CHAPTER XXIV.

THE PLOT

Foul whisperings are abroad; and unnat’ral deeds. —Shakespeare.

I follow you. To do I know not what. —Shakespeare.

“Does Miss Aylesford ride on horseback as she did before she went abroad?” said Arrison.

“Yes! This militia Major has been riding with her every morning.”

“But don’t she ever ride alone?”

“Sometimes, I suppose. He can’t be for ever dangling after her. At any rate, now that I’ve come back, I’ll take good care that he don’t.” And he finished with an oath.

“Then, without having yourself suspected, get her to ride unattended to-morrow or next day. Yon must also find out which way she is going. I will be on the look-out, with three or four trusty fellows of my gang, and on a sudden, we will rush out and make her our prisoner. You needn’t start and look in that fashion,” said Arrison, with a laugh at his hearer’s glance of alarm, “we’ll not hurt a hair of her head. We shan’t even gag her, as we would anybody else, for the road will be a lonely one most likely, and there’ll be no occasion for rough usage.”

“What next?” said Aylesford, seeing that Arrison paused. And he proceeded contemptuously— “I can’t see any such pretty scheme in this project of kidnapping.”

“Then you haven’t the sense I give you credit for,” answered Arrison. “Don’t you see? I and my followers are to seize her, and you are to rescue her. That’ll be an ace to play on this Major Gordon’s king, and a trump card at that.”

Aylesford’s countenance brightened, the look of suspicion disappearing totally.

“I am dull,” he said. “This infernal affair has driven me half mad, I believe, and benumbed my senses.”

“Of course,” answered Arrison, “it won’t do to rescue her right away. For then, you know, you’d have no good excuse for carrying her within the royal lines, a step which must be taken if you wish to get her to New York. Though, for my part,” added the outlaw, “I don’t see why you should trouble yourself to make so long a journey. Now, in the old country, and especially in the parts where I lived when a boy, it was a common practice, when a gentleman wished to get a wife, for him to call together a party of his friends, waylay the girl, make her a prisoner, carry her off to the mountains, and never let her go back till the priest had made them man and wife. Many’s the Squire’s lady that was won in that way; and they say girls of spirit like it better than more formal wooing. Now, if you say so, we’ll play the part of your friends, instead of acting more naturally as refugees; and though a priest may not be so easy to come at, you’re not what you once were, if you can’t find a way to make the lady eager enough to marry you, after she gets out of the swamp.”

The cool, matter-of-fact manner in which this atrocious proposition was made, showed how business-like the villain considered it. But Aylesford, though he would not have hesitated, as Arrison knew from the past, if the victim had been some poor and friendless girl, revolted at such an outrage on Kate. His face flushed with anger, and he partially rose from his seat. But recollecting immediately that Arrison was not in love like himself, and that the customs of his country had accustomed the refugee to look on such abductions leniently, he resumed his place, while the red tint of passion faded from his brow. But he shook his head.

“No, we’ll stick to the other plan,” he said. “I won’t woo Kate in that fashion, if I never get her, so help me God,” he added, earnestly.

“Just as you say. But I meant no offence,” answered Arrison.

“I believe you” replied Aylesford. “But, apart from every other consideration, my cousin is not the girl to be won in that fashion. She would, I am convinced, kill herself sooner than yield; and even if she was prevented, by force, from injuring herself, she’d hate me to her dying day. No, it would be madness.”

“I think you’re mistaken,” answered Arrison. “I know women better than you do, if you have such notions of them. Their bark is worse than their bite. There’d doubtless be a great tearing of hair, any amount of screeching, vows to starve herself to death, to stab herself, to kill you, perhaps even to turn informer; but she’ll be at last, as they always are in Ireland, as gentle as a lamb, and would crawl to your knees, if necessary, to beg you to make an honest woman of her by marrying—”

He was not allowed to finish the sentence. There was still enough that was good left in Aylesford, or, if not this, love had temporarily bestowed it on him, to make his blood boil at the cool deliberation with which this hardened villain spoke. He sprang from his chair, half drew his sword, and exclaimed—

“Are you man or devil? Another word like that, and I’ll run you through. Miss Aylesford,” he added, haughtily, “is not to be spoken of, sirrah, in this diabolical way.”

Arrison, on seeing him rise, had sprang also to his feet, knocking down the chair behind him and retreating a few paces, while at the same time he whipped out a knife, whose blade gleamed as he held it ready to strike. For awhile, the two men stood regarding each other, without a word being uttered. At last the outlaw spoke—

“Put back your sword, Mr. Aylesford, and I’ll sheathe my knife. You really are not yourself any longer. I don’t know how to talk to you. Every word seems to anger you to-day. We’ve often spoke of women—well, well,” he continued, observing Aylesford’s quick frown, “enough of that. I only seek your good. I’ll say nothing more about the lady, except to tell you my original plan, and to swear by all that’s good, that I never thought to insult you or her.”

Had Aylesford been less accustomed to his present associate, or even perhaps had he been less eager to secure Arrison’s co-operation, he would have broken off the interview. But he allowed himself again to be soothed, and, replacing his sword, took his seat.

“I have said,” resumed Arrison, “that it won’t do for you to rescue Miss Aylesford at once: for then you’ll have no excuse for not taking her back to Sweetwater. I’ll put her in a boat and carry her down the river, making her believe my intention is to throw pursuit off our trail. In this way I’ll conduct her to the vicinity of the Neck, if not past it; the exact point will depend on yourself. You’ll of course be on the watch. Having gone ahead, you’ll know where to look for me, for you’ll have found out how far his Majesty’s pickets extend; and you’ll naturally wish to attack me before I get within the lines, as otherwise the lady might see that I was really taking her to the British, instead of to the woods, and was your confederate.”

Aylesford nodded approvingly, as Arrison paused for an opinion, on which the latter proceeded.

“It will be easy for you to get together a half dozen stout fellows, followers of the royal forces, with which you’ll put yourself in communication at once. I’ll time my arrival so as to reach your neighborhood about dusk. You’ll know my boat by seeing me in the stern sheets. You must shoot out from under the bank of the meadow, where you’ve been hid, and, with a cheer, dash right on us. We’ll have our cue, and pretend to be taken by surprise. You’ll board us, after a few guns are fired, which we’ll take care, on both sides, shall be without shot. To seize your cousin, transfer her to your boat, and sweep away as fast as the tide and four oars can take you, needn’t be but the work of a moment. Some of us will, meantime, have leaped overboard, the better to carry out the farce; for we can easily swim back to our boat, or make the shore, where our comrades will pick us up. By this little bit of stratagem,” he continued, with a hearty laugh at his own cunning, “you’ll get the credit of having saved your cousin from blood-thirsty villains; and if that don’t trump this Major Gordon’s claims, call me a fool. Curse me,” he added, as he filled his glass, and laughed till the tears ran out of his eyes, “I ought to have been a writer of plays, as I might have been, I suppose, if I’d stayed in Dublin; I think I can fix off a plot as well as old Shakespeare himself.”

“It’s certainly a capital plan,” answered Aylesford, even his disgust now gone, so certain seemed the result. “If it succeeds, I’ll make you a gentleman for life.”

“Succeed? It _must_ succeed. Come, cheer up, sir. Faint heart never won fair lady. Gad, I’m bound to have it succeed, if only to make me a gentleman again; a thing I was born for, but missed by my cursed stupidity.”

“You’ve often hinted at that,” said Aylesford, “and it’s easy to see you’ve had a good education. How did you ever come to seek your fortune as an ostler in the colonies?”

“Some other time, maybe, I’ll tell you,” answered Arrison, his gayety giving way to gloom. “It’s enough for to-day, that I became an ostler because I knew more about horses than anything else.”

And gleams of dignity broke through even his imbruted face, and exhibited themselves in his manner as he spoke.

“Of course,” resumed Aylesford, in an ironical tone, “I’ll find it impossible to carry Kate anywhere else than down the river, right into the heart of the British squadron, where the royal commander, also of course, will retain us. My cousin, as an heiress, will be too valuable a prize to be parted with, and her desire to return, if she urges it, will be civilly, but resolutely resisted by his Majesty’s officer. Besides, we will tell her that it would be madness, after her narrow escape, for her to go back to so disturbed a region, and one also which is about to become the theatre of incessant skirmishes. It’s a capital plan, most capital,” said Aylesford, gleefully. “You have a genius for scheming, Arrison. I’ll do my part, and engage that, to-morrow, Kate shall ride out alone. Let me see. She’ll take the road through the cedar-swamp, towards Herman’s. I think I can manage that. You know the way, don’t you. Be there early. If, by any accident, she fails you to-morrow, then be there every day till she passes.”

“I’ll wait near the spring,” said Arrison, rising, as he perceived Aylesford prepare to go. “In going down the bank of the river, I’ll take the other side. You’ll be ready below, will you?”

“Yes,” answered Aylesford, as he proceeded to mount his horse. “But it’s nearly noon, and I must be at Sweetwater by dinner-time.”

With these words, he put spurs to his horse and disappeared in the forest.