The Loyalist

  CHAPTER III

  I

  In the meantime, Marjorie was tossing restlessly, nervously in her bed,enduring hours of disconsolate remorse and lonely desolation. She couldnot sleep. She cried her eyes wet with tears, and wiped them dry againwith her handkerchief; then stared up at the black ceiling, or gazed outthrough the small window at the faint glow in the world beyond. Hergirlish heart, lay heavy within her, distended almost to thebreaking-point with grief, a grief which had sent her early to bed toseek solitude and consolation; that solitude which alone brings reliefto a heart freighted with sorrow and woe. Now that Stephen had gone, shehad time to think over the meaning of it all, and she began toexperience the renewed agony of those terrible moments by the water'sedge. It was so awful, so frightful that her tender frame seemed toyield 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 andwrapping a mantle about her, she sat beside the window and peered intothe night. There was not a breeze to break the solemn silence, not asound to distract her from her reverie. Two black and uncanny pine treesstood like armed guards near by the corner of the house to challenge theinterloper from disturbing her meditation. Overhead the stars blinkedand glistened through the treetops in their lace of foliage and delicatebranches, and resembled for all the world an hundred diamonds set in aband of filigree work. The moon had not yet risen, and all the worldseemed to be in abject despair, bristling in horrid shapes andsights,--a fit dwelling-place for Marjorie and her grief-stricken heart.

  Stephen had gone away that afternoon, perhaps never to return. For thisshe could not reproach him, for she allowed that she had given him everyreason to feel offended. But she had hurt him, and very likely hurt himto the quick. She knew his sensitive nature and she feared theconsequence. It was that thought more than the real contrition over herfault which had overwhelmed her. Her return for his many acts ofkindness had been one of austere repulsion.

  Now she felt acutely the bitterness of it all. That she had afforded himsome encouragement, that she had cooperated in the first place to makethe setting of it all quite perfect, that she had lent him her assurancethat she was amicably disposed towards him, and that her action inregard to the miniature, while apparently innocent enough, was fraughtwith significance for Stephen in view of his intimate connections withthe events of the past two years, that after all perhaps she had beenentirely unreasonable throughout it all; these were the thoughts whichexcited, both in the truth of their reality and in the knowledge of thehopes they had alternately raised and blasted in Stephen, the bittersorrow which was the cause of her mingled pain and regret.

  What would he think of her now? What could he think? Plainly he mustconsider her a cold, austere being, devoid of all feeling andappreciation. He had given her the best that was in him and had madebold enough to appraise her of it. Sincerity was manifest in his everygesture and word, and yet she had made him feel as if his protestationshad been repugnant to her. She knew his nature, his extreme diffidencein matters of this kind, his power of resolution, and she feared thatonce having tried and failed, he was lost to her forever.

  And yet she knew that she grieved not for herself but for him. Her sternrefusal had only caused him the greater pain. Stephen would, perhaps,misunderstand as he had misunderstood her in the past and it was thethought of the vast discomfiture she had occasioned in him that stungher 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 behaviorexcept that she was a cold, ungrateful, irresolute creature who did notknow her own mind or the promptings of her own heart! She had flung himfrom her smarting and wounded, after he had summoned his entire strengthto whisper to her what she would have given worlds to hear, but whichhad only confounded and startled her by its suddenness.

  And yet she loved him. She knew it and kept repeating it over and overagain to her own self. No one before or since had struck so responsive achord from her heart strings. There had been no other ideal to which shehad shaped the pictures of her mind. Stephen was her paragon ofexcellence and to him the faculties of her soul had turned of their ownmood and temper unknown even to the workings of her intellectualconsciousness, like the natural inclination of the heliotrope before therays 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 thata deep repentance would seize hold of him on account of his rashpresumption. He would be true to his word: he would not breathe thesubject again. Nay, more, he would ever permit her to disappear from hislife as gradually as she had entered into it. This was unendurable butthe consciousness that she had caused this bitter rupture was beyond allendurance still.

  She lifted her head and stared into the black depths of the night. Allwas still except the shrill pipings of the frogs as they sounded theirdissonant notes to one another in the far-off Schuylkill meadows. They,too, were filled with thoughts of love, Marjorie thought, which they hadmade bold enough to publish in their own discordant way, and they seemedto take eminent delight in having the whole world aware of the fact thatit, too, might rejoice with them.

  If it were true that she loved him, it were equally true that he oughtto be apprised of it. There could be no love without a mutualunderstanding, for to love alone would be admiration and entirelyone-sided. Let her unfold her soul to him in order that he might takejoy for his portion ere his ardor had cooled into mere civility. For ifit were licit to love, it were more licit to express it and thisexpression should be reciprocal.

  She would tell him before it were too late. Her silence at the verymoment when she should have acted was unfortunate. Perhaps his affectionhad been killed by the blow and her protestations would be falling uponbarren 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 oneelse in the world, and she would beg him to return that she mightwhisper in his ear those very words she had been softly repeating toherself. Full repentance would take possession of her soul, and herheart would rush unrestrained to the object of its love, telling himthat she was with him always, thinking of him, praying for him, andwaiting for him. She would write him at once.

  II

  But she did not mail the letter. Hidden carefully in her room, it layall the next day. Unworthy post-chaise to bear so precious a manuscript!She would journey herself to its destination to safeguard it, were it atall possible. A thousand and one misgivings haunted her concerning thesafety of its arrival,--Stephen might have been transferred to somedistant 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 ofsome obscure tavern, the roads were infested with robbers,--horriblethoughts, too horrible to record.

  She did not know just how long it had taken her to compose it. The endof the candle had burned quite out during the process, and she laydeliberating over its contents and wondering just what else might beadded. Twice she was on the point of arising to assure herself on thestyle of her confession, but each time she changed her mind, deciding toyield to her earlier thought. The darkness seemed to envelop her infancy, and when she again opened her eyes the darkness had disappearedbefore 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 sheshould know, and she proposed to tell her all, even the very episode onthe river bank. She needed counsel, especially during these lonelymoments, and she felt that she could obtain it only by unfolding herheart unreservedly. Mother would know; in fact, she must have suspectedthe gravity of the affair. But how would she begin it? She longed for anopening, but no opening presented itself.

  The meaning of his addresses she saw, or she thought she saw. Stephenloved her; his words were very effective. Indeed, he had made no men
tionof marriage, nevertheless she sensed that his ulterior purpose had beenrevealed to her fully. Perhaps it was this consummation which caused herheart to stand suddenly still; perhaps it was the vision of the new lifewhich was opening before her. She would have to go away with him as hiswife, away from her home, away from her beloved father and mother. Thesummers would come and go and she would be far distant from her own, infar-off New York, perhaps, or some other city better adapted for thecareer of a young man of ability. They might live in Philadelphia, nearto her home, yet not in it. That would be preferable, yet the futurecould lend her no assurance. She would be his for life, and with himwould be obliged to begin a new manner of living.

  Such thoughts as these occupied her for the greater part of the day, andbefore she was really aware of it, her father had come home for theevening. 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 secretwas common between them, it was easy to discuss it together, and so shedecided that she would put it off until the morrow. Then she would tellmother, and let her mother talk it over with her father. Both then wouldadvise her.

  "Next week is going to see the greatest event in the history of theChurch in America," Marjorie heard her father remark as he placed hishat upon the rack behind the door.

  "What is it now?" inquired her mother who chanced to be in thesitting-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 havebeen invited to take part in the solemn Te Deum next Sunday. It is theanniversary of the signing of the Declaration."

  "Isn't that remarkable?"

  "It is remarkable," he repeated. "The French Ambassador has issued theinvitations and all have signified their intentions of being present.Here is one of them." Taking from his pocket a folded paper, he handedit to Marjorie. She opened it at once and read aloud,

  "Mr. Matthew Allison:--You are invited by the Minister Plenipotentiaryof France to attend the Te Deum, which will be chanted on Sunday, the4th of this month, at noon, in the new Catholic Chapel, to celebrate theanniversary 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 tocomprehend fully the meaning of it all.

  "The more one thinks of it the more strange it becomes. They brandedCharles the First a Papist because he permitted his queen, who was bornand bred a Catholic, to attend Holy Mass. Now we have our newly-formedgovernment not alone countenancing Popery, but actually participating ina supposedly pagan and idolatrous form of worship."

  "This marks the end of religious prejudice in this country," observedMarjorie. "At length all men are in all things equal, equal in the sightof God and man. Don't you think our leaders must realize this and aretaking steps to prepare the minds of the people accordingly?"

  "Yes," he replied, "and I don't know but what it is only right. We allgo to the market together, trade our goods together, rub elbowstogether, clear the land together, fight together. Why shouldn't we livetogether in peace? Intolerance and bigotry are dead and buried. We havelaid 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. "OurLoyalty 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 CaptainMeagher. The frustration and the exposure of that plot has increased ourreputation an hundredfold. Heretofore, the Catholic population had beenregarded as an insignificant element, but when the ambitions of theenemy to secure their cooperation were discovered, the value of theCatholics 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 haslearned that we have been ever true to the land of our birth, ever loyalto the country of our adoption. It has thoughtfully considered the valueof our sacrifices, and has carefully estimated our contribution to thecause of freedom. When the charter of liberty assumes a more definiteform our rights will specifically be determined. Of that I am reasonablycertain. The enemy failed to allure us from our country in its time ofneed; 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 busiedwith the turning of the buckwheat cakes, Marjorie crept to her father'sknee 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 thathe 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 shespoke.

  "I am serious. If a man told me that he was very fond of me, I wouldquestion 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 toldyou that he loved you."

  "Yes. And I told you that if he had told that to me, I would ask whatailed 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 drewher to him.

  "There! There! I know what you mean, daughter. It means that I shallhave 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 aboutit?"

  "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 forthis 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 pairof 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 youare 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 herafter we were upstairs."

  She was serious, very serious, absorbed for the most part in her storyalthough her mind was clouded with amazement at the want of surprisewhich was manifested. Her innocent mind apparently was unable for thetime being to fathom the intricacies of this plot which seemed to belaid bare to every one concerned save her own self.

  "Of course you will tell her, but you
will find that she will consent tothe 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 ofyou?"

  "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 aswell 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 andleaving him. "I shall confide in mother."

  "Remember," he cautioned her in a somewhat serious strain. "Do not askher to marry him."

  She was gone.

  The following day a letter was dispatched to the Headquarters atMorristown, New Jersey. In the meantime a very large doubt began to takeform in the mind of one little girl concerning the manner of itsreception. A thousand and one impossible situations were conceived, butthere seemed nothing to do; he must now do it all. The possibilityloomed ghost-like before her: he might never return. The wound which shehad caused still smarted and ached. He might never return. Her eyeswandered and strayed among the multitude of objects before them; herlips had forgotten their usual smile. He might fail to receive her noteand if he did he might disdain to acknowledge it. But no! He would notdo that. There was naught else to do but wait. Oh! if the moments wouldonly hurry!