Jeff laid to heart the Major’s wisdom; but when it came to acting upon it the difficulty arose. He often wondered why his tongue became tied and his throat grew dry when he was in Margaret’s presence these days and even just thought of saying anything serious to her. He had known Margaret ever since she was a wee bit of a baby, and had often carried her in his arms when she was a little girl and even after she grew up to be “right big.” He had thought frequently of late that he would be willing to die if he might but take her in his arms. It was, therefore, with no little disquietude that he observed what he considered his friend’s growing fancy for her. By the time Lawrence had taken a few strolls in the garden and a horseback ride or two with her Jeff was satisfied that he was in love with her, and before a week was out he was consumed with jealousy. Margaret was not the girl to indulge in repining on account of her lover’s unhappiness. If Jeff had had a finger-ache, or had a drop of sorrow but fallen in his cup her eyes would have softened and her face would have shown how fully she felt with him; but this—this was different. To wring his heart was a part of the business of her young ladyhood; it was a healthy process from which would come greater devotion and more loyal constancy. Then, it was so delightful to make one whom she liked as she did Jeff look so miserable. Perhaps some time she would reward him—after a long while, though. Thus, poor Jeff spent many a wretched hour cursing his fate and cursing Pick Lawrence. He thought he would create a diversion by paying desperate attention to Margaret’s guest; but it resolved itself on the first opportunity into his opening his heart and confiding all his woes to her. In doing this he fell into the greatest contradiction, declaring one moment that no one suspected that he was in love with Margaret, and the next vowing that she had every reason to know he adored her, as he had been in love with her all her life. It was one afternoon in the drawing-room. Rose, with much sapience, assured him that no woman could have but one reason to know it. Jeff dolefully inquired what it was.

Rising and walking up to him she said in a mysterious whisper,—.

“Tell her.”

Jeff, after insisting that he had been telling her for years, lapsed into a declaration of helpless perplexity. “How can I tell her more than I have been telling her all along?” he groaned. Rose said she would show him. She seated herself on the sofa, spread out her dress and placed him behind her.

“Now, do as I tell you—no, not so,—so;—now lean over,—put your arm—no, it is not necessary to touch me,” as Jeff, with prompt apprehension, fell into the scheme, and declared that he was all right in a rehearsal, and that it was only in the real drama he failed. “Now say ‘I love you.’” Jeff said it. They were in this attitude when the door opened suddenly and Margaret stood facing them, her large eyes opened wider than ever. She backed out and shut the door.

Jeff sprang up, his face very red.

Lawyers know that the actions of a man on being charged with a crime are by no means infallible evidence of his guilt,—but it is hard to satisfy juries of this fact. If the juries were composed of women perhaps it would be impossible.

The ocular demonstration of a man’s arm around a girl’s waist is difficult to explain on more than one hypothesis.

After this Margaret treated Jeff with a rigor which came near destroying the friendship of a lifetime; and Jeff became so desperate that inside of a week he had had his first quarrel with Lawrence, who had begun to pay very devoted attention to Margaret, and as that young man was in no mood to lay balm on a bruised wound, mischief might have been done had not the Major arrived opportunely on the scene just as the quarrel came to a white-heat. It was in the hall one morning. There had been a quarrel. Jeff had just demanded satisfaction; Lawrence had just promised to afford him this peculiar happiness, and they were both glaring at each other, when the Major sailed in at the door, ruddy and smiling, and laying his hat on the table and his riding-whip across it, declared that before he would stand such a gloomy atmosphere as that created by a man’s glowering looks, when there was so much sunshine just lying around to be basked in, he would agree to be “eternally fried in his own fat.”

“Why, I had expected at least two affairs before this,” he said jovially, as he pulled off his gloves, “and I’ll be hanged if I shan’t have to court somebody myself to save the honor of the family.”

Jeff with dignity informed him that an affair was then brewing, and Lawrence intimated that they were both interested, when the Major declared that he would “advise the young lady to discard both and accept a soberer and a wiser man.” They announced that it was a more serious affair than he had in mind, and let fall a hint of what had occurred. The Major for a moment looked gravely from one to the other, and suggested mutual explanations and retractions; but when both young men insisted that they were quite determined, and proposed to have a meeting at once, he changed. He walked over to the window and looked out for a moment. Then turned and suddenly offered to represent both parties. Jeff averred that such a proceeding was outside of the Code; this the Major gravely admitted; but declared that the affair even to this point appeared not to have been conducted in entire conformity with that incomparable system of rules, and urged that as Mr. Lawrence was a stranger and as it was desirable to have the affair conducted with as much secrecy and dispatch as possible, it might be well for them to meet as soon as convenient, and he would attend rather as a witness than as a second. The young men assented to this, and the Major, now thoroughly in earnest, with much solemnity, offered the use of his pistols, which was accepted.

In the discussion which followed, the Major took the lead, and suggested sunset that afternoon as a suitable time, and the grass-plat between the garden and the graveyard as a convenient and secluded spot. This also was agreed to, though Lawrence’s face wore a soberer expression than had before appeared upon it.

The Major’s entire manner had changed; his levity had suddenly given place to a gravity most unusual to him, and instead of his wonted jollity his face wore an expression of the greatest seriousness. He, after a casual glance at Lawrence, suddenly insisted that it was necessary to exchange a cartel, and opening his secretary, with much pomp proceeded to write. “You see—if things were not regular it would be butchery,” he explained, considerately, to Lawrence, who winced slightly at the word. “I don’t want to see you murder each other,” he went on in a slow comment as he wrote, “I wish you, since you are determined to shoot—each other—to do it like—gentlemen.” He took a new sheet. Suddenly he began to shout,—

“George—George Washington.” There was no answer, so as he wrote on he continued to shout at intervals, “George Washington!”

After a sufficient period had elapsed for a servant crossing the yard to call to another, who sent a third to summon George, and for that functionary to take a hasty potation from a decanter as he passed through the dining-room at his usual stately pace, he appeared at the door.

“Did you call, suh?” he inquired, with that additional dignity which bespoke his recourse to the sideboard as intelligibly as if he had brought the decanters in his hand. “Did I call!” cried the Major, without looking up. “Why don’t you come when you hear me?”

George Washington steadied himself on his feet, and assumed an aggrieved expression.

“Do you suppose I can wait for you to drink all the whiskey in my sideboard? Are you getting deaf-drunk as well as blind-drunk?” he asked, still writing industriously.

George Washington gazed up at his old master in the picture on the wall, and shook his head sadly.

“Nor, suh, Marse Nat. You know I ain’ drink none to git drunk. I is a member o’ de church. I is full of de sperit.”

The Major, as he blotted his paper, assured him that he knew he was much fuller of it than were his decanters, and George Washington was protesting further, when his master rose, and addressing Jeff as the challenger, began to read. He had prepared a formal cartel, and all the subsequent and consequential documents which appear necessary to a well-conducted and duly bloodthirsty meeting under the duello, and he read them with an impressiveness which was only equalled by the portentious dignity of George Washington. As he stood balancing himself, and took in the solemn significance of the matter, his whole air changed; he raised his head, struck a new attitude, and immediately assumed the position of one whose approval of the affair was of the utmost moment.

The Major stated that he was glad that they had decided to use the regular duelling pistols, not only as they were more convenient—he having a very fine, accurate pair—but as they were smooth bore and carried a good, large ball, which made a clean, pretty hole, without tearing. “Now,” he explained kindly to Lawrence, “the ball from one of these infernal rifled concerns goes gyrating and tearing its way through you, and makes an orifice like a posthole.” He illustrated his meaning with a sweeping spiral motion of his clenched fist.

Lawrence grew a shade whiter, and wondered how Jeff felt and looked, whilst Jeff set his teeth more firmly as the Major added blandly that “no gentleman wanted to blow another to pieces like a Sepoy mutineer.”

George Washington’s bow of exaggerated acquiescence drew the Major’s attention to him.

“George Washington, are my pistols clean?” he asked.

“Yes, suh, clean as yo’ shut-front,” replied George Washington, grandly.

“Well, clean them again.”

“Yes, suh,” and George was disappearing with ponderous dignity, when the Major called him, “George Washington.”

“Yes, suh.”

“Tell carpenter William to come to the porch. His services may be needed,” he explained to Lawrence, “in case there should be a casualty, you know.”

“Yes, suh.” George Washington disappeared. A moment later he reopened the door.

“Marse Nat.”

“Sir.”

“Shall I send de overseer to dig de graves, suh?”

Lawrence could not help exclaiming, “Good——!” and then checked himself; and Jeff gave a perceptible start.

“I will attend to that,” said the Major, and George Washington went out with an order from Jeff to take the box to the office.

The Major laid the notes on his desk and devoted himself to a brief eulogy on the beautiful symmetry of “the Code,” illustrating his views by apt references to a number of instances in which its absolute impartiality had been established by the instant death of both parties. He had just suggested that perhaps the two young men might desire to make some final arrangements, when George Washington reappeared, drunker and more imposing than before. In place of his ordinary apparel he had substituted a yellowish velvet waistcoat and a blue coat with brass buttons, both of which were several sizes too large for him, as they had for several years been stretched over the Major’s ample person. He carried a well-worn beaver hat in his hand, which he never donned except on extraordinary occasions.

“De pistils is ready, suh,” he said, in a fine voice, which he always employed when he proposed to be peculiarly effective. His self-satisfaction was monumental.

“Where did you get that coat and waistcoat from, sir?” thundered the Major. “Who told you you might have them?”

George Washington was quite taken aback at the unexpectedness of the assault, and he shuffled one foot uneasily.

“Well, you see, suh,” he began, vaguely, “I know you warn’ never gwine to wear ‘em no mo’, and seein’ dat dis was a very serious recasion, an’ I wuz rip-ripresentin’ Marse Jeff in a jewel, I thought I ought to repear like a gent’man on dis recasion.”

“You infernal rascal, didn’t I tell you that the next time you took my clothes without asking my permission, I was going to shoot you?”

The Major faced his chair around with a jerk, but George Washington had in the interim recovered himself.

“Yes, suh, I remembers dat,” he said, complacently, “but dat didn’t have no recose to dese solemn recasions when I rip-ripresents a gent’man in de Code.”

“Yes, sir, it did, I had this especially in mind,” declared the Major, unblushingly—“I gave you fair notice, and damn me! if I don’t do it too before I’m done with you—I’d sell you to-morrow morning if it would not be a cheat on the man who was fool enough to buy you. My best coat and waistcoat!”—he looked affectionately at the garments.

George Washington evidently knew the way to soothe him—“Who ever heah de beat of dat!” he said in a tone of mild complaint, partly to the young men and partly to his old master in the ruffles and velvet over the piano, “Marse Nat, you reckon I ain’ got no better manners ‘n to teck you bes’’ coat and weskit! Dis heah coat and weskit nuver did you no favor anyways—I hear Miss Marg’ret talkin’ ‘bout it de fust time you ever put ‘em on. Dat’s de reason I tuck ‘em.” Having found an excuse he was as voluble as a river—“I say to myself, I ain’ gwine let my young marster wyar dem things no mo’ roun’ heah wid strange ladies an’ gent’man stayin’ in de house too,—an’ I so consarned about it, I say, ‘George Wash’n’n, you got to git dem things and wyar ‘em yo’self to keep him f’om doin’ it, dat’s what you got to do,’ I say, and dat’s de reason I tuk ‘em.” He looked the picture of self-sacrifice.

But the Major burst forth on him: “Why, you lying rascal, that’s three different reasons you have given in one breath for taking them.” At which George Washington shook his woolly head with doleful self-abnegation.

“Just look at them!” cried the Major—“My favorite waistcoat! There is not a crack or a brack in them—They look as nice as they did the day they were bought!”

This was too much for George Washington. “Dat’s the favor, suh, of de pussen what has I t ‘em on,” he said, bowing grandly; at which the Major, finding his ire giving way to amusement, drove him from the room, swearing that if he did not shoot him that evening he would set him free to-morrow morning.