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 41 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.