"Many things," he answered—"sort of a desultory gossip without point."
"And among the 'things' were the Marburys. Mr. Constable was talking. He said: 'Old Marbury, for instance. He is new. How do we know his name is Marbury? He says it is, but we do not know.' I did not hear more—I could not help that I heard so much. I was passing behind the hedge, and his words came to me, before I could realize they were not for my ears."
"My dear Miss Marbury, he was only citing an instance to prove a general proposition!" Parkington exclaimed. "We were not discussing any one. Had you heard the last of his remarks, you would have understood. They were, 'we take almost every one on faith.' I am sure——"
"I am not sensitive," she interrupted. "I know we are new people—that my father is the founder of his family—that we have to stand, George and I, on our own merits, and father's money. I have great faith in the latter, Sir Edward!" she laughed. "It will get me a husband from among the aristocrats of the Province, if I wish it."
"It will do more—it and your sweetness will get you a husband from the gentlemen of England," he said, with a meaning look and a low bow.
"If I went to London, and hawked myself around for sale, maybe," she answered, deliberately misunderstanding him.
"Why go so far, my lady?" he asked.
This time, there was no misunderstanding possible, but she still continued to treat it as impersonal.
"No," she said, with a shake of her head, "that would be unnecessarily difficult for the man—he would have to prove too much; and the further removed the proofs are from America, the more they are required."
"But if the man thought nothing of the difficulty?" he asked.
"I should be severe!" she laughed. "I should want to be assured, first, of his good faith."
He bowed.
"And of his family's willingness, if I were to go to England."
"Suppose you did not have to go to England—suppose that he remained here?"
"It is not supposable," she answered.
"But if it were?" he insisted.
"Then, it would be eliminated."
"And what else would he have to prove?"
"He would have to prove," she answered, slowly, "that he has a right to the name he bears."
Though she was watching him closely, he gave not the slightest indication of surprise.
"Would that not be most unusual," he said—"to require a man to prove that he is not an impostor? Is not the presumption with him instead of against him—unless, of course, something has aroused your suspicions?"
"Yes!" was the vague reply, that told him nothing, and let him think anything. "And, then, after he had done all these things, Sir Edward, he would have to make me love him."
"My dear Miss Marbury," said Parkington, with an amused smile, "when you admit the love element all else departs."
"I should not love him until he had complied with the conditions."
"You would coerce love?" he asked.
"I should try," she answered, after a little pause.
His hand found hers, as though by accident, and she let it linger for an instant, before she took her own away. Then, she said:
"Sometimes, Sir Edward, I fancy you are inclined to play at making love to me just to keep your hand in!" and, with a merry laugh, fled.
In the first week of August, Sir Edward Parkington came to Annapolis to stay with Governor Sharpe, preparatory to going with him to Whitehall.
He promptly returned the two hundred pounds, his Excellency had lent him earlier in the season; the card tables had yielded very good pickings from his fellow guests, and no need for any exercise of his particular skill, either, his natural ability, and Dame Fortune, having been ample for success.
The Governor and the Lower House had reached an agreement as to the Supply Bill, at last, and the Assembly was scheduled to be prorogued on the morrow. The town was filled with those who usually attend the last hours of any legislative body:—the officers of the Provincial Government, the Councillors, the Representatives, the hangers on, the spoilsmen and the riff-raff. Otherwise, Annapolis was deserted.
The heated spell was at its height, and the gentility had, long since, sought the cool and quiet of their country estates, along the Eastern and Western Shores. The Governor's house was open, with its usual retinue of servants, but it was alone in its grandeur. The rest showed only a single light at night, and a solitary servant, left to care for the man of the family who was in presence. They, too, would vanish on the morrow, and Annapolis would, so far as the sacred precincts of the quality were concerned, become a dead city, until Autumn touched it again to life.
It was something after ten o'clock, when Sir Edward Parkington, being bored with himself, left the Governor's mansion, and sauntered through the deserted precincts of the town to the Coffee-house, on Church Street.
He could count on finding some of the young bloods there, and some of the old bloods, as well—the legislature could not hold every one, on such a night. Before he came to State House Hill, he saw that the Assembly had risen, and, when he reached the Coffee-house, the noise, from within, told him that he should find plenty of companionship.
In the larger room, were gathered a coterie of the younger men, who greeted him with a shout of welcome.
"Come in, Parkington! come in, and join us!" shouted Mr. Cole. He thundered on the table. "Here, Sparrow, a glas'h for Sir Edward. We are drinking confush'on to those who think differently from us."
"I can drink that toast, and think as I please!" laughed Parkington.
"'Zactly! 'Zactly! that's just it—you have the idea—shink as you please—the point isn't to shink, it's to take a drink.—Sir Edward, your good health!"
Parkington drank, then put aside his glass, and sat down. Mr. Jennings, who was reading the Gazette, looked up.
"Here is a fellow who must have been as mellow as our friend Cole," he said. "Listen:
"'A hat was taken off a gentleman's head in the street before the Subscriber's House in Upper Marlborough, on Friday night, the 7th ultimo. Whoever will stop the said hat, if offered for sale, and discover the thief, so that he may be brought to justice, shall have a reward of two pistoles paid by
B. Brookes.'"
"Go 'long, Jennings!" said Dr. Upton Scott, (who having been the surgeon on Wolfe's staff, at the battle of Quebec, had come to Annapolis, married a daughter of John Ross, the Proprietor's Deputy, and built one of the most attractive houses in town—on the banks of the Spa, adjoining the residences of Carroll and Tasker). "You are trading on our credulity."
"I swear it is here—just as I read it."
"Well, even Cole has a long way to go, before he gets as drunk as Brookes' friend. But, cheer up, old man, you are getting there!" said the Doctor, clapping Cole on the shoulder, and spilling a pint of Madeira out of his hands.
"I'm getting there!" Cole agreed, looking up with a silly smile, "but I'll get there fas'her if you spilled les'h, Scott.
"Stop your infernal din!" said Lloyd Dulany, "or we will take you up stairs, and put you to bed."
Cole struggled to his feet, and stood swaying, uncertainly, for a moment.
"I'm ins'h'ulted!" he said, "ins'h'ulted!"
Jennings pushed him back in a chair.
"You're drunk, again, Cole," he said. "Just go to sleep and forget it."
"Is'h that advi'sh of a frien'?"
"Yes—very much a friend."
"That s'h'ettles it—a frien' always safe," and he sat down heavily, and almost, instantly, was asleep.
"Cole's only occupation in life seems to be to sober up so as to be able to get drunk again," said Jennings to Parkington; "and that is why we tolerate him."
"Every one of us has some fault," said Parkington. "I am——"
His voice trailed off and stopped. He was facing the doorway, and, in it, a man was standing.
He was a slender man, of medium height, with a wonderfully clean-cut face, and dark, expressive eyes. His coat and breeches were of dark-blue broad-cloth, his waistcoat of white linen, his stockings of black silk, and he carried a walking-stick. A second, he ran his eyes over the group; then, for the first time, he seemed to see Parkington. A look of incredulous amazement broke over his face.
"Parkington! by my soul, this is a surprise!" he exclaimed, coming forward with extended hand. "I thought you were rustling it with the smarts at White's."
"Brandon!" cried Sir Edward. "As I live, Brandon! Gentlemen, let me present you to Sir Charles Brandon, my very good friend and intimate."
Brandon acknowledged the introduction with sweeping grace.
"I am, indeed, fortunate to find Sir Edward Parkington, here," he said. "I had thought to meet only strangers; instead, I am already in the house of my friends. There is nothing like a familiar face to make one feel at home."
Parkington clapped him affectionately on the shoulder.
"You do not know Annapolis, Brandon!" he exclaimed. "They made me one of them from the first. I have been here two months, and I ought to be moving on, but, bless me! I have not thought of going."
"And we have not thought of letting you go," said Jennings. "We are going to keep you all summer, and all winter, too, if you will remain—and your friend, also," with a bow to Brandon.
"You see how it is, Brandon," said Parkington. "Stay a week, and you will stay the summer. Better depart before the allurements get too strong. I warn you; I lingered overlong."
"You make it very tempting," returned Brandon. "Almost thou persuadest me to try the hazard—and to lose."
An hour later, the party broke up and separated. Parkington and Brandon bade the rest farewell, and went slowly up Church Street to the Reynolds Tavern, where Brandon lodged.
"Now," said Parkington, "may be you will tell me what scheme of folly brings you here? Have you not run dangers enough?"
"I am surveying the province with the idea of settling down," was the mocking reply.
The other laughed, shortly. "I think you may be gratified—via the gallows. Why, man alive, suppose you run upon Jamison or Marbury, and they recognize you?"
"Pooh! Sir Charles Brandon, the friend of Sir Edward Parkington recognized as Long-Sword the Pirate? Impossible, monsieur! impossible!"
Parkington shrugged his shoulders. "Well, your head must bear the penalty of error, if you are detected—but it is foolishness to chance it."
"I have taken shorter chances and always won."
"I was never so amazed, in my life, as when you walked into the Coffee-house," said Parkington. "My face must have shown it."
"It did," laughed Brandon. "For a moment, I thought you were going to sing out, 'Long-Sword! Long-Sword!'"
"And I, 'what if he calls me De Lysle?'"
"Then I rendered you a most important service—one that should settle all doubt on the subject of your identity—if it arise. Not a man, around that table, will ever believe you anything else than Parkington. Your surprise, at seeing me, was too genuine to be assumed; and my addressing you as Parkington, too spontaneous to have been prearranged." He laughed softly. "We together will make a fine pair of knaves, De Lysle."
"We do—we can vouch for each other—and you, being the real Sir Charles Brandon, can vouch for me, even though I am denounced by one who knew the real Parkington.—But I do not exactly see how it is to help me if I want to change back to my own name. In fact, it looks to me, Brandon, as if it has complicated matters. However, another time for that. Tell me how you happen to be daring fate here, in Annapolis, instead of on the ocean, faring safely back to England?"
"There is not much to tell," Brandon answered. "I opened the irons, and got away, shortly after the ship was quiet—about four bells, I think. The guard outside saw me, just as I was within reach. I was forced to put his own knife in him, to keep him from yelling and disturbing the slumbers of the crew, and, incidentally my own escape. I had locked the irons, after they were off, and thrown the key down the companion way; it would look, to Jamison, as if he had lost it. After that, it was easy to drop overboard, and swim ashore.
"Once there, I made my way straight back into the country, and was twenty miles inland, when day broke. A stranger, with a broken collar-bone, is fairly well marked, so I avoided habitations and mankind. For three days, I lay concealed in the forest, subsisting on berries and wild fruits; then, I ventured on—and chanced upon a hut, deserted of man, but with a litter of wild pigs as tenants. I remained there for four weeks, living on the pigs, while my shoulder knit. When it was healed, sufficiently not to betray me, I proceeded northward, eventually reaching Frederick. There, I put up at Charlton's tavern and refitted—having abundant money, thanks to you, and the fact that they had not deprived me of my own when captured. That accomplished, I rode here, with my servant, whom I hired in Frederick, to take ship to England. I arrived late this afternoon, to find no ship sailing for ten days."
"Why did you come here, rather than go to Alexandria, or York?" said Parkington. "Was it not a useless risk?"
"My friend," said Brandon, "I have found, in some years of adventuring, that one experiences the least danger where one has reason to anticipate the most. Neither Marbury nor Jamison, I think, is in Annapolis—but, if they were, and ventured to denounce me as Long-Sword, what evidence have they to substantiate their claim? Their word, only. Against it, is your knowledge that I am Sir Charles Brandon, and my papers, which are regular."
"But if I had not been here?"
"I had but to demand that I be brought before you—I knew you were somewhere within distance. Oh, it was decidedly safest for me, here. Besides, I wanted to see Annapolis.—De Lysle, why not come back with me? The Marbury girl is not for you——"
"She is not?"
"No—and you are not for her. The son of the Earl of Doncaster does not mate with a Colonist. It may seem pleasant enough, now, in the warm weather, with the country life we all love then. But wait till London and its charms begin to call."
"You do not know all," was the answer. "I am a fugitive from justice—two felonies were overlooked; the third was the breaking straw, and the Earl disowned me," and he told the story.
"Bosh!" said Brandon, at the end. "You were angry—the Earl was angry, (and, properly, so) and the ship sailed before he cooled, or you had time to show repentance. Come home with me. It is the easiest way, all around. Stay here, and, sooner or later, the real Parkington will arise from his grave to plague you. You cannot explain—no explanation, with a dead man and a grave in it, will be accepted. The story will not down—and even though you do marry Miss Marbury, and she knows the truth, she will always doubt you. For my part, I fail to see how you are to shift names, and hope to stay in Maryland. To my mind, you must masquerade always, or move on. So, why not move on—to England? Your sire's anger will have had time to cool. You throw yourself on his mercy—promise to sin no more. And, behold! the returned prodigal and the fatted calf!"
"You paint a pretty picture!" was the laughing answer; "but you do not know the Earl of Doncaster. There is about as much chance for my forgiveness, as there is for you to become King."
"A trifle overstated," returned Brandon; "there is no chance, whatever, of Parliament altering the succession in my favor."
"And no chance, whatever, of the Earl altering the judgment he has passed."
"You are hard to convince," said Brandon. "Yet why not make the effort? The family may be done with you, as he said, but, unless you offend again, the prosecution is not likely. Moreover, you must not overlook the fact, that there are only two lives between you and the title."
"Two lives, when I left England—with another coming, and a sister-in-law who promises to be as prolific as a rabbit. Oh, no! I have no chance for the title—my brother and his wife will take good care of that."
"Well, come with me, anyway," Brandon urged. "Granting all that you say, it is better than living under another man's name—and your father is not immortal. Or, if I cannot persuade you to return, then go to some other Colony, under your own name, or, at least, under no other man's, and settle down."
De Lysle laughed. "I like the danger of it, just as you liked the danger that was Long-Sword's."
"But, having come to my senses, I am going to get away from Long-Sword, and become, once more, a reputable member of society."
"You can go back—you have never, to society's knowledge, broken with her. You simply disappeared. Society knows me, however, for a criminal."
"Society has a short memory—she has forgotten, long ago."
"Well, I have ten days to consider before your ship sails," said De Lysle.
"And will you consider—honestly consider?" asked Brandon.
"I will—or I will play you whether I go or whether I stay."
"Still the gambler!" commented Brandon. "Well, if it come to the pinch, we will play—but what is the good in playing—except on the voyage home?"
Whitehall, the country residence of Governor Sharpe, lay on the banks of the Chesapeake, about ten miles north of Annapolis.
It was originally part of the Colonel Greenberry estate, and was willed by him to St. Margaret's Church, Westminster Parish. Colonel Sharpe, when he decided to make his home permanently in America, purchased it, after considerable difficulty with the vestry, and proceeded to erect thereon, three years before, a most commodious and handsome mansion.
The large central house, of English brick, square and of two-and-a-half stories, stands on a slight—a very slight—eminence, from which a long esplanade of velvety lawn, set with flowers and shrubbery, led down to the blue waters of the Bay, a quarter of a mile distant.
It was but one room in depth, and three in width—the entrances from the Bay and the land sides, being into a large middle room, which served as both reception and living room—with the dining-room on the one side and the drawing-room on the other. They all had great, high ceilings, beautifully carved, with cornices, mantels and doorways to match, and panelled walls, set off by soft-toned hangings. And over the fire-place in the dining-room, hung a portrait of the Governor, himself, in the red dress-uniform of a Lieutenant-Colonel of the 20th Foot.
(It hangs there to-day—just as he left it when he returned to England, and gave Whitehall to John Ridout, his Secretary—showing a tall man, and a heavy, with a high forehead, and fine, well-bred face, of a florid complexion, and grave eyes that searched without repelling.
He was a good man, in a measure a great man, and, yet, he failed. Not signally, as most of our governors of Colonial days, but failed, none-the-less. It was no easy thing to handle the people of Maryland, at the period of the beginning of the breaking, yet he was popular as no other governor was popular, even, in America. He was Commander-in-chief of the Colonial forces, in the French War, and, for far less services, he should have received the well deserved reward of Knighthood, and a pension—the pension, at the very least, ought to have been forthcoming. Instead—nothing: not even his Sovereign's thanks. He did his full duty, and much more—but he failed. What was the reason? Possibly, somewhere, among the musty records of the Colonial office, there is an explanation—possibly, some cabinet minister was unfriendly—possibly, the young King was, even then, exhibiting his narrowness and his bigotry. Who can tell!)
The tall pillars, which now mark the entrance on the Bay-side, were not in the original construction—Governor Sharpe never saw them; and his race track and the servants' quarters, which he placed on the level ground to the rear, beyond the wide sweep of turf, have vanished. The dungeons remain, however, beneath the main house, and, in one of the wings of the mansion, the Colonel's quarters are practically unchanged.
It was a fine, old place, typical of Maryland and Annapolis, in the days of the Colony—of her lavishness and good cheer, her hospitality and her courtesy, her gallantry and her fame. Those days have ended—the Eastern and the Western Shores know no more the life that once was theirs. Their glory has departed—their sun has set. Whitehall, and all its fellows, are but the waifs of a dead past.
It was otherwise, however, on this August morning, in the year of Grace 1766. The Governor was in presence—and all that life, and action, and a master-hand could effect, were in evidence.
His excellency had been down to the race track, for an early morning inspection. The horses had been put through the paces, under his own eyes—and blame and praise were given indiscriminately. He had a rare gift for picking the faults and the perfections in their training, and he let censure fall where due—nor minced his words.
"I tell you, Maynadier, Hanover promises well, damned well, indeed!" he said. "He has the wind and the legs of the best of them, or I miss my guess. Sir Edward Parkington is no mean judge of horseflesh; he has seen the fleetest we have at home, and he says Hanover is the king of them all."
"I hope he is, Colonel," said Maynadier. "You know, I have nothing entered against him."
"And jolly well glad you may be, my boy!" exclaimed the Colonel. "You will have the delight of seeing me win, and the pleasure of not seeing yourself beaten. Speaking of Parkington, what is this I hear of his attentions to Miss Marbury, and having a notion to settle in Maryland. You are more intimate with the Marburys than any one else, is there any truth in it?"
"I do not know—on that score, Miss Marbury has not taken me into her confidence."
The Governor regarded him questioningly.
"Why do you not marry the girl yourself?" he demanded, abruptly. "Give Rose Hill a mistress—it needs one."
"I will not gainsay that it needs one," said Maynadier, with an amused smile.
"Neither will you gainsay that Judith Marbury would fill the place, admirably. There is style and breeding about that girl, Maynadier. I like her much, damned much! Why should she marry an Englishman? Sir Edward is all right, I suppose—but he has only his manners and Baltimore's letters to vouch for him. And not much credit in the letters, God knows!"
Maynadier was puzzled. Could it be the Governor was not aware that Parkington was not Parkington?—was he not in the secret?—was he being imposed on, also?
"Sometimes, I have thought," he ventured, "that Parkington is not quite what he seemed—that he is playing a part."
"Playing a part!" Colonel Sharpe ejaculated. "I do not understand."
Maynadier looked at him, a moment, in silence.
"You do not understand?" he asked, slowly. "Do you honestly mean it?"
"Mean it! Of course I mean it. What do you mean?"
"Have I permission to speak plainly?"
"You have," said the Governor—"right from the shoulder. What is it?"
"Is it possible, sir, you do not know that Sir Edward Parkington is an assumed name—that this man is not Parkington?"
The Colonel stared at him, incredulously.
"Not Parkington?" he marveled. "Not Parkington?"
Maynadier bowed. "To my certain knowledge, not Parkington."
"But his letters—they were authentic—they were in Baltimore's own hand!"
"I do not dispute them," said Maynadier, "but I have met Sir Edward Parkington, in London——"
"And this is not he?"
"This is not he.—The true Parkington is quite the reverse of this man. He is short, stout, ruddy, and bald."
"You know this as a fact—of your own knowledge?" demanded the Colonel.
"I do. I saw Sir Edward Parkington a number of times. I talked with him at least twice, at White's. Moreover, he was an intimate of Baltimore. I cannot be mistaken—unless, of course, there be two of the name, which is unlikely."
"Decidedly unlikely," the Governor agreed. He took a turn back and forth on the grass. "When did you know this?" he asked, suddenly.
"From the moment I saw him."
"And why did you not disclose it—why did you keep silent?"
"It was at the races, the day after he arrived. I saw you bring him up and present him to Miss Stirling; a little later, when I met him, and was given his name as Parkington, I assumed there was some reason for it—when I heard of his letters, I was sure of it. It was no affair of mine, I thought, to meddle in affairs of State. You had vouched for him—that was sufficient."
The Colonel nodded. He dug his stick into the turf and considered.
"It is a bit awkward," he said. "He has been accepted, by the Province, on the strength of my vouchment—and I introduced him on the strength of his letters—and the letters are authentic——"
"Hence he is authentic!" laughed Maynadier.
"I am justified in so assuming," the Colonel continued. "On the other hand, I can have him thrown out as an impostor, and proclaim him as such—but, what is the profit? The man is plainly of the class he masquerades; he has borne himself, naturally, as one of them; he has committed no improprieties.—I am at a loss what to do—whether to demand an explanation, or to let things rest, for the present.... If I thought he would soon depart, I should be tempted to do nothing. And, yet, where did he get those letters?—Did the real Parkington give them to him for a purpose? did he steal them? or is not Parkington in it, at all—is it some of Baltimore's doings?" He threw up his hands, in doubt.
"There is the gentleman, now," said Maynadier, who was standing facing the house. "He is coming this way."
The Governor turned, and watched him approach.
"Hum! damned fine looking!" he muttered. "He could give the real Parkington all the weight, and then beat him in a canter. Confound it, Maynadier, I like the fellow!"
"So do I," said Maynadier. "You cannot help liking him. He has the qualities that appeal to a man—there are a certain dash, and verve, and lightheartedness about him that are very taking."
"The compliments of the morning to your Excellency—and to you, Mr. Maynadier," said Parkington, with a graceful bow—"and, if I may, to the horses, as well."
"A man is known by the company he keeps, as Governor Ogle said, when he built the stable in his front yard, on King George Street!" laughed Colonel Sharpe.
"He was a true sportsman," said Maynadier. "His horses and his dogs next after his family. It was the sure sign of his British blood."
"Colonel Sharpe," said Parkington, presently, "I want to ask a favor?"
"It is granted, before it is asked."
"Which is a trifle rash, sir; I may ask for a hundred guineas."
"They will be forthcoming, if you do."
"I will not impose on good nature," smiled Parkington. "But what I do want, is your permission to go to Annapolis, and bring back a friend, Sir Charles Brandon, who came two days ago. He would have paid his respects sooner, to your Excellency, but the Assembly took all your time."
"Go, by all means!" said the Governor; "but you should have informed me of his intended coming, so I could have had him down."
"I did not know he was closer than London," Parkington protested, "until he walked into the Coffee-house, the other night, and found me—and he was as surprised as I."
"Bring him down!" said the Colonel, heartily.—"Take the pinnace and bring him down.—How long does he expect to stay in Annapolis?"
"Until the next ship sails for England."
"Good—it will be a pleasure to have him."
"I did not mean to ask for an invitation for——"
"Tut! tut! we shall be delighted. A visiting Englishman is a boon—like yourself."
Parkington turned back to the house. Colonel Sharpe watched him, until he disappeared through the doorway, then, he swung around toward Maynadier.
"Either the plot grows thicker, or else it is cleared altogether. Either there are two Sir Edward Parkingtons or else Brandon is an abettor of the impostor. Well, we will wait and see."
As they went slowly in, Constable overtook them. He had been down at the far end of the track, putting a green hunter over the jumps.
"Constable!" said Colonel Sharpe, "have you ever met Sir Charles Brandon, Parkington's friend?"
"Yes—I was at the Coffee-house with Parkington, the other night, when Brandon walked in. They were too astonished, for a moment, to speak. Then it was: 'Parkington, on my soul!' 'Brandon, by all that's holy!' It was a very pretty meeting—such genuine friendship."
"Hum!" with a look at Maynadier. "Well, we are going to have him here. Parkington has gone up in the pinnace for him."
"Brandon is a particular friend of Sir Edward?" asked Maynadier.
"If you had seen the meeting, you would have thought so!" laughed Constable. "Not effusive, mind you—just genuine, pleased surprise. The sort I should have, if I were to meet Paca, unexpectedly, in London."
"It will be safe to put them, then, in the same room?" the Colonel observed.
"I should judge so—though Herford and I will move out, if you want to give him a separate room."
"By no means! By no means!" said the Colonel, heartily.—"Well, what do you make of it?" when Constable had gone on. "He addressed him as Parkington, and the meeting seems to be a mutual surprise. Pretty fair evidence, besides his own, that he is the genuine Sir Edward, is it not?"
"Yes, it is!" said Maynadier, slowly; "but not conclusive. I should like to know, whether they had met before, and arranged this Coffee-house affair."
The Governor thought a moment. "It is possible—it depends on when Brandon arrived in Annapolis, and whether Parkington had an opportunity to see him. I will dispatch a man, at once, to investigate."
Later in the day, he summoned Maynadier to his rooms. His coat and waistcoat were off, and he was enjoying, at his ease, his long-stemmed pipe. He motioned Maynadier to one, also, and waited until he had filled and lighted it.
"I have investigated," he said, "and there was no collusion, no pre-arrangement of the meeting. Brandon arrived in Annapolis, at Reynolds' Tavern, about seven o'clock that evening, from Frederick, he had supper, and then retired to his room, where he remained until near eleven. He then went out, walking in the direction of Church Street—when he returned, an hour or so later, Parkington accompanied him."
"And Parkington?" said Maynadier.
"I left him, after supper, at my house, to go to the State House.—Old Moses, my butler, says he remained in the drawing-room, reading, until a little after ten, when he left, to go to the Coffee-house. And Sparrow says, he reached there about half-after-ten."
"He was not to Reynolds' Tavern in the meantime?" Maynadier asked.
"No—in that point Reynolds is very positive. He says that Brandon had no visitors in the evening."
"Then, there must be two Sir Edward Parkingtons, and both friends of Baltimore," said Maynadier. "It is entirely possible, of course, but most unlikely."
"You still hold to it that we are entertaining an impostor?" asked the Governor.
"No—not exactly—I am ready to be convinced either way. In the interim, I should let the letters decide. He presented them and they are genuine; they, and his conduct, will have justified your recognition."
"His conduct has been quite exemplary—I have not heard anything but the best reports of him. He does not, even at times, drink to excess; he does not gossip; and he pays his debts without being dunned, which is much to his credit. He borrowed two hundred pounds from me, after his arrival—having lost everything in the shipwreck, you remember—and repaid it, the other day, immediately upon his return to Annapolis. And he apologized for keeping it so long. Damned decent, I call it!"
Richard Maynadier pulled on his pipe, and gazed through the windows, across the esplanade to the dock, where a ship had just let go her anchor.
"Yes!" he said, "yes! decidedly decent.—It is a pity some of our young men do not emulate him." His eyes came back to the Governor's. "Do you happen to have any of the money handy, sir?"
"You mean, the money he paid me?—I will lend it to you gladly, Maynadier."
"I do not want to borrow, thank you, Colonel," was the smiling answer. "I want simply to see it—the coins, I mean."
The Governor turned to his writing desk, unlocked a drawer, and, taking out a bag, passed it over.
"It is just as he gave it to me," he said; "indeed, I did not even count it, I took it on faith.—You do not think he tricked me, Maynadier?"
"Oh, no—not you. I want to see——"
He emptied the gold into a shining heap, on the table before him, and spread it out with his hands. There were guineas, pistoles, and Spanish doubloons, in all, making up the two hundred pounds.
"I want to see if there are any pieces which might be remembered—any—with—Ah!"—he picked out a doubloon, with a star and a crescent cut deep upon its face. "I wonder if Marbury can by any chance recall—I beg your pardon, Colonel! Marbury had some gold stolen during the house-party, at Hedgely Hall. He kept no list, but he might recognize this one, it is sufficiently distinctive, surely."
The Governor blew a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling and watched it slowly vanish.
"You think that Parkington may be guilty?" he said—"that we may catch a thief, as well as an impostor? Very good! you have added a motive for his imposition. If you can prove it, we will give the sheriff a job with the halter. Where is Marbury?"
"He was in Annapolis, yesterday—he came that far with the young people. I will go up and see him."
"No—I will send for him.—I suppose there was card playing at Hedgely Hall?"
"Every night, while I was there, and I take it every night."
"Then, even if Marbury recognizes the coin, it will prove little, for Parkington can say he won it at cards."
"True," said Maynadier; "but the coin, being in his possession, raises a presumption against him, which he will have to lift by more than merely saying, 'it was won at cards.' The trouble, however, is, that Marbury may refuse to help—he is averse to stirring up trouble which may result in nothing. In fact, he told no one but me of the theft.—I think it would be better if I went to Annapolis—and I will go at once."
An hour later, his barge ran into the landing at the foot of Marbury's garden, and he went straight up to the house, which stood on Duke of Gloucester Street.
Marbury, himself, came down the steps to welcome him.
"Why, Maynadier!" he exclaimed, "this is a pleasant surprise—I thought you were at his Excellency's."
"I am just from Whitehall," said Maynadier. He glanced around. "Can we be overheard?"
Marbury shook his head, "I am alone, except for one servant, and he is gone off until supper."
Maynadier put his hand in his pocket, and drew out the doubloon.
"Do you recognize this gold piece?" he asked, without preliminary.
Marbury took it—looked at it, carefully, an instant—then answered.
"I do—it is the one piece I recall seeing, when I counted the pirate's gold. It did not occur to me before—but, now, I remember it. It was the last piece in one of the bags.—Yes, I recollect the star and crescent, perfectly. Where did you get it?"
"From his Excellency, Governor Sharpe," said Maynadier.
"And from whom did he get it?"
"From Sir Edward Parkington."
"He is sure?"
"Perfectly—it was a repayment of two hundred pounds he had borrowed, and was still in the bag, uncounted. This was the one coin, of them all, which I thought you might have noted."
"And you assume that Parkington is the thief?" asked Marbury.
"At least, it acquits your servants."
"I never thought them guilty."
"And it calls for an explanation from Sir Edward," Maynadier said.
Marbury considered—frowning down at his heavy shoes, the while.
"I am not disposed to go further into it," he said, at length. "I regret that I did not tell you so more promptly.—I have put you to needless trouble.—I am very sorry—I apologize.—This was a most peculiar thief, Maynadier, a most peculiar thief! He returned the money, the evening before the house-party broke—it was on my desk when I went up to bed."
"And nothing with it, of course?"
"Yes; a slip of paper, cut from some book, was pinned to the bag, with these words printed on it:—'For this relief much thanks.' I shall drop the matter, Maynadier."
"You do not care even to identify the coin?"
"No—the money has been returned, it may not have been taken feloniously. I shall prefer to believe that it was borrowed, in view of the prompt restoration. Moreover, I am leaving for the Hall on the morrow; I will not bother. Let it rest, Maynadier! let it rest! You have some idea of morals, or society, on your mind; I have not. That it was some of the guests, there can be no dispute—but, which one, I care not to find out. Parkington, you think?—but there was much money changed hands around the card table, and he, I believe, was largely winner. So, possession of the doubloon is not conclusive. At the worst, it calls, only, for an explanation—and I see no profit even in an explanation; he will be leaving us, presently, for England, never to return. Oh! let it rest, Maynadier! let it rest!"
"My dear Marbury," said Maynadier, "I am here for two reasons:—first, because you asked me to inform you if I found any clue——"
"I know, sir—I apologize for my neglect to tell you of the restitution."
"And, second, because there has arisen another question—a serious question—with respect to Sir Edward Parkington. It will be handled by the Governor, himself, if handled at all; and I wanted to know, whether he may use your identification of this stolen coin, if it be deemed essential?"
"If it be deemed essential, I have no objection," said Marbury, after a little consideration—"but do not use it unless it is," he added. "I would not risk doing Parkington an injustice, he was unusually courteous to me, and considerate, also."
"And you appreciate courtesy and consideration," thought Maynadier, "because you have had so little shown you in life. The public would never believe it!" What he said, was: "I understand. It will be used only as a last resort. Indeed, Colonel Sharpe may deem it inexpedient to meddle with the matter, at all." He arose to go.
"Why not remain for supper," asked Marbury.
"Not to-night," said Maynadier. "I must back to Whitehall."
They went down the stairs together; at the foot, Maynadier suddenly halted.
"Marbury," he said, "have I your permission to marry Judith, if she be willing?"
"You have," Marbury answered, a gratified smile flashing, for an instant, across his impassive face—"and she is a queer girl, if she does not take you." Then he laughed. "But, for the Lord's sake! man, be a little less sudden when you ask her. You well nigh took my breath."
Sir Edward Parkington and Sir Charles Brandon arrived at Whitehall just before supper, and were greeted by the Governor and his guests on the esplanade.
Brandon was dignified yet affable, he was properly appreciative of his Excellency's courtesy, a bit diffident about imposing upon his hospitality, and thoroughly considerate in everything; in short, the well-bred gentleman—natural, free from affectations, and, apparently, sincere.
So he impressed Colonel Sharpe; so he impressed every one. He would be an addition to the company, they all agreed, when he and Parkington had gone to their room to dress.
The Nelson was arrived that morning from England, and the Governor's mail had been sent down by the pinnace. In the bag, were several communications for Miss Stirling, which he passed over with a jocular remark. Excusing herself, she retired to a quiet corner of the library to read them. While thus engaged, Captain Herford entered, and tried to engage her in talk; but she sent him away, rather petulantly, and then, hiding herself in a window embrasure, went on with her reading.
Two of the letters were of casual interest—the doings of the writers on their country estates—and were not remarkable either for correct spelling or polished diction. The third and last, however, was of better stuff.
It was from Lady Catherwood, written from London,—before she had received Miss Stirling's letter to her, of course—and had in it much gossip, a little scandal, and, then, just before the close, was this:—
"There is an interesting Piece of Gossip, which I all but forgot to tell you. It seems, Lord Baltimore has tired of certain Gentlemen, who are his particular Toad-eaters, and has taken Means to get rid of them.
"One has gone to Maryland, with letters of Introduction to the Governor, your Uncle, trusting to make his way with the Gentlemen of the Colony, and, incidentally, to make as much Money off them as they will permit—which, I Dare say, will not be Excessive, for a more Unattractive little Rogue it would be hard to find outside a jail. He is small, and fat, and bald, and is scarcely ever Sober, when he has some one to pay for the Liquor; and, naturally, he is a Vile little Beast in other ways—Comprenez vous? A thoroughly disreputable fellow, Catherwood says, and one whom Baltimore ought to be Ashamed to send his Colony; but Baltimore is not Ashamed of anything, save leading a decent life.
"I give you this, for your own Information—not because I think there is any likelihood of your falling a Victim to Sir Edward's wiles—but to warn you, and also Colonel Sharpe, if you think well to meddle in his business. The name of this wretch is Sir Edward Parkington——"
Martha Stirling read the last line thrice, to make sure she saw aright.
"Sir Edward Parkington!" she reflected—"is small, and fat, and bald, and scarcely ever sober! and a vile little beast in other ways—Comprenez vous? Yes, my dear, I comprehend. And what is more, I comprehend that he is not our Sir Edward. Between the leaving London and the arrival at Annapolis, there was a change of men.—But the letters of introduction are the same—how did they happen to change hands?"
She sat a while, thinking deeply. Should she tell the Governor? Should she preserve the secret, tell no one? Should she demand the truth of Parkington himself, and let his story determine her future action? She heard him and Brandon descend the stairs, and go out on the esplanade. Brandon! he knew the secret—he knew that Parkington was an impostor—he knew all. She had heard Constable's story of the meeting at the Coffee-house—the surprise shown. Bah! it was prearranged, determined upon beforehand; a play, acted for the express benefit of the onlookers.—Should she block it, now, walk out and, before the whole company, read Lady Catherwood's letter? It would be effective—far more so than his play at the Coffee-house. In fact, it would be conclusive.—Yet, he had always been very gallant to her, very devoted, very sympathetic. (She looked out through the window.) Yes, and he was a gentleman, too. No man had such manners, such grace, such ease of bearing, otherwise.
The longer she looked, the more her heart misgave her. She could not do it. She would wait until after supper, take him for a walk, down to the water, and get him to confess the masquerade and the reason for it. She refused to think that there was any wrong intended. He was better than the real Sir Edward, a thousand times better. And she liked him—liked him more than any man she had ever met, save only Richard Maynadier; and Richard Maynadier (she had known it since the night he kissed her, at Hedgely Hall) was not for her. There was no love in his lips, though there had been plenty of ardor.
A little twinge of bitterness took possession of her. Why was she born poor?—why could she not have had rank and riches instead of beauty?
Presently, she saw the butler go out and announce supper; she arose and joined the party as they came trooping in.
She had Parkington and Brandon on either hand, and she watched them, covertly, all through the meal, trying to pick some flaw in their bearing, something that would not be quite right in their behaviour. But she failed—as she had felt sure she would. They had only to be natural, to be themselves, to ring true. Parkington he was not, and Brandon might be false, also, but, assuredly, they came of the stock they professed—and, may be, of better.
"I have got something to say to you, when you join us," she whispered to Sir Edward, as the ladies arose to retire. "Don't be overlong."
"I will come at once," he said, as he drew back her chair.
"No—in a half hour. I will be down in the rose-walk, you may join me there."
"On the instant!" he exclaimed—and watched her as she went slowly down the table, flinging a bantering word, here and there, the men bowing, and smiling, and flinging it back again.
"Yes, you may well look at her," said Brandon. "She has the beauty and grace of the best of them at Court. She is the Governor's niece, I take it?"
Parkington nodded. "But she is poor—and, I think, has a little too much morals to get on at Court."
"She will not let her face and figure purchase her place, you mean? I see.—You have decided to go home?" he asked suddenly.
"I am strongly tempted, Brandon, strongly tempted."
"And do you want to be sure of the old Earl's forgiveness?"
"I should not refuse it," said Parkington, smiling.
"Then, marry Miss Stirling—she can wheedle him, I warrant; and, besides, he will be forced to admit that you have given some evidence of reform by doing it."
"And Miss Stirling, shall I carry her off by force and marry her, or simply drug her!" laughed Parkington.
"Neither—tell her the truth. I will be much surprised, if she does not jump at the chance to get the son of the Earl of Doncaster, even though he is not the heir. Moreover, man, she is fond of you; one did not need to do more than see her at table, this evening, to appreciate it."
"You are fertile of schemes," was the answer.
"I am—and they are usually good schemes; it is an indispensable requisite of the pirate business."
Parkington drew over the port, and replenished his glass.
"But it risks everything on the Earl," he objected. "If he refuse to be lenient—if he prosecutes?"
"He will not."
"I must think over it—and, then, marriage is a serious question, my friend, a serious question!"
"Is it any more serious to marry Miss Stirling, than it is to marry Miss Marbury?" asked Brandon.
"Well, in the one case, my mind was made up."
"How about the lady's mind?"
"I admit I do not know."
"Was it she in blue and pink, at the other end of the table?"
"The same—she sat next to Constable."
Brandon laughed lightly, "I am a stranger, here," he said, "but there is only one, in this company, who has any attraction for her:—the tall, grave, exceedingly good-looking man of middle age across the table. Maynadier, I think the Governor called him."
"He is only a friend of the family—the best friend, likely—nothing more."
"I am not answering as to him," said Brandon. "You are not thinking of marrying Mr. Maynadier, I take it." He pushed back his chair with the others, and arose. "Consider it—sound Miss Stirling—see if she be likely to accept. At any rate, I tell you, again, Miss Marbury is not for you—and neither is residence in Maryland."
"Very good—I shall sound her, and tell you how it appears. I have an appointment with her, now," said Parkington.
On the way out, Miss Marbury hailed him.
"Come here!" she said, with pretty peremptoriness. "Come here, and tell me how you are—I have not seen you for a long, long time."
"And my days have been dreary as winter in consequence, full of rain and melancholy," replied Parkington.
"Then, cheer up, Sir Mournful—the sun is shining; you may bask in its rays a while."
He offered her his arm.
"To the Bay and back again?" he asked.
"Why, back again?" she laughed.
"Because I thought it the only way to get you. But, if you will," (bending down) "it shall be to Annapolis and St. Anne's Rector, ere we come back again."
She looked up at him with merry eyes—a charming picture in the moonlight.
"Let us first go to the Bay," she said; "perhaps, we shall not care to go farther."
And Martha Stirling, from the rose-walk, saw them go. And surprise grew slowly to amazement, and then—as the minutes fled, and they returned not—the surprise changed into anger, sharp and sudden. And she left the rose-walk, and hastened to the Governor.
She found him in his apartment, in converse with Richard Maynadier. Both men arose, when she entered, and the latter made a move to retire. She stopped him.
"Just a moment, Mr. Maynadier," she said—"I want only to give this letter to Colonel Sharpe. It contains some information which it seems well he should have at once.—It is from Lady Catherwood, sir," she added; "it came this evening, and, though only a woman's letter, this part," (indicating) "will prove very interesting reading."
She handed the letter to him, shot Maynadier a bewitching smile, dropped them both a curtsy, and was gone.
"Your pardon, a moment!" said the Governor.... At the end, he passed the letter across to Maynadier, and his face was troubled.
"Miss Stirling was right," he said. "But it is more than interesting—unfortunate, I should term it."
Maynadier read it carefully before answering—then, he put it slowly down.
"What course will you pursue?" he asked. "The evidence is all but conclusive, now."
The Governor sent cloud after cloud of smoke ceiling-ward.
"I shall demand an explanation," he replied; "lay down the proofs, and give him a chance to disprove; and do it quietly—there is no need to proclaim my error."
"You are not at fault—the letters were authentic," said Maynadier.
"Possibly not—but I shall bear the blame, nevertheless, of having made the imposition possible. I do not like it! Maynadier, I do not like it! If I thought he would depart with Brandon, I would——" he broke off and shook his head in indecision. "He has done no one, so far as we know, an injury—other than to enter their houses under a false name. He has, even then, compensated for his entertainment by his genialness and his courtesy. It will raise a nasty scandal, and accomplish no real good. If there were any crime, for which he was responsible, it would be quite different. I grant you, he played cards for a high stake, and usually with success, but no one accuses him of cheating—and there were those who were willing to play."
"And, in addition, you like him!" laughed Maynadier.
"Yes, I like him—I reckon that does influence my judgment."
"But the fact remains, that he is not Sir Edward Parkington. How will you answer, if it ever become known—even after he has departed? 'I knew it,' or, 'I did not know'?"
"I knew it."
"Then, how explain your failure to unmask him?"
"I should decline to explain," said the Governor.
"Such would be your privilege. I admit the matter (as it appears now) is purely one of ethics, and expediency—and there are things to be said on both sides."
"How would you decide it, Maynadier?"
"I do not know—I am glad it is not necessary that I decide it."
Colonel Sharpe flung his pipe on the table, scattering the hot ashes broadcast.
"Damn it! Maynadier, I do not know what to do!" he exclaimed. "I shall put it off until morning; sleep, sometimes, solves problems."
Maynadier arose. "And Miss Stirling," he said—"she will not disclose what is in the letter?"
"No—but to make sure, I will caution her, at once," and, seizing his cane, he hurried out.
"Where have you been, sir?" Miss Marbury inquired, as Maynadier came face to face with her in the drawing-room doorway.
"Not where I wanted to be," he said.
"And where is that?"
"Where I am, now."
"A very pretty place," she answered, with a glance around; "but I should think one, out of doors on such a night, were vastly preferable."
"With you in it?" he asked.
She seemed to hesitate, watching him, the while, through half-closed eyes.
"If you wish, sir—wait until I get a fan.... Now, I am ready."
"I may select the place?" he said.
"You may," laughing; "will it be in the centre of the party, or just to one side?"
"A little to one side," he answered—"by as far as the Bay is from the house."
"Goodness, Dick, you are growing very venturesome—next you will be inviting me to go where Sir Edward——"
"Yes," he said—"where Sir Edward?"
"No—no, that would be telling."
"You used to tell me everything," he said.
"Yes—before I grew up and put on the ways of society."
"And how long has that been?"
"Since the last night of the party at Hedgely Hall," she answered.
"You mean, since you saw me kiss Miss Stirling?"
"Perhaps."
"It was a mistake, I admit it!"
"A mistake to be caught?" she laughed. "I grant it."
"Yes—a mistake to be caught—and a mistake to kiss her."
"Only when you have been caught! No! no! Dick, you cannot make me think it ever a mistake to kiss a pretty girl—and the girl be willing."
"You have learned the ways of society very thoroughly."
"I have had excellent teachers."
"Teachers?" he inflected—"there have been more than myself?"
"Monsieur! am I a pretty girl? Think you that I have never been—that no one has ever wanted to kiss me?"
"You cannot do it, Judith!" he laughed.
"Cannot do what?"
"Make me believe that any one ever——"
"Wanted to kiss me? Thank you, Mr. Maynadier!" with a toss of her head.
"No, that any one ever kissed you—until this moment."
And straightway he took her in his arms.
She pushed him from her, at last, and sprang back.
"Just what do you mean, sir?" she demanded—"just what do you mean?"
She was making a desperate effort to appear indignant.
"Mean?" he exclaimed, "you know what it means! Judith, you love me, don't you, sweetheart?"
"Am I to take that as a proposal?" she asked.
"Surely, dear——"
"Then, do you not think, sir, it would be a trifle more appropriate to confess your own feelings, rather than to inquire as to mine?"
"But you know I love you!"
"You have never taken the trouble to tell me."
"My lips told you?"
"I did not hear them."
"When I kissed you?"
"I am not familiar with the language, sir," retreating.
He stopped.
"I love you, Judith—will you marry me?" he said, humbly.
"That is better, sir," she replied; "more according to custom. Have you spoken to my father?"
"I have his permission—if you are willing?"
She laughed—a joyous, happy laugh.
"Why, Dick, I think I have been always willing," she said, and went to him. "It is you—who—have—not—known."
The last words were whispered and broken.
* * * * * * * * *
"You are frightfully hard on one's coiffure, dear," she said, presently, putting him aside, and stepping back. "Did you disarrange Miss Stirling's so completely?"
He surveyed her critically.
"Rather more so, I think," he answered.
She made a little grimace.
"You wretch!" she exclaimed. "You need not have confessed it!"
"But you wanted the truth," with a sly smile.
"No, I did not want the truth!—No, sir! go away—I will not! Not another one until we say good night. Is it a bargain?"
"I suppose so—yes, it is a bargain," he replied.
"Very well, sir—now, because you are so good, I shall tell you a secret."
"A sugar plum for the child!" he laughed.
"A man always wants a sugar plum for being good," she reflected.
"And the secret?" he said.
"It has to do with Sir Edward Parkington," she answered.—"We walked down to the water, after supper, and he was—very devoted," (with a sidelong glance at Maynadier).
"I should hope so," he remarked.
"He took my hand——"
"Huh!" said Maynadier.
"And commented on the contour of my cheek——"
"Huh!" said Maynadier, again.
"And the beauty of my hair——"
No response!
"And the flawlessness of my complexion——"
A savage cut at the grass, with his walking stick!
"And he was good enough to say my mouth was a perfect bow——"
Another cut with the walking stick, more savage!
"Just made for kisses——"
"Yes!" said Maynadier, and stopped.
"And then,——" she went on.
"I suppose he kissed you!" Maynadier exclaimed.
"No!" she said—"No, he only proposed—Oh! he did it much nicer than you, Dick! No man could ever have done it better."
"And what did you do?" said Maynadier, frowning.
"What do you think I did?"
He made a gesture, signifying that she might have done anything.
She laughed softly, and slipped her hand through his arm.
"You are a little, just a little jealous, dear,—confess it?" she said.
"No—I am not exactly jealous—but, oh hang it! Judith, what did you do?"
"You remember the evening at Hedgely Hall, when you told me that Sir Edward was not Sir Edward?" she asked. "Well, it happened he had been growing a little ardent about that time, and I thought I would try an experiment. (It was not, I reckon, an altogether nice thing to do—but I did it; and I am telling it only to you, Dick, remember!) I drew him on—rather, I let him draw himself on; he needed very little encouragement. And I did it, because, it seemed to me, when he proposed, he also would have to disclose his real name, and the reason for the masquerade. Nothing would kill a prospect of marriage so effectively as concealment."