“Common decency, sir,” said Sir John, for a moment yielding to his better feelings, “should have prevented your expressing such doubt of any woman; least of all, of one who is the mother of your wife.”
“Well, well, let it rest—we won’t quarrel. I have no reason to think hardly of the Countess of Granby. Relations should agree,” he continued, uttering the name with pompous pride, as if feeling that the title reflected honor upon him. “Come, Sir John, let’s talk seriously.”
“Concerning what, sir?”
“This fortune, of course—these estates.”
“I can give you no farther information, Mr. Butler; any future knowledge that you may desire must be obtained from Catharine Montour herself.”
Butler pushed back his chair with a muttered oath, then remembering how impolitic a quarrel with Sir John might prove, he drew towards the table again and smoothed his forehead, endeavoring to fall into a more friendly and familiar style of conversation, an effort in which he was not at first seconded by his companion.
“Well, let the wigwam rest for once; we have talked about these things long enough,” he said, with a great effort, wrenching his thoughts from the Granby estates. “What does this crusty Don want at Johnson Hall, when he leaves it with so little ceremony?”
“Oh,” answered Sir John, firing up, and draining glass after glass of wine while he was speaking; “he is a sort of commissioner from the king, sent to keep us all in order—our mode of warfare does not suit his taste, he was just making an eloquent protest against bringing Indians into the service, as you came in.”
“And be hanged to him!” cried Butler, filling his glass. “Why, we might as well strike our tents at once; the savages work beautifully—besides they make capital scapegoats when we wish to indulge in a little of their amusements; upon my word, Johnson, there’s a sort of relish in their way of scalping and roasting a traitor when he comes in, that has its charm; do away with the savages! why, that would be throwing aside buckler and cloak, too.”
“I told him so plainly enough,” said Sir John, whom the wine was making more and more social. “Why, Schuyler himself could not have preached mercy with more eloquence; he a king’s commissioner. I wish the Indians had roasted him when they had the chance—to come here lecturing me, a Johnson, of Johnson Hall; as if I had not been outraged and insulted enough by General Schuyler and his minions at Guy Park.”