Now, however, he was aware
that he was viewed with entire indifference. His vanity, which
was his whole inner self, was hurt, and from the black depths of
his nature his towering egotism flashed out lawless and perverted
impulses. "I must tell you that I am not of your sort, Miss
Malroy--" he continued hurriedly. "My people were plain folk out
of the mountains. For what I am I have no one to thank but
myself. You must be aware of the prejudices of the planter
class, for it is your class. Perhaps I haven't been quite frank
at the Barony--I felt it was asking too much when you were there.
That was a door I didn't want closed to me!"
"I imagine you will be welcome at Belle Plain. You are Tom's
friend." Murrell bit his lip, and then laughed as his mind
conjured up a picture of the cherished Tom. Suddenly he reached
out and rested his hand on hers. He lived in the shadow of
chance not always kind, his pleasures were intoxicating drafts
snatched in the midst of dangers, and here was youth, sweet and
perfect, that only needed awakening.
"Betty--if I might think--" he began, but his tongue stumbled.
His love-making was usually of a savage sort, but some quality in
the girl held him in check. The words he had spoken many times
before forsook him. Betty drew away from him, an angry color on
her cheeks and an angry light in her eyes. "Forgive me, Betty!"
muttered Murrell, but his heart beat against his ribs, and
passion sent its surges through him.
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