The tale of the capsized canoe was at the Coffee-house, that evening, in advance of them. Among the young men, the opinion was that it was worth a wetting to be rescued by the Governor's niece and her companions. The older heads were not so sure; and some were for rating George Marbury, soundly, for exposing one, who could know nothing of the danger, to the perils of so hazardous a craft.  
But Parkington, himself, soon set the matter right and took the burden on himself. He had gone, he said, fully warned of the risk, and accepted the result as his due—very much his due, since the overturning had been brought about by his own carelessness in shifting his weight. This, young Marbury had, of course, denied; and, there, it rested—though there were those who, considering the skill of the one, and the lack of it in the other, could place the responsibility, and, however it was, neither of them lost in public esteem by the incident.
 
The next few weeks passed quickly enough. Sir Edward was the guest, in turn, of every one in town, who pretended to gentility. He dined, among others, at the Carrolls', the Brices', the Ogles', and the Scotts'; he supped with the Worthingtons, the Ridouts, and the Bordleys; he attended a rout[Pg 60] at Daniel Dulany's, and an evening affair given for him by the Governor, where he was presented to the best that the Province could boast. Incidentally, he borrowed two hundred pounds from his Excellency.
 
He held his own at lou, bluff and piquet, he drank moderately and with judgment; he paid his share, always, and a bit besides; the clothes, which Pinkney, the tailor, provided, while rich and fine were neither unduly expensive or noticeably ornate. Among a set of young men, who were noted for the lavishness of their attire, his was modest and conservative. In short, among the men there was not a more popular man in Annapolis.
 
With the fair sex, he was discriminating and impartial in his attention. Naturally, as especially committed by Lord Baltimore to the good offices of his Excellency, these were bestowed in particular on the Governor's niece—and with that no fault could be found—otherwise, they were weighed to a nicety. If he led Miss Falconer through the minuet, he contrived to show himself among Miss Tyler's most devoted; if he chanced to sit beside Miss Paca at dinner, he took care to see that due court was paid to Miss Jennings; and, so, through the list. And, withal, with such skill, that never did he appear as doing it of intention—in fine, he made friends with them all, a thing hard to manage, where one is the most sought after in the town.
 
Early June saw the Marbury house-party [Pg 61]assembled at Hedgely Hall. They went by water, from Annapolis, in their host's own schooner, and landed directly at the plantation on the Patuxent River. There had been few declinations, and these only by men who were held in the Capital by business. The ladies included Miss Stirling, Miss Fordyce, Miss Tyler, Miss Jennings, the men, Sir Edward Parkington, Mr. Paca, Mr. Worthington, Mr. Constable, Captain Herford; in addition, the Platers, who had been recently married were to come from Sotterly, a short distance away, and the Snowdens from Montpelier.
 
Hedgely Hall was one of the handsomest places in Maryland. Rebuilt by John Hedgely, as a wedding gift to his bride, she had barely entered its doors when a fatal illness seized her and she died. He never married again, (though there were many damsels willing) and persisted in declining all office under the government. He had no town house, and rarely resorted to Annapolis. When he did, it was for a very brief time. He devoted himself to his estate, and lavished on it his care and affection. When he died, and his executors came to take account, it was discovered that he had also lavished on it most of his fortune. This, with the further fact that his next heir was a cousin in Virginia, with a plantation of his own, and nothing to make him abandon it in favor of an inheritance on the Patuxent, led to its sale.
 
And Henry Marbury, having the ready cash,[Pg 62] coupled with an ardent desire to acquire, became the purchaser. In justice to him, let it be understood, that he sought not to enter the great world. He bought it for his son, and a fitting place from which his daughter could be married. He hoped that she would marry above her class; he proposed that she should, if money could effect it; but he knew, in his shrewd, hard-headed way, that much of the success of his plans rested upon the girl herself. As for George, he looked to him to marry well and found a family. He himself was an outsider, and always would be. George was to be the first of the new line—the Marbury, of Hedgely Hall.
 
It is astonishing what the possession of a country-seat of known fame will make for gentility, even where one has small claim. And George Marbury and his sister Judith had the ways and appearance of the gentle-born. Somewhere, in the past, a forebear must have been of the class.
 
As for the Hall itself: the approach was by a great avenue, a hundred and twenty feet wide, lined on either side by tulip and poplar trees, that extended from the Patuxent, half a mile away. The house was of English brick, large and square, with wings which served for offices and bachelor quarters, the kitchen and the store rooms. A huge hall ran directly through it, with the drawing room on the right, the library and dining room on the left. The walls were of wood, panelled and done in[Pg 63] white, and covered with paintings and portraits (the latter, alas, not of the Marburys, but of Hedgelys dead and gone). The ceiling, doors, window-frames and mantels were carved in arabesque. Behind the dining-room, and opening from it, was a huge conservatory. Back of the house, or in front, if you choose, for these houses had no rear, was a long sweep of velvety lawn, dropping away in terrace on terrace, with hedges of box and privet, and beds of roses, lilies of the valley and lavender scattered among daffodils, heart's ease, cowslip and jonquils. Beyond lay the park, with great trees, reaching as far as the eye could see. Two thousand acres and more was the Hall's domain, of tobacco and wheat fields, meadow and orchard, all cultivated with a thoroughness which old Marbury had learned, in the lean years, when he was struggling upward to wealth.
 
As for old Marbury, himself, he was not exactly what Miss Tyler had termed, "impossible." Difficult was nearer the proper term. He was brusque of manner and sparing of words, and his ways were not engaging, but, underneath, was a kindly spirit and an honest heart. He would not have shone amid the wits of the Coffee-house (had he ever ventured there), nor did he at his own board, after the cloth was gone and the wine was on. And he knew it, and was silent—or, as was generally the case, he retired, and George took his place at the head of the table.
 
[Pg 64]
 
And, as old Marbury did, so did his wife. They were well mated. The affairs of the household, and the more onerous duties, she assumed and executed, the lighter graces were laid on Judith's shoulders. And, to their credit, be it said, that no host or hostess in Annapolis was more at ease, or had more of the savoir faire, and knew how to use it, than this son and daughter of the Redemptioner.
 
And, now, was their test:—asking guests for dinner or supper was vastly different from having them in the house for a week. This party marked their first appearance, in a social sense, among the landed families of the Province.
 
They had arrived at Hedgely Hall two hours before supper; the ladies retired to their rooms to rest, the men to whatever place pleased their fancy. It was a sultry day in May, when the first heat of the coming summer seems doubly warm.
 
Martha Stirling had been sitting by her window, which gave view of the garden and park, idly drumming on the sill, her thoughts of Sir Edward Parkington. She had seen much of him in the last few weeks. She was debating whether it was wise to see so much of him in the future. He was, to be sure, vouched for by Lord Baltimore, which might stand with the Governor and the men, but was not especially in his favor so far as the gentle sex was concerned. Not that there was the slightest ground for suspicion—on the contrary, his conduct had been most circumspect. But was it well to[Pg 65] favor him when there were so many who sought her? For, with him at her side, there came a restraint upon the rest, a deference to the stranger of rank. She could not play him off against the others, nor them against him. She had tried it, many times, and always with the same result—failure. He either dominated the situation or else eliminated himself entirely. In either case, he was the victor—and a victor, seemingly, all unconscious of it. The man was tantalizingly fascinating. He could do everything well: fence, dance, play cards, make love, talk sense or nonsense. And with it all, he was handsome as the devil—and might be the devil, for all she knew—or the Governor knew. Why, they did not know even whether or not he was married!
 
She stopped, amazed. So far, as she was aware, no one had ever thought about it,—they had assumed that he was unmarried—and he had let them assume it. Was he a blackguard, or was he a gentleman? She paused, and, in her mind, ran back over the occurrences of the last few weeks. No, blackguard he was not. He had gone as far with her as with any one—farther, doubtless—and, despite a certain gallantry, he had not transgressed beyond the bound, even if he were married—and, surely, a little could be excused a man, travelling alone, in a foreign land.
 
She wondered if Mr. Paca knew, or Mr. Worthington, or George Marbury—or any of their party. She beat a tattoo on the window ledge and reflected.[Pg 66]—She would make it her business to ascertain. The more she thought of it, the more she wanted to know.
 
Just then she discerned Parkington, himself, emerging from among the trees of the park. He was coming slowly, his head on his breast, his walking stick trailing behind. Presently, he stopped, cast a quick glance toward the house, and, apparently seeing no one, crossed to the shadow of a bush and flung himself on the turf.
 
Instantly, Miss Stirling arose. She was dressed for the evening, but, womanlike, she cast a last look in the mirror, pressed both hands to her hair, took a final dash of perfume, and went down stairs and out. She was going to find out from him.
 
She was quite sure, indeed, it seemed the easiest thing in the world to ask him the simple question—until she came up to it—then, she was not so sure, nor did it appear so easy. In fact, it was distinctly not easy—it was to be approached gradually, and by indirection—and, may be, not to be arrived at that afternoon. It was not so simple a question: are you married?—at least, not when Sir Edward Parkington was concerned. He had a way about him that did not encourage familiarity; a certain set look of the mouth, a gleam of the eye—and the subject was pursued no further.
 
The turf deadened her footsteps, and she stood, for a moment, looking down upon him, before he[Pg 67] raised his eyes. Instantly, he was up and bowing low.
 
"Your pardon," he said; "I was dreaming; I did not hear you."
 
"Dreaming—of what?" she asked.
 
"Of nothing. Dreams that were without form or color."
 
"Can one dream nothing?" she inquired, knowing well he equivocated—there had been a frown on his face as she approached.
 
"One always dreams nothing—'such stuff as dreams are made of.' Moreover, the place and the hour impel it," and he swung his hand around him.
 
"It is a fine old place," she said, seeing he would shift the talk.
 
He nodded. "A fine place, though I should not call it old, at least, to us English."
 
"All things are relative; it is old to this country, which is new. Just as you are Sir Edward Parkington and a great man, here."
 
"While in England, you mean," he laughed, "I am only one of a vast number—an insignificant atom among the nobility."
 
"Yes—and I, that am not even noble, am, here, the toast of a Province."
 
"In which England joins!" with a bow.
 
"I was proving a proposition, sir, not seeking a compliment."
 
"It is proven," he said. "One will admit anything, grant anything, on such an afternoon as this,[Pg 68] and with such surroundings; I would give a man my last shilling, a woman—if she were pretty—my—my soul."
 
"The usual way—the man would get something, the woman nothing. No woman wants your soul, even were it yours to give."
 
"Or even if I had a soul," he appended.
 
"Oh, no!" she said. "You do not get me to arguing on that topic. No one knows, so every one believes what his conscience dictates. I am orthodox, and go along with the Church. I do not care what you believe, and I do not want to know. So far as I am concerned, every one can take care of his own hereafter—he alone will have to pay penalty, if he is in error."
 
He listened with a curious smile. "A bit advanced, my lady, for all your orthodoxy. You best not tell your views abroad."
 
"My views are for myself, alone. We women are supposed to have none—to stay put, as it were—and I am going to stay put; but I shall think what I please." She shrugged her shoulders, and laughed. "Goodness! what turned the talk to religion—neither of us has any to speak of."
 
"And, hence, we may safely discuss it without offense to either—it is believers only who are intolerants."
 
She held up her hands in protest. "No more, I thank you. Let us find a pleasanter topic....[Pg 69] I heard you were leaving us very soon—for Philadelphia. Is it so?"
 
"This is the first I knew of it. Who told you?"
 
She affected to think. "I, really, cannot remember. Some one, in Annapolis, but who it was I do not know."
 
"Because it interested you so little."
 
"No—because I thought you would have told me, were it true. Yet, why should you not be moving on—one does not visit America to see only one place?"
 
"No, I suppose not; I must move on, sometime, but I am in no haste, I assure you. I came to America, intending to loiter indefinitely." There was a queer smile on his face. He was thinking of his father's parting admonition.
 
She did not observe the smile—and it would have conveyed nothing to her if she had. She was occupied with his words. "Intending to loiter indefinitely" did not smack of a wife, left behind in England—unless—unless the wife were the cause of his indefinite loiter.
 
"You have a complaisant family," she remarked.
 
"Yes!" he said, and laughed; "yes, I have a very complaisant family." Then he abruptly changed the subject.—"Shall we walk in the park, or do you prefer the esplanade—or shall we walk, at all?"
 
"The esplanade, by all means," she said, not[Pg 70] daring to venture an immediate return to the subject.
 
For it was evident that he had deliberately veered, and, as she had assumed to treat him, hitherto, as unmarried, she might not, now, shift her attitude without just cause. And she had no cause—not even a suspicion that was based on anything. Moreover, for her to question it, now, would be inexcusable, and, if she were wrong, would cause a break in their friendship. And that she was not prepared to chance. In fact, at the present moment, she did not know whether she preferred Sir Edward Parkington or Richard Maynadier. The one was a great catch and a charming man, but he was an American—and, besides, was not sufficiently responsive to her charms; the other was a Britisher, but, she feared, was not for her, who could bring no fortune with her.
 
She stole a glance at her companion. He was slowly plucking to pieces a rose.
 
"What are you doing?" she asked.
 
"Testing your affection:—love me, love me not; love me—shall I continue."
 
"Pray do," she said; "I am curious to know the answer."
 
"It is undecided, then?" banteringly.
 
"Yes—sometimes I do, and sometimes I do not, and sometimes—I am in a state of equipoise. Let the rose tell what it is, at present."
 
"Nay: if you are not constant, the message has[Pg 71] no merit—begone!" and he tossed the flower from him. "Ho, fellow!" to a man in servant's clothes, who was passing at a little distance, "I forgot my walking-stick; you will find it by yonder bush—fetch it."
 
The man glanced up, hesitated the fraction of a second, then a smile passed over his face, and he acquiesced.
 
"Very well, sir," he answered, and went on.
 
The voice was deep and full, as of one accustomed to giving orders rather than receiving them.
 
Miss Stirling stopped, stared—and, then, went swiftly in pursuit. Parkington watched her in surprise.
 
"Mr. Marbury!" she called. "Mr. Marbury!"
 
The tall figure, in osnaburg breeches and shirt, heavy shoes and coarse worsted stockings, swung around, and laughed.
 
"I trust you are well, Miss Stirling," he said—"Oh," as she began to explain for Sir Edward—"it is not the first time I have been taken for one of my own servants, and besides I come by it honestly. The feathers made the birds, Miss.—Sir Edward Parkington, I presume; I have heard my son speak of you," and he held out a hand that bore all the evidences of toil and hardship, and that was, distinctly, not the hand of a gentleman.
 
"I am delighted to meet you, Mr. Marbury," said Parkington. "This is——
 
"But you did not expect to meet me in such[Pg 72] clothes, hey?" with a quiet little chuckle. "Well, you see, I'm more at home in them. You were saying that this is——"
 
"A magnificent place—quite the finest I have seen in America."
 
It was a particular happy speech. Next to his son and daughter, Hedgely Hall was his pride.
 
"That it is, sir, that it is!" he exclaimed. "There is none finer to the Northward, and few to the Southward—except it be Westover, or Shirley, and one or two in South Carolina—at least, so my ship captains tell me; I have never seen them for myself. It will be a fine estate for George—Marbury of Hedgely Hall is better than a Marbury of Frederick-Town. Make yourself at home, sir, make yourself at home. Supper is at seven o'clock. I must get out of these clothes before then—the family doesn't like 'em. I will send your stick after you, sir."
 
"I beg of you, Mr. Marbury, not to bother!" Parkington exclaimed. "It can wait until——"
 
But a wave of the hand was the only answer, as he passed out of hearing up the avenue. The other looked after him thoughtfully.
 
"So, that is Marbury, the elder!" he said. "I think I want to see more of him—a very interesting character." He turned to Miss Stirling, and swept her his most profound bow. "Your pardon, mademoiselle! Shall we continue the walk?"