The Headless Horseman (Horror Classic). Майн Рид
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and make up your quarrel with Pluto?”
“No, missa. I be friend nebber more wid Pluto. He show hisseff such great coward when come dat storm on de brack prairee. Ah, Miss Looey! what we boaf do if dat young white gen’l’m on de red hoss no come ridin’ dat way?”
“If he had not, cher Florinde, it is highly probable neither of us should now have been here.”
“Oh, missa! wasn’t he real fancy man, dat ’ere? You see him bewful face. You see him thick hair, jess de colour ob you own—only curled leetle bit like mine. Talk ob de young planter, or dem officer at de Fort! De brack folk say he no good for nuffin, like dem—he only poor white trash. Who care fo’ dat? He am de sort ob man could dis chile make sigh. Ah! de berry, berry sort!”
Up to this point the young Creole had preserved a certain tranquillity of countenance. She tried to continue it; but the effort failed her. Whether by accident or design, Florinda had touched the most sensitive chord in the spirit of her mistress.
She would have been loth to confess it, even to her slave; and it was a relief to her, when loud voices heard in the courtyard gave a colourable excuse for terminating her toilette, along with the delicate dialogue upon which she might have been constrained to enter.
Chapter Eleven.
An Unexpected Arrival.
“Say, ye durnationed nigger! whar’s yur master?”
“Mass Poindex’er, sar? De ole massr, or de young ’un?”
“Young ’un be durned! I mean Mister Peintdexter. Who else shed I? Whar air he?”
“Ho—ho! sar! dey am boaf at home—dat is, dey am boaf away from de house—de ole massr an de young Massr Henry. Dey am down de ribber, wha de folk am makin’ de new fence. Ho! ho! you find ’em dar.”
“Down the river! How fur d’ye reck’n?”
“Ho! ho! sar. Dis nigga reck’n it be ’bout tree or four mile—dat at de berry leas’.”
“Three or four mile? Ye must be a durnationed fool, nigger. Mister Peintdexter’s plantation don’t go thet fur; an I reck’n he ain’t the man to be makin’ a fence on some’dy else’s clarin’. Lookee hyur! What time air he expected hum? Ye’ve got a straighter idee o’ thet, I hope?”
“Dey boaf ’pected home berry soon, de young massr and de ole massr, and Mass Ca’houn too. Ho! ho! dar’s agwine to be big dooin’s ’bout dis yar shanty—yer see dat fo’ yeseff by de smell ob de kitchen. Ho! ho! All sorts o’ gran’ feassin’—do roas’ an de bile, an de barbecue; de pot-pies, an de chicken fixins. Ho! ho! ain’t thar agwine to go it hyar jess like de ole times on de coass ob de Massippy! Hoora fo’ ole Mass Poindex’er! He de right sort. Ho! ho! ’tranger! why you no holla too: you no friend ob de massr?”
“Durn you, nigger, don’t ye remember me? Now I look into yur ugly mug, I recollex you.”
“Gorramighty! ’tain’t Mass ’Tump—’t use to fotch de ven’son an de turkey gobbla to de ole plantashun? By de jumbo, it am, tho’. Law, Mass ’Tump, dis nigga ’members you like it wa de day afore yesserday. Ise heern you called de odder day; but I war away from ’bout de place. I’m de coachman now—dribes de carriage dat carries de lady ob de ’tablishment—de bewful Missy Loo. Lor, massr, she berry fine gal. Dey do say she beat Florinday into fits. Nebba mind, Mass ’Tump, you better wait till ole massr come home. He am a bound to be hya, in de shortess poss’ble time.”
“Wal, if thet’s so, I’ll wait upon him,” rejoined the hunter, leisurely lifting his leg over the saddle—in which up to this time he had retained his seat. “Now, ole fellur,” he added, passing the bridle into the hands of the negro, “you gi’e the maar half a dozen yeers o’ corn out o’ the crib. I’ve rid the critter better ’n a score o’ miles like a streak o’ lightnin’—all to do yur master a sarvice.”
“Oh, Mr Zebulon Stump, is it you?” exclaimed a silvery voice, followed by the appearance of Louise Poindexter upon the verandah.
“I thought it was,” continued the young lady, coming up to the railings, “though I didn’t expect to see you so soon. You said you were going upon a long journey. Well—I am pleased that you are here; and so will papa and Henry be. Pluto! go instantly to Chloe, the cook, and see what she can give you for Mr Stump’s dinner. You have not dined, I know. You are dusty—you’ve been travelling? Here, Morinda! Haste you to the sideboard, and pour out some drink. Mr Stump will be thirsty, I’m sure, this hot day. What would you prefer—port, sherry, claret? Ah, now, if I recollect, you used to be partial to Monongahela whisky. I think there is some. Morinda, see if there be! Step into the verandah, dear Mr Stump, and take a seat. You were inquiring for papa? I expect him home every minute. I shall try to entertain you till he come.”
Had the young lady paused sooner in her speech, she would not have received an immediate reply. Even as it was, some seconds elapsed before Zeb made rejoinder. He stood gazing upon her, as if struck speechless by the sheer intensity of his admiration.
“Lord o’ marcy, Miss Lewaze!” he at length gasped forth, “I thort when I used to see you on the Massissippi, ye war the puttiest critter on the airth; but now, I think ye the puttiest thing eyther on airth or in hewing. Geehosofat!”
The old hunter’s praise was scarce exaggerated. Fresh from the toilette, the gloss of her luxuriant hair untarnished by the notion of the atmosphere; her cheeks glowing with a carmine tint, produced by the application of cold water; her fine figure, gracefully draped in a robe of India muslin—white and semi-translucent—certainly did Louise Poindexter appear as pretty as anything upon earth—if not in heaven.
“Geehosofat!” again exclaimed the hunter, following up his complimentary speech, “I hev in my time seed what I thort war some putty critters o’ the sheemale kind—my ole ’ooman herself warn’t so bad-lookin’ when I fast kim acrost her in Kaintuck—thet she warn’t. But I will say this, Miss Lewaze: ef the puttiest bits o’ all o’ them war clipped out an then jeined thegither agin, they wudn’t make up the thousanth part o’ a angel sech as you.”
“Oh—oh—oh! Mr Stump—Mr Stump! I’m astonished to hear you talk in this manner. Texas has quite turned you into a courtier. If you go on so, I fear you will lose your character for plain speaking! After that I am sure you will stand in need of a very big drink. Haste, Morinda! I think you said you would prefer whisky?”
“Ef I didn’t say it, I thunk it; an that air about the same. Yur right, miss, I prefar the corn afore any o’ them thur furrin lickers; an I sticks to it whuriver I kin git it. Texas hain’t made no alterashun in me in the matter o’ lickerin’.”
“Mass ’Tump, you it hab mix wif water?” inquired Florinda, coming forward with a tumbler about one-half full of “Monongahela.”
“No, gurl. Durn yur water! I hev hed enuf o’ thet since I started this mornin’. I hain’t hed a taste o’ licker the hul day—ne’er as much as the smell o’ it.”
“Dear Mr Stump! surely you can’t drink it that way? Why, it will burn your throat! Have a little sugar, or honey, along with it?”
“Speil it, miss. It air sweet enuf ’ithout that sort o’ docterin’; ’specially arter you hev looked inter the glass. Yu’ll see ef I can’t drink it. Hyur goes to try!”
The old hunter raised the tumbler to his chin; and after giving three gulps, and the fraction of a fourth, returned it empty into the hands of Florinda. A loud smacking of the lips almost drowned the simultaneous exclamations of astonishment uttered by the young lady and her maid.
“Burn my throat, ye say? Ne’er a bit. It hez jest eiled thet ere jugewlar, an put it