“Folks sez ez how it’s owned by some city fellah, now. Mebbe yo knows ’im, seh?”
Croyden did not answer, he was looking at the place – and the negro, with an inquisitively curious eye, relapsed into silence.
The house was very similar to the Bordens’ – unpretentious, except for the respectability that goes with apparent age, vine clad and tree shaded. It was of generous proportions, without being large – with a central hall, and rooms on either side, that rose to two stories, and was topped by a pitch-roof. There were no piazzas at front or side, just a small stoop at the doorway, from which paths branched around to the rear.
“I done ’speck, seh, yo go roun’ to de back,” said the negro, as Croyden put his foot on the step. “Ole Mose ’im live dyar. I’ll bring ’im heah, ef yo wait, seh.”
“Who is old Mose – the caretaker?” said Croyden.
The place was looked after by a real estate man of the village, and neither his father nor he had bothered to do more than meet the accounts for funds. The former had preferred to let it remain unoccupied, so as to have it ready for instant use, if he so wished, and Croyden had done the same.
“He! Mose he’s Cun’l Duval’s body-survent, seh. Him an’ Jos’phine – Jos’phine he wif’, seh – dey looks arfter de place sence de ole Cun’l died.”
Croyden nodded. “I’ll go back.”
They followed the right hand path, which seemed to be more used than its fellow. The servants’ quarters were disclosed at the far end of the lot.
Before the tidiest of them, an old negro was sitting on a stool, dreaming in the sun. At Croyden’s appearance, he got up hastily, and came forward – gray-haired, and bent.
“Survent, seh!” he said, with the remains of what once must have been a wonderfully graceful bow, and taking in the stranger’s attire with a single glance. “I’se ole Mose. Cun’l Duval’s boy – seh, an’ I looks arfter de place, now. De Cun’l he’s daid, yo knows, seh. What can I do fur yo, seh?”
“I’m Mr. Croyden,” said Geoffrey.
“Yass, seh! yass, seh!” the darky answered, inquiringly.
It was evident the name conveyed no meaning to him.
“I’m the new owner, you know – since Colonel Duval died,” Croyden explained.
“Hi! yo is!” old Mose exclaimed, with another bow. “Well, praise de Lawd! I sees yo befo’ I dies. So yo’s de new marster, is yo? I’m pow’ful glad yo’s come, seh! pow’ful glad. What mout yo name be, seh?”
“Croyden!” replied Geoffrey. “Now, Moses, will you open the house and let me in?”
“Yo seen Marster Dick?” asked the darky.
“You mean the agent? No! Why do you ask?”
“Coz why, seh – I’m beggin’ yo pa’den, seh, but Marster Dick sez, sez he, ‘Don’ nuvver lets no buddy in de house, widout a writin’ from me.’ I ain’ doubtin’ yo, seh, ’deed I ain’, but I ruther hed de writin’.”
“You’re perfectly right,” Croyden answered. “Here, boy! – do you know Mr. Dick? Well, go down and tell him that Mr. Croyden is at Clarendon, and ask him to come out at once. Or, stay, I’ll give you a note to him.”
He took a card from his pocketbook, wrote a few lines on it, and gave it to the negro.
“Yass, seh! Yass, seh!” said the porter, and, dropping the grip where he stood, he vanished.
Old Mose dusted the stool with his sleeve, and proffered it.
“Set down, seh!” with another bow. “Josh won’ be long.”
Croyden shook his head.
“I’ll lie here,” he answered, stretching himself out on the grass. “You were Colonel Duval’s body-servant, you say.”
“Yass, seh! from de time I wuz so ’igh. I don’ ’member when I warn’ he body-survent. I follows ’im all th’oo de war, seh, an’ I wus wid ’im when he died.” Tears were in the darky’s eyes. “Hit’s purty nigh time ole Mose gwine too.”
“And when he died, you stayed and looked after the old place. That was the right thing to do,” said Croyden. “Didn’t Colonel Duval have any children?”
“No, seh. De Cun’l nuvver married, cuz Miss Penelope – ”
He caught himself. “I toles yo ’bout hit some time, seh, mebbe!” he ended cautiously – talking about family matters with strangers was not to be considered.
“I should like to hear some time,” said Croyden, not seeming to notice the darky’s reticence. “When did the Colonel die?”
“Eight years ago cum corn plantin’ time, seh. He jes’ wen’ right off quick like, when de mis’ry hit ’im in de chist – numonya, de doctors call’d it. De Cun’l guv de place to a No’thern gent’man, whar was he ’ticular frien’, and I done stay on an’ look arfter hit. He nuvver been heah. Hi! listen to dis nigger! yo’s de gent’mans, mebbe.”
“I am his son,” said Croyden, amused.
“An’ yo owns Cla’endon, now, seh? What yo goin’ to do wid it?”
“I’m going to live here. Don’t you want to look after me?”
“Goin’ to live heah! – yo means it, seh?” the darky asked, in great amazement.
Croyden nodded. “Provided you will stay with me – and if you can find me a cook. Who cooks your meals?”
“Lawd, seh! find yo a cook. Didn’ Jos’phine cook fur de Cun’l all he life – Jos’phine, she my wife, seh – she jest gone nex’ do’, ’bout some’n.” He got up – “I calls her, seh.”
Croyden stopped him.
“Never mind,” he said; “she will be back, presently, and there is ample time. Any one live in these other cabins?”
“No, seh! we’s all wha’ left. De udder niggers done gone ’way, sence de Cun’l died, coz deah war nothin’ fur dem to do no mo’, an’ no buddy to pays dem. – Dyar is Jos’phine, now, sir, she be hear torectly. An’ heah comes Marster Dick, hisself.”
Croyden arose and went toward the front of the house to meet him.
The agent was an elderly man; he wore a black broadcloth suit, shiny at the elbows and shoulder blades, a stiff white shirt, a wide roomy collar, bound around by a black string tie, and a broad-brimmed drab-felt hat. His greeting was as to one he had known all his life.
“How do you do, Mr. Croyden!” he exclaimed. “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, sir.” He drew out a key and opened the front door. “Welcome to Clarendon, sir, welcome! Let us hope you will like it enough to spend a little time here, occasionally.”
“I’m sure I too hope so,” returned Croyden; “for I am thinking of making it my home.”
“Good!
