"Do you consider that upright?"

"Do not misunderstand me. I do not form a rash judgment of every person I meet. As a matter of fact I arrive at no judgment at all. I defer judgment until after the investigation, and I beware of him until this investigation has been completed."

"You are then obliged to live in a world of suspicion."

"No. Rather in a world of security. How often has the knave paraded under the banner of innocence! The greatest thieves wear golden chains."

"I could not live after such manner."

She became impatient.

"Were you thrown into daily relation with the world you would soon learn the art of discrimination. The trusty sentinel lives a life of suspicion."

At length a truce was silently proclaimed. Composure reigned. The unpleasant episode had to all appearances been obliterated from their minds. There was even a touch of that old humor dancing in her eyes.

"Some one has said," she observed, "that 'suspicion is the poison of friendship.'"

"And a Latin proverb runs, 'Be on such terms with your friend as if you knew he may one day become your enemy.' Friendship, I realize, is precious and gained only after long days of probation. The tough fibers of the heart const.i.tute its essence, not the soft texture of favors and dreams. We do not possess the friends we imagine, for the world is self-centered."

"Have you no friends?"

Now she smiled for the second time, but it was only a smile of humor about the corners of her mouth.

"Only those before whom I may be sincere."

He was serious, inclined to a.n.a.lysis, one might say.

"Can you expect to find sincerity in others without yourself being sincere?"

"No. But my friend possesses my other soul. I think aloud before him. It does not matter. I reveal my heart to him, share my joys, unburden my grief. There is a simplicity and a wholesomeness about it all. We are mutually sincere."

"Your test is severe."

"But its fruits imperishable."

"I cannot adopt your method," was the deliberate reply as she began to gather together her ball and needles.

"Let's leave it at that."

And they left it.

V

Long after he had gone she sat there until it was well into the evening, until the stars began to blink and nod and wrap themselves in the great cloak of the night, as they kept a silent vigil over the subdued silence which had settled down upon the vast earth and herself.

The longer she sat and considered, the more melancholy did she become.

Stephen was displeased with her conduct and made no effort to conceal it, inflicting only the greater wound by his ambiguous and incisive remarks. His apparent unconcern and indifference of manner frightened her, and she saw, or she thought she saw a sudden deprivation of that esteem with which she was vain enough to presuppose he was wont to regard her. And yet he was mistaken, greatly mistaken. Furthermore, he was unfair to himself and unjust to her in the misinterpretation of her behavior. His displeasure pained her beyond endurance.

In her relations with John Anderson, she had been genuinely sincere both with herself and with Stephen. The latter had asked her to help him; and this she was trying to do in her own way. That there was something suspicious about Anderson, she knew; but whether the cause lay in his manner of action or in the possession of doc.u.mentary evidence, she could not so much as conjecture. What more apt method could be employed than to a.s.sociate with him in the hope that at some time or other important information might be imparted to her? She did not intend to play the part of the spy; still if that was the role in which she hoped to find Anderson, she was ready to a.s.sume a similar role for the very purpose of outwitting him and defeating him on his own ground. If Stephen would only trust her. Oh, dear! And she wrung her hands in abject despair.

Little by little her experiences of the summer just past came before her with a vividness which her experience with Stephen served only to intensify. First, there was the night of the Governor's Ball. He had come into her life there, filling a vacancy not realized before.

Hitherto, she had been quite content in the company of almost any one, and especially with those of the sterner s.e.x. But with the advent of this dashing young officer she began to experience a set of new sensations. The incompleteness of her life was brought before her.

He seemed to perfect her being, sharing her pleasures, lessening her woes, consoling her heart. Still, there was one office that he had failed to perform; he was not obsequious. Not that he was ever wanting in attention and deferential courtesy, or that he ever failed to betray a warmth of feeling or a generous devotion; but his manner was prosaic, thoroughly practical both in action and in expression. He spoke his thoughts directly and forcibly. He was never enthusiastic, never demonstrative, never warm or impulsive, but definite, well-ordered, positive. It was quite true that he was capable of bestowing service to the point of heroism when the occasion required, but such a quality was not spontaneous, because his heart, while intensely sympathetic, appeared cold and absolutely opposed to any sort of outburst. He was too prudent, too wise, too thoughtful, it seemed, acting only when sure of his ground, turning aside from all obstacles liable to irritate or confuse him.

Then John Anderson came and initiated her into a newer world. He appeared to worship her, and tried to make her feel his devotion in his every act. He was gallant, dignified, charming, lavishing attention upon her to the point of prodigality. He said things which were pleasant to hear, and equally as pleasant to remember. What girl would not be attracted by such engaging personal qualities; but Marjorie decided that he was too much of the Prince Charming whose gentle arts proved to be his sole weapons for the major encounters of life.

Hence she was not fascinated by his soft accomplishments. He interested her, but she readily perceived that there was not in him that real depth which she had found in Stephen. True, he made her feel more like a superior being than as a mere equal; he yielded ever to her slightest whim, and did not discomfort her with weighty arguments. But her ac.u.men was such that she was enabled to penetrate the gloss and appraise the man at his true value. The years spent at her mother's knee, the numberless hours in her father's shop where she came in contact with many men, her own temperament, prudent by nature, enabled her to perceive at a glance the contrast between a man of great and n.o.ble heart clothed in severe garments, and the charlatan garbed in the bright finery of festal dress.

And now the boomerang against which she was defending herself struck her from a most unexpected angle. That Stephen should misunderstand her motives was preposterous; yet there was no other inference to be drawn from the tone of his conversation during the few distressful minutes of his last visit. In all probability, he had gone away laboring under the hateful impression that she was untrue, that she had permitted her heart to be taken captive by the first knight errant who had entered the lists. And what was more, the subject would never again be alluded to.

He had promised that; and she knew that he was absolute in his determinations. His groundless displeasure disconcerted her greatly.

Whether it became her to take the initiative in the healing of the breach which she felt growing wide between them, or simply to await the development of the course of action she had chosen to pursue, now became a problem to her perplexed mind. So much depended upon the view he would take of the whole situation that it was necessary for him to understand from the very beginning. She would write him. But, no! That might be premature. She would wait and tell him, so great was her a.s.surance that all would be well. She would tell him of her great and impa.s.sionate desire to be of a.s.sistance to him; she would put into words her a.n.a.lysis of this man's character, this man about whom he himself had first cast the veil of suspicion; she would relate her experience with him. She smiled to herself as she contemplated how pleased he would be once the frown of bewilderment had disappeared from his countenance.

"Marjorie! Dost know the hour is late?"

"Yes, Mother! I am coming directly."

It was late, though she scarce knew it. Gathering her things, she brought the chairs into the house.

CHAPTER IV

I

Week after week sped by, summer ripened into fall, and fall faded into winter. All was monotony: the bleak winter season, the shorter days, the longer evenings, the city settling down into a period of seclusion and social inaction. There would be little of gayety this year. No foreign visitors would be entertained by the townsfolk. There would be no Mischienza to look forward to. It would be a lonely winter for the fashionable element, with no solemn functions, with no weekly dancing a.s.semblies, with no amateur theatricals to rehea.r.s.e. Indeed were it not for the approaching marriage of Peggy Shippen to the Military Governor, Philadelphia would languish for want of zest and excitement.

The wedding took place at the home of the bride on Fourth Street. The elite of the city, for the most part Tories, were in attendance. Mrs.

Anne Willing Morris, Mrs. Bingham--all the leaders were there. So were Marjorie, John Anderson, Stephen, the Chews and Miss Franks from New York. The reception was brilliant, eclipsing anything of its kind in the history of the social life of the city, for Mrs. Shippen had vowed that the affair would establish her definitely and for all time the leader of the fashionable set of the town.

The center of attraction was of course Peggy; and she carried herself well, enduring the trying ordeal with grace and composure. And if one were to judge by the number and the quality of the gifts which loaded down one whole room, or by the throng which filled the house to overflowing, or by the motley crowd which surged without, impatient for one last look at the bride as she stepped into the splendid coach, a more popular couple was never united in matrimony. It was a great day for all concerned, and none was more happy nor more radiant than Peggy as she sat back in the coach and looked into the face of her husband and sighed with that contentment and complacency which one experiences in the possession of a priceless gem.

Their homecoming, after the brief honeymoon, was delightful. No longer would they live in the great slate roof house on Second Street at the corner of Norris Alley, but in the more elegant old country seat in Fairmount, on the Schuylkill,--Mount Pleasant. Since Arnold had purchased this great estate and settled it immediately upon his bride, subject of course to the mortgage, its furnishings and its appointments were of her own choice and taste.

It rose majestically before them on a bluff overlooking the river, a courtly pile of colonial Georgian architecture whose bal.u.s.traded and hipped roof seemed to rear itself above the neighboring woodland, so as to command a magnificent broad view of the Schuylkill River and valley for miles around.

"There! See, General! Isn't it heavenly?"

She could not conceal her joy. Arnold looked and smiled graciously with evident satisfaction at the quiet homelike aspect of the place.

Peggy was on the stone landing almost as soon as she emerged from the coach,--eager to peep inside, anxious to sit at last in her own home.

Although she had already seen all that there was to see, and had spent many days previous to the marriage in arranging and planning the interior so as to have all in readiness for their return on this day, still she seemed to manifest a newer and a livelier joy, so pleasant and so perfect did all appeal.

"Oh, General! Isn't this just delicious?" And she threw her arms around his neck to give him a generous hug.