The Impostor: A Tale of Old Annapolis

by John Reed Scott

It is astonishing what the possession of a country-seat of known fame will make for gentility, even where one has small claim. And George Marbury and his sister Judith had the ways and appearance of the gentle-born. Somewhere, in the past, a forebear must have been of the class.

As for the Hall itself: the approach was by a great avenue, a hundred and twenty feet wide, lined on either side by tulip and poplar trees, that extended from the Patuxent, half a mile away. The house was of English brick, large and square, with wings which served for offices and bachelor quarters, the kitchen and the store rooms. A huge hall ran directly through it, with the drawing room on the right, the library and dining room on the left. The walls were of wood, panelled and done in white, and covered with paintings and portraits (the latter, alas, not of the Marburys, but of Hedgelys dead and gone). The ceiling, doors, window-frames and mantels were carved in arabesque. Behind the dining-room, and opening from it, was a huge conservatory. Back of the house, or in front, if you choose, for these houses had no rear, was a long sweep of velvety lawn, dropping away in terrace on terrace, with hedges of box and privet, and beds of roses, lilies of the valley and lavender scattered among daffodils, heart's ease, cowslip and jonquils. Beyond lay the park, with great trees, reaching as far as the eye could see. Two thousand acres and more was the Hall's domain, of tobacco and wheat fields, meadow and orchard, all cultivated with a thoroughness which old Marbury had learned, in the lean years, when he was struggling upward to wealth.

As for old Marbury, himself, he was not exactly what Miss Tyler had termed, "impossible." Difficult was nearer the proper term. He was brusque of manner and sparing of words, and his ways were not engaging, but, underneath, was a kindly spirit and an honest heart. He would not have shone amid the wits of the Coffee-house (had he ever ventured there), nor did he at his own board, after the cloth was gone and the wine was on. And he knew it, and was silent—or, as was generally the case, he retired, and George took his place at the head of the table.

And, as old Marbury did, so did his wife. They were well mated. The affairs of the household, and the more onerous duties, she assumed and executed, the lighter graces were laid on Judith's shoulders. And, to their credit, be it said, that no host or hostess in Annapolis was more at ease, or had more of the savoir faire, and knew how to use it, than this son and daughter of the Redemptioner.

And, now, was their test:—asking guests for dinner or supper was vastly different from having them in the house for a week. This party marked their first appearance, in a social sense, among the landed families of the Province.

They had arrived at Hedgely Hall two hours before supper; the ladies retired to their rooms to rest, the men to whatever place pleased their fancy. It was a sultry day in May, when the first heat of the coming summer seems doubly warm.

Martha Stirling had been sitting by her window, which gave view of the garden and park, idly drumming on the sill, her thoughts of Sir Edward Parkington. She had seen much of him in the last few weeks. She was debating whether it was wise to see so much of him in the future. He was, to be sure, vouched for by Lord Baltimore, which might stand with the Governor and the men, but was not especially in his favor so far as the gentle sex was concerned. Not that there was the slightest ground for suspicion—on the contrary, his conduct had been most circumspect. But was it well to favor him when there were so many who sought her? For, with him at her side, there came a restraint upon the rest, a deference to the stranger of rank. She could not play him off against the others, nor them against him. She had tried it, many times, and always with the same result—failure. He either dominated the situation or else eliminated himself entirely. In either case, he was the victor—and a victor, seemingly, all unconscious of it. The man was tantalizingly fascinating. He could do everything well: fence, dance, play cards, make love, talk sense or nonsense. And with it all, he was handsome as the devil—and might be the devil, for all she knew—or the Governor knew. Why, they did not know even whether or not he was married!

She stopped, amazed. So far, as she was aware, no one had ever thought about it,—they had assumed that he was unmarried—and he had let them assume it. Was he a blackguard, or was he a gentleman? She paused, and, in her mind, ran back over the occurrences of the last few weeks. No, blackguard he was not. He had gone as far with her as with any one—farther, doubtless—and, despite a certain gallantry, he had not transgressed beyond the bound, even if he were married—and, surely, a little could be excused a man, travelling alone, in a foreign land.

She wondered if Mr. Paca knew, or Mr. Worthington, or George Marbury—or any of their party. She beat a tattoo on the window ledge and reflected.—She would make it her business to ascertain. The more she thought of it, the more she wanted to know.