The Dying of Elspeth
Rich! This was the thought that awakened Harry Cresswell to a sense of endless well-being. Rich! No longer the mirage and semblance of wealth, the memory of opulence, the shadow of homage without the substance of power‚ÅÝ‚Äîno; now the wealth was real, cold hard dollars, and in piles. How much? He laughed aloud as he turned on his pillow. What did he care? Enough‚ÅÝ‚Äîenough. Not less than half a million; perhaps three-quarters of a million; perhaps‚ÅÝ‚Äîwas not cotton still rising?‚ÅÝ‚Äîa whole round million! That would mean from twenty-five to fifty thousand a year. Great heavens! and he‚Äôd been starving on a bare couple of thousand and trying to keep up appearances! today the Cresswells were almost millionaires; aye, and he might be married to more millions.
He sat up with a start. Today Mary was going North. He had quite forgotten it in the wild excitement of the cotton corner. He had neglected her. Of course, there was always the hovering doubt as to whether he really wanted her or not. She had the form and carriage; her beauty, while not startling, was young and fresh and firm. On the other hand there was about her a certain independence that he did not like to associate with women. She had thoughts and notions of the world which were, to his Southern training, hardly feminine. And yet even they piqued him and spurred him like the sight of an untrained colt. He had not seen her falter yet beneath his glances or tremble at his touch. All this he desired‚ÅÝ‚Äîardently desired. But did he desire her as a wife? He rather thought that he did. And if so he must speak today.
There was his father, too, to reckon with. Colonel Cresswell, with the perversity of the simple-minded, had taken the sudden bettering of their