Croyden left Northumberland in the morning—and his economy began with the ride East: he went on Day Express instead of on the Limited, thereby saving the extra fare. At Philadelphia he sent his baggage to the Bellevue-Stratford; later in the evening, he had it returned to the station, and checked it, himself, to Hampton—to avoid the possibility of being followed by means of his luggage.

He did not imagine that any one would go to the trouble to trace him, but he was not taking any chances. He wanted to cut himself away, utterly, from his former life, to be free of everyone he had ever known. It was not likely he would be missed.

Some one would say: “I haven’t seen Croyden lately,” would be answered: “I think he went abroad suddenly—about the time of the Royster & Axtell failure,” and, with that, he would pass out of notice. If he were to return, any time within the next five years, he would be met by a languid: “Been away, somewhere, haven’t you? I thought I hadn’t noticed you around the Club, lately.”—And that would be the extent of it.

One is not missed in a big town. His going 36 and his coming are not watched. There is no time to bother with another’s affairs. Everyone has enough to do to look after his own. The curiosity about one’s neighbors—what he wears, what he eats, what he does, every item in his daily life—that is developed by idleness, thrives in littleness, and grows to perfection in scandal and innuendo—belongs solely to the small town. If one comes down street with a grip—instantly: So and so is “going away”—speculation as to why?—where?—what? One puts on a new suit, it is observed and noted.—A pair of new shoes, ditto.—A new necktie, ditto. Every particular of his life is public property, is inspected for a motive, and, if a motive cannot be discovered, one is supplied—usually mean and little, the latter unctuously preferred.

All this Croyden was yet to learn, however.

He took the night’s express on the N. Y., P. & N., whence, at Hampton Junction, he transferred to a branch line. For twenty miles the train seemed to crawl along, burrowing into the sand hills and out again into sand, and in and out again, until, at length, with much whistling and escaping steam, they wheezed into the station and stopped.

There were a dozen white men, with slouch hats and nondescript clothing, standing aimlessly around, a few score of negroes, and a couple of antique carriages with horses to match. The white men looked at the new arrival, listlessly, and the 37 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 38 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. 39

“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. 40

“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 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.

“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?” 42

“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.

Old Mose dusted the stool with his sleeve, and proffered it.

“Set down, seh!” with another bow. “Josh won’ be long.”

Croyden shook his head.

“I’ll lie here,” he answered, stretching himself out on the grass. “You were Colonel Duval’s body-servant, you say.”

“Yass, seh! from de time I wuz so ’igh. I don’ ’member when I warn’ he body-survent. I follows ’im all th’oo de war, seh, an’ I wus wid ’im when he died.” Tears were in the darky’s eyes. “Hit’s purty nigh time ole Mose gwine too.” 43

“And when he died, you stayed and looked after the old place. That was the right thing to do,” said Croyden. “Didn’t Colonel Duval have any children?”

“No, seh. De Cun’l nuvver married, cuz Miss Penelope——”

He caught himself. “I toles yo ’bout hit some time, seh, mebbe!” he ended cautiously—talking about family matters with strangers was not to be considered.

“I should like to hear some time,” said Croyden, not seeming to notice the darky’s reticence. “When did the Colonel die?”

“Eight years ago cum corn plantin’ time, seh. He jes’ wen’ right off quick like, when de mis’ry hit ’im in de chist—numonya, de doctors call’d it. De Cun’l guv de place to a No’thern gent’man, whar was he ’ticular frien’, and I done stay on an’ look arfter hit. He nuvver been heah. Hi! listen to dis nigger! yo’s de gent’mans, mebbe.”

“I am his son,” said Croyden, amused.

“An’ yo owns Cla’endon, now, seh? What yo goin’ to do wid it?”

“I’m going to live here. Don’t you want to look after me?”

“Goin’ to live heah!—yo means it, seh?” the darky asked, in great amazement.

Croyden nodded. “Provided you will stay with me—and if you can find me a cook. Who cooks your meals?” 44

“Lawd, seh! find yo a cook. Didn’ Jos’phine cook fur de Cun’l all he life—Jos’phine, she my wife, seh—she jest gone nex’ do’, ’bout some’n.” He got up—“I calls her, seh.”

Croyden stopped him.

“Never mind,” he said; “she will be back, presently, and there is ample time. Any one live in these other cabins?”

“No, seh! we’s all wha’ left. De udder niggers done gone ’way, sence de Cun’l died, coz deah war nothin’ fur dem to do no mo’, an’ no buddy to pays dem.—Dyar is Jos’phine, now, sir, she be hear torectly. An’ heah comes Marster Dick, hisself.”

Croyden arose and went toward the front of the house to meet him.

The agent was an elderly man; he wore a black broadcloth suit, shiny at the elbows and shoulder blades, a stiff white shirt, a wide roomy collar, bound around by a black string tie, and a broad-brimmed drab-felt hat. His greeting was as to one he had known all his life.

“How do you do, Mr. Croyden!” he exclaimed. “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, sir.” He drew out a key and opened the front door. “Welcome to Clarendon, sir, welcome! Let us hope you will like it enough to spend a little time here, occasionally.”

“I’m sure I too hope so,” returned Croyden; “for I am thinking of making it my home.” 45

“Good! Good! It’s an ideal place!” exclaimed the agent. “It’s convenient to Baltimore; and Philadelphia, and New York, and Washington aren’t very far away. Exactly what the city people who can afford it, are doing now,—making their homes in the country. Hampton’s a town, but it’s country to you, sir, when compared to Northumberland—open the shutters, Mose, so we can see.... This is the library, with the dining-room behind it, sir—and on the other side of the hall is the drawing-room. Open it, Mose, we will be over there presently. You see, sir, it is just as Colonel Duval left it. Your father gave instructions that nothing should be changed. He was a great friend of the Colonel, was he not, sir?”

“I believe he was,” said Croyden. “They met at the White Sulphur, where both spent their summers—many years before the Colonel died.”

“There, hangs the Colonel’s sword—he carried it through the war, sir—and his pistols—and his silk-sash, and here, in the corner, is one of his regimental guidons—and here his portrait in uniform—handsome man, wasn’t he? And as gallant and good as he was handsome. Maryland lost a brave son, when he died, sir.”

“He looks the soldier,” Croyden remarked.

“And he was one, sir—none better rode behind Jeb Stuart—and never far behind, sir, never far behind!”

“He was in the cavalry?” 46

“Yes, sir. Seventh Maryland Cavalry—he commanded it during the last two years of the war—went in a lieutenant and came out its colonel. A fine record, sir, a fine record! Pity it is, he had none to leave it to!—he was the last of his line, you know, the last of the line—not even a distant cousin to inherit.”

Croyden looked up at the tall, slender man in Confederate gray, with clean-cut aristocratic features, wavy hair, and long, drooping mustache. What a figure he must have been at the head of his command, or leading a charge across the level, while the guns of the Federals belched smoke, and flame and leaden death.

“They offered him a brigade,” the agent was saying, “but he declined it, preferring to remain with his regiment.”

“What did he do when the war was over?” Croyden asked.

“Came home, sir, and resumed his law practice. Like his great leader, he accepted the decision as final. He didn’t spend the balance of his life living in the past.”

“And why did he never marry? Surely, such a man” (with a wave of his hand toward the portrait) “could have picked almost where he chose!”

“No one ever just knew, sir—it had to do with Miss Borden,—the sister of Major Borden, sir, who lives on the next place. They were sweethearts once, but something or somebody came between 47 them—and thereafter, the Colonel never seemed to think of love. Perhaps, old Mose knows it, and if he comes to like you, sir, he may tell you the story. You understand, sir, that Colonel Duval is Mose’s old master, and that every one stands or falls, in his opinion, according as they measure up to him. I hope you intend to keep him, sir—he has been a faithful caretaker, and there is still good service in him—and his wife was the Colonel’s cook, so she must have been competent. She would never cook for anyone, after he died. She thought she belonged to Clarendon, sort of went with the place, you understand. Just stayed and helped Mose take care of it. She doubtless will resume charge of the kitchen again, without a word. It’s the way of the old negroes, sir. The young ones are pretty worthless—they’ve got impudent, and independent and won’t work, except when they’re out of money. Excuse me, I ramble on——”

“I’m much interested,” said Croyden; “as I expect to live here, I must learn the ways of the people.”

“Well, let Mose boss the niggers for you, at first; he understands them, he’ll make them stand around. Come over to the drawing-room, sir, I want you to see the furniture, and the family portraits.... There, sir, is a set of twelve genuine Hepplewhite chairs—no doubt about it, for the invoice is among the Colonel’s papers. I don’t know much about such things, but a man was 48 through here, about a year ago, and, would you believe it, when he saw the original invoice and looked at the chairs, he offered me two thousand dollars for them. Of course, as I had been directed by your father to keep everything as the Colonel had it, I just laughed at him. You see, sir, they have the three feathers, and are beautifully carved, otherwise. And, here, is a lowboy, with the shell and the fluted columns, and the cabriole legs, carved on the knees, and the claw and ball feet. He offered two hundred dollars for it. And this sofa, with the lion’s claw and the eagle’s wing, he wanted to buy it, too. In fact, sir, he wanted to buy about everything in the house—including the portraits. There are two by Peale and one by Stuart—here are the Peales, sir—the lady in white, and the young officer in Continental uniform; and this is the Stuart—the gentleman in knee breeches and velvet coat. I think he is the same as the one in uniform, only later in life. They are the Colonel’s grandparents, sir: Major Daniel Duval, of the Tenth Maryland Line, and his wife; she was a Miss Paca—you know the family, of course, sir. The Major’s commission, sir, hangs in the hall, between the Colonel’s own and his father’s—he was an officer in the Mexican war, sir. It was a fighting family, sir, a fighting family—and a gentle one as well. ‘The bravest are the tenderest, the loving are the daring.’”

There was enough of the South Carolinian of 49 the Lowlands in Croyden, to appreciate the Past and to honor it. He might not know much concerning Hepplewhite nor the beauty of his lines and carving, and he might be wofully ignorant of his own ancestors, having been bred in a State far removed from their nativity, for he had never given a thought to the old things, whether of furniture or of forebears—they were of the inanimate; his world had to do only with the living and what was incidental to it. The Eternal Now was the Fetich and the God of Northumberland, all it knew and all it lived for—and he, with every one else, had worshipped at its shrine.

It was different here, it seemed! and the spirit of his long dead mother, with her heritage of aristocratic lineage, called to him, stirring him strangely, and his appreciation, that was sleeping and not dead, came slowly back to life. The men in buff-and-blue, in small-clothes, in gray, the old commissions, the savour of the past that clung around them, were working their due. For no man of culture and refinement—nay, indeed, if he have but their veneer—can stand in the presence of an honorable past, of ancestors distinguished and respected, whether they be his or another’s, and be unmoved.

“And you say there are none to inherit all these things?” Croyden exclaimed. “Didn’t the original Duval leave children?”

The agent shook his head. “There was but one 50 son to each generation, sir—and with the Colonel there was none.”

“Then, having succeeded to them by right of purchase, and with no better right outstanding, it falls to me to see that they are not shamed by the new owner. Their portraits shall remain undisturbed either by collectors or by myself. Moreover, I’ll look up my own ancestors. I’ve got some, down in South Carolina and up in Massachusetts, and if their portraits be in existence, I’ll add reproductions to keep the Duvals company. Ancestors by inheritance and ancestors by purchase. The two of them ought to keep me straight, don’t you think?” he said, with a smile.