Blowing weather

by John T. McIntyre

But she would not talk of this. He must be still. He was ill; he had been badly hurt. Excitement was bad.

There was nothing in the world so soft as the touch of her hands. They were white and wonderful; and so quick! They were dazzling! And each motion was full of meaning; each little turn they made brought him ease.

But in a moment he had frowned these thoughts away; he kept to his questions. In a few hours—it was no more than that—she had come to look upon him as an enemy, and, God knew, it must have been as an enemy bitterly held; as for himself he'd not stab a dog with that same insolence and disregard. And she had turned against him so because she'd found his name was Stevens. Who had told her? Some one had. Was it Tarrant? Was it?

Yes, it was! She said it briefly, coldly! And now he must talk no more. It was bad for him. His hurts were worse than he thought. Quiet would help heal them.

But quiet was the last thing in his mind at that moment; and he put her words aside with an abrupt finality. So it was Tarrant who told her who he was. Tarrant, of all people! What more had he said? What bitter twist had he given his words; into what dirty by-path had he led her mind? The learning of his name alone could not have had the effect he'd seen.

There was a swift anger in her voice as she answered. Was it possible that she, her father's daughter, could think of him as different from his house?

He hung to this doggedly, his eyes upon her face. What did she hold against the house of Stevens? What thing had been told her, that its very name should turn her so instantly. The concern had long years of fair dealing behind it; it was well established in the public regard. What guilt could she point to? What offense did she carry in her mind?

And with that her reticence broke down; and, with a whip to her words that cut, she spoke freely. Her father had striven all his life to do what a man should do and had held himself well in the eyes of his neighbors. In a business way none had a fairer name than he; among merchants, bankers, ship-owners, agents, there was no one entitled to more consideration. For years he had been the French representative of the house of Stevens, a post, so it was thought, of profit and honor; and it had been envied him. But it was a connection that finally earned him suspicion rather than honor; it brought him the distrust of associates; through it, he stood upon the verge of disaster. Why should not the name of Stevens turn her bitter? Wouldn't it be strange if it did not? Shadowy tricks, ruses, subterfuges, veiled rascalities, and double-dealing! What sort of people make a practice of using an honest man's name where it had not been given, and who but rascals would lay claim to insurances on vessels that had never been lost?

Anthony was up at this—up so quickly and sharply that the white of the bandage began to show spots of red. Ships that had never been lost! What ships? But, no; she would not answer; she would not say a word more; he must lie down; see, he was bleeding! He did as he was bidden; but his questions did not stop. She fought him for a space; but again her anger arose, and she talked. Her father was a kindly man; of those who had earned his trust he could believe no wrong, and he had not heeded those people in Brest who had spoken against the house of Stevens. At last, however, there came a time when he had to heed; and then, almost as a part of it, came the letter of Magruder.

Anthony looked up at her with a narrowed, shiny eye. So there had been a letter from Magruder? Her answer was spoken quietly; but he felt he had never known what scorn was until that moment.