“Sir Nigel! Sir Nigel!”
He stopped and turned sharply.
Old Thomas, breathless, in deepest black, was hastening down the stony path.
“Your pardon, Sir Nigel. May I speak with you?”
“What is it, old friend?”
“Sir Nigel, you are going? Don’t leave us behind, Mary and me. Now we have lost our dear lady, we cannot stay here. Already there are changes. We shall not be wanted. We know too much about our lady’s ways and wishes. Pipes in the Oak Room she never did allow, nor whisky and soda in the morning. Her ladyship’s last word to me was: ‘If possible, go with Sir Nigel, Thomas, you and Mary. You know his ways, and I would like to feel Mary was there to do his mending and airing, and see that he has properly cooked meals.’ Our dear lady has left an annuity of two hundred a year between us, and we have our savings, and no encumbrances, thank God. It isn’t a question of wages; it’s a question of home, and the Fam’ly—boy and man, Sir Nigel, for over fifty years.”
He paused for breath and a pocket-handkerchief.
“Your pardon, Sir Nigel.” He wiped the tears from his furrowed cheeks. “Boy and man, Sir Nigel, for half a century. I ran beside your pony, sir, as you may remember.”
“I don’t remember, Thomas; but She did; and I have no doubt you do.”
He considered.