So for Harry Cresswell the day burst, flamed, and waned, and then
suddenly went out, leaving him dull and gray; for Mary and her brother
had gone North, Helen had gone to bed, and the Colonel was in town.
Outside the weather was gusty and lowering with a chill in the air. He
paced the room fitfully.
Well, he was happy. Or, was he happy?
He gnawed his mustache, for already his quick, changeable nature was
feeling the rebound from glory to misery. He was a little ashamed of his
exaltation; a bit doubtful and uncertain. He had stooped low to this
Yankee school-ma'am, lower than he had ever stooped to a woman. Usually,
while he played at loving, women grovelled; for was he not a Cresswell?
Would this woman recognize that fact and respect him accordingly?
Then there was Zora; what had she said and hinted to Mary? The wench was
always eluding and mocking him, the black devil! But, pshaw!--he poured
himself a glass of brandy--was he not rich and young? The world was his.
His valet knocked.
"Gentleman is asking if you forgits it's Saturday night, sir?" said Sam.
Cresswell walked thoughtfully to the window, swept back the curtain, and
looked toward the darkness and the swamp. It lowered threateningly;
behind it the night sky was tinged with blood.
"No," he said; "I'm not going." And he shut out the glow.
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