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 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 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."