Sir Edward Parkington lay awake, for a long time that night, thinking. It was good sport, this posing as another man, and he had entered upon it much as he had entered upon all his escapades, for the fun of it—and the amusement of seeing himself received and accorded the welcome belonging to some one else.
And he had enjoyed it thoroughly, until yesterday. Then, the question suddenly presented itself!—if you are going to remain in America, how is this thing to end? What are you to be, when it is over—for it cannot last forever; it is sure to be found out; some one, who knew Sir Edward, in the flesh, or who knows you, will come upon you, and the truth will out. He might masquerade for a year, or two years even, scarcely longer—and, then, again, he might be detected, at any moment. He had not thought of the hazard—of the punishment that awaited when he assumed the impersonation. He saw only how easy it would be—a dead man, his letters, and the thing was done. But, once done, it was not so easy to undo it. The only way, was for Sir Edward Parkington to die a second time, and finally—and his body not be found. And that would necessitate his [Pg 89]disappearance—to a sufficiently distant city where his name and figure were not known: Boston—New York—Charleston.
He had heard of Charleston, as a particularly nice town—after Annapolis, the best in America. Of New York, he knew but little; of Boston, still less. Moreover, he preferred the warmth of the South, and the people, there, were said to be very hospitable. He had never heard that of New York, and he had a distinct recollection that Boston was reputed a most inhospitable town. Yes, he would choose Charleston—it was farther removed from the ways of travel, more isolated. There, he could put off his borrowed plumes and stand forth as his true self, and no one would be the wiser. He would leave Annapolis as Sir Edward Parkington, bound for Philadelphia. He would reach there another man; and the first ship which left that port, Southward-bound, would have him for a passenger. Yes, decidedly, it was the best way—when the time came for him to leave Annapolis.
There was no need for haste—he had the whole summer before him. It was not likely he would be found out before the late Autumn; it took a vessel nine weeks to make the voyage across. He had taken a strong liking for this Maryland, and her people, and the life they led. He thought he would like to lead it with them.
And this Marbury business was the right idea—if he had only come in his proper person. Well,[Pg 90] he had not, and it behooved him to make the best of it. Barring accidents, there was small chance of the impersonation being detected before October, and much could be accomplished in the interim. At least, he would have a good time, and the explanations could wait....
Yes, he would consider marriage with Judith Marbury, very seriously. She was good style, despite her birth, and her face and figure were much above the average. In fact, they were downright handsome—handsomer than any of the ladies he had met, except Miss Stirling—and Miss Stirling had no money—and was going back to England....
Of course, Miss Marbury might not take him for a husband—but that would develop later. He could make a flying start, at any rate. And he did not know whether he wanted her for wife; that, also, would develop later. All he knew now was, that the Marbury fortune was ample, and that Miss Marbury went with the fortune, in the nature of an additional prize.
He lay in the high tester-bed, with its flowered curtains draped around it, looking through the window at the moonlight on the trees and turf, and glinting on the distant river. The other men of the party were remitted to the bachelor quarters and had to double up. He was the special guest, and, as such, was given the main chamber, and permitted to occupy it alone. It was accorded to him, naturally, as his due, and he had not objected,[Pg 91] though he would have preferred being with the other young fellows in the wing. None of them, he noted, appeared to have intentions respecting Judith Marbury, and, consequently, he had a clear field. Besides, it would have given him the opportunity to get nearer to them, and, if they so wished, to instruct them in the art of cards.
He had, it is true, borrowed two hundred pounds from the Governor, which would be ample for some time, but if he intended to remain, even for a few months, he must pay it back in due season. If, however, he intended to stay only a short while, and then disappear, the paying back would be superfluous. Never pay anything, even if you have the money, was his rule of conduct; and, for long, he had been subsisting by it, and other people's credulity. It amounted to his father's credulity in the end, for he had been the one to always pay finally.
But his father had grown tired, at length, and a felony resulted, of which he was the victim. Then, to escape the debtors' prison on one hand, and prosecution, with but one end, on the other, he took his sire's money and advice, and under an assumed name departed, one fine night, for the Colonies. This name he again exchanged for Sir Edward Parkington in a manner heretofore noted. It had seemed very amusing at the time, but, now, he did not know what to do with it.....
He could not remain in Maryland (as he had, [Pg 92]suddenly, decided he would like to do) under it; he could not well court Miss Marbury under it; assuredly, he could not marry her under it (he was not quite graceless enough for that)—he could do nothing under it, except to stay a short time and, then, depart and disappear. And he could not lay it aside without an explanation—and that, with the shipwreck, the letters, and the dead man would likely put him in jail.... It was the very devil of a mess—and, the more he thought of it, the bigger mess it became.... Well, at any rate, it would do no harm to sit up to old Marbury, and try to win his good opinion. And, with this final idea in his mind, Sir Edward dropped asleep.
But his sleep was fitful and broken; when the clock on the landing chimed six, he arose, shaved and dressed himself, and went down stairs.
The servants were about, but none else, and, after wandering aimlessly through the house, he sauntered out on the front piazza. He could hear the song of the slaves from a distant tobacco field, the sharp order of some overseer, the call of the sailors, on the Patuxent, and the whistle of the boatswain's pipe. He would go down to the river; a fine pathway, a splendid avenue of trees, and an early May morning going to waste, he might as well make use of them until breakfast.
He arrived in time to see the schooner, which had brought them from Annapolis, hoist anchor and sail away down the river. A man, who was standing[Pg 93] on the dock giving orders, faced about and came toward him; he recognized old Marbury—in his servant's clothes.
"You are up betimes, Sir Edward," he called, heartily.
"I but honor the morning and the place," said Parkington. "Though, I confess, if I had not been wakeful, I likely would not have honored them for another hour."
The other nodded. "I dare say—you are not of the early risers by birth, and you have no occasion to learn by experience, as I have."
"I suppose we miss the best time of the day."
"Trash, all trash! you miss an hour or two that may be bright, but it is no brighter than the rest of a bright day—and if it happens to be dismal, it is the dismalest hour of the day. I am up mainly because I'm accustomed to it—it would not be natural for me to sleep late—I cannot do it."
"You get better work out of the men by it?" Parkington asked.
"Yes, oh, yes! There is nothing like the master's presence, or the possibility of it, to accomplish results."
And when Sir Edward smiled, he went on: "You think I have not broken my son to my way of doing? Very true. There is no need—he will not have to labor as I have done, the way is easy for him. It has ceased to be the custom for the master to be up with his slaves. Times change, and people[Pg 94] change with them. I have made the money—it will be George's work to live up to it, and to retain it."
"Much the easier part," commented Parkington.
"I'm not so sure," said Marbury. "Every man to his calling. I could not live up to it—in the aristocratic way, that is; I think George can. But, in doing it requires ability to retain it. Here is the uncertainty."
"It is safe so long as you live," Parkington observed.
"May be it is," was the answer, with a grim sort of smile; "but I look further ahead. You have heard my history?"
Sir Edward hesitated an instant: "Yes," he said, "I have heard it, as the Coffee-house knows it."
The other's smile broadened, lighting up his face and eyes, and wiping out their gaunt severity.
"The Coffee-house knows that I am a Redemptioner," he said—"that I served my five years—that, when my time of service was ended, I took my provision and went to Frederick—that I acquired some little wealth—that, six years ago, I came to Annapolis, and two years ago I bought this place. It was a rare stroke, buying this place! You have doubtless heard some other gossip, part true, part untrue. But what you have not heard, because none in the Colony knows it, is that my father came of a good family in England. He was wild and foolish, his people cut him adrift, [Pg 95]disinherited him. Our name is changed; I shall never claim the relationship. Under the new name I have prospered; it has served for my children; they are received in society. I have made my own way. I owe nothing to my immediate ancestors. I am the founder of my line. My son will have a goodly inheritance—my daughter an ample patrimony. I am satisfied." He stopped, and looked at Parkington, curiously: "Strange!" he said, "strange! that I should tell you this! I do not know whether it is because you are an English knight—or something about you which makes us seem akin (begging your pardon, sir, I mean in sympathy not in blood). It is the first time I have spoken of it—you will oblige me, by forgetting it."
Parkington inclined his head in acquiescence.
"It is forgotten," he said. "And it may be, there are more points of sympathy between us than you imagine. As it seems to me, in this new land, the aristocracy is one of wealth and culture, or culture and wealth, whichever way it come. You have provided the wealth, your son and daughter the culture."
"There is one thing more needed to make it secure," said Marbury:—"Marriage into the old families. When that is done, I am ready to die."
"You are ready to live, you mean."
"I mean what I said. Old Mr. Brewster was my master. When my time of service was ended, he sent for me. 'Here, Marbury, are the things[Pg 96] which the law compels me to give you,' he said. 'Take them. I understand you are going to Frederick. Stay there!—you may make some money, I fancy you will, but, don't imagine yourse............