And, woman-like, when he had gone, she wondered about her—whether she was dark or fair, tall or small, vivacious or reserved, flirtatious or sedate, rich or poor—and whether they loved each other—or whether it was he, alone, who loved—or whether he had not permitted himself to be carried so far—or whether—then, she dropped asleep.
Croyden went back to Clarendon, keeping a sharp look-out for anyone under the trees around the house. He found Moses in the library, evidently just aroused from slumber by the master’s door key.
“No one’s bin heah, seh, ’cep de boy wid dis ’spatch,” he hastened to say.
Croyden tore open the envelope:—It was a wire from Macloud, that he would be down to-morrow.
“You may go to bed, Moses.”
“Yass, seh! yass, seh!—I’se pow’ful glad yo’s back, seh. Nothin’ I kin git yo befo I goes?”
“Nothing!” said Croyden. “You’re a good soldier, Moses, you didn’t sleep on guard.”
“No, seh! I keps wide awake, Marster Croyden, wide awake all de time, seh. Survent, seh!” and, with a bow, he disappeared. 216
Croyden finished his cigar, put out the light, and went slowly upstairs—giving not a thought to the Parmenter treasure nor the man he had met outside. His mind was busy with Elaine Cavendish—their last night on the moonlit piazza—the brief farewell—the lingering pressure of her fingers—the light in her eyes—the subdued pleasure, when they met unexpectedly in Annapolis—her little ways to detain him, keep him close to her—her instant defense of him at Mattison’s scurrilous insinuation—the officers’ hop—the rhythmic throb of the melody—the scented, fluttering body held close in his arms—the lowered head—the veiled eyes—the trembling lashes—his senses steeped in the fragrance of her beauty—the temptation well-nigh irresistible—his resolution almost gone—trembling—trembling——