Blowing weather

by John T. McIntyre

When he'd shut the door of the counting-room of a night, leaving the trusty old porter to draw the fires and put out the lamps, he'd trudge away to some tavern and have a lonely supper; then he'd be off through the snow, for the weather held sharp, and there was little thaw, to his lodgings in Sassafras Street, where he'd sit and brood by candle-light. Now and then he'd allow himself the pleasure of a visit to Christopher Dent; and there, in the back room, he'd smoke and listen to the little apothecary's pleased reminiscences of days that had long gone by. Once or twice during these visits Tom Horn also chanced in to warm his legs by Christopher's stove, before seeking the room he had in a court off Front Street. But on these occasions he'd say nothing. Stamping the snow from his heels, he'd hang his hat upon a peg and take his accustomed chair by the stove. And while Christopher talked and Anthony smoked and listened, Tom Horn would keep his eyes fixed upon the young man's face; what he saw there must have pleased him, for every now and then he'd break forth into a series of approving nods, and he'd rub his well-warmed worsted stockings smartly and with much confidence.

Of course, Anthony knew who Christopher's lodgers were; he'd frowned when he first heard it, and when he reached his rooms that night his thoughts were far from pleasant. He could never quite forget the beautiful, spirited creature he'd seen on the first morning after his arrival in the city; he could never quite forget the tremble in her rich voice as she appealed to him for aid. Also, and his brow grew dark at this, he could never forget the look she'd given him that night at the Crooked Billet, that cold, stabbing look of scorn; and her head had turned away so that she might not see him, and she had walked into the conference of his enemies.

Each time after a visit at Christopher's he'd go through this, and each time the train of thought would have its beginning in some trifling thing. Once as he left the apothecary's shop he saw the windows of the second floor lighted up and the lamp glow shining down upon the snow. Once while he sat with his pipe in the apothecary's back room he heard a light foot on the stairs beyond the partition wall; the street door opened and closed. She had gone out! The streets were dark and lonely! He had half arisen to follow her; then he crushed himself back in his chair. At still another time he heard the faint tinkling of a stringed instrument, and the sweet murmur of a voice, singing a little French song. There was a peaceful something in this that shook Anthony; and as he sat in his room afterward his thoughts were very bitter, indeed.

He tried not to think of her; but when she gained a way into his mind his reflections always had one ending. Magruder! Had there ever been a more vicious and sordid taking off? Was there ever a more bloody or evil deed? The stains of it were deep on Tarrant and the big young man. And the girl? Was she not their friend? Had she not been in Water Street about the time the thing was done? Had not a rumor tied a woman to the crime? Every pulse in his body sent protests to his mind; but his mind was fixed, and he'd rise up and tramp the floor.

One day Charles Stevens did not appear at the counting-room, being ill of a congestion. And in the evening Anthony took him some papers which it was thought necessary that he see, and found him wrapped comfortably in a rug before a fire in the library, reading a play-book. It was then that the words of Tom Horn about books came back to Anthony; and after he had discussed the matter of the papers with his uncle he approached one of the crowded bookcases.

"Sometimes I feel the need of a little variety in my thinking," he said. "Would you mind if I took one or two of these away with me?"

Charles, with the play-book lying upon his snugly wrapped knees, looked at him and smiled.

"Your grandfather never concerned himself with books," said he; "and you are such a replica of him that I took it for granted that your taste must be the same."

Anthony had opened the case and was rummaging among its contents, and Charles went on.

"Those rakehells of the Restoration will amuse you, if your taste runs to their kind," and he riffled the leaves of the play-book with kindly fingers. "You'll find them there in the second shelf, next the fireplace. Or, if you'd rather take a step back, the Elizabethans are just below, and they are a crew that'll shake your soul, or your ribs, just as you'd have them. Those Italian tale-tellers were shrewd workmen,—there in the pigskin, right under your hand,—but if you think you'd care for romance nearer to this present day there is Defoe's narrative of the shipwrecked sailor, and also Fielding's chronicle of life as he's seen it in his own England."