seriously. She was good style, despite her birth, and her face and
figure were much above the average. In fact, they were downright
handsome--handsomer than any of the ladies he had met, except Miss
Stirling--and Miss Stirling had no money--and was going back to
England....
Of course, Miss Marbury might not take him for a husband--but that
would develop later. He could make a flying start, at any rate. And he
did not know whether he wanted her for wife; that, also, would develop
later. All he knew now was, that the Marbury fortune was ample, and
that Miss Marbury went with the fortune, in the nature of an additional
prize.
He lay in the high tester-bed, with its flowered curtains draped around
it, looking through the window at the moonlight on the trees and turf,
and glinting on the distant river. The other men of the party were
remitted to the bachelor quarters and had to double up. He was the
special guest, and, as such, was given the main chamber, and permitted
to occupy it alone. It was accorded to him, naturally, as his due, and
he had not objected, though he would have preferred being with the
other young fellows in the wing. None of them, he noted, appeared to
have intentions respecting Judith Marbury, and, consequently, he had a
clear field. Besides, it would have given him the opportunity to get
nearer to them, and, if they so wished, to instruct them in the art of
cards.
He had, it is true, borrowed two hundred pounds from the Governor,
which would be ample for some time, but if he intended to remain, even
for a few months, he must pay it back in due season. If, however, he
intended to stay only a short while, and then disappear, the paying
back would be superfluous. Never pay anything, even if you have the
money, was his rule of conduct; and, for long, he had been subsisting
by it, and other people's credulity. It amounted to his father's
credulity in the end, for he had been the one to always pay finally.
But his father had grown tired, at length, and a felony resulted, of
which he was the victim. Then, to escape the debtors' prison on one
hand, and prosecution, with but one end, on the other, he took his
sire's money and advice, and under an assumed name departed, one fine
night, for the Colonies. This name he again exchanged for Sir Edward
Parkington in a manner heretofore noted. It had seemed very amusing at
the time, but, now, he did not know what to do with it.....
He could not remain in Maryland (as he had, suddenly, decided he would
like to do) under it; he could not well court Miss Marbury under it;
assuredly, he could not marry her under it (he was not quite graceless
enough for that)--he could do nothing under it, except to stay a short
time and, then, depart and disappear. And he could not lay it aside
without an explanation--and that, with the shipwreck, the letters, and
the dead man would likely put him in jail.... It was the very devil of
a mess--and, the more he thought of it, the bigger mess it became....
Well, at any rate, it would do no harm to sit up to old Marbury, and
try to win his good opinion. And, with this final idea in his mind, Sir
Edward dropped asleep.
But his sleep was fitful and broken; when the clock on the landing
chimed six, he arose, shaved and dressed himself, and went down stairs.
The servants were about, but none else, and, after wandering aimlessly
through the house, he sauntered out on the front piazza. He could hear
the song of the slaves from a distant tobacco field, the sharp order
of some overseer, the call of the sailors, on the Patuxent, and the
whistle of the boatswain's pipe. He would go down to the river; a fine
pathway, a splendid avenue of trees, and an early May morning going to
waste, he might as well make use of them until breakfast.
He arrived in time to see the schooner, which had brought them from
Annapolis, hoist anchor and sail away down the river. A man, who was
standing on the dock giving orders, faced about and came toward him;
he recognized old Marbury--in his servant's clothes.
"You are up betimes, Sir Edward," he called, heartily.
"I but honor the morning and the place," said Parkington. "Though, I
confess, if I had not been wakeful, I likely would not have honored
them for another hour."
The other nodded. "I dare say--you are not of the early risers by
birth, and you have no occasion to learn by experience, as I have."
"I suppose we miss the best time of the day."
"Trash, all trash! you miss an hour or two that may be bright, but it
is no brighter than the rest of a bright day--and if it happens to be
dismal, it is the dismalest hour of the day. I am up mainly because
I'm accustomed to it--it would not be natural for me to sleep late--I
cannot do it."
"You get better work out of the men by it?" Parkington asked.
"Yes, oh, yes! There is nothing like the master's presence, or the
possibility of it, to accomplish results."
And when Sir Edward smiled, he went on: "You think I have not broken my
son to my way of doing? Very true. There is no need--he will not have
to labor as I have done, the way is easy for him. It has ceased to be
the custom for the master to be up with his slaves. Times change, and
people change with them. I have made the money--it will be George's
work to live up to it, and to retain it."
"Much the easier part," commented Parkington.
"I'm not so sure," said Marbury. "Every man to his calling. I could
not live up to it--in the aristocratic way, that is; I think George
can. But, in doing it requires ability to retain it. Here is the
uncertainty."
"It is safe so long as you live," Parkington observed.
"May be it is," was the answer, with a grim sort of smile; "but I look
further ahead. You have heard my history?"
Sir Edward hesitated an instant: "Yes," he said, "I have heard it, as
the Coffee-house knows it."
The other's smile broadened, lighting up his face and eyes, and wiping
out their gaunt severity.
"The Coffee-house knows that I am a Redemptioner," he said--"that
I served my five years--that, when my time of service was ended, I
took my provision and went to Frederick--that I acquired some little
wealth--that, six years ago, I came to Annapolis, and two years ago I
bought this place. It was a rare stroke, buying this place! You have
doubtless heard some other gossip, part true, part untrue. But what you
have not heard, because none in the Colony knows it, is that my father
came of a good family in England. He was wild and foolish, his people
cut him adrift, disinherited him. Our name is changed; I shall never
claim the relationship. Under the new name I have prospered; it has
served for my children; they are received in society. I have made my
own way. I owe nothing to my immediate ancestors. I am the founder of
my line. My son will have a goodly inheritance--my daughter an ample
patrimony. I am satisfied." He stopped, and looked at Parkington,
curiously: "Strange!" he said, "strange! that I should tell you this!
I do not know whether it is because you are an English knight--or
something about you which makes us seem akin (begging your pardon, sir,
I mean in sympathy not in blood). It is the first time I have spoken of
it--you will oblige me, by forgetting it."
Parkington inclined his head in acquiescence.
"It is forgotten," he said. "And it may be, there are more points of
sympathy between us than you imagine. As it seems to me, in this new
land, the aristocracy is one of wealth and culture, or culture and
wealth, whichever way it come. You have provided the wealth, your son
and daughter the culture."
"There is one thing more needed to make it secure," said
Marbury:--"Marriage into the old families. When that is done, I am
ready to die."
"You are ready to live, you mean."
"I mean what I said. Old Mr. Brewster was my master. When my time of
service was ended, he sent for me. 'Here, Marbury, are the things
which the law compels me to give you,' he said. 'Take them. I
understand you are going to Frederick. Stay there!--you may make some
money, I fancy you will, but, don't imagine yourself any better, if you
do. Don't come to Annapolis and attempt to get into society, as some
Redemptioners have done--and failed. You don't belong, and we won't
have you. You have been my servant, you can never be our equal.' I
thanked him and departed, resolved to come back. That resolution has
never faltered. But there was truth in what he said. I have been a
servant, I can never be the equal of those who knew me as a servant.
With my son and daughter it is different. They have to do with another
generation, they never were servants--and," (with a smile) "they have
the means of propitiation. They are far beyond me--my usefulness to
them is ended, more, I am a positive hindrance. So, I would be content
to go."
"Man! man! you're morbid!" exclaimed Parkington.--"How old are you?"
"Sixty, last month."
"Many men, at your age, have only started to live. Let the young ones
go their ways--the next generation will take them, fast enough. You
prefer a quiet existence--very well, have it; it will not interfere
with them. You have been living to yourself so long, with but one
idea, that you have become obsessed by it. Live now for your own
enjoyment--forget all else."
"When a man has lived his life for a single end, and, at sixty, has
seen that end attained, there is not time to start with a new one. I am
not morbid--on the contrary, I am supremely happy to have accomplished
my life's aim, or nearly it. If I were convinced that my death is
necessary to perfect success, I would be willing to die. That is what I
mean, sir--that is what I hold to."
"And that is why you have won out!" exclaimed Parkington. "You
contemplated only success, never failure."
"No, I never thought of failure," said Marbury; "it was not in the
problem."
There was silence for a time. Presently, the Englishman spoke.
"Since you have honored me, thus far," he said, "I am, I hope,
committing no impropriety if I ask one question."
"Ask on, sir," replied Marbury, "I have told you what I have told no
other--it will do no harm to tell you something more."
"You spoke of marriage," said Parkington. "Has anything been--arranged,
as to either?"
"If you mean, have I picked out a mate for either?--no. And I think
that they have not picked for themselves."
"Miss Marbury is a particularly fine girl--she should have suitors in
plenty."
Marbury did not answer.
"And young Mr. Marbury, as the future master of Hedgely Hall, if for
nothing else, is a most desirable _parti_--and he is a mighty good
fellow, besides."
"I think I can trust them," said Marbury, quietly. "They may take their
own time."
And Parkington, fearing that he had gone a bit too far, made haste to
change the subject.
Marbury was a queer man, one of the peculiar temperament, likely,
which, having no confidants and no intimates, will suddenly tell a
life's secrets to a casual acquaintance, and then repent it forever
after. True, he had not told him much that he could not have heard,
any time, at the Coffee-house, but that made small difference. It was
the telling which he would regret, the burst of confidence, that was
foreign to his nature--and for which he was likely to hold Parkington
responsible, or, at least, to distrust him, hereafter.
And this did not chime with Parkington's idea. If he were going to pay
court to the daughter, with any notion of matrimony, it were well not
to have the father's ill will, especially, when it involved such a
confession as he would have to make.
So he turned the talk into less personal channels--of the yield of
tobacco, the manner of curing and packing it, the custom duties, and
the varying prices which it brought in London. Marbury talked freely
and interestingly. It was his life's work, and no man in the Province
was more conversant with the subject and all its ramifications. He had
grown tobacco, as servant and master, for thirty-five years; he could
tell to a pound what his yields had been every year, what it had netted
after the inspection duties were collected, and what his profits were.
By the Act of Assembly, passed only three years before, tobacco was the
staple currency of Maryland--every officer, from Governor down through
the list, was paid in it, as were the clergy, and all large commercial
transactions were conducted in warehouse receipts for inspected
tobacco--in fact, no tobacco could be sold unless inspected and passed.
Parkington was not especially interested in tobacco, but he pretended
to be, and it served his purpose admirably. Marbury seemed to forget
his indiscretion of a short time ago, and, when they came to the house,
he was still talking on tobacco.
"Take me out to the fields, sometime," said Parkington, "and show me
more about it--of the cultivation, I mean."
"I will be glad to, sir, very glad, indeed. You will excuse me, now, I
must dress for breakfast."
Parkington sauntered to a nearby bench and sat down. He was not quite
satisfied with the result of his early morning walk--he was not so
sure it would not have been better to decline Marbury's confidences.
It might have been difficult to do, and it might have offended him,
but, it would have been wiser, in the end. The offense could not have
lasted, and, after the moment, Marbury would thank him for it. As it
was, he would likely hold it in mind. It was only human nature. Of
course, his being an Englishman and a foreigner might prevent, but
that was scarcely possible. His one chance was to regain Marbury's
confidence by showing great interest in the plantation, and all that
concerned it. Good--he would show it....
He glanced up, to see Captain Herford coming toward him.
"The top of the morning, to you, Captain," he said; "I hope I see you
well."
"I do not know how you see me," said the other, shortly. "It depends on
your eyesight."
"And that tells me," said Parkington, indifferently amused, "that
you are out of sorts. Better go down to the river and take a cold
bath--there is nothing like a cold bath, Herford, to put one in tune
with the morning."
"You have tried it, I apprehend," ironically.
"No, there was no need--I am always in tune."
"And, hence, particularly able to look after those of us who are
not," Herford sneered. "Has it ever occurred to you that it is a bit
gratuitous?"
"Yes!" said Parkington, and laughed. "That is why I never do, unless
they inflict themselves upon me. In plain words, Herford, get in a good
humor or get away. You intrude on my privacy--and the least you can do
is to be pleasant.--Your face, at present, does not harmonize with the
landscape--it spoils the picture. Pray, withdraw it!"
The other looked at him, sourly, uncertain for the moment how to take
him--then a surly smile overspread his face.
"The picture brightens!" exclaimed Parkington. "Let it grow, let it
grow!"
"Damn these black servants!" the Captain broke out.--"Laid out my gray
suit instead of the dark blue, as I ordered, and was not around when I
got up."
"You have got on the blue, I observe."
"Yes--got it out myself; and he got my riding whip. They are all
worthless, sir, damn worthless!"
"I dare say they are--but think of the satisfaction in being able
to beat them. You work off your surplus feelings, and at no loss to
yourself. A slave dare not leave you."
Herford stared at him. "He is not _my_ slave," he said; "he is one of
old Marbury's."
"Oh! and yet you beat him?"
"Certainly--you beat any slave who disobeys orders."
"Is that the general practice?" Parkington inquired.
"The general practice is to do as you wish with them," the other
answered, sharply.
"But suppose Marbury should not care to have his slaves beaten--what
then?"
"Then he has no business to assign one to me for a servant. Oh, it is
all understood--and, what is more, he will get another trouncing, if I
mention it to the Marburys."
Parkington nodded. "I see," he said; "you have a way, here, we, of the
old country, do not understand."
"You would understand it quick enough, if you lived here."
"And do you not ever try to manage them with kindness--do you whip them
for every offense?"
Herford shrugged his shoulders. "Thank God! I do not own any--but, if I
did----"
Parkington smiled. "I take it, that the disposition to beat them is in
the inverse ratio to the number owned."
"What?"
"I mean, that the more slaves one owns the less disposed he is to have
them whipped. You, who confess to possessing none, are very ready to
beat them all."
"Are you trying to pick a quarrel with me?" the Captain, demanded
angrily.
"There you go, spoiling the picture again!" Sir Edward laughed. "I
shall have to ask you to take your face--ah! here comes one who,
assuredly, will not spoil the picture. _Bon jour, mademoiselle!_" he
called, springing up and going forward.
"What are you two men doing?" said Miss Stirling.--"Why, Captain
Herford, what ails you? your face is as glum as the Lord Chancellor's."
"It will be so no longer," Herford answered. "Even the Lord
Chancellor's would reflect the presence of such a luminary."
She knitted her brows, as though perplexed. "By which, I infer, you
mean, I am a luminary. Is that complimentary?"
"It is--at least, it was, so intended."
"How very nice!" she exclaimed. "Your compliments are so delicate,
oftentimes go over my head--a lovely view, Sir Edward!" turning toward
him.
"Charming--charming!" said he, looking straight at her.
"I mean, there!" (pointing to the landscape).
"Just what I was trying to impress on Captain Herford----"
"Trying?" she echoed;--"surely, it took no trying."
"I am sorry to say it did--in fact, he steadily refused to see it."
She turned and looked, curiously, at Herford.
"All of which means, that he is out of sorts," she said. "Well, I
decline to talk to a man who is out of humor on such a day. When you
are willing to smile, and mean it, you may come back. Au revoir, sir,
au revoir."
VIII
THE MEANING OF A SHRUG
In the late afternoon, the Snowdens arrived from Montpelier, and, a
little later, the Platers from Sotterly. They were young married people
and added much to the company. Mrs. Snowden was a Leigh of Virginia,
and Mrs. Plater was the only daughter and heiress of Colonel John
Rousby, of Rousby Hall in Calvert County.
The former came down the Patuxent in their barge, rowed by a dozen
sturdy blacks; the Platers by coach and four, with postilions and
footmen, and made a gallant show as they dashed up the avenue and drew
up, with a grand flourish, before the entrance.
The company was on the lawn, at the side of the house, playing at bowls
or idling the day away as they saw fit, but they crowded forward, and
made a great to do over them.
"I vow I am almost dead," said Mrs. Plater, at last; "pray, get me
away, Judith, or I shall faint. The roads are terrific, and the jolting
has well nigh finished me."
"You poor dear!" exclaimed Miss Marbury, and straightway carried her
off to her room.
Miss Stirling was not in the company that received the Snowdens and the
Platers. She saw them come, from behind the curtains of her window, but
did not show herself. She was in _déshabillé_, which was sufficient
excuse, and she was engaged in writing a letter, which was abundant
excuse--more especially, as it was of exceeding length and filled with
gossip.
It was to Lady Catherwood, in London, and essayed to relate all that
had happened since she left, and besought her to reply, in kind. Much
of it had to do with the men she had met, less, with the women--though
they came in for a share. Mr. Worthington, Mr. Paca, Mr. Brice, and Mr.
Constable she found most agreeable and charming, Captain Herford was
mainly a bore, though, at times, he could be most entertaining. He was
a good catch, as he was reputed to be wealthy, and, in addition, was an
officer in the Royal American Regiment. He had conceived a most absurd
fondness for herself, however; which was most embarrassing, because he
did not want to give any of the other men a chance to be nice to her.
She did not care to snub him, on her uncle's account, but it was pretty
hard, sometimes, not to do it.
There was one man, who had attracted her more than all the
others--indeed, she could grow very fond of him, if he would only
respond in the slightest degree. Mr. Richard Maynadier was his name.
He was considerable older, was, in fact, a member of the Council and a
man of material importance in the Colony. She had done everything to
attract him, consistent with maidenly reserve--and, may be, a bit more;
and he knew it, too, and laughed her, good naturedly, aside. He was
courteous, of course, in the very best way, but steadily refused to be
brought nearer. And it piqued her. To have all the men devoted, except
the one she desired! It was not at all serious, but, mainly, because
_he_ would not have it. In fact, if there was any one in Maryland who
might persuade her to remain, it was Richard Maynadier.
At the end, she wrote this postscript--which was the real object of the
letter:
"_P. S. Did you ever Chance to Meet a Sir Edward Parkington, or
do you Know of Him? He is arrived, lately, at Annapolis, bringing
Letters of Introduction to Governor Sharpe and Mr. Dulany. He
tells a wondrous story of Shipwreck, and being cast up by the
waves, some miles below here, and All on board being lost, Save
only him. He is exceedingly Affable, and pleasant, and has made a
Good Impression on Every one. I wish you would Ascertain--if you
do not already know--whether he is Married--his actions are those
of a Bachelor, but no one has Inquired, and I care not to ask him.
He has the loveliest Manners, he dances the Minuet with Marvelous
Grace, and he can make love better than any Man I ever Met. He
says he is going to stay the Summer. He is Tall and slender, with
black hair, blue eyes and fair complexion. Be sure to tell me,
when you Answer--and anything else you know concerning him._
"_M. S._"
"I wish I had written three weeks ago," she reflected. "It will require
nine or ten weeks for this letter to reach England, and as many coming
back, and, allowing for the necessary delay at both ends and the time
she takes to reply, it will be all of five months and, maybe, six,
before I can hope for an answer. That will be the first of November, at
least--and, like enough, you will be gone before, then, Sir Edward,"
she said, looking out at the man standing in the group on the lawn
below her.
She folded the letter carefully, and affixed the seals, then laid it
aside, to be sent to Annapolis and included in his Excellency's mail
for forwarding. In that way, she would save postage, and as the missive
was several ounces in weight, at five shillings the ounce, it made
purely friendly communications rather expensive.
It was nearly supper-time when she appeared on the lawn, looking
exceedingly sweet in a flowered pink silk, to find a new arrival--Mr.
Richard Maynadier. He had ridden across from his place, Rose Hill,
which adjoined Hedgely Hall on the North.
"Ah, Miss Stirling!" he said, with a low bow. "The evening star shines
pale beside you."
"And the morning star not at all!" she laughed. "Thanks, monsieur,
my warmest thanks.--But I wonder that you are not afraid to pay me
compliments."
"No," he said. "Compliments are safe--they lead to nothing."
"Because they are mainly false?" she asked.
"Not exactly--because they do not commit one, I should say--and
every one takes them at their value; there is no danger of being
misunderstood."
"You are dreadfully afraid of being misunderstood!" she mocked.
"Perhaps!" he smiled. "What these young macaronies" (with a motion,
indicating those around him) "could venture with impunity, we older
heads dare not. It is not dignified for us."
"Then do not ever fall in love, Mr. Maynadier; love is the most
undignified of all our frailties."
"In what way is it undignified?" he asked.
"In every way--particularly, in the exhibition of one's feelings. Every
one makes sport of the lover--every one laughs at him."
"Then the world is overrun with fools--for they are but laughing at
themselves. No, no, my lady! I find no fault with love, ever--only with
him who simulates it, and is old enough to know better. _Comprenez
vous?_"
"Oh, yes, I understand," she said, with a frank smile; "but I do not
agree with you."
"A woman's privilege! she never agrees, and is fascinating always."
"Perversity, you think?"
"Diversity!" he laughed, and bowed himself away.