University of Virginia Library

7. VII.

“After this history, I want a little topography,”
said Skerrett. “Can you sketch me
a ground plan of the house?”

That skeleton, Brothertoft could draw without
much feeling. The house, as it stood, complete
in the background of memory, he would
not allow himself to recall. Its walls and furniture
were to him the unshifted scenes and
properties of a tragedy. If he painted them
before his mind's eye, an evil-omened figure of
a woman would step from behind the curtain,
threatening some final horror, to close the drama
of their lives.

“This wing to the right,” Skerrett said, “seems
an addition.”

“It was built on by the present proprietress,”
coldly rejoined the former heir.

“Stables here!” continued the Major, tracing
the plan. “Dining-room windows open toward
them. Shrubbery here, not too far off for an
ambush. Now, Voltaire, if we could get Major
Kerr alone in that dining-room in the dusk

of the evening to-morrow, I could walk him off
easily.”

“Ho!” exclaims the butler. “That 's all
settled beforehand.”

“Kerr sometimes makes late sittings there,
then? I fancied I knew his habits.”

“He 's a poor hand at courtin',” says Voltaire,
with contempt. “Ladies likes dewotion, —
that 's my 'sperience. He 's only dewoted to
fillin' hisself full of wine.”

“A two-bottle man?”

“Every day, when the ladies leave table, he rubs
his hands,” — Voltaire imitates, — “and says,
`Now then, old boy, fresh bottle! Yellow-seal!
Don't shake him!' He drinks that pretty slow,
and gives me a glass and says, `Woolly-head,
we 'll drink my pretty Lucy. Lucky Kerr's
pretty bride!'”

Peter Skerrett here looked ferocious.

“Then,” continued the old fellow, “he drops
off asleep at the table till four o'clock. Then
he wakes up, sour, and sings out,” — Voltaire imitates,
— “`Hullo, you dam nigger! Look sharp!
Another bottle! If you shake him, I 'll cut your
black heart out.' He drinks him, and then
byme-by he says, `Ole fel! Shmore wide, ole
fel. Tuther boddle dow! I ashkitspussonle
favor, ole fel!' Then he sings a little, and gets
generally accelerated.”

“I would rather have him slowed, than accelerated,”
says Peter.

“Oho!” grinned the butler, and whispered
to himself, “If the Major thinks he ought to
be stupid-tipsy for the good of the cause and
Miss Lucy, I can deteriorate him, into his Madeira,
with a little drop of our French Gutter de
Rosy brandy. That will take the starch out of
his legs, and make him easy to handle. But that
is my business. I won't tell nobody my secrets.
The pantry and I must keep dark.”

“I cannot help a grain of compunction in
this matter,” Skerrett said. “A gentleman
does not like to interfere in another man's
courtship.”

“Do you call this plot of a coarse man with
an unmotherly woman by the fair name of courtship?”
Brothertoft said.

“No. And fortunately the lady has no illusions.
I should not like to be the one to tell
Beauty she had loved Beast. But this Beauty,
it seems, has kept her heart too pure to have
lost her fine maidenly instinct of aversion to a
blackguard. Well, no more metaphysics! Scruples
be hanged. Kerr don't deserve to be treated
like a gentleman. England should have kept
such fellows at home, if she wanted us to believe
good manners were possible under a monarchy.
Now, then, Mr. Brothertoft, suppose I do not

get myself `hanged as one espy,' and take my
prisoner, — does his capture protect your daughter
enough?”

“I could wish, if it were possible, to have her
with me henceforth.”

“We must make it possible, though it complicates
matters. I could rush in, snatch Kerr,
and be off. The blow would be struck, the
enemy annoyed, our people amused; but in a
fortnight Clinton would offer some Yankee major
and a brace of captains to boot for his Adjutant,
the Honorable, &c. Then he would go down and
play Beast to Beauty again.”

“Save my daughter, once for all; if it can be
done.”

“I 'll try. Now, Voltaire, listen!”

Which he opened his mouth to do.

“What people, besides the two ladies and
Major Kerr, will be at your house to-morrow
evening, — the servants, I mean?”

“Oh! we live small at the Manor, now, —
ridiculous small. It 's war times now. Rents
is n't paid. When we want a proper lot of servants,
we takes clodhoppers.”

“Lucky for my plans you do live small,”
Skerrett said. “Never mind your family pride!
Name the household!”

“Me and Sappho and Plato, all patriots;
Jierck Dewitt's wife and her sister, Sally Bilsby,

both Tories, — that is, gals that likes redcoats
more than is good for 'em.”

“Could you manage to have the girls out of
the way to-morrow evening?”

“Easy enough. They 'll be glad to get away
for a frolic.”

“Any horses in your stable, Voltaire?”

“Six, — all out of that Harriet Heriot mare
stock. You remember, Master Edwin.”

Edwin Brothertoft did sadly remember the late
old Sam Galsworthy's generous offer. He remembered
sadly that ride, so many years ago,
and how the sweet south winds, laden with the
rustle of tropic palms, met him with fair omen,
— ah! long ago, when Faith was blind and Hope
was young!

“Six white horses,” Voltaire continued; “the
four carriage-horses, Madam's horse, and Miss
Lucy's mare, — you ought to see Miss Lucy on
her!”

“Perhaps I shall. Tell Plato to give the mare
another oat to-morrow! Her mistress may want
a canter in the evening, — eh, Voltaire?”

Grin in response.

“Tell Miss Brothertoft, with her father's best
love,” Skerrett resumed, “that he will be on
the lawn by the dining-room window to-morrow
evening at nine o'clock, waiting for her to ride
with him to Fishkill. Tell her to be brave, prudent,

and keep out of sight with a headache,
until she is called to start. And you, Voltaire,
as you love her, be cautious, be secret and be
wide awake!”

At “be cautious,” the old fellow winked elaborately.
At “be secret,” he locked all four
eyelids tight. At “be wide awake,” — snap!
eyelids flung open, and white of eye enough
appeared to dazzle a sharpshooter.

“Now, listen, Voltaire!”

Mouth agape, again, as if he had a tympanum
at each tonsil.

“Look at me, carefully!” continues Peter.

Pan shut and eyes à la saucer.

“Do you think you would know me disguised
in a red coat?”

Pan opened to explode, “Certain sure, sir!”

“And without my moustache?” the major
asked.

He gave that feature a tender twirl. His
fingers wrapped the fair tendrils lovingly around
them.

“Must it go?” he sighed. “O Chivalry!
O Liberty! O my Country! what sacrifices you
demand!”

Voltaire was sure that he would know the
Hero, even with an emasculated lip.

“Well; about eight to-morrow evening, when
Major Kerr is `accelerated' with his second

bottle, I shall knock at your loyal door, — moustache
off, and red coat on — and ask a night's
lodging for a benighted British sergeant.”

“You shall have it,” says the major-domo,
with a grand-seigneur manner.

“Nothing but apple-jack or Jersey champagne
has passed these lips, since we lost the
Brandywine. You will naturally give me my
bottle of Yellow-seal, and my bite of supper,
in the dining-room with the Major.”

“Oh!” cried Voltaire with sudden panic.
“Don't risk it! Major Kerr 's got a sword awful
long and awful sharp, and two pistols with gold
handles, plum full of bullets. Every day, when
he drinks, he puts 'em on the sideboard, an' he
say, `Lookerheeyar, ole darkey! spose dam rebble
cum, I stick him, so; an' I shoot him, so.'
Don't resk it, Mas'r Skerrett!”

(Ancient servitor, suppress thy terror and thy
Tombigbee together!)

“Slip off with the weapons, and hide 'em in
your bed,” says the Major.

“In my bed?” says Voltaire, in good Continental
again. “In our feather bed? Suppose
Sappho goes to lie down, and touches cold iron,
wont she take on scollops, high?”

“The poetess must not be taught to strike
a jangling lyre. Give the tools to Plato. Set
him on guard at the dining-room door when

I come. Tell him he is serving a model Republic,
— such as his ancient namesake never
dreamed.”

Brothertoft smiled at these classical allusions.
Lively talk was encouraging him, as his junior
meant it should.

Neither foresaw what a ghastly mischief was
to follow this arming of Plato.