“After we’ve whipped Yankee-Doo-dle-dom, what then?”
“Then a strong military government. Having our slaves to work for us, we shall become the greatest martial nation in the world. Our poor whites, now a weakness and a burden, we will convert into soldiers and Cossacks; excepting the artisan and trading classes, and them we must disfranchise.”[[32]]
“Can we expect aid from England?” asked Onslow.
“Not open aid, but substantial aid nevertheless. Exeter Hall may grumble. The doctrinaires, the Newmans, Brights, Mills, and Cobdens may protest and agitate. The English clodhoppers, mudsills, and workies of all kinds will sympathize of course with the low-born Yankees. But the master race of England, the non-producers, will favor the same class here. The disintegration of North America into warring States is what they long to see. Already the English government is swift to hail us as belligerents. Already it refuses what it once so eagerly proffered,—an international treaty making privateering piracy. Soon it will let us fit out privateers in English ports. Yes, England is all right.”
Here a slave-boy announced dinner, and they entered a smaller but lofty apartment, looking out on a garden, and having its two open windows pleasantly latticed with grape-vines. A handsome, richly dressed quadroon lady sat at the table. In introducing his young guest, Ratcliff addressed her as Madame Volney.
Onslow, in his innocence, inquired after Mrs. Ratcliff.
“My wife is an invalid, and rarely quits her room,” said the host.
The dinner was sumptuous, beginning with turtle-soup and ending with ices and fruits. The costliest Burgundies and Champagnes were uncorked, if only for a sip of their flavors. Madame Volney, half French, was gracious and talkative, occasionally checking Ratcliff in his eating, and warning him to be prudent. At last cigars were brought on, and she left the room. Ratcliff rose and listened at the door, as if to be sure she had gone up-stairs. Then, walking on tiptoe, he resumed his seat. He alluded to the opera,—to the ballet,—to the subject of pretty women.
“And apropos of pretty women,” he exclaimed, “let me show you a photograph of one I have in my pocket.”
As he spoke, there was a rustling in the grape-vines at a window. He turned, but saw nothing.