The Loyalist

"How did you ever discover it?"

"My first reading of the note filled me with suspicion. Its tone was too impersonal. When I asked for it, I was impelled by the sole desire to study it the more carefully at my own leisure. That night I found certain markings over some of the letters. These I jotted down and rearranged until I had found the hidden message."

She gazed at him in wonder.

"It was directed to her, I presume, because of her friendship with the Military Governor; and carried the suggestion that His Excellency be interested in the proposed formation of the Regiment. From that moment my energies were directed to one sole end. I watched Arnold and those whom he was wont to entertain. Eventually the trail narrowed down to Peggy and Anderson."

She drew a deep breath, but said nothing.

"The night I played the spy in the park my theory was confirmed."

"Yes, you told me of that incident. It was not far from here."

She turned to search the distance behind her.

"No. Just down the shore behind his great house." He pointed with his finger in the direction of Mount Pleasant.

"And Peggy was a party to the conspiracy!" she exclaimed with an audible sigh.

"She exercised her influence over Arnold from the start. She and Anderson were in perfect accord."

"I am sorry. She has disappointed me greatly."

"She has a very pretty manner and a most winsome expression; but she is extremely subtle and fully accomplished in all manner of artifice. She was far too clever for your frank simplicity."

"I never suspected her for an instant."

"It was she who set the trap for Arnold; it was she who made it possible for Anderson to rise to the heights of favor and influence; it was she who encouraged her husband in his misuse of authority; and I venture to say, it was she who rendered effective the degree of friendship which began to exist between yourself and this gentleman."

Marjorie blushed at the irony.

They were drifting above the cove in the slowest manner. Only occasionally did he dip the paddle into the water to change the course of the little craft, or to push it ahead a little into the more shaded places. Marjorie did not assist in this, for he desired her to sit in the bow facing him, while he, himself, essayed the task of paddler. There was little of exertion, however, for the two had no other object in view than the company of their own selves. And so they drifted aimlessly about the stream.

"Yes, I think that I ought to leave tomorrow for White Plains to confer with His Excellency."

"I should be the last to hinder you in the performance of duty. By all means, go."

"Of course it may be no more than a suspicion, but if you are sure of what Anderson said, then I think that the matter should be brought to the attention of the Commander-in-chief."

"Of course, you understand that Mr. Anderson told me nothing definite. But he did hint that General Arnold should be placed in command of a more responsible post in the American army; and that steps should be taken to have him promoted to the Second in Command."

Stephen thought for a minute.

"That sounds innocent enough. But you must remember that events have come to light in the past fortnight which for months had lain concealed in the minds of these two men. Who knows but what this was included in their nefarious scheme. I am uneasy about it all, and must see the chief."

"But you will come back?"

"At once unless prevented by a detail to a new field. I am subject at all times to the will of my leader."

Her face fell.

II

The solemn stillness, the almost noiseless motion of the boat, the livid shades surrounding the place, all contributed to the mood of pensiveness and meditation which was rapidly stealing upon them. The very silence of the cove was infectious. Marjorie felt it almost immediately, and relaxed without a murmur.

A stream of thoughts began to course in continuous procession through her mind, awakening there whatever latent images lay buried in her memory, and fashioning new ideas and seemingly possible situations from her experiences of the past year. Now she suddenly discovered her former interest quickened to a violent degree. She was living over again the memories of the happy hours of other days.

Certainly Stephen was as constant as ever. To her discerning eye his manner of action conveyed no other impression. But he was the same enigma, however, as far as the communication of thought was concerned, and she knew no more of his pleasures and desires than she did of the inspirations of his soul.

It was the first time in months she had seen and taken delight in his own old self. Never had he been so attentive quite as John Anderson, nor so profuse in his protestations, nor so ready with his apologies. And what was more she did not expect him to be. But he was more sincere when it came to a question of unfolding one's own convictions, more engaging where will-power, propriety, performance of duty, were concerned. He alone possessed the rule to which all, in her own mind, were obliged to conform. And so she was compelled to admire him.

These fond memories suffered an interruption by a vision of the extreme disquietude produced upon Stephen by her unfortunate acquaintanceship with Mr. Anderson. And yet she had been profoundly sincere with herself. Never had she conveyed the impression to any man that she had given him a second sobering thought. Her home constituted for her a chief delight, her home, her devoted mother, her fond father. Peggy had been her sole companion previous to her marriage with the Governor; and whatever men she had met with were they who composed the gay assemblies at which her friend was the pretty hostess and she the invited guest. As far as Anderson was concerned, and Stephen, for that matter, she doubted if she had been in the company of either more than a dozen times in the course of her life. Certainly not enough to know either of them intimately.

Of the two men who had effected the most complete entrée into her society, Stephen had, unquestionably, impressed her the more favorably. For a time he seemed too far removed from her; and she failed to experience that sense of proportion between them so necessary for mutual regard. Perhaps it was due to this negation, or perhaps it was owing to her modest reserve, or perhaps to both, that whatever familiar intercourse, sympathy or affinity ought to have existed was naturally excluded. True friendship requires a certain equality, or at least a feeling of proportion between those whom it would bind together. And this she felt had not prevailed.

She did not pause to consider the correctness or the incorrectness of her inference. It was quite enough for her to know that this spirit of inequality existed. In his presence, however, she felt at perfect ease, wholly oblivious of everything save her own happiness, as she could now bear witness to, but alone with her thoughts the horrible imagining forced itself upon her and served to widen perceptibly the gulf between them. Reflection disconcerted her.

Happily, her enterprise respecting Anderson and his nefarious scheme had terminated successfully. Happily, too, Stephen's misconstruction of the affair had been corrected. No longer would he doubt her. Their fortunes had approached the crisis. It came. Anderson had fled town; Arnold and Peggy were removed from their lives perhaps for ever. Stephen was with her now and she experienced a sense of happiness beyond all human estimation. She would she could read his mind to learn there his own feelings. Was he, too, conscious of the same delights? A reciprocal feeling was alone necessary to complete the measure of her joy. But he was as non-communicative as ever, totally absorbed in this terrible business that obsessed him. Her riddle, she feared, would remain unanswered. Patriotism, it seemed, was more pressing than love.

The canoe had drifted nearer to the shore. At Stephen's suggestion she aroused herself from her lethargy and alighted on the bank. He soon followed, drawing the canoe on to the shore a little to prevent its wandering away. Marjorie walked through the grass, stooping to pick here and there a little flower which lay smiling at her feet. Stephen stood to one side and looked after her.

III

"Stephen," she asked, as she returned to him and stood for a moment smiling straight at him, "will you tell me something?"

"Anything you ask," he assured her. "What do you wish to know?"

But she did not inquire further. Her eyes were fixed in earnest attention upon the flowers which she began to arrange into a little bouquet.

"Are you still vexed with me?"

There! It was out. She looked at him coquettishly.

"Marjorie!" he exclaimed. "What ever caused you to say that?"

"I scarce know," she replied. "I suppose I just thought so, that was all."

"Would I be here now?" He tried to assure her with a tone of sincerity. "One need not hear a man speak to learn his mind."

"Yes. But I thought – "

He seized hold of her hand.

"Come," he said. "Won't you sit down while I tell you?"

She accepted his offer and allowed herself to be assisted.

"You thought that I was displeased with you on account of John Anderson," he remarked as he took his place by her side. "Am I correct?"

She did not answer.

"And you thought, perhaps, that I scorned you?"

"Oh, no! Not that! I did not think that … I … I…"

"Well, then, that I lost all interest in you?"

She thought for a second. Then she smiled as if she dared not say what was in her mind.

"Listen. I shall tell you. I did not reprove you with so much as a fault. I know well that it is next to impossible to be in the frequent presence of an individual without experiencing at some time some emotion. He becomes continually repugnant, or else exceedingly fascinating. The sentiments of the heart never stand still."

"Yes, I know, – but…"

"I did think that you had been fascinated. I concluded that you had been charmed by John Anderson's manner. Because I had no desire of losing your good will, I did ask you to avoid him, but at the same time, I did not feel free enough to cast aspersions upon his character and so change your good opinion of him. The outcome I never doubted, much as I was disturbed over the whole affair. I felt that eventually you would learn for yourself."

"But why did you not believe in me? I tried to give you every assurance that I was loyal…"

"The fault lay in my enforced absence from you, and in the nature of the circumstances which combined against you. I knew Anderson; but I was unaware of your own thought or purpose. My business led me on one occasion to your home where I found you ready to entertain him. The several other times in which I found you together caused me to think that you, too, had been impressed by him."

Marjorie sat silent. She was pondering deeply the while he spoke and attempted to understand the emotions that had fought in his heart. She knew very well that he was sincere in his confession, and that she had been the victim of circumstances; still she thanked God that the truth had been revealed to him.

"Sometimes I feel as if I had been simply a tool in his hands, and that I had been worsted in the encounter."

"You have had no reason to think that. You perhaps unconsciously gave him some information concerning the members of our faith, their number, their lot, their ambitions, – but you must remember, too, that he had given some valuable information to you in return. The man may have been sincere with you from the beginning."

"No! I think neither of us were sincere. The memory of it all is painful; and I regret exceedingly of having had to play the part of the coquette."

A great silence stole upon them. He looked out over the river at the wavelets dancing gleefully in the sunlight, as they ran downstream with the current as if anxious to outstrip it to the sea. She grew tired of the little flowers and looked about to gather others. Presently she bethought herself and took from her bodice what appeared to be a golden locket. Stephen, attracted by her emotion, saw the trinket at once, its bright yellow frame glistening in the sun.

"Have you ever seen this?" she asked as she looked at it intently.

He extended his hand in anticipation. She gave it to him.

"Beautiful!" he exclaimed. "How long have you had this?"

"About a year," she replied nonchalantly, and clasped her hands about her knees.

He leaned forward and continued to study it for the longest time. He held it near to him and then at arm's length. Then he looked at her.

"It is beautiful," he repeated. "It is a wonderful likeness, and yet I should say that it does not half express the winsomeness of your countenance." He smiled generously at her blushes as he returned it to her.

"It was given me by John Anderson," she declared.

"It is a treasure. And it is richly set."

"He painted it himself and brought it to me after that night at Peggy's."

"I always said that he possessed extraordinary talents. I should keep that as a commemoration of your daring enterprise."

"Never. I purpose to destroy all memory of him."

"You have lost nothing, and have gained what books cannot unfold. Observation and experience are the prime educators."

"But exceedingly severe."

"Come," said Stephen. "Let us not allude to him again. It grieves you. He has passed from your life forever."

"Forever!" she repeated.

And as if by a mighty effort she drew back her arm and flung the miniature far from her in the direction of the river. On a sudden there was a splash, a gulp of the waters, and a little commotion as they hurriedly came together and folded over their prey.

"Marjorie!" he shouted making an attempt to restrain her. It was too late.

"What have you done?" he asked.

She displayed her empty hands and laughed.

"Forever!" she repeated, opening her arms with a telling gesture. "I never should have accepted it, but I was strangely fascinated by it, I suppose."

For the moment neither spoke; he felt as if he could not speak; and she looked like a child, her cheeks aglow with the exertion, and her eyes alight with merriment. Stephen looked intently at her and as she perceived his look, a very curious change came across her face. He saw it at once, although he did not think of it until afterwards.

"Marjorie," he said as he moved nearer to her and slipped his arm very gently about her. "You must have known for the longest time, from my actions, from my incessant attentions, from my words, the extent of my feeling for you. It were idle of me to attempt to give expression to it. It cannot be explained. It must be perceived; and you, undoubtedly, have perceived it."

There was no response. She remained passive, her eyes on the ground, scarcely realizing what he was saying.

"I think you know what I am going to say. I am very fond of you. But you must have felt more; some hidden voice must have whispered often to you that I love you."

He drew her to him and raised both her hands to his lips.

She remonstrated.

"Stephen!" she said.

He drew back sadly. She became silent, her head lowered, her eyes downcast, intent upon the hands in her lap. With her fingers she rubbed away the caress. She was thinking rapidly, yet her face betrayed no visible emotion, whether of joy, or surprise, or resentment. Only her cheek danced with a ray of sunshine, a stolen reflection from the joyous waves.

"Marjorie," he said gently, "please forgive me. I meant no harm."

She made a little movement as if to speak.

"I had to tell you," he continued. "I thought you understood."

She buried her face in her hands; her frame shook violently. Stephen was confused a little; for he thought that she had taken offense. He attempted to reassure her.

"Marjorie. Please… I give you my word I shall never mention this subject again. I am sorry, very sorry."

She dried her eyes and looked at her handkerchief. Then she stood up.

"Come, let us go," he said after he had assisted her.

They walked together towards the boat.

CHAPTER II

I

It has been said with more truth than poetic fancy that the descent to Avernus is easy. It may be said, too, with equal assurance, that once General Arnold had committed himself to treachery and perfidy, his story becomes sickening, and in the judgment of his countrymen, devoid of no element of horror whether in its foul beginnings or in its wretched end. Once his mind had been definitely committed to the treacherous purpose, which loomed like a beacon light before him in the shaping of his destiny, his descent to the depths of degradation was rapid and fatal. The court-martial, together with its subsequent reprimand, had been accepted by him with the greatest animosity. From that hour his thirst for vengeance knew no restraint. One thing alone was necessary to his evil plans: he must secure an important command in the Continental Army.

Some time before he had asked for a change of post, or at least for a grant of land with permission to retire to private life, but this was under the inspiration of a motive of an entirely different nature. Now he had specifically asked for a command in the army, adding that his leg was quite healed and that he was fit physically for field duty. In entering this demand, he was actuated by a different motive – the motive of George Monk, the Duke of Albemarle, the Commander-in-chief of the forces of three kingdoms.

It is true that Washington had been devoted to him and remained faithful to him until the very end. To reprimand his favorite General was a painful duty. But it was performed with delicate and genuine tenderness. His Excellency had promised to do whatever lay within his power to enable his beloved General to recover the esteem of his fellow-men and he was glad to furnish him with every opportunity of effecting real and lasting service. He wrote him at once offering him leave of absence. Congress then ordered "That the sum of $25,000 be advanced to Major General Arnold on account of his pay." Finally a general order was issued by the Commander-in-chief himself appointing General Arnold Commander of the Right Wing of the American Army. The restoration so long awaited was at length achieved.

Arnold at once began to make preparations for his departure from the city. His privateering ventures had been cleared up, but with profits barely sufficient to meet his debts. Mount Pleasant, his sole possession, had already been settled on his wife. His tenure of office had been ended some time before, and whatever documents were destined for preservation had been put in order pending the arrival of his successor.

The plan for his defection had been evolved by him with elaborate detail. Never had the time been more opportune for the execution of a piece of business so nefarious. The country was without what could be called a stable form of government. It was deprived of any recognized means of exchange because of the total depreciation of the Continental currency. The British had obtained possession of the great city of New York and were threatening to overrun the country south of the Susquehanna. Newport was menaced and the entire British fleet was prepared to move up the Hudson where, at West Point, one poorly equipped garrison interposed between them and the forces of General Carleton, which were coming down from Canada. Washington was attempting to defend Philadelphia and watch Clinton closely from the heights of Morristown, while he threatened the position of the enemy in New York from West Point. In all the American Commander had no more than four thousand men, many of whom were raw recruits, mere boys, whose services had been procured for nine months for fifteen hundred dollars each. Georgia and the Carolinas were entirely reduced and it was only a question of time before the junction of the two armies might be effected.

Clinton was to attack West Point at once, in order to break down the one barrier which stood between his own army and the Canadian. Learning, however, of the rapid progress of events on the American side and more especially of the proposed defection of General Arnold, he suddenly changed his plan. He determined to attack Washington as soon as Arnold had been placed in command of the right wing of the main army. The latter was to suffer the attack to be made, but at the psychological moment he was to desert his Commander-in-chief in the field, and so effect the total destruction of the entire force.

This was the plan which was being turned over in his mind as he sat on this June afternoon in the great room of his mansion. He was again clad in his American uniform and looked the warrior of old in his blue and buff and gold. Care had marked his countenance with her heavy hand, however, and had left deep furrows across his forehead and down the sides of his mouth. His eyes, too, had lost their old-time flash and vivacity, his movements were more sluggish, his step more halting. The trials of the past year had left their visible tracings on him.

He sat and stroked his chin, and deliberated. In his hand he held a letter, a letter without date or address or salutation. It had been brought to him that day by messenger from the city. He understood it perfectly.

He looked at it again.

"Knyphausen is in New Jersey," it read, "but, understanding Arnold is about to command the American Army in the field, Clinton will attack Washington at once. The bearer may be trusted.

"Anderson."II

"It is either Westminster Abbey for me or the gallows," he remarked to his wife that evening when they were quite alone.

"You have no apprehensions, I hope."

"There's many a slip – " he quoted.

"Come! Be an optimist. You have set your heart on it. So be brave."

"I have never lacked courage. At Saratoga while that scapegoat Gates sulked in his tent, I burst from the camp on my big brown horse and rode like a madman to the head of Larned's brigade, my old command, and we took the hill. Fear? I never knew what the word meant. Dashing back to the center, I galloped up and down before the line. We charged twice, and the enemy broke and fled. Then I turned to the left and ordered West and Livingston with Morgan's corps to make a general assault along the line. Here we took the key to the enemy's position and there was nothing for them to do but to retreat. At the same instant one bullet killed my good brown horse under me and another entered my leg. But the battle had been won."

"Never mind, my dear, the world yet lies before you."

"I won the war for them, damn 'em, in a single battle, and single-handed. Lord North knew it. The Rockingham Whigs, with Burke as their leader, knew it and were ready to concede independence, having been convinced that conciliation was no longer practicable or possible. Richmond urged the impossibility of final conquest, and even Gibbon agreed that the American colonies had been lost. I accomplished all that, I tell you, and I received – what? – a dead horse and a wounded leg."

There was a flash of the old-time general, but only a flash. It was evident that he was tiring easily. His old-time stamina had abandoned him.

"Why do you so excite yourself?" Peggy cautioned him. "The veins are bulging out on your forehead."

"When I think of it, it galls me. But I shall have my revenge," he gloated maliciously. "Clinton is going to attack Washington as soon as I have taken over my command. I shall outrival Albemarle yet."

"We may as well prepare to leave, then."

"There is no need of your immediate departure. You are not supposed to be acquainted with my designs. You must remain here. Later you can join me."

"But you are going at once?"

"Yes, I shall leave very soon now. Let me see." He paused to think. "It is over a week now since I was appointed. The appointment was to take effect immediately. I should report for duty at once."

"And I shall meet you – "

"In New York, very probably. It is too early yet to arrange for that. You will know where I am stationed and can remain here until I send for you."

While they were still engaged in conversation, a sound became very audible as of a horseman ascending the driveway. A summons at the door announced a courier from the Commander-in-chief to Major General Arnold. The latter presented himself and received a packet on which had been stamped the seal of official business. He took the document and withdrew.