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Marjorie and her father were among the early arrivals on Market Street. Little by little items of information came to them as they alternately talked with their many acquaintances. Out of the many and varied accounts one or two points had stood out prominently – Arnold had attempted to surrender the fortress while Washington was lodged there in the hope that complete disaster would befall the American cause; he had completed negotiations with the British emissary; who was known as Major André, whom the people of Philadelphia associated with the person of John Anderson, a frequent visitor of the Arnolds during their stay in the city; the officer had been taken prisoner by the American forces and the papers found upon him; while Arnold and his wife had escaped to the British forces in the city of New York.
When the gayety seemed to have attained its climax, a procession began to wend its way through the howling crowd. There was no attempt at regular formation, the multitude trailing along in whatever order seemed most desirable to them. In the midst of the line of march, two gaunt figures towered aloft over the heads of the marchers, the one bearing a placard upon which was scrawled the name "Arnold the traitor," the other, "André the spy." These were carried with great acclaim several times around the city until the procession rested at the square, where amid cheers and huzzas they were publicly burned. This seemed to satisfy the crowd, for they gradually began to disperse. The hour was late and Marjorie and her father journeyed homewards, passing the watchman at the corner as he announced the hour, "Eleven o'clock and Arnold is burned."
The state bordering on frenzy into which the mob had been cast was responsible, for the most part, for the violence of the celebration, nevertheless there stood many sober and composed individuals apart from the ranks who had looked on in silent acquiescence during the riotous proceedings. Arnold had fallen to the lowest ebb of infamy and contempt so that even his past services were entirely forgotten. There was no palliation. There were no extenuating circumstances. The enormity of his crime alone mattered. His name could not be mentioned without a shudder.
Mount Pleasant was not permitted to remain idle. It soon was seized by the city authorities and rented to Baron Steuben, the disciplinarian of the American Army and the author of its first Manual of Arms. The household furniture, too, had been removed and offered for sale at public auction, while the coach and four was bought by a trader at the Coffee House. Arnold's presence in the city was now no more than a memory – a memory, indeed, but a sad one.
"He would never escape the fury of that crowd," Mr. Allison observed to his daughter as the two journeyed homewards.
"They would surely put him to death."
"If they ever lay hands on him – they might perhaps cut off his wounded leg, but the rest of him they would burn."
She considered.
"I can scarce believe it – it seems too awful."
"Well! I never could see much good in a bigot. A man with a truly broad and charitable soul has no room in him for base designs. Arnold would crucify us if he could, yet we have lived to see him repudiated by his own."
"It does seem after all that God takes care of His own. Even the sparrow does not fall to the ground."
Plainly the spirit of the evening had awakened a serious vein of thought in the two. They could take no delight in a tragedy so intimately interwoven with pity and compassion. The fate of the two principal actors, the courageous Arnold and the ambitious André, erstwhile known as Anderson, could not fail to touch their hearts. Their lot was not enviable; but it was lamentable.
"And John Anderson, too," said Marjorie, "I cannot believe it."
"When the truth is known, I am of the opinion that he will be more pitied and less condemned. Arnold was the chief actor. André a mere pawn."
"How brilliant he was! You remember his visits? The afternoon at the piano?"
"Yes. He was talented. But to what purpose?"
"I am sorry."
And so were the many.
CHAPTER VII
I
"Stephen, wilt thou take Marjorie here present for thy lawful wife, according to the rite of our Holy Mother, the Church?"
Audibly and distinctly resounded the voice of Father Farmer throughout the little church as he read from the Roman Ritual the form of the sacrament of Matrimony.
"I will," answered Stephen deliberately.
"Marjorie, wilt thou take Stephen here present for thy lawful husband, according to the rite of our Holy Mother, the Church?"
"I will," was the soft response.
The two then joined their right hands and repeated one after the other the pledge by which they took each other for man and wife; Stephen first, then Marjorie.
"I, Stephen, take thee Marjorie for my lawful wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better; for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part."
Solemnly and reverently the priest raised his right hand over them as he pronounced the blessing.
"Ego conjungo vos in matrimonium, in nomine Patris et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, Amen."
The ring having been blessed before them, Stephen placed it on Marjorie's finger saying the prescribed words, after which they awaited the prayers of the priest. Father Farmer turned to the altar and at once began the Nuptial Mass, according to the ceremony of the Catholic Church, and pronounced over them the Nuptial Blessing.
This made an end of the marriage ceremony.
It would be difficult to describe the feelings of Marjorie as she turned from the sanctuary and made her way down the aisle of the little church. Her hand lay on Stephen's arm, but it seemed to her as if she were hanging from it. She was happy; that, of course. But she thought, too, that she was extremely nervous, and the more she thought over herself, the more she felt that she appeared extremely self-conscious.
The church was quite filled with friends, yet she dared not look up to measure its capacity, but guarded her eyes with the strictest custody. The organ was playing an appropriate march which she tried to follow in her mind in order that she might thereby absorb the greater part of her attention. Stephen was with her, for she could feel him, although she was quite certain that she never laid an eye on him during the whole time. Her people were there, so were her many friends and acquaintances, and Stephen's relatives and friends as well, but these, too, were absent as far as her concentration of mind was concerned. Only one thought was uppermost in her mind and that was to leave the church as soon as possible, for she felt that every eye was focused upon her.
It had been intended that the affair should be charmingly simple, both on account of the sad and melancholy days through which the country was passing and the natural tendencies of the parties concerned to avoid all semblance of display. Their names had been published at three public masses; the Catholic Church required that. They had been married by Father Farmer with a nuptial high mass. The wedding breakfast would be served at the home of the bride. But the number of invited guests would be limited strictly to the members of the family and one or two intimate friends so as to include Jim Cadwalader and Sergeant Griffin. Furthermore there would be no honeymoon on account of the uncertainty which invariably had defined the duration of Stephen's stay in the city.
It was only when the little party, Marjorie and Stephen's sister, her maid of honor, and Stephen and Sergeant Griffin, his best man, had settled down into the coach, that Marjorie for the first time became composed. A great sigh of relief escaped from her as she sat back, her bouquet in her hand, and looked at the dispersing crowd. She could not tell yet whether she was happy or not; the excitement had not subsided enough to allow her to regain her self-possession and equanimity. Stephen was by her side. That was about all she knew, – or cared.
Stephen was in his characteristically reticent mood. Already had he observed that he would have endured another Valley Forge with greater pleasure than the ordeal of a wedding ceremony. Still he was nicely dressed for the occasion, wearing for the first time a new full dress uniform of buff and blue. The interested spectator might have discerned, too, that he wore for the first time a new insignia of rank; for he was now a Major of the Continental Army, having received that promotion, upon the recommendation of His Excellency, for distinguished service, together with a warm message of congratulation upon his approaching marriage. Nevertheless he was unmoved through it all, betraying but one concern, and that was administration to the most trivial wants of his blushing and timid bride.
It was the time of joy, of pure, unalloyed joy, yet he could not banish altogether from his mind the memories of the past two years, years crowded with events in his life and that of his beloved. There was, indeed, much to be thankful for, and notwithstanding his exceedingly great glee and the day of gladness which had dawned for him flooding his heart with exultation and complacent satisfaction, still a prayer of praise poured forth from his lips to the Giver of every best and perfect gift.
The American Revolution had unfolded a wonderful story, a story of anti-Catholicism, of persecution and prejudice which had resolved itself step by step into a state of complete freedom of action and religious liberty. The Church was at length free, free to gather her children into congregations where she might speak to them and instruct them without any fear. Now she was at liberty to fulfill her mission of winning souls to Christ. True, her children were widely scattered, a bare twenty-five thousand out of a population of about three millions, whose wants were administered to by no more than twenty-five priests. Yet out of this contemptible little body there emerged a people, honorable, respectable, and of such consequence as to deserve commendation from the First President for "the patriotic part which you took in the accomplishment of their Revolution and the establishment of your government," as well as causing to be inserted in the Constitution of the new republic the clause that "no religious test shall ever be required as a qualification for any office or public trust under the United States." There was of course much to be desired; but the foundations had been laid, and the prospect for the future was auspicious.
And so they rode through the city streets joyfully, merrily, light-heartedly. Conversation, interspersed with laughter and jocularity, literally ran riot, so impatiently did each attempt to relate what was uppermost in his or her mind. The ceremony, the music, the procession, the multitude obtained their due amount of comment, until the arrival of the coach at the door of the Allison home put an end to the session.
II
"A health, ladies and gentlemen, to the bride. May she live long and never form the acquaintanceship of sorrow!"
Stephen's father had arisen from his chair and with his goblet held before him addressed the company.
It was drunk with evident pleasure. Then Mr. Allison arose.
"To Major Meagher, that his brilliant career be only the commencement of a life of extraordinary achievement!"
This was followed by a round of applause. Stephen smiled and bowed his head, but it was plain to be seen that his father's chest had expanded more than an appreciable trifle. Marjorie was happy and whispered a word to her newly formed sister-in-law who was seated by her side. It was a jolly group who had surrounded the table, all bent on doing honor to the happy couple, but none appeared more so than Jim Cadwalader and his wife, Nancy.
"I tell you," said Jim, "they're a right fine pair."
"I am afraid, Jim, you have not forgiven me quite for excluding you from that meeting," Stephen suggested.
"I'm the proud'st man this side o' the river t' think I gave y' me clothes. Y'd never got on widout me."
There was an outburst of laughter.
"You would have been captured, had you gone in there. I saved you."
"Yes, an' the girl, there, did it. Don't ye furgit that, either. I'll tell on y'," replied Jim, nodding his head emphatically. "She got me caught."
"Jim!" Marjorie exclaimed loudly.
"Now do not lay the blame on her," Stephen cautioned with a smile. "You yourself were only too anxious to get there. You wanted to see yourself in a new uniform."
"I did, then. I was terr'bly anxious t' see meself in a red suit, wasn't I?"
The company enjoyed this exchange of repartee and laughed continually. Jim ever enjoyed the distinction of being tormented by the members of whatever gathering he was in, yet it was never known when he was powerless of providing for himself.
And so they talked far into the morning. They sat in groups of twos and threes, long after the table had been cleared, while the willing helpers, the good neighbors, plied themselves industriously out in the kitchen with the cleaning of the dishes and the restoration of the house again to its proper order. Marjorie and her mother looked in through the doorway from time to time at the progress of the work, only to be banished as quickly by the cohort of willing toilers. For once in their lives the girl and her fond mother mingled entirely with the guests and took their full measure of enjoyment with the company.
As the guests departed one after the other, leaving behind them many benedictions and choice wishes for the bride and groom, the house settled down to its accustomed quietude and uniformity with the immediate family, Jim and his wife alone remaining. Jim, like every recognized master in his own household, sat with his one leg across the other, enjoying his tobacco, while his less aristocratic helpmate took care that the kitchen affairs were given their due amount of attention. With abatement of the excitement and commotion the members of the family betook themselves upon various journeys, the father to look at his fire so as to give it, if needed, a few generous pokes; the mother, to the kitchen to add a touch here and there to the arrangement of its utensils; Marjorie to her room in order that she might once more robe herself in her plainer and more habitual apparel. The festivities were at an end and the practical things of life again asserted their stern reality.
III
At length Stephen and Marjorie were alone, alone in their own little world of fancies and dreams. They were standing by the upstairs window looking out at the little fence where they had stood together more than two years before on the afternoon of his arrest. Stephen recalled his impressions of her then, yet she was more beautiful now, he thought. She had changed her gown of white for one of pink, and as she stood there, her lips a little parted in a tiny smile, her soft cheeks heightened in color, her bright eyes looking out into the memories of the past, she seemed for all the world to Stephen like an enchanted being.
"What are you thinking of, girlie?" he asked as he stood behind her, his arm about her waist.
There was no response.
"Tell me, won't you?" he pleaded.
She continued to gaze into the roadway.
"Aren't you happy?"
"Oh! Yes… Yes… I was never so happy. I … I…"
"What is it? Please, tell me. I fear that you are disturbed over something."
She did not answer but turned and seized the lapels of his coat with both her hands. Then she raised her face to his and looked straight into his eyes.
"I was thinking how much I have really cared for you without ever knowing it."
"Is that all?" he laughed, as he folded his arms about her.
"And how unkind I have been to you all the while."
"There! There! You must not say that again. Promise me you will not so much as think it."
Again there was silence, but only for a moment.
"But I must have hurt you often. And to think that I never realized it."
"You are happy now, aren't you?"
She looked up again with only love in her eyes.
"Stephen!" she whispered.
She was lost in his embrace and felt only his breath against her cheek.
The world lived in them.
