“It was in November of the year ’79.”
“The year before my father’s death? Why, man, do you mean to tell me you have lived here all this age—lived and vegetated in this isolation for twenty-one years?”
“It is true, indeed, sir.”
“You were a boy when you came. Your ambition is a tortoise. And who was the last tenant?”
Again the soft, distressed answer:
“I don’t know, sir. Indeed I don’t know. How can I tell?”
“How, truly—for one who can be content to rust in a solitude for a double decade? Well—you take your service from Mr. Creel, I suppose; and he knows his business. And whither do you wend now?”
The man was emboldened to step forward, his eyes shining with a pitiful anxiety.
“Oh, sir, sir! If you will only continue the service? We have no home or hope or prospect without ‘Delsrop’; and Mr. Creel—Mr. Creel, sir, he bade me throw myself upon your bounty.”
“I am beholden to him.”