The idea, of testing the matter out with Miss Marbury, had presented itself so suddenly, that Parkington had—he must confess it to himself—forgotten for the moment, his engagement to meet Miss Stirling.

In truth, it did not recur to him until they had returned from the water-front, after his proposal was rejected.

Instantly, he retraced his steps, hoping against hope that she was still waiting, or, better still, that she had not kept the rendezvous.

The first contingency failed—the rose-walk was deserted; if Miss Stirling had been there, she was gone, and he would have to pay the penalty. The other contingency was what he prayed for, most fervently. When one is about to ask a woman to be his wife, it is unfortunate if he has to start the interview explaining away his short-comings.

He strolled through the other walks—the peony, the mock-orange, and the golden-rose, but without success. She was not in any of them. He turned back to the house, a little discouraged. Now, that he had decided to go home, he had also decided that he wanted Miss Stirling to go back with him—and this was not a propitious beginning.

He met Brandon coming down the steps.

"What success?" he said.

"You mean, with Miss Stirling?" Parkington asked.

The other nodded.

"Poor," was the answer. "I forgot the rendezvous."

"Have you made your peace?"

"I have not found her."

"You are a careless fellow, De Lysle—I saw you go off with Miss Marbury. Why did you do it?"

"To determine whether I wanted to remain in Maryland."

"And you determined?"

"Yes!" with a faint laugh. "I determined to go back."

Brandon slipped an arm through his, and led him down to the esplanade.

"You proposed to Miss Marbury, I assume?" he said.

"I did."

"And she refused you!"

"She did."

"And you told her, in your infatuated ignorance, that you are not Parkington—that you are an impostor?"

"I did."

Brandon smiled, mockingly.

"She will not repeat it," Parkington averred.

"Think you so?" said Brandon. "Well, I have not the trust in womankind which you seem to have suddenly acquired. The sooner our ship sails, now, the better."

"Wherefore?"

"For several wherefores—where was your head, man, that you should have been guilty of this folly? She will not keep your secret—the woman is not born who could keep a secret so interesting. She will babble. And, then, trouble. Think you, they will believe your present story? Having once confessed to living a lie, you are a liar always—they will suspect whatever you tell. You might prove you are a De Lysle by the best of legal evidence, and they would doubt you, still. And it will not stop with you. They will question my identity as well: I will not be Sir Charles Brandon because you sponsored me. I am a suspicious character. I must account for myself. And that may lead to the Jolly Roger and the scaffold. For this knowledge and suspicion will be not among the people, in general, but with the greatest power in the Province: the Governor himself. And, though he is an easygoing, kindly gentleman, he can, I doubt not, be stern as death, if the occasion requires. You have violated his hospitality and his vouchment; I have accepted his hospitality, and must now prove my right to it or be kicked out—I must hang like a dog, if discovered."

"All of which," said Parkington, "is predicated upon Miss Marbury telling—in addition, you will have to be identified. And the identification will be due solely to the fact that you and Long-Sword are the same individual—a condition for which you alone are responsible. And I might further remind you, that I had nothing to do with your coming to Annapolis—you rather complicated my affairs by appearing, as I told you at the time."

"Well, do not let us quarrel," said Brandon.

"Lord! man, I have no idea of quarreling!" laughed Parkington.—"It may have been a serious indiscretion to tell Miss Marbury, doubtless it was—but the fat is in the fire, now, and we must make the best of it. I may have weakened the authority of my identification of you, but nothing more. The Governor may be suspicious, but he cannot possibly connect you with Long-Sword. Marbury and Jamison are the only ones who might do it, and they are not likely to encounter you."

"We will forget it," said Brandon—"borrowing trouble only makes it the bigger when it comes. Nevertheless, I wish there were a ship sailing for home, to-morrow. Well, a man can die but once, thank God!—Do you intend to see Miss Stirling to-night?"

"Yes—I am searching for her, now."

"And you will tell her the truth?"

"Only part of it—enough to test her. One woman is like another, according to your estimate, so, she shall know who I am, but not what I am—that I am a son of the Earl of Doncaster, but not that I am in disgrace and disowned."

"You will stand a better chance for trust with Miss Stirling. She is an Englishwoman—she would likely keep an Earl's son's secret."

"Why should I not wait until your ship has sailed, before I tell her—then, if she babbles, it will not affect you?"

"No," said Brandon; "since you have told it to Miss Marbury you must tell it to the other. I supposed you would test Miss Stirling first—see what your chances were—work up to it, gradually. Then, if all seemed propitious, confess just before we sailed. If she accepted you, all's well; if she refused you, we should be gone ere she could babble. I never dreamed that you would confide in Miss Marbury.—It is a beautiful scene, Parkington, a beautiful scene!" he exclaimed, suddenly, as a step sounded behind them. "Ah, Captain Herford!"

"I am looking for Miss Stirling," the Captain explained. "The Governor wants her."

"I have not seen her," Brandon replied.

"Nor I, since supper," said Parkington.

Half an hour later, when Miss Stirling came downstairs from the Governor's apartments, it was to find Sir Edward Parkington sitting on the lowest step. He arose and bowed.

"I have been waiting," he said.

"For what?" she asked.

"For you."

"You give yourself unnecessary trouble, sir."

"I give myself a pleasure."

She stepped by him, and proceeded on her way.

He followed, through the drawing-room, and the room beyond, and out to the rear piazza. Here, he sprang forward, and offered her his arm.

"I thank you," she scorned; "I do not need your assistance."

At the second step, the high heel of her slipper caught, she stumbled, and would have fallen, had not Parkington interposed.

He held her a moment, then released her.

"I thank you!" she said stiffly, and went slowly down.

"May I go along?" he asked, all the while, keeping step with her.

She did not answer.

"Miss Stirling, I addressed you," he said.

Still no answer.

"Thank you!" he replied. "You are very kind."

She stopped and looked him over, disdainfully.

"You have misinterpreted, sir," she said. "I have no intention to be kind—silence, in, this instance, does not give consent."

"What have I done?" he asked.

She shrugged her shoulders.

"I went to the rose-walk—I waited—you did not come."

"When?" she inquired.

"At the time appointed—before it, indeed."

"And I was not there?"

"I could not find you."

"You waited for me?"

"At least half an hour."

"And I did not come?"

"Alas! no."

She laughed derisively. "Why do you tell me such nonsense?"

"Nonsense!" he said. "Nonsense!"

"Lies would be the more fitting term."

"I do not understand."

"No—there is your trouble; you do not know if I kept the rendezvous, so you play it as if you did!"

"As if I did!" he repeated.

She laughed again. "I suppose you will be averring that you do not understand me."

He bowed. "Pray explain," he said.

"It is for you to explain. I kept the rendezvous; you did not."

He tried to look his surprise. "You kept the rendezvous?"

"Yes, I kept the rendezvous; while you, sir, went strolling to the Bay with Miss Marbury—nor ever thought to cast even one look toward the rose-walk."

There could be no profit in prevaricating further. He was caught, and the quickest way out was to admit it.

"I did," he said humbly. "I did."

"Why did you not acknowledge it, at first?" she questioned.

"I thought, perhaps, you also had forgotten."

She looked at him, searchingly.

"Did you really forget?" she asked.

"As God is my witness!—until we were returning, I never thought of it. Then, as soon as I could leave Miss Marbury, I hastened to the rose-walk, and found it—deserted."

"It is a fine gentleman," she exclaimed, "who forgets one appointment, when another, more to his taste, intervenes!"

"I protest that you are unjust," he said. "I forgot, I admit, but I did it unwittingly and not of intention."

"Even that is unforgettable."

"But it is not unforgiveable," he pleaded.

She shook her head, and moved on, slowly.

"But it is not unforgiveable," he repeated.

"No, it is not unforgiveable," she said; "but—we will say no more about it, for the present. Whether I can forgive you, will depend on the future—there is still another matter which will require explanation," and she looked at him, thoughtfully.

"Another matter?" he interrogated—"that requires explanation, from me?"

"I think so."

"And will it call for your forgiveness, too?"

"I cannot answer," she said.

A puzzled frown appeared between his eyes. "Does that mean, you cannot or you will not."

"It means, I cannot—it depends upon your explanation; and whether it be asked for."

"Then the explanation is not to be made to you?"

"No!"

"To whom is it to be made?" he asked.

She shook her head. "That will be disclosed, presently."

"To-night?" he persisted.

"It will not be to-night."

"Then, we will forget it!" he said, gayly. "The morrow may care for itself—it will be soon enough when it comes. We will fancy these trees the rose-garden—I am keeping a belated rendezvous with you." He swept the turf with his hat. "What do you wish of me, my lady?"

"It is too late," she answered. "What I wished of you, I wish no more. It has passed from my hands—it is beyond me."

He was sobered, instantly. She could mean only that it had passed into the Governor's hands—but what?—Suddenly, he understood a part.

"I see," said he, "you wanted to give me a chance to explain; you appointed the rendezvous, and I failed you. Then, in your reasonable and just anger, you told the Governor."

She did not reply, but he knew that, thus far, he was right. His mind ran quickly back over the months that had passed since he came to Annapolis: he had cheated but rarely at cards—and not at all at the house-parties—he had led a thoroughly respectable life, trifled with no woman, victimized no man. There was only one thing that met him, insistently and always: the theft of the gold at Hedgely Hall; and it, he had returned.—Unless—unless, by some queer misadventure, she had received a letter from home, which aroused her suspicion of his identity. And there had come letters to her, before supper—the pinnace brought them down.—It was not Marbury's gold, Marbury was not at Whitehall denouncing him. No, it must be a letter!

"I had a letter from home, to-day," he said.

She started; and he knew he had guessed it.

"From home—did it contain much gossip?" she asked.

"Enough to hurry me back—I shall return with Sir Charles Brandon."

"Bad news?" she inquired.

He smiled. "That depends on the way one looks at it."

He drew a little closer. It were best to lose no time, now; if his imposture had been detected, the best way to meet it, was by confession, before the Governor could act. It would go far to sustain his story, if he should tell it, voluntarily, before he knew (apparently) that any one suspected him.

"Miss Stirling," he said, looking off into the distance, "we do queer things in this world, and we travel queer paths, sometimes—but we usually, once in our lives, at least, come back to the simple truth and the plain path. I have come to them, now."

He fell to drawing diagrams in the grass with his walking-stick, tracing them over and over, while he let her wonder what was in his mind. Presently he spoke again, seemingly with much feeling, his eyes now hard upon her face.

"I am going to make a confession," he said—"whether it is a good one or a bad must rest with you; but for you it would not be made.—I am not Sir Edward Parkington."

"So I am aware," she answered.

"What! you knew?" he cried, with well feigned amazement.

"Since this evening."

"But how?" he protested. "How did you know?"

"I had a letter from Lady Catherwood, in London. She mentioned Sir Edward Parkington's coming to Annapolis—and described him. The description does not tally, in the least, with you."

("It is this letter which she has given to the Governor," he thought. "Why, the devil! did I forget the rendezvous?")

He laughed. "As far apart as the poles." Then he sobered. "My rightful name, Miss Stirling, is Roger de Lysle. I am the second son of the ninth Earl of Doncaster."

"Is this identity any more stable than the other?" she asked, after a pause.

"It is—though I cannot blame you for doubting."

"How did you come by the letters of introduction?"

"Parkington's dead body was cast up on the sands beside me. I took his letters, and, in a fit of foolishness, presented them to Governor Sharpe—my own having been lost in the sea."

"And why do you tell this story to me?" she inquired.

"To set myself right with you. I shall go back to England, and no one else will ever know that it was not Sir Edward Parkington who sojourned among them."

"And why should I concern you—why wish me to know it and the others not."

"Because I love you," he answered. "From the first day I met you, I have loved you."

"And why, sir, has it taken you so long to tell it?" she asked, after a pause.

"I would not admit it, even to myself, until the time for separation drove me to it."—He slipped his arm around her, and drew her to him. "Martha!—sweetheart!—come home with me?" he whispered.

A moment she yielded, then abruptly released herself. May be he loved her, and she loved him as well as she could any man, but that was neither here nor there. If he were a De Lysle—she would marry him; love was not essential. But was he a De Lysle?

"You must realize," she said, "that whether I love or whether I do not, I can not marry you without further proof of your real identity."

"Sir Charles Brandon will vouch for me," he answered.

"You forget, that it was you vouched for him."

"True—but he has documents which will prove him Sir Charles Brandon."

"And you had the best sort of documents to prove you Sir Edward Parkington."

"I do not know what to say. Take me on faith, sweetheart."

"It would be a dangerous experiment!" she laughed; "to marry on faith, and find you a common rogue, when we got to London."

"Do I look a common rogue?" he smiled.

She turned and let her eyes move slowly over him. He was a brave figure, certainly, in his white silk coat and breeches—his cloth of silver waistcoat—his slender, well-shaped legs—his dark hair powdered—his handsome, aristocratic face.

"No—I admit you appear of the rank you claim; and you act it, too. But I must have more than appearances and acts."

He made a gesture of resignation and defeat.

"I have done my best," he said; "I am helpless to do more—unless you will come to London, and marry me there, after I have satisfied you of my identity."

"You mean it?" she demanded. Here was good faith.

"Unreservedly," he answered. "Anything to take you back with me. Though I would rather you went as wife."

He was doing his utmost to impress her—to have her intervene with the Governor, and keep the scandal hid.

She hesitated—then the truth came with a rush.

"The letter I spoke of," she said—"Lady Catherwood's—I gave it to his Excellency to act on as he saw fit."

"My God!" he cried. "It will ruin me—he will not excuse."

"You may thank the broken rendezvous, if it does," she replied.

"That was what you wished with me!"—he exclaimed—"and when I did not come you were angry!—oh! I see, sweetheart—you do care, for you were jealous." He was playing the part well.

"I do not know why I did it. I was hasty. I repent." She sprang up. "I will go to the Governor—I will try to undo it. Wait here!" and she sped away.

Scarcely was she gone, when he saw her returning.

"I cannot see him, to-night," she said—"he has retired, it would only harm our chances. In the morning, I shall try again."

He took her hand, and kissed it—with wise forbearance, he did not try for her lips.

"Go!—we will hope for the best," he said. "And you may pray, as well, dear. The prayers of one's beloved are not without avail."