The Loyalist Part 52

Never had she conveyed the impression to any man that she had given him a second sobering thought. Her home const.i.tuted for her a chief delight, her home, her devoted mother, her fond father. Peggy had been her sole companion previous to her marriage with the Governor; and whatever men she had met with were they who composed the gay a.s.semblies at which her friend was the pretty hostess and she the invited guest. As far as Anderson was concerned, and Stephen, for that matter, she doubted if she had been in the company of either more than a dozen times in the course of her life. Certainly not enough to know either of them intimately.

Of the two men who had effected the most complete entree into her society, Stephen had, unquestionably, impressed her the more favorably.

For a time he seemed too far removed from her; and she failed to experience that sense of proportion between them so necessary for mutual regard. Perhaps it was due to this negation, or perhaps it was owing to her modest reserve, or perhaps to both, that whatever familiar intercourse, sympathy or affinity ought to have existed was naturally excluded. True friends.h.i.+p requires a certain equality, or at least a feeling of proportion between those whom it would bind together. And this she felt had not prevailed.

She did not pause to consider the correctness or the incorrectness of her inference. It was quite enough for her to know that this spirit of inequality existed. In his presence, however, she felt at perfect ease, wholly oblivious of everything save her own happiness, as she could now bear witness to, but alone with her thoughts the horrible imagining forced itself upon her and served to widen perceptibly the gulf between them. Reflection disconcerted her.

Happily, her enterprise respecting Anderson and his nefarious scheme had terminated successfully. Happily, too, Stephen's misconstruction of the affair had been corrected. No longer would he doubt her. Their fortunes had approached the crisis. It came. Anderson had fled town; Arnold and Peggy were removed from their lives perhaps for ever. Stephen was with her now and she experienced a sense of happiness beyond all human estimation. She would she could read his mind to learn there his own feelings. Was he, too, conscious of the same delights? A reciprocal feeling was alone necessary to complete the measure of her joy. But he was as non-communicative as ever, totally absorbed in this terrible business that obsessed him. Her riddle, she feared, would remain unanswered. Patriotism, it seemed, was more pressing than love.

The canoe had drifted nearer to the sh.o.r.e. At Stephen's suggestion she aroused herself from her lethargy and alighted on the bank. He soon followed, drawing the canoe on to the sh.o.r.e a little to prevent its wandering away. Marjorie walked through the gra.s.s, stooping to pick here and there a little flower which lay smiling at her feet. Stephen stood to one side and looked after her.

III

"Stephen," she asked, as she returned to him and stood for a moment smiling straight at him, "will you tell me something?"

"Anything you ask," he a.s.sured her. "What do you wish to know?"

But she did not inquire further. Her eyes were fixed in earnest attention upon the flowers which she began to arrange into a little bouquet.

"Are you still vexed with me?"

There! It was out. She looked at him coquettishly.

"Marjorie!" he exclaimed. "What ever caused you to say that?"

"I scarce know," she replied. "I suppose I just thought so, that was all."

"Would I be here now?" He tried to a.s.sure her with a tone of sincerity.

"One need not hear a man speak to learn his mind."

"Yes. But I thought----"

He seized hold of her hand.

"Come," he said. "Won't you sit down while I tell you?"

She accepted his offer and allowed herself to be a.s.sisted.

"You thought that I was displeased with you on account of John Anderson," he remarked as he took his place by her side. "Am I correct?"

She did not answer.

"And you thought, perhaps, that I scorned you?"

"Oh, no! Not that! I did not think that ... I ... I...."

"Well, then, that I lost all interest in you?"

She thought for a second. Then she smiled as if she dared not say what was in her mind.

"Listen. I shall tell you. I did not reprove you with so much as a fault. I know well that it is next to impossible to be in the frequent presence of an individual without experiencing at some time some emotion. He becomes continually repugnant, or else exceedingly fascinating. The sentiments of the heart never stand still."

"Yes, I know,--but...."

"I did think that you had been fascinated. I concluded that you had been charmed by John Anderson's manner. Because I had no desire of losing your good will, I did ask you to avoid him, but at the same time, I did not feel free enough to cast aspersions upon his character and so change your good opinion of him. The outcome I never doubted, much as I was disturbed over the whole affair. I felt that eventually you would learn for yourself."

"But why did you not believe in me? I tried to give you every a.s.surance that I was loyal...."

"The fault lay in my enforced absence from you, and in the nature of the circ.u.mstances which combined against you. I knew Anderson; but I was unaware of your own thought or purpose. My business led me on one occasion to your home where I found you ready to entertain him. The several other times in which I found you together caused me to think that you, too, had been impressed by him."

Marjorie sat silent. She was pondering deeply the while he spoke and attempted to understand the emotions that had fought in his heart. She knew very well that he was sincere in his confession, and that she had been the victim of circ.u.mstances; still she thanked G.o.d that the truth had been revealed to him.

"Sometimes I feel as if I had been simply a tool in his hands, and that I had been worsted in the encounter."

"You have had no reason to think that. You perhaps unconsciously gave him some information concerning the members of our faith, their number, their lot, their ambitions,--but you must remember, too, that he had given some valuable information to you in return. The man may have been sincere with you from the beginning."

"No! I think neither of us were sincere. The memory of it all is painful; and I regret exceedingly of having had to play the part of the coquette."

A great silence stole upon them. He looked out over the river at the wavelets dancing gleefully in the sunlight, as they ran downstream with the current as if anxious to outstrip it to the sea. She grew tired of the little flowers and looked about to gather others. Presently she bethought herself and took from her bodice what appeared to be a golden locket. Stephen, attracted by her emotion, saw the trinket at once, its bright yellow frame glistening in the sun.

"Have you ever seen this?" she asked as she looked at it intently.

He extended his hand in antic.i.p.ation. She gave it to him.

"Beautiful!" he exclaimed. "How long have you had this?"

"About a year," she replied nonchalantly, and clasped her hands about her knees.

He leaned forward and continued to study it for the longest time. He held it near to him and then at arm's length. Then he looked at her.

"It is beautiful," he repeated. "It is a wonderful likeness, and yet I should say that it does not half express the winsomeness of your countenance." He smiled generously at her blushes as he returned it to her.

"It was given me by John Anderson," she declared.

"It is a treasure. And it is richly set."

"He painted it himself and brought it to me after that night at Peggy's."

"I always said that he possessed extraordinary talents. I should keep that as a commemoration of your daring enterprise."

"Never. I purpose to destroy all memory of him."

"You have lost nothing, and have gained what books cannot unfold.

Observation and experience are the prime educators."

"But exceedingly severe."

"Come," said Stephen. "Let us not allude to him again. It grieves you.