For more than six weeks, taken up entirely by his duties as one of the Council, Richard Maynadier remained in Annapolis or at country houses in the immediate vicinity;—Whitehall, the Governor's summer place, ten miles distant; at Belvoir, the Ross place on Wyatt's Ridge, up the Severn, overlooking the waters of Round Bay; at Tulip Hall, the Galloway place on West River; and at Montpelier, the Ridgely place, on the Savage.  
Governor Sharpe was having his troubles with the Lower House of the General Assembly over the Supply Bill, which he regarded as necessary in one form, and the law makers in another. The executive and the legislative minds would not meet, as to what was best for the well-being of the Colony, and, as a result, they were kept in session through the summer, and not suffered to adjourn. The Governor refused to prorogue them until they passed a Bill acceptable to him; they refused to pass such a Bill. A deadlock was the natural result—during which much unkind language was used, by the Representatives toward the Governor.
 
He, however, having sent them a message making evident his desires in this particular, was dignifiedly reserved. They knew what he wanted—when[Pg 234] he got it, or something near it, they could go home. If they went home, without being prorogued, those, who were in accord with him, would pass his Bill. He had the whiphand—he could afford to maintain a dignified reserve. Moreover, it was his nature.
 
Meanwhile, Sir Edward Parkington had spent one week with the Snowdens, and then, on their urging, had consented to remain three more. After which, he went to Sotterly, for a short visit, and then to Rousby Hall. In the first part of August, he was due at Whitehall, for an indefinite stay.
 
He had settled down, to a skilful courtship of Judith Marbury, the day they arrived at the Snowdens', and had continued, persistently, during the two weeks to which her visit had been prolonged. He had had—to him—several very satisfactory talks with old Marbury, just before he left Hedgely Hall, and he thought that all effect of the overflow of confidence, on the part of the latter, had been forgotten, and that he would welcome Sir Edward Parkington as a son-in-law. In fact, if he could have been assured of the daughter, he would have been entirely satisfied.
 
She was exasperatingly perplexing. She had been most responsive up to a certain point, but he could never get beyond. He had not tried to make love to her, deliberately and with evident purpose, but he stopped just short of it. And she, for her part, appeared to be flattered by the attentions of the cultured Englishman, and to receive them with[Pg 235] something more than a passing pleasure. Yet, behind it, there was a reserve—a something—which all his efforts had failed to penetrate.
 
At times, he thought she was deliberately trying to draw him on; then, again, that she was trying to stay him. It was very fascinating, very pretty, and very alluring, but it was certainly not satisfactory to him. She must love him, before he could confess the changed identity, and hope to hold her; for he had arrived at the conclusion, that Judith Marbury would marry only where she loved.
 
The nearest he came to love-making—and an incident worth narrating, because it touched him rather closely—occurred at the Snowdens'.
 
One day, the talk had turned on the general subject of those who had left the old country and settled in the new, under assumed names—the old ones being a trifle unhandy, either on account of the law, or for some other reasons. Parkington had had nothing to do with suggesting the topic—in fact, he joined them when it was well underway.
 
"For my part," said Herford, "I want nothing to do with the man who takes a false name. He is a rogue—you can gamble on it."
 
"You are a trifle too general," objected Constable. "You forget the object he may have in changing his name. Is it honest, or is it not?"
 
"Honest!" retorted the Captain. "Does not the very fact answer for itself. A false name! much honesty there is in that."
 
[Pg 236]
 
"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——"
 
[Pg 237]
 
"Which you have turned into a personal question."
 
"Then I will change it. How do I know, that the original Constable, in America, did not go under some other name in England.—I don't—you don't—no one knows. We take each other on faith, the only difference with us is, that the faith extends back over a generation or two." He glanced around him. Miss Marbury was not in hearing. "There is old Marbury, for instance. He is new. How do we know his name is Marbury? He says it is—so far as we are informed, he has always said it is, but we do not know. We take him on faith. We take almost every one on faith. Is it not so, Parkington?"
 
"Undoubtedly," was the answer. "The only advantage we, of England, have is a few more generations."
 
"A few more generations!" exclaimed Herford. "You, who have them can afford to be indifferent. It is we, who have only one, or two, or, at the most, three who have to be careful."
 
"I do not quite grasp your point," said Parkington.
 
"It is plain as I can make it," was the retort.
 
"That may be true," returned Parkington, with an amused smile, "but, nevertheless, I fail to comprehend."
 
"Take your time to it, then," Herford answered, with a shrug, "it will come to you, presently,"[Pg 238] 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.
 
[Pg 239]
 
"Sir Edward, I want to ask you something—and I want you to give me a true answer," she said.
 
"I always strive to make true answer to you," he replied.
 
"Do you? Well, I am not so sure. However, be truthful now, and I forgive the past." She turned and faced him. "What were Mr. Constable and Captain Herford and you discussing a little while ago?"
 
"Many things," he answered—"sort of a desultory gossip without point."
 
"And among the 'things' were the Marburys. Mr. Constable was talking. He said: 'Old Marbury, for instance. He is new. How do we know his name is Marbury? He says it is, but we do not know.' I did not hear more—I could not help that I heard so much. I was passing behind the hedge, and his words came to me, before I could realize they were not for my ears."
 
"My dear Miss Marbury, he was only citing an instance to prove a general proposition!" Parkington exclaimed. "We were not discussing any one. Had you heard the last of his remarks, you would have understood. They were, 'we take almost every one on faith.' I am sure——"
 
"I am not sensitive," she interrupted. "I know we are new people—that my father is the founder of his family—that we have to stand, George and I, on our own merits, and father's money. I have great faith in the latter, Sir Edward!" she laughed.[Pg 240] "It will get me a husband from among the aristocrats of the Province, if I wish it."
 
"It will do more—it and your sweetness will get you a husband from the gentlemen of England," he said, with a meaning look and a low bow.
 
"If I went to London, and hawked myself around for sale, maybe," she answered, deliberately misunderstanding him.
 
"Why go so far, my lady?" he asked.
 
This time, there was no misunderstanding possible, but she still continued to treat it as impersonal.
 
"No," she said, with a shake of her head, "that would be unnecessarily difficult for the man—he would have to prove too much; and the further removed the proofs are from America, the more they are required."
 
"But if the man thought nothing of the difficulty?" he asked.
 
"I should be severe!" she laughed. "I should want to be assured, first, of his good faith."
 
He bowed.
 
"And of his family's willingness, if I were to go to England."
 
"Suppose you did not have to go to England—suppose that he remained here?"
 
"It is not supposable," she answered.
 
"But if it were?" he insisted.
 
"Then, it would be eliminated."
 
"And what else would he have to prove?"
 
[Pg 241]
 
"He would have to prove," she answered, slowly, "that he has a right to the name he bears."
 
Though she was watching him closely, he gave not the slightest indication of surprise.
 
"Would that not be most unusual," he said—"to require a man to prove that he is not an impostor? Is not the presumption with him instead of against him—unless, of course, something has aroused your suspicions?"
 
"Yes!" was the vague reply, that told him nothing, and let him think anything. "And, then, after he had done all these things, Sir Edward, he would have to make me love him."
 
"My dear Miss Marbury," said Parkington, with an amused smile, "when you admit the love element all else departs."
 
"I should not love him until he had complied with the conditions."
 
"You would coerce love?" he asked.
 
"I should try," she answered, after a little pause.
 
His hand found hers, as though by accident, and she let it linger for an instant, before she took her own away. Then, she said:
 
"Sometimes, Sir Edward, I fancy you are inclined to play at making love to me just to keep your hand in!" and, with a merry laugh, fled.
 
In the first week of August, Sir Edward Parkington came to Annapolis to stay with Governor[Pg 242] Sharpe, preparatory to going with him to Whitehall.
 
He promptly returned the two hundred pounds, his Excellency had lent him earlier in the season; the card tables had yielded very good pickings from his fellow guests, and no need for any exercise of his particular skill, either, his natural ability, and Dame Fortune, having been ample for success.
 
The Governor and the Lower House had reached an agreement as to the Supply Bill, at last, and the Assembly was scheduled to be prorogued on the morrow. The town was filled with those who usually attend the last hours of any legislative body:—the officers of the Provincial Government, the Councillors, the Representatives, the hangers on, the spoilsmen and the riff-raff. Otherwise, Annapolis was deserted.
 
The heated spell was at its height, and the gentility had, long since, sought the cool and quiet of their country estates, along the Eastern and Western Shores. The Governor's house was open, with its usual retinue of servants, but it was alone in its grandeur. The rest showed only a single light at night, and a solitary servant, left to care for the man of the family who was in presence. They, too, would vanish on the morrow, and Annapolis would, so far as the sacred precincts of the quality were concerned, become a dead city, until Autumn touched it again to life.
 
It............