In Her Own Right. Scott John Reed
with horses to match. The white men looked at the new arrival, listlessly, and the negroes with no interest at all – save the two who were porters for the rival hotels. They both made for Croyden and endeavored to take his grip.
He waved them away.
“I don’t want your hotel, boys,” he said. “But if you can tell me where Clarendon is, I will be obliged.”
“Cla’endon! seh? yass, seh,” said one, “right out at de een’ o’ de village, seh – dis street tek’s yo dyar, seh, sho nuf.”
“Which end of the village?” Croyden asked.
“Dis een’, seh, de fust house beyon’ Majah Bo’den’s, seh.”
“How many blocks is it?”
“Blocks, seh!” said the negro. “’Tain’t no blocks – it’s jest de fust place beyon’ Majah Bo’den’s.”
Croyden laughed. “Here,” he said, “you take my bag out to Clarendon – I’ll walk till I find it.”
“Yass, seh! yass, seh! I’ll do it, seh! but yo bettah ride, seh!”
“No!” said Croyden, looking at the vehicle. “It’s safer to walk.”
He tossed the negro a quarter and turned away.
“Thankee, seh, thankee, seh, I’ll brings it right out, seh.”
Croyden went slowly down the street, while the crowd stared after him, and the shops emptied their loafers to join them in the staring. He was a strange man – and a well-dressed man – and they all were curious.
Presently, the shops were replaced by dwellings of the humbler sort, then they, in turn, by more pretentious residences – with here and there a new one of the Queen Anne type. Croyden did not need the information, later vouchsafed, that they belong to new people. It was as unmistakable as the houses themselves.
About a mile from the station, he passed a place built of English brick, covered on the sides by vines, and shaded by huge trees. It stood well back from the street and had about it an air of aristocracy and exclusiveness.
“I wonder if this is the Bordens’?” said Croyden looking about him for some one to ask – “Ah!”
Down the path from the house was coming a young woman. He slowed down, so as to allow her to reach the entrance gates ahead of him. She was pretty, he saw, as she neared – very pretty! – positively beautiful! dark hair and —
He took off his hat.
“I beg your pardon!” he said. “Is this Mr. Borden’s?”
“Yes – this is Major Borden’s,” she answered, with a deliciously soft intonation, which instantly stirred Croyden’s Southern blood.
“Then Clarendon is the next place, is it not?”
She gave him the quickest glance of interest, as she replied in the affirmative.
“Colonel Duval is dead, however,” she added – “a caretaker is the only person there, now.”
“So I understood.” There was no excuse for detaining her longer. “Thank you, very much!” he ended, bowed slightly, and went on.
It is ill bred and rude to stare back at a woman, but, if ever Croyden had been tempted, it was now. He heard her footsteps growing fainter in the distance, as he continued slowly on his way. Something behind him seemed to twitch at his head, and his neck was positively stiff with the exertion necessary to keep it straight to the fore.
He wanted another look at that charming figure, with the mass of blue black hair above it, and the slender silken ankles and slim tan-shod feet below. He remembered that her eyes were blue, and that they met him through long lashes, in a languidly alluring glance; that she was fair; and that her mouth was generous, with lips full but delicate – a face, withal, that clung in his memory, and that he proposed to see again – and soon.
He walked on, so intent on his visual image, he did not notice that the Borden place was behind him now, and he was passing the avenue that led into Clarendon.
“Yass, seh! hyar yo is, marster! – hyar’s Clarendon,” called the negro, hastening up behind him with his bag.
Croyden turned into the walk – the black followed.
“Cun’l Duval’s done been daid dis many a day, seh,” he said. “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.
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