III
"It is precisely what I fear most," Mr. Allison said. "If he curried less the favor of the public, little or naught would come of it, and the reprimand would end the case. But you know Arnold is a conceited man; one who carries his head high. Better to deprive him of life itself than to apply vinegar and gall to his parched lips."
"His return will be hard," Sergeant Griffin observed. He, too, knew the character of the man.
"I doubt if he will return. He has resigned, you know, and may dislike the sight of the city which witnessed his misfortune. Still this is his home and a man's heart is in his home regardless of its environment."
"Do not forget Peggy," Marjorie reminded them. "I know she will never consent to live in the city. I know it. Dear me! The shame of it all would confuse her."
"She might become accustomed to it," replied her father. "All school themselves to the mutations of life."
"Not Peggy. I know her. She will not forgive. Why, I recall quite vividly the violence of her temper and the terror of her wrath. Her own aunt, with whom she was staying for a brief space, took occasion to reprove her for a slight indiscretion. Peggy resented the correction fiercely, and leaving the house at once vowed she never would set foot into it again. That was seven years ago. She has, to my knowledge, never violated that pledge."
Her father shook his head.
"I see it all quite clearly," continued Marjorie. "The General will resent the wrong; Peggy will nurture a fierce indignation. Whatever thoughts of revenge will come to his mind she will ably promote. Have a care to her; her wrath will know no mitigation."
"He never expected the verdict," the sergeant remarked.
"How did he appear?" asked Mr. Allison.
"Splendid. As he entered the court he laughed and jested with several officers with all the self-possession of one of the eye-witnesses. Flashes of the old-time energy and courage were manifest at intervals. There was jubilation displayed on his every feature."
"He was jocose, you say?"
"Extremely so."
"Was this before the trial?"
"Yes. As he entered the Tavern."
"Was Peggy with him?"
"No, indeed. It was not permissible for her to enter. She awaited him outside."
"And yet he maintained his composure throughout."
"He seemed to take delight in relating the resolutions of Congress, its thanks, its gifts, for the many campaigns and the brilliant services rendered his country. His promotions, his horse, his sword, his epaulets and sword-knots, all were recounted and recited enthusiastically."
Mr. Allison looked at Marjorie and smiled.
"Only once did he lose his self-possession. Near the end of his plea he forgot himself and called his accusers a lot of 'women.' This produced a smile throughout the court room; then he regained his composure."
He paused.
"That was all?" asked Mr. Allison.
"I think so. The court adjourned for the day. On the following morning the verdict was announced. I came here direct."
When he had finished he sat quite still. It was approaching a late hour and he saw that he had overstayed his leave. Still the gravity of the occasion required it.
It was these thoughts regarding the future, far more than any great poignancy of grief respecting General Arnold and his present misfortune, that affected this small group. It seemed to them that the events which had of late happened were not without grave and serious consequence. General Arnold was a man of prominence and renown. To lead such a figure to the bar of justice and to examine and determine there in a definite manner his guilt before the whole world was a solemn piece of business. It meant that the new republic was fearless in its denunciation of wrong; that it was intent upon the exercise of those precepts of justice and equity which were written into the bill of rights, the violation of which by a foreign power had constituted originally a set of true grievances; and that it was actuated by a solemn resolution never to permit within its own borders the commission of any of those wrongs which it had staked its life and consecrated its purpose as a nation to destroy. General Arnold was a big man, generous in service to his country, honored as one of its foremost sons, but he was no bigger than the institution he was helping to rear. The chastisement inflicted upon him was a reflection upon the state; but it also was a medication for its own internal disorders.
The fact that the ruling powers of the city were bitterly opposed to the Military Governor was not wholly indicative of the pulse of the people. General Arnold was ever regarded with the highest esteem by the members of the army. A successful leader, a brave soldier, a genial comrade, he was easily the most beloved general after General Washington. With the citizen body of Philadelphia he was on fairly good terms,—popular during the early days of his administration, although somewhat offensive of late because of his indiscretion and impetuosity. Still he was not without his following, and whereas he had made himself odious to a great number of people by his manner of life and of command, there were a greater number of people who were ready to condone his faults out of regard for his brilliant services in the past.
His enemies gloated over his misfortune. Everybody believed that, and it was commonly understood that General Arnold believed it, too. But would he overcome his enemies by retrieving the past and put to shame their vulgar enthusiasm by rising to heights of newer and greater glory? Or would he yield to the more natural propensities of retaliation or despair? A man is no greater than the least of his virtues; but he who has acquired self-control has founded a virtuous inheritance.
With thoughts of this nature were the trio occupied. For several minutes no one spoke. Mr. Allison leaned against the table, his right arm extended along its side, playing with a bodkin that lay within reach; the sergeant sat in silence, watching the face of his entertainer; while Marjorie lolled in her great chair, her eyes downcast, heavy, like two great weights. At length Sergeant Griffin made as if to go. Marjorie arose at once to bid him adieu.
"You said you came direct?" she reminded him.
"Yes, Miss Allison."
"You saw——" she hesitated, but quickly added, "Captain Meagher?"
She would have said "Stephen" but bethought herself.
"No, Miss. Not since the trial."
"He was not present?"
"No. He is with His Excellency. Several days ago I saw him and he bade me come here with the report of the finding."
"That was all?"
"Yes, Miss."
"Thank you. We can never repay your kindness."
"Its performance was my greatest delight."
"Thank you. Good night!"
She withdrew into the hall.