“Yassah,” the old butler answered, bowing himself out with stately dignity.
John closed the door and drew his chair close to the Major’s.
“Father, I want to ask you something very particular,” he began.
The old man smiled indulgently.
“Well, out with it, you young rascal! You’ve been flying round her long enough. I knew it would come at last. So she’s got you, has she! Well, well, Jennie’s a fine girl, my boy; I danced at her father’s and mother’s wedding. I wish I had more to give you. You’ll have to be content with the lower plantation, and a dozen slaves to start with.”
“Listen, father,” John urged, stopping him with a gentle pressure on his arm. “And try to remember. Have you encountered Butler lately?”
“Change our butler!—what better butler do you want than Alfred? He’s an aristocrat to his finger tips. I wouldn’t think of reducing him from his present rank; what has he done to offend any one?”
“I mean the Judge who took the house—I mean Judge Butler.”
“Ah! A man of low origin and no principle, my son—a renegade who betrayed his people for thirty pieces of silver—silver stained with blood—a dirty, contemptible office-seeker. I wouldn’t lower myself by speaking to such a man.”
“Yes, I know father,” John broke in, “but I’m trying to recall to your memory the visits you have made at night lately to the old home.”