XII.—ARNOLD, THE TRAITOR.
There was a night, when an awful agony was passing in the breast of
Arnold; the struggle between Arnold's revenge and Arnold's pride.
You have all seen that old house, in Second near Walnut street, which
once the Home of William Penn, once the Palace of Benedict Arnold, is
now used as a manufactory of Venus De Medicis, and sugar candies. That
old house, picturesque in ruins, with battlemented walls and deep-gabled
roofs?
One night a gorgeously furnished chamber, in that mansion, was illuminated
by the glare of a bright wood fire. And there, with his back to that
fire,—there, looking out upon the western sky, gleaming in deep starlight,
stood Benedict Arnold. One hand was laid upon his breast, which throbbed
in long deep gasps; the other held two letters.
Read the superscription of those letters, by the light of the stars; one is
directed to General Washington, the other to Sir Henry Clinton. One announces
his acceptance of the command of West Point, the other offers to
sell West Point to the British.
And now look at that massive face, quivering with revenge, pride and
patriotism; look at that dark eye, gleaming with the horror of a lost soul;
look at that bared throat with the veins swelling like cords!
That is the struggle between Arnold the Patriot, and Arnold the Traitor.
And there, far back in the room, half hidden among silken curtains, silent
and thoughtful, sits a lovely woman, her hands clasped, her unbound hair
showering down over her shoulders, her large blue eyes glaring wildly upon
the fire! Well may that bosom heave, that eye glare! For now the wife
of Arnold is waiting for the determination of her husband's fate; now, the
darkest shadow is passing over the Dial-plate of his destiny.
While Arnold stands brooding there, while his wife sits trembling by the
fire—without, in the ante-chamber, three persons wait for him.
One is a base-browed man clad in the blue uniform of the Continentals.
Turn that uniform and it is scarlet. That is a British Spy. He is waiting
to bear the letter to Sir Henry Clinton.
That handsome cavalier, dressed in the extreme of fashion, with embroidered
coat, red heeled shoes and powdered hair, is a nobleman of
France; the Ambassador of the French King, the Chevalier De Luzerne.
He has come here to listen to the offer of Arnold, who wishes to enter the
service of the French King.
The third—look! A silent and moody red-man of the forest; an Indian
chief; wrapped up in his blanket, standing there, proud as a king on his
throne.
He has come from the wilds of the forest in the far northwest, to hearken
to the answer of Arnold (the Death Eagle, as the Indians call him,) to
their proposition, by which they agree to make him chief of their tribes.
Now look: the door opens; the three enter; Arnold turns and beholds
them.
Then occurs a hurried and a deeply-interesting scene.
While the wife of Arnold sits trembling by the fire, he advances, and
greets the Chevalier De Luzerne:
“Look ye,” he mutters in quick tones, “Your king can have my sword,
but mark! I am in debt; the mob hoot me in the streets; my creditors are
clamorous. I must have money!”
This bold tone of one used to command, little suits the polite Ambassador.
“My King never buys soldiers!” he whispers with a sneer, and then
bowing, politely retires.
Stung to the quick with this cool insult, Arnold—turning his eyes away
from the British Spy—salutes the Indian chief—hark! They converse in
the wild, musical Indian tongue.
“My brothers are willing to own the Death Eagle as their chief,” exclaims
the Indian. “Yet are they afraid, that he loves the pale faces too
well —”
“Try my love for the pale faces,”—mutters Arnold with a look and a
sneer that makes even the red Indian start.
The chief resumes: “My brothers who are many—their numbers are as
the leaves of the forest—my brothers who sharpen their war-hatchets for
the scalp of the pale-face, will ask the Death Eagle to lead them on the
towns of the pale-face; to burn, to kill, till not a single pale-face is left in
the land.”
“Try me!” was the hoarse response of Arnold, given with knit brows,
and clenched hands.
“Then shall the Death Eagle become the chief of the red men”—said
the Indian—“But his pale face squaw there! He must leave her; she can
never dwell in the tents of the red men.”
Then it was that Arnold—who had embraced with a gleam of savage delight,
the proposition, to become the chief of a murderous tribe of wild Indians—felt
his heart grow cold!
Ah! how he loved that wife!
Arnold who in his mad revenge, was willing to sweep the towns of the
whites with torch and knife, quailed at the idea of leaving that fair young
wife.
“The Death Eagle cannot be your chief!” he said as he turned from the
Indian. The red man went from the room with a sneer on his dark face,
for the man who could not sacrifice his wife—the loved one of his heart—
to that revenge, which was about to stamp his name with eternal scorn.
`Now take this letter to Sir Henry Clinton!” gasped Arnold, placing
the fatal letter in the hands of the British Spy. And then Arnold and his
wife were alone.
Then that wife—gazing on the noble countenance of her husband, now
livid as ashes,—gazing in that dark eye, now wild and rolling in its glance,
—gazing on that white lip, that quivered like a dry leaf—then that wife of
Arnold trembled as she felt that the dread Rubicon was passed, that Arnold,
the Patriot, dead, she sat in the presence of Arnold, the Traitor.
