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.
Martha Stirling had been sitting by her window, which gave view of
the garden and park, idly drumming on the sill, her thoughts of Sir
Edward Parkington. She had seen much of him in the last few
weeks. She was debating whether it was wise to see so much of him
in the future. He was, to be sure, vouched for by Lord Baltimore,
which might stand with the Governor and the men, but was not
especially in his favor so far as the gentle sex was concerned. Not
that there was the slightest ground for suspicion—on the contrary,
his conduct had been most circumspect. But was it well to favor him
when there were so many who sought her? For, with him at her side,
there came a restraint upon the rest, a deference to the stranger of
rank. She could not play him off against the others, nor them
against him. She had tried it, many times, and always with the same
result—failure. He either dominated the situation or else eliminated
himself entirely. In either case, he was the victor—and a victor,
seemingly, all unconscious of it. The man was tantalizingly
fascinating. He could do everything well: fence, dance, play cards,
make love, talk sense or nonsense. And with it all, he was handsome
as the devil—and might be the devil, for all she knew—or the
Governor knew. Why, they did not know even whether or not he was
married!
She stopped, amazed. So far, as she was aware, no one had ever
thought about it,—they had assumed that he was unmarried—and
he had let them assume it. Was he a blackguard, or was he a
gentleman? She paused, and, in her mind, ran back over the
occurrences of the last few weeks. No, blackguard he was not. He
had gone as far with her as with any one—farther, doubtless—and,
despite a certain gallantry, he had not transgressed beyond the
bound, even if he were married—and, surely, a little could be
excused a man, travelling alone, in a foreign land.
She wondered if Mr. Paca knew, or Mr. Worthington, or George
Marbury—or any of their party. She beat a tattoo on the window
ledge and reflected.—She would make it her business to ascertain.
The more she thought of it, the more she wanted to know.
Just then she discerned Parkington, himself, emerging from among
the trees of the park. He was coming slowly, his head on his breast,
his walking stick trailing behind. Presently, he stopped, cast a quick
glance toward the house, and, apparently seeing no one, crossed to
the shadow of a bush and flung himself on the turf.
Instantly, Miss Stirling arose. She was dressed for the evening, but,
womanlike, she cast a last look in the mirror, pressed both hands to
her hair, took a final dash of perfume, and went down stairs and out.
She was going to find out from him.
She was quite sure, indeed, it seemed the easiest thing in the world
to ask him the simple question—until she came up to it—then, she
was not so sure, nor did it appear so easy. In fact, it was distinctly
not easy—it was to be approached gradually, and by indirection—
and, may be, not to be arrived at that afternoon. It was not so
simple a question: are you married?—at least, not when Sir Edward
Parkington was concerned. He had a way about him that did not
encourage familiarity; a certain set look of the mouth, a gleam of the
eye—and the subject was pursued no further.
The turf deadened her footsteps, and she stood, for a moment,
looking down upon him, before he raised his eyes. Instantly, he was
up and bowing low.
"Your pardon," he said; "I was dreaming; I did not hear you."
"Dreaming—of what?" she asked.
"Of nothing. Dreams that were without form or color."
"Can one dream nothing?" she inquired, knowing well he
equivocated—there had been a frown on his face as she
approached.
"One always dreams nothing—'such stuff as dreams are made of.'
Moreover, the place and the hour impel it," and he swung his hand
around him.
"It is a fine old place," she said, seeing he would shift the talk.
He nodded. "A fine place, though I should not call it old, at least, to
us English."
"All things are relative; it is old to this country, which is new. Just as
you are Sir Edward Parkington and a great man, here."
"While in England, you mean," he laughed, "I am only one of a vast
number—an insignificant atom among the nobility."
"Yes—and I, that am not even noble, am, here, the toast of a
Province."
"In which England joins!" with a bow.
"I was proving a proposition, sir, not seeking a compliment."
"It is proven," he said. "One will admit anything, grant anything, on
such an afternoon as this, and with such surroundings; I would give
a man my last shilling, a woman—if she were pretty—my—my soul."
"The usual way—the man would get something, the woman nothing.
No woman wants your soul, even were it yours to give."
"Or even if I had a soul," he appended.
"Oh, no!" she said. "You do not get me to arguing on that topic. No
one knows, so every one believes what his conscience dictates. I am
orthodox, and go along with the Church. I do not care what you
believe, and I do not want to know. So far as I am concerned, every
one can take care of his own hereafter—he alone will have to pay
penalty, if he is in error."
He listened with a curious smile. "A bit advanced, my lady, for all
your orthodoxy. You best not tell your views abroad."
"My views are for myself, alone. We women are supposed to have
none—to stay put, as it were—and I am going to stay put; but I
shall think what I please." She shrugged her shoulders, and laughed.
"Goodness! what turned the talk to religion—neither of us has any to
speak of."
"And, hence, we may safely discuss it without offense to either—it is
believers only who are intolerants."
She held up her hands in protest. "No more, I thank you. Let us find
a pleasanter topic.... I heard you were leaving us very soon—for
Philadelphia. Is it so?"
"This is the first I knew of it. Who told you?"
She affected to think. "I, really, cannot remember. Some one, in
Annapolis, but who it was I do not know."
"Because it interested you so little."
"No—because I thought you would have told me, were it true. Yet,
why should you not be moving on—one does not visit America to
see only one place?"
"No, I suppose not; I must move on, sometime, but I am in no
haste, I assure you. I came to America, intending to loiter
indefinitely." There was a queer smile on his face. He was thinking of
his father's parting admonition.
She did not observe the smile—and it would have conveyed nothing
to her if she had. She was occupied with his words. "Intending to
loiter indefinitely" did not smack of a wife, left behind in England—
unless—unless the wife were the cause of his indefinite loiter.
"You have a complaisant family," she remarked.
"Yes!" he said, and laughed; "yes, I have a very complaisant family."
Then he abruptly changed the subject.—"Shall we walk in the park,
or do you prefer the esplanade—or shall we walk, at all?"
"The esplanade, by all means," she said, not daring to venture an
immediate return to the subject.
For it was evident that he had deliberately veered, and, as she had
assumed to treat him, hitherto, as unmarried, she might not, now,
shift her attitude without just cause. And she had no cause—not
even a suspicion that was based on anything. Moreover, for her to
question it, now, would be inexcusable, and, if she were wrong,
would cause a break in their friendship. And that she was not
prepared to chance. In fact, at the present moment, she did not
know whether she preferred Sir Edward Parkington or Richard
Maynadier. The one was a great catch and a charming man, but he
was an American—and, besides, was not sufficiently responsive to
her charms; the other was a Britisher, but, she feared, was not for
her, who could bring no fortune with her.
She stole a glance at her companion. He was slowly plucking to
pieces a rose.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Testing your affection:—love me, love me not; love me—shall I
continue."
"Pray do," she said; "I am curious to know the answer."
"It is undecided, then?" banteringly.
"Yes—sometimes I do, and sometimes I do not, and sometimes—I
am in a state of equipoise. Let the rose tell what it is, at present."
"Nay: if you are not constant, the message has no merit—begone!"
and he tossed the flower from him. "Ho, fellow!" to a man in
servant's clothes, who was passing at a little distance, "I forgot my
walking-stick; you will find it by yonder bush—fetch it."
The man glanced up, hesitated the fraction of a second, then a smile
passed over his face, and he acquiesced.
"Very well, sir," he answered, and went on.
The voice was deep and full, as of one accustomed to giving orders
rather than receiving them.
Miss Stirling stopped, stared—and, then, went swiftly in pursuit.
Parkington watched her in surprise.
"Mr. Marbury!" she called. "Mr. Marbury!"
The tall figure, in osnaburg breeches and shirt, heavy shoes and
coarse worsted stockings, swung around, and laughed.
"I trust you are well, Miss Stirling," he said—"Oh," as she began to
explain for Sir Edward—"it is not the first time I have been taken for
one of my own servants, and besides I come by it honestly. The
feathers made the birds, Miss.—Sir Edward Parkington, I presume; I
have heard my son speak of you," and he held out a hand that bore
all the evidences of toil and hardship, and that was, distinctly, not
the hand of a gentleman.
"I am delighted to meet you, Mr. Marbury," said Parkington. "This is
——
"But you did not expect to meet me in such clothes, hey?" with a
quiet little chuckle. "Well, you see, I'm more at home in them. You
were saying that this is——"
"A magnificent place—quite the finest I have seen in America."
It was a particular happy speech. Next to his son and daughter,
Hedgely Hall was his pride.
"That it is, sir, that it is!" he exclaimed. "There is none finer to the
Northward, and few to the Southward—except it be Westover, or
Shirley, and one or two in South Carolina—at least, so my ship
captains tell me; I have never seen them for myself. It will be a fine
estate for George—Marbury of Hedgely Hall is better than a Marbury
of Frederick-Town. Make yourself at home, sir, make yourself at
home. Supper is at seven o'clock. I must get out of these clothes
before then—the family doesn't like 'em. I will send your stick after
you, sir."
"I beg of you, Mr. Marbury, not to bother!" Parkington exclaimed. "It
can wait until——"
But a wave of the hand was the only answer, as he passed out of
hearing up the avenue. The other looked after him thoughtfully.
"So, that is Marbury, the elder!" he said. "I think I want to see more
of him—a very interesting character." He turned to Miss Stirling, and
swept her his most profound bow. "Your pardon, mademoiselle!
Shall we continue the walk?"
 VI
THE MISTAKE

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

Sir Edward Parkington lay awake, for a long time that night,
thinking. It was good sport, this posing as another man, and he had
entered upon it much as he had entered upon all his escapades, for
the fun of it—and the amusement of seeing himself received and
accorded the welcome belonging to some one else.
And he had enjoyed it thoroughly, until yesterday. Then, the
question suddenly presented itself!—if you are going to remain in
America, how is this thing to end? What are you to be, when it is
over—for it cannot last forever; it is sure to be found out; some one,
who knew Sir Edward, in the flesh, or who knows you, will come
upon you, and the truth will out. He might masquerade for a year, or
two years even, scarcely longer—and, then, again, he might be
detected, at any moment. He had not thought of the hazard—of the
punishment that awaited when he assumed the impersonation. He
saw only how easy it would be—a dead man, his letters, and the
thing was done. But, once done, it was not so easy to undo it. The
only way, was for Sir Edward Parkington to die a second time, and
finally—and his body not be found. And that would necessitate his
disappearance—to a sufficiently distant city where his name and
figure were not known: Boston—New York—Charleston.
He had heard of Charleston, as a particularly nice town—after
Annapolis, the best in America. Of New York, he knew but little; of
Boston, still less. Moreover, he preferred the warmth of the South,
and the people, there, were said to be very hospitable. He had never
heard that of New York, and he had a distinct recollection that
Boston was reputed a most inhospitable town. Yes, he would choose
Charleston—it was farther removed from the ways of travel, more
isolated. There, he could put off his borrowed plumes and stand
forth as his true self, and no one would be the wiser. He would leave
Annapolis as Sir Edward Parkington, bound for Philadelphia. He
would reach there another man; and the first ship which left that
port, Southward-bound, would have him for a passenger. Yes,
decidedly, it was the best way—when the time came for him to leave
Annapolis.
There was no need for haste—he had the whole summer before him.
It was not likely he would be found out before the late Autumn; it
took a vessel nine weeks to make the voyage across. He had taken a
strong liking for this Maryland, and her people, and the life they led.
He thought he would like to lead it with them.
And this Marbury business was the right idea—if he had only come
in his proper person. Well, he had not, and it behooved him to make
the best of it. Barring accidents, there was small chance of the
impersonation being detected before October, and much could be
accomplished in the interim. At least, he would have a good time,
and the explanations could wait....
Yes, he would consider marriage with Judith Marbury, very 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