“I hates ter ’sturb you, li’l Mis,” he protested. “I hates might’ly ter ’sturb you; but dey’s trouble out to my house—I spect you knows ’bout it, honey.”
Virginia drew back, took up her lamp and motioned the old man to follow her downstairs to the dining room. “Don’t wake father, if it’s about Fairfax,” she cautioned. “It would only hurt his feelings, and make a bad matter worse.”
“Yas, baby chile, dat des’ what Vete was fearin’.” They stole softly to the dining room, and stood there confronted in the lamplight, the tall girl in her white dress, and the wizened little old negro in his comically ill-fitting broadcloth, hat in hand.
“You see ’t ’uz dishyer way: Marse Fair, he come out ter my place dis mawnin’—you know, Mis’, he train wid a feller what allers come out dar when he git ter spreein’. I uzzen’ dar. ’Ouldn’t ’a’ been no trouble ef I’d a’ been dar. Unk’ Vete can manage de bofe of ’em, tell dey git too bad.”
“Who was with my brother?” inquired the girl sharply.
The little old black man stole a side-long look at his interlocutrice. He was a slave, born on the Sevier plantation, body servant to her father, General Sevier, in whose discarded wear he now stood; and loyalty to the name warred in him with that freemasonry which keeps the male silent about the shortcomings of another male, when speaking to the woman who most needs to be warned of them.
“Dey dest one feller lef’ wid Marse Fair,” he mumbled. “Dey wuz a whole passel o’ boys dis mawnin’. But dem yutheh boys tuk an’ went home, whiles dey could walk. An’ I cain’t git Marse Fair to move.”
“Well, Uncle Vete, I’ll put on my things and go with you,” said Virginia, with sudden resolution. “I can manage Fair.” Returning, hat in hand, she had the curiosity to inquire, “How did you get in, Uncle Vete?”
“W’y, yo’ cook lady hyer, she a sisteh in de ‘Ban’ o’ High and Glor’ous Wardens,’ an’ I b’longs to de same division; an’ she lef’ me in, honey; she lef’ me in.”
“Did you drive?”