Free Strange Yesterday by Howard Fast Page B

heavy lashes, saying: “You are a fool. You have neither the sense nor the perception to be wicked. You are not wicked; you are only a fool, and, in all probability, an instrument of some one else. As though I feared you! As though any Preswick could fear such scum as you! There were Preswicks fighting and dying for the King when your progenitors were wallowing in the filth of some slum; the Preswicks are part of the country; it grew out of their hands. My grandfather gave his fortune to the Revolution; he was a colonel upon the Plains of Abraham before that; my father gave his soul and his body to the Revolution. Always, we have given our blood freely and without hesitation. What happened to-night is no insult; the insult is that you—you of all things—should have the effrontery to suggest that I fear you!” She was angry now, but also pathetic, small, and her voice much of a sob. And the manner of her calling off her lineage only brought out the hopelessness of her situation. She held her hands to her breast; and he felt a sudden, mad impulse to crush her, hands and breast, to him.
    Shaking his head uncomprehendingly, he gave back before her; he wondered that there should be ice and fire in so futile a voice. But where, before, had he heard some one speak in the same manner: enraged, futile,, hopeless, but yet arrogant? The very tone was familiar. Yes, it was when they had taken him out of the black hold, sick, weak, and bleeding. Though he could not understand it, it was the same.
    â€œI am sorry,” he said, puzzled at his words, even as: he mouthed them.
    â€œI desire neither your sorrow nor your sympathy.” With that, she turned her back upon him and walked away. But he sprang after her, passing her, and placing himself before her.
    â€œPlease wait one moment,” he begged.
    â€œWell—what is it?”
    â€œI meant that. It is all I can say.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThat I am sorry.”
    â€œYou are a fool.”
    Then he stood aside, looking after her, as she went to the hatchway. Turning slowly, he walked back to the poop, climbing the short ladder to the upper deck. He went over to the man at the wheel, telling him to go forward; then he set himself with the spokes in his hands. Until the flush of a gray day crept out of the east, he stood, motionless, except when he had to move himself to keep with the course. When Mr. Mitchell, coming to take the watch, remarked upon his weariness earlier in the evening, he glanced up at him with an inquiring, almost blank expression.

7
    T HE following day, the sun rose early and clear, and it climbed to a sky that was an inverted blue bowl; the sea was a lake; as gracefully as a woman powders her face, the breeze filled the sails.
    John Preswick, crossing to the poop, saw the girl for the first that morning. Lennox had provided her cabin with a wardrobe, and now she wore a light frock of blue beneath a short leather jacket. Had he not known who she was, he would not have recognized her here in the clear light of day, so changed was she from the night before. Everything about her seemed lighter, softer: her skin, her eyes; in her dark brown hair, he saw a touch of red-gold. Her hair fell in a thick cluster to her shoulders, its very weight holding it in a mass, a strand now and then lifting to the breeze. For the first time, he saw how thin and how delicately formed were her features, how slim she was, how very much younger than Lennox had described her. He wondered where were the defiance and the ice of the night.
    Half hesitantly, he went towards her, hoping that she might look at him before he was quite at her side. But she did not move. She stood at the rail staring out over the sea, her profile to him. Surely she must have seen him from the corner of her eye. If she had, she gave no sign of it. He said:
    â€œGood morning. I trust you rested well last night.”
    Slowly she faced to him, and after she had looked into his