The one concession to modernism was a bath-room, but its tin tub and painted iron wash-stand, with the plumbing concealed by wainscoting, proclaimed it, alas, of relatively ancient date. And, for a moment, Croyden contrasted it with the shower, the porcelain, and the tile, of his Northumberland quarters, and shivered, ever so slightly. It would be the hardest to get used to, he thought. As yet, he did not know the isolation of the long, interminably long, winter evenings, with absolutely nothing to do and no place to go—and no one who could understand. 52
At length, when they were ready to retrace their steps to the lower floor, old Mose had disappeared.
“Gone to tell his wife that the new master has come,” said Dick. “Let us go out to the kitchen.”
And there they found her—bustling around, making the fire, her head tied up in a bandana, her sleeves rolled to the shoulders. She turned, as they entered, and dropped them an old-fashioned curtsy.
“Josephine!” said Dick, “here is Mr. Croyden, the new master. Can you cook for him, as well as you did for Colonel Duval?”
“Survent, marster,” she said to Croyden, with another curtsy—then, to the agent, “Kin I cooks, Marster Dick! Kin I cooks? Sut’n’y, I kin. Don’ yo t’inks dis nigger’s forgot—jest yo waits, Marster Croyden, I shows yo, seh, sho’ nuf—jest gives me a little time to get my han’ in, seh.”
“You won’t need much time,” Dick commented. “The Colonel considered her very satisfactory, sir, very satisfactory, indeed. And he was a competent judge, sir, a very competent judge.”
“Oh, we’ll get along,” said Croyden, with a smile at Josephine. “If you could please Colonel Duval, you will more than please me.”
“Thankee, seh!” she replied, bobbing down again. “I sho’ tries, seh.”
“Have you had any experience with negro servants?” Dick asked, as they returned to the library. 53