen bade them adieu and directed his journey in the direction of Second Street. Hastening his steps he soon reached the Germantown road, and as he turned the bend perceived the familiar outline of the Allison home. Little did he suspect, however, that the curtains of one of the upper windows concealed a lithe form and that his swift gait was being interpreted with a world of meaning. He laid his hand on the gate, and even then Marjorie had opened the door to meet him.
III
"First of all," she said, "how long may you remain? Will you dine with us, or what?"
"I shall be most pleased. I have several days. His Excellency has gone to Hartford to engage in conference. It was intended that I should accompany the staff. I begged leave, however, to return to Philadelphia."
They were seated on the sofa in the distant corner of the parlor. They were quite alone now for the first time, the mother having asked to be excused after many minutes with the announcement that since he would be pleased to remain, the supper must needs be prepared. No, Marjorie need not help her. She might entertain Captain Meagher.
"It's glorious to see you again," he said, sitting down beside her after Mrs. Allison had departed from the room.
"I am glad you have come," she replied softly, rubbing her hand across her apron as if to arrange it neatly.
"But you knew that I would come, didn't you?"
"I thought so."
"And yet I greatly feared that it would not be possible. Preparations are being made for the final campaign, and it is expected that the French will be asked to play an important part."
"It was very generous of His Excellency to grant you leave."
He began to smile.
"Could you guess how I obtained it?" he asked.
She turned to regard him.
"What have you done?" she asked soberly.
"Showed him your letter."
"Stephen!" she gasped as she drew back.
Neither spoke. He continued to smile at her apparent concern, while she stared at him.
"Do you mean it?" she asked; then quickly--"or are you teasing?"
"I did. I showed the letter to him, and asked if I might return to you."
"He read it?"
"There! There! I am joking. He did not read it, but I did have it in my hand, and I told him about you and that I was going back to take you with me."
Satisfied, she allowed herself to assume a more relaxed composure.
"You are going to destroy it, aren't you?"
He took it from his pocket and looked at it. She, too, glanced at it, and then at him.
"May I keep it? I treasure every word of it, you know."
"Did you but know how it was composed, you might ridicule me."
"I suppose you closed yourself behind some great veil to shut out the world from your view. Your mind toiled with thought until you were resolved upon the heroic. There was no scheme nor formula; your quill ran on and on in obedience to the flood of ideas which inspired it."
She lapsed into meditation; but she recovered herself immediately.
"No," she shook her head slowly though steadily. "At midnight with the aid of a little candle which burned itself out quite before the end."
He looked up sharply.
"That night?"
She nodded.
He put his arms around her and drew her close. She made no resistance, but allowed herself to fall into his embrace.
"Marjorie!" he whispered.
She yielded both her hands to his grasp and felt them compressed within it.
"You were not hurt at my seeming indiscretion?"
"I told you in my letter that I was not."
"Then you do love me?"
She drew back a little as if to glance at him.
"You know that I do," was the soft, reassuring answer.
"Won't you let me hear you say it?" he pleaded.
Reaching out, she put both arms about him and offered her lips to his, whispering at the same time only what he was destined to hear.
Presently the old clock began to strike the hour of five. _