In Her Own Right

He finally determined, however, to go across to Annapolis and look over the ground, before he disclosed the secret to any one. Which was the reasonable decision.

When he came to look up the matter of transportation, however, he was surprised to find that no boat ran between Annapolis and Hampton – or any other port on the Eastern Shore. He either had to go by water to Baltimore (which was available on only three days a week) and thence finish his journey by rail or transfer to another boat, or else he had to go by steam cars north to Wilmington, and then directly south again to Annapolis. In either case, a day’s journey between two towns that were almost within seeing distance of each other, across the Bay. Of the two, he chose to go by boat to Baltimore.

Then, the afternoon of the day before it sailed, he received a wire – delivered two hours and more after its receipt, in the leisurely fashion of the Eastern Shore. It was from Macloud, and dated Philadelphia.

“Can I come down to-night? Answer to Bellevue-Stratford.”

His reply brought Macloud in the morning train.

Croyden met him at the station. Moses took his bag, and they walked out to Clarendon.

“Sorry I haven’t a car!” said Croyden – then he laughed. “The truth is, Colin, they’re not popular down here. The old families won’t have them – they’re innovations – the saddle horse and the family carriage are still to the fore with them. Only the butcher, and the baker and the candlestick maker have motors. There’s one, now – he’s the candlestick maker, I think. This town is nothing if not conservative. It reminds me of the one down South, where they wouldn’t have electric cars. Finally all the street car horses died. Then rather than commit the awful sin of letting new horses come into the city, they accepted the trolley. The fashion suits my pocketbook, however, so I’ve no kick coming.”

“What do you want with a car here, anyway?” Macloud asked. “It looks as if you could walk from one end of the town to the other in fifteen minutes.”

“You can, easily.”

“And the baker et cetera have theirs only for show, I suppose?”

“Yes, that’s about it – the roads, hereabout, are sandy and poor.”

“Then, I’m with your old families. They may be conservative, at times a trifle too much so, but, in the main, their judgment’s pretty reliable, according to conditions. What sort of place did you find – I mean the house?”

“Very fair!”

“And the society?”

“Much better than Northumberland.”

“Hum – I see – the aristocracy of birth, not dollars.”

“Exactly! – How do you do, Mr. Fitzhugh,” as they passed a policeman in uniform.

“Good morning, Mr. Croyden!” was the answer.

“There! that illustrates,” said Croyden. “You meet Fitzhugh every place when he is off duty. He belongs. His occupation does not figure, in the least.”

“So you like it – Hampton, I mean?” said Macloud.

“I’ve been here a month – and that month I’ve enjoyed – thoroughly enjoyed. However, I do miss the Clubs and their life.”

“I can understand,” Macloud interjected.

“And the ability to get, instantly, anything you want – ”

“Much of which you don’t want – and wouldn’t get, if you had to write for it, or even to walk down town for it – which makes for economy,” observed Macloud sententiously.

“But, more than either, I miss the personal isolation which one can have in a big town, when he wishes it – and has always, in some degree.”

“And that gets on your nerves!” laughed Macloud. “Well, you won’t mind it after a while, I think. You’ll get used to it, and be quite oblivious. Is that all your objections?”

“I’ve been here only a short time, remember. Come back in six months, say, and I may have kicks in plenty.”

“You may find it a bit dreary in winter – who the deuce is that girl yonder, Geoffrey?” he broke off.

They were opposite Carrington’s, and down the walk toward the gate was coming the maid of the blue-black hair, and slender ankles. She wore a blue linen gown, a black hat, and her face was framed by a white silk parasol.

“That is Miss Carrington,” said Croyden.

“Hum! – Your house near here?”

“Yes – pretty near.”

Macloud looked at him with a grin.

“She has nothing to do with your liking the town, I suppose?” he said, knowingly.

“Well, she’s not exactly a deterrent – and there are half a dozen more of the same sort. Oh, on that score, Hampton’s not half bad, my friend!” he laughed.

“You mean there are half a dozen of that sort,” with a slight jerk of his head toward Miss Carrington, “who are unmarried?”

Croyden nodded – then looked across; and both men raised their hats and bowed.

“And how many married?” Macloud queried.

“Several – but you let them alone– it’s not fashionable here, as yet, for a pretty married woman to have an affair. She loves her husband, or acts it, at least. They’re neither prudes nor prigs, but they are not that.”

“So far as you know!” laughed Macloud. “But my experience has been that the pretty married woman who won’t flirt, if occasion offers where there is no danger of being compromised, is a pretty scarce article. However, Hampton may be an exception.”

“You’re too cynical,” said Croyden. “We turn in here – this is Clarendon.”

“Why! you beggar!” Macloud exclaimed. “I’ve been sympathizing with you, because I thought you were living in a shack-of-a-place – and, behold!”

“Yes, it is not bad,” said Croyden. “I’ve no ground for complaint, on that head. I can, at least, be comfortable here. It’s not bad inside, either.”

That evening, after dinner, when the two men were sitting in the library while a short-lived thunder storm raged outside, Macloud, after a long break in the conversation – which is the surest sign of camaraderie among men – observed, apropos of nothing except the talk of the morning:

“Lord! man, you’ve got no kick coming!”

“Who said I had?” Croyden demanded.

“You did, by damning it with faint praise.”

“Damning what?”

“Your present environment – and yet, look you! A comfortable house, fine grounds, beautiful old furnishings, delicious victuals, and two negro servants, who are devoted to you, or the place – no matter which, for it assures their permanence; the one a marvelous cook, the other a competent man; and, by way of society, a lot of fine, old antebellum families, with daughters like the Symphony in Blue, we saw this morning. God! you’re hard to please.”

“And that is not all,” said Croyden, laughing and pointing to the portraits. “I’ve got ancestors – by purchase.”

“And you have come by them clean-handed, which is rare. – Moreover, I fancy you are one who has them by inheritance, as well.”

Croyden nodded. “I’m glad to say I have – ancestors are distinctly fashionable down here. But that’s not all I’ve got.”

“There is only one thing more – money,” said Macloud. “You haven’t found any of it down here, have you?”

“That is just what I don’t know,” Croyden replied, tossing away his cigarette, and crossing to the desk by the window. “It depends – on this.” He handed the Parmenter letter to Macloud. “Read it through – the endorsements last, in their order – and then tell me what you think of it.”…

“These endorsements, I take it,” said Macloud, “though without date and signed only with initials, were made by the original addressee, Marmaduke Duval, his son, who was presumably Daniel Duval, and Daniel Duval’s son, Marmaduke; the rest, of course, is plain.”

“That is correct,” Croyden answered. “I have made inquiries – Colonel Duval’s father was Marmaduke, whose son was Daniel, whose son was Marmaduke, the addressee.”

“Then why isn’t it true?” Macloud demanded.

“My dear fellow, I’m not denying it! I simply want your opinion – what to do?”

“Have you shown this letter to anyone else?”

“No one.”

“Well, you’re a fool to show it even to me. What assurance have you that, when I leave here, I won’t go straight to Annapolis and steal your treasure?”

“No assurance, except a lamblike trust in your friendship,” said Croyden, with an amused smile.

“Your recent experience with Royster & Axtell and the Heights should beget confidences of this kind?” he said sarcastically, tapping the letter the while. “You trust too much in friendship, Croyden. Tests of half a million dollars aren’t human!” Then he grinned. “I always thought there was something God-like about me. So, maybe, you’re safe. But it was a fearful risk, man, a fearful risk!” He looked at the letter again. “Sure, it’s true! The man to whom it was addressed believed it – else why did he endorse it to his son? And we can assume that Daniel Duval knew his father’s writing, and accepted it. – Oh, it’s genuine enough. But to prove it, did you identify Marmaduke Duval’s writing – any papers or old letters in the house?”

“I don’t know,” returned Croyden. “I’ll ask Moses to-morrow.”

“Better not arouse his curiosity – darkies are most inquisitive, you know – where did you find the letter?”

Croyden showed him the secret drawer.

“Another proof of its genuineness,” said Macloud. “Have you made any effort to identify this man Parmenter – from the records at Annapolis.”

“No – I’ve done nothing but look at the letter – except to trace the Duval descent,” Croyden replied.

“He speaks, here, of his last will and testament being left with Mr. Dulany. If it were probated, that will establish Parmenter, especially if Marmaduke Duval is the legatee. What do you know of Annapolis?”

“Nothing! I never was there – I looked it up on the map I found, here, and Greenberry Point is as the letter says – across the Severn River from it.”

Macloud laughed, in good-natured raillery.

“You seem to have been in a devil of a hurry!” he said. “At the same rate of progression, you will go to Annapolis some time next spring, and get over to Greenberry Point about autumn.”

“On the contrary, it’s your coming that delayed me,” Croyden smiled. “But for your wire, I would have started this morning – now, if you will accompany me, we’ll go day-after-to-morrow.”

“Why delay?” said Macloud. “Why not go to-night?”

“It’s a long journey around the Bay by rail – I’d rather cross to Baltimore by boat; from there it’s only an hour’s ride to Annapolis by electric cars. And there isn’t any boat sailing until day-after-to-morrow.”

“Where’s the map?” said Macloud. “Let me see where we are, and where Annapolis is… Hum! we’re almost opposite! Can’t we get a boat in the morning to take us across direct – charter it, I mean? The Chesapeake isn’t wide at this point – a sailing vessel ought to make it in a few hours.”

“I’ll go you!” exclaimed Croyden. He went to the telephone and called up Dick. “This is Geoffrey Croyden!” he said. – “I’ve a friend who wants to go across the Bay to Annapolis, in the morning. Where can I find out if there is a sailing vessel, or a motor boat, obtainable?.. what’s that you say?.. Miles Casey? – on Fleet Street, near the wharf?.. Thank you! – He says,” turning to Macloud, “Casey will likely take us – he has a fishing schooner and it is in port. He lives on Fleet Street – we will walk down, presently, and see him.”

Macloud nodded assent, and fell to studying the directions again. Croyden returned to his chair and smoked in silence, waiting for his friend to conclude. At length, the latter folded the letter and looked up.

“It oughtn’t to be hard to find,” he observed.

“Not if the trees are still standing, and the Point is in the same place,” said Croyden. “But we’re going to find the Point shifted about ninety degrees, and God knows how many feet, while the trees will have long since disappeared.”

“Or the whole Point may be built over with houses!” Macloud responded. “Why not go the whole throw-down at once – make it impossible to recover rather than only difficult to locate!” He made a gesture of disbelief. “Do you fancy that the Duvals didn’t keep an eye on Greenberry Point? – that they wouldn’t have noted, in their endorsements, any change in the ground? So it’s clear, in my mind, that, when Colonel Duval transferred this letter to you, the Parmenter treasure could readily be located.”

“I’m sure I shan’t object, in the least, if we walk directly to the spot, and hit the box on the third dig of the pick!” laughed Croyden. “But let us forget the old pirate, until to-morrow; tell me about Northumberland – it seems a year since I left! When one goes away for good and all, it’s different, you know, from going away for the summer.”

“And you think you have left it for good and all?” asked Macloud, blowing a smoke-ring and watching him with contemplative eyes – “Well, the place is the same – only more so. A good many people have come back. The Heights is more lively than when you left, teas, and dinners, and tournaments and such like. – In town, the Northumberland’s resuming its regulars – the theatres are open, and the Club has taken the bald-headed row on Monday nights as usual. Billy Cain has turned up engaged, also as usual – this time, it’s a Richmond girl, ‘regular screamer,’ he says. It will last the allotted time, of course – six weeks was the limit for the last two, you’ll remember. Smythe put it all over Little in the tennis tournament, and ‘Pud’ Lester won the golf championship. Terry’s horse, Peach Blossom, fell and broke its neck in the high jump, at the Horse Show; Terry came out easier – he broke only his collar-bone. Mattison is the little bounder he always was – a month hasn’t changed him – except for the worse. Hungerford is a bit sillier. Colloden is the same bully fellow; he is disconsolate, now, because he is beginning to take on flesh.” Whereat both laughed. “Danridge is back from the North Cape, via Paris, with a new drink he calls The Spasmodic– it’s made of gin, whiskey, brandy, and absinthe, all in a pint of sarsaparilla. He says it’s great – I’ve not sampled it, but judging from those who have he is drawing it mild… Betty Whitridge and Nancy Wellesly have organized a Sinners Class, prerequisites for membership in which are that you play Bridge on Sundays and have abstained from church for at least six months. It’s limited to twenty. They filled it the first morning, and have a waiting list of something over seventy-five… That is about all I can think of that’s new.”

“Has any one inquired about me?” Croyden asked – with the lingering desire one has not to be forgot.

Macloud shot a questioning glance at him.

“Beyond the fact that the bankruptcy schedules show you were pretty hard hit, I’ve heard no one comment,” he said. “They think you’re in Europe. Elaine Cavendish is sponsor for that report – she says you told her you were called, suddenly, abroad.”

Croyden nodded. Then, after a pause:

“Any one inclined to play the devoted, there?” he asked.

“Plenty inclined – plenty anxious,” replied Macloud. “I’m looking a bit that way myself – I may get into the running, since you are out of it,” he added.

Croyden made as though to speak, then bit off the words.

“Yes, I’m out of it,” he said shortly.

“But you’re not out of it – if you find the pirate’s treasure.”

“Wait until I find it – at present, I’m only an ‘also ran.’”

“Who had the field, however, until withdrawn,” said Macloud.

“Maybe!” Croyden laughed. “But things have changed with me, Macloud; I’ve had time for thought and meditation. I’m not sure I should go back to Northumberland, even if the Parmenter jewels are real. Had I stayed there I suppose I should have taken my chance with the rest, but I’m becoming doubtful, recently, of giving such hostages to fortune. It’s all right for a woman to marry a rich man, but it is a totally different proposition for a poor man to marry a rich woman. Even with the Parmenter treasure, I’d be poor in comparison with Elaine Cavendish and her millions – and I’m afraid the sweet bells would soon be jangling out of tune.”

“Would you condemn the girl to spinsterhood, because there are few men in Northumberland, or elsewhere, who can match her in wealth?”

“Not at all! I mean, only, that the man should be able to support her according to her condition in life. – In other words, pay all the bills, without drawing on her fortune.”

“Those views will never make you the leader of a popular propaganda!” said Macloud, with an amused smile. “In fact, you’re alone in the woods.”

“Possibly! But the views are not irrevocable – I may change, you know. In the meantime, let us go down to Fleet Street and interview Casey. And then, if you’re good, I’ll take you to call on Miss Carrington.”

“The Symphony in Blue!” exclaimed Macloud. “Come along, man, come along!”

VII

GREENBERRY POINT

There was no trouble with Casey – he had been mighty glad to take them. And, at about noon of the following day, they drew in to the ancient capital, having made a quick and easy run from Hampton.

It was clear, bright October weather, when late summer seems to linger for very joy of staying, and all nature is in accord. The State House, where Washington resigned his commission – with its chaste lines and dignified white dome, when viewed from the Bay (where the monstrosity of recent years that has been hung on behind, is not visible) stood out clearly in the sunlight, standing high above the town, which slumbers, in dignified ease, within its shadow. A few old mansions, up the Spa, seen before they landed, with the promise of others concealed among the trees, higher up, told their story of a Past departed – a finished city.

“Where is Greenberry Point?” demanded Macloud, suddenly.

“Yonder, sir, on the far side of the Severn – the strip of land which juts out into the Bay.”

“First hypothesis, dead as a musket!” looking at Croyden. “There isn’t a house in sight – except the light-house, and it’s a bug-light.”

“No houses – but where are the trees?” Croyden returned. “It seems pretty low,” he said, to the skipper; “is it ever covered with water?”

“I think not, sir – the water’s just eating it slowly away.”

Croyden nodded, and faced townward.

“What is the enormous white stone building, yonder?” he asked.

“The Naval Academy – that’s only one of the buildings, sir, Bancroft Hall. The whole Academy occupies a great stretch of land along the Severn.”

They landed at the dock, at the foot of Market Place and inquired the way to Carvel Hall – that being the hotel advised by Dick. They were directed up Wayman’s alley – one of the numerous three foot thoroughfares between streets, in which the town abounds – to Prince George Street, and turning northward on it for a block, past the once splendid Brice house, now going slowly to decay, they arrived at the hotel: – the central house of English brick with the wings on either side, and a modern hotel building tacked on the rear.

“Rather attractive!” was Macloud’s comment, as they ascended the steps to the brick terrace and, thence, into the hotel. “Isn’t this an old residence?” he inquired of the clerk, behind the desk.

“Yes, sir! It’s the William Paca (the Signer) mansion, but it served as the home of Dorothy Manners in Richard Carvel, and hence the name, sir: Carvel Hall. We’ve many fine houses here: the Chase House – he also was a Signer; the Harwood House, said to be one of the most perfect specimens of Colonial architecture in America; the Scott House, on the Spa; the Brice House, next door; McDowell Hall, older than any of them, was gutted by fire last year, but has been restored; the Ogle mansion – he was Governor in the 1740’s, I think. Oh! this was the Paris of America before and during the Revolution. Why, sir, the tonnage of the Port of Annapolis, in 1770, was greater than the tonnage of the Port of Baltimore, to-day.”

“Very interesting!” said Macloud. “Very interesting, indeed. What’s happened to it since 1770?”

“Nothing, sir – that’s the trouble, it’s progressed backward – and Baltimore has taken its place.”

“I see!” said Macloud, laughing. “What time is luncheon?”

“It’s being served now, sir – twelve-thirty to two.”

“Order a pair of saddle horses, and have them around at one-thirty, please.”

“There is no livery connected with the hotel, sir, but I’ll do what I can. There isn’t any saddlers for hire, but we will get you a pair of ‘Cheney’s Best,’ sir – they’re sometimes ridden. However, you had better drive, if you will permit me to suggest, sir.”

Croyden glanced at Macloud.

“No! – we will try the horses,” he said.

It had been determined that they should ride for the reasons, as urged by Macloud, that they could go on horseback where they could not in a conveyance, and they would be less likely to occasion comment. The former of which appealed to Croyden, though the latter did not.

Macloud had borrowed an extra pair of riding breeches and puttees, from his friend, and, at the time appointed, the two men passed through the office.

“The horses are waiting, sir!” the clerk informed them.

Two negro lads were holding a pair of rawboned nags, that resembled saddlers about as much as a cigar-store Indian does a sonata. Croyden looked them over in undisguised disgust.

“If these are Cheney’s Best,” he commented, “what in Heaven’s name are his worst?”

“Come on!” said Macloud, adjusting the stirrups. “Get aboard and leave the kicking to the horses, they may be better than they look. Where does one cross the Severn?” he asked a man who was passing.

“Straight up to the College green,” he replied, pointing; “then one square to the right to King George Street, and on out it, across College Creek, to the Marine Barracks. The road forks there; you turn to the right; and the bridge is at the foot of the hill.”

They thanked him, and rode away.

“He ought to write a guide book,” said Croyden.

“How do you know he hasn’t?” Macloud retorted. “Well paved streets, – but a trifle hard for riding.”

“And more than a trifle dirty,” Croyden added. “My horse isn’t so bad – how’s yours?”

“He’ll do! – This must be the Naval Academy,” as they passed along a high brick wall – “Yonder, are the Barracks – the Marines are drilling in front.”

They clattered over the creek, rounded the quarters of the “Hermaphrodites,” and saw below them the wide bridge, almost a half a mile long, which spans the Severn. The draw was open, to let a motor boat pass through, but it closed before they reached it.

“This is exceptionally pretty!” Macloud exclaimed, drawing rein, midway. “Look at the high bluff, on the farther shore, with the view up the river, on one side, and down the Bay, and clear across on the other… Now,” as they wound up on the hill, “for the first road to the right.”

“This doesn’t look promising!” laughed Croyden, as the road swung abruptly westward and directly away from Greenberry Point.

“Let us go a little farther,” said Macloud. “There must be a way – a bridle path, if nothing better – and, if we must, we can push straight through the timber; there doesn’t seem to be any fences. You see, it was rational to ride.”

“You’re a wise old owl!” Croyden retorted.

“Ah! – there’s our road!” as one unexpectedly took off to the right, among the trees, and bore almost immediately eastward. “Come along, my friend!”

Presently they were startled by a series of explosions, a short distance ahead.

“What are we getting into?” Macloud exclaimed, drawing up sharply.

“Parmenter’s defending his treasure!” said Croyden, with mock seriousness. “He is warning us off.”

“A long way off, then! We must be a mile and more from the Point. It’s some one blasting, I think.”

“It wasn’t sufficiently muffled,” Croyden answered.

They waited a few moments: hearing no further noises, they proceeded – a trifle cautiously, however. A little further on, they came upon a wood cutter.

“He doesn’t appear at all alarmed,” Croyden observed. “What were the explosions, a minute ago?” he called.

“They weren’t nothing,” said the man, leaning on his axe. “The Navy’s got a ’speriment house over here. They’re trying things. Yer don’t need be skeered. If yer goin’ to the station, it’s just a little ways, now,” he added, with the country-man’s curiosity – which they did not satisfy.

They passed the buildings of the Experiment Station and continued on, amid pine and dogwood, elms and beeches. They were travelling parallel with the Severn, and not very distant, as occasional glimpses of blue water, through the trees, revealed. Gradually, the timber thinned. The river became plainly visible with the Bay itself shimmering to the fore. Then the trees ended abruptly, and they came out on Greenberry Point: a long, flat, triangular-shaped piece of ground, possibly two hundred yards across the base, and three hundred from base to point.