The next month, to Croyden, went pleasantly enough. He was occupied
with getting the household machinery to run according to his ideas--and
still retain Moses and Josephine, who, he early discovered, were
invaluable to him; in meeting the people worth knowing in the town and
vicinity, and in being entertained, and entertaining--all very quietly
and without ostentation.
He had dined, or supped, or played Bridge at all the houses, had given
a few small things himself, and ended by paying off all scores with a
garden party at Clarendon, which Mrs. Carrington had managed for him
with exquisite taste (and, to him, amazing frugality)--and, more
wonderful still, with an entire effacement of _self_. It was Croyden's
party throughout, though her hand was at the helm, her brain
directed--and Hampton never knew.
And the place _had_ looked attractive; with the house set in its wide
sweep of velvety lawn amid great trees and old-fashioned flowers and
hedges. With the furniture cleaned and polished, the old china
scattered in cupboard and on table, the portraits and commissions
freshly dusted, the swords glistening as of yore.
And in that month, Croyden had come to like Hampton immensely. The
absence, in its society, of all attempts at show, to make-believe, to
impress, to hoodwink, was refreshingly novel to him, who, hitherto, had
known it only as a great sham, a huge affectation, with every one
striving to outdo everyone else, and all as hollow as a rotten gourd.
He had not got used, however, to the individual espionage of the
country town--the habit of watching one's every movement, and telling
it, and drawing inferences therefrom--inferences tinctured according to
the personal feelings of the inferer.
He learned that, in three weeks, they had him "taken" with every
eligible girl in town, engaged to four and undecided as to two more.
They busied themselves with his food,--they nosed into his drinks, his
cigars, his cigarettes, his pipes,--they bothered themselves about his
meal hours,--they even inspected his wash when it hung on the line!
Some of them, that is. The rest were totally different; they let every
one alone. They did not intrude nor obtrude--they went their way, and
permitted every one to go his.
So much had been the way of Northumberland, so much he had been used to
always. But--and here was the difference from Northumberland, the vital
difference, indeed--they were interested in you, if _you_ wished them
to be--and it was genuine interest, not pretense. This, and the way
they had treated him as one of them, because Colonel Duval had been
his father's friend, made Croyden feel very much at home.
At intervals, he had taken old Parmenter's letter from its secret
drawer, and studied it, but he had been so much occupied with getting
acquainted, that he had done nothing else. Moreover, there was no
pressing need for haste. If the treasure had kept on Greenberry Point
for one hundred and ninety years, it would keep a few months longer.
Besides, he was a bit uncertain whether or not he should confide in
someone, Captain Carrington or Major Borden. He would doubtless need
another man to help him, even if the location should be easily
determined, which, however, was most unlikely. For him, alone, to go
prying about on Greenberry Point, would surely occasion comment and
arouse suspicion--which would not be so likely if there were two of
them, and especially if one were a well-known resident of Maryland.
He finally determined, however, to go across to Annapolis and look over
the ground, before he disclosed the secret to any one. Which was the
reasonable decision.
When he came to look up the matter of transportation, however, he was
surprised to find that no boat ran between Annapolis and Hampton--or
any other port on the Eastern Shore. He either had to go by water to
Baltimore (which was available on only three days a week) and thence
finish his journey by rail or transfer to another boat, or else he had
to go by steam cars north to Wilmington, and then directly south again
to Annapolis. In either case, a day's journey between two towns that
were almost within seeing distance of each other, across the Bay. Of
the two, he chose to go by boat to Baltimore.
Then, the afternoon of the day before it sailed, he received a
wire--delivered two hours and more after its receipt, in the leisurely
fashion of the Eastern Shore. It was from Macloud, and dated
Philadelphia.
"Can I come down to-night? Answer to Bellevue-Stratford."
His reply brought Macloud in the morning train.
Croyden met him at the station. Moses took his bag, and they walked out
to Clarendon.
"Sorry I haven't a car!" said Croyden--then he laughed. "The truth is,
Colin, they're not popular down here. The old families won't have
them--they're innovations--the saddle horse and the family carriage are
still to the fore with them. Only the butcher, and the baker and the
candlestick maker have motors. There's one, now--he's the candlestick
maker, I think. This town is nothing if not conservative. It reminds me
of the one down South, where they wouldn't have electric cars. Finally
all the street car horses died. Then rather than commit the awful sin
of letting _new_ horses come into the city, they accepted the trolley.
The fashion suits my pocketbook, however, so I've no kick coming."
"What do you want with a car here, anyway?" Macloud asked. "It looks as
if you could walk from one end of the town to the other in fifteen
minutes."
"You can, easily."
"And the baker et cetera have theirs only for show, I suppose?"
"Yes, that's about it--the roads, hereabout, are sandy and poor."
"Then, I'm with your old families. They may be conservative, at times a
trifle too much so, but, in the main, their judgment's pretty reliable,
according to conditions. What sort of place did you find--I mean the
house?"
"Very fair!"
"And the society?"
"Much better than Northumberland."
"Hum--I see--the aristocracy of birth, not dollars."
"Exactly!--How do you do, Mr. Fitzhugh," as they passed a policeman in
uniform.
"Good morning, Mr. Croyden!" was the answer.
"There! that illustrates," said Croyden. "You meet Fitzhugh every place
when he is off duty. He _belongs_. His occupation does not figure, in
the least."
"So you like it--Hampton, I mean?" said Macloud.
"I've been here a month--and that month I've enjoyed--thoroughly
enjoyed. However, I do miss the Clubs and their life."
"I can understand," Macloud interjected.
"And the ability to get, instantly, anything you want----"
"Much of which you don't want--and wouldn't get, if you had to write
for it, or even to walk down town for it--which makes for economy,"
observed Macloud sententiously.
"But, more than either, I miss the personal isolation which one can
have in a big town, when he wishes it--and has always, in some
degree."
"And _that_ gets on your nerves!" laughed Macloud. "Well, you won't
mind it after a while, I think. You'll get used to it, and be quite
oblivious. Is that all your objections?"
"I've been here only a short time, remember. Come back in six months,
say, and I may have kicks in plenty."
"You may find it a bit dreary in winter--who the deuce is that girl
yonder, Geoffrey?" he broke off.
They were opposite Carrington's, and down the walk toward the gate was
coming the maid of the blue-black hair, and slender ankles. She wore a
blue linen gown, a black hat, and her face was framed by a white silk
parasol.
"That is Miss Carrington," said Croyden.
"Hum!--Your house near here?"
"Yes--pretty near."
Macloud looked at him with a grin.
"She has nothing to do with your liking the town, I suppose?" he said,
knowingly.
"Well, she's not exactly a deterrent--and there are half a dozen more
of the same sort. Oh, on that score, Hampton's not half bad, my
friend!" he laughed.
"You mean there are half a dozen of _that_ sort," with a slight jerk of
his head toward Miss Carrington, "who are unmarried?"
Croyden nodded--then looked across; and both men raised their hats and
bowed.
"And how many married?" Macloud queried.
"Several--but you let them _alone_--it's not fashionable here, as yet,
for a pretty married woman to have an affair. She loves her husband, or
acts it, at least. They're neither prudes nor prigs, but they are not
_that_."
"So far as you know!" laughed Macloud. "But my experience has been that
the pretty married woman who won't flirt, if occasion offers where
there is no danger of being compromised, is a pretty scarce article.
However, Hampton may be an exception."
"You're too cynical," said Croyden. "We turn in here--this is
Clarendon."
"Why! you beggar!" Macloud exclaimed. "I've been sympathizing with
you, because I thought you were living in a shack-of-a-place--and,
behold!"
"Yes, it is not bad," said Croyden. "I've no ground for complaint, on
that head. I can, at least, be comfortable here. It's not bad inside,
either."
That evening, after dinner, when the two men were sitting in the
library while a short-lived thunder storm raged outside, Macloud, after
a long break in the conversation--which is the surest sign of
camaraderie among men--observed, apropos of nothing except the talk of
the morning:
"Lord! man, you've got no kick coming!"
"Who said I had?" Croyden demanded.
"You did, by damning it with faint praise."
"Damning what?"
"Your present environment--and yet, look you! A comfortable house, fine
grounds, beautiful old furnishings, delicious victuals, and two negro
servants, who are devoted to you, or the place--no matter which, for it
assures their permanence; the one a marvelous cook, the other a
competent man; and, by way of society, a lot of fine, old antebellum
families, with daughters like the Symphony in Blue, we saw this
morning. God! you're hard to please."
"And that is not all," said Croyden, laughing and pointing to the
portraits. "I've got ancestors--by purchase."
"And you have come by them clean-handed, which is rare.--Moreover, I
fancy you are one who has them by inheritance, as well."
Croyden nodded. "I'm glad to say I have--ancestors are distinctly
fashionable down here. But _that's_ not all I've got."
"There is only one thing more--money," said Macloud. "You haven't found
any of it down here, have you?"
"That is just what I don't know," Croyden replied, tossing away his
cigarette, and crossing to the desk by the window. "It depends--on
this." He handed the Parmenter letter to Macloud. "Read it through--the
endorsements last, in their order--and then tell me what you think of
it."...
"These endorsements, I take it," said Macloud, "though without date and
signed only with initials, were made by the original addressee,
Marmaduke Duval, his son, who was presumably Daniel Duval, and Daniel
Duval's son, Marmaduke; the rest, of course, is plain."
"That is correct," Croyden answered. "I have made inquiries--Colonel
Duval's father was Marmaduke, whose son was Daniel, whose son was
Marmaduke, the addressee."
"Then why isn't it true?" Macloud demanded.
"My dear fellow, I'm not denying it! I simply want your opinion--what
to do?"
"Have you shown this letter to anyone else?"
"No one."
"Well, you're a fool to show it even to me. What assurance have you
that, when I leave here, I won't go straight to Annapolis and steal
your treasure?"
"No assurance, except a lamblike trust in your friendship," said
Croyden, with an amused smile.
"Your recent experience with Royster & Axtell and the Heights should
beget confidences of this kind?" he said sarcastically, tapping the
letter the while. "You trust too much in friendship, Croyden. Tests of
half a million dollars aren't human!" Then he grinned. "I always
thought there was something God-like about me. So, maybe, you're safe.
But it was a fearful risk, man, a fearful risk!" He looked at the
letter again. "Sure, it's true! The man to whom it was addressed
believed it--else why did he endorse it to his son? And we can assume
that Daniel Duval knew his father's writing, and accepted it.--Oh, it's
genuine enough. But to prove it, did you identify Marmaduke Duval's
writing--any papers or old letters in the house?"
"I don't know," returned Croyden. "I'll ask Moses to-morrow."
"Better not arouse his curiosity--darkies are most inquisitive, you
know--where did you find the letter?"
Croyden showed him the secret drawer.
"Another proof of its genuineness," said Macloud. "Have you made any
effort to identify this man Parmenter--from the records at
Annapolis."
"No--I've done nothing but look at the letter--except to trace the
Duval descent," Croyden replied.
"He speaks, here, of his last will and testament being left with Mr.
Dulany. If it were probated, that will establish Parmenter, especially
if Marmaduke Duval is the legatee. What do you know of Annapolis?"
"Nothing! I never was there--I looked it up on the map I found, here,
and Greenberry Point is as the letter says--across the Severn River
from it."
Macloud laughed, in good-natured raillery.
"You seem to have been in a devil of a hurry!" he said. "At the same
rate of progression, you will go to Annapolis some time next spring,
and get over to Greenberry Point about autumn."
"On the contrary, it's your coming that delayed me," Croyden smiled.
"But for your wire, I would have started this morning--now, if you will
accompany me, we'll go day-after-to-morrow."
"Why delay?" said Macloud. "Why not go to-night?"
"It's a long journey around the Bay by rail--I'd rather cross to Baltimore
by boat; from there it's only an hour's ride to Annapolis by electric
cars. And there isn't any boat sailing until day-after-to-morrow."
"Where's the map?" said Macloud. "Let me see where we are, and where
Annapolis is.... Hum! we're almost opposite! Can't we get a boat in
the morning to take us across direct--charter it, I mean? The
Chesapeake isn't wide at this point--a sailing vessel ought to make it
in a few hours."
"I'll go you!" exclaimed Croyden. He went to the telephone and called
up Dick. "This is Geoffrey Croyden!" he said.--"I've a friend who wants
to go across the Bay to Annapolis, in the morning. Where can I find out
if there is a sailing vessel, or a motor boat, obtainable?... what's
that you say?... Miles Casey?--on Fleet Street, near the wharf?...
Thank you!--He says," turning to Macloud, "Casey will likely take
us--he has a fishing schooner and it is in port. He lives on Fleet
Street--we will walk down, presently, and see him."
Macloud nodded assent, and fell to studying the directions again.
Croyden returned to his chair and smoked in silence, waiting for his
friend to conclude. At length, the latter folded the letter and looked
up.
"It oughtn't to be hard to find," he observed.
"Not if the trees are still standing, and the Point is in the same
place," said Croyden. "But we're going to find the Point shifted about
ninety degrees, and God knows how many feet, while the trees will have
long since disappeared."
"Or the whole Point may be built over with houses!" Macloud responded.
"Why not go the whole throw-down at once--make it impossible to
recover rather than only difficult to locate!" He made a gesture of
disbelief. "Do you fancy that the Duvals didn't keep an eye on
Greenberry Point?--that they wouldn't have noted, in their
endorsements, any change in the ground? So it's clear, in my mind,
that, when Colonel Duval transferred this letter to you, the Parmenter
treasure could readily be located."
"I'm sure I shan't object, in the least, if we walk directly to the
spot, and hit the box on the third dig of the pick!" laughed Croyden.
"But let us forget the old pirate, until to-morrow; tell me about
Northumberland--it seems a year since I left! When one goes away for
good and all, it's different, you know, from going away for the
summer."
"And you think you have left it for good and all?" asked Macloud,
blowing a smoke-ring and watching him with contemplative eyes--"Well,
the place is the same--only more so. A good many people have come back.
The Heights is more lively than when you left, teas, and dinners, and
tournaments and such like.--In town, the Northumberland's resuming its
regulars--the theatres are open, and the Club has taken the bald-headed
row on Monday nights as usual. Billy Cain has turned up engaged, also
as usual--this time, it's a Richmond girl, 'regular screamer,' he says.
It will last the allotted time, of course--six weeks was the limit for
the last two, you'll remember. Smythe put it all over Little in the
tennis tournament, and 'Pud' Lester won the golf championship. Terry's
horse, _Peach Blossom_, fell and broke its neck in the high jump, at
the Horse Show; Terry came out easier--he broke only his collar-bone.
Mattison is the little bounder he always was--a month hasn't changed
him--except for the worse. Hungerford is a bit sillier. Colloden is the
same bully fellow; he is disconsolate, now, because he is beginning to
take on flesh." Whereat both laughed. "Danridge is back from the North
Cape, via Paris, with a new drink he calls _The Spasmodic_--it's made
of gin, whiskey, brandy, and absinthe, all in a pint of sarsaparilla.
He says it's great--I've not sampled it, but judging from those who
have he is drawing it mild.... Betty Whitridge and Nancy Wellesly have
organized a Sinners Class, prerequisites for membership in which are
that you play Bridge on Sundays and have abstained from church for at
least six months. It's limited to twenty. They filled it the first
morning, and have a waiting list of something over seventy-five....
That is about all I can think of that's new."
"Has any one inquired about me?" Croyden asked--with the lingering
desire one has not to be forgot.
Macloud shot a questioning glance at him.
"Beyond the fact that the bankruptcy schedules show you were pretty
hard hit, I've heard no one comment," he said. "They think you're in
Europe. Elaine Cavendish is sponsor for that report--she says you told
her you were called, suddenly, abroad."
Croyden nodded. Then, after a pause:
"Any one inclined to play the devoted, there?" he asked.
"Plenty inclined--plenty anxious," replied Macloud. "I'm looking a bit
that way myself--I may get into the running, since you are out of it,"
he added.
Croyden made as though to speak, then bit off the words.
"Yes, I'm out of it," he said shortly.
"But you're not out of it--if you find the pirate's treasure."
"Wait until I find it--at present, I'm only an 'also ran.'"
"Who had the field, however, until withdrawn," said Macloud.
"Maybe!" Croyden laughed. "But things have changed with me, Macloud;
I've had time for thought and meditation. I'm not sure I should go back
to Northumberland, even if the Parmenter jewels are real. Had I stayed
there I suppose I should have taken my chance with the rest, but I'm
becoming doubtful, recently, of giving such hostages to fortune. It's
all right for a woman to marry a rich man, but it is a totally
different proposition for a poor man to marry a rich woman. Even with
the Parmenter treasure, I'd be poor in comparison with Elaine Cavendish
and her millions--and I'm afraid the sweet bells would soon be jangling
out of tune."
"Would you condemn the girl to spinsterhood, because there are few men
in Northumberland, or elsewhere, who can match her in wealth?"
"Not at all! I mean, only, that the man should be able to support her
according to her condition in life.--In other words, pay all the bills,
without drawing on her fortune."
"Those views will never make you the leader of a popular propaganda!"
said Macloud, with an amused smile. "In fact, you're alone in the
woods."
"Possibly! But the views are not irrevocable--I may change, you know.
In the meantime, let us go down to Fleet Street and interview Casey.
And then, if you're good, I'll take you to call on Miss Carrington."
"The Symphony in Blue!" exclaimed Macloud. "Come along, man, come
along!"