"Fie! Mr. Maynadier, you forget the dignity due a Governor's Councillor."
"I am apt to forget many things," said he, laughing, "with such a teasing beauty just out of reach."
"Where she will take care to hold herself until you are better mannered. What has come over you, Dick, you used to be proper enough—too proper, indeed."
"You little flirt!" he exclaimed, "what has come overyou, you better say—where did you learn such tricks?"
"Not from you, sir."
"No, not from me—God save the mark!"
"But you seem to like them, Dick," she said. "Don't you wish it had been you who taught me?"
"No!" he said. "No; I would ratheryoutaughtme."
"I am afraid you could never learn!" she laughed.
"Try me!" he begged. "I have unsuspected possibilities."
She looked at him with eyes half closed, a roguish, enticing look.
"And you think I could develop them?" she asked.
"I am sure you could."
"Better let Miss Stirling try—she can teach you far better than I.—Besides, I think she would welcome the opportunity."
"Miss Stirling has enough to do with the young men," he answered.
"I fancy you will find her very willing to take another."
"Where there are so many pupils, the instruction can not be thorough," he objected.
"Have you ever heard of thefavorite pupil, sir?" she asked, with a sly smile. "Indeed, I am very much of the opinion she would even drop all the others, if you applied."
"You flatter me!" he remarked.
"Do I?" she asked, "well, I am not so sure; you see, she does not know you quite so well as some others do. And, if you are clever, she may never find you out."
"Lucky me!—You advise me, then, to take lessons from Miss Stirling?"
"Undoubtedly! You are ripe for it, and she is a rare instructor—it will be an admirable arrangement."
"And when I have learned everything that she can teach me, may I come back to you for the completion of my education?" he asked.
"May be you will not want to come back," she said.
"But, if I do," he persisted.
"And, may be, I shall have too many pupils,then, to bother with another."
"But, if you have not—if there is room for me?"
"I cannot answer, now. Wait until you apply,it will depend on what you have been taught, and the extent of your proficiency?"
He thought a moment. "The extent of my proficiency?" he repeated. "Should it be much or little?"
"That is for you to judge," she answered, enigmatically—and left him.
"That is for me to judge!" he muttered, looking after her. "Did she mean to warn me against learning too much from Miss Stirling? Did she mean to warn me against learning anything from her?" He smiled:—"Is she just a bit jealous of Miss Stirling, and has her jealousy quickened her perceptions?... My little Judith, have you cared for me—really, cared for me—all these years?—And have I been blind to the character of your affection, and blind to my own, as well?"
He turned aside into the park, where the great trees were whispering, softly, to one another, and all else was still.
Yes, he loved her! Not as the old friend, who had advised, and guided, and reproved. Not as he thought the man of steady life and confirmed habits, with wealth and reputation made, would love. Still more, not in the seemly manner a Governor's Councillor should love—but with a sudden rush of affection, that threatened to sweep away all the reserve and dignity of forty years. A love such as Paca, or Constable might have.
He steadied himself. He might love as a young man, but he must act with the judgment and discretion of his years—sedately and with good sense. He thought she loved him—thought she had shown it with all the openness she dared. But he was not sure. He might have been mistaken—he might have tinctured her words with his own hope—read in them far more than they conveyed, far more than a younger man would have dared to read.... Moreover, even if he had read aright, he must not permit his love to overbalance his duty. He must be the protector still; must guard her from all danger of a hasty choice, from a semblance which she mistook for the reality. Must put her happiness first, his own, only if it chimed with hers.... She was a dear girl—a dear girl! She would preside at Rose Hill in a manner in keeping with the mistresses who had preceded: his own sweet mother, his grandsire's stately wife. She would restore the life which had been of it, until he had become master, and let the old life die. He would go home, and prepare for her coming—prepare to live!...
Suddenly, he shook himself, as one awakening from a dream.
God! what if she would not come—what if she married another!...
The following morning, the party had just finished breakfast, and were clustered about in front of the house, when Captain Jamison came hurriedly up the avenue.
Old Marbury, with his foot in the stirrup, had paused for a moment's conversation with Mr. Plater and Parkington, and he regarded the approaching skipper with some surprise.
"What does this mean, Jamison?" he asked, "I thought you would be well on the way to Annapolis, by this time."
"So did I, sir," was the answer. "Such were your orders—but you can't never tell what will happen. The truth is, sir, Long-Sword has escaped!"
"Escaped! How?—when?" Marbury demanded.
The skipper was plainly much embarrassed—he twirled his cap between his fingers, shuffled his feet, and his glance wandered skyward.
"I don't know, sir—it was sometime between dark and daylight. He was in the cabin, tight enough, with the irons fast on him, when night fell—he was gone, this morning."
"With the irons fast to him?"
"No, sir, with the irons off him, sir, lying on his bunk—and as securely locked as when they were on him. How did he get out of them, sir, how did he get out of them?"
Marbury shook his head. "If you cannot tell, I am sure I cannot."
"Possibly he found the key you lost," observed Parkington.
"I did not lose it in his cabin, sir," said Jamison; "it was found at the foot of the companionway. I picked it up there, myself."
Parkington nodded. It was clever of Brandon to lock the irons and leave the key where it likely would be found.
"Then he must be small-boned and small-jointed. I have heard of men who could slip the irons in that way," remarked Plater.
"I think not—they seemed to fit him very close—in fact, he complained of them pinching him."
"Like enough!" laughed Plater. "Another proof that they were loose."
"Where was the guard—asleep?" asked Marbury.
"No, not asleep—dead! dead! with his own knife buried in his breast."
"When did you discover that Long-Sword was missing?"
"A little after day-break. I sent every man ashore on the search. I did not come here, until it was proved he had escaped."
"How did he get ashore?"
"Swam for it."
"Hum! pretty fair for a broken collar-bone!" Marbury remarked.
"He is a dangerous man, sir."
"Naturally—otherwise he would not be a pirate chief."
"He must be taken!" protested the skipper. "We must catch him!"
"Yes—we, or some one else, must catch him—and, as he seems to have got away from the vicinity, it will probably be some one else," Parkington observed.
"So you likely will not retire on your reward, Jamison," Marbury observed; "another will get the thousand guineas.... Why did you not notify us, at once?"
"Because, I hoped to catch him, sir."
"And not be obliged to tell me he had escaped—I see."
"It is only human nature," said Parkington. "Let me intercede for Jamison."
"It is not necessary; I reckon I would have done the same had our positions been reversed. Moreover, I am not much grieved over it. Long-Sword is a very decent sort of man—too decent to stretch a halter."
"You will do nothing, sir, to apprehend him?" gasped Jamison.
"Nothing!" said Marbury.
"And the seaman he killed, in cold blood?"
"Was the man married?—Yes? Then I shall give his widow a year's pay. For my part, I have had enough of pirates, and I do not propose to disturb this house party, especially the women folk, by hunting one who is trying his best to get away. You are at liberty, with your crew, to continue the search, provided it does not conflict with your orders. But Hedgely Hall is done with the buccaneering business—and, please God! it be done with her. Gentlemen, I must to the fields," and, with a curt nod, he was up in saddle and away.
"What are you going to do, Jamison?" said Parkington.
"Do, sir! what can I do? Follow down the coast, and raise the hue and cry—and, likely, find he has gone Northward! Devil's Ship! but it's a bad business."
"The pirate business is generally bad—in the end," remarked Parkington.
"If you do not catch Long-Sword, the chances are that some one else will," sympathized Plater.
"Yes, and get the reward," said Jamison.—"I cannot claim the thousand guineas, unless I deliver him to the authorities."
"Then, it is the reward and not the pirate you are after?"
"It is the pirate because of the reward.—I would not turn a hand to take him, otherwise."
"Well, you better be up and doing, or you will not have any chance of taking him," said Parkington. "If I can aid you, in any way, pray, command me. I rather fancy chasing a pirate on land—it is a novel experience."
"I'm off, sir!—I'm going down the coast; may be, I can pick him up. He will likely make for one of the Virginia ports. Thank you, sir, for your offer of assistance."
"He will never take him," said Plater, looking after Jamison. "The fellow has not gone to Virginia, I will wager. He will lie very low, until his injury is healed—a stranger, with a broken collar-bone, is too easily located."
Parkington nodded assent. "Marbury's course seemed to surprise Jamison," he said.
"Because Jamison was thinking only of the reward. I should have done just as Marbury did; he has the pirate ship, which, doubtless, he considers is prize enough. Jamison lost his prisoner through sheer carelessness, and Marbury does not intend to turn the plantation upside down to help retake him. Oh, the old man is usually right."
"He seems to have been, at least in getting money."
"Yes—after Carroll he is the richest man in Maryland.—You have met young Carroll."
Parkington nodded. "He seemed a particularly nice fellow."
"He is—though we scarcely know him. He has been in France since he was eight years of age, getting his education under the Jesuits, and, in London, studying law in the Temple: he returned home only last year. Having polished himself, he will now spend the rest of his life looking after his property."
"A pleasant occupation—when one has sufficient to look after."
"And at which only about half of us are even moderately successful. If I can retain my own, and my wife's, I shall be more than thankful. As for Marbury"—he ended with a gesture.
"Which means?" said Parkington.
Plater laughed. "That is what I do not know. He has two children—you have seen them, what is your estimate?"
"I have not seen enough to form an estimate, but I should say young Mr. Marbury shows excellent promise."
"Only promise! Exactly, Sir Edward; but he should show more than promise. He is a charming young man, but can he hold together the Marbury fortune. I admit that I and all the others are undecided. As for Miss Marbury——"
"It will depend upon the man she marries," said Parkington.
"And the fortune will be much less than George's. The bulk always goes to the heir, if he be of directblood, the same as in England, though there is no entail."
"Who are Miss Marbury's suitors," asked Parkington, carelessly. "No one of the men, here, seems to be, and, yet, of course, she has them in plenty."
"Shecouldhave them in plenty, but she will not. Every young fellow in Annapolis would have been only too happy—but, nay. They can be as friendly as they please; the instant they would be more, she is up and away."
"The right man has not come," said Parkington.
"Possibly, not!—But where can you find a better man than Paca, or Constable, or Jennings, or any one of the young bloods you meet at the Coffee-house?"
"I do not know—no one knows—possibly, even she does not know. But she will know, when the right one comes—that is, the right one for the time. He may be the wrong one in six months—more's the pity.—Yet even she cannot foresee that."
"You are a bit cynical!" laughed Plater. "May be they are the ways of England, but they are not our ways."
"Not your ways,yet," Parkington amended.
"And, I trust,neverwill be. When a woman chooses a husband, with us, whether for love or policy—though, thank God! there is not much of the latter—she makes the best of it. And it ismarvelous what you can do, if you settle yourself to it."
"I grant you that," said Parkington; "but the trouble with us seems to be, that, as the country grows broader in civilization, it loses in morals.—You are headed the same way; it is only a question of a little time until you are up with us."
"Do you mean it will come in my day?—that I shall see it?"
"Yes, I do—you colonists are learning fast. Witness, the Stamp Act, and so on. You are growing powerful, and with power comes laxity. But, we diverge—we were discussing our hostess; scarcely, the best-bred thing to do, but excusable under the circumstances. Has she never been in love—since she came to Annapolis, I mean?"
"I think not," said Plater; "at least, there never has been any indication of it. The one man she seems to like at all times, is Richard Maynadier—and he is almost old enough to be her father. He never has attempted to grow sentimental. He could not, if he wanted to. Maynadier and sentiment are strangers to each other."
("A word to the wise!" thought Parkington. "I must have a care, I see, for Mr. Richard Maynadier. No sentiment? Why, the man is full of it, or I observed him very poorly, last night.") What he said was: "Sometimes it is the slow hound that catches the fox, you know."
"Meaning Maynadier?" laughed Plater.
"No one else is eligible, you say."
"I did not sayhewas eligible."
"But he is the only one who is given an opportunity—consequently, he must have a chance, if he care to take it."
"Pooh! He would be sent about his business as quickly as the next one, if he got sentimental. He is thefidus achates—he does not want to be more."
"I see—well, it is a rare man who can befidus achatesto a handsome woman, without wishing to be more."
"Still the cynic?" laughed Plater.
"Very much!—it is against human nature."
A little later, Parkington chanced upon Miss Marbury near the sun-dial, in the garden.
"I hear that Long-Sword has escaped," she said, "and that father refused to permit a search for him, is it true?"
"Yes—he said he was not going to have your house-party disturbed by chasing a pirate, who was trying his best to get away—that he has had enough of pirates."
"How like father!"
"Your father is a very sensible man."
She gave him an appreciative look, which was not lost on him.
"The way to her good opinion is to praise her father," he thought, but he did no more of it, then. Instead, he changed the subject.
"You forsook me last evening," he said; "at the very first opportunity you deserted."
"To the enemy? I thought I was being very loyal—Captain Herford is in his Majesty's service, you know."
"It was not a question of his Majesty's service—every man is a king, at such times."
"Pardon! sire, pardon!" she laughed. "I did not recognize your kingship."
"That is just the reason I am complaining—you should have recognized it."
"What is the penalty for treason?" she asked. "Do not make it too severe, sire."
"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 admitIam 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 Iwish,' 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 theother 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 isnot, many timesnot, in a woman."
"The men seem to like it," she answered.
He shook his head. "They likeyou—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 campaignagainst 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: "Imaybe wrong, and, if I am, you have the proving of it."
"And, meanwhile, what ofyourcampaign 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 thebags, 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.
Richard Maynadier remained for two days longer at Hedgely Hall, but he never was able to get Judith alone, however much he manœuvred. 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! Itmustbe 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 Icannotthink 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 himwith 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 arenota 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, taketoomuch," 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 handremain, 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 withMaynadier, 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, naïvely.
"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 thatshewas 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 earlytaking 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 shallhaveto 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 Idoknow 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."
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. (Shemust 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."
"Iwassurprised—that you should admit it."
She looked at him, puzzled. "I am afraid I donotunderstand," 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 kissedyou, 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 notwantto believe it," he said, after a pause.
"Thank you! but that is not enough; any friend would naturally notwantto 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 becauseIhad caughtyou—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.
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—whenhe 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 withsomething 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 notknow. 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?"