assumed to treat him, hitherto, as unmarried, she might not, now,
shift her attitude without just cause. And she had no cause--not even
a suspicion that was based on anything. Moreover, for her to question
it, now, would be inexcusable, and, if she were wrong, would cause a
break in their friendship. And that she was not prepared to chance. In
fact, at the present moment, she did not know whether she preferred
Sir Edward Parkington or Richard Maynadier. The one was a great catch
and a charming man, but he was an American--and, besides, was not
sufficiently responsive to her charms; the other was a Britisher, but,
she feared, was not for her, who could bring no fortune with her.
She stole a glance at her companion. He was slowly plucking to pieces a
rose.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Testing _your_ affection:--love me, love me not; love me--shall I
continue."
"Pray do," she said; "I am curious to know the answer."
"It is undecided, then?" banteringly.
"Yes--sometimes I do, and sometimes I do not, and sometimes--I am in a
state of equipoise. Let the rose tell what it is, at present."
"Nay: if you are not constant, the message has no merit--begone!"
and he tossed the flower from him. "Ho, fellow!" to a man in
servant's clothes, who was passing at a little distance, "I forgot my
walking-stick; you will find it by yonder bush--fetch it."
The man glanced up, hesitated the fraction of a second, then a smile
passed over his face, and he acquiesced.
"Very well, sir," he answered, and went on.
The voice was deep and full, as of one accustomed to giving orders
rather than receiving them.
Miss Stirling stopped, stared--and, then, went swiftly in pursuit.
Parkington watched her in surprise.
"Mr. Marbury!" she called. "Mr. Marbury!"
The tall figure, in osnaburg breeches and shirt, heavy shoes and coarse
worsted stockings, swung around, and laughed.
"I trust you are well, Miss Stirling," he said--"Oh," as she began to
explain for Sir Edward--"it is not the first time I have been taken
for one of my own servants, and besides I come by it honestly. The
feathers made the birds, Miss.--Sir Edward Parkington, I presume; I
have heard my son speak of you," and he held out a hand that bore all
the evidences of toil and hardship, and that was, distinctly, not the
hand of a gentleman.
"I am delighted to meet you, Mr. Marbury," said Parkington. "This is----
"But you did not expect to meet me in such clothes, hey?" with a quiet
little chuckle. "Well, you see, I'm more at home in them. You were
saying that this is----"
"A magnificent place--quite the finest I have seen in America."
It was a particular happy speech. Next to his son and daughter, Hedgely
Hall was his pride.
"That it is, sir, that it is!" he exclaimed. "There is none finer
to the Northward, and few to the Southward--except it be Westover,
or Shirley, and one or two in South Carolina--at least, so my ship
captains tell me; I have never seen them for myself. It will be a fine
estate for George--Marbury of Hedgely Hall is better than a Marbury
of Frederick-Town. Make yourself at home, sir, make yourself at home.
Supper is at seven o'clock. I must get out of these clothes before
then--the family doesn't like 'em. I will send your stick after you,
sir."
"I beg of you, Mr. Marbury, not to bother!" Parkington exclaimed. "It
can wait until----"
But a wave of the hand was the only answer, as he passed out of hearing
up the avenue. The other looked after him thoughtfully.
"So, that is Marbury, the elder!" he said. "I think I want to see more
of him--a very interesting character." He turned to Miss Stirling, and
swept her his most profound bow. "Your pardon, mademoiselle! Shall we
continue the walk?"
VI
THE MISTAKE
At supper, that evening, every one sat where he wished. They went in
without regard to precedence, and Sir Edward found himself between Miss
Tyler and Miss Marbury, the latter taking the place of her mother, who
was indisposed.
Old Marbury was at the head of the table. He had changed his servant's
apparel for a quiet suit of black, his iron gray hair was unpowdered
and unbagged, but was tied at his neck with a narrow ribbon. His
greeting to the guests had been purely formal; and, now, he cut and
served the roast ham in silence, and passed the plates to Joshua, the
negro butler. He, in turn, passed them on to an assistant, who carried
them to the opposite end of the table, where Miss Judith presided over
the fried chicken. There was hot bread of various sorts, preserves,
pickles, and two kinds of sweets, all placed on the table; in addition,
there was tea and coffee, and great pitchers of milk on the side table.
As for servants, there were five, beside Joshua, to wait; he did
nothing but stand behind the master's chair and oversee. And sorry was
the negro who failed to anticipate the wants of a guest--old Joshua's
eye detected it, and he reckoned, later, with the culprit. He was a
belonging of the Hedgelys, taken with the place and well befitting it.
Marbury had bought him, with the goods and chattels of the deceased
owner--just as he had bought hundreds of others--at the market price.
Only, Joshua's price was higher than the others.
He had remained as butler; no one thought of supplanting him, and, so
far as his domain extended, things were done as the Hedgelys had done
them. Indeed, he even persisted in wearing the green and gold of his
late owner; and old Marbury, after a moment's hesitation, had given him
his way, and had taken over the Hedgely colors, as well as the Hedgely
estate. And, in time, he was allowed full sway about the place, for he
knew what, and when, and how, and the Marburys did not. Marbury himself
was too occupied to learn, even if he could, Mrs. Marbury was content
to leave such things to the children, and George and Judith, seeing
that the old slave was competent and faithful, did not interfere.
It had been a sore trial for Joshua, this serving of the Redemptioner,
where hitherto a Hedgely had ruled,--all in the colony knew what Henry
Marbury had been and whence he came--but there was no alternative. Well
was it for him, that the new master had not seen fit to put another in
his place, and him into the tobacco fields. And, at first, the service
had been unwilling and grudgingly (not publicly, but at heart--he knew
too well the punishment that awaited the shirking servant). But, as
the days passed, and he saw that Marbury was given to silence, and that
to Miss Judith and Mr. George were left the control of the house, he
regained his spirits, and came to serve them even as he did the old
master.
The Marburys could never forget the Hedgelys, however. They sat under
their portraits at meal time and in the drawing room, their arms shone
on the china and the silver. Many would have banished the portraits,
got new china, and had the escutcheon removed from the silver. They
would have torn down everything that reminded of their newness. Not
so with Marbury. He let them remain, nay, rather he conserved them.
Marbury is new, he said, all Maryland knows it, therefore preserve what
the Hedgelys left. The more we exalt the latter, the better for us. If
we do not allow them to be forgotten, we shall gain in the estimation
of the old families, whose good opinion it is worth while to have.
Get all the benefit of their reflected glory, it is an asset of their
estate which you have purchased, you are entitled to it, and, if not
neglected, it will yield good returns.
And he was not mistaken. It soon became known that the Marburys were
making no effort to suppress the past. They would not change the name
of the estate, all the old servants were to be retained, all the
old customs followed, even the silver and china were preserved, the
portraits on the walls. The Hall was as the Hedgelys had left it--and
more:--it was better cultivated, and better administered, and better
kept. Society, at first hostile to the new family, gradually grew
quiescent--it would wait and see. It could never accept Henry Marbury
(as he well knew); but, as for the next generation? They had the money,
would they acquire the _savoir faire_.
Henry Marbury understood what was in society's mind. His answer was
to buy a home in Annapolis--but he never obtruded himself. He was a
liberal subscriber to the church and to the lotteries, and whatever he
won in the latter was given to the former. God save him!
Meanwhile, George was sent to King William's School, where he met all
the sons of the aristocracy, and, having stood the test, was received
as one of them. Judith was given a private tutor, a maid, and a coach;
and, somehow, she too came, eventually, to know the sisters of the boys
her brother knew. The rest was easy:--money--enough money not to spoil
them, and make them undesirable companions.
And it won--as it always will, where position depends on a campaign
well managed, and an engaging personality.
All this, Sir Edward had heard, by dribs, at the Coffee-house and
elsewhere. He had been curious to meet the man who had planned it, and
had seen it through, effacing himself that it might succeed. For that
it had succeeded the present gathering guaranteed. George and Judith
Marbury were in society, and safely in; thereafter, it depended on
themselves whether they would stay in. The next thing was marriage. Sir
Edward's glance passed slowly around the table. Yes, they would any of
them do, any one in the Colony, in fact. George Marbury was undoubtedly
handsome, of a fine figure, tall and supple, with an air about him
which ordinarily comes only from generations of ancestors. And Judith
had a certain ease and stateliness of bearing, which was the feminine
counterpart of her brother's.
He let his eyes rest covertly on her. Broken in fortune, with no money
save what he made, _he_ might have married her, and helped conserve the
Marbury fortune--might have learned to oversee a tobacco plantation,
to raise wheat, to trade in slaves and bond-servants. In short, he
might have led a respectable life, here, in Maryland, and settled down
as a thrifty and sedate landed proprietor. That is, assuming that the
girl would have him, and the silent figure, at the head of the table,
offered no serious opposition.
He saw his mistake, now. He should have held to his own name, and the
little money he had. As he might not return to England, he should have
announced that he had come to America to settle, to grow up with the
country. Instead, he had stolen another man's name and title, had set
himself up to impersonate him, had used his letters of introduction,
had been received, and was, at that very moment, to all intents and
purposes, Sir Edward Parkington.
It was too late, now, to retract. He had burned his bridges behind him.
He was known the province over, nay into Virginia and Pennsylvania,
too; for he had met representative men from both Colonies at the races,
and they had made much of him--the traveller for pleasure. To admit,
now, that he was not Parkington, but, instead, a disinherited son,
with a few pounds to his credit and no character, would be worse than
folly--it would be madness. What of his story of shipwreck--how came he
by the letters of introduction--did Parkington die by the waves or by
murder? Assuredly, he had made a mess of it....
Of course--of course, he could marry the girl, or make a try for her,
still masquerading as Sir Edward, and trust to luck, and the Marbury
money to find a way out. The main objection to this scheme was that,
for all he knew, Parkington was already married, and while he might
purloin his reception and welcome, yet to cause him to commit bigamy,
was a little too much risk. Naturally, since he himself was unmarried,
there would be no bigamy, but to espouse a woman--a good woman--under
another man's name! even he balked.
He had played the bachelor thus far, and he hoped it was according to
the fact; at least, no one had questioned it, to his knowledge. But,
this afternoon, he thought he had detected some such purpose in Miss
Stirling's manner--a faint doubting. He had led quickly away, and she
had made no attempt to return to it. Possibly, he had been mistaken--it
might well be that he was. But, at all events, the question confronted
him, and doubtless would have to be answered, sometime. He was----
"Is anything the matter with the chicken, Sir Edward!"
The last words caught his ears. "I beg your pardon, Miss Marbury," he
said; "did you ask me a question?"
"I asked whether anything was the matter with the chicken?" she
replied; "you have been frowning at your plate, for at least a
minute--or is it the ham?"
"Was I frowning?" he laughed; "well, rest assured it was not at either
the chicken or the ham--they are delicious. I suppose it is very
impolite, but my thoughts had gone back to England and----" he made an
expressive gesture. "Amid the most delightful surroundings, home will
suddenly obtrude. I promise not to offend again."
"'Twas a grievous offense," she smiled,--"particularly for a
traveller--an omen that we shall soon lose you. _N'est ce pas_,
monsieur?"
"It is not, assuredly not. I have no thought of departing. On
the contrary, I have but begun to enjoy my stay. I may become a
Marylander, yet, who knows?"
The smile rippled into a laugh. "You flatter us too much, Sir
Edward--oh! too much!"
"I flatter not at all--I mean it."
"Is this a sudden notion--I thought you travelled for your pleasure?"
"And so I do--solely, for my pleasure. Perchance, my pleasure is to
remain--I do not know."
She refused to take him seriously. "Have you advised your friends in
England of this new idea?"
He shook his head. "You are the first to know it."
"Because the idea was, this moment, born?"
"You do not believe me."
"You do not believe, yourself."
"But you would receive me?"
"Assuredly, we would receive you--we would do more, we would welcome
you."
"Then I warn you that I may remain."
"What nonsense!" she exclaimed. "A London gentleman come here to
live--settle down to the humdrum life of a Colonist!"
"There may be compensations."
"What compensations?"
"Leading a quiet existence, for one thing."
"No need to cross the Atlantic for that," she said. "You can lead a
quiet existence on your country estate--stay away from London."
"The social life is very charming," he continued.
"Granted--for Maryland, but only a miniature of the life you have at
home."
"And your women," he went on, "your women are fascinating."
"Some men are so gallant!"
"_Peste!_" he said, "you will not be convinced--not even that I should
have a good excuse for staying."
"No good excuse, _in comparison_, with what you would be losing--and"
(very sweetly) "I take you to be a gentleman of excellent judgment."
"What are you two quarreling about--what will Miss Marbury not be
convinced of?" Miss Tyler broke in.
"That your Maryland has anything to offer a man--a man who had lived
all his life in England," said Parkington.
"It would depend much on the man."
Sir Edward nodded. "Suppose we were discussing myself.
"You? oh, la!" and went into a gale of laughter.
"Evidently you are not convinced," Parkington observed.
"Surely, you are not serious?" she demanded.
"Not if every one is as enthusiastic as Miss Tyler and Miss Marbury,"
said Parkington, with affected indignation.
Captain Herford, across the table, had been attracted by the merriment;
now he broke in.
"I say, what is the enthusiasm--what is it?"
"The ebullitions of a quiet spirit," said Parkington, quickly.
"Oh, is that all?" Herford rejoined. "I thought, from Miss Tyler's
quiet laugh, that it was the ebullitions of a ghost."
"You were not asked to think anything about it," Miss Tyler retorted.
"Stay on your own side of the table, will you?"
"Bravo!" cried Parkington. "Come again, Captain Herford, come again!"
Herford shook his head. "The lady is in a bit of a temper. I best wait
until the storm subsides," he said, and turned away indifferently.
"There is something about that man which always gets on my nerves,"
Miss Tyler remarked, lowering her voice. "I do not know what it is, and
I reckon I should not let it affect me, but it does."
"Cultivate the placid disposition," Miss Marbury recommended.
"Oh, that is very well for you to say, but it is not easy to do. You
have not any nerves,--you would not get excited if the house were
burning."
"Do not try me, I beg of you!" laughed Judith. "I would be sure to
carry down all the pillows, and to throw the chinaware out the second
story windows."
"Well, I only wish I had your placidity--not to be always on edge.
There is nothing the matter with Captain Herford, I suppose; I just
take him wrong.--I always have. But, frankly, Judith, he is not to my
liking--though I should not say it to you, the hostess."
Judith Marbury made a little motion of indifference. "Say anything you
like, my dear; he is George's guest, not mine."
"You do not like him, either?"
"I neither like nor dislike him--I am totally indifferent."
"But you are always nice to him!--however, you are always nice to every
one. Has he ever tried to make love to you?"
"Oh, yes! he has tried it with all the girls. At present, he is mad
about Martha Stirling."
"Half the men of the Province are mad about her--and with just cause,
too, I grant. But they will get over it--the minute the ship, that
bears her back to England, passes Greenbury Point."
"You think that none of them could persuade her to remain?"
"It is as unlikely as that Sir Edward himself will remain."
"Governor Sharpe has bought Whitehall;"--Miss Marbury objected--"he
will become one of us when his term expires."
"But his niece will not," said Miss Tyler. "He seeks rest and ease, she
pleasure and excitement."
"I can find plenty of pleasure and excitement in Maryland."
"And so can I--but not of the sort she would have. It is all in what
you have been used to. Maryland is agreeable enough for a few months,
but she will want something else for steady diet. She has beauty and
fascination, and they bring a higher price in England than in America."
"Is the lady, then, for sale?" inquired Parkington.
"We all are for sale, the only question is the price you pay."
"Edith!" exclaimed Miss Marbury--"where, in Heaven's name, did you get
such notions?"
"Here in Maryland--every girl prefers a man with money or
prominence--you do, I do, we all do. Unless he has one or the other, he
is not even considered as a _possible_ husband--isn't it so!"
"No--at least, I think, I am not for sale. Does love play no part in
the compact?"
"As you wish--you can love him or not. Given a rich or prominent
suitor, and one possessing neither, which would you love, think you?"
"All things being equal otherwise?"
"Not necessarily--the poor one may be much the better looking--and of a
more amiable disposition."
"I cannot answer," said Miss Marbury; "I would have to see them to
choose--wealth and prominence are in one's favor, but so also is a
handsome person and an amiable disposition--and then, after all, I
fancy, I should let love decide."
"But if you love neither?"
"Then, I reckon, I should marry neither," Miss Marbury answered.
"Well, you for it!" said Miss Tyler, with a shrug, "but, for my part,
love has nothing to do with it. And if it has, it is quite as easy to
love the rich man as poor man, and much more sensible in the end."
"In effect, you would sell yourself for money?"
"And you would sell yourself for love; it is all the same--only, your
consideration rarely lasts: the man makes no effort to keep it. It is
different with money, vastly different."
"I fear we are making a poor impression on Sir Edward," said Miss
Marbury. "He will think you mercenary, and me a sentimentalist."
"He flung the bone--he is responsible!" Miss Tyler laughed.
"I did," said he--"and I was vastly entertained. Shall I fling another?"
"Not this evening, my good sir," said Miss Tyler. "Perhaps you will
decide the vexed question for us--mercenary or sentimentalist?"
"Never, oh, never! Pray excuse me! Ladies, I beg of you----"
"It would serve you right if we did not," Miss Marbury broke in. "Have
a piece of chicken?"
"Yes, yes! Two pieces, if you wish--I'll eat anything rather than
decide between you!" he averred.
"Then, no more bones, m'sieur."
"No, no more bones," warned Miss Tyler. "Oh! may we tell that you are
thinking of settling in Maryland?"
"Lord! no!" Then, when they both laughed, he added: "I do not want to
raise the ladies' hopes too high--I might not remain, you know." (Which
is as good as saying I am not married--without saying it, he reflected.)
Herford had been trying to overhear their talk, and, now, a sudden
lull, around the table, afforded him the opportunity.
"What is that?" he called out. "Thinking of settling in Maryland--do
they mean you, Sir Edward?"
"No!" replied Parkington, instantly. "We were speaking of the
Devil--and wondering, if he were to settle here, how long he would
escape inquisitive questions. May be you can answer."
It was said smilingly, and apparently with the best spirit, but none
who heard it missed the sting. And in Herford's face a faint color
came, and his eyes snapped.
"It would depend on how it pleased him to masquerade," he retorted;
"some disguises are, you know, more effective than others, but I should
say he would be most successful as an English gentleman."
Sir Edward's smile broadened into a laugh, and the rest of the table,
seeing that he took it so, joined in.
"You score!" he answered, when the merriment had subsided.
But Herford, instead of meeting the acknowledgment half way with
a quick declination, gave a supercilious shrug and a lift of the
eyebrows, and turned away. Whereby, he lost all the advantage, and
proved himself a prig; whereas Sir Edward was marked as well-bred, and
the impropriety of his original retort was forgotten. Furthermore,
it had served to pass over Herford's query, and to make the table
forget it--and that was Parkington's main concern. He supposed it
would come out--it was not likely Miss Marbury or Miss Tyler could
keep silent--but he preferred that it should not be told to the whole
company, in his presence.
VII
SIR EDWARD LAYS PLANS
Sir Edward Parkington lay awake, for a long time that night, thinking.
It was good sport, this posing as another man, and he had entered
upon it much as he had entered upon all his escapades, for the fun
of it--and the amusement of seeing himself received and accorded the
welcome belonging to some one else.
And he had enjoyed it thoroughly, until yesterday. Then, the question
suddenly presented itself!--if you are going to remain in America,
how is this thing to end? What are you to be, when it is over--for it
cannot last forever; it is sure to be found out; some one, who knew
Sir Edward, in the flesh, or who knows you, will come upon you, and
the truth will out. He might masquerade for a year, or two years even,
scarcely longer--and, then, again, he might be detected, at any moment.
He had not thought of the hazard--of the punishment that awaited when
he assumed the impersonation. He saw only how easy it would be--a dead
man, his letters, and the thing was done. But, once done, it was not
so easy to undo it. The only way, was for Sir Edward Parkington to die
a second time, and finally--and his body not be found. And that would
necessitate his disappearance--to a sufficiently distant city where
his name and figure were not known: Boston--New York--Charleston.
He had heard of Charleston, as a particularly nice town--after
Annapolis, the best in America. Of New York, he knew but little; of
Boston, still less. Moreover, he preferred the warmth of the South, and
the people, there, were said to be very hospitable. He had never heard
that of New York, and he had a distinct recollection that Boston was
reputed a most inhospitable town. Yes, he would choose Charleston--it
was farther removed from the ways of travel, more isolated. There, he
could put off his borrowed plumes and stand forth as his true self,
and no one would be the wiser. He would leave Annapolis as Sir Edward
Parkington, bound for Philadelphia. He would reach there another man;
and the first ship which left that port, Southward-bound, would have
him for a passenger. Yes, decidedly, it was the best way--when the time
came for him to leave Annapolis.
There was no need for haste--he had the whole summer before him. It
was not likely he would be found out before the late Autumn; it took
a vessel nine weeks to make the voyage across. He had taken a strong
liking for this Maryland, and her people, and the life they led. He
thought he would like to lead it with them.
And this Marbury business was the right idea--if he had only come
in his proper person. Well, he had not, and it behooved him to
make the best of it. Barring accidents, there was small chance of
the impersonation being detected before October, and much could be
accomplished in the interim. At least, he would have a good time, and
the explanations could wait....