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 yourself any better, if you do. don't come to annapolis and attempt to get into society, as some redemptioners have done—and failed. you don't belong, and we won't have you. you have been my servant, you can never be our equal.' i thanked him and departed, resolved to come back. that resolution has never faltered. but there was truth in what he said. i have been a servant, i can never be the equal of those who knew me as a servant. with my son and daughter it is different. they have to do with another generation, they never were servants—and," (with a smile) "they have the means of propitiation. they are far beyond me—my usefulness to them is ended, more, i am a positive hindrance. so, i would be content to go."
"man! man! you're morbid!" exclaimed parkington.—"how old are you?"
"sixty, last month."
"many men, at your age, have only started to live. let the young ones go their ways—the next generation will take them, fast enough. you prefer a quiet existence—very well, have it; it will not interfere with them. you have been living to yourself so long, with but one idea, that you have become obsessed by it. live now for your own enjoyment—forget all else."
[pg 97]
"when a man has lived his life for a single end, and, at sixty, has seen that end attained, there is not time to start with a new one. i am not morbid—on the contrary, i am supremely happy to have accomplished my life's aim, or nearly it. if i were convinced that my death is necessary to perfect success, i would be willing to die. that is what i mean, sir—that is what i hold to."
"and that is why you have won out!" exclaimed parkington. "you contemplated only success, never failure."
"no, i never thought of failure," said marbury; "it was not in the problem."
there was silence for a time. presently, the englishman spoke.
"since you have honored me, thus far," he said, "i am, i hope, committing no impropriety if i ask one question."
"ask on, sir," replied marbury, "i have told you what i have told no other—it will do no harm to tell you something more."
"you spoke of marriage," said parkington. "has anything been—arranged, as to either?"
"if you mean, have i picked out a mate for either?—no. and i think that they have not picked for themselves."
"miss marbury is a particularly fine girl—she should have suitors in plenty."
marbury did not answer.
"and young mr. marbury, as the future master[pg 98] of hedgely hall, if for nothing else, is a most desirable parti—and he is a mighty good fellow, besides."
"i think i can trust them," said marbury, quietly. "they may take their own time."
and parkington, fearing that he had gone a bit too far, made haste to change the subject.
marbury was a queer man, one of the peculiar temperament, likely, which, having no confidants and no intimates, will suddenly tell a life's secrets to a casual acquaintance, and then repent it forever after. true, he had not told him much that he could not have heard, any time, at the coffee-house, but that made small difference. it was the telling which he would regret, the burst of confidence, that was foreign to his nature—and for which he was likely to hold parkington responsible, or, at least, to distrust him, hereafter.
and this did not chime with parkington's idea. if he were going to pay court to the daughter, with any notion of matrimony, it were well not to have the father's ill will, especially, when it involved such a confession as he would have to make.
so he turned the talk into less personal channels—of the yield of tobacco, the manner of curing and packing it, the custom duties, and the varying prices which it brought in london. marbury talked freely and interestingly. it was his life's work, and no man in the province was more conversant with the subject and all its ramifications. he had[pg 99] grown tobacco, as servant and master, for thirty-five years; he could tell to a pound what his yields had been every year, what it had netted after the inspection duties were collected, and what his profits were. by the act of assembly, passed only three years before, tobacco was the staple currency of maryland—every officer, from governor down through the list, was paid in it, as were the clergy, and all large commercial transactions were conducted in warehouse receipts for inspected tobacco—in fact, no tobacco could be sold unless inspected and passed.
parkington was not especially interested in tobacco, but he pretended to be, and it served his purpose admirably. marbury seemed to forget his indiscretion of a short time ago, and, when they came to the house, he was still talking on tobacco.
"take me out to the fields, sometime," said parkington, "and show me more about it—of the cultivation, i mean."
"i will be glad to, sir, very glad, indeed. you will excuse me, now, i must dress for breakfast."
parkington sauntered to a nearby bench and sat down. he was not quite satisfied with the result of his early morning walk—he was not so sure it would not have been better to decline marbury's confidences. it might have been difficult to do, and it might have offended him, but, it would have been wiser, in the end. the offense could not have lasted, and, after the moment, marbury would[pg 100] thank him for it. as it was, he would likely hold it in mind. it was only human nature. of course, his being an englishman and a foreigner might prevent, but that was scarcely possible. his one chance was to regain marbury's confidence by showing great interest in the plantation, and all that concerned it. good—he would show it....
he glanced up, to see captain herford coming toward him.
"the top of the morning, to you, captain," he said; "i hope i see you well."
"i do not know how you see me," said the other, shortly. "it depends on your eyesight."
"and that tells me," said parkington, indifferently amused, "that you are out of sorts. better go down to the river and take a cold bath—there is nothing like a cold bath, herford, to put one in tune with the morning."
"you have tried it, i apprehend," ironically.
"no, there was no need—i am always in tune."
"and, hence, particularly able to look after those of us who are not," herford sneered. "has it ever occurred to you that it is a bit gratuitous?"
"yes!" said parkington, and laughed. "that is why i never do, unless they inflict themselves upon me. in plain words, herford, get in a good humor or get away. you intrude on my privacy—and the least you can do is to be pleasant.—your face, at present, does not harmonize with the landscape—it spoils the picture. pray, withdraw it!"
[pg 101]
the other looked at him, sourly, uncertain for the moment how to take him—then a surly smile overspread his face.
"the picture brightens!" exclaimed parkington. "let it grow, let it grow!"
"damn these black servants!" the captain broke out.—"laid out my gray suit instead of the dark blue, as i ordered, and was not around when i got up."
"you have got on the blue, i observe."
"yes—got it out myself; and he got my riding whip. they are all worthless, sir, damn worthless!"
"i dare say they are—but think of the satisfaction in being able to beat them. you work off your surplus feelings, and at no loss to yourself. a slave dare not leave you."
herford stared at him. "he is not my slave," he said; "he is one of old marbury's."
"oh! and yet you beat him?"
"certainly—you beat any slave who disobeys orders."
"is that the general practice?" parkington inquired.
"the general practice is to do as you wish with them," the other answered, sharply.
"but suppose marbury should not care to have his slaves beaten—what then?"
"then he has no business to assign one to me for a servant. oh, it is all understood—and, what[pg 102] is more, he will get another trouncing, if i mention it to the marburys."
parkington nodded. "i see," he said; "you have a way, here, we, of the old country, do not understand."
"you would understand it quick enough, if you lived here."
"and do you not ever try to manage them with kindness—do you whip them for every offense?"
herford shrugged his shoulders. "thank god! i do not own any—but, if i did——"
parkington smiled. "i take it, that the disposition to beat them is in the inverse ratio to the number owned."
"what?"
"i mean, that the more slaves one owns the less disposed he is to have them whipped. you, who confess to possessing none, are very ready to beat them all."
"are you trying to pick a quarrel with me?" the captain, demanded angrily.
"there you go, spoiling the picture again!" sir edward laughed. "i shall have to ask you to take your face—ah! here comes one who, assuredly, will not spoil the picture. bon jour, mademoiselle!" he called, springing up and going forward.
"what are you two men doing?" said miss stirling.—"why, captain herford, what ails you? your face is as glum as the lord chancellor's."
"it will be so no longer," herford answered.[pg 103] "even the lord chancellor's would reflect the presence of such a luminary."
she knitted her brows, as though perplexed. "by which, i infer, you mean, i am a luminary. is that complimentary?"
"it is—at least, it was, so intended."
"how very nice!" she exclaimed. "your compliments are so delicate, oftentimes go over my head—a lovely view, sir edward!" turning toward him.
"charming—charming!" said he, looking straight at her.
"i mean, there!" (pointing to the landscape).
"just what i was trying to impress on captain herford——"
"trying?" she echoed;—"surely, it took no trying."
"i am sorry to say it did—in fact, he steadily refused to see it."
she turned and looked, curiously, at herford.
"all of which means, that he is out of sorts," she said. "well, i decline to talk to a man who is out of humor on such a day. when you are willing to smile, and mean it, you may come back. au revoir, sir, au revoir."
