listened; all was quiet on the second floor. He tiptoed to the
stairway and looked down; no one was visible in the hall below. He
went back, and stood, uncertain, a moment. Then, he walked straight in
to Marbury's room, swiftly untied the bags, took several handfuls of
gold from each, retied them, went out, closed the door behind him, and
descended to the party on the lawn.
Marbury would likely put the money away without inspecting it--and, if
he did count it, the noble Englishman could not be suspected.
XIV
GUILTY AND NOT GUILTY
Richard Maynadier remained for two days longer at Hedgely Hall, but he
never was able to get Judith alone, however much he manoeuvred. After
he went home, he rode over several times, unexpectedly and at unusual
hours, hoping to surprise her and get his opportunity, but to no avail.
She was deliberately avoiding him, he knew, and she let him know it, in
the unmistakable way of a woman. It was as though she said to him: "You
want to get me off alone, Dick, but I shall not permit it."
So much he understood. But what troubled him, was whether it stopped
with that, or whether there was a qualifying phrase--an "until I am
ready," tacked on, and not yet disclosed.
He was not unduly sanguine, and he was properly modest, but he had
thought it all over--her attitude toward him, her belief in him, her
dependence upon his judgment and advice--and he considered he had
reasonable ground to hope that she had come to view him in another
light than as a friend. Doubtless, he had been blind not to see it
before--and blind, as well, to the character of his own feelings. He
simply had never thought of love. Now, he was thinking of it a very
great deal.
There was something, however, which he did not exactly fancy, and that
was the liking she seemed to have developed, recently, for Parkington's
society--and Parkington for hers.
They were much together, would take long walks in the park and to the
river, would talk for hours, while he told her stories of London and
its great world. Maynadier did not know, of course, whether he ventured
upon the softer side, whether he tried to strike the chord of self,
in an appealing way--and Judith gave no indication. She was enjoying
herself, so much was evident, and, at the same time, playing her part,
admirably. Parkington was the stranger, and, since he seemed to wish
to devote himself to his hostess, and his hostess was not averse,
Maynadier could not find fault.
He had, indeed, ventured to throw out a cautioning word, the evening he
rode home, (when, just for a moment, he was alone with her) but she had
only laughed, asked him if he did not trust her, and, quickly, rejoined
the company.
On the last evening of the house party, he came over to bid them
farewell. Judith was going, on the morrow, with the Snowdens, to spend
a week at Montpelier. Sir Edward Parkington, also, had been invited,
and was to accompany them--as were Miss Stirling, Captain Herford and
Mr. Constable. The rest were returning to their homes. He himself was
departing for Annapolis, in the morning, upon business of the Council,
and his visit to Hedgely Hall was to be but brief.
He encountered Henry Marbury, as he came through the park, and they
went, on a little way, together. When they came in sight of the house,
Marbury stopped.
"Maynadier," he said, "I have something to tell you--can you give me a
moment?"
"Certainly, sir;" said Maynadier, "as many moments as you wish."
Marbury considered a second, as though framing his words.
"It is this way," he said. "You have heard of the ransom money I
paid the pirates. Well, it was recovered, at the landing, by Captain
Jamison, and turned over to me, unopened--at least, he thought so, and
my own inspection sustained him. I counted it, the other morning, and
it was correct--or, I made it so. Just as I finished, I was called
out, hastily, and I left the bags on the table. I forgot them, and did
not return until late in the day. Then, something told me to count it
again. I did--and found about a hundred guineas missing."
"Some of the servants?" said Maynadier.
"I think not--none of them would venture to enter my rooms even when
the door is open, and it was closed--closed when I left it, and closed
when I returned."
"Have you no means of identifying the coins?"
"None--I never make a list."
"What do you think?" asked Maynadier.
"I do not know what to think--except, that one of the guests is the
pilferer."
"Pilferer?" said Maynadier. "You are putting it very mild, if the
guilty one be a guest. He is a plain thief. I cannot believe it! It
_must_ be one of the servants."
"None but the house servants have access to the rooms, and I trust them
thoroughly; besides, the thief, to adopt your name, opened my door
unbidden, and that, as I said, no servant would have ventured. We are
remitted to a guest, sir."
"Have you any suspicions?"
"None, thank God!"
Maynadier looked at him narrowly. "Why do you say, 'thank God!'"
"Because I do not want to suspect. I would rather lose half my fortune,
than that a guest, in my house, should be suspected. If I had seen him
actually take the money, I should do nothing to apprehend him--nor
would I permit his apprehension."
"Why do you say 'him'--why do you think the thief is a man?" asked
Maynadier.
"Because I _cannot_ think it a woman. My God! Maynadier, you know these
people better than I--could you think one of the women guilty?"
Maynadier shook his head. "No, I cannot; and neither can I think one
of the men guilty. But, since you will do nothing in the matter, why
think about it at all? The party breaks in the morning, you will lose
no more."
"It is not the loss that bothers me--it is the idea of having
entertained a thief."
"Are you quite sure your first count was correct? Might not the money
have been abstracted, by the pirate who carried it away? Is not that
the normal explanation?"
Marbury was silent.
"Moreover, were the bags tied as you left them?"
"Precisely--at least, I saw no difference."
"And when you detected the loss from the first bag, did not you examine
the tying of the other?"
"I did."
"And could you not have noted any difference--and evidence of haste?"
"There was no difference, and no evidence of haste. Everything was
exactly as I left it, or it seemed to be."
"Then it lies between your own error, a guest, or a servant. With two
chances to one, in favor of the guest, I should acquit the guest--and,
particularly, when it marches with your own desires."
Marbury shook his head dubiously. "I do not want to suspect any one,
and I will not. I would not prosecute even if I were sure of the thief;
I would let him know that I knew, and do nothing more."
"In that view of it, is your course quite right to your friends--to
those who are not here, as well as those who are?"
"You mean that I turn loose a thief among them?"
"I do."
"That does not bother me, Maynadier," said Marbury. "I have paid
my loss, I am not lamenting. I have no friends to protect, except
yourself, and you I have told."
Maynadier made no reply. He knew Marbury's way, and the uselessness of
arguing the general good, and the duty one owes to society. Marbury
would scorn to suspect a guest of crime, would refuse to prosecute if
detected, yet he would do nothing to protect his fellow men from being
victimized. It was a queer philosophy; but Marbury had been taught in
a hard school, and early learned the lesson of self alone. To him,
the doctrine of personal responsibility applied only to himself, his
family, and his friends--further, it did not extend; and there was no
obligation to society whatever. So far as he was concerned, society
could look out for itself.
"I will tell you, if I observe anything," said Maynadier--"that is, if
you wish it."
"Yes, please," said Marbury; "but tell no one else."
Maynadier encountered Miss Stirling in the hallway, with Herford in
attendance. She met him with a glad smile, dismissed the Captain with
a wave of her hand, and attached him, instead.
And he suffered himself to be attached. If Judith would not have him,
until it pleased her, he would, at least, entertain himself. He had no
idea of making her jealous, but it was as well to take her advice, and
let Miss Stirling give him some "instruction."
She led the way to a quiet corner of the drawing room, and, for more
than an hour, he sat under fascinations such as he had never thought a
woman possessed. It was the first good chance he had given her, and she
utilized it to the full.
And, presently, he, too, caught a bit of the infection.
"You are outdoing yourself, this evening," he declared.
"In what way?" she asked, artlessly.
"In every way--in beauty."
"For which I am not responsible--it was given me," with demure modesty.
"In fascination," he continued.
"Which is cultivated, for what it will effect; no credit comes to me
for it."
"All credit comes to you for it," he answered--"though I had rather
believe it natural--it is too spontaneous to be otherwise."
"_Merci_, monsieur," and, arising, swept him a curtsy.
"No, I mean it!" he protested.
"Is not fascination equivalent to coquetry?" she asked.
"Fascination may include coquetry, it comprehends more, much more."
"For instance?"
"Ease of bearing, under all circumstances."
"You think I have that quality."
"To perfection, mademoiselle, to perfection."
"What else?"
"Knowledge of the world, and how to use it."
"And what else?" she asked, her hand straying slowly over until it lay
just short of his own.
"Knowledge of men--and their eccentricities."
"Which might mean I am a flirt," she said.
He laughed softly, "Do you want me to say you are _not_ a flirt?"
"No--not exactly," joining in the laugh; "but there are different sorts
of flirts, you know, monsieur."
"The expert and the inexpert?"
"Yes--and the good and the bad, in a moral sense."
"I am endeavouring to praise you, mademoiselle," he said.
"I hope so--but," with a most enticing look, "one dare not take too
much for granted."
"You could not, take _too_ much," he replied, raising his hand in a
gesture. When it came down it rested on hers.
She felt him start, slightly, but he let his hand remain, and she, for
her part, did not seem to notice.
It was a soft hand, and a small, with a faint perfume about it, with
delicate fingers and slender wrist.--His own still lingered, hers was
not withdrawn. Lightly he pressed it--no answer, save in silence. He
knew now that she was drawing him on--would not rebuke him, unless he
went too far. His fingers closed over hers in an unmistakable caress.
She did not reprove him; instead, she gazed across the drawing-room, a
dreamy light in her eyes.
"So you are going away, to-morrow," he said, his voice sinking lower
than usual.
"Yes," she replied, "yes, to-morrow."
"I am sorry--very sorry--a little longer, and we might have been better
friends."
"It is not my fault, monsieur, that we are not better--friends," she
answered, her look still distant.
"Nor mine," he said.
She turned her eyes upon his face, with calm sincerity.
"It is God's fault, then," she responded. "So we have none to blame.
But what is to hinder your coming to the Snowdens', there, we can begin
afresh."
"Alas! I am for Annapolis in the morning," he said, bending down over
her--"and shall be kept there for at least a week."
"Why go?" she whispered.
"I have no alternative: the Governor's summons, I must obey."
"Always the way--duty first."
"You would not have me shirk duty?" he asked.
She saw it was a false step, and beat a quick retreat.
"You know I would not," she said. "Did you forget, I, too, come of
those who serve the King."
She was very alluring, in her gown of brocaded lustring, ruby-colored,
with white tobine stripes, trimmed with floss, the high-piled hair,
the fair face, the dark, expressive eyes, the bowed mouth, the slender
neck. And he was not dead to beauty, so near and so yielding. He
loosed, suddenly, the little hand, and wound his arm about her waist.
"Oh, monsieur!" she whispered, making slightly to get free.
He held her closer. "Nay," he said. "Why do you fear me?"
She ceased to struggle. "I fear--lest we be seen."
Her yielding body, held close to his own, the perfume, the lovely face
upturned, gripped his senses--for an instant, discretion fled--he bent
and kissed those full red lips.
And in that instant, Judith Marbury stood in the doorway, and saw it
all. The next moment, she had vanished.
But Miss Stirling was not so occupied with Maynadier, that she had not
seen--and understood. She sprang away.
"Judith Marbury!" she exclaimed.
"Where?" he demanded, freeing her, instantly.
"There--in the doorway! She saw you kiss me!"
"The devil!" he exclaimed.
"Who--Judith or I?" she asked, naïvely.
"Myself--myself! and to set you right, I acted the devil and kissed you
by force."
"That is very good of you--to take the blame upon yourself--but I am
guilty, too; I let you do it."
He shook his head--though he knew she spoke only the truth. Her
readiness to share the blame, however, made it only the more obligatory
for him to assume it all.
And she, knowing Maynadier better than he imagined, watched him with a
sly smile, well understanding what would be his course.
"I will explain to Miss Marbury," he said. "And I am sure that she will
never tell."
She laughed softly. "I am sure, too--I caught Sir Edward Parkington
kissing her in the park yesterday, and there is no doubt that _she_ was
willing, for her arms were about his neck. Furthermore, she knows that
I saw her."
Maynadier was silent. So the world turns! And Judith was willing! and
Parkington was early taking the things that came his way! Vanity of
vanities!... He laughed, a queer, dry laugh, that had no mirth in it,
no feeling.
"Which being the case, I will have another--several others!" he
said--and crushed her to him.
She lay in his arms, a moment, and gave him her lips--then, she put him
firmly from her, and sat up.
"You have had enough, for this time," she said, blushing.
He looked at her, flushed and eager. Her beauty and warmth had done
their work.
"Just one more!" he exclaimed, and took it, mightily, as his
prehistoric ancestor might have done....
She straightened her hair, and brushed away the powder he had left upon
her shoulder.
"Really, Mr. Maynadier, you must not," she protested. "My gown
will be in tatters with such handling. Where did you learn to kiss
so--peremptorily?"
"One does it, naturally, with you--and prays for more."
"Prays!" she laughed. "A robber does not pray--he takes.--No, sir! you
have had sufficient. You----...."
She escaped from him, at last, and stood, rosy and panting, a little
way off.
"Now, I shall _have_ to go to my room--my gown and my hair are a
sight--oh! you are wicked--wicked!" she ended--and fled, leaving
behind her a vision of slender ankles and silk stockings.
Maynadier looked after her with a dubious smile.
"I do not know about my being wicked," he muttered, "but I _do_ know
that I am a damn fool!... Bah! they are all alike! the most modest will
frivol if she but get the man, and the place, and the inclination." ...
Presently, he laughed. "I fancy I was unexpectedly strenuous. I warrant
she had not had such a kissing, in many a day."
He pushed his velvet-sheathed rapier back under his coat-skirt and
brought the handle forward, brushed the powder from his shoulders,
straightened his cravat, and, taking out his gold snuff-box, flourished
a pinch to his nostrils. He would wait until she came down.
Presently she came, descending slowly, her dress held with both hands.
Her hair had been put to rights, her gown smoothed out.
Maynadier stepped forward, and met her at the foot of the stairs. She
paused, just out of reach.
"Will you promise to be well-behaved?" she asked, tantalizingly.
"If you will promise not to tempt too far," he replied.
"Tempt!" she inflected. "I am no temptress, Mr. Maynadier."
Gravely, he took her hand, and led her before the mirror, in the
drawing room.
"No temptress, think you?" he inquired. "No temptress!"
"I cannot help what God has done," she said, and smiled in the glass,
alluringly.
"Careful!--careful!" he admonished--"or I have visions of another
tousled head-dress."
"Very pretty--very pretty, indeed!" said Herford's voice behind them.
"May I come into the picture?"
Instantly, Maynadier dropped her hand and stepped back; but she,
womanlike, was the nimbler witted.
"You may have a portrait of yourself, _alone_," she answered; "this one
is finished."
He laughed superciliously. "I hope so," he said; "finished for all
time."
"Why, finished for all time, Captain Herford?" she inquired, a chilly
note in her tone. "If Mr. Maynadier is good enough to show me, before
the glass, how becomingly I am gowned, what affair is it of yours, or
of any one?"
"I should never have guessed it!" he returned, with affected contrition.
"Possibly not, you are very slow at times."
"Because," he went on, "Mr. Maynadier's attention seemed to be directed
entirely to your lips."
"What do you mean, sir?" Maynadier demanded.
She put her hand, restrainingly, on his arm.
"You must not quarrel with him," she said. Then to Herford. "And if it
were, sir, do my lips not justify it?"
"Marry, yes!" he answered curtly, "and your eyes, and your hair, and
everything about you."
"Just what Mr. Maynadier was engaged in telling me, when you broke in.
You have told me the same, a score of times; surely, Mr. Maynadier may
tell me, _once_."
She was trying to find out just how much Herford had witnessed. There
was no occasion for Maynadier taking up the quarrel--if he had seen
only what had happened since she came down from her room. Indeed, she
was not particularly averse, if he had seen it all. Herford would hold
his tongue, and, with a man of Maynadier's notions, it would be in her
favor, likely--he would think he had done her a wrong--had put her in
a false position--he would try to right it. And, if she could effect
it, he would be caught. She wanted to bring him to a proposal--then,
she could decide whether to return to England or to stay. If she were
to stay, she knew that Maynadier was the only man who could persuade
her--and, at the pinch, even his attractions might fail.
Maynadier, for his part, having made a "fool" of himself, was prepared
to accept its responsibilities, even to fighting a duel with Herford,
if necessary to save Miss Stirling's good name.
For him, the catastrophe had been, when Judith Marbury saw--and was
seen. He did not think she really cared for Parkington--the flattery of
being noticed, with his air of distinction and position, had doubtless
turned her head. It would be all over with, in a month or two, when
he departed, and, may be, the flirtation would not last even so
long.--Afterwards----? He did not know. She had something to explain,
as well as he! Possibly, it would be wiser for him not to explain--to
act as if none were required. A man is different from a woman: he
may take what comes, if he take it skilfully; but, a woman may not
take--and be caught. That was Judith's misfortune--she might have been
kissed by Parkington, and a dozen others, and no one would have been
the wiser. But she had been seen; and, henceforth, she was under the
suspicion of every one who knew it.
"Is it going to stop with the 'once'?" Herford demanded.
"You will have to ask Mr. Maynadier," she replied, laughing.
"And he declines to express himself," said Maynadier, instantly. He
offered his arm to her and bowed. "Shall we resume the mirror, or shall
we go outside?"
"Outside," she answered, pressing his arm. "Will Captain Herford
go with us?" holding out her hand and giving him a dazzling smile.
(She must take him along and be nice to him, she thought.) And she
conquered, as she knew she could with him.
"You do not deserve it," she whispered, as she slipped her arm through
his, "but, then, you can be very nice, at times."
He smiled, much as a child might have done, and, in an instant, his
good nature returned.
"I am sorry, Maynadier," he said. "I apologize to Miss Stirling and to
you. I acted like a spoiled boy."
"If Miss Stirling pardons you, mine goes with it," Maynadier replied.
"You are a trifle impulsive in your judgment--sometime, it will lead
you into trouble."
"It is the sort of impulsiveness a woman can forgive," Miss Stirling
said, and leaning for a moment on his arm.
Which completely captured Herford--as she intended it should do--and
made it a matter of indifference how much he saw. And Maynadier smiled
in understanding, perceiving the play and its motive,--and, leaving
them together, he went in search of Miss Marbury.
He found her, somewhat later, coming from the park with Mrs. Plater,
Miss Tyler, Constable and Paca. To his surprise, she greeted him with
the old smile, and motioned him beside her.
"She knows she is guilty, also," he thought, "and suspects that Miss
Stirling has told me."
"Well, I see, sir," she said, as they dropped behind the others, "that
you have lost no time in securing instruction--and have made rare
progress. I foretold that you would be the favorite pupil."
He made no attempt at not comprehending--she had seen him, so, why
dissemble?
"There are other favorite pupils, also, it would seem," he remarked,
significantly.
"Sir Edward Parkington?" she laughed.
He was not prepared for such candor; he was astonished, and his
expression showed it.
"I see you understand," he said.
"Why should you be surprised?" she asked--"for you were surprised,
Dick, or else I cannot read your face."
"I _was_ surprised--that you should admit it."
She looked at him, puzzled. "I am afraid I do _not_ understand," she
said. "Admit it! Admit what?"
"Sir Edward Parkington."
Her frown deepened. "Have you been mixing the brandy and the wine?"
He laughed, a bit scornfully.
"Why admit, and then deny?" he asked.
"Really, Dick, either I am woefully stupid, or else you speak in
riddles."
"You are not stupid, and neither do I speak in riddles," he said. "You
admitted the Parkington matter, just as I admitted the Miss Stirling
matter; because it is useless to deny it."
"I admitted the Parkington matter?" she marvelled. "I was not aware I
admitted anything. You said there were other favorite pupils, and I
asked you--but without expecting an answer--if it were Parkington."
He shook his head. "It will not do, Judith--the explanation is an
afterthought."
"Dick," she said, "I lose patience with you, sometimes--just what do
you mean?"
"I mean this: You saw me kiss Miss Stirling, did you not?"
She nodded--but her eyes were straight ahead.
"Well, Sir Edward Parkington kissed _you_, in the park--so, there is
not much to choose between us."
For a little while, she made no answer--then, she laughed, softly and
musically.
"Dick!" she said--"Dick! do you believe it?"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"Answer me--do you believe it?"
He looked at her--eyes half closed, in contemplation--and made no reply.
"Richard Maynadier, I want to know, whether you believe that tale, or
whether you do not."
"I do not _want_ to believe it," he said, after a pause.
"Thank you! but that is not enough; any friend would naturally not
_want_ to believe. It is not what you want, but what you do believe."
"Will you tell me it is not true?" he asked.
"I will tell you nothing," she returned, "until you answer my question."
"I will believe whatever you say."
"Then, you will be without belief on this question."
He hesitated a bit longer. Between Miss Stirling's assertion and Judith
Marbury's method of denial--for denial, he assumed it to be--it was
difficult to choose. But, in his heart, he was doubting the former--her
eyesight was at fault--something was at fault. It could not have been
Judith--some one else, who resembled her in the moonlight. He cared,
not at all, who, so long as it was not she. That Miss Stirling had
deliberately lied, did not occur to him. He held woman on too high a
plane--besides, the Maryland women (whom he knew) did not lie.
"For the last time, Dick," she said, the faintest touch of chilliness
in her tones, "do you believe that I ever kissed Sir Edward Parkington,
in the park or elsewhere?"
And, now, Maynadier's answer was ready and instant.
"I do not," he said; "I think I never did."
"You great stupid," she laughed. "Of course you never did. But why was
it so hard for you to say it?"
"I do not know," he confessed.
"Oh, yes, I think you do," she answered. "It was because _I_ had caught
_you_--for you, sir, there can be no denial. And your forgiveness will
have to bide a bit, _Mr. Maynadier_."