"Do you know," said he, "that you have a peculiarly fetching way with
you this evening?"
"I always have had it," she answered, with a fling of the head, "but
_you_ have never noticed it."
"I have been blind," he said.
"Yes, you have been blind," she agreed, with a quick glance upward.
"Henceforth, my eyes are open."
"Such is the result of walking in the moonlight, Dick. Oh, you will
improve, in time!--give the moonlight a chance."
"It requires more than the moonlight," he declared.
"Of course--a pretty girl is essential, too."
"And it requires more than a pretty girl."
"No, the moon and the girl are sufficient."
"Does not inclination play a part?"
"It is resultant of the other two."
"But in varying degrees."
"Oh, yes!" she said.--"For instance, you are more earnest to-night than
you used to be--though, in truth, sir, I never before knew you to take
the two necessary ingredients in one dose."
"The girl and the moonlight, you mean?"
She nodded, smiling naïvely.
"That is because they were never offered me----"
"Offered you!" she exclaimed. "Do you expect them to be _offered_?"
"Again I have expressed myself poorly!" he laughed. "What I mean is, I
never had the moonlight, and the inclination, and _you_ all together."
"I cannot answer for the inclination," she replied, "but as you have
the moonlight and me, for the last four years, I may be pardoned if I
doubt it."
"But do you doubt it?" he insisted.
"Certainly, I doubt it!--what woman would not?"
"No man would, if he could see you, now."
"Fol-de-rol!" she laughed, and snapped her fingers in his face. "Am I
different from what I was last week, or last month, or last year?"
"No, you are not," said he. "I recognize it, now. Alas! that I did not
recognize it sooner."
"And you expect me to believe?" she mocked--though her eyes belied her
tones, had she but let him see them.
"No! all I can ask is that you be merciful."
"Do you even expect mercy?"
"After a time--when you have revenged yourself sufficiently."
"Revenged myself!" she quoted. "For what, pray?"
"For my blindness----"
She laughed, a light, alluring laugh. "Revenge is for a wrong
done.--You have not wronged me. You have always been my good
friend--the best friend a woman ever had."
He moved to catch her; she eluded him and sprang away, out of distance.
"Fie! Mr. Maynadier, you forget the dignity due a Governor's
Councillor."
"I am apt to forget many things," said he, laughing, "with such a
teasing beauty just out of reach."
"Where she will take care to hold herself until you are better
mannered. What has come over you, Dick, you used to be proper
enough--too proper, indeed."
"You little flirt!" he exclaimed, "what has come over _you_, you better
say--where did you learn such tricks?"
"Not from you, sir."
"No, not from me--God save the mark!"
"But you seem to like them, Dick," she said. "Don't you wish it had
been you who taught me?"
"No!" he said. "No; I would rather _you_ taught _me_."
"I am afraid you could never learn!" she laughed.
"Try me!" he begged. "I have unsuspected possibilities."
She looked at him with eyes half closed, a roguish, enticing look.
"And you think I could develop them?" she asked.
"I am sure you could."
"Better let Miss Stirling try--she can teach you far better than
I.--Besides, I think she would welcome the opportunity."
"Miss Stirling has enough to do with the young men," he answered.
"I fancy you will find her very willing to take another."
"Where there are so many pupils, the instruction can not be thorough,"
he objected.
"Have you ever heard of the _favorite pupil_, sir?" she asked, with a
sly smile. "Indeed, I am very much of the opinion she would even drop
all the others, if you applied."
"You flatter me!" he remarked.
"Do I?" she asked, "well, I am not so sure; you see, she does not know
you quite so well as some others do. And, if you are clever, she may
never find you out."
"Lucky me!--You advise me, then, to take lessons from Miss Stirling?"
"Undoubtedly! You are ripe for it, and she is a rare instructor--it
will be an admirable arrangement."
"And when I have learned everything that she can teach me, may I come
back to you for the completion of my education?" he asked.
"May be you will not want to come back," she said.
"But, if I do," he persisted.
"And, may be, I shall have too many pupils, _then_, to bother with
another."
"But, if you have not--if there is room for me?"
"I cannot answer, now. Wait until you apply, it will depend on what
you have been taught, and the extent of your proficiency?"
He thought a moment. "The extent of my proficiency?" he repeated.
"Should it be much or little?"
"That is for you to judge," she answered, enigmatically--and left him.
"That is for me to judge!" he muttered, looking after her. "Did she
mean to warn me against learning too much from Miss Stirling? Did she
mean to warn me against learning anything from her?" He smiled:--"Is
she just a bit jealous of Miss Stirling, and has her jealousy quickened
her perceptions?... My little Judith, have you cared for me--really,
cared for me--all these years?--And have I been blind to the character
of your affection, and blind to my own, as well?"
He turned aside into the park, where the great trees were whispering,
softly, to one another, and all else was still.
Yes, he loved her! Not as the old friend, who had advised, and guided,
and reproved. Not as he thought the man of steady life and confirmed
habits, with wealth and reputation made, would love. Still more, not
in the seemly manner a Governor's Councillor should love--but with a
sudden rush of affection, that threatened to sweep away all the reserve
and dignity of forty years. A love such as Paca, or Constable might
have.
He steadied himself. He might love as a young man, but he must act
with the judgment and discretion of his years--sedately and with
good sense. He thought she loved him--thought she had shown it with
all the openness she dared. But he was not sure. He might have been
mistaken--he might have tinctured her words with his own hope--read in
them far more than they conveyed, far more than a younger man would
have dared to read.... Moreover, even if he had read aright, he must
not permit his love to overbalance his duty. He must be the protector
still; must guard her from all danger of a hasty choice, from a
semblance which she mistook for the reality. Must put her happiness
first, his own, only if it chimed with hers.... She was a dear girl--a
dear girl! She would preside at Rose Hill in a manner in keeping with
the mistresses who had preceded: his own sweet mother, his grandsire's
stately wife. She would restore the life which had been of it, until
he had become master, and let the old life die. He would go home, and
prepare for her coming--prepare to live!...
Suddenly, he shook himself, as one awakening from a dream.
God! what if she would not come--what if she married another!...
XIII
THE CAMPAIGNS
The following morning, the party had just finished breakfast, and
were clustered about in front of the house, when Captain Jamison came
hurriedly up the avenue.
Old Marbury, with his foot in the stirrup, had paused for a moment's
conversation with Mr. Plater and Parkington, and he regarded the
approaching skipper with some surprise.
"What does this mean, Jamison?" he asked, "I thought you would be well
on the way to Annapolis, by this time."
"So did I, sir," was the answer. "Such were your orders--but you can't
never tell what will happen. The truth is, sir, Long-Sword has escaped!"
"Escaped! How?--when?" Marbury demanded.
The skipper was plainly much embarrassed--he twirled his cap between
his fingers, shuffled his feet, and his glance wandered skyward.
"I don't know, sir--it was sometime between dark and daylight. He was
in the cabin, tight enough, with the irons fast on him, when night
fell--he was gone, this morning."
"With the irons fast to him?"
"No, sir, with the irons off him, sir, lying on his bunk--and as
securely locked as when they were on him. How did he get out of them,
sir, how did he get out of them?"
Marbury shook his head. "If you cannot tell, I am sure I cannot."
"Possibly he found the key you lost," observed Parkington.
"I did not lose it in his cabin, sir," said Jamison; "it was found at
the foot of the companionway. I picked it up there, myself."
Parkington nodded. It was clever of Brandon to lock the irons and leave
the key where it likely would be found.
"Then he must be small-boned and small-jointed. I have heard of men who
could slip the irons in that way," remarked Plater.
"I think not--they seemed to fit him very close--in fact, he complained
of them pinching him."
"Like enough!" laughed Plater. "Another proof that they were loose."
"Where was the guard--asleep?" asked Marbury.
"No, not asleep--dead! dead! with his own knife buried in his breast."
"When did you discover that Long-Sword was missing?"
"A little after day-break. I sent every man ashore on the search. I did
not come here, until it was proved he had escaped."
"How did he get ashore?"
"Swam for it."
"Hum! pretty fair for a broken collar-bone!" Marbury remarked.
"He is a dangerous man, sir."
"Naturally--otherwise he would not be a pirate chief."
"He must be taken!" protested the skipper. "We must catch him!"
"Yes--we, or some one else, must catch him--and, as he seems to have
got away from the vicinity, it will probably be some one else,"
Parkington observed.
"So you likely will not retire on your reward, Jamison," Marbury
observed; "another will get the thousand guineas.... Why did you not
notify us, at once?"
"Because, I hoped to catch him, sir."
"And not be obliged to tell me he had escaped--I see."
"It is only human nature," said Parkington. "Let me intercede for
Jamison."
"It is not necessary; I reckon I would have done the same had our
positions been reversed. Moreover, I am not much grieved over it.
Long-Sword is a very decent sort of man--too decent to stretch a
halter."
"You will do nothing, sir, to apprehend him?" gasped Jamison.
"Nothing!" said Marbury.
"And the seaman he killed, in cold blood?"
"Was the man married?--Yes? Then I shall give his widow a year's pay.
For my part, I have had enough of pirates, and I do not propose to
disturb this house party, especially the women folk, by hunting one who
is trying his best to get away. You are at liberty, with your crew, to
continue the search, provided it does not conflict with your orders.
But Hedgely Hall is done with the buccaneering business--and, please
God! it be done with her. Gentlemen, I must to the fields," and, with a
curt nod, he was up in saddle and away.
"What are you going to do, Jamison?" said Parkington.
"Do, sir! what can I do? Follow down the coast, and raise the hue and
cry--and, likely, find he has gone Northward! Devil's Ship! but it's a
bad business."
"The pirate business is generally bad--in the end," remarked Parkington.
"If you do not catch Long-Sword, the chances are that some one else
will," sympathized Plater.
"Yes, and get the reward," said Jamison.--"I cannot claim the thousand
guineas, unless I deliver him to the authorities."
"Then, it is the reward and not the pirate you are after?"
"It is the pirate because of the reward.--I would not turn a hand to
take him, otherwise."
"Well, you better be up and doing, or you will not have any chance of
taking him," said Parkington. "If I can aid you, in any way, pray,
command me. I rather fancy chasing a pirate on land--it is a novel
experience."
"I'm off, sir!--I'm going down the coast; may be, I can pick him up.
He will likely make for one of the Virginia ports. Thank you, sir, for
your offer of assistance."
"He will never take him," said Plater, looking after Jamison. "The
fellow has not gone to Virginia, I will wager. He will lie very low,
until his injury is healed--a stranger, with a broken collar-bone, is
too easily located."
Parkington nodded assent. "Marbury's course seemed to surprise
Jamison," he said.
"Because Jamison was thinking only of the reward. I should have done
just as Marbury did; he has the pirate ship, which, doubtless, he
considers is prize enough. Jamison lost his prisoner through sheer
carelessness, and Marbury does not intend to turn the plantation upside
down to help retake him. Oh, the old man is usually right."
"He seems to have been, at least in getting money."
"Yes--after Carroll he is the richest man in Maryland.--You have met
young Carroll."
Parkington nodded. "He seemed a particularly nice fellow."
"He is--though we scarcely know him. He has been in France since he was
eight years of age, getting his education under the Jesuits, and, in
London, studying law in the Temple: he returned home only last year.
Having polished himself, he will now spend the rest of his life looking
after his property."
"A pleasant occupation--when one has sufficient to look after."
"And at which only about half of us are even moderately successful. If
I can retain my own, and my wife's, I shall be more than thankful. As
for Marbury"--he ended with a gesture.
"Which means?" said Parkington.
Plater laughed. "That is what I do not know. He has two children--you
have seen them, what is your estimate?"
"I have not seen enough to form an estimate, but I should say young Mr.
Marbury shows excellent promise."
"Only promise! Exactly, Sir Edward; but he should show more than
promise. He is a charming young man, but can he hold together the
Marbury fortune. I admit that I and all the others are undecided. As
for Miss Marbury----"
"It will depend upon the man she marries," said Parkington.
"And the fortune will be much less than George's. The bulk always goes
to the heir, if he be of direct blood, the same as in England, though
there is no entail."
"Who are Miss Marbury's suitors," asked Parkington, carelessly. "No one
of the men, here, seems to be, and, yet, of course, she has them in
plenty."
"She _could_ have them in plenty, but she will not. Every young fellow
in Annapolis would have been only too happy--but, nay. They can be as
friendly as they please; the instant they would be more, she is up and
away."
"The right man has not come," said Parkington.
"Possibly, not!--But where can you find a better man than Paca, or
Constable, or Jennings, or any one of the young bloods you meet at the
Coffee-house?"
"I do not know--no one knows--possibly, even she does not know. But she
will know, when the right one comes--that is, the right one for the
time. He may be the wrong one in six months--more's the pity.--Yet even
she cannot foresee that."
"You are a bit cynical!" laughed Plater. "May be they are the ways of
England, but they are not our ways."
"Not your ways, _yet_," Parkington amended.
"And, I trust, _never_ will be. When a woman chooses a husband, with
us, whether for love or policy--though, thank God! there is not much of
the latter--she makes the best of it. And it is marvelous what you can
do, if you settle yourself to it."
"I grant you that," said Parkington; "but the trouble with us seems to
be, that, as the country grows broader in civilization, it loses in
morals.--You are headed the same way; it is only a question of a little
time until you are up with us."
"Do you mean it will come in my day?--that I shall see it?"
"Yes, I do--you colonists are learning fast. Witness, the Stamp Act,
and so on. You are growing powerful, and with power comes laxity. But,
we diverge--we were discussing our hostess; scarcely, the best-bred
thing to do, but excusable under the circumstances. Has she never been
in love--since she came to Annapolis, I mean?"
"I think not," said Plater; "at least, there never has been any
indication of it. The one man she seems to like at all times, is
Richard Maynadier--and he is almost old enough to be her father. He
never has attempted to grow sentimental. He could not, if he wanted to.
Maynadier and sentiment are strangers to each other."
("A word to the wise!" thought Parkington. "I must have a care, I see,
for Mr. Richard Maynadier. No sentiment? Why, the man is full of it, or
I observed him very poorly, last night.") What he said was: "Sometimes
it is the slow hound that catches the fox, you know."
"Meaning Maynadier?" laughed Plater.
"No one else is eligible, you say."
"I did not say _he_ was eligible."
"But he is the only one who is given an opportunity--consequently, he
must have a chance, if he care to take it."
"Pooh! He would be sent about his business as quickly as the next one,
if he got sentimental. He is the _fidus achates_--he does not want to
be more."
"I see--well, it is a rare man who can be _fidus achates_ to a handsome
woman, without wishing to be more."
"Still the cynic?" laughed Plater.
"Very much!--it is against human nature."
A little later, Parkington chanced upon Miss Marbury near the sun-dial,
in the garden.
"I hear that Long-Sword has escaped," she said, "and that father
refused to permit a search for him, is it true?"
"Yes--he said he was not going to have your house-party disturbed by
chasing a pirate, who was trying his best to get away--that he has had
enough of pirates."
"How like father!"
"Your father is a very sensible man."
She gave him an appreciative look, which was not lost on him.
"The way to her good opinion is to praise her father," he thought, but
he did no more of it, then. Instead, he changed the subject.
"You forsook me last evening," he said; "at the very first opportunity
you deserted."
"To the enemy? I thought I was being very loyal--Captain Herford is in
his Majesty's service, you know."
"It was not a question of his Majesty's service--every man is a king,
at such times."
"Pardon! sire, pardon!" she laughed. "I did not recognize your
kingship."
"That is just the reason I am complaining--you should have recognized
it."
"What is the penalty for treason?" she asked. "Do not make it too
severe, sire."
"The penalty, for this sort of treason," he said,--"and I am making it
very easy--is to give me as much of your society, while I am here, as I
have the courage to seek."
"Have the courage to seek!" she quoted. "That may seem modest enough,
but, for my part, I am of the opinion that you are not wanting in
courage--in fact----"
"Yes," he said. "In fact----?"
"In fact, you are disposed, if occasion offer, to be a trifle intrepid."
"I protest!" he exclaimed. "You have nothing to justify any such
judgment."
"Nothing to justify, possibly--much to suspect."
"In what way, mademoiselle?"
"In the cast of the eye, monsieur--and the tilt of the head--and in
other indefinable ways, appreciated by sight alone."
"I suppose, I should be flattered that you have observed me so
closely!" he laughed. "I did not know I was so dangerous."
"I should call it fascinating," she answered.
He bent and kissed her hand, in the most courtly way.
"I would it were your lips," he said.
"Which only proves my proposition--and, possibly your own. You may
be dangerous, as well as fascinating," she replied. "Perchance, here
is one who can tell better than I--she knows more of the world and
the ways of men. Miss Stirling, is Sir Edward dangerous as well as
fascinating, or, simply, fascinating?" and, with a gay laugh, she left
them.
For a moment, Miss Stirling looked after her with a puzzled air; then,
she turned to Sir Edward.
"What have you been doing?" she asked.
"Nothing," he replied.
She smiled. "Nothing? and yet she leaves me such a question?"
"Which you can answer?" he asked.
"The answer is evident enough. Are you not ashamed, sir, to play your
fine manners against the innocent?"
"By the innocent, I assume, you mean Miss Marbury?"
"Certainly."
"Then, let me answer you, that Miss Marbury is as amply able to take
care of herself, as--you are," replied Parkington, with a smile.
"Which is very little," she answered; "for I admit _I_ am afraid of
you. You have beautiful manners, Sir Edward."
"But not to be compared to yours," he replied, bowing.
"And you say everything as though you meant it."
"Which makes for sincerity."
"But you do not mean it--or very little of it."
"Which allows you to choose what you want, and to discard the rest."
"And you dress in especially good taste," she went on.
"Which speaks well for my tailor."
"And you are, in yourself, exceedingly handsome."
"Which speaks well for God."
"Or the Devil," she amended.
"As you wish!" he said, laughingly, and kissed her hand.
"It is always, 'as you wish,' whereas, in truth, it is '_as I_ wish,'
when the play is done."
"The play?" he asked.
"Yes, the play--everything which makes for your pleasure or profit. And
you do it so gracefully, with such a flourish of indifference, that
the other party actually thinks a favor is conferred in the granting
it."
"Do you mean to imply that I have done the 'play' in Maryland?" he
asked.
"Certainly!--you do 'the play' wherever you are--you could not do
otherwise. It is as much a part of your nature as----" she paused for a
comparison.
"As it is of yours," he ended.
"If I can do it half so well, I shall be more than pleased," she
answered, promptly.
"You accept it, then?"
"My dear Sir Edward!" she laughed. "We all have something of the
mountebank in our natures. He plays it best, who plays it the most, and
shows it the least."
"Fine philosophy!" he commented. "Such cynicism may be permissible in a
man, but it is _not_, many times _not_, in a woman."
"The men seem to like it," she answered.
He shook his head. "They like _you_--they have not seen the cynicism."
"And if they do see it?"
He raised his eye-brows, expressively. "I do not know--perhaps, and
perhaps not."
"With the chances?"
"Not, decidedly not!"
"I take you for an adept," she said--"as one well qualified to advise
on the subject."
"Then, abandon it--throw it overboard. A woman should be an
optimist--cynicism repels."
"Yet you are a cynic."
"All men are cynical; they must be to get on with one another--and with
the women."
"Another burden for us to bear!" she laughed. "Is Miss Marbury a cynic
or an optimist?"
"I should judge her to be very much the optimist."
"And hence the easier to understand, and the easier to hoodwink."
He looked at her, with a bit of a smile. "And for just that reason,
less liable to be hoodwinked. Sincerity begets sincerity, if the man be
really a man."
"And cynicism begets cynicism?"
He bowed. "I am speaking generally, of course."
She prodded the turf with her toe, and thought:
"I suppose you are right," she said; "you have had the experience,
you ought to know. But, how many of the women you meet in London are
optimists, think you?"
"Very few," he smiled.
"And why?--why?--Because you men have taught us to be cynics. You lie
to us in word and deed, you deceive us, often to our shame, until we
must fight back with the weapons God has given us. Even now, you are
contemplating a campaign against Miss Marbury, attracted by that very
optimism which should make her an easy conquest."
He held up his hands in protestation. "My dear lady! your imagination
is wonderful--you are a very child in fancy--the dark must be full of
queer things to you."
She laughed, a little, tantalizing laugh, and shot him a knowing look
from under her long lashes.
"We shall see," she said: "I _may_ be wrong, and, if I am, you have the
proving of it."
"And, meanwhile, what of _your_ campaign for Mr. Richard Maynadier?" he
asked.
For a moment, she did not reply, regarding him, thoughtfully, the while.
"What has Mr. Richard Maynadier to do with the proposition?" she said,
coldly.
"I do not know--it is for you to answer."
"There is no answer," she replied, looking him straight in the eyes.
He bowed and kissed her hand.
"As you wish, my lady," he said, making no effort to repress his smile;
"as you wish."
A little later, he sought his chamber for his walking-stick. As he came
down the corridor, he bethought himself of something he wanted to tell
Mr. Marbury. He went over to the door of his room and rapped--then,
rapped again, more briskly. The door, which had not been latched,
opened and swung slowly back. Marbury was not in, but the bags,
containing the ransom money, were standing on a table.