Part 13

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?"

XVI

THE CRESCENT AND THE STAR

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?"