At supper, that evening, every one sat where he wished. They went in without regard to precedence, and Sir Edward found himself between Miss Tyler and Miss Marbury, the latter taking the place of her mother, who was indisposed.

Old Marbury was at the head of the table. He had changed his servant's apparel for a quiet suit of black, his iron gray hair was unpowdered and unbagged, but was tied at his neck with a narrow ribbon. His greeting to the guests had been purely formal; and, now, he cut and served the roast ham in silence, and passed the plates to Joshua, the negro butler. He, in turn, passed them on to an assistant, who carried them to the opposite end of the table, where Miss Judith presided over the fried chicken. There was hot bread of various sorts, preserves, pickles, and two kinds of sweets, all placed on the table; in addition, there was tea and coffee, and great pitchers of milk on the side table.

As for servants, there were five, beside Joshua, to wait; he did nothing but stand behind the master's chair and oversee. And sorry was the negro who failed to anticipate the wants of a guest—old Joshua's eye detected it, and he reckoned, later, with the culprit. He was a belonging of the Hedgelys, taken with the place and well befitting it. Marbury had bought him, with the goods and chattels of the deceased owner—just as he had bought hundreds of others—at the market price. Only, Joshua's price was higher than the others.

He had remained as butler; no one thought of supplanting him, and, so far as his domain extended, things were done as the Hedgelys had done them. Indeed, he even persisted in wearing the green and gold of his late owner; and old Marbury, after a moment's hesitation, had given him his way, and had taken over the Hedgely colors, as well as the Hedgely estate. And, in time, he was allowed full sway about the place, for he knew what, and when, and how, and the Marburys did not. Marbury himself was too occupied to learn, even if he could, Mrs. Marbury was content to leave such things to the children, and George and Judith, seeing that the old slave was competent and faithful, did not interfere.

It had been a sore trial for Joshua, this serving of the Redemptioner, where hitherto a Hedgely had ruled,—all in the colony knew what Henry Marbury had been and whence he came—but there was no alternative. Well was it for him, that the new master had not seen fit to put another in his place, and him into the tobacco fields. And, at first, the service had been unwilling and grudgingly (not publicly, but at heart—he knew too well the punishment that awaited the shirking servant). But, as the days passed, and he saw that Marbury was given to silence, and that to Miss Judith and Mr. George were left the control of the house, he regained his spirits, and came to serve them even as he did the old master.

The Marburys could never forget the Hedgelys, however. They sat under their portraits at meal time and in the drawing room, their arms shone on the china and the silver. Many would have banished the portraits, got new china, and had the escutcheon removed from the silver. They would have torn down everything that reminded of their newness. Not so with Marbury. He let them remain, nay, rather he conserved them. Marbury is new, he said, all Maryland knows it, therefore preserve what the Hedgelys left. The more we exalt the latter, the better for us. If we do not allow them to be forgotten, we shall gain in the estimation of the old families, whose good opinion it is worth while to have. Get all the benefit of their reflected glory, it is an asset of their estate which you have purchased, you are entitled to it, and, if not neglected, it will yield good returns.

And he was not mistaken. It soon became known that the Marburys were making no effort to suppress the past. They would not change the name of the estate, all the old servants were to be retained, all the old customs followed, even the silver and china were preserved, the portraits on the walls. The Hall was as the Hedgelys had left it—and more:—it was better cultivated, and better administered, and better kept. Society, at first hostile to the new family, gradually grew quiescent—it would wait and see. It could never accept Henry Marbury (as he well knew); but, as for the next generation? They had the money, would they acquire the savoir faire.

Henry Marbury understood what was in society's mind. His answer was to buy a home in Annapolis—but he never obtruded himself. He was a liberal subscriber to the church and to the lotteries, and whatever he won in the latter was given to the former. God save him!

Meanwhile, George was sent to King William's School, where he met all the sons of the aristocracy, and, having stood the test, was received as one of them. Judith was given a private tutor, a maid, and a coach; and, somehow, she too came, eventually, to know the sisters of the boys her brother knew. The rest was easy:—money—enough money not to spoil them, and make them undesirable companions.

And it won—as it always will, where position depends on a campaign well managed, and an engaging personality.

All this, Sir Edward had heard, by dribs, at the Coffee-house and elsewhere. He had been curious to meet the man who had planned it, and had seen it through, effacing himself that it might succeed. For that it had succeeded the present gathering guaranteed. George and Judith Marbury were in society, and safely in; thereafter, it depended on themselves whether they would stay in. The next thing was marriage. Sir Edward's glance passed slowly around the table. Yes, they would any of them do, any one in the Colony, in fact. George Marbury was undoubtedly handsome, of a fine figure, tall and supple, with an air about him which ordinarily comes only from generations of ancestors. And Judith had a certain ease and stateliness of bearing, which was the feminine counterpart of her brother's.

He let his eyes rest covertly on her. Broken in fortune, with no money save what he made, he might have married her, and helped conserve the Marbury fortune—might have learned to oversee a tobacco plantation, to raise wheat, to trade in slaves and bond-servants. In short, he might have led a respectable life, here, in Maryland, and settled down as a thrifty and sedate landed proprietor. That is, assuming that the girl would have him, and the silent figure, at the head of the table, offered no serious opposition.

He saw his mistake, now. He should have held to his own name, and the little money he had. As he might not return to England, he should have announced that he had come to America to settle, to grow up with the country. Instead, he had stolen another man's name and title, had set himself up to impersonate him, had used his letters of introduction, had been received, and was, at that very moment, to all intents and purposes, Sir Edward Parkington.

It was too late, now, to retract. He had burned his bridges behind him. He was known the province over, nay into Virginia and Pennsylvania, too; for he had met representative men from both Colonies at the races, and they had made much of him—the traveller for pleasure. To admit, now, that he was not Parkington, but, instead, a disinherited son, with a few pounds to his credit and no character, would be worse than folly—it would be madness. What of his story of shipwreck—how came he by the letters of introduction—did Parkington die by the waves or by murder? Assuredly, he had made a mess of it....

Of course—of course, he could marry the girl, or make a try for her, still masquerading as Sir Edward, and trust to luck, and the Marbury money to find a way out. The main objection to this scheme was that, for all he knew, Parkington was already married, and while he might purloin his reception and welcome, yet to cause him to commit bigamy, was a little too much risk. Naturally, since he himself was unmarried, there would be no bigamy, but to espouse a woman—a good woman—under another man's name! even he balked.

He had played the bachelor thus far, and he hoped it was according to the fact; at least, no one had questioned it, to his knowledge. But, this afternoon, he thought he had detected some such purpose in Miss Stirling's manner—a faint doubting. He had led quickly away, and she had made no attempt to return to it. Possibly, he had been mistaken—it might well be that he was. But, at all events, the question confronted him, and doubtless would have to be answered, sometime. He was——

"Is anything the matter with the chicken, Sir Edward!"

The last words caught his ears. "I beg your pardon, Miss Marbury," he said; "did you ask me a question?"

"I asked whether anything was the matter with the chicken?" she replied; "you have been frowning at your plate, for at least a minute—or is it the ham?"

"Was I frowning?" he laughed; "well, rest assured it was not at either the chicken or the ham—they are delicious. I suppose it is very impolite, but my thoughts had gone back to England and——" he made an expressive gesture. "Amid the most delightful surroundings, home will suddenly obtrude. I promise not to offend again."

"'Twas a grievous offense," she smiled,—"particularly for a traveller—an omen that we shall soon lose you. N'est ce pas, monsieur?"

"It is not, assuredly not. I have no thought of departing. On the contrary, I have but begun to enjoy my stay. I may become a Marylander, yet, who knows?"

The smile rippled into a laugh. "You flatter us too much, Sir Edward—oh! too much!"

"I flatter not at all—I mean it."

"Is this a sudden notion—I thought you travelled for your pleasure?"

"And so I do—solely, for my pleasure. Perchance, my pleasure is to remain—I do not know."

She refused to take him seriously. "Have you advised your friends in England of this new idea?"

He shook his head. "You are the first to know it."

"Because the idea was, this moment, born?"

"You do not believe me."

"You do not believe, yourself."

"But you would receive me?"

"Assuredly, we would receive you—we would do more, we would welcome you."

"Then I warn you that I may remain."

"What nonsense!" she exclaimed. "A London gentleman come here to live—settle down to the humdrum life of a Colonist!"

"There may be compensations."

"What compensations?"

"Leading a quiet existence, for one thing."

"No need to cross the Atlantic for that," she said. "You can lead a quiet existence on your country estate—stay away from London."

"The social life is very charming," he continued.

"Granted—for Maryland, but only a miniature of the life you have at home."

"And your women," he went on, "your women are fascinating."

"Some men are so gallant!"

"Peste!" he said, "you will not be convinced—not even that I should have a good excuse for staying."

"No good excuse, in comparison, with what you would be losing—and" (very sweetly) "I take you to be a gentleman of excellent judgment."

"What are you two quarreling about—what will Miss Marbury not be convinced of?" Miss Tyler broke in.

"That your Maryland has anything to offer a man—a man who had lived all his life in England," said Parkington.

"It would depend much on the man."

Sir Edward nodded. "Suppose we were discussing myself.

"You? oh, la!" and went into a gale of laughter.

"Evidently you are not convinced," Parkington observed.

"Surely, you are not serious?" she demanded.

"Not if every one is as enthusiastic as Miss Tyler and Miss Marbury," said Parkington, with affected indignation.

Captain Herford, across the table, had been attracted by the merriment; now he broke in.

"I say, what is the enthusiasm—what is it?"

"The ebullitions of a quiet spirit," said Parkington, quickly.

"Oh, is that all?" Herford rejoined. "I thought, from Miss Tyler's quiet laugh, that it was the ebullitions of a ghost."

"You were not asked to think anything about it," Miss Tyler retorted. "Stay on your own side of the table, will you?"

"Bravo!" cried Parkington. "Come again, Captain Herford, come again!"

Herford shook his head. "The lady is in a bit of a temper. I best wait until the storm subsides," he said, and turned away indifferently.

"There is something about that man which always gets on my nerves," Miss Tyler remarked, lowering her voice. "I do not know what it is, and I reckon I should not let it affect me, but it does."

"Cultivate the placid disposition," Miss Marbury recommended.

"Oh, that is very well for you to say, but it is not easy to do. You have not any nerves,—you would not get excited if the house were burning."

"Do not try me, I beg of you!" laughed Judith. "I would be sure to carry down all the pillows, and to throw the chinaware out the second story windows."

"Well, I only wish I had your placidity—not to be always on edge. There is nothing the matter with Captain Herford, I suppose; I just take him wrong.—I always have. But, frankly, Judith, he is not to my liking—though I should not say it to you, the hostess."

Judith Marbury made a little motion of indifference. "Say anything you like, my dear; he is George's guest, not mine."

"You do not like him, either?"

"I neither like nor dislike him—I am totally indifferent."

"But you are always nice to him!—however, you are always nice to every one. Has he ever tried to make love to you?"

"Oh, yes! he has tried it with all the girls. At present, he is mad about Martha Stirling."

"Half the men of the Province are mad about her—and with just cause, too, I grant. But they will get over it—the minute the ship, that bears her back to England, passes Greenbury Point."

"You think that none of them could persuade her to remain?"

"It is as unlikely as that Sir Edward himself will remain."

"Governor Sharpe has bought Whitehall;"—Miss Marbury objected—"he will become one of us when his term expires."

"But his niece will not," said Miss Tyler. "He seeks rest and ease, she pleasure and excitement."

"I can find plenty of pleasure and excitement in Maryland."

"And so can I—but not of the sort she would have. It is all in what you have been used to. Maryland is agreeable enough for a few months, but she will want something else for steady diet. She has beauty and fascination, and they bring a higher price in England than in America."

"Is the lady, then, for sale?" inquired Parkington.

"We all are for sale, the only question is the price you pay."

"Edith!" exclaimed Miss Marbury—"where, in Heaven's name, did you get such notions?"

"Here in Maryland—every girl prefers a man with money or prominence—you do, I do, we all do. Unless he has one or the other, he is not even considered as a possible husband—isn't it so!"

"No—at least, I think, I am not for sale. Does love play no part in the compact?"

"As you wish—you can love him or not. Given a rich or prominent suitor, and one possessing neither, which would you love, think you?"

"All things being equal otherwise?"

"Not necessarily—the poor one may be much the better looking—and of a more amiable disposition."

"I cannot answer," said Miss Marbury; "I would have to see them to choose—wealth and prominence are in one's favor, but so also is a handsome person and an amiable disposition—and then, after all, I fancy, I should let love decide."

"But if you love neither?"

"Then, I reckon, I should marry neither," Miss Marbury answered.

"Well, you for it!" said Miss Tyler, with a shrug, "but, for my part, love has nothing to do with it. And if it has, it is quite as easy to love the rich man as poor man, and much more sensible in the end."

"In effect, you would sell yourself for money?"

"And you would sell yourself for love; it is all the same—only, your consideration rarely lasts: the man makes no effort to keep it. It is different with money, vastly different."

"I fear we are making a poor impression on Sir Edward," said Miss Marbury. "He will think you mercenary, and me a sentimentalist."

"He flung the bone—he is responsible!" Miss Tyler laughed.

"I did," said he—"and I was vastly entertained. Shall I fling another?"

"Not this evening, my good sir," said Miss Tyler. "Perhaps you will decide the vexed question for us—mercenary or sentimentalist?"

"Never, oh, never! Pray excuse me! Ladies, I beg of you——"

"It would serve you right if we did not," Miss Marbury broke in. "Have a piece of chicken?"

"Yes, yes! Two pieces, if you wish—I'll eat anything rather than decide between you!" he averred.

"Then, no more bones, m'sieur."

"No, no more bones," warned Miss Tyler. "Oh! may we tell that you are thinking of settling in Maryland?"

"Lord! no!" Then, when they both laughed, he added: "I do not want to raise the ladies' hopes too high—I might not remain, you know." (Which is as good as saying I am not married—without saying it, he reflected.)

Herford had been trying to overhear their talk, and, now, a sudden lull, around the table, afforded him the opportunity.

"What is that?" he called out. "Thinking of settling in Maryland—do they mean you, Sir Edward?"

"No!" replied Parkington, instantly. "We were speaking of the Devil—and wondering, if he were to settle here, how long he would escape inquisitive questions. May be you can answer."

It was said smilingly, and apparently with the best spirit, but none who heard it missed the sting. And in Herford's face a faint color came, and his eyes snapped.

"It would depend on how it pleased him to masquerade," he retorted; "some disguises are, you know, more effective than others, but I should say he would be most successful as an English gentleman."

Sir Edward's smile broadened into a laugh, and the rest of the table, seeing that he took it so, joined in.

"You score!" he answered, when the merriment had subsided.

But Herford, instead of meeting the acknowledgment half way with a quick declination, gave a supercilious shrug and a lift of the eyebrows, and turned away. Whereby, he lost all the advantage, and proved himself a prig; whereas Sir Edward was marked as well-bred, and the impropriety of his original retort was forgotten. Furthermore, it had served to pass over Herford's query, and to make the table forget it—and that was Parkington's main concern. He supposed it would come out—it was not likely Miss Marbury or Miss Tyler could keep silent—but he preferred that it should not be told to the whole company, in his presence.