Part 11

"The penalty, for this sort of treason," he said,--"and I am making it very easy--is to give me as much of your society, while I am here, as I have the courage to seek."

"Have the courage to seek!" she quoted. "That may seem modest enough, but, for my part, I am of the opinion that you are not wanting in courage--in fact----"

"Yes," he said. "In fact----?"

"In fact, you are disposed, if occasion offer, to be a trifle intrepid."

"I protest!" he exclaimed. "You have nothing to justify any such judgment."

"Nothing to justify, possibly--much to suspect."

"In what way, mademoiselle?"

"In the cast of the eye, monsieur--and the tilt of the head--and in other indefinable ways, appreciated by sight alone."

"I suppose, I should be flattered that you have observed me so closely!" he laughed. "I did not know I was so dangerous."

"I should call it fascinating," she answered.

He bent and kissed her hand, in the most courtly way.

"I would it were your lips," he said.

"Which only proves my proposition--and, possibly your own. You may be dangerous, as well as fascinating," she replied. "Perchance, here is one who can tell better than I--she knows more of the world and the ways of men. Miss Stirling, is Sir Edward dangerous as well as fascinating, or, simply, fascinating?" and, with a gay laugh, she left them.

For a moment, Miss Stirling looked after her with a puzzled air; then, she turned to Sir Edward.

"What have you been doing?" she asked.

"Nothing," he replied.

She smiled. "Nothing? and yet she leaves me such a question?"

"Which you can answer?" he asked.

"The answer is evident enough. Are you not ashamed, sir, to play your fine manners against the innocent?"

"By the innocent, I assume, you mean Miss Marbury?"

"Certainly."

"Then, let me answer you, that Miss Marbury is as amply able to take care of herself, as--you are," replied Parkington, with a smile.

"Which is very little," she answered; "for I admit _I_ am afraid of you. You have beautiful manners, Sir Edward."

"But not to be compared to yours," he replied, bowing.

"And you say everything as though you meant it."

"Which makes for sincerity."

"But you do not mean it--or very little of it."

"Which allows you to choose what you want, and to discard the rest."

"And you dress in especially good taste," she went on.

"Which speaks well for my tailor."

"And you are, in yourself, exceedingly handsome."

"Which speaks well for God."

"Or the Devil," she amended.

"As you wish!" he said, laughingly, and kissed her hand.

"It is always, 'as you wish,' whereas, in truth, it is '_as I_ wish,' when the play is done."

"The play?" he asked.

"Yes, the play--everything which makes for your pleasure or profit. And you do it so gracefully, with such a flourish of indifference, that the other party actually thinks a favor is conferred in the granting it."

"Do you mean to imply that I have done the 'play' in Maryland?" he asked.

"Certainly!--you do 'the play' wherever you are--you could not do otherwise. It is as much a part of your nature as----" she paused for a comparison.

"As it is of yours," he ended.

"If I can do it half so well, I shall be more than pleased," she answered, promptly.

"You accept it, then?"

"My dear Sir Edward!" she laughed. "We all have something of the mountebank in our natures. He plays it best, who plays it the most, and shows it the least."

"Fine philosophy!" he commented. "Such cynicism may be permissible in a man, but it is _not_, many times _not_, in a woman."

"The men seem to like it," she answered.

He shook his head. "They like _you_--they have not seen the cynicism."

"And if they do see it?"

He raised his eye-brows, expressively. "I do not know--perhaps, and perhaps not."

"With the chances?"

"Not, decidedly not!"

"I take you for an adept," she said--"as one well qualified to advise on the subject."

"Then, abandon it--throw it overboard. A woman should be an optimist--cynicism repels."

"Yet you are a cynic."

"All men are cynical; they must be to get on with one another--and with the women."

"Another burden for us to bear!" she laughed. "Is Miss Marbury a cynic or an optimist?"

"I should judge her to be very much the optimist."

"And hence the easier to understand, and the easier to hoodwink."

He looked at her, with a bit of a smile. "And for just that reason, less liable to be hoodwinked. Sincerity begets sincerity, if the man be really a man."

"And cynicism begets cynicism?"

He bowed. "I am speaking generally, of course."

She prodded the turf with her toe, and thought:

"I suppose you are right," she said; "you have had the experience, you ought to know. But, how many of the women you meet in London are optimists, think you?"

"Very few," he smiled.

"And why?--why?--Because you men have taught us to be cynics. You lie to us in word and deed, you deceive us, often to our shame, until we must fight back with the weapons God has given us. Even now, you are contemplating a campaign against Miss Marbury, attracted by that very optimism which should make her an easy conquest."

He held up his hands in protestation. "My dear lady! your imagination is wonderful--you are a very child in fancy--the dark must be full of queer things to you."

She laughed, a little, tantalizing laugh, and shot him a knowing look from under her long lashes.

"We shall see," she said: "I _may_ be wrong, and, if I am, you have the proving of it."

"And, meanwhile, what of _your_ campaign for Mr. Richard Maynadier?" he asked.

For a moment, she did not reply, regarding him, thoughtfully, the while.

"What has Mr. Richard Maynadier to do with the proposition?" she said, coldly.

"I do not know--it is for you to answer."

"There is no answer," she replied, looking him straight in the eyes.

He bowed and kissed her hand.

"As you wish, my lady," he said, making no effort to repress his smile; "as you wish."

A little later, he sought his chamber for his walking-stick. As he came down the corridor, he bethought himself of something he wanted to tell Mr. Marbury. He went over to the door of his room and rapped--then, rapped again, more briskly. The door, which had not been latched, opened and swung slowly back. Marbury was not in, but the bags, containing the ransom money, were standing on a table.

He stopped and, casually, glanced around; no one was about. He listened; all was quiet on the second floor. He tiptoed to the stairway and looked down; no one was visible in the hall below. He went back, and stood, uncertain, a moment. Then, he walked straight in to Marbury's room, swiftly untied the bags, took several handfuls of gold from each, retied them, went out, closed the door behind him, and descended to the party on the lawn.

Marbury would likely put the money away without inspecting it--and, if he did count it, the noble Englishman could not be suspected.

XIV

GUILTY AND NOT GUILTY

Richard Maynadier remained for two days longer at Hedgely Hall, but he never was able to get Judith alone, however much he manoeuvred. After he went home, he rode over several times, unexpectedly and at unusual hours, hoping to surprise her and get his opportunity, but to no avail.

She was deliberately avoiding him, he knew, and she let him know it, in the unmistakable way of a woman. It was as though she said to him: "You want to get me off alone, Dick, but I shall not permit it."

So much he understood. But what troubled him, was whether it stopped with that, or whether there was a qualifying phrase--an "until I am ready," tacked on, and not yet disclosed.

He was not unduly sanguine, and he was properly modest, but he had thought it all over--her attitude toward him, her belief in him, her dependence upon his judgment and advice--and he considered he had reasonable ground to hope that she had come to view him in another light than as a friend. Doubtless, he had been blind not to see it before--and blind, as well, to the character of his own feelings. He simply had never thought of love. Now, he was thinking of it a very great deal.

There was something, however, which he did not exactly fancy, and that was the liking she seemed to have developed, recently, for Parkington's society--and Parkington for hers.

They were much together, would take long walks in the park and to the river, would talk for hours, while he told her stories of London and its great world. Maynadier did not know, of course, whether he ventured upon the softer side, whether he tried to strike the chord of self, in an appealing way--and Judith gave no indication. She was enjoying herself, so much was evident, and, at the same time, playing her part, admirably. Parkington was the stranger, and, since he seemed to wish to devote himself to his hostess, and his hostess was not averse, Maynadier could not find fault.

He had, indeed, ventured to throw out a cautioning word, the evening he rode home, (when, just for a moment, he was alone with her) but she had only laughed, asked him if he did not trust her, and, quickly, rejoined the company.

On the last evening of the house party, he came over to bid them farewell. Judith was going, on the morrow, with the Snowdens, to spend a week at Montpelier. Sir Edward Parkington, also, had been invited, and was to accompany them--as were Miss Stirling, Captain Herford and Mr. Constable. The rest were returning to their homes. He himself was departing for Annapolis, in the morning, upon business of the Council, and his visit to Hedgely Hall was to be but brief.

He encountered Henry Marbury, as he came through the park, and they went, on a little way, together. When they came in sight of the house, Marbury stopped.

"Maynadier," he said, "I have something to tell you--can you give me a moment?"

"Certainly, sir;" said Maynadier, "as many moments as you wish."

Marbury considered a second, as though framing his words.

"It is this way," he said. "You have heard of the ransom money I paid the pirates. Well, it was recovered, at the landing, by Captain Jamison, and turned over to me, unopened--at least, he thought so, and my own inspection sustained him. I counted it, the other morning, and it was correct--or, I made it so. Just as I finished, I was called out, hastily, and I left the bags on the table. I forgot them, and did not return until late in the day. Then, something told me to count it again. I did--and found about a hundred guineas missing."

"Some of the servants?" said Maynadier.

"I think not--none of them would venture to enter my rooms even when the door is open, and it was closed--closed when I left it, and closed when I returned."

"Have you no means of identifying the coins?"

"None--I never make a list."

"What do you think?" asked Maynadier.

"I do not know what to think--except, that one of the guests is the pilferer."

"Pilferer?" said Maynadier. "You are putting it very mild, if the guilty one be a guest. He is a plain thief. I cannot believe it! It _must_ be one of the servants."

"None but the house servants have access to the rooms, and I trust them thoroughly; besides, the thief, to adopt your name, opened my door unbidden, and that, as I said, no servant would have ventured. We are remitted to a guest, sir."

"Have you any suspicions?"

"None, thank God!"

Maynadier looked at him narrowly. "Why do you say, 'thank God!'"

"Because I do not want to suspect. I would rather lose half my fortune, than that a guest, in my house, should be suspected. If I had seen him actually take the money, I should do nothing to apprehend him--nor would I permit his apprehension."

"Why do you say 'him'--why do you think the thief is a man?" asked Maynadier.

"Because I _cannot_ think it a woman. My God! Maynadier, you know these people better than I--could you think one of the women guilty?"

Maynadier shook his head. "No, I cannot; and neither can I think one of the men guilty. But, since you will do nothing in the matter, why think about it at all? The party breaks in the morning, you will lose no more."

"It is not the loss that bothers me--it is the idea of having entertained a thief."

"Are you quite sure your first count was correct? Might not the money have been abstracted, by the pirate who carried it away? Is not that the normal explanation?"

Marbury was silent.

"Moreover, were the bags tied as you left them?"

"Precisely--at least, I saw no difference."

"And when you detected the loss from the first bag, did not you examine the tying of the other?"

"I did."

"And could you not have noted any difference--and evidence of haste?"

"There was no difference, and no evidence of haste. Everything was exactly as I left it, or it seemed to be."

"Then it lies between your own error, a guest, or a servant. With two chances to one, in favor of the guest, I should acquit the guest--and, particularly, when it marches with your own desires."

Marbury shook his head dubiously. "I do not want to suspect any one, and I will not. I would not prosecute even if I were sure of the thief; I would let him know that I knew, and do nothing more."

"In that view of it, is your course quite right to your friends--to those who are not here, as well as those who are?"

"You mean that I turn loose a thief among them?"

"I do."

"That does not bother me, Maynadier," said Marbury. "I have paid my loss, I am not lamenting. I have no friends to protect, except yourself, and you I have told."

Maynadier made no reply. He knew Marbury's way, and the uselessness of arguing the general good, and the duty one owes to society. Marbury would scorn to suspect a guest of crime, would refuse to prosecute if detected, yet he would do nothing to protect his fellow men from being victimized. It was a queer philosophy; but Marbury had been taught in a hard school, and early learned the lesson of self alone. To him, the doctrine of personal responsibility applied only to himself, his family, and his friends--further, it did not extend; and there was no obligation to society whatever. So far as he was concerned, society could look out for itself.

"I will tell you, if I observe anything," said Maynadier--"that is, if you wish it."

"Yes, please," said Marbury; "but tell no one else."

Maynadier encountered Miss Stirling in the hallway, with Herford in attendance. She met him with a glad smile, dismissed the Captain with a wave of her hand, and attached him, instead.

And he suffered himself to be attached. If Judith would not have him, until it pleased her, he would, at least, entertain himself. He had no idea of making her jealous, but it was as well to take her advice, and let Miss Stirling give him some "instruction."

She led the way to a quiet corner of the drawing room, and, for more than an hour, he sat under fascinations such as he had never thought a woman possessed. It was the first good chance he had given her, and she utilized it to the full.

And, presently, he, too, caught a bit of the infection.

"You are outdoing yourself, this evening," he declared.

"In what way?" she asked, artlessly.

"In every way--in beauty."

"For which I am not responsible--it was given me," with demure modesty.

"In fascination," he continued.

"Which is cultivated, for what it will effect; no credit comes to me for it."

"All credit comes to you for it," he answered--"though I had rather believe it natural--it is too spontaneous to be otherwise."

"_Merci_, monsieur," and, arising, swept him a curtsy.

"No, I mean it!" he protested.

"Is not fascination equivalent to coquetry?" she asked.

"Fascination may include coquetry, it comprehends more, much more."

"For instance?"

"Ease of bearing, under all circumstances."

"You think I have that quality."

"To perfection, mademoiselle, to perfection."

"What else?"

"Knowledge of the world, and how to use it."

"And what else?" she asked, her hand straying slowly over until it lay just short of his own.

"Knowledge of men--and their eccentricities."

"Which might mean I am a flirt," she said.

He laughed softly, "Do you want me to say you are _not_ a flirt?"

"No--not exactly," joining in the laugh; "but there are different sorts of flirts, you know, monsieur."

"The expert and the inexpert?"

"Yes--and the good and the bad, in a moral sense."

"I am endeavouring to praise you, mademoiselle," he said.

"I hope so--but," with a most enticing look, "one dare not take too much for granted."

"You could not, take _too_ much," he replied, raising his hand in a gesture. When it came down it rested on hers.

She felt him start, slightly, but he let his hand remain, and she, for her part, did not seem to notice.

It was a soft hand, and a small, with a faint perfume about it, with delicate fingers and slender wrist.--His own still lingered, hers was not withdrawn. Lightly he pressed it--no answer, save in silence. He knew now that she was drawing him on--would not rebuke him, unless he went too far. His fingers closed over hers in an unmistakable caress. She did not reprove him; instead, she gazed across the drawing-room, a dreamy light in her eyes.

"So you are going away, to-morrow," he said, his voice sinking lower than usual.

"Yes," she replied, "yes, to-morrow."

"I am sorry--very sorry--a little longer, and we might have been better friends."

"It is not my fault, monsieur, that we are not better--friends," she answered, her look still distant.

"Nor mine," he said.

She turned her eyes upon his face, with calm sincerity.

"It is God's fault, then," she responded. "So we have none to blame. But what is to hinder your coming to the Snowdens', there, we can begin afresh."

"Alas! I am for Annapolis in the morning," he said, bending down over her--"and shall be kept there for at least a week."

"Why go?" she whispered.

"I have no alternative: the Governor's summons, I must obey."

"Always the way--duty first."

"You would not have me shirk duty?" he asked.

She saw it was a false step, and beat a quick retreat.

"You know I would not," she said. "Did you forget, I, too, come of those who serve the King."

She was very alluring, in her gown of brocaded lustring, ruby-colored, with white tobine stripes, trimmed with floss, the high-piled hair, the fair face, the dark, expressive eyes, the bowed mouth, the slender neck. And he was not dead to beauty, so near and so yielding. He loosed, suddenly, the little hand, and wound his arm about her waist.

"Oh, monsieur!" she whispered, making slightly to get free.

He held her closer. "Nay," he said. "Why do you fear me?"

She ceased to struggle. "I fear--lest we be seen."

Her yielding body, held close to his own, the perfume, the lovely face upturned, gripped his senses--for an instant, discretion fled--he bent and kissed those full red lips.

And in that instant, Judith Marbury stood in the doorway, and saw it all. The next moment, she had vanished.

But Miss Stirling was not so occupied with Maynadier, that she had not seen--and understood. She sprang away.

"Judith Marbury!" she exclaimed.

"Where?" he demanded, freeing her, instantly.

"There--in the doorway! She saw you kiss me!"

"The devil!" he exclaimed.

"Who--Judith or I?" she asked, naively.

"Myself--myself! and to set you right, I acted the devil and kissed you by force."

"That is very good of you--to take the blame upon yourself--but I am guilty, too; I let you do it."

He shook his head--though he knew she spoke only the truth. Her readiness to share the blame, however, made it only the more obligatory for him to assume it all.

And she, knowing Maynadier better than he imagined, watched him with a sly smile, well understanding what would be his course.

"I will explain to Miss Marbury," he said. "And I am sure that she will never tell."

She laughed softly. "I am sure, too--I caught Sir Edward Parkington kissing her in the park yesterday, and there is no doubt that _she_ was willing, for her arms were about his neck. Furthermore, she knows that I saw her."

Maynadier was silent. So the world turns! And Judith was willing! and Parkington was early taking the things that came his way! Vanity of vanities!... He laughed, a queer, dry laugh, that had no mirth in it, no feeling.

"Which being the case, I will have another--several others!" he said--and crushed her to him.

She lay in his arms, a moment, and gave him her lips--then, she put him firmly from her, and sat up.

"You have had enough, for this time," she said, blushing.

He looked at her, flushed and eager. Her beauty and warmth had done their work.

"Just one more!" he exclaimed, and took it, mightily, as his prehistoric ancestor might have done....

She straightened her hair, and brushed away the powder he had left upon her shoulder.

"Really, Mr. Maynadier, you must not," she protested. "My gown will be in tatters with such handling. Where did you learn to kiss so--peremptorily?"

"One does it, naturally, with you--and prays for more."

"Prays!" she laughed. "A robber does not pray--he takes.--No, sir! you have had sufficient. You----...."

She escaped from him, at last, and stood, rosy and panting, a little way off.

"Now, I shall _have_ to go to my room--my gown and my hair are a sight--oh! you are wicked--wicked!" she ended--and fled, leaving behind her a vision of slender ankles and silk stockings.

Maynadier looked after her with a dubious smile.

"I do not know about my being wicked," he muttered, "but I _do_ know that I am a damn fool!... Bah! they are all alike! the most modest will frivol if she but get the man, and the place, and the inclination." ... Presently, he laughed. "I fancy I was unexpectedly strenuous. I warrant she had not had such a kissing, in many a day."

He pushed his velvet-sheathed rapier back under his coat-skirt and brought the handle forward, brushed the powder from his shoulders, straightened his cravat, and, taking out his gold snuff-box, flourished a pinch to his nostrils. He would wait until she came down.

Presently she came, descending slowly, her dress held with both hands. Her hair had been put to rights, her gown smoothed out.

Maynadier stepped forward, and met her at the foot of the stairs. She paused, just out of reach.

"Will you promise to be well-behaved?" she asked, tantalizingly.

"If you will promise not to tempt too far," he replied.

"Tempt!" she inflected. "I am no temptress, Mr. Maynadier."

Gravely, he took her hand, and led her before the mirror, in the drawing room.

"No temptress, think you?" he inquired. "No temptress!"

"I cannot help what God has done," she said, and smiled in the glass, alluringly.

"Careful!--careful!" he admonished--"or I have visions of another tousled head-dress."

"Very pretty--very pretty, indeed!" said Herford's voice behind them. "May I come into the picture?"

Instantly, Maynadier dropped her hand and stepped back; but she, womanlike, was the nimbler witted.

"You may have a portrait of yourself, _alone_," she answered; "this one is finished."

He laughed superciliously. "I hope so," he said; "finished for all time."

"Why, finished for all time, Captain Herford?" she inquired, a chilly note in her tone. "If Mr. Maynadier is good enough to show me, before the glass, how becomingly I am gowned, what affair is it of yours, or of any one?"

"I should never have guessed it!" he returned, with affected contrition.

"Possibly not, you are very slow at times."

"Because," he went on, "Mr. Maynadier's attention seemed to be directed entirely to your lips."

"What do you mean, sir?" Maynadier demanded.

She put her hand, restrainingly, on his arm.

"You must not quarrel with him," she said. Then to Herford. "And if it were, sir, do my lips not justify it?"

"Marry, yes!" he answered curtly, "and your eyes, and your hair, and everything about you."

"Just what Mr. Maynadier was engaged in telling me, when you broke in. You have told me the same, a score of times; surely, Mr. Maynadier may tell me, _once_."