Parkington was at the opposite end of the table, one removed from
the silent host, whom he was trying, as best he could, to bring
into the conversation, but with indifferent success. A word, a nod,
a short sentence, rarely, was all that he could elicit. But even
Maynadier could not have got as much out of him--and he watched them,
contemplatively, through the meal....
What was the man's idea--what was his purpose? What was there about
him to make old Marbury talk--why was he taking the trouble to make
him talk? In short, had he an object in it? But, then, why was he in
Maryland at all? What was he doing here? Was he a spy--a secret agent,
sent hither for a purpose; and what was that purpose? He came duly
accredited, and his letters were in form and regular--the signature,
indeed, the entire writing, was Lord Baltimore's own.... It was very
peculiar, surely. Of course, the Governor knew--he would have been
informed--but the Governor had seen fit to be silent, and even they,
of the Council, did not pry in matters which did not concern them--his
Excellency had a way about him that forbade it.
He had met Sir Edward Parkington in London, two years before, and
this was not he. But he had seen Colonel Sharpe, at the Races,
introduced him as Sir Edward, and so, a little later, when he himself
was presented by Miss Stirling, he had accepted it. The man knew how
to act the part--indeed, he appeared to be far above the calibre
of Parkington. Parkington, as he remembered, was pretty much of a
rake--one of Baltimore's own. But this man had been very circumspect,
and his deportment most proper.... He might be a great noble--his
manner suggested it--come over incog. to view the country, and to get
information at first hand on the temper of the people. Indeed, he
might be anything and any one--but, assuredly, he was _not_ Sir Edward
Parkington. However, it was not his business to unmask him, after
Colonel Sharpe had accepted him and vouched for him.
"Why did you shrug your shoulders?" Miss Marbury asked, suddenly.
"Did I shrug my shoulders?" he said. "I did not know it."
"Yes, you did; now why did you do it?"
"I do not know."
"Which is another way of saying, I should not have asked."
"You may ask me anything," he said.
"And not give offense, you mean," she supplemented. "But you reserve
the right to answer only what you choose."
"Do you think so?" smiling.
"Yes, I do.--Please tell me, Dick?" she plead.
"Please tell you what?" he said, indulgently.
"Why you shrugged your shoulders--you were looking toward father--has
he done anything--I mean, was he the cause?"
"No, child, he had nothing to do with it."
"You are not deceiving me?"
"Have I ever deceived you?" he asked.
"No! no!" she said. "I did not mean it--but I thought that, maybe, he
had--you understand."
"I understand that you are unnecessarily sensitive," he answered.
"Your father is a bit eccentric, but he is neither churlish nor
ill-mannered--and he is rich enough to be both, if he so wished."
"You believe in wealth, then?" she asked. "You believe that wealth is
equal to birth?"
"In a social sense, yes," said he. "Both are the keys to good
society.--By birth one belongs, by wealth one buys a right to belong.
It is all the same. For my part, I would rather be the wealthy buyer
than the poor belonger--it is so much more satisfactory."
"But when one has both wealth and birth--like you," she persisted, "how
do the buyers appear--what do you think of them?"
He leaned close over. "Just what they are worth," he answered--"just
what they are worth."
"And what are we worth, Dick?" she said impulsively; "we are
buyers--what are we worth?"
"As a general proposition," laying his hand on her arm, and speaking
very earnestly, "the Marburys are worth exactly what they measure. You,
my dear, have measured up, far up."
She looked at him with searching eyes. "You mean it--you are sure you
mean it?"
"Sure--absolutely sure!"
She gave a little sigh of relief. "You are very good--I am satisfied
now--if you approve, there will be none who dare disapprove."
"There will be none who care to disapprove," he said. "Yours was a more
difficult case than George's--he had only the men to satisfy, and that
is easy, where one is a good fellow and a manly. You had the women--and
women are jealous, vindictive and irresponsible. But you won. They all
are for you--there is not one that is even undecided."
"I am glad, very glad," she said. "I want to please them--I was afraid
I had failed. You are a dear to tell me this--a perfect dear, Dick."
The sweet unaffectedness was refreshing. It is not possible, he
thought, that the girl does not know she is beautiful. One look in her
mirror would tell her, one glance at her figure--her complexion, her
eyes, her hair--oh! assuredly, she must know it.
He had seen it coming, had seen it grow. Six years ago, when they first
came to Annapolis, he had marked her--the young girl just budding into
womanhood. He had been of those who early accepted the Marburys, and
four years later, when Hedgely Hall was offered for sale, the fact
that his place adjoined it, was, he knew, a consideration for its
purchase. Since then, he had watched the woman beside him perfect into
the beauty of to-day--with all the winsomeness, all the freshness, of
the unspoiled and unaffected. He had seen it as none other, for he had
a place in the household which was for him alone--he was guide and
mentor and elder brother to her, all in one. The parents were not
capable, at times, of advising, so he took the duty on himself--not
that she needed much counsel, but, when she did, she knew where to find
it. It was at his own request that she had come to call him "Dick,"
dropping the Mr. Maynadier, as quite too formal, and evading Richard
"because that was what all his other friends called him." He was so
much older,--later, he had liked the intimacy of it, the spirit of
comradeship--to-night, he had suddenly realized that, even to him, she
was no longer the sweet-faced girl, whom he had petted, and chided,
and advised, by turns. She was able to stand alone, to be made love
to--and had been these many months!... Yet none had sought her, as a
lover seeks! And, why? Was it because of her birth? Was it because of
him--the friend? Was it because of herself--would she have none of
them?----
"What is the matter, Dick?" she said, "why do you not answer? Your eyes
are on me, but your mind is far away."
"I beg your pardon!" he exclaimed, "it was rude, I know--what did you
say?"
"I asked why it was you shrugged your shoulders--why was it?"
"I was cold--it is drafty here."
"Nonsense!--be serious----"
"I cannot. I am----"
"Dick, you are possessed!" she laughed. "You are----"
"I am," he cut in--"I am possessed of shrugs--they come and go as they
will--I am not responsible--I am----"
"You are trying to avoid telling me--confess it."
"Now, Judith----"
"Do you not see, Dick, that you have aroused my curiosity to an
ungovernable pitch. You must tell me--and now--now--now!"
He threw up his hands in mock despair.
"But suppose I cannot," he said.
"Cannot?" she echoed--"You do not appear to have lost the power of
speech."
"_Touché!_" he laughed. "_May_, would be the better word--I may not
tell."
"Why?" she said--"why may you not tell?"
"Because it is inexpedient," he answered.
"A matter of State?" she demanded.
"No."
"Violating a confidence?"
"No."
"Inexpedient!" she reflected--"Inexpedient!--there can be but one more
reason:--it might provoke scandal, if known. Is that it?"
"You are the very devil, Judith!" he exclaimed;--"yes, that is it."
"Oh, delightful! delightful! Come, sir, what is it? Now, I will not be
put off."
He looked at her doubtfully, undecided what to do. He thought he could
trust her--he felt sure that he could. But, what if she babbled?
"You do not trust me," she said. "You fear that I shall tell."
"No, not exactly," he said, "I trust _you_, but I fear that,
_inadvertently_, you might tell.--However, you shall know it."
She turned toward him, impulsively----
"But, not now--some one might overhear. Take me for a walk down the
avenue, after supper."
"Would you rather not tell?" she asked. "Because, if you would----"
"How like a woman!" he laughed. "Work one up to the pitch, and then
grow faint-hearted. No, you will have to hear it, now--and be bored."
"There is no danger," she replied.--"I'll take you the walk, after
supper--and I'll take you whether you tell me, or whether you do not."
And she gave him a deliberate and dazzling smile which set Mr. Richard
Maynadier to thinking more than ever.
A little later, when, the supper ended and her duties as hostess were
done for the time, she came out on the lawn, it was to find Richard
Maynadier seated alone and waiting. He arose at once and bowed, and,
without further ado she slipped her hand through his arm, and they
strolled down the avenue toward the water. The full moon had just
pushed its way through the fringe of trees beyond the Patuxent, the
breath of the evening came to them, the fragrance of the roses and the
lilacs, a gentle breeze sang softly through the leaves, and whispered
among the branches.
A faint laugh floated to them, and then another--and, presently, up the
avenue, strolled Miss Stirling and Sir Edward Parkington.
"Ah! what have we here?" exclaimed Miss Stirling. "Another couple!"
"Going out into the moonlight," said Maynadier, quickly, "_not into the
dark_."
"Ho, ho!" Sir Edward laughed, "what have you to say now, my lady?"
"That he is most impertinent."
"Granted," returned Maynadier. "What else?"
"Nothing, now," came over her shoulder; "I shall consider the penalty."
"What did she mean by 'the penalty'?" Judith asked, when they were out
of hearing.
"I have not the slightest notion," said he.
"Has she caught you, too,--I mean, have you joined the others in
dancing attendance on her?"
"Not to my knowledge," he smiled--"and, I am sure, not to hers."
"Well, you are about the only one who has escaped--you and George. And
George is too busy with every one to specialize--just yet."
"Give him his head," said Maynadier; "he will settle into his stride,
some day."
"If he does not settle pretty soon, father will have the fainting
sickness. He bought Hedgely Hall for George's wedding gift--and he
still has it on his hands, with no prospects. However, no match is much
better than a bad one."
"George will never make a bad marriage, trust him for that--and trust
your father, too."
"Trust father!" she exclaimed. "I reckon I do--he is the dearest
parent any girl ever had. I was only trying to be funny, and without
success--even with you. It is not in me."
"The trouble is with _me_--I took you seriously----"
"They all do--every body takes me seriously. They will not let me be
absurd, even when I try."
He looked at her with a puzzled frown--was she in jest or earnest? At
all events, she was showing a new side to him, to-night--or he was
seeing it, for the first time----
Her light laugh broke in on him. "Confess that you do not understand
me, to-night!--Well, I do not understand myself, so, let us drop me,
and take up the secret--the great secret you were afraid some one would
overhear, at table:--why did you shrug your shoulders, sir?"
"The specific reason is of no value," he answered, "it simply fitted in
with my thoughts, at the time. But the secret itself is very different.
It may result in nothing, that is, nothing may come of it (which I
doubt), but assuredly it is a fact."
"Bravo!" she cried. "You do it well, Dick, splendidly, indeed. You
almost convince me you have discovered something."
"Discovered conveys the idea of going in search of," he said,
thoughtfully.--"No, I did not discover this--it was thrust upon me. I
just noticed it, casually. I----"
"Dick, do get on!" she exclaimed. "You've got me all on edge. Out with
it!"
He chuckled softly to himself. "You know Sir Edward Parkington?"
"Casually--he is a guest, at present, at Hedgely Hall," as though she
were imparting information of the most confidential sort.
"Oh, no, he is not!"
"Do be serious, Dick--what about him?"
"You thought you passed him, a moment ago, with Miss Stirling, did you
not?"
"Of course!"
"Well, that shows how easy it is to be deceived. You did not."
"Are you crazy, Dick? Certainly it was Sir Edward."
He shook his head.
"Who was it, then?" she demanded.
"I do not know--I only know it was _not_ Sir Edward. He is not he!"
She stared at him.
"He is not he!" she repeated. "What _do_ you mean?"
"I mean," he said, the smile broadening into a gentle laugh, "that the
man you know as Sir Edward Parkington is _not_ Sir Edward Parkington.
He is an impostor."
"Dick!" she cried. "Do you mean it--are you sure?"
"Perfectly sure," he answered, "perfectly sure."
"But I do not understand--he brought letters to Governor Sharpe and Mr.
Dulany. Were they forged?"
"No, they were genuine enough."
"Then what----"
"That is just the difficulty. I do not know anything more than this:
the man who presented them is _not_ Parkington."
"And how do you know it?"
"I met Parkington, in London, two years ago----"
"And this man is not he?"
"Exactly. I saw him several times; he seemed to be interested in the
Colonies. He was a small man--very much inclined to stoutness. Oh, I
cannot possibly be mistaken. I detected the imposture the moment I met
him."
"And that was when?" she asked.
"At the Annapolis races, the day subsequent to his arrival."
"And you have permitted him to masquerade--to be received by your
friends--to enter their houses?--Oh, Dick!"
"Your criticism may be just," he said. "And I be wrong in my surmise.
The fellow may be a rogue--but, somehow, I doubt it. In manners, and
bearing, and address he is far superior to the real Sir Edward--and,
also, in breeding, if I am any judge. If this be true, then he is of
superior birth. Now, why should such a man be here, in disguise, and
with his letters apparently regular. I do not know--but they do queer
things in London. Besides, the Governor has accepted him. He must have
been informed--and, if so, it is not for me to tear off the mask."
"But if he be an impostor--if he has stolen the letters, and the name?"
"That is scarcely probable; at any rate, I have given him the benefit
of the doubt, and, thus far, he has deported himself perfectly--much
better than Parkington could have done. For my part, I believe he is
sent here for a purpose and is, in rank, very much above the one he
personates."
She nodded her head, gravely.
"You know best," she said; "but, now, if ever you want to unmask him,
you must lie. It would sound very well, indeed, for Richard Maynadier
to say: 'I knew him, at once, for an impostor, but I let him fool you
for a month (or two months, or three months, as the case may be),
before I told.'"
"And for that very reason, I shall not tell," said he. "I am not my
brother's keeper. I will look out for myself, and my friends, if need
be, the rest may protect themselves, as best they can."
"Are the Marburys your friends?" she asked.
"Have the Marburys needed my protection, yet?"
"There is an impostor a guest in their house."
"My dear girl, you assume he is an impostor for personal gain--I, that
he is an impostor for purposes of State. I would receive him as a guest
at Rose Hill."
"You are warned--we were _not_."
"Whom his Excellency sponsors, a citizen may entertain without
discredit."
"I reckon you are right," she agreed, after a moment's thought. "The
Governor vouches for him, and that is sufficient. But, all the same,
it gives me a queer sort of feeling to be in the same house with--Sir
Edward."
"You see, it would have been much better not to tell you--but you are
so persistent!" and he laughed.
They had come out into the open moonlight, on the river bank. She
looked at him with an odd smile.
"Yes, I am," she replied. "But it has not had much success, thus far."
And though Maynadier besought her earnestly, she would not explain.
IX
THE SURPRISE
The next few days were uneventful. Richard Maynadier, after staying
until midnight, rode home, sober and sedate, with his body-servant, a
fruitless effort of the men to keep him, by other means than simple
persuasion, having failed. Equally futile had been Miss Stirling's
politic allurements, and George Marbury's importunities.
Sir Edward Parkington had spent a number of hours with Judith Marbury,
and was rather well pleased with them. Not that he had ventured on
anything personal,--he was far too old a bird--but inferences from
actions may be drawn, and he thought that she was not altogether dense.
Enough, for the present, if she gathered that he had shown a slight
partiality for her society. Let her get persuaded of that fact, before
he proceeded further. He had all the summer before him, and the matter
could be worked out, in that time--if it was to be worked out at all.
He had, also, paid due attention to the father. He had inspected his
tobacco fields--had watched the slaves and servants at work--had
listened to a minute description of the manner of curing and
hogs-heading--in fine, had the whole industry expounded to him. And,
with it all, he had been careful to show a quiet enthusiasm that did
much to set right the indiscretion of the other morning. He wanted to
relieve Marbury's mind of all distrust, and he took the very best means
to accomplish it:--he evinced an interest in the other's work, and he
grew confidential himself.
"I have not told any one, not even Colonel Sharpe," he said, as
they were riding in from the fields, "the real object in my coming
to America. I am thinking of settling here. Do not repeat it,
please.--Yes, I know I can trust you, else I should not have spoken. I
shall look around, and pick out a likely place, and if the price is not
excessive, and if some other like matters can be arranged, I am about
ready to become one of you."
"Maryland should be proud to welcome you!" Marbury exclaimed.
"Well, there are other ways of looking at it," said Parkington
laughing. "Some people may say that I should be glad to come to
Maryland. But that is neither here nor there; if the old residents will
receive me, and let me be one of them, it is quite enough."
"There will be no trouble on that score--they will be glad enough to
take you in!"
"That is very good of you," (including, by the "you," Marbury among
the old residents), "I shall try to make a companionable neighbor.
I wonder if there are any estates, in this part of the country, for
sale--or which could be purchased for a reasonable amount. I like this
section--it is a little farther South than Annapolis, and, besides,
seems more fertile--better adapted for tobacco."
"It is, sir!--it is quite equal to Virginia.--And, speaking of places,
you might get Rousby Hall, one of the finest we have. You have not seen
it?"
"No, I have seen no place but this one--and it, I suppose, is not in
the market."
Old Marbury shook his head, decisively.
"Not at any price!" he said. "But Rousby Hall has a woman for the
heiress--she is here, now, young Mrs. Plater. Colonel Rousby, her
father, might be willing to sell it, for a good price, and pass
his winters in Annapolis, and his summers with his daughter, at
Sotterly.... I do not know any other that could be had--Maynadier's is
out of the question--and Plater's, and Fitzhugh's, and Snowden's, and
Bladen's, and Ridgeley's--no, Rousby Hall is the only one.--Do you wish
to see it?"
"Yes--sometime before we leave here--just a glance. I would not wish to
appear, yet, you understand--not until my affairs are more definitely
arranged."
"Very well," said Marbury. "Any help I can give is yours for the
asking. Meanwhile, I can ascertain whether Colonel Rousby would
consider selling."
"Yes--it would be very kind," said Parkington, as he dismounted.
"Meanwhile, not a word."
"Hum-m!" thought Marbury. "I shall not be the one to tell it.... Going
to settle here--maybe! He is not married--I wonder if Judith might take
a fancy to him.... Hum-m!... She will have a very good sized dowery,
and an Englishman does not despise such things.... Well, we shall
see.... Hum-m!" And he went on to the wharf.
And Parkington, watching him ride down the avenue, was thinking.
"Let that idea sink in, Marbury. Sir Edward Parkington is considering
settling here--and marrying--with your permission and a fitting
competence. But Rousby Hall? There is not money enough won across the
card tables, in all Maryland, to buy it,--and I have no other source
of revenue.... I reckon, the girl herself will be sufficient; if I
can win her, I will be content. Afterward, with father's generosity,
we can consider Rousby Hall. And the girl is a beauty--ah, here she
comes!--God, what a figure!"
"Whither away, Sir Edward?" she asked, seeing that he wore riding boots.
"No whither," he said. "I have just returned--your father and I were
inspecting the fields."
"You are a guest after his own heart!" she laughed. "Are you really
interested, or is it chargeable to good manners?"
"I am really interested--and one can learn much from your father."
"Yes, that they can," she said enthusiastically. "None in the Colony is
better qualified from actual experience."
"And experience is what I want," he said. "You would not believe me,
the other evening, that I am thinking seriously of making Maryland my
home."
"Of course, not!" she answered.
"But I am in earnest," he insisted.
She looked at him, a moment, in silence. What was the meaning of
this move. What could be its object. That he intended to remain, she
never for a moment believed, but, why pretend? Here was a problem too
difficult for her to solve--she would have to tell Maynadier.
"I ask you, however, not to disclose it, for the present," he
continued. "I want to look around a bit--and pick out a place, and--you
understand."
"No, I do not understand," she replied, implying much more than she
conveyed; "but, if you wish, I shall hold it confidential until you
release me--I fancy the notion will not linger overlong."
"Mademoiselle still doubts?" he smiled.
"Monsieur still plays on my credulity."
"You will see!"
"I shall be very glad to see!" she laughed, (meaning the end of his
masquerade).
"What--my staying or my leaving?"
"Whatever is for the best," she evaded.
"Rather enigmatic!" he said. "Do you mean, the best for me, or the best
for the Colony?"
"They should be identical--the best for the Colony should be the best
for you."
"In theory, possibly, but not always in practice. The best thing for me
may be to stay, but it may be the worst for the Colony."
"That can be determined only by trial," she said. "In the meantime,
what do you think it will be?"
"Which brings us back to the starting point!" he laughed. "We have
rounded the circle. I think it will be that I stay."
"Then, I hope it will prove pleasant and profitable."
"And you will stand my friend?" he asked.
"What makes you think I shall not?" she said, evasively.
"Nothing--I only wanted to have your promise safely filed away."
"I fancy every one will be glad to be your friend, Sir
Edward,"--(smiling) "so long as you deserve it."
"So long as I deserve it," he repeated, with a laugh. "Do you think the
time may come when they will deem it well to give me their backs?"
"Not at all!" she replied. "I would have said the same to any
one--under similar circumstances."
His eyes studied her--he did not miss the qualifying phrase, but he
took it to apply to him as an Englishman.
"If all my Annapolis acquaintances are as glad to have me one of them,
as you are," he remarked, "my welcome will not turn my head."
"Are you in search of flattery, or do you honestly want what I think?"
"What you think; by all means, what you think," he said.
"Well, you have it--you cannot persuade me, that one of Sir Edward
Parkington's standing, in London, can ever voluntarily become a
Colonist. If he does, there must be a cause--and a cause means----"
"What, mademoiselle?"
She shrugged her pretty shoulders, "I do not know, monsieur; but I have
a woman's intuition, and it tells me----"
"Yes," he said, "tells you what?"
She looked at him with a quizzical smile.
"That Sir Edward Parkington will never settle in the Colonies," she
replied.
He thought of the dead man, in the grave by the seashore, near St.
Mary's.
"Sir Edward is quite content with his present abode," he said, and
laughed.
"Yes, for a time," thinking he referred to Hedgely Hall.
"For all time, and eternity, too."