No more than that. A short, very stout, and
very black nigger. And I was to pass the word to Mr. Villard, a
gentleman of estate near Savannah, Georgia, and if you, sir, will attend
to that, my part's done."
After my dinner in town was through with, I rode hard; but it was late
night by the time I reached the manor-house. I found him sitting out
under the moon, smoking a cheroot as usual, and he continued to smoke
immovably for some minutes after I had delivered the message; but by and
by he stood up and took to pacing the veranda, and presently, after his
fashion, to speak his thoughts aloud.
"A hundred thousand acres and a thousand slaves, good, bad, and
indifferent--surely a man does owe a little something to his manorial
duties. At least, so all my highly respectable and well-established
neighbors tell me. What do you say, Guy?"
"I never gave much thought to the matter, sir."
"No? Well, doubtless you will--some day. But d'y' remember Kingston
Harbor, where the black boys dive through the green waters for the
silver sixpenny pieces, and Kingston port, where the white roads and the
white walls throw back the tropic sun so that it seems twice as hot as
it really is--Kingston, Guy--in Jamaica, where the sun sets like a
blood-orange salad in a purple dish? D'y' remember, Guy, and the day we
were lying into Kingston in the _Bess_ and the word came that my uncle
was dead? Aye, you do; but don't you remember how he used to rail
against me? To be sure--you were too young.
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