Two of the letters were of casual interest—the doings of the writers on their country estates—and were not remarkable either for correct spelling or polished diction. The third and last, however, was of better stuff.
It was from Lady Catherwood, written from London,—before she had received Miss Stirling's letter to her, of course—and had in it much gossip, a little scandal, and, then, just before the close, was this:—
"There is an interesting Piece of Gossip, which I all but forgot to tell you. It seems, Lord Baltimore has tired of certain Gentlemen, who are his particular Toad-eaters, and has taken Means to get rid of them.
"One has gone to Maryland, with letters of Introduction to the Governor, your Uncle, trusting to make his way with the Gentlemen of the Colony, and, incidentally, to make as much Money off them as they will permit—which, I Dare say, will not be Excessive, for a more Unattractive little Rogue it would be hard to find outside a jail. He is small, and fat, and bald, and is scarcely ever Sober, when he has some one to pay for the Liquor; and, naturally, he is a Vile little Beast in other ways—Comprenez vous? A thoroughly disreputable fellow, Catherwood says, and one whom Baltimore ought to be Ashamed to send his Colony; but Baltimore is not Ashamed of anything, save leading a decent life.
"I give you this, for your own Information—not because I think there is any likelihood of your falling a Victim to Sir Edward's wiles—but to warn you, and also Colonel Sharpe, if you think well to meddle in his business. The name of this wretch is Sir Edward Parkington——"
Martha Stirling read the last line thrice, to make sure she saw aright.
"Sir Edward Parkington!" she reflected—"is small, and fat, and bald, and scarcely ever sober! and a vile little beast in other ways—Comprenez vous? Yes, my dear, I comprehend. And what is more, I comprehend that he is not our Sir Edward. Between the leaving London and the arrival at Annapolis, there was a change of men.—But the letters of introduction are the same—how did they happen to change hands?"
She sat a while, thinking deeply. Should she tell the Governor? Should she preserve the secret, tell no one? Should she demand the truth of Parkington himself, and let his story determine her future action? She heard him and Brandon descend the stairs, and go out on the esplanade. Brandon! he knew the secret—he knew that Parkington was an impostor—he knew all. She had heard Constable's story of the meeting at the Coffee-house—the surprise shown. Bah! it was prearranged, determined upon beforehand; a play, acted for the express benefit of the onlookers.—Should she block it, now, walk out and, before the whole company, read Lady Catherwood's letter? It would be effective—far more so than his play at the Coffee-house. In fact, it would be conclusive.—Yet, he had always been very gallant to her, very devoted, very sympathetic. (She looked out through the window.) Yes, and he was a gentleman, too. No man had such manners, such grace, such ease of bearing, otherwise.
The longer she looked, the more her heart misgave her. She could not do it. She would wait until after supper, take him for a walk, down to the water, and get him to confess the masquerade and the reason for it. She refused to think that there was any wrong intended. He was better than the real Sir Edward, a thousand times better. And she liked him—liked him more than any man she had ever met, save only Richard Maynadier; and Richard Maynadier (she had known it since the night he kissed her, at Hedgely Hall) was not for her. There was no love in his lips, though there had been plenty of ardor.
A little twinge of bitterness took possession of her. Why was she born poor?—why could she not have had rank and riches instead of beauty?
Presently, she saw the butler go out and announce supper; she arose and joined the party as they came trooping in.
She had Parkington and Brandon on either hand, and she watched them, covertly, all through the meal, trying to pick some flaw in their bearing, something that would not be quite right in their behaviour. But she failed—as she had felt sure she would. They had only to be natural, to be themselves, to ring true. Parkington he was not, and Brandon might be false, also, but, assuredly, they came of the stock they professed—and, may be, of better.