"May be it is," was the answer, with a grim sort of smile; "but I look further ahead. You have heard my history?"
Sir Edward hesitated an instant: "Yes," he said, "I have heard it, as the Coffee-house knows it."
The other's smile broadened, lighting up his face and eyes, and wiping out their gaunt severity.
"The Coffee-house knows that I am a Redemptioner," he said—"that I served my five years—that, when my time of service was ended, I took my provision and went to Frederick—that I acquired some little wealth—that, six years ago, I came to Annapolis, and two years ago I bought this place. It was a rare stroke, buying this place! You have doubtless heard some other gossip, part true, part untrue. But what you have not heard, because none in the Colony knows it, is that my father came of a good family in England. He was wild and foolish, his people cut him adrift, disinherited him. Our name is changed; I shall never claim the relationship. Under the new name I have prospered; it has served for my children; they are received in society. I have made my own way. I owe nothing to my immediate ancestors. I am the founder of my line. My son will have a goodly inheritance—my daughter an ample patrimony. I am satisfied." He stopped, and looked at Parkington, curiously: "Strange!" he said, "strange! that I should tell you this! I do not know whether it is because you are an English knight—or something about you which makes us seem akin (begging your pardon, sir, I mean in sympathy not in blood). It is the first time I have spoken of it—you will oblige me, by forgetting it."
Parkington inclined his head in acquiescence.
"It is forgotten," he said. "And it may be, there are more points of sympathy between us than you imagine. As it seems to me, in this new land, the aristocracy is one of wealth and culture, or culture and wealth, whichever way it come. You have provided the wealth, your son and daughter the culture."
"There is one thing more needed to make it secure," said Marbury:—"Marriage into the old families. When that is done, I am ready to die."
"You are ready to live, you mean."
"I mean what I said. Old Mr. Brewster was my master. When my time of service was ended, he sent for me. 'Here, Marbury, are the things which the law compels me to give you,' he said. 'Take them. I understand you are going to Frederick. Stay there!—you may make some money, I fancy you will, but, don't imagine yourself any better, if you do. Don't come to Annapolis and attempt to get into society, as some Redemptioners have done—and failed. You don't belong, and we won't have you. You have been my servant, you can never be our equal.' I thanked him and departed, resolved to come back. That resolution has never faltered. But there was truth in what he said. I have been a servant, I can never be the equal of those who knew me as a servant. With my son and daughter it is different. They have to do with another generation, they never were servants—and," (with a smile) "they have the means of propitiation. They are far beyond me—my usefulness to them is ended, more, I am a positive hindrance. So, I would be content to go."
"Man! man! you're morbid!" exclaimed Parkington.—"How old are you?"