"Just as our ancestors won it in the past," observed Miss Falconer. "They may not have been Redemptioners, but that was because there was no one here to buy them."
"Is not that a bit sweeping, Jane?" said Miss Tyler.
"Well, perhaps it is; but I know people in this Colony who forget their ancestors after a few generations."
"And so do I—and, since they wish them forgot, let us forget them."
"It is this about the Marburys—the old people, I mean—which I admire," said Miss Stirling: "they are perfectly natural. They may use some large words improperly, or fracture a canon of good taste, but they are genuine withal. They are not snobs. As for George Marbury and Judith, I have met none in Annapolis who are nicer. Young Mr. Marbury told me, last night, they are considering the entertaining of a large company at a country house, somewhere, which they have bought recently. He seemed a bit timid about it, rather fearful that those he asked might be averse to coming. I promptly said, if he and his sister should ask me, I would come."
"Oh! there will be no trouble on that score—we all will come," said Miss Falconer. "It is Hedgely Hall, over in St. Mary's County. The last Saxton died about two years ago, and it was sold to the Marburys by his executors. It is on the banks of the Patuxent, and as pretty a place as there is in the Colony."
"Exit the Saxtons, enter the Marburys," said Miss Tyler, sententiously.
"Why, Edith!" exclaimed Miss Falconer. "I never imagined you disliked the Marburys."
"And I do not," said Miss Tyler, "I do not; but it grieves me to see the old families dying out and the new ones coming in."
"Which being the case, however, and we unable to prevent it, what do you say to a row on the river?" Miss Stirling broke in.
They went down to the wharf at the foot of the garden. A word to the boat-master, and, presently, the Governor's barge shot out, manned by eight negroes, in the red and gray of his Excellency's colors. Miss Stirling bade the others aboard, and herself took the tiller.
"Straight away!" she ordered.
The blacks bent to their work, while the young ladies settled back among the cushions, under the awning, and gossiped. Presently, when the waves of the Bay began to roll, the barge was put about and headed up the Severn.
They were just opposite the Governor's grounds, when a boat, running with astonishing swiftness, rushed by them, a hundred yards away. It was an Indian canoe, fitted with a keel, two leg o' mutton sails and a jib, and seemed fairly to skim the water.
"George Marbury?" said Miss Stirling.
"It is," said Miss Tyler; "and that boat will be the death of him, yet."
"Wherefore?" asked Miss Stirling. "It seems to me to be uncommonly speedy. I shall ask him to take me in it, sometime."
"If you are in search of death, it were well do so. It is swift—as swift and fast as any craft afloat, and, also, the most dangerous. The ease with which it can capsize is miraculous."
"Then he is handling it marvelously well."
"He handles it as well as any man could possibly do, but that is not enough—it, simply, gives him a little chance. Were he a poor sailor, he would not get twenty feet from the dock. Now, watch him; he is going to tack across our front. Let the wind veer, ever so little, and the chances are.... There, what did I tell you!" as, without a moment's warning, the canoe capsized. "Row for it, boys! row!"
They found Marbury holding to the canoe with one hand, while, with the other, he was endeavoring to support Sir Edward Parkington, who, in the overturning, had been struck on the head and rendered unconscious.
"It is nothing!" Marbury averred, when they were dragged aboard the barge. "Parkington has got a rap on the head, and he shipped a bit too much water, that's all. He will come out of it in a moment, if you women give him a chance—all he wants is air."
"What do you suppose he would have wanted, if we had not been close by when you capsized?" inquired Miss Tyler.
"I am not called upon to suppose," said Marbury, looking up, with a laugh, through his disheveled hair. "I am very well content as it is."
"And you ought to be, sir!" said Miss Falconer, "to take Sir Edward out in such a crazy contraption."
"He said he could swim," Marbury protested. "He offered to lay me five pistoles, he could out-swim me across the Severn."
Just then Sir Edward opened his eyes, stared wildly around, and struggled weakly to arise.
"Where am I?" he gasped; "where am I?"
"In the Governor's barge," said Marbury. "Lie still."
Sir Edward's eyes closed; then, they opened again.
"I remember," he said, more strongly. "We overturned, and something struck me. What are we doing in the Governor's barge?"
"We picked you up," Miss Stirling answered. "We were fortunate enough to be close at hand."
Sir Edward tried to sit up; Martha Stirling sprang forward, and let him rest against her until they reached the wharf. Then, in the arms of two stout boatmen, he was borne ashore and up to the Governor's mansion. Here, he struggled to his feet.
"Put me down!" he said. "I have sufficiently recovered, and am, moreover, in no condition to present myself before his Excellency, or in such company. The ladies will accept, I know, my most grateful thanks and humble service, and permit me to retire, for the time. Wet clothes are most uncomfortable. I will to my lodgings. Mr. Marbury, your arm."
The tale of the capsized canoe was at the Coffee-house, that evening, in advance of them. Among the young men, the opinion was that it was worth a wetting to be rescued by the Governor's niece and her companions. The older heads were not so sure; and some were for rating George Marbury, soundly, for exposing one, who could know nothing of the danger, to the perils of so hazardous a craft.
But Parkington, himself, soon set the matter right and took the burden on himself. He had gone, he said, fully warned of the risk, and accepted the result as his due—very much his due, since the overturning had been brought about by his own carelessness in shifting his weight. This, young Marbury had, of course, denied; and, there, it rested—though there were those who, considering the skill of the one, and the lack of it in the other, could place the responsibility, and, however it was, neither of them lost in public esteem by the incident.
The next few weeks passed quickly enough. Sir Edward was the guest, in turn, of every one in town, who pretended to gentility. He dined, among others, at the Carrolls', the Brices', the Ogles', and the Scotts'; he supped with the Worthingtons, the Ridouts, and the Bordleys; he attended a rout at Daniel Dulany's, and an evening affair given for him by the Governor, where he was presented to the best that the Province could boast. Incidentally, he borrowed two hundred pounds from his Excellency.
He held his own at lou, bluff and piquet, he drank moderately and with judgment; he paid his share, always, and a bit besides; the clothes, which Pinkney, the tailor, provided, while rich and fine were neither unduly expensive or noticeably ornate. Among a set of young men, who were noted for the lavishness of their attire, his was modest and conservative. In short, among the men there was not a more popular man in Annapolis.
With the fair sex, he was discriminating and impartial in his attention. Naturally, as especially committed by Lord Baltimore to the good offices of his Excellency, these were bestowed in particular on the Governor's niece—and with that no fault could be found—otherwise, they were weighed to a nicety. If he led Miss Falconer through the minuet, he contrived to show himself among Miss Tyler's most devoted; if he chanced to sit beside Miss Paca at dinner, he took care to see that due court was paid to Miss Jennings; and, so, through the list. And, withal, with such skill, that never did he appear as doing it of intention—in fine, he made friends with them all, a thing hard to manage, where one is the most sought after in the town.
Early June saw the Marbury house-party assembled at Hedgely Hall. They went by water, from Annapolis, in their host's own schooner, and landed directly at the plantation on the Patuxent River. There had been few declinations, and these only by men who were held in the Capital by business. The ladies included Miss Stirling, Miss Fordyce, Miss Tyler, Miss Jennings, the men, Sir Edward Parkington, Mr. Paca, Mr. Worthington, Mr. Constable, Captain Herford; in addition, the Platers, who had been recently married were to come from Sotterly, a short distance away, and the Snowdens from Montpelier.
Hedgely Hall was one of the handsomest places in Maryland. Rebuilt by John Hedgely, as a wedding gift to his bride, she had barely entered its doors when a fatal illness seized her and she died. He never married again, (though there were many damsels willing) and persisted in declining all office under the government. He had no town house, and rarely resorted to Annapolis. When he did, it was for a very brief time. He devoted himself to his estate, and lavished on it his care and affection. When he died, and his executors came to take account, it was discovered that he had also lavished on it most of his fortune. This, with the further fact that his next heir was a cousin in Virginia, with a plantation of his own, and nothing to make him abandon it in favor of an inheritance on the Patuxent, led to its sale.
And Henry Marbury, having the ready cash, coupled with an ardent desire to acquire, became the purchaser. In justice to him, let it be understood, that he sought not to enter the great world. He bought it for his son, and a fitting place from which his daughter could be married. He hoped that she would marry above her class; he proposed that she should, if money could effect it; but he knew, in his shrewd, hard-headed way, that much of the success of his plans rested upon the girl herself. As for George, he looked to him to marry well and found a family. He himself was an outsider, and always would be. George was to be the first of the new line—the Marbury, of Hedgely Hall.
It is astonishing what the possession of a country-seat of known fame will make for gentility, even where one has small claim. And George Marbury and his sister Judith had the ways and appearance of the gentle-born. Somewhere, in the past, a forebear must have been of the class.
As for the Hall itself: the approach was by a great avenue, a hundred and twenty feet wide, lined on either side by tulip and poplar trees, that extended from the Patuxent, half a mile away. The house was of English brick, large and square, with wings which served for offices and bachelor quarters, the kitchen and the store rooms. A huge hall ran directly through it, with the drawing room on the right, the library and dining room on the left. The walls were of wood, panelled and done in white, and covered with paintings and portraits (the latter, alas, not of the Marburys, but of Hedgelys dead and gone). The ceiling, doors, window-frames and mantels were carved in arabesque. Behind the dining-room, and opening from it, was a huge conservatory. Back of the house, or in front, if you choose, for these houses had no rear, was a long sweep of velvety lawn, dropping away in terrace on terrace, with hedges of box and privet, and beds of roses, lilies of the valley and lavender scattered among daffodils, heart's ease, cowslip and jonquils. Beyond lay the park, with great trees, reaching as far as the eye could see. Two thousand acres and more was the Hall's domain, of tobacco and wheat fields, meadow and orchard, all cultivated with a thoroughness which old Marbury had learned, in the lean years, when he was struggling upward to wealth.
As for old Marbury, himself, he was not exactly what Miss Tyler had termed, "impossible." Difficult was nearer the proper term. He was brusque of manner and sparing of words, and his ways were not engaging, but, underneath, was a kindly spirit and an honest heart. He would not have shone amid the wits of the Coffee-house (had he ever ventured there), nor did he at his own board, after the cloth was gone and the wine was on. And he knew it, and was silent—or, as was generally the case, he retired, and George took his place at the head of the table.
And, as old Marbury did, so did his wife. They were well mated. The affairs of the household, and the more onerous duties, she assumed and executed, the lighter graces were laid on Judith's shoulders. And, to their credit, be it said, that no host or hostess in Annapolis was more at ease, or had more of the savoir faire, and knew how to use it, than this son and daughter of the Redemptioner.
And, now, was their test:—asking guests for dinner or supper was vastly different from having them in the house for a week. This party marked their first appearance, in a social sense, among the landed families of the Province.
They had arrived at Hedgely Hall two hours before supper; the ladies retired to their rooms to rest, the men to whatever place pleased their fancy. It was a sultry day in May, when the first heat of the coming summer seems doubly warm.
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?"
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.
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 are far beyond me—my usefulness to them is ended, more, I am a positive hindrance. So, I would be content to go."
"Man! man! you're morbid!" exclaimed Parkington.—"How old are you?"
"Sixty, last month."
"Many men, at your age, have only started to live. Let the young ones go their ways—the next generation will take them, fast enough. You prefer a quiet existence—very well, have it; it will not interfere with them. You have been living to yourself so long, with but one idea, that you have become obsessed by it. Live now for your own enjoyment—forget all else."
"When a man has lived his life for a single end, and, at sixty, has seen that end attained, there is not time to start with a new one. I am not morbid—on the contrary, I am supremely happy to have accomplished my life's aim, or nearly it. If I were convinced that my death is necessary to perfect success, I would be willing to die. That is what I mean, sir—that is what I hold to."
"And that is why you have won out!" exclaimed Parkington. "You contemplated only success, never failure."
"No, I never thought of failure," said Marbury; "it was not in the problem."
There was silence for a time. Presently, the Englishman spoke.
"Since you have honored me, thus far," he said, "I am, I hope, committing no impropriety if I ask one question."
"Ask on, sir," replied Marbury, "I have told you what I have told no other—it will do no harm to tell you something more."
"You spoke of marriage," said Parkington. "Has anything been—arranged, as to either?"
"If you mean, have I picked out a mate for either?—no. And I think that they have not picked for themselves."
"Miss Marbury is a particularly fine girl—she should have suitors in plenty."
Marbury did not answer.
"And young Mr. Marbury, as the future master of Hedgely Hall, if for nothing else, is a most desirable parti—and he is a mighty good fellow, besides."
"I think I can trust them," said Marbury, quietly. "They may take their own time."
And Parkington, fearing that he had gone a bit too far, made haste to change the subject.
Marbury was a queer man, one of the peculiar temperament, likely, which, having no confidants and no intimates, will suddenly tell a life's secrets to a casual acquaintance, and then repent it forever after. True, he had not told him much that he could not have heard, any time, at the Coffee-house, but that made small difference. It was the telling which he would regret, the burst of confidence, that was foreign to his nature—and for which he was likely to hold Parkington responsible, or, at least, to distrust him, hereafter.
And this did not chime with Parkington's idea. If he were going to pay court to the daughter, with any notion of matrimony, it were well not to have the father's ill will, especially, when it involved such a confession as he would have to make.
So he turned the talk into less personal channels—of the yield of tobacco, the manner of curing and packing it, the custom duties, and the varying prices which it brought in London. Marbury talked freely and interestingly. It was his life's work, and no man in the Province was more conversant with the subject and all its ramifications. He had grown tobacco, as servant and master, for thirty-five years; he could tell to a pound what his yields had been every year, what it had netted after the inspection duties were collected, and what his profits were. By the Act of Assembly, passed only three years before, tobacco was the staple currency of Maryland—every officer, from Governor down through the list, was paid in it, as were the clergy, and all large commercial transactions were conducted in warehouse receipts for inspected tobacco—in fact, no tobacco could be sold unless inspected and passed.
Parkington was not especially interested in tobacco, but he pretended to be, and it served his purpose admirably. Marbury seemed to forget his indiscretion of a short time ago, and, when they came to the house, he was still talking on tobacco.
"Take me out to the fields, sometime," said Parkington, "and show me more about it—of the cultivation, I mean."
"I will be glad to, sir, very glad, indeed. You will excuse me, now, I must dress for breakfast."
Parkington sauntered to a nearby bench and sat down. He was not quite satisfied with the result of his early morning walk—he was not so sure it would not have been better to decline Marbury's confidences. It might have been difficult to do, and it might have offended him, but, it would have been wiser, in the end. The offense could not have lasted, and, after the moment, Marbury would thank him for it. As it was, he would likely hold it in mind. It was only human nature. Of course, his being an Englishman and a foreigner might prevent, but that was scarcely possible. His one chance was to regain Marbury's confidence by showing great interest in the plantation, and all that concerned it. Good—he would show it....
He glanced up, to see Captain Herford coming toward him.
"The top of the morning, to you, Captain," he said; "I hope I see you well."
"I do not know how you see me," said the other, shortly. "It depends on your eyesight."
"And that tells me," said Parkington, indifferently amused, "that you are out of sorts. Better go down to the river and take a cold bath—there is nothing like a cold bath, Herford, to put one in tune with the morning."
"You have tried it, I apprehend," ironically.
"No, there was no need—I am always in tune."
"And, hence, particularly able to look after those of us who are not," Herford sneered. "Has it ever occurred to you that it is a bit gratuitous?"
"Yes!" said Parkington, and laughed. "That is why I never do, unless they inflict themselves upon me. In plain words, Herford, get in a good humor or get away. You intrude on my privacy—and the least you can do is to be pleasant.—Your face, at present, does not harmonize with the landscape—it spoils the picture. Pray, withdraw it!"
The other looked at him, sourly, uncertain for the moment how to take him—then a surly smile overspread his face.
"The picture brightens!" exclaimed Parkington. "Let it grow, let it grow!"
"Damn these black servants!" the Captain broke out.—"Laid out my gray suit instead of the dark blue, as I ordered, and was not around when I got up."
"You have got on the blue, I observe."
"Yes—got it out myself; and he got my riding whip. They are all worthless, sir, damn worthless!"
"I dare say they are—but think of the satisfaction in being able to beat them. You work off your surplus feelings, and at no loss to yourself. A slave dare not leave you."
Herford stared at him. "He is not my slave," he said; "he is one of old Marbury's."
"Oh! and yet you beat him?"
"Certainly—you beat any slave who disobeys orders."
"Is that the general practice?" Parkington inquired.
"The general practice is to do as you wish with them," the other answered, sharply.
"But suppose Marbury should not care to have his slaves beaten—what then?"
"Then he has no business to assign one to me for a servant. Oh, it is all understood—and, what is more, he will get another trouncing, if I mention it to the Marburys."
Parkington nodded. "I see," he said; "you have a way, here, we, of the old country, do not understand."
"You would understand it quick enough, if you lived here."
"And do you not ever try to manage them with kindness—do you whip them for every offense?"
Herford shrugged his shoulders. "Thank God! I do not own any—but, if I did——"
Parkington smiled. "I take it, that the disposition to beat them is in the inverse ratio to the number owned."
"What?"
"I mean, that the more slaves one owns the less disposed he is to have them whipped. You, who confess to possessing none, are very ready to beat them all."
"Are you trying to pick a quarrel with me?" the Captain, demanded angrily.
"There you go, spoiling the picture again!" Sir Edward laughed. "I shall have to ask you to take your face—ah! here comes one who, assuredly, will not spoil the picture. Bon jour, mademoiselle!" he called, springing up and going forward.