 | XII. Edwin Brothertoft |  |
12. XII.
Eight o'clock, and Major Kerr sat sipping Madeira
in the dining-room at Brothertoft Manor.
“What 's the use of eight candles?” he said
to Voltaire.
“Only four, sir,” says the butler, depositing
two branches on the table.
“I see eight, — no, sixteen. Well, let 'em
burn! Economy be hanged! I say, nigger!”
“What, sir?” Voltaire perceived that his
deteriorating process had been effectual. Kerr
saw double and spoke thick.
“I 'm tired of sitting here alone. Can't you
sing me a song?”
“I used to sing like a boblink, sir; but since
I lost my front tooth the music all leaks out in
dribbles. There 's a redcoat sargeant just come
into the kitchen. He looks like a most a mighty
powerful singer. Shall I bring him in?”
“Yes. I ain't proud. A Kerr can associate
with anybody.”
As Voltaire left the room, he picked up the
Major's sword and pistols from the sideboard.
door of the parlor where the lady of the Manor
was sitting solitary. His father handed him the
arms. The seven seals of mystery had been
opened, and Plato was deep in the plot.
“Take 'em, boy,” says Voltaire, “and be
ready!”
Ready for what? Neither divined. But Plato
took the weapons with dignity, and became a
generalissimo in his own estimation. He brandished
the sword, and made a lunge at some
imaginary antagonist. Then he lifted a cocked
pistol, and took aim. It was comic in the dim
hall to see him going through his silent pantomime.
He thrust, he parried, he dropped his
point, he bowed like an accomplished master of
fence. He raised a pistol, bowed graciously, as
if to say, “Après vous, Monsieur,” touched trigger,
assumed a look half triumph, half concern,
then laid his hand upon his heart and
smiled the smile of one whose wounded honor
is avenged. All this was done without so much
as a chuckle.
While Plato was at his noiseless gymnastics,
Voltaire, through the pantry, had conducted the
Sergeant into Major Kerr's presence.
Skerrett, with his moustache off, and in a disguise
a world too shrunk for his shanks and
shoulders, looked much less the hero than when
at this moment he did not feel very heroic.
He was sailing under false colors. He was
acting a lie. He did not like the business,
whatever the motive was. He took his seat
vis-à-vis the rival Major, and thought, “If fair
play is a jewel, I must give the effect of paste
set in pinchbeck at this moment.”
“Glad to see you, Sargeant,” says Kerr, speaking
thick. “That 's right,” — to Voltaire. “Give
him some wine! Fine stuff they have in this
house. Better than regulation grog, Sargeant.”
The new-comer nodded, and went at his supper
vigorously.
“Goshshave th' King, Sargn! Buppers!” says
Kerr, holding up his glass aslant and spilling a
little.
“Bumpers!” responded the other.
“Frustrate their politics. Confound their
knavish tricks,” chanted Kerr. “Rebblstricksh,
I mean, Sargn. Cuffoud 'em. Buppers!”
“Bumpers!” Skerrett rejoined, still feeling
great compunction at the part he was playing.
“Sargeant,” says Kerr, “I 'm going to tell you
something.”
Skerrett looked attention.
“I 'm going to be married to-morrow,” —
spoken confidentially.
“Ah!”
“Don't say, `Ah!' Sargeant. Ah expreshes
doubtsh. Say, Oh! Sargeant. I askitshpussonlefaver,
Sargn. Say, Oh!”
“Oh!”
“That 's right. Oh is congratulation.” He
made muddy work with the last word. “Yes,
Sargeant, doocid pretty girl, doocid pretty property.
Want to see her, Sargeant?”
“No, I thank you.”
“Yes, you do, Sargeant. Don't tell me!
I 'm a lucky fellow, Sargeant. Always was
with women. I 'll have her down in the parlor,
by and by, and you can look through the crack
of the door and see her. She loves me so much,
Sargeant, that she 's gone up stairs to look at
her wedding-dress and wish for to-morrow.”
This discourse, spoken thick, and the leer that
emphasized it, quite dissipated all Major Skerrett's
scruples.
“Faugh!” thought he. “Everything is fair
play against such a beast. I never comprehended
before what a horror to a delicate woman
must be marriage with such a creature. Life
would drag on one long indignity, and every
day fresh misery and fresh disgust. Faugh!
sitting here and hearing him talk gives me
qualms, — me, a man of the world, who have
certainly had time to outgrow my squeamishness.
I could not tolerate the thought of giving
to the degradation of this fellow's society. He
shall not have Mr. Brothertoft's gentle daughter.
No, not if I have to shoot him where he sits.
No, not if I have to stab the lady.”
Peter looked at his watch. Time was not up.
He was compelled to bottle his indignation and
listen civilly.
Kerr grew more and more confidential in his
cups. Faugh! the jokes he made! the staves
he trolled! the winks he winked! the imbecile
laughs he roared! the conquests he recounted
in love and war! Faugh, that such brutes have
sometimes dragged the pure and the gentle down
to their level! Faugh, that they still grovel on
our earth, so that the artist, compelled by the
conditions of his work to paint such a Silenus,
finds his unpleasant models thick about him,
and paints under the sharp spur of personal
disgust and personal harm!
The two Majors in the dining-room, the Lady
of the Manor in a drowsy revery over the parlor
fire, Lucy eager and trembling in her chamber,
— for Voltaire has whispered that the hero
has come, — Volante saddled, Plato gesticulating
with sword and pistols; — now let us see
what the plotters without the Manor-House are
doing.
| XII. Edwin Brothertoft | |