Scud. O, I have not spoiled that anyhow. I can't introduce any darned improvement there. Ain't that a cure for old age; it kinder lifts the heart up, don't it?
Mrs. P. Poor child! what will become of her when I am gone? If you haven't spoiled her, I fear I have. She has had the education of a lady.
George. I have remarked that she is treated by the neighbors with a kind of familiar condescension that annoyed me.
Scud. Don't you know that she is the natural daughter of the judge, your uncle, and that old lady thar just adored anything her husband cared for; and this girl, that another woman would a hated, she loves as if she'd been her own child.
George. Aunt, I am prouder and happier to be your nephew and heir to the ruins of Terrebonne, than I would have been to have had half Louisiana without you.
Zoe. Am I late? Ah! Mr. Scudder, good morning.
Scud. Thank'ye. I'm from fair to middlin', like a bamboo cane, much the same all the year round.
Zoe. No; like a sugar cane; so dry outside, one would never think there was so much sweetness within.
Scud. Look here; I can't stand that gal! if I stop here, I shall hug her right off. [Sees Pete, who has set his pail down L. C. up stage, and goes to sleep on it.] If that old nigger ain't asleep, I'm blamed. Hillo! [Kicks pail from under Pete, and lets him down.]
Pete. Hi! Debbel's in de pail! Whar's breakfass?
Dido. Bless'ee, Missey Zoe, here it be. Dere's a dish of pen-pans – jess taste, Mas'r George – and here's fried bananas; smell 'em, do, sa glosh.
Pete. Hole yer tongue, Dido. Whar's de coffee? [Pours out.] If it don't stain de cup, your wicked ole life's in danger, sure! dat right! black as nigger; clar as ice. You may drink dat, Mas'r George. [Looks off.] Yah! here's Mas'r Sunnyside, and Missey Dora, jist drov up. Some of you niggers run and hole de hosses; and take dis, Dido. [Gives her coffee-pot to hold, and hobbles off, followed by Solon and Dido, R. U. E.]
Sunny. Good day, ma'am. [Shakes hands with George.] I see we are just in time for breakfast. [Sits, R.]
Dora. O, none for me; I never eat. [Sits, R. C.]
George. [Aside.] They do not notice Zoe. – [Aloud.] You don't see Zoe, Mr. Sunnyside.
Sunny. Ah! Zoe, girl; are you there?
Dora. Take my shawl, Zoe. [Zoe helps her.] What a good creature she is.
Sunny. I dare say, now, that in Europe you have never met any lady more beautiful in person, or more polished in manners, than that girl.
George. You are right, sir; though I shrank from expressing that opinion in her presence, so bluntly.
Sunny. Why so?
George. It may be considered offensive.
Sunny. [Astonished.] What? I say, Zoe, do you hear that?
Dora. Mr. Peyton is joking.
Mrs. P. [L. C.] My nephew is not acquainted with our customs in Louisiana, but he will soon understand.
George. Never, aunt! I shall never understand how to wound the feelings of any lady; and, if that is the custom here, I shall never acquire it.
Dora. Zoe, my dear, what does he mean?
Zoe. I don't know.
George. Excuse me, I'll light a cigar. [Goes up.]
Dora. [Aside to Zoe.] Isn't he sweet! O, dear Zoe, is he in love with anybody?
Zoe. How can I tell?
Dora. Ask him, I want to know; don't say I told you to inquire, but find out. Minnie, fan me, it is so nice – and his clothes are French, ain't they?
Zoe. I think so; shall I ask him that too?
Dora. No, dear. I wish he would make love to me. When he speaks to one he does it so easy, so gentle; it isn't bar-room style; love lined with drinks, sighs tinged with tobacco – and they say all the women in Paris were in love with him, which I feel I shall be; stop fanning me; what nice boots he wears.
Sunny. [To Mrs. Peyton.] Yes, ma'am, I hold a mortgage over Terrebonne; mine's a ninth, and pretty near covers all the property, except the slaves. I believe Mr. M'Closky has a bill of sale on them. O, here he is.
Sunny. Good morning, Mr. M'Closky.
M'Closky. Good morning, Mr. Sunnyside; Miss Dora, your servant.
Dora. [Seated, R. C.] Fan me, Minnie. – [Aside.] I don't like that man.
M'Closky. [Aside, C.] Insolent as usual. – [Aloud.] You begged me to call this morning. I hope I'm not intruding.
Mrs. P. My nephew, Mr. Peyton.
M'Closky. O, how d'ye do, sir? [Offers hand, George bows coldly, R. C.] [aside.] A puppy, if he brings any of his European airs here we'll fix him. – [Aloud.] Zoe, tell Pete to give my mare a feed, will ye?
George. [Angrily.] Sir.
M'Closky. Hillo! did I tread on ye?
Mrs. P. What is the matter with George?
Zoe. [Takes fan from Minnie.] Go, Minnie, tell Pete; run!
Mrs. P. Grace, attend to Mr. M'Closky.
M'Closky. A julep, gal, that's my breakfast, and a bit of cheese,
George. [Aside to Mrs. Peyton.] How can you ask that vulgar ruffian to your table?
Mrs. P. Hospitality in Europe is a courtesy; here, it is an obligation. We tender food to a stranger, not because he is a gentleman, but because he is hungry.
George. Aunt, I will take my rifle down to the Atchafalaya. Paul has promised me a bear and a deer or two. I see my little Nimrod yonder, with his Indian companion. Excuse me ladies. Ho! Paul! [Enters house.]
Paul. [Outside.] I'ss, Mas'r George.
Sunny. It's a shame to allow that young cub to run over the Swamps and woods, hunting and fishing his life away instead of hoeing cane.
Mrs. P. The child was a favorite of the judge, who encouraged his gambols. I couldn't bear to see him put to work.
George. [Returning with rifle.] Come, Paul, are you ready?
Paul. I'ss, Mas'r George. O, golly! ain't that a pooty gun.
M'Closky. See here, you imps; if I catch you, and your red skin yonder, gunning in my swamps, I'll give you rats, mind; them vagabonds, when the game's about, shoot my pigs.
Paul. You gib me rattan, Mas'r Clostry, but I guess you take a berry long stick to Wahnotee; ugh, he make bacon of you.
M'Closky. Make bacon of me, you young whelp. Do you mean that I'm a pig? Hold on a bit. [Seizes whip, and holds Paul.]
Zoe. O, sir! don't, pray, don't.
M'Closky. [Slowly lowering his whip,] Darn you, red skin, I'll pay you off some day, both of ye. [Returns to table and drinks.]
Sunny. That