Barclugh grew impatient and chafed under the uncertainties of his position. He had restricted all of his business since his illness to the plot with Arnold and to the establishment of a bank among the merchants. Arnold was now at West Point and had been joined by his wife. The latest despatch that Barclugh had in Philadelphia from Andre was that negotiations had been opened up with Arnold and that he expected to have the whole matter consummated within a week.
In spite of the apparent serenity of his affairs, he paced the floor by day and tossed in his bed at night. The thoughts of Mollie Greydon’s demeanor of late disturbed him.
“She does not enter into conversation with her former frankness and abandon. There must be some restraining influence at work. I must have this uncertainty off my mind. I shall go to her to-morrow and have my mind clear about her love for me. Her time of a month for the consideration of my proposal will be up in a week, but I cannot postpone this longer. I must settle the matter to-morrow.”
On the day succeeding his resolution, Barclugh went to Dorminghurst early in the afternoon and invited Mollie to accompany him on a horseback ride to the Delaware.
Mollie received her suitor with a gracious smile, as it was perfectly evident that she admired Mr. Barclugh (for in spite of his despicable secret mission he was worthy of better things) and the two very soon were on their way, gayly cantering down the avenue of hemlocks.
The afternoon was one of those sere, autumn days in late October. The sun shone through a hazy smoke and the air was crisp and bracing. The smoke curled out of the chimneys, lazily ascending, loath to leave the environment of its former condition in the fireplace; but the calm atmosphere allowed the ethereal vapor to hover about the old chimney and house and to fill the hemlocks with a pungent incense.
This pungency of the smoky atmosphere oppressed Barclugh but to Mollie it was like a sweet odor. She rattled off small-talk, as, aglow with her buoyant spirits, she rode her prancing bay.
Barclugh never had such a task to perform as now confronted him. To broach the subject nearest his heart would cast a gloom over the one whom he loved better than his own life. As he rode closely to the side of his companion, he could feel his heart throb violently, and as he sat stolidly in his saddle, between his monosyllabic answers to Mollie’s gayety, he thought:
“What ails you, old soul? Are you losing the power of speech? What a pity to molest the happy life of such a perfect being! But we are selfish. Yes; her life must be linked with mine. She can make me a better man. Is it something in the poise of her head? is it something in the way that she rides her horse? No, it is what she thinks, her unconscious nobility of soul, that enthralls me.”
“Well, Mr. Barclugh, let us take a spurt on this fine stretch of road. My Prince is chafing for a dash,” suggested Mollie as she looked up into her companion’s face, who evidently was in a reverie.