The Loyalist

Neither of the two spoke for a moment.

She wondered if she were imprudent. While she had not known this man before this evening, still she knew of him as the one who took part in the disturbance at the Coffee House.

He seemed unusually attentive to her, although not unpleasantly so, and innocently enough the question presented itself to her as to the import of his motives. He had sought no information nor did he disclose any concerning himself, for at no time did their conversation arise to any plane above the commonplace. Yet she was willing to see him again and to discover, if possible, the true state of his mind.

Stephen, she knew, would approve of her action; not only because of the personal satisfaction which might be derived therefrom, but also because of the possibilities which such a meeting might unfold. That Anderson was prompted by some ulterior motive and that he was not attracted so much by her charms as by the desire of seeking some advantage, she was keen enough to sense. Just what this quest might lead to could not be fathomed, yet it presented at all hazards a situation worthy of more than a passing notice.

She mistrusted General Arnold, a mere opinion it was true, for she possessed no evidence to warrant even a suspicion, yet something about the man created within her heart a great want of confidence and reliance. He was supremely overbearing and unusually sensitive. This, together with his vaulting ambition and love of display, – traits which even the merest novice could not fail to observe, – might render him capable of the most brilliant achievements, such as his exploits before the walls of Quebec and on the field of Saratoga, or of unwise and wholly irresponsible actions, of some of which, although of minor consequence, he had been guilty during the past few months. He disliked her form of religious worship, and she strongly suspected this was the reason he so openly opposed the alliance with the French. She regarded this prejudice as a sad misfortune in a man of authority. His judgments were liable to be clouded and unfair.

She knew Peggy like a book and she could easily imagine the influence such a girl could exert, as a wife, on a man so constituted. Peggy's social ambition and her marked passion for display and domination, traits no less apparent in her than in her mother, would lead her to view the overtures of her impetuous suitor with favor, notwithstanding the fact that he was almost double her own age. As his wife she would attain a social prestige. She was a Tory at heart, and he evidenced at sundry times the same inclinations. She was a Quaker, while he belonged to the religion of His Majesty, the King; nevertheless, both agreed in this, that the miserable Papists were an ambitious and crafty lot, who were bent on obtaining an early and complete mastery over this country. The pair were well mated in many respects, thought Marjorie, the disparity in their ages was all that would render the match at all irregular, although Peggy's more resolute will and intense ambition would make her the dominant member of the alliance. Little as the General suspected it, Marjorie thought, he was slowly, though surely, being encircled in the web which Peggy and her artful mother were industriously spinning about him.

III

Marjorie and Anderson sat conversing long and earnestly. Several dances were announced and engaged in, with little or no manifest attention on their part, so engrossed were they in the matter of more serious import. At length they deserted their vantage ground for the more open and crowded room, pausing before Peggy and the General, who were sheltered near the entrance.

"Heigho, John!" exclaimed His Excellency upon their approach, "what strange absconding is this? Have a care, my boy, lest you have to answer to Captain Meagher."

Marjorie felt the gaze of the group full upon her. She flushed a little.

"Little or no danger, nor cause alleged," she laughed.

"Captain Meagher!" recollected Anderson, "does he excel?"

"I scarce know," replied Marjorie. "I have met him not over thrice in my life."

"Once is quite sufficient," said the General. "First impressions often endure. But stay. Draw your chairs. I was only saying that I may be required to leave here shortly."

"You have been transferred?" asked Marjorie.

"No! But I have written to Washington begging for a command in the navy. My wounds are in a fair way and less painful than usual, though there is little prospect of my being able to be in the field for a considerable time."

They sat down as requested, opposite Peggy and the General.

"But, General, have you not taken us into your consideration?" asked Anderson.

"I have, yet the criticism is becoming unendurable. Of course you have heard that matters have already become strained between the civil government and myself. Only last week my head aide-de-camp sent for a barber who was attached to a neighboring regiment, using as a messenger the orderly whom I had stationed at the door. For this trifling order there has been aroused a hornet's nest."

"Wherein lay the fault?" asked Marjorie.

"In this. It appears from a letter which I have already received from the father of the sergeant (Matlack is his name, to be exact) that the boy was hurt by the order itself and the manner of it, and as a freeman would not submit to such an indignity as to summon a barber for the aide of a commanding officer. We have a proud, stubborn people to rule, who are no more fitted for self-government than the Irish – "

He stopped short.

Marjorie bit her lip. "I wish, General, you would withdraw your comparison. It is painful to me."

"I am sorry, Mistress Allison. As a matter of fact I hardly knew what I had said. I do withdraw it."

"Thank you so much."

Then he went on.

"These Americans are not only ungrateful, but stupidly arrogant. What comparison can be drawn between this dullard, Matlack, whose feelings as a citizen were hurt by an order of an aide-de-camp, and I, when I was obliged to serve a whole campaign under the command of a gentleman who was not known as a soldier until I had been some time a brigadier. My feelings had to be sacrificed to the interest of my country. Does not the fool know that I became a soldier and bear the marks upon me, to vindicate the rights of citizens?"

He talked rapidly, yet impassionately. It was plain, however, that he was seriously annoyed over the turn of events, on which subject he conversed with his whole being. He made gestures with violence. His face became livid. His attitude was menacing.

"On my arrival here, my very first act was condemned. It became my duty, because of sealed orders from the Commander-in-chief, who enclosed a resolution adopted by Congress, to close the shops. From the day, censure was directed against me. I was not the instigator of it. Yet I was all to blame."

He sat up with his hands on his knees, looking fiercely into the next room.

"I would not feel so bitter, your Excellency," volunteered Anderson. "Military orders, however necessary, always seem oppressive to civilians and shopkeepers."

"I have labored well for the cause, and my reward has been this. I took Ticonderoga, although Allen got the credit for it. I would have taken Canada, if Congress had not blundered. I saved Lake Champlain with my flotilla, – a fleet that lived to no better purpose nor died more gloriously, – and for this I got no promotion, nor did I expect one. I won at Ridgefield and received a Major-Generalship, only to find myself outranked by five others. At Saratoga I was without a command, yet I succeeded in defeating an army. For that service I was accused of being drunk by the general in command, who, for his service, received a gold medal with a vote of thanks from Congress, while I – well, the people gave me their applause; Congress gave me a horse, but what I prize more than all, – these sword knots," he took hold of them as he spoke, "a personal offering from the Commander-in-chief. I gave my all. I received a few empty honors and the ingratitude of a jealous people."

He paused.

"General," began Marjorie, "you know the people still worship you and they do want you for their popular leader."

"I know differently," he snapped back. "I have already petitioned Congress for a grant of land in western New York, where I intend to lead the kind of life led by my friend Schuyler in Livingston, or the Van Renssalaers and other country gentlemen. My ambition now is to be a good citizen, for I intend never to draw a sword on the American side."

He again grew silent.

Whether he was sincere in his remarks, and his manner of expression seemingly revealed no other disposition of mind, or was swayed simply by some unfounded antipathy which caused the image of his aversion to become a sort of hallucination, Marjorie could not decide. She knew him to be impulsive and irrepressible, a man who, because of his deficiency in breadth, scope of intelligence, and strong moral convictions, invariably formed his opinions in public matter on his personal feelings. He was a man of moods, admirably suited withal for a command in the field where bluntness and abruptness of manner could cause him to rise to an emergency, but wholly unfitted for this reason for a diplomatic office where the utmost delicacy of tact and nicety of decision are habitually required.

She knew, moreover, that he ever bore a fierce grudge towards Congress for the slights which it had put upon him, and that this intense feeling, together with his indomitable self-will, had brought him into conflict with the established civil authority. He was Military Governor of the city and adjacent countryside, yet there existed an Executive Council of Pennsylvania for the care of the state, and the line of demarcation between the two powers never had been clearly drawn. Accordingly there soon arose many occasions for dispute, which a more even-tempered man would have had the foresight to avoid. His point of view was narrow, not only in affairs civil and political, but it must be said, in social and religious as well. Of all commanders, he was the most unsuited for the task.

Furthermore she knew that he was becoming decidedly more unpopular each day, not only because of the extravagance in his manner of living, but also because of his too frequent association with the Tory element of the city. While the British had held the city many of the more aristocratic inhabitants had given them active aid and encouragement, much to the displeasure of the more loyal though less important lower class. Consequently when the days of the evacuation had come and the city had settled down once again to its former style of living, many of the Tory element were compelled to leave town while those who had remained behind were practically proscribed. Small wonder was it that indignation ran riot when the first Military Governor openly cast his lot with the enemies of the cause and consorted with them freely and frequently.

It was entirely possible that he would abide by his decision to resign all public office and retire to private life, notwithstanding the fact that he already had at this same moment despatched a letter to General Washington requesting a command in the navy. But she read him differently and found herself surprised to learn of his intended withdrawal, for his very nature seemed to indicate that he would fight his cause to the bitter end, and that end one of personal satisfaction and revenge.

Several of the guests prepared to depart. The little group disbanded as Peggy made her way to their side.

Marjorie and John Anderson lost each other for the first time in the mêlée which ensued.

IV

"Perhaps I ought to return," Marjorie muttered to herself, now that she was quite alone. "I am sure that he dropped something."

And she began to retrace her steps.

She felt positive that she saw General Arnold accidentally dislodge what appeared to be a folded note from his belt when he took hold of the sword knots in the course of his conversation. Very likely it was a report of some nature, which had been hurriedly thrust into his belt during some more preoccupied moment. At any rate it might be safer in her hands than to be left to some less interested person. She would investigate at any rate and resolve her doubts.

Sure enough, there it was. Just behind the armchair in which he had been seated but a few moments before. None of the others had observed it, she thought, for she alone was in a position, a little to his left, to notice it, when it had become loosed.

She picked it up and regarded it carelessly, nervously, peering the while into the great room beyond to discover, if possible, an eye-witness to her secret. From its appearance it was no more than a friendly communication written on conventional letter paper. It was unsealed, or rather the seal had been broken and from the wrinkled condition of the paper gave evidence of not a little handling. It belonged to Peggy. There was no doubt about that, for there was her name in heavy bold script on the outside.

She balanced it in her hand, weighing, at the same time, within her mind, one or two possibilities. She might read it and then, if the matter required it, return it immediately to His Excellency with an explanation. Yet it would smack of dishonor to read the private correspondence of another without a sufficiently grave reason. It belonged to Peggy, who, in all probability, had been acquainting the General with its contents as Mr. Anderson and herself intruded upon the scene. She therefore resolved to return it unread.

Hastily folding it, she stuck it into her bodice, and made her way into the room where she became lost among the guests. There would be time enough when the formalities of the departure were over, when Peggy was less occupied, to hand it her. She would wait at any rate until later in the evening.

CHAPTER VIII

I

But she did not return the paper. For with the commotion of the guests in the several orders of their going, a serious business of felicitation and devoir was demanded alongside of which all other matters only served as distractions. Consequently, the note once placed within her bodice, all thought of it vanished for the remainder of the evening.

Only when she had returned home that night, fatigued and almost disgusted with the perfunctory performances of the evening, did she discover it, and then not until she was about to remove the garment within whose folds it lay concealed. It fell to the ground; she stooped to pick it up.

"Oh, dear! I quite forgot it. I must attend to it the first thing in the morning."

And she placed it on the dresser where it could not escape her eye. Then she retired.

But she did not sleep. There she lay wide awake tossing nervously to and fro. She tried to close her eyes only to find them wandering about the room in the obscure dimness, focusing themselves now on the old mahogany dresser, now on the little prie-Dieu against the inner wall with the small ivory crucifix outlined faintly above it, now on the chintz hangings that covered the window. She could hear her heart, pounding its great weight of bitterness against the pillow; and as she listened she thought of Stephen's arrest and of its thousand and one horrible consequences. She tried to congratulate herself on her sweet serenity and the serenity only mocked her and anticipation loomed as fiercely as before.

The next she knew was a quiet awakening, as if her mother's hand had been put gently on her arm. Outside ten thousand light leaves shivered gently and the birds were calling to one another in melodious tones. This was her first glimpse of the day and it sent her suddenly to her knees.

Stephen came late that afternoon. He had not been expected; yet she was happy because he came. She had done little that day; had not left the house, nor dressed for the occasion. The note was where she had left it, and all reference to it buried with her thoughts of the evening.

"I cannot yet tell how it has been decided. They went into executive session at once."

"But… Surely… They could not find you guilty?"

"Oh, well."

"Please… Won't you tell me?"

"There is little to tell. It was very brief."

He could not become enthusiastic.

"Then you were put to trial?" she asked with an apprehension uncertain in quality.

"Yes."

"Go on. Tell me."

He was silent. He desired to withhold nothing from her, yet he could not find the words he wanted.

"What happened?" She was persistent.

"Well… I don't know… I soured on the whole proceeding. The court-martial met, the Regimental Court Martial, with three members. This was permissible. They began, reading the charge as preferred by Colonel Forrest, which was to the effect that I had been guilty of striking my superior officer, Colonel Forrest, by attempting to choke him. To this was added the accusation of abusive, threatening language as well as a threat of murder. I, of course, pleaded not guilty; nor did I prepare any defense. The affair was so trivial that I was surprised that it ever had been brought to trial."

"How long did the proceedings last?"

"They were very brief. Several witnesses were examined, the chief one being Mr. Anderson."

"I know him," remarked Marjorie.

"You know him?"

"I met him last evening at Shippens'."

"Did he say aught about me?"

"Not a word."

"Well, he appeared against me. After a few more preliminary questions I was put on the stand in my own defense. I told briefly the circumstances which led to the incident (I would not call it an assault, for I continually maintained it to be of a trivial nature and worthy only of an explanation). I told how the Colonel had used certain derogatory remarks against the faith that I believed and practiced, which occasioned a violent argument. This, I think, was the great mistake I made, for it appeared to make an unfavorable impression upon the Court. In this respect they were unquestionably on the side of Forrest. Then I related the remark incident to my action, and announced that I would repeat the deed under similar circumstances were the same disrespectful language directed against the Commander-in-chief. This, I fear, made little impression either since I was already attached to the staff of General Washington. And a jealous rival general was about to decide my guilt. That ended it. I was excused and the Court adjourned."

He paused.

"For these reasons I have serious misgivings as to my fate."

"What can happen to you?"

"I do not know. It may result in a suspension, and it may result in a verdict of 'not guilty.'"

"Will you know very soon?"

"I shall be summoned before them."

Neither spoke for a time.

"Do you know," observed Marjorie, "I greatly mistrust General Arnold and I fear that he already has decided against you."

"What causes you to say that?"

"Well … I don't know … I just think it. While listening to him last evening I drew that impression."

"Did he say anything against us?"

"He is enraged at Congress and he has long felt persecuted and insulted by the people. He desires a command in the navy and has already written Washington to that effect; and again he would petition Congress for a grant of land in New York where he would retire to private life, for he vows he never will again draw sword on the American side."

"Did he say this?" asked Stephen.

"He did."

"Do you think that he was sincere?"

"I really do. He talked with all the earnestness of a man of conviction. Somehow or other I greatly mistrust him. And he is extremely bigoted."

"I rather suspect this, although I have had no proofs of it. If he is, it will out very soon."

"And you may be assured, too, that he will have an able adjutant in Peggy. She is his counterpart in every particular."

He looked at her as she spoke, and was amazed by the excitement in her face. She talked excitedly; her eyes, those large vivacious brown eyes that looked out of her pretty oval face, were alight, and her face had gone pale.

"I was interested in them last evening and with the apparent zeal displayed by Peggy's mother in favor of the match. I would not be surprised to hear of an announcement from that source at any time."

"Has it reached that stage?"

"Most assuredly! I decided that they already are on terms of intimacy where secrets now obtain a common value."

"You think that?"

"Well… I do… Yes. I know, for instance that he had a letter in his possession which was addressed to her, which letter had its origin in New York."

"How came he by it?"

"She must have given it to him. I have it now."

"You have it?"

He sat up very much surprised.

"Where did you get it?"

"I found it."

"Did you read it?"

"No."

She smiled at him, and at his great perplexity over the apparent mystery.

And then she told him of the little party; of herself and Mr. Anderson, and their intrusion upon General Arnold and Peggy; of their conversation and the falling of the note; of her subsequent return for it together with the placing of it within her bodice and the state of temporary oblivion into which the incident finally had lapsed.

"You have that letter now?" he asked with no attempt to conceal his anxiety.

"Yes. Upstairs."

"May I see it? Really I would not ask this did I not think it quite important."

"Very well."

She left to fetch it.

"Who is this man, Anderson?" Stephen asked upon her return. "Do you know him?"

"No. But he is very engaging. He was my partner during the evening."

She did not deem it wise to tell him everything, at least not at this time.

"How long have you known him?" he inquired impatiently.

She smiled sweetly at him.

"Since last night," was the brief response.

"Where did he come from?"

"I scarce know. You yourself mentioned his name for the first time to me. I was greatly surprised when presented to him last night."

"Did he come with General Arnold's party, or is he a friend of Peggy's?"

"I don't think Peggy knew him before, although she may have met him with some of the officers before last evening. I should imagine from what you already know that he is acquainted with the Governor's party and through them received an invitation to be present.

"Did he say aught of himself?"

"Scarcely a thing. He has not been a resident of the city for any length of time, but where he originated, or what he purposes, I did not learn. I rather like him. He is well-mannered, refined and richly talented."

"I sensed immediately that he was endowed with engaging personal qualities, and gifted with more than ordinary abilities," Stephen commented. "I have yet to learn his history, which is one of my duties, notwithstanding the unfortunate state of affairs which has lately come to pass."

He stopped and took the letter which she held out to him. He opened it and read it carefully. Then he deliberately read it again.

"You say no one knows of this?"

"I am quite sure. Certainly no one saw me find it, although I am not certain that I alone saw it fall."

"You are sure that it was in the Governor's possession?"

"Quite. I saw it distinctly in his belt. I saw it fall to the ground when he caught hold of the sword knots."

He leaned forward and reflected for a moment with his eyes intent on the note which he held opened before him. Suddenly he sat back in his chair and looked straight at her.

"Marjorie," he said, "you promised to be of whatever assistance you could. Do you recall that promise?"

"Very well."

"Will you lend your assistance to me now?"

She hesitated, wondering to what extent the demand might be made.

"Are you unwilling?" he asked, for he perceived her timid misgiving.

"No. What is it you want me to do?"

"Simply this. Let me have this note."

She deliberated.

"Would not that be unfair to Peggy?"

She feared that her sense of justice was being violated.

"She does not know that you have it."

"But I mean to tell her."

"Please!.. Well!.. Well!.. Need you do that immediately? Could you not let me have it for a few days? I shall return it to you. You can then take it to her."

"You will let no one see it?"

"Absolutely!"

"Very well. And you will return it to me?"

"I promise."

And so it was agreed that Stephen should take the letter with him, which he promised to return together with the earliest news of the result of his court-martial.