I think my father is of the same opinion, though he has no power to
change it. Listen to this case; the defendant has plead guilty."
"Mr. Prosecutor," said the judge, "let me have the indictment. John
Farrin, stand up. You have plead guilty to as dastardly and cowardly a
crime as I have ever known. You have disfigured your wife for life and,
possibly, crippled her as well. You have cut off both her ears and one
of her toes. I greatly regret that the law is such I cannot inflict
adequate punishment upon you. I wish I could send you to prison for ten
years. As it is, I will give you the limit. The sentence of the Court
is, that you undergo a year's imprisonment, and then to find security
for good behavior. Adjourn the Court until two o'clock."
Meanwhile, in the garden of the Governor's residence, Martha Stirling
was entertaining visitors. Jane Falconer and Edith Tyler were her
particular friends, and they had come over, from their homes on Prince
George Street, to discuss the aftermath of the ball, on the previous
night.
"Martha," said Miss Falconer, "I do not wonder that Captain Herford was
jealous. The way you carried on with Sir Edward Parkington was really
scandalous."
"And what was yours, my dear?"
"Mine?"
"Yes, yours," said Miss Stirling; "as I remember, you and Edith were
with him just as much as I--or, perhaps, a _little_ less."
Miss Tyler laughed. "A little less!" she said. "He danced with me but
once. How many times did he favor you?"
"Oh, two or three."
"Indeed! Six or eight I should say, and nearer the latter than the
former."
"That sounds like jealousy."
"Oh, no, it does not!" said Miss Tyler. "I care nothing for Sir Edward,
beyond the fact that he is an agreeable partner. Indeed, I do not care
enough to flirt with him."
"Nor I," said Miss Falconer.
"Well, girls, I am glad to hear you say so," Miss Stirling observed,
"for I intend to flirt with him outrageously."
"Last night, for instance?" said Miss Tyler.
"Last night was only a beginning."
"So far as I observed," said Miss Falconer, "Sir Edward is ready to
meet you more than half way."
Miss Stirling laughed. "Such was my observation, too. At the same time,
I observed that young Mr. Marbury was exceedingly attentive," looking
at Miss Tyler.
"To me, do you mean? Perhaps--but it has gone on so long as not to
occasion comment. I am sorry for George--a nice fellow but with
impossible parents."
"Who are the Marburys?" said Miss Stirling.
"Nobodies," said Miss Tyler. "So far as I know them, this is their
history: Henry Marbury came out from England, as a Redemptioner. They
freed him in four years, with the usual allowance of a year's provision
of corn, fifty acres of land, a gun, a pistol and ammunition. The land
was in the neighborhood of Frederick-Town: there, Marbury went, and
his old master supposed that Annapolis had seen the last of him. But
Marbury prospered; his fifty acres expanded into two hundred and fifty,
and, then, into a thousand, and, then, into five thousand. His personal
property grew in proportion; he, himself, possessed Redemptioner and
convict servants, by the score. In short, he amassed great wealth.
Then, his thoughts turned back to Annapolis; he brought the family
here, and installed them in a fine house on Duke of Gloucester Street.
Since which time, he has struggled for recognition; while he has not
earned it for himself or wife, young George Marbury and his sister
Judith are received, and we all like them. They know their parents'
limitations but they are not ashamed; to them, they are Marburys,
without any claim to social recognition or regard. They have won it for
themselves."
"Just as our ancestors won it in the past," observed Miss Falconer.
"They may not have been Redemptioners, but that was because there was
no one here to buy them."
"Is not that a bit sweeping, Jane?" said Miss Tyler.
"Well, perhaps it is; but I know people in this Colony who forget their
ancestors after a few generations."
"And so do I--and, since they wish them forgot, let us forget them."
"It is this about the Marburys--the old people, I mean--which I
admire," said Miss Stirling: "they are perfectly natural. They may use
some large words improperly, or fracture a canon of good taste, but
they are genuine withal. They are not snobs. As for George Marbury and
Judith, I have met none in Annapolis who are nicer. Young Mr. Marbury
told me, last night, they are considering the entertaining of a large
company at a country house, somewhere, which they have bought recently.
He seemed a bit timid about it, rather fearful that those he asked
might be averse to coming. I promptly said, if he and his sister should
ask me, I would come."
"Oh! there will be no trouble on that score--we all will come," said
Miss Falconer. "It is Hedgely Hall, over in St. Mary's County. The last
Saxton died about two years ago, and it was sold to the Marburys by his
executors. It is on the banks of the Patuxent, and as pretty a place as
there is in the Colony."
"Exit the Saxtons, enter the Marburys," said Miss Tyler, sententiously.
"Why, Edith!" exclaimed Miss Falconer. "I never imagined you disliked
the Marburys."
"And I do not," said Miss Tyler, "I do not; but it grieves me to see
the old families dying out and the new ones coming in."
"Which being the case, however, and we unable to prevent it, what do
you say to a row on the river?" Miss Stirling broke in.
They went down to the wharf at the foot of the garden. A word to the
boat-master, and, presently, the Governor's barge shot out, manned by
eight negroes, in the red and gray of his Excellency's colors. Miss
Stirling bade the others aboard, and herself took the tiller.
"Straight away!" she ordered.
The blacks bent to their work, while the young ladies settled back
among the cushions, under the awning, and gossiped. Presently, when the
waves of the Bay began to roll, the barge was put about and headed up
the Severn.
They were just opposite the Governor's grounds, when a boat, running
with astonishing swiftness, rushed by them, a hundred yards away. It
was an Indian canoe, fitted with a keel, two leg o' mutton sails and a
jib, and seemed fairly to skim the water.
"George Marbury?" said Miss Stirling.
"It is," said Miss Tyler; "and that boat will be the death of him,
yet."
"Wherefore?" asked Miss Stirling. "It seems to me to be uncommonly
speedy. I shall ask him to take me in it, sometime."
"If you are in search of death, it were well do so. It is swift--as
swift and fast as any craft afloat, and, also, the most dangerous. The
ease with which it can capsize is miraculous."
"Then he is handling it marvelously well."
"He handles it as well as any man could possibly do, but that is not
enough--it, simply, gives him a little chance. Were he a poor sailor,
he would not get twenty feet from the dock. Now, watch him; he is going
to tack across our front. Let the wind veer, ever so little, and the
chances are.... There, what did I tell you!" as, without a moment's
warning, the canoe capsized. "Row for it, boys! row!"
They found Marbury holding to the canoe with one hand, while, with the
other, he was endeavoring to support Sir Edward Parkington, who, in the
overturning, had been struck on the head and rendered unconscious.
"It is nothing!" Marbury averred, when they were dragged aboard the
barge. "Parkington has got a rap on the head, and he shipped a bit too
much water, that's all. He will come out of it in a moment, if you
women give him a chance--all he wants is air."
"What do you suppose he would have wanted, if we had not been close by
when you capsized?" inquired Miss Tyler.
"I am not called upon to suppose," said Marbury, looking up, with a
laugh, through his disheveled hair. "I am very well content as it is."
"And you ought to be, sir!" said Miss Falconer, "to take Sir Edward out
in such a crazy contraption."
"He said he could swim," Marbury protested. "He offered to lay me five
pistoles, he could out-swim me across the Severn."
Just then Sir Edward opened his eyes, stared wildly around, and
struggled weakly to arise.
"Where am I?" he gasped; "where am I?"
"In the Governor's barge," said Marbury. "Lie still."
Sir Edward's eyes closed; then, they opened again.
"I remember," he said, more strongly. "We overturned, and something
struck me. What are we doing in the Governor's barge?"
"We picked you up," Miss Stirling answered. "We were fortunate enough
to be close at hand."
Sir Edward tried to sit up; Martha Stirling sprang forward, and let him
rest against her until they reached the wharf. Then, in the arms of two
stout boatmen, he was borne ashore and up to the Governor's mansion.
Here, he struggled to his feet.
"Put me down!" he said. "I have sufficiently recovered, and am,
moreover, in no condition to present myself before his Excellency,
or in such company. The ladies will accept, I know, my most grateful
thanks and humble service, and permit me to retire, for the time. Wet
clothes are most uncomfortable. I will to my lodgings. Mr. Marbury,
your arm."
V
HEDGELY HALL AND MARBURY, SENIOR
The tale of the capsized canoe was at the Coffee-house, that evening,
in advance of them. Among the young men, the opinion was that it
was worth a wetting to be rescued by the Governor's niece and her
companions. The older heads were not so sure; and some were for rating
George Marbury, soundly, for exposing one, who could know nothing of
the danger, to the perils of so hazardous a craft.
But Parkington, himself, soon set the matter right and took the
burden on himself. He had gone, he said, fully warned of the risk,
and accepted the result as his due--very much his due, since the
overturning had been brought about by his own carelessness in shifting
his weight. This, young Marbury had, of course, denied; and, there, it
rested--though there were those who, considering the skill of the one,
and the lack of it in the other, could place the responsibility, and,
however it was, neither of them lost in public esteem by the incident.
The next few weeks passed quickly enough. Sir Edward was the guest, in
turn, of every one in town, who pretended to gentility. He dined, among
others, at the Carrolls', the Brices', the Ogles', and the Scotts';
he supped with the Worthingtons, the Ridouts, and the Bordleys; he
attended a rout at Daniel Dulany's, and an evening affair given for
him by the Governor, where he was presented to the best that the
Province could boast. Incidentally, he borrowed two hundred pounds from
his Excellency.
He held his own at lou, bluff and piquet, he drank moderately and with
judgment; he paid his share, always, and a bit besides; the clothes,
which Pinkney, the tailor, provided, while rich and fine were neither
unduly expensive or noticeably ornate. Among a set of young men, who
were noted for the lavishness of their attire, his was modest and
conservative. In short, among the men there was not a more popular man
in Annapolis.
With the fair sex, he was discriminating and impartial in his
attention. Naturally, as especially committed by Lord Baltimore to the
good offices of his Excellency, these were bestowed in particular on
the Governor's niece--and with that no fault could be found--otherwise,
they were weighed to a nicety. If he led Miss Falconer through the
minuet, he contrived to show himself among Miss Tyler's most devoted;
if he chanced to sit beside Miss Paca at dinner, he took care to see
that due court was paid to Miss Jennings; and, so, through the list.
And, withal, with such skill, that never did he appear as doing it of
intention--in fine, he made friends with them all, a thing hard to
manage, where one is the most sought after in the town.
Early June saw the Marbury house-party assembled at Hedgely Hall.
They went by water, from Annapolis, in their host's own schooner, and
landed directly at the plantation on the Patuxent River. There had been
few declinations, and these only by men who were held in the Capital
by business. The ladies included Miss Stirling, Miss Fordyce, Miss
Tyler, Miss Jennings, the men, Sir Edward Parkington, Mr. Paca, Mr.
Worthington, Mr. Constable, Captain Herford; in addition, the Platers,
who had been recently married were to come from Sotterly, a short
distance away, and the Snowdens from Montpelier.
Hedgely Hall was one of the handsomest places in Maryland. Rebuilt by
John Hedgely, as a wedding gift to his bride, she had barely entered
its doors when a fatal illness seized her and she died. He never
married again, (though there were many damsels willing) and persisted
in declining all office under the government. He had no town house,
and rarely resorted to Annapolis. When he did, it was for a very brief
time. He devoted himself to his estate, and lavished on it his care and
affection. When he died, and his executors came to take account, it was
discovered that he had also lavished on it most of his fortune. This,
with the further fact that his next heir was a cousin in Virginia, with
a plantation of his own, and nothing to make him abandon it in favor of
an inheritance on the Patuxent, led to its sale.
And Henry Marbury, having the ready cash, coupled with an ardent
desire to acquire, became the purchaser. In justice to him, let it be
understood, that he sought not to enter the great world. He bought
it for his son, and a fitting place from which his daughter could be
married. He hoped that she would marry above her class; he proposed
that she should, if money could effect it; but he knew, in his shrewd,
hard-headed way, that much of the success of his plans rested upon the
girl herself. As for George, he looked to him to marry well and found a
family. He himself was an outsider, and always would be. George was to
be the first of the new line--the Marbury, of Hedgely Hall.
It is astonishing what the possession of a country-seat of known fame
will make for gentility, even where one has small claim. And George
Marbury and his sister Judith had the ways and appearance of the
gentle-born. Somewhere, in the past, a forebear must have been of the
class.
As for the Hall itself: the approach was by a great avenue, a hundred
and twenty feet wide, lined on either side by tulip and poplar trees,
that extended from the Patuxent, half a mile away. The house was of
English brick, large and square, with wings which served for offices
and bachelor quarters, the kitchen and the store rooms. A huge hall ran
directly through it, with the drawing room on the right, the library
and dining room on the left. The walls were of wood, panelled and done
in white, and covered with paintings and portraits (the latter, alas,
not of the Marburys, but of Hedgelys dead and gone). The ceiling,
doors, window-frames and mantels were carved in arabesque. Behind the
dining-room, and opening from it, was a huge conservatory. Back of the
house, or in front, if you choose, for these houses had no rear, was
a long sweep of velvety lawn, dropping away in terrace on terrace,
with hedges of box and privet, and beds of roses, lilies of the valley
and lavender scattered among daffodils, heart's ease, cowslip and
jonquils. Beyond lay the park, with great trees, reaching as far as
the eye could see. Two thousand acres and more was the Hall's domain,
of tobacco and wheat fields, meadow and orchard, all cultivated with a
thoroughness which old Marbury had learned, in the lean years, when he
was struggling upward to wealth.
As for old Marbury, himself, he was not exactly what Miss Tyler had
termed, "impossible." _Difficult_ was nearer the proper term. He was
brusque of manner and sparing of words, and his ways were not engaging,
but, underneath, was a kindly spirit and an honest heart. He would not
have shone amid the wits of the Coffee-house (had he ever ventured
there), nor did he at his own board, after the cloth was gone and the
wine was on. And he knew it, and was silent--or, as was generally the
case, he retired, and George took his place at the head of the table.
And, as old Marbury did, so did his wife. They were well mated. The
affairs of the household, and the more onerous duties, she assumed and
executed, the lighter graces were laid on Judith's shoulders. And, to
their credit, be it said, that no host or hostess in Annapolis was more
at ease, or had more of the _savoir faire_, and knew how to use it,
than this son and daughter of the Redemptioner.
And, now, was their test:--asking guests for dinner or supper was
vastly different from having them in the house for a week. This party
marked their first appearance, in a social sense, among the landed
families of the Province.
They had arrived at Hedgely Hall two hours before supper; the ladies
retired to their rooms to rest, the men to whatever place pleased their
fancy. It was a sultry day in May, when the first heat of the coming
summer seems doubly warm.
Martha Stirling had been sitting by her window, which gave view of
the garden and park, idly drumming on the sill, her thoughts of Sir
Edward Parkington. She had seen much of him in the last few weeks. She
was debating whether it was wise to see so much of him in the future.
He was, to be sure, vouched for by Lord Baltimore, which might stand
with the Governor and the men, but was not especially in his favor so
far as the gentle sex was concerned. Not that there was the slightest
ground for suspicion--on the contrary, his conduct had been most
circumspect. But was it well to favor him when there were so many who
sought her? For, with him at her side, there came a restraint upon the
rest, a deference to the stranger of rank. She could not play him off
against the others, nor them against him. She had tried it, many times,
and always with the same result--failure. He either dominated the
situation or else eliminated himself entirely. In either case, he was
the victor--and a victor, seemingly, all unconscious of it. The man was
tantalizingly fascinating. He could do everything well: fence, dance,
play cards, make love, talk sense or nonsense. And with it all, he was
handsome as the devil--and might be the devil, for all she knew--or
the Governor knew. Why, they did not know even whether or not he was
married!
She stopped, amazed. So far, as she was aware, no one had ever thought
about it,--they had assumed that he was unmarried--and he had let them
assume it. Was he a blackguard, or was he a gentleman? She paused,
and, in her mind, ran back over the occurrences of the last few weeks.
No, blackguard he was not. He had gone as far with her as with any
one--farther, doubtless--and, despite a certain gallantry, he had not
transgressed beyond the bound, even if he were married--and, surely, a
little could be excused a man, travelling alone, in a foreign land.
She wondered if Mr. Paca knew, or Mr. Worthington, or George
Marbury--or any of their party. She beat a tattoo on the window ledge
and reflected.--She would make it her business to ascertain. The more
she thought of it, the more she wanted to know.
Just then she discerned Parkington, himself, emerging from among the
trees of the park. He was coming slowly, his head on his breast, his
walking stick trailing behind. Presently, he stopped, cast a quick
glance toward the house, and, apparently seeing no one, crossed to the
shadow of a bush and flung himself on the turf.
Instantly, Miss Stirling arose. She was dressed for the evening, but,
womanlike, she cast a last look in the mirror, pressed both hands to
her hair, took a final dash of perfume, and went down stairs and out.
She was going to find out from him.
She was quite sure, indeed, it seemed the easiest thing in the world
to ask him the simple question--until she came up to it--then, she was
not so sure, nor did it appear so easy. In fact, it was distinctly
not easy--it was to be approached gradually, and by indirection--and,
may be, not to be arrived at that afternoon. It was not so simple a
question: are you married?--at least, not when Sir Edward Parkington
was concerned. He had a way about him that did not encourage
familiarity; a certain set look of the mouth, a gleam of the eye--and
the subject was pursued no further.
The turf deadened her footsteps, and she stood, for a moment, looking
down upon him, before he raised his eyes. Instantly, he was up and
bowing low.
"Your pardon," he said; "I was dreaming; I did not hear you."
"Dreaming--of what?" she asked.
"Of nothing. Dreams that were without form or color."
"Can one dream nothing?" she inquired, knowing well he
equivocated--there had been a frown on his face as she approached.
"One always dreams nothing--'such stuff as dreams are made of.'
Moreover, the place and the hour impel it," and he swung his hand
around him.
"It is a fine old place," she said, seeing he would shift the talk.
He nodded. "A fine place, though I should not call it old, at least, to
us English."
"All things are relative; it is old to this country, which is new. Just
as you are Sir Edward Parkington and a great man, _here_."
"While in England, you mean," he laughed, "I am only one of a vast
number--an insignificant atom among the nobility."
"Yes--and _I_, that am not even noble, am, here, the toast of a
Province."
"In which England joins!" with a bow.
"I was proving a proposition, sir, not seeking a compliment."
"It is proven," he said. "One will admit anything, grant anything, on
such an afternoon as this, and with such surroundings; I would give a
man my last shilling, a woman--if she were pretty--my--my soul."
"The usual way--the man would get something, the woman nothing. No
woman wants your soul, even were it yours to give."
"Or even if I had a soul," he appended.
"Oh, no!" she said. "You do not get me to arguing on that topic. No
one knows, so every one believes what his conscience dictates. I am
orthodox, and go along with the Church. I do not care what you believe,
and I do not want to know. So far as I am concerned, every one can take
care of his own hereafter--he alone will have to pay penalty, if he is
in error."
He listened with a curious smile. "A bit advanced, my lady, for all
your orthodoxy. You best not tell your views abroad."
"My views are for myself, alone. We women are supposed to have none--to
stay put, as it were--and I am going to stay put; but I shall think
what I please." She shrugged her shoulders, and laughed. "Goodness!
what turned the talk to religion--neither of us has any to speak of."
"And, hence, we may safely discuss it without offense to either--it is
believers only who are intolerants."
She held up her hands in protest. "No more, I thank you. Let us find
a pleasanter topic.... I heard you were leaving us very soon--for
Philadelphia. Is it so?"
"This is the first I knew of it. Who told you?"
She affected to think. "I, really, cannot remember. Some one, in
Annapolis, but who it was I do not know."
"Because it interested you so little."
"No--because I thought you would have told me, were it true. Yet, why
should you not be moving on--one does not visit America to see only one
place?"
"No, I suppose not; I must move on, sometime, but I am in no haste, I
assure you. I came to America, intending to loiter indefinitely." There
was a queer smile on his face. He was thinking of his father's parting
admonition.
She did not observe the smile--and it would have conveyed nothing
to her if she had. She was occupied with his words. "Intending
to loiter indefinitely" did not smack of a wife, left behind in
England--unless--unless the wife were the cause of his indefinite
loiter.
"You have a complaisant family," she remarked.
"Yes!" he said, and laughed; "yes, I have a very complaisant family."
Then he abruptly changed the subject.--"Shall we walk in the park, or
do you prefer the esplanade--or shall we walk, at all?"
"The esplanade, by all means," she said, not daring to venture an
immediate return to the subject.