He has pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sive, 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 rea.s.sure 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 a.s.sisted 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 a.s.surance, 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 doc.u.ments 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 a.s.sault 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, d.a.m.n '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.