III
"I should be happy to be permitted to accompany you home," Stephen whispered to her at a moment when they chanced to be alone.
"I should be happy to have you," was the soft response.
"You look well," she said to him after they had made their adieus to the Cadwaladers and begun their walk together down the street.
Her eyes twinkled, and a pretty smile stole across her face.
"I am as tired as I can be. I have endured some trying experiences."
"Can you not leave here and take a rest? I fear that you will overtax yourself."
He turned and looked seriously at her.
"Honestly?" he asked.
"Yes. I mean it. Do you know that I have allowed no day to pass without praying for you?"
"To know that, and to hear you say it is worth a series of adventures. But, really, I could not think of leaving here now; not for another fortnight at least. The moments are too critical."
"Are you still engaged in that pressing business?"
"Yes."
"For your success in that I have also prayed."
She was constant after all, he thought. Still he wondered if she could be sincere in her protestations, and at the same time remain true to Anderson. For he really believed that she had been deceived by his apparent infatuation.
"I suppose you know that Jim has been ensnared?" he asked suddenly.
"Jim? No.... I,——What has happened?"
She was genuinely surprised.
"He has enlisted in the regiment."
"Has he forsworn?"
"Not yet. But he has signed the papers of enlistment."
"I am sorry, very sorry." Then after a pause: "It was I who brought Anderson to Jim's house, you know."
"Yes. I know."
"But I must confess that I did not know the nature of his errand. I, myself, was seeking an advantage."
"No matter. It may eventually redound to our credit."
"I regret exceedingly of having been the occasion of Jim's misfortune."
Her eyes were cast down, her head bent forward as she walked in what one might characterize a meditative mood.
"I, too, am sorry. But there are others."
"Many?"
"That I do not know. Later I shall tell you."
"And why not now?"
"I cannot."
It was a troublesome situation in which the two found themselves. Here were two souls who loved each other greatly, yet without being able to arrive at a mutual understanding on the subject. They were separated by a filmy veil. The girl, naturally frank and unreserved, was intimidated by the restrained and melancholy mien of her companion. Yet she felt constrained to speak lest deception might be charged against her. Stephen, troubled in his own mind over the supposed unfavorable condition of affairs, skeptical of the affections of his erstwhile confidante, felt, too, a like necessity to be open and explain all.
So they walked for a time, he thinking, and she waiting for him to speak.
"For two reasons I cannot tell you," he went on. "First, the nature of the work is so obscure and so incomplete that I could give you no logical nor concise account of what I am doing. As a matter of fact, I, myself, am still wandering in a sort of maze. The other reason is that I have taken the greatest care to say no word in any way derogatory to the character of Mr. Anderson."
"You wouldn't do that."
"That's just it. I should not want to be the cause of your forming an opinion one way or the other concerning him. I would much prefer you to discover and to decide for yourself."
"That is charity."
"Perhaps!"
"And tact."
She peeped at him, her lips parted in a merry smile. Evidently she was in a flippant mood.
"It would be most unfair to him were I to establish a prejudice in your mind against him."
"Yet you have already disapproved of my friendship with him."
"I have, as I already have told you."
"Yet you have never told me the reason," she reminded him.
"I cannot."
He shook his head.
For he would not wound her feelings for the world; and still it pained him to be compelled to leave her in a state bordering on perplexity, not to say bewilderment, as a result of his strange silence. A delicate subject requires a deft hand, and he sensed only too keenly his impotency in this respect. He, therefore, thought it best to avoid as much as possible any attempts at explanation, at least for the present.
Furthermore, he was entirely ignorant of her opinion of Anderson. Of course, he would have given worlds to know this. But there seemed no reasonable hope that that craving would be satisfied. He was persuaded that the man had made a most favorable impression upon her, and if that were true, he knew that it were fruitless to continue further, for impressions once made are not easily obliterated. Poor girl! he thought. She had seen only his best side; just that amount of good in a bad man that makes him dangerous,—just that amount of interest which often makes the cleverest person of a dullard.
Hence she was still an enigma. As far as he was concerned, however, there had been little or no variation in his attachment to her. She was ever the same interesting, lovely, tender, noble being; complete in her own virtues, indispensable to his own happiness. Perhaps he had been mistaken in his analysis of her; but no,—very likely she did care for the other man, or at any rate was beginning to find herself in that unfortunate state—fortunate, indeed, for Anderson, but unfortunate for him.
For this reason, more than for any other, he had desisted from saying anything that might have lessened Anderson in her regard. It would be most unfair to interfere with her freedom of choice. When the facts of the case were revealed in all their fullness, he felt certain that she would repent of her infatuation, if he might be permitted to so term her condition. It seemed best to him to await developments before further pressing his suit.
"Stephen," she said at length. "What are you thinking of me?"
"I—Why?—That is a sudden question. Do you mean complimentary or critical?"
"I mean this. Have you misjudged my relations with John Anderson?"
"I have thought in my mind——" he began, and stopped.
Marjorie started. The voice was quiet enough but significant in tone.
"Please tell me," she pleaded. "I must know."
"Well, I have thought that you have been unusually attentive to him."
"Yes."
"And that, perhaps, you do care for him,—just a little."
There! It was out. She had guessed aright.
"I thought as much," she said quietly.
"Then why did you ask me?"
"Listen," she began. "Do you recall the night you asked me to be of some service to you?"
"Perfectly."
"I have thought over that subject long and often. I wondered wherein that service could lie. During the night of Peggy's affair it dawned upon me that this stranger to whom I was presented, might be more artful than honest. I decided to form his acquaintance so that I might learn his identity, together with his mission in the city. I cherished the ambition of drawing certain information from him; and this I felt could be accomplished only by an assumed intimacy with him."
Stephen stopped suddenly. His whole person was tense and magnetic as he stared at her.
"Marjorie!" he exclaimed. "Do you mean it?"
"Truly. I read his character from the first. His critical attitude displeased me. But I had to pretend. I had to."
"Please! Please forgive me." He turned and seized suddenly both her hands. "I thought,—I thought,—I cannot say it. Won't you forgive me?"
Her eyes dropped. She freed her hands.
"Then I tricked you as well," she exclaimed with a laugh.
"And you mean it? I am made very happy today, happier than words can express. What loyalty! You have been helping me all the time and I never knew it. Why did you not tell me this before?"
"You never gave me leave. I wanted to talk to you so much, and you seemed to forbid me.... I prayed for an opportunity, and none came."
"I am very sorry."
"Anderson interested me only in this,—he came into our society for a very definite purpose, the nature of which I was most desirous of learning. I know now that he is not of our faith, although he pretends to be. He is not of French extraction, yet he would lead one to assume that he was. He is a British officer and actively engaged in the service of the enemy. At present the recruiting of the proposed regiment of Catholic Volunteers for service with the enemy is his immediate work. He hopes to find many displeased and disloyal members of our kind. Them he would incorporate into a company of deserters."
"You have learned that from him?"
"Aye! And more. General Arnold has been initiated into the scheme. I do not know what to think except that he has yielded to some influence. His antipathy toward us would require none, nevertheless I feel that some undue pressure has been brought to bear upon him."
"Anderson?" he asked.
"I do not know. At any rate he will bear watching. I think he is about to ask for a more important command."
Stephen then told her of his adventures, relating to her wholly and candidly the details of his suspicions, together with his plan for the future. Throughout it all she listened with attention, so much interested that she was scarce aware that they were crossing the wide road before her own home. Her eyes had been about her everywhere as they walked, yet they had failed to perceive anything.
"Won't you come in?" she asked. "You are almost a stranger here now."
"I would like to more than I can tell you; but truly I have business before me which is pressing. Pardon me just once more, please."
"Mother would be pleased to see you, you know," she insisted.
"I should like, indeed, to see your mother. I shall stop to see her, just to inquire for her."
"Will you come when this terrible business is completed?"
"Gladly. Let us say,—next week. Perhaps you might be pleased to come canoeing with me for the space of an afternoon?"
"I should be delighted. Next week?"
"Yes. Next week. I shall let you know."
"Here is mother, now."
He went in and shook her hand, inquiring diligently concerning her.