“What! Arens Ringgold?—he making love to Viola!”
“Viola! Gorramighty, Massr George!” exclaimed the black, staring till his eyes shewed only the whites—“Viola! Gorramighty, I nebber say Viola!—nebber!”
“Of whom, then, are you speaking?”
“O massr, did I not say da young lady? dat am tha young Missa—Missa Vaginny.”
“Oh! my sister you mean. Poh, poh! Jake. That is an old story. Arens Ringgold has been paying his addresses to my sister for many years; but with no chance of success. You needn’t trouble yourself about that, my faithful friend; there is no danger of their getting married. She doesn’t like him, Jake—I wonder who does or could—and even if she did, I would not permit it. But there’s no fear, so you may make your mind easy on that score.”
My harangue seemed not to satisfy the black. He stood scratching his head, as if he had something more to communicate. I waited for him to speak.
“’Scoose me, Massr George, for da freedom, but dar you make mighty big mistake. It am true dar war a time when Missa Vaginny she no care for dat ar snake in da grass. But de times am change: him father—da ole thief—he am gone to tha udda world? tha young un he now rich—he big planter—tha biggest on da ribber: ole missa she ’courage him come see Missa Vaginny—’cause he rich, he good spec.”
“I know all that, Jake: my mother always wished it; but that signifies nothing—my sister is a little self-willed, and will be certain to have her own way. There is no fear of her giving her consent to marry, Arens Ringgold.”
“’Scoose me, Massr George, scoose me ’gain—I tell you, massr, you make mistake: she a’most consent now.”
“Why, what has put this notion into your head, my good fellow?”