Part 12

She was trying to find out just how much Herford had witnessed. There was no occasion for Maynadier taking up the quarrel--if he had seen only what had happened since she came down from her room. Indeed, she was not particularly averse, if he had seen it all. Herford would hold his tongue, and, with a man of Maynadier's notions, it would be in her favor, likely--he would think he had done her a wrong--had put her in a false position--he would try to right it. And, if she could effect it, he would be caught. She wanted to bring him to a proposal--then, she could decide whether to return to England or to stay. If she were to stay, she knew that Maynadier was the only man who could persuade her--and, at the pinch, even his attractions might fail.

Maynadier, for his part, having made a "fool" of himself, was prepared to accept its responsibilities, even to fighting a duel with Herford, if necessary to save Miss Stirling's good name.

For him, the catastrophe had been, when Judith Marbury saw--and was seen. He did not think she really cared for Parkington--the flattery of being noticed, with his air of distinction and position, had doubtless turned her head. It would be all over with, in a month or two, when he departed, and, may be, the flirtation would not last even so long.--Afterwards----? He did not know. She had something to explain, as well as he! Possibly, it would be wiser for him not to explain--to act as if none were required. A man is different from a woman: he may take what comes, if he take it skilfully; but, a woman may not take--and be caught. That was Judith's misfortune--she might have been kissed by Parkington, and a dozen others, and no one would have been the wiser. But she had been seen; and, henceforth, she was under the suspicion of every one who knew it.

"Is it going to stop with the 'once'?" Herford demanded.

"You will have to ask Mr. Maynadier," she replied, laughing.

"And he declines to express himself," said Maynadier, instantly. He offered his arm to her and bowed. "Shall we resume the mirror, or shall we go outside?"

"Outside," she answered, pressing his arm. "Will Captain Herford go with us?" holding out her hand and giving him a dazzling smile. (She must take him along and be nice to him, she thought.) And she conquered, as she knew she could with him.

"You do not deserve it," she whispered, as she slipped her arm through his, "but, then, you can be very nice, at times."

He smiled, much as a child might have done, and, in an instant, his good nature returned.

"I am sorry, Maynadier," he said. "I apologize to Miss Stirling and to you. I acted like a spoiled boy."

"If Miss Stirling pardons you, mine goes with it," Maynadier replied. "You are a trifle impulsive in your judgment--sometime, it will lead you into trouble."

"It is the sort of impulsiveness a woman can forgive," Miss Stirling said, and leaning for a moment on his arm.

Which completely captured Herford--as she intended it should do--and made it a matter of indifference how much he saw. And Maynadier smiled in understanding, perceiving the play and its motive,--and, leaving them together, he went in search of Miss Marbury.

He found her, somewhat later, coming from the park with Mrs. Plater, Miss Tyler, Constable and Paca. To his surprise, she greeted him with the old smile, and motioned him beside her.

"She knows she is guilty, also," he thought, "and suspects that Miss Stirling has told me."

"Well, I see, sir," she said, as they dropped behind the others, "that you have lost no time in securing instruction--and have made rare progress. I foretold that you would be the favorite pupil."

He made no attempt at not comprehending--she had seen him, so, why dissemble?

"There are other favorite pupils, also, it would seem," he remarked, significantly.

"Sir Edward Parkington?" she laughed.

He was not prepared for such candor; he was astonished, and his expression showed it.

"I see you understand," he said.

"Why should you be surprised?" she asked--"for you were surprised, Dick, or else I cannot read your face."

"I _was_ surprised--that you should admit it."

She looked at him, puzzled. "I am afraid I do _not_ understand," she said. "Admit it! Admit what?"

"Sir Edward Parkington."

Her frown deepened. "Have you been mixing the brandy and the wine?"

He laughed, a bit scornfully.

"Why admit, and then deny?" he asked.

"Really, Dick, either I am woefully stupid, or else you speak in riddles."

"You are not stupid, and neither do I speak in riddles," he said. "You admitted the Parkington matter, just as I admitted the Miss Stirling matter; because it is useless to deny it."

"I admitted the Parkington matter?" she marvelled. "I was not aware I admitted anything. You said there were other favorite pupils, and I asked you--but without expecting an answer--if it were Parkington."

He shook his head. "It will not do, Judith--the explanation is an afterthought."

"Dick," she said, "I lose patience with you, sometimes--just what do you mean?"

"I mean this: You saw me kiss Miss Stirling, did you not?"

She nodded--but her eyes were straight ahead.

"Well, Sir Edward Parkington kissed _you_, in the park--so, there is not much to choose between us."

For a little while, she made no answer--then, she laughed, softly and musically.

"Dick!" she said--"Dick! do you believe it?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Answer me--do you believe it?"

He looked at her--eyes half closed, in contemplation--and made no reply.

"Richard Maynadier, I want to know, whether you believe that tale, or whether you do not."

"I do not _want_ to believe it," he said, after a pause.

"Thank you! but that is not enough; any friend would naturally not _want_ to believe. It is not what you want, but what you do believe."

"Will you tell me it is not true?" he asked.

"I will tell you nothing," she returned, "until you answer my question."

"I will believe whatever you say."

"Then, you will be without belief on this question."

He hesitated a bit longer. Between Miss Stirling's assertion and Judith Marbury's method of denial--for denial, he assumed it to be--it was difficult to choose. But, in his heart, he was doubting the former--her eyesight was at fault--something was at fault. It could not have been Judith--some one else, who resembled her in the moonlight. He cared, not at all, who, so long as it was not she. That Miss Stirling had deliberately lied, did not occur to him. He held woman on too high a plane--besides, the Maryland women (whom he knew) did not lie.

"For the last time, Dick," she said, the faintest touch of chilliness in her tones, "do you believe that I ever kissed Sir Edward Parkington, in the park or elsewhere?"

And, now, Maynadier's answer was ready and instant.

"I do not," he said; "I think I never did."

"You great stupid," she laughed. "Of course you never did. But why was it so hard for you to say it?"

"I do not know," he confessed.

"Oh, yes, I think you do," she answered. "It was because _I_ had caught _you_--for you, sir, there can be no denial. And your forgiveness will have to bide a bit, _Mr. Maynadier_."

And before he could reply, she had left him; nor did he see her, again, before he departed from Hedgely Hall.

XV

LONG-SWORD AGAIN

For more than six weeks, taken up entirely by his duties as one of the Council, Richard Maynadier remained in Annapolis or at country houses in the immediate vicinity;--Whitehall, the Governor's summer place, ten miles distant; at Belvoir, the Ross place on Wyatt's Ridge, up the Severn, overlooking the waters of Round Bay; at Tulip Hall, the Galloway place on West River; and at Montpelier, the Ridgely place, on the Savage.

Governor Sharpe was having his troubles with the Lower House of the General Assembly over the Supply Bill, which he regarded as necessary in one form, and the law makers in another. The executive and the legislative minds would not meet, as to what was best for the well-being of the Colony, and, as a result, they were kept in session through the summer, and not suffered to adjourn. The Governor refused to prorogue them until they passed a Bill acceptable to him; they refused to pass such a Bill. A deadlock was the natural result--during which much unkind language was used, by the Representatives toward the Governor.

He, however, having sent them a message making evident his desires in this particular, was dignifiedly reserved. They knew what he wanted--when he got it, or something near it, they could go home. If they went home, without being prorogued, those, who were in accord with him, would pass his Bill. He had the whiphand--he could afford to maintain a dignified reserve. Moreover, it was his nature.

Meanwhile, Sir Edward Parkington had spent one week with the Snowdens, and then, on their urging, had consented to remain three more. After which, he went to Sotterly, for a short visit, and then to Rousby Hall. In the first part of August, he was due at Whitehall, for an indefinite stay.

He had settled down, to a skilful courtship of Judith Marbury, the day they arrived at the Snowdens', and had continued, persistently, during the two weeks to which her visit had been prolonged. He had had--to him--several very satisfactory talks with old Marbury, just before he left Hedgely Hall, and he thought that all effect of the overflow of confidence, on the part of the latter, had been forgotten, and that he would welcome Sir Edward Parkington as a son-in-law. In fact, if he could have been assured of the daughter, he would have been entirely satisfied.

She was exasperatingly perplexing. She had been most responsive up to a certain point, but he could never get beyond. He had not tried to make love to her, deliberately and with evident purpose, but he stopped just short of it. And she, for her part, appeared to be flattered by the attentions of the cultured Englishman, and to receive them with something more than a passing pleasure. Yet, behind it, there was a reserve--a something--which all his efforts had failed to penetrate.

At times, he thought she was deliberately trying to draw him on; then, again, that she was trying to stay him. It was very fascinating, very pretty, and very alluring, but it was certainly not satisfactory to him. She must love him, before he could confess the changed identity, and hope to hold her; for he had arrived at the conclusion, that Judith Marbury would marry only where she loved.

The nearest he came to love-making--and an incident worth narrating, because it touched him rather closely--occurred at the Snowdens'.

One day, the talk had turned on the general subject of those who had left the old country and settled in the new, under assumed names--the old ones being a trifle unhandy, either on account of the law, or for some other reasons. Parkington had had nothing to do with suggesting the topic--in fact, he joined them when it was well underway.

"For my part," said Herford, "I want nothing to do with the man who takes a false name. He is a rogue--you can gamble on it."

"You are a trifle too general," objected Constable. "You forget the object he may have in changing his name. Is it honest, or is it not?"

"Honest!" retorted the Captain. "Does not the very fact answer for itself. A false name! much honesty there is in that."

"As much as can be said," returned Constable, "is that it puts him under suspicion, _if known_. But, if it be not known, and if the man conduct himself properly, under his new name, I, for one, would not care."

"Would not care because you would not know!" laughed Herford. "It would be otherwise, if you knew."

"If I knew he was a criminal, yes--if I knew he had changed his name for some other reason, it would not. In this new country, we have to take men for what they are worth, as men--we cannot look too closely into motives, so long as they do not hide a crime."

"Do either of you know a case in point?" asked Snowden.

"No!" said Herford.

"Nor I," said Constable; "however, I am very ready to believe there are instances right around us."

"Among our friends?"

"Hardly!" laughed Constable. "I do not mean among those we know, but among those we do not know. Though, for the matter of that, if we go back a generation or two, it might apply to us, also. How do you know, Herford, that your out-coming ancestor did not change his name?"

"Do you mean to imply----"

"Now, do not get excited--we are arguing an abstract question----"

"Which you have turned into a personal question."

"Then I will change it. How do I know, that the original Constable, in America, did not go under some other name in England.--I don't--you don't--no one knows. We take each other on faith, the only difference with us is, that the faith extends back over a generation or two." He glanced around him. Miss Marbury was not in hearing. "There is old Marbury, for instance. He is new. How do we know his name is Marbury? He says it is--so far as we are informed, he has always said it is, but we do not _know_. We take him on faith. We take almost every one on faith. Is it not so, Parkington?"

"Undoubtedly," was the answer. "The only advantage we, of England, have is a few more generations."

"A few more generations!" exclaimed Herford. "You, who have them can afford to be indifferent. It is we, who have only one, or two, or, at the most, three who have to be careful."

"I do not quite grasp your point," said Parkington.

"It is plain as I can make it," was the retort.

"That may be true," returned Parkington, with an amused smile, "but, nevertheless, I fail to comprehend."

"Take your time to it, then," Herford answered, with a shrug, "it will come to you, presently," and he sauntered away to join Miss Stirling, whose laugh was heard toward the house.

"Parkington," said Constable, "you are very considerate.--We know Herford and his way, and do not take offense, but you have no reason for holding off."

Parkington smiled. "Herford simply amuses me," he said. "I always want to laugh, when he grows sarcastic. He hits my funny-bone instead of my temper. I suppose, for my own reputation, I should call him out, but, to my mind, a spanking would be more appropriate."

"Exactly our judgment," remarked Snowden. "And, yet, he is an excellent officer, with a first-class record in active service."

"So Maynadier tells me," said Parkington.

"Just now, he is infatuated with the Governor's niece, and has a quarrel with every one who looks at her," observed Constable. "And, on that score," (smiling) "he has fair ground for being a trifle touchy with you."

Parkington laughed, and accepted the charge. It was just as well, if he could direct attention to Miss Stirling, while he was making his way with Judith.

A little later, Miss Marbury chanced upon him, seemingly by accident--in fact, by intention--as he was passing to the card-room on the lower floor, and, presently, they were strolling back and forth in the rose-walk.

"Sir Edward, I want to ask you something--and I want you to give me a true answer," she said.

"I always strive to make true answer to you," he replied.

"Do you? Well, I am not so sure. However, be truthful now, and I forgive the past." She turned and faced him. "What were Mr. Constable and Captain Herford and you discussing a little while ago?"

"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.

"I'm a s'h'ailor bold, a s'h'ailor bold, Ho! Ho! Ho! I'm a s'h'ailor bold, a s'h'ailor bold, Ho! Ho! Ho!"

"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."