"What are you two men doing?" said Miss Stirling.—"Why, Captain Herford, what ails you? your face is as glum as the Lord Chancellor's."
"It will be so no longer," Herford answered. "Even the Lord Chancellor's would reflect the presence of such a luminary."
She knitted her brows, as though perplexed. "By which, I infer, you mean, I am a luminary. Is that complimentary?"
"It is—at least, it was, so intended."
"How very nice!" she exclaimed. "Your compliments are so delicate, oftentimes go over my head—a lovely view, Sir Edward!" turning toward him.
"Charming—charming!" said he, looking straight at her.
"I mean, there!" (pointing to the landscape).
"Just what I was trying to impress on Captain Herford——"
"Trying?" she echoed;—"surely, it took no trying."
"I am sorry to say it did—in fact, he steadily refused to see it."
She turned and looked, curiously, at Herford.
"All of which means, that he is out of sorts," she said. "Well, I decline to talk to a man who is out of humor on such a day. When you are willing to smile, and mean it, you may come back. Au revoir, sir, au revoir."
In the late afternoon, the Snowdens arrived from Montpelier, and, a little later, the Platers from Sotterly. They were young married people and added much to the company. Mrs. Snowden was a Leigh of Virginia, and Mrs. Plater was the only daughter and heiress of Colonel John Rousby, of Rousby Hall in Calvert County.
The former came down the Patuxent in their barge, rowed by a dozen sturdy blacks; the Platers by coach and four, with postilions and footmen, and made a gallant show as they dashed up the avenue and drew up, with a grand flourish, before the entrance.
The company was on the lawn, at the side of the house, playing at bowls or idling the day away as they saw fit, but they crowded forward, and made a great to do over them.
"I vow I am almost dead," said Mrs. Plater, at last; "pray, get me away, Judith, or I shall faint. The roads are terrific, and the jolting has well nigh finished me."
"You poor dear!" exclaimed Miss Marbury, and straightway carried her off to her room.
Miss Stirling was not in the company that received the Snowdens and the Platers. She saw them come, from behind the curtains of her window, but did not show herself. She was in déshabillé, which was sufficient excuse, and she was engaged in writing a letter, which was abundant excuse—more especially, as it was of exceeding length and filled with gossip.
It was to Lady Catherwood, in London, and essayed to relate all that had happened since she left, and besought her to reply, in kind. Much of it had to do with the men she had met, less, with the women—though they came in for a share. Mr. Worthington, Mr. Paca, Mr. Brice, and Mr. Constable she found most agreeable and charming, Captain Herford was mainly a bore, though, at times, he could be most entertaining. He was a good catch, as he was reputed to be wealthy, and, in addition, was an officer in the Royal American Regiment. He had conceived a most absurd fondness for herself, however; which was most embarrassing, because he did not want to give any of the other men a chance to be nice to her. She did not care to snub him, on her uncle's account, but it was pretty hard, sometimes, not to do it.
There was one man, who had attracted her more than all the others—indeed, she could grow very fond of him, if he would only respond in the slightest degree. Mr. Richard Maynadier was his name. He was considerable older, was, in fact, a member of the Council and a man of material importance in the Colony. She had done everything to attract him, consistent with maidenly reserve—and, may be, a bit more; and he knew it, too, and laughed her, good naturedly, aside. He was courteous, of course, in the very best way, but steadily refused to be brought nearer. And it piqued her. To have all the men devoted, except the one she desired! It was not at all serious, but, mainly, because he would not have it. In fact, if there was any one in Maryland who might persuade her to remain, it was Richard Maynadier.
At the end, she wrote this postscript—which was the real object of the letter:
"P. S. Did you ever Chance to Meet a Sir Edward Parkington, or do you Know of Him? He is arrived, lately, at Annapolis, bringing Letters of Introduction to Governor Sharpe and Mr. Dulany. He tells a wondrous story of Shipwreck, and being cast up by the waves, some miles below here, and All on board being lost, Save only him. He is exceedingly Affable, and pleasant, and has made a Good Impression on Every one. I wish you would Ascertain—if you do not already know—whether he is Married—his actions are those of a Bachelor, but no one has Inquired, and I care not to ask him. He has the loveliest Manners, he dances the Minuet with Marvelous Grace, and he can make love better than any Man I ever Met. He says he is going to stay the Summer. He is Tall and slender, with black hair, blue eyes and fair complexion. Be sure to tell me, when you Answer—and anything else you know concerning him.
"M. S."
"I wish I had written three weeks ago," she reflected. "It will require nine or ten weeks for this letter to reach England, and as many coming back, and, allowing for the necessary delay at both ends and the time she takes to reply, it will be all of five months and, maybe, six, before I can hope for an answer. That will be the first of November, at least—and, like enough, you will be gone before, then, Sir Edward," she said, looking out at the man standing in the group on the lawn below her.
She folded the letter carefully, and affixed the seals, then laid it aside, to be sent to Annapolis and included in his Excellency's mail for forwarding. In that way, she would save postage, and as the missive was several ounces in weight, at five shillings the ounce, it made purely friendly communications rather expensive.
It was nearly supper-time when she appeared on the lawn, looking exceedingly sweet in a flowered pink silk, to find a new arrival—Mr. Richard Maynadier. He had ridden across from his place, Rose Hill, which adjoined Hedgely Hall on the North.
"Ah, Miss Stirling!" he said, with a low bow. "The evening star shines pale beside you."
"And the morning star not at all!" she laughed. "Thanks, monsieur, my warmest thanks.—But I wonder that you are not afraid to pay me compliments."
"No," he said. "Compliments are safe—they lead to nothing."
"Because they are mainly false?" she asked.
"Not exactly—because they do not commit one, I should say—and every one takes them at their value; there is no danger of being misunderstood."
"You are dreadfully afraid of being misunderstood!" she mocked.
"Perhaps!" he smiled. "What these young macaronies" (with a motion, indicating those around him) "could venture with impunity, we older heads dare not. It is not dignified for us."
"Then do not ever fall in love, Mr. Maynadier; love is the most undignified of all our frailties."
"In what way is it undignified?" he asked.
"In every way—particularly, in the exhibition of one's feelings. Every one makes sport of the lover—every one laughs at him."
"Then the world is overrun with fools—for they are but laughing at themselves. No, no, my lady! I find no fault with love, ever—only with him who simulates it, and is old enough to know better. Comprenez vous?"
"Oh, yes, I understand," she said, with a frank smile; "but I do not agree with you."
"A woman's privilege! she never agrees, and is fascinating always."
"Perversity, you think?"
"Diversity!" he laughed, and bowed himself away.
At supper, a little later, he occupied a place beside Miss Marbury. Parkington was at the opposite end of the table, one removed from the silent host, whom he was trying, as best he could, to bring into the conversation, but with indifferent success. A word, a nod, a short sentence, rarely, was all that he could elicit. But even Maynadier could not have got as much out of him—and he watched them, contemplatively, through the meal....
What was the man's idea—what was his purpose? What was there about him to make old Marbury talk—why was he taking the trouble to make him talk? In short, had he an object in it? But, then, why was he in Maryland at all? What was he doing here? Was he a spy—a secret agent, sent hither for a purpose; and what was that purpose? He came duly accredited, and his letters were in form and regular—the signature, indeed, the entire writing, was Lord Baltimore's own.... It was very peculiar, surely. Of course, the Governor knew—he would have been informed—but the Governor had seen fit to be silent, and even they, of the Council, did not pry in matters which did not concern them—his Excellency had a way about him that forbade it.
He had met Sir Edward Parkington in London, two years before, and this was not he. But he had seen Colonel Sharpe, at the Races, introduced him as Sir Edward, and so, a little later, when he himself was presented by Miss Stirling, he had accepted it. The man knew how to act the part—indeed, he appeared to be far above the calibre of Parkington. Parkington, as he remembered, was pretty much of a rake—one of Baltimore's own. But this man had been very circumspect, and his deportment most proper.... He might be a great noble—his manner suggested it—come over incog. to view the country, and to get information at first hand on the temper of the people. Indeed, he might be anything and any one—but, assuredly, he was not Sir Edward Parkington. However, it was not his business to unmask him, after Colonel Sharpe had accepted him and vouched for him.
"Why did you shrug your shoulders?" Miss Marbury asked, suddenly.
"Did I shrug my shoulders?" he said. "I did not know it."
"Yes, you did; now why did you do it?"
"I do not know."
"Which is another way of saying, I should not have asked."
"You may ask me anything," he said.
"And not give offense, you mean," she supplemented. "But you reserve the right to answer only what you choose."
"Do you think so?" smiling.
"Yes, I do.—Please tell me, Dick?" she plead.
"Please tell you what?" he said, indulgently.
"Why you shrugged your shoulders—you were looking toward father—has he done anything—I mean, was he the cause?"
"No, child, he had nothing to do with it."
"You are not deceiving me?"
"Have I ever deceived you?" he asked.
"No! no!" she said. "I did not mean it—but I thought that, maybe, he had—you understand."
"I understand that you are unnecessarily sensitive," he answered. "Your father is a bit eccentric, but he is neither churlish nor ill-mannered—and he is rich enough to be both, if he so wished."
"You believe in wealth, then?" she asked. "You believe that wealth is equal to birth?"
"In a social sense, yes," said he. "Both are the keys to good society.—By birth one belongs, by wealth one buys a right to belong. It is all the same. For my part, I would rather be the wealthy buyer than the poor belonger—it is so much more satisfactory."
"But when one has both wealth and birth—like you," she persisted, "how do the buyers appear—what do you think of them?"
He leaned close over. "Just what they are worth," he answered—"just what they are worth."
"And what are we worth, Dick?" she said impulsively; "we are buyers—what are we worth?"
"As a general proposition," laying his hand on her arm, and speaking very earnestly, "the Marburys are worth exactly what they measure. You, my dear, have measured up, far up."
She looked at him with searching eyes. "You mean it—you are sure you mean it?"
"Sure—absolutely sure!"
She gave a little sigh of relief. "You are very good—I am satisfied now—if you approve, there will be none who dare disapprove."
"There will be none who care to disapprove," he said. "Yours was a more difficult case than George's—he had only the men to satisfy, and that is easy, where one is a good fellow and a manly. You had the women—and women are jealous, vindictive and irresponsible. But you won. They all are for you—there is not one that is even undecided."
"I am glad, very glad," she said. "I want to please them—I was afraid I had failed. You are a dear to tell me this—a perfect dear, Dick."
The sweet unaffectedness was refreshing. It is not possible, he thought, that the girl does not know she is beautiful. One look in her mirror would tell her, one glance at her figure—her complexion, her eyes, her hair—oh! assuredly, she must know it.
He had seen it coming, had seen it grow. Six years ago, when they first came to Annapolis, he had marked her—the young girl just budding into womanhood. He had been of those who early accepted the Marburys, and four years later, when Hedgely Hall was offered for sale, the fact that his place adjoined it, was, he knew, a consideration for its purchase. Since then, he had watched the woman beside him perfect into the beauty of to-day—with all the winsomeness, all the freshness, of the unspoiled and unaffected. He had seen it as none other, for he had a place in the household which was for him alone—he was guide and mentor and elder brother to her, all in one. The parents were not capable, at times, of advising, so he took the duty on himself—not that she needed much counsel, but, when she did, she knew where to find it. It was at his own request that she had come to call him "Dick," dropping the Mr. Maynadier, as quite too formal, and evading Richard "because that was what all his other friends called him." He was so much older,—later, he had liked the intimacy of it, the spirit of comradeship—to-night, he had suddenly realized that, even to him, she was no longer the sweet-faced girl, whom he had petted, and chided, and advised, by turns. She was able to stand alone, to be made love to—and had been these many months!... Yet none had sought her, as a lover seeks! And, why? Was it because of her birth? Was it because of him—the friend? Was it because of herself—would she have none of them?——
"What is the matter, Dick?" she said, "why do you not answer? Your eyes are on me, but your mind is far away."
"I beg your pardon!" he exclaimed, "it was rude, I know—what did you say?"
"I asked why it was you shrugged your shoulders—why was it?"
"I was cold—it is drafty here."
"Nonsense!—be serious——"
"I cannot. I am——"
"Dick, you are possessed!" she laughed. "You are——"
"I am," he cut in—"I am possessed of shrugs—they come and go as they will—I am not responsible—I am——"
"You are trying to avoid telling me—confess it."
"Now, Judith——"
"Do you not see, Dick, that you have aroused my curiosity to an ungovernable pitch. You must tell me—and now—now—now!"
He threw up his hands in mock despair.
"But suppose I cannot," he said.
"Cannot?" she echoed—"You do not appear to have lost the power of speech."
"Touché!" he laughed. "May, would be the better word—I may not tell."
"Why?" she said—"why may you not tell?"
"Because it is inexpedient," he answered.
"A matter of State?" she demanded.
"No."
"Violating a confidence?"
"No."
"Inexpedient!" she reflected—"Inexpedient!—there can be but one more reason:—it might provoke scandal, if known. Is that it?"
"You are the very devil, Judith!" he exclaimed;—"yes, that is it."
"Oh, delightful! delightful! Come, sir, what is it? Now, I will not be put off."
He looked at her doubtfully, undecided what to do. He thought he could trust her—he felt sure that he could. But, what if she babbled?
"You do not trust me," she said. "You fear that I shall tell."
"No, not exactly," he said, "I trust you, but I fear that, inadvertently, you might tell.—However, you shall know it."
She turned toward him, impulsively——
"But, not now—some one might overhear. Take me for a walk down the avenue, after supper."
"Would you rather not tell?" she asked. "Because, if you would——"
"How like a woman!" he laughed. "Work one up to the pitch, and then grow faint-hearted. No, you will have to hear it, now—and be bored."
"There is no danger," she replied.—"I'll take you the walk, after supper—and I'll take you whether you tell me, or whether you do not." And she gave him a deliberate and dazzling smile which set Mr. Richard Maynadier to thinking more than ever.
A little later, when, the supper ended and her duties as hostess were done for the time, she came out on the lawn, it was to find Richard Maynadier seated alone and waiting. He arose at once and bowed, and, without further ado she slipped her hand through his arm, and they strolled down the avenue toward the water. The full moon had just pushed its way through the fringe of trees beyond the Patuxent, the breath of the evening came to them, the fragrance of the roses and the lilacs, a gentle breeze sang softly through the leaves, and whispered among the branches.
A faint laugh floated to them, and then another—and, presently, up the avenue, strolled Miss Stirling and Sir Edward Parkington.
"Ah! what have we here?" exclaimed Miss Stirling. "Another couple!"
"Going out into the moonlight," said Maynadier, quickly, "not into the dark."
"Ho, ho!" Sir Edward laughed, "what have you to say now, my lady?"
"That he is most impertinent."
"Granted," returned Maynadier. "What else?"
"Nothing, now," came over her shoulder; "I shall consider the penalty."
"What did she mean by 'the penalty'?" Judith asked, when they were out of hearing.
"I have not the slightest notion," said he.
"Has she caught you, too,—I mean, have you joined the others in dancing attendance on her?"
"Not to my knowledge," he smiled—"and, I am sure, not to hers."
"Well, you are about the only one who has escaped—you and George. And George is too busy with every one to specialize—just yet."
"Give him his head," said Maynadier; "he will settle into his stride, some day."
"If he does not settle pretty soon, father will have the fainting sickness. He bought Hedgely Hall for George's wedding gift—and he still has it on his hands, with no prospects. However, no match is much better than a bad one."
"George will never make a bad marriage, trust him for that—and trust your father, too."
"Trust father!" she exclaimed. "I reckon I do—he is the dearest parent any girl ever had. I was only trying to be funny, and without success—even with you. It is not in me."
"The trouble is with me—I took you seriously——"
"They all do—every body takes me seriously. They will not let me be absurd, even when I try."
He looked at her with a puzzled frown—was she in jest or earnest? At all events, she was showing a new side to him, to-night—or he was seeing it, for the first time——
Her light laugh broke in on him. "Confess that you do not understand me, to-night!—Well, I do not understand myself, so, let us drop me, and take up the secret—the great secret you were afraid some one would overhear, at table:—why did you shrug your shoulders, sir?"
"The specific reason is of no value," he answered, "it simply fitted in with my thoughts, at the time. But the secret itself is very different. It may result in nothing, that is, nothing may come of it (which I doubt), but assuredly it is a fact."
"Bravo!" she cried. "You do it well, Dick, splendidly, indeed. You almost convince me you have discovered something."
"Discovered conveys the idea of going in search of," he said, thoughtfully.—"No, I did not discover this—it was thrust upon me. I just noticed it, casually. I——"
"Dick, do get on!" she exclaimed. "You've got me all on edge. Out with it!"
He chuckled softly to himself. "You know Sir Edward Parkington?"
"Casually—he is a guest, at present, at Hedgely Hall," as though she were imparting information of the most confidential sort.
"Oh, no, he is not!"
"Do be serious, Dick—what about him?"
"You thought you passed him, a moment ago, with Miss Stirling, did you not?"
"Of course!"
"Well, that shows how easy it is to be deceived. You did not."
"Are you crazy, Dick? Certainly it was Sir Edward."
He shook his head.
"Who was it, then?" she demanded.
"I do not know—I only know it was not Sir Edward. He is not he!"
She stared at him.
"He is not he!" she repeated. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," he said, the smile broadening into a gentle laugh, "that the man you know as Sir Edward Parkington is not Sir Edward Parkington. He is an impostor."
"Dick!" she cried. "Do you mean it—are you sure?"
"Perfectly sure," he answered, "perfectly sure."
"But I do not understand—he brought letters to Governor Sharpe and Mr. Dulany. Were they forged?"
"No, they were genuine enough."
"Then what——"
"That is just the difficulty. I do not know anything more than this: the man who presented them is not Parkington."
"And how do you know it?"
"I met Parkington, in London, two years ago——"
"And this man is not he?"
"Exactly. I saw him several times; he seemed to be interested in the Colonies. He was a small man—very much inclined to stoutness. Oh, I cannot possibly be mistaken. I detected the imposture the moment I met him."
"And that was when?" she asked.
"At the Annapolis races, the day subsequent to his arrival."
"And you have permitted him to masquerade—to be received by your friends—to enter their houses?—Oh, Dick!"
"Your criticism may be just," he said. "And I be wrong in my surmise. The fellow may be a rogue—but, somehow, I doubt it. In manners, and bearing, and address he is far superior to the real Sir Edward—and, also, in breeding, if I am any judge. If this be true, then he is of superior birth. Now, why should such a man be here, in disguise, and with his letters apparently regular. I do not know—but they do queer things in London. Besides, the Governor has accepted him. He must have been informed—and, if so, it is not for me to tear off the mask."
"But if he be an impostor—if he has stolen the letters, and the name?"
"That is scarcely probable; at any rate, I have given him the benefit of the doubt, and, thus far, he has deported himself perfectly—much better than Parkington could have done. For my part, I believe he is sent here for a purpose and is, in rank, very much above the one he personates."
She nodded her head, gravely.
"You know best," she said; "but, now, if ever you want to unmask him, you must lie. It would sound very well, indeed, for Richard Maynadier to say: 'I knew him, at once, for an impostor, but I let him fool you for a month (or two months, or three months, as the case may be), before I told.'"
"And for that very reason, I shall not tell," said he. "I am not my brother's keeper. I will look out for myself, and my friends, if need be, the rest may protect themselves, as best they can."
"Are the Marburys your friends?" she asked.
"Have the Marburys needed my protection, yet?"
"There is an impostor a guest in their house."
"My dear girl, you assume he is an impostor for personal gain—I, that he is an impostor for purposes of State. I would receive him as a guest at Rose Hill."
"You are warned—we were not."
"Whom his Excellency sponsors, a citizen may entertain without discredit."
"I reckon you are right," she agreed, after a moment's thought. "The Governor vouches for him, and that is sufficient. But, all the same, it gives me a queer sort of feeling to be in the same house with—Sir Edward."
"You see, it would have been much better not to tell you—but you are so persistent!" and he laughed.
They had come out into the open moonlight, on the river bank. She looked at him with an odd smile.
"Yes, I am," she replied. "But it has not had much success, thus far."
And though Maynadier besought her earnestly, she would not explain.
The next few days were uneventful. Richard Maynadier, after staying until midnight, rode home, sober and sedate, with his body-servant, a fruitless effort of the men to keep him, by other means than simple persuasion, having failed. Equally futile had been Miss Stirling's politic allurements, and George Marbury's importunities.
Sir Edward Parkington had spent a number of hours with Judith Marbury, and was rather well pleased with them. Not that he had ventured on anything personal,—he was far too old a bird—but inferences from actions may be drawn, and he thought that she was not altogether dense. Enough, for the present, if she gathered that he had shown a slight partiality for her society. Let her get persuaded of that fact, before he proceeded further. He had all the summer before him, and the matter could be worked out, in that time—if it was to be worked out at all.
He had, also, paid due attention to the father. He had inspected his tobacco fields—had watched the slaves and servants at work—had listened to a minute description of the manner of curing and hogs-heading—in fine, had the whole industry expounded to him. And, with it all, he had been careful to show a quiet enthusiasm that did much to set right the indiscretion of the other morning. He wanted to relieve Marbury's mind of all distrust, and he took the very best means to accomplish it:—he evinced an interest in the other's work, and he grew confidential himself.
"I have not told any one, not even Colonel Sharpe," he said, as they were riding in from the fields, "the real object in my coming to America. I am thinking of settling here. Do not repeat it, please.—Yes, I know I can trust you, else I should not have spoken. I shall look around, and pick out a likely place, and if the price is not excessive, and if some other like matters can be arranged, I am about ready to become one of you."
"Maryland should be proud to welcome you!" Marbury exclaimed.
"Well, there are other ways of looking at it," said Parkington laughing. "Some people may say that I should be glad to come to Maryland. But that is neither here nor there; if the old residents will receive me, and let me be one of them, it is quite enough."
"There will be no trouble on that score—they will be glad enough to take you in!"
"That is very good of you," (including, by the "you," Marbury among the old residents), "I shall try to make a companionable neighbor. I wonder if there are any estates, in this part of the country, for sale—or which could be purchased for a reasonable amount. I like this section—it is a little farther South than Annapolis, and, besides, seems more fertile—better adapted for tobacco."
"It is, sir!—it is quite equal to Virginia.—And, speaking of places, you might get Rousby Hall, one of the finest we have. You have not seen it?"
"No, I have seen no place but this one—and it, I suppose, is not in the market."
Old Marbury shook his head, decisively.
"Not at any price!" he said. "But Rousby Hall has a woman for the heiress—she is here, now, young Mrs. Plater. Colonel Rousby, her father, might be willing to sell it, for a good price, and pass his winters in Annapolis, and his summers with his daughter, at Sotterly.... I do not know any other that could be had—Maynadier's is out of the question—and Plater's, and Fitzhugh's, and Snowden's, and Bladen's, and Ridgeley's—no, Rousby Hall is the only one.—Do you wish to see it?"
"Yes—sometime before we leave here—just a glance. I would not wish to appear, yet, you understand—not until my affairs are more definitely arranged."
"Very well," said Marbury. "Any help I can give is yours for the asking. Meanwhile, I can ascertain whether Colonel Rousby would consider selling."
"Yes—it would be very kind," said Parkington, as he dismounted. "Meanwhile, not a word."
"Hum-m!" thought Marbury. "I shall not be the one to tell it.... Going to settle here—maybe! He is not married—I wonder if Judith might take a fancy to him.... Hum-m!... She will have a very good sized dowery, and an Englishman does not despise such things.... Well, we shall see.... Hum-m!" And he went on to the wharf.
And Parkington, watching him ride down the avenue, was thinking.
"Let that idea sink in, Marbury. Sir Edward Parkington is considering settling here—and marrying—with your permission and a fitting competence. But Rousby Hall? There is not money enough won across the card tables, in all Maryland, to buy it,—and I have no other source of revenue.... I reckon, the girl herself will be sufficient; if I can win her, I will be content. Afterward, with father's generosity, we can consider Rousby Hall. And the girl is a beauty—ah, here she comes!—God, what a figure!"
"Whither away, Sir Edward?" she asked, seeing that he wore riding boots.
"No whither," he said. "I have just returned—your father and I were inspecting the fields."
"You are a guest after his own heart!" she laughed. "Are you really interested, or is it chargeable to good manners?"
"I am really interested—and one can learn much from your father."
"Yes, that they can," she said enthusiastically. "None in the Colony is better qualified from actual experience."
"And experience is what I want," he said. "You would not believe me, the other evening, that I am thinking seriously of making Maryland my home."
"Of course, not!" she answered.
"But I am in earnest," he insisted.
She looked at him, a moment, in silence. What was the meaning of this move. What could be its object. That he intended to remain, she never for a moment believed, but, why pretend? Here was a problem too difficult for her to solve—she would have to tell Maynadier.
"I ask you, however, not to disclose it, for the present," he continued. "I want to look around a bit—and pick out a place, and—you understand."
"No, I do not understand," she replied, implying much more than she conveyed; "but, if you wish, I shall hold it confidential until you release me—I fancy the notion will not linger overlong."
"Mademoiselle still doubts?" he smiled.
"Monsieur still plays on my credulity."
"You will see!"
"I shall be very glad to see!" she laughed, (meaning the end of his masquerade).
"What—my staying or my leaving?"
"Whatever is for the best," she evaded.
"Rather enigmatic!" he said. "Do you mean, the best for me, or the best for the Colony?"
"They should be identical—the best for the Colony should be the best for you."
"In theory, possibly, but not always in practice. The best thing for me may be to stay, but it may be the worst for the Colony."
"That can be determined only by trial," she said. "In the meantime, what do you think it will be?"
"Which brings us back to the starting point!" he laughed. "We have rounded the circle. I think it will be that I stay."
"Then, I hope it will prove pleasant and profitable."
"And you will stand my friend?" he asked.
"What makes you think I shall not?" she said, evasively.
"Nothing—I only wanted to have your promise safely filed away."
"I fancy every one will be glad to be your friend, Sir Edward,"—(smiling) "so long as you deserve it."
"So long as I deserve it," he repeated, with a laugh. "Do you think the time may come when they will deem it well to give me their backs?"
"Not at all!" she replied. "I would have said the same to any one—under similar circumstances."
His eyes studied her—he did not miss the qualifying phrase, but he took it to apply to him as an Englishman.
"If all my Annapolis acquaintances are as glad to have me one of them, as you are," he remarked, "my welcome will not turn my head."
"Are you in search of flattery, or do you honestly want what I think?"
"What you think; by all means, what you think," he said.
"Well, you have it—you cannot persuade me, that one of Sir Edward Parkington's standing, in London, can ever voluntarily become a Colonist. If he does, there must be a cause—and a cause means——"
"What, mademoiselle?"
She shrugged her pretty shoulders, "I do not know, monsieur; but I have a woman's intuition, and it tells me——"
"Yes," he said, "tells you what?"
She looked at him with a quizzical smile.
"That Sir Edward Parkington will never settle in the Colonies," she replied.
He thought of the dead man, in the grave by the seashore, near St. Mary's.
"Sir Edward is quite content with his present abode," he said, and laughed.
"Yes, for a time," thinking he referred to Hedgely Hall.
"For all time, and eternity, too."
"Am I to take that as compliment?" she asked.
"Not as a compliment—as the simple truth," he answered, very seriously,—too seriously, indeed, for it did not ring quite true, and she detected it.
"I fear that you equivocate," she cried. "You mean something which you do not say."
"I protest——"
"Be careful, lest you protest too much, Sir Edward."
"You are unjust," he declared—"what other meaning could I have?"
Again the shoulders did duty. "I am a poor guesser of motives—particularly, when they do not concern me," she answered.
"Unkind, unkind!" he cried—then they both laughed.
"Let us go in to breakfast," she said.
They were turning away, when the clatter of a galloping horse, attracted them, and up the avenue, at full speed, came Henry Marbury.
"Why, it is father!" she exclaimed—"what can be the matter? he is waving to us—what does he mean?"
"Stay here, I will meet him," said Parkington, and hurried down the steps.
At the same time, a negro groom ran out from the stables, and stood ready to take the horse.
"Go in! Go in! Close the house!" Marbury cried—"close the house, quick!—quick!"
"What?" shouted Parkington, the pounding of the hoofs drowning the words. "What do you say?"
"Close the house! quick!—quick!"
"Close the house! quick!" Parkington repeated to Judith.
A moment later, Marbury dashed up, flung the reins from him, and leaped down.
"Pirates!" he shouted. "Pirates!—they are coming!" pointing behind him—where, five hundred yards away, and barely distinguishable among the trees, a crowd of men were approaching on the run.
"Pirates!" said Parkington, incredulously. "Surely not!"
"Then, stay and welcome them, if you think so," called Marbury, rushing up the steps.
Parkington stayed long enough to get another view of the nearing men, then followed him.
Within, he found both order and confusion. The guests were just about to assemble for breakfast—some were down stairs, some about to come down, others just finishing their toilet. Marbury was standing in the hall giving orders to the blacks, who were frightened but still retained sufficient sense to do as they were told. Mr. Paca, Captain Herford, and the other men were closing the shutters on the lower floor, the women those on the floor above. Already the pirates had sent a detachment around to the rear of the house, keeping under cover of the stables, and escape for the women, by horseback, was cut off. George Marbury had managed to send a servant off, an instant before, however, to apprise the nearest plantations of their plight—and begging that they muster all the assistance in their power and hasten to the rescue.
Parkington looked on, for an instant, then, seeing Constable come from the library with a gun, he hastened in, took one from the rack, and returned to the front of the house. Old Marbury was standing in the doorway. The main body of the freebooters had halted a hundred yards away, while the leaders were taking council and observing the place. There could be no doubt, even at that distance, what they were—their variegated costumes and strange headgear proclaimed the riffraff of all lands. Cutlasses, daggers, swords, and pistols, were their weapons—none of them appeared to have a gun; they were wont to come quickly to close quarters, and, then, to show no mercy.
"Are pirates plentiful along this coast, Mr. Marbury?" inquired Sir Edward.
"Plentiful! I've never heard of a pirate on the inner Chesapeake."
"Well, they appear to be there, now!" Parkington laughed.
Marbury stared at him, "Man alive!" he said. "You don't seem to appreciate your danger."
"My danger is nothing," remarked Parkington, measuring the powder and ramming home the charge. "We men can only die; but the women!—God! I have seen one pirate crew at work, I want never to see another."
"They may not know the peril," said Marbury. "Promise me, Sir Edward, that, if the worst come, you will not let my daughter fall alive into their hands."
"I promise," Parkington answered. "Neither her nor any other, so long as I can wield a dagger."
The old man nodded. "Thank you," he said. Then:—"We have an abundance of rifles and ammunition, the house cannot be set on fire, save at the doors—and they can be defended—and the roof. We should hold out until help arrives." He turned and raised his voice: "Let every man to a window, and defend it with his life. We can expect no mercy, therefore show none."
Parkington took a window on the front, Constable the one beside him, Plater and Snowden similar ones across the hall, George and the others, were at the rear. The women were gathered in the drawing-room. They were very quiet—though, occasionally, a sob, half suppressed, gave evidence of the strain. Five minutes before they had only the breakfast in mind—now, death had replaced breakfast.
Marbury stood at the open door, waiting. There was a chance, the demands would be such that he could grant. All the cash and silver, in the house, he would gladly give them, if they would take it and go.
The leaders of the pirates still held council together. They could rate the possible strength of a ship, whether it was a likely prey, and what, if any, was its armament, and the number of its crew, but here was a new proposition: A house, with every window closed, and a man in the open doorway—a rifle in his hand.
"What do you make of it, Captain," said his second in command, a tall, red-bearded, heavy featured man, in a red silk shirt and breeches, and tall jackboots. He wore no head dress, other than his flaming hair. "It may be easy, and then again it may not."
"Ah! damn! You're a white-livered rogue!" exclaimed the one on the Captain's left, a very stout fellow, with a patch over one eye, and a bright red scar from chin to temple. "You're always for being careful—no wonder you've got the name of Coward—you——"
"Shut up!"—said the other—"We won't quarrel before strangers, but I tell you that you're a dirty dog, One Eye.—Put back your sword, or I'll break every bone in your damn body!"
"Gentlemen! Gentlemen! I beg of you restrain yourselves!" said the Captain. "Remember, there is work before us. Afterward, we shall be glad to see you fight it out—though I question, not at all, that One Eye will lose as usual."
He drew out his snuff-box and, with all the air of a Court dandy, took a pinch of its contents, dusted the traces from his shoulder, with a fine white handkerchief, and replaced the box. He was a small man, his dress was black velvet, and there was nothing about him to distinguish him from a peaceful gentleman, save that his rapier was of somewhat unusual length, and hung a little forward, and ready to his hand.
"I am a bit perturbed, over what course to pursue," he continued. "We can board a ship, easy enough, but it is not quite the same with a house. The general aspect of the surrounding premises suggests that there is a goodly company concealed within, and, we can assume, prepared to defend to the uttermost." He paused, took a fresh pinch of snuff, the handkerchief was flourished again, and the box replaced. "I like to know something of the milk that is in the cocoanut before I crack it, but, I reckon, I shall have to take this one wholly on faith. I thought to surprise them, but that fellow on horseback upset my plans—for which he shall be turned over to your tender mercies, One Eye, if we take him alive."
"I'd sooner have my pick of the women, if there be any," was the surly answer.
"If any woman wants you, she may take you," said the Captain, gently. "Otherwise, you know the rules."
Whereat, the Coward laughed mockingly and twirled his moustache, while One Eye cursed him under his breath.
"Well, are we going to rest here all day?" he exclaimed. "If we are not to attack, let us back to the brig. We would be in nice case if some one captured her, while we're nosing around ashore—this is a crazy expedition, anyway, so far from the ship."
"The only thing you are fit for," said the Captain, "is to stir up trouble. We've never overhauled a prize, but it ought to have had more treasure or more girls aboard. It is an awful affliction, One Eye, to have it so in the blood. But there is some truth in what you say—we are a half mile from the brig and it is dangerous. Suppose you bear our terms to the man at the door, yonder."
"Not I, Captain! I'm ready to take my chances with the rest, but excuse me from walking up, alone, to be shot."
The other surveyed him with an amiable smile. "Afraid, are you——"
"No, I'm not afraid," said One Eye, laying hand on his sword. "But I——"
"Then you will go?"
"No—I won't go."
"And you?" to the Coward.
"Sure, Captain, I'll go.—What are the terms?" was the prompt response. "I'm not afraid."
"Tut! tut!" said the Captain, stepping between them. "What did I tell you about squabbling. I only wanted to try the temper of you both. I will go myself. Await me here," and he walked briskly toward the house.
Marbury saw him coming, and went down to meet him.
"Monsieur!" greeted the pirate, and bowed, his hat across his heart.
Marbury's only response was a curt inclination of the head.
"We have called, this morning, monsieur," the pirate remarked, "to collect his Majesty's taxes, if it will occasion you no particular inconvenience."
"By 'his Majesty,' I presume you mean the Devil," said Marbury.
"Precisely, monsieur. Your mind is very quick—it is a great pleasure to deal with one so exceedingly discerning."
Marbury gave a shrug of deprecation.
"What is the amount of the taxes?" he asked.
"It rests with you, monsieur—how much can you pay for his Majesty's favor?"
"How am I to know that it will buy his favor?" said Marbury.
"You will have to take my word for it, monsieur."
Marbury smiled. "The word of a pirate?"
"Is doubtful security, you mean? I grant it, monsieur, but it is the best I can give you—you may take it or not, as you see fit. However, let me point out, that, by taking it, you stand to lose certain possessions but save your lives and the house; by not taking it, you will lose your lives and property as well. Voilà!"
"Not exactly," said Marbury. "I may be willing to pay a reasonable amount to avoid a nasty fight, but, that is all. If we fight, we are reasonably sure of saving our lives and the cash, and of sending a goodly number of your pirate crew to hell—yourself among them."
"There may be some casualties," was the answer, "but they will not be confined to one side, monsieur."
"Possibly not, sir, but we fight under cover of the house, you in the open. You have doubtless observed that there are holes in the shutters—air holes, they are, but quite as serviceable for guns. But, what you do not know is, that behind every window, both front and rear, stands a man, with rifles and ammunition—and a slave to serve him—you can judge, better than I, what will be the result to an attacking party."
"You have a large household, monsieur!" said the Captain, laughing incredulously.
"At present, yes, to my good fortune. A party of gentlemen, engaged in hunting the fox, arrived late last evening and remained the night. With us, sir, you must know, a fox chase may last a week, the horsemen putting up wherever night overtakes them."—("That keeps the women out, thank God!" he thought.)
The Captain played with his rapier hilt, and considered. What bothered him was the celerity with which the shutters had been closed—he had seen them swing shut almost simultaneously, as they approached. If this man spoke truthfully, then there was grave doubt of success—and, even if successful, a sorry depletion of his men, before he attained it. He had slipped into the Chesapeake to raid among the plantations close to the water, with the chance of picking up a fat merchantman or two, going to convoy off the Capes. This was the first attempt—brought about by information, from one of the men who knew something of the country, that Hedgely Hall was particularly good picking. He had not anticipated more than a momentary resistance—now, he was not so sure; it might take hours, and, in the meantime, his ship was lying in the river, with but two hands aboard. And a pirate without a ship is not long a pirate!
"Monsieur, it is this way," said he. "I must weigh anchor and away—we have spent overlong here, as it is. I will trust you——"
Marbury bowed in affected gratitude.
"If you will trust me," the Captain went on, and bowed back at him. "How much specie have you in the house?"
"Twelve hundred pounds," Marbury answered promptly.
"It is not enough—I must have two thousand."
"You ask what is physically impossible—I have no more."
"You have your ancestral silver, and the women's jewels."
"The ladies are in Annapolis," said Marbury, readily, "and I possess no ancestral silver; I am a new man in Maryland. What little of my own there is shall be included."
The pirate regarded him in stern silence for a moment—then he suddenly swung forward his sword hilt.
"Will you swear, on the Cross, to the truth of what you have said?" he inquired.
"Certainly, sir, I will swear, if you wish it," said Marbury, raising his hand. "But I warn you, that the Cross is no more sacred to me than, I fancy, it is to you."
The sword sank back into its place, and the pirate chief laughed softly.
"And I would have known you lied, had you sworn," he said. "So be it. Pay over the twelve hundred pounds and the silver, and I, on my part, promise to depart straightway, and to leave you in peace, hereafter."
"You, and all your crew?" questioned Marbury.
"Oh, certainly—I and all my crew."
"But what assurance have I, that, when the money is paid over to you, you will withdraw?" said Marbury cautiously.
"My friend, as I have already said, you will have to trust my faith. If I capture the house, I should take the gold, anyway, so you lose nothing, in the end, and may gain much. Come, monsieur, to business, either of gold or blood—which shall it be? Long-Sword makes few compacts—those compacts he keeps."
"Long-Sword!" exclaimed Marbury, in amazement.
"The same, monsieur, perchance you have heard of me."
"Who has not heard of you——"
"As a bloody and cruel scoundrel," Long-Sword completed. "Such is not always true, as you now can evidence. But, we dally, monsieur—are we to have the gold or are we not?"
"Yes," said Marbury; "I will have it brought here with the silver, at once."
Within the house, while the negotiations were in progress, there had been the trembling fear of the women, and the grave concern of the men. Marbury had told no one what he proposed to do, but, as the one controlling consideration was for the women, none cared so long as they were saved.
"This pirate appears to be a well-mannered rogue," Constable remarked, peering through the hole in his shutter, "with all the airs of a gentleman, even to taking snuff in the most approved fashion. I cannot, however, say as much for his two followers—they are the scum of the docks."
"You put it mildly," said Parkington; "I should have said the scum of hell, even at long distance."
"I accept your modification, and may we never see them any closer."
"Amen, with all my heart!"
There was silence for a while, then Constable spoke again.
"They seem to be having a most amiable conversation," he observed. "Marbury will be bringing him in to breakfast, presently!... Look at the pirate, Parkington, he acts like a gentleman, he dresses like a gentleman, damn it! He must have been a gentleman, once!"
No answer from Sir Edward.
"Such a bowing, back and forth.—Lord! you would think they were dancing the minuet!"
No answer.
"And such a sword! It sticks out a foot farther behind his coat than is the fashion."
No answer.
"I say, Parkington, are you deaf or asleep?"
"I beg your pardon—what did you say—am I deaf or asleep? Neither, I trust."
"I have made three separate remarks to you, hence my inquiry."
"Repeat," said Parkington, over his shoulder, his eyes on the scene outside; "I am all attention."
"The last was as to the extraordinary length of the pirate's sword."
"Yes—I think this must be he," replied Parkington.
"What?" said Constable. "Must be he—what the devil do you mean?"
"I heard tales, in London, recently, of a famous buccaneer of these seas named Long-Sword," explained Parkington. "I think——"
"Great God! it is he, or I'm a sailor!" exclaimed Constable. "Do not let the women know."
Sir Edward smiled. "No! no!—As to that, however, a pirate is a pirate, the world over—there is little to choose between them."
"But Long-Sword has nothing in his favor—he is the cruelest, most rapacious pirate afloat."
"Or ashore," Parkington amended. "Ah! the council has ended—the pirate waits. Marbury has been successful."
When Marbury entered, the women crowded around him, but the men remained at their post, taking no chances.
"There will be no fight.—Silence! would you spoil everything?" he demanded. "They must not know there are women here." Instantly the glad cries were hushed. "My womenfolk are in Annapolis," he went on. "The pirate chief has consented to retire. Judith, will you gather together all our silver—not the Hedgely silver, just our own—and tie it up in a sheet, or two sheets, if necessary."
"Surely, Mr. Marbury, this is not the entire ransom?" said Mrs. Plater.
"A little matter of a few gold pieces—no, not a pistole from my guests, madame—I have the necessary cash."
"We will reimburse you——"
He shook his head.
"Why should you pay for us?" she demanded, as Marbury detached himself from the group and made for the stairs.
"Because it is my pleasure," he said, and hurried away to his room.
When he returned, with two bags in which were the twelve hundred sovereigns, the silver was in a pile on the floor of the dining-room. Platters and candelabra, spoons and trays had been thrown into an indiscriminate heap, and bound up in a great table-cloth.
"Sam—here!" he said to a negro servant, and pointed to the silver. "Carry it behind me."
Sam's teeth were chattering, and his face took on the peculiar shade which goes with the negro's fear, but discipline prevailed, and he took up the bundle and followed his master, though quaking in every muscle.
Long-Sword was pacing slowly back and forth, his hands behind his back, his head upon his breast. As Marbury approached, he looked up and smiled pleasantly.
"It is a queer trade, monsieur, this of a pirate," he said. "Always over a volcano—never knowing peace and quiet—every man's hand against you, and yours against every man. You may not believe me, but I like it not."