Margery Maitland was startled—she was frightened. If not so, then her looks belied her.
“Percy! What do you say? You have seen him elsewhere—in another guise? Where? Where was it?”
The youth shook his head.
“Ah! that is the very thing that puzzles me,” he said, dubiously. “I can not tell where I have seen him, nor when. I only know that it is so.”
Margery had recovered herself, though traces of her recent fright were still visible.
“Pshaw!” she cried, trying to simulate contempt. “It’s all in your imagination, boy. Just think of it; here he has been these seven or eight years, out and in before you, and now, when he is known of all men for what he is, and for nothing else, you begin to fancy that he is somebody else! It is ridiculous! You ought to be ashamed of such petty trifling.”
“All right,” returned Percy, getting up from the table as he spoke. “Let it pass. Only, my dear mother, I would like to correct you in one thing. I am not just beginning to fancy the thing I have mentioned. No, no: far from it. I can well remember the first time I ever set eyes on him and heard him speak—it was on board the brig—the same belief or impression possessed me. Yes, even then I could have sworn that he had been known to me in a totally different guise, and the impression has gone on gaining strength from that time. But I shall know one of these days. Something tells me it will be revealed to me. I can wait.”
Again the woman started; and the look she darted upon her son was not pleasant to see; but his back was turned toward her, and he did not catch it.
Without further remark, our hero set about his preparations for departure. The garb he now wore was a neat, well-fitting seaman’s dress, of fine blue cloth, with an ordinary Scotch cap on his head.
Having donned his cap, and put a flask of wine in his pocket, he threw a serviceable peacoat over his left arm, and was ready to set forth.