 | V. Edwin Brothertoft |  |
5. V.
“In short,” says Voltaire, winding up his
story, “Madame Brothertoft is going to marry
off Miss Lucy to Major Kerr, day after to-morrow
evening.”
“To marry off! Then it is nilly the lady!”
Skerrett said.
“Nilly, sir! Yes, the nilliest kind!”
There, Sir Peter, is a tough nut for your Indignation
to bite on!
Peter was an undeveloped True Lover. The
“vital spark of heavenly flame” was in him;
but it lay latent under his uniform, as fire
lurks in a quartz pebble, until the destined little
boy strikes another quartz pebble against it.
Now there is a little boy of Destiny whose trade
it is to go about knocking hearts together and
striking Love, — that pretty pink flash, that rosy
flash, which makes cheeks blush sweeter and
eyes gleam brighter than they knew how to
blush and gleam before, — that potent flash
which takes hold of proper hearts and carbonizes
with myriad facets and a smile on every
one, — that keen flash which commands bad
hearts to burn away into ugly little heaps of
gray ashes. There is such an urchin, and Cupid,
alias Eros, is his name. He had tapped Peter
Skerrett's heart several times with hearts labelled,
“Anna's heart,” “Belinda's heart,” “Clara's
heart,” “Delia's heart,” and so on down the
alphabet. No perceptible love had answered
these taps. Perhaps the urchin made the female
heart impinge upon the male, instead of clashing
them together in mutual impact. Or perhaps
he did not do his tapping in a dark place,
— for shadow is needful to show light, — love
wants sorrow for a background.
However this might be, Peter Skerrett was still
an undeveloped true lover. He had made no
mistakes in love, he had had no disappointments.
His illusions were not gone. He still believed
love was the one condition of marriage. Marriage
without it this innocent youth deemed an
outrage.
The latent love in his heart cried, “Shame!”
when he heard Voltaire's story. Indignant blood
rushed to his cheeks, to his eyes indignant fire,
and curl indignant to his moustache. He discharged
a drop of ire by skimming a flat stone
at a chattering chipmunk, enthroned on a pumpkin
queries.
“You are sure, Mr. Brothertoft, that your
daughter does not love Kerr.”
“Sure. I have her word for it.”
“Does he love her?”
“He wants her.”
“Why?”
“She is a beauty and an heiress, — those are
the patent charms.”
“Ah! But does she know that Kerr is a fanfaron
and a rake, — selfish, certainly, probably
base, and very likely cruel?”
“She knows only what her mother tells her.
Friends are taboo in that house.”
“But does she divine nothing? Nothing to
base a refusal on? Pardon me if my tone seems
to express a doubt of this young lady, but —”
“But you have seen so many captivated by
rank and a red coat. My friend, I have done her
greater injustice than any you can imagine. I
believed my own child spoiled by bad influences.
We could not understand each other. An evil-omened
figure held a black curtain between us.
I was too sick at heart to see the truth. I had
lost my faith. I thought that my daughter
had taken in poison with her mother's milk. I
fancied that she was a willing pupil when her
mother taught her to hate and despise me. I
And punished now! punished most cruelly! My
spleen, my haste, my intemperate despair, are
bitterly punished by my daughter's danger. How
fatally I misjudged her in my sore-wounded
heart! I know her better at last. Better now,
when I fear it is too late to save her. I know
her at last through this faithful servant and
friend. He stood by her when I forsook her.
God forgive me! God forgive me!”
He poured out this confession with passion
growing as he spoke. Then he turned and
grasped Major Skerrett by the shoulder.
“What is to be done?” he cried.
“Much!” said Skerrett, quietly, commanding
his own eagerness roused by the other's
agony. “Remember that this wedding is not
to be before day after to-morrow. I have volunteered
to present the intended bridegroom to
General Putnam here, by that time. Do you suppose
I intend to break my engagement, whether
it forbids his banns or not?”
He assumed more confidence than he felt.
The enterprise was growing complicated. While
there was merely question of taking or not taking
a prisoner, Skerrett could look at the matter
coolly. Success was only another laurel in his
corona triumphalis! Failure was but a bay the
less. If he bagged his man, another canto of
would keep Put and his paladins amused until
their general decadence of tail was corrected, and
their bosoms swelled with valor again, and that
was enough.
But here was a new character behind the
scenes. The hero's pulse began to gallop and
his heart to prance. A woman's happiness at
stake!
“Ah!” reflected the Major, “I was cool
enough so long as I thought I was merely entertaining
a circle of downcast braves, bushwhacking
to steal an exchangeable Adjutant, and giving
the enemy an unexpected dig in the ribs.
But the new portion of the adventure makes me
shaky. If I fail, I lose my laurel, all the same,
and a lady has to be bonneted with a wreath of
orange-flowers against her will. If I don't bag,
Beauty goes to the Kerrs; I miss my canto and
the poem of her life becomes a dirge. I must
not think of it, or I shall lose my spirits.”
“Prying into a maiden's heart is new business
to me,” he resumed to the father, who stood
watching him anxiously. “I cannot quite comprehend
this matter. She does not love this
man. Her dislike has brought about a reconciliation
between you. Where is her No? I have
heard that women carry such a weapon, — brandish
it, too, and strike on much less provocation
than she has.”
“She is not a free agent,” replied Brothertoft.
“Her mother dominates her. She forced her to
disown me. She will force her to this marriage.
Lucy has been quelled all her life. I hope and
believe that if she were released, or even supported
for one moment in rebellion, her character
might find it had vigor. But she is still willow
in her mother's hands. If the mother, for
whatever reasons, has made up her mind to this
marriage, she will crowd her daughter into it.”
“What reasons are sufficient for such tyranny?”
“I divine metaphysical reasons, that I cannot
speak of. It pains me greatly, my dear young
friend, to talk harshly of my daughter's mother.
Perhaps after all she may mean kindly now.
She may be mistaken in Kerr.”
“No,” said Peter. “No woman of the world
can mistake such a fellow.”
“Still, he is a strong friend to have on the
other side.”
“Yes; and this is a moment when the other
side is up and we are down. I can see how,
with these great estates, a Patrooness may be
willing to save herself a confiscation. She can
pretend to be neutral, with a leaning to Liberty,
and leave her son-in-law to rescue the acres if
Liberty goes to the gallows.”
“Such considerations have brought matters to
victor. So the poor child is hurried off without
giving her time to consider.”
“We must make time for her. I will go at
my plans presently. But I should like to hear a
little more of Voltaire's story.”
“You are very kind to take this interest in
the welfare of a desolate and disheartened man,
and those who are dear to him.”
Peter's cheeks were too brown to show blushes,
and his cocked hat covered his white forehead;
but he noticed that his heart was brewing a crimson
blush, whether it burst through the valves
and came to the surface or not. In fact he began
to feel a lively sympathy for this weak girl,
into whose orbit he was presently to fling himself,
like a yellow-haired comet, with spoil-sport
intent. The more he tried to cork in his blush,
the more it would n't be corked. And presently
bang it came to the surface. His white forehead
tingled at every pore, as the surface of a glass of
Clicquot may tingle with its own bursting bubbles.
No such rosy flash had ever showed on his
countenance, when Anna's or Belinda's or Clara's
or Delia's cheeks challenged him to kindle up.
But the mere thought of a name much lower
down in the alphabet now made his heart eager
to do its share in striking fire and lighting this
sorrowful scene about the Lucy in question.
The sad father was not in the way to observe
blushes; nor was Voltaire, who now proceeded
to finish his story.
For fear the worthy fellow might lapse into
brogue, — whereupon the ghost of John C. Calhoun
would hurroo with triumph, and ventriloquize
derisive niggerisms through the larynx of
his type negro, the stuffed Gorilla, — Voltaire's
tale shall be transposed into the third person.
Then the hiatuses can be filled up, and we shall
be able to peer a little into Lucy Brothertoft's
heart, and see whether the Heavenly Powers
have guarded her, as Sappho the cook long ago
prophesied they would.
| V. Edwin Brothertoft | |