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?"