'Ah, you hit her there!' exclaimed Joe, springing to his feet in great glee, and striding to the window. 'See here, Mr. Kirke! See what a turnout the Yankee 'schulemarm' has worried out of father!'
'My son, you must not speak so; she is your mother!' said Preston.
'No, I'm d—d if she is! Call her anything but that, father; that's an—'he checked himself; but I thought he would have added—'insult to my dead mother!'
Preston made no reply.
Looking out of the window, I saw Mrs. Preston being handed into a magnificent barouche by one of the black gentry she so much despised. Another one in gaudy gold livery sat on the box, and a mounted outrider, also bound up in gold braid, stood behind the carriage.
'There's a two-thousand-dollar turnout, and two fifteen-hundred-dollar niggers, to tote a woman who ought to go afoot. It's a poor investment, I swear,' said Joe, turning away from the window.
Preston made no reply; but I laughingly remarked:
'Come, Joe, she isn't your wife. Let your father spend his money as he pleases; he can afford it.'
'He can't afford it; that woman is running him to the devil at a two-forty gait. You have more influence with him than any one, Mr. Kirke—do try to stop it!'
The young man spoke in a decided but regretful tone, and his manner showed more respect to his father than his words implied. Unwilling to interfere in such an affair, I said nothing; but Preston, in a moment, remarked: