"That was Sparhawk."
"Yes," said Christopher. "An agreeable person. He's considerate of everything and every one."
There was a little pause, and then Tom Horn said:
"Why did he ask about your lodgers?"
"He didn't," stated the apothecary mildly. "I mentioned them."
"He made you do it," said Tom Horn. "I heard him."
Christopher Dent blinked at his friend in surprise and rubbed his bald head.
"Last night," said Tom, "I went to the Boatswain-and-Call after I left the counting-room. I always go there for my supper. Mr. Sparhawk was in the bar."
"Of the Boatswain-and-Call?" said Christopher. "What was he doing there?"
"He had a mug of ale, a thick cut of bread, and the leg of a fowl. But, for all he ate with good appetite, he wasn't there for that. No, it was to talk with me."
"Did he tell you so?" asked the apothecary.
"No," said Tom Horn. "He didn't need to."
Just then the subduedrat-tat-tatof a knocker sounded.
"Listen!" said Tom, though he never moved and never took his gaze from the fire.
"It's at the side door," exclaimed Christopher. "A visitor for my lodgers."
"Sparhawk," said Tom Horn. And while Christopher gazed at his friend, astonished, steps were heard descending a stairway; there was a murmur of voices, and then the stairs creaked under a double burden. "He knew last night they were lodged here," said Tom Horn. "I told him so."
"Do you think," said Christopher incredulously, "that was what he wanted to talk about?"
"It was partly that," nodded Tom. "But mainly it was about what they were doing in this country. He made me tell what I knew, without asking, just as he made you a few moments ago."
Christopher Dent looked completely mystified.
"It is all very odd," said he. "I wonder what he has in his mind?"
"Aye, I wonder," said Tom Horn, his gaze never leaving the flame in the open stove. "I wonder, indeed."
Mr. Sparhawk had carefully closed the door of the apothecary shop and had passed the window with the leisurely air of a man who has satisfactorily transacted his business. But while still only a few steps away he had paused; then he went to the side door and knocked therat-tat-tatwhich Tom Horn and the apothecary had heard.
A quadroon maid answered. Was Monsieur Lafargue at home? No, he was not. But Mademoiselle Lafargue was. Perhaps the gentleman would care to see her? Yes, it so happened after some consideration the gentleman would; and he was led up-stairs and asked to wait in a room into which the staircase opened. In a few moments Mademoiselle Lafargue appeared. She was taller than Mr. Sparhawk, and dressed in a robe that was not common in the houses of American women of that time. Her fine dark eyes were full of questioning as she looked at the visitor.
"I hope I don't intrude," said Mr. Sparhawk. "It's a matter of business that might not wait with profit."
"Will you sit down?" said the girl.
They sat down. Mr. Sparhawk settled himself comfortably, and put his finger-tips precisely together; then he regarded the girl with careful attention.
"You are the daughter of Jean Edouard Lafargue, citizen of Brest, I understand?"
"Yes," said the girl.
"He is, and has been, agent in France for the commercial house of Rufus Stevens' Sons," stated Mr. Sparhawk gravely, "and is in America on business having to do with that concern."
There was a shadow in the girl's eyes; but her voice was level and unchanged as she said:
"Am I to understand that you are its representative?"
"By no means," said Mr. Sparhawk. "I would not have you understand that for the world, because such would not be the fact. I donotrepresent it."
"It was your confidence as to my father's business that made me suppose it," said the girl quietly.
"I've mentioned his connection that we might put things on a solid footing; that is all." He nodded in his perky, bird-like way, and his finger-tips sought an even more perfect contact. "I desired you to know that I held him in high esteem; every one having to do with that excellent house is held in high esteem."
"So I have been told," said the girl, but there was bitterness in her voice.
"If you will pardon my calling the matter up," said Mr. Sparhawk in a most confidential way, "and I only call it up because I cannot go on without doing so, your father's procedure since reaching the city has been somewhat unusual. It has caused comment. He is a trusted agent of Rufus Stevens' Sons, and has been these many years; and yet, though he's been in the city a week, he has not yet called at their counting-house."
"You say you do not speak for my father's business connections," said the girl; "indeed, you do not say in whose interests you are here; and yet you do not hesitate to inquire into a thing that must, of its nature, be private."
Mr. Sparhawk held up one open hand in protest; his face wore a look of pain.
"My dear young lady," said he, "pray do not think me guilty of an idle impertinence. Nothing could be further from my thoughts. I've said what I said because it is the readiest way I can summon just now as an approach to a very delicate—an exceedingly delicate—subject." He regarded her with careful attention. "The Atlantic is wide," he observed; "and in these unsettled days it is also much troubled. A man does not venture upon the ocean now, especially with his daughter, without good reason. That is common sense. And yet we find, in this instance of your father's so doing, that no sufficient reason has shown itself. If a firm summons its agent he is, in commercial duty, bound to obey. But Rufus Stevens' Sons has not summoned your father. In fact, some in the firm are somewhat aghast at his appearance."
"Well?" said the girl, quietly.
"It has been observed—quite by chance, of course—that in the time Monsieur Lafargue has been in the city he has ventured abroad upon only a few occasions."
"He is old," said the girl.
"I have noted that," said Mr. Sparhawk cheerfully. "And I sympathize with his infirmities. I have heard talk," he added, after a moment's reflection, "connecting your father with Monsieur—or, as the revolutionary manner has it, Citizen—Genêt. This gentleman and he," and the little man's head took the inquiring bird-like tilt, "are fast friends, I think."
"Well?" said the girl.
Mr. Sparhawk had evidently expected more or less enlightenment on this point; but now that he saw none was forthcoming he proceeded with adroit readiness.
"To-day your father visited another person, Mr. Amos Bulfinch, a usurer!"
The girl arose suddenly, but before she could speak Mr. Sparhawk once more lifted the protesting hand.
"If you will favor me with one more instant," said he. Then, as she stood looking at him: "Thank you. It would seem," said he, "there was one other person upon whom your father called since he's been in the city; and, if reports speak truly, the circumstances of the visit were peculiar. The person I refer to was one Magruder, a merchant, now dead."
The girl sat down; her face was very white.
"My father did not know Mr. Magruder," she said. "He never so much as saw him."
"The late night," said Mr. Sparhawk, "is commonly spoken of as the silent hours. But, while these hours have no voice, it has been shown time and again that they have many eyes. And on that particular night these eyes seem to have been more than usually vigilant. It is said," and Mr. Sparhawk nodded his head, and looked exceedingly unwilling to credit it, "that upon this visit you bore your father company."
There was a pause of some duration; the girl sat very still, and her gaze never ceased from searching the man's face. Mr. Sparhawk was quite composed; he tilted his head and looked exceedingly prim, and he pressed his finger-tips together with the utmost nicety of adjustment.
"Are you of the police?" asked Mademoiselle Lafargue.
"God bless my soul!" exclaimed Mr. Sparhawk. "No! Whatever made you think of such a thing?"
"What is your errand here?" said the girl.
"We shall reach that by and by," said Mr. Sparhawk reassuringly. "Never fear, we shall come to it in due course." He nodded his head; his whole expression and manner indicating that here, at least, was one matter that would be properly attended to when its turn came—attended to and settled, once and for all. "You say," said Mr. Sparhawk, "that your father did not know Mr. Magruder; indeed, he'd never seen him. Very well. Suppose we accept that statement and pass on." Mr. Sparhawk seemed to test his footing at this new point of advance; and, apparently convinced that it was safe, he said, "Had your father and Magruder ever had any correspondence?"
"I know very little of my father's business affairs," said the girl.
"Why, of course, that would be so," agreed Mr. Sparhawk. "I am glad you've mentioned it." Then he shook his head, and looked disturbed. "I wish, though, it had been otherwise. Your father's proposed call upon this man—and, God save us! what an unfortunate time he took for it!—would indicate that some writings had passed between them."
The girl said nothing. Mr. Sparhawk pondered, his head continuing to shake dubiously.
"It is peculiar," said he, "that your father should appear so unexpectedly in this country. It would almost seem," and he looked at the girl with elevated brows and a face of mild interest, "that he had been sent for." Once more the girl failed to speak, and he went on. "But, then, that is most unlikely. Who would send for him, if it were not Rufus Stevens' Sons? and that they did not is shown by their amazement at his appearance."
Mr. Sparhawk during the next fifteen minutes said a number of things; he said some of them gently, others were uttered guardedly, still others had that insinuating quality which usually forces an answer. But the girl merely sat and listened, her eyes fixed upon Mr. Sparhawk's face. At length he arose to go; and then she spoke.
"If it is common rumor that my father and myself were seen at Mr. Magruder's place of business on the night of his death, why do not the police of the city take action?"
"It is not common rumor," stated Mr. Sparhawk. "Far from it. There is a whisper going about that a woman is somehow concerned; but it is only a whisper, and a vague one. Neither your father's name nor yours has been mentioned. And the reason for this," Mr. Sparhawk smoothed the nap of his hat with careful touch, "is that, excepting those who saw you, no one knows them in connection with the matter but myself."
The girl regarded him quietly.
"In that you are wrong," she said. "There is, at least, one other person who knows."
"No!" said Mr. Sparhawk, and his leisurely manner became suddenly swift. "No!"
"At least one other," repeated the girl. "He mentioned it to me several days ago!"
"May I ask," and Mr. Sparhawk tilted his head sideways with his bird-like manner, "who it was?"
"Captain Weir," said the girl.
"I see," said Mr. Sparhawk, softly; "I see."
And when he had bidden the girl good night, and the maid had shown him down-stairs, and he stood in Water Street, buttoning up his coat against the chill air, Mr. Sparhawk once more carried between his brows the little frown of interrogation.
Winter crept in. The water in the docks froze; later, great white blocks were drifting in the river. Then, one bitter night, the stream was sealed, and shipping was over until the spring, or some unlooked-for stretch of mild weather.
Anthony had changed his quarters to a neat old house in Sassafras Street, where he had a bedroom facing the west, and a small snuggery with a window overlooking the south. Each morning, while the bells in the towers were ringing seven, his boots were crunching through the frozen snow on the way to Rufus Stevens' Sons. Always, by half-past seven on the word of the clock on the counting-house wall, he'd reached there, hung his great blue coat in a closet, and whipped into the work at hand.
There never was such a counting-house for order as Rufus Stevens' Sons. Anthony found that out when he'd only been there a few days. Its ledgers were models; its clerks had the vanity of perfection; its windows shone like crystal, the floor planks were white with scrubbing, and its brass work snapped with the light from fireplaces whose hearths were ever swept clean of smut.
The deep, cave-like warehouses were equally well kept; the goods in cases, barrels, and bales were ranked in massive and severe array; the carts and drays were smart with paint, their horses strong and well conditioned.
Anthony's place in the counting-house was somewhat unsettled; the business was so methodical, so well arranged that a new hand, no matter what it touched, or how lightly, seemed superfluous. And this very fact he was quick to seize upon, and turn to his purpose.
"I don't think I'll have any real use here," he told his uncle, "until I can digest the history of the house; I'll have, especially, to arrange in my mind all its doings of a decade past. I want to grow up with it, in a sense."
Charles smiled at this. Weir's stone-like eyes were fixed on the young man's face in an oddly watchful way.
"That has a very thorough sound," Charles said. "But," with a shake of the head, "it implies a deal of labor."
"I can understand his attitude," said Captain Weir quite gravely. "There is nothing like becoming saturated with the thing one starts out to understand." To Anthony he said, and there was now nothing but encouragement in the singular eyes, "Your plan is an excellent one; and, fortunately, you can escape most of the drudgery of it, for there are people still in the employ of the house who can tell you all you'll need to know."
Anthony permitted himself to drift with the measured trade of the winter months, and, during this time, he looked about him. Those who saw to the routine in the counting-room were Whitaker, a new-comer in the place; the affable man—who Anthony learned was named Griggs; and then there was Tom Horn, who stood all day at his tall desk and entered items in his books; also a gray, quiet man named Twitchell, who had a great pride in the house and glowed when it was spoken of. Anthony began with Whitaker and carefully led him into speech.
"Of course," said the fop, as he played with a bunch of seals at his watch-fob, "my service only goes back five years; and most of that was spent in other places. This is a great house; every one says so. I never had any trouble disposing of cargo; and I never had any trouble securing accounts. Of course there were those two ships that went down—very unfortunate occurrences. Oh, yes, it's a very considerable house."
Whitaker then went on to speak of the ports he'd visited in the firm's service, the food to be had in them, the beauty of their women, and the splendor of their climates. Cooling drinks under the shade of awnings, with dusky servants to fan one; strange, sweet music that stole through languorous nights; journeys into the interior on the invitation of merchants or agents; the magnificence of the lives of the rajahs: robes studded with jewels; carpets worth fabulous sums, thrown upon the ground; harems crowded with loveliness; dark eyes everywhere; adventure; whisperings; wealth; plenty; little effort.
But there was nothing that attracted the sharply focussed mind of Anthony. He noted that Whitaker was one who never saw the reality of anything in which he was engaged, except by accident. For a time Anthony strove to come upon such an occasion; but, except for the loss of theTwo Brothers, and theSea Mew, there was nothing outstanding.
"It was a singular chance," said Whitaker, "those two ships going down. I've often thought about it. Both were well found, finely officered, with American crews. Rich cargoes, too, and fully insured."
"Then there was no loss," said Anthony.
"Not a dollar, except to the insurance people."
There was another point upon which Anthony desired information; and he carefully led Whitaker to it.
"You had a narrow escape with theSea Mew," said he. "Your not sailing in her from Lisbon was quite providential."
"I'd gone down like a stone," said the dandy. "It was only the house's hurry to get me to Brest, with those papers for Lafargue, that saved me."
"I remember you mentioned some papers," said Anthony, "but I forget what you said they were."
Whitaker took on the same resentful look he'd worn when he first spoke of the matter at Dr. King's.
"I never knew," said he. "Devil of a way, wasn't it? sending me pelting off like that, and never knowing what it was about. I felt like a fool! And that old Lafargue's a close-mouthed gentleman, I can tell you. No danger of any one ever worming anything out of him."
"You thought yourself badly treated, then?" said Anthony.
"Candidly, I did."
"Have you ever said so, here in the counting-house, to any one in authority?"
"Yes, once in a conversation with Mr. Weir I saw an opportunity to mention the matter, and did so. Mr. Weir is always considerate and listened to what I had to say. Then he told me I'd better speak to Mr. Stevens. But, you know, Mr. Stevens seldom bothers about things like that; so I took the thing no further. I have no doubt, though, that I was treated like a junior clerk; for whatever the word was I took to Lafargue it made a particular stir in his place of business."
"Did you ask no questions, then?"
"You may be sure I did. But no one answered them. It was quite mortifying."
One day, at the hour for such things, Anthony found himself in a snug corner of a near-by ale house; quite by chance the affable clerk, Griggs, who had also come in for a snack, was seated beside him. Griggs seemed quite put out of countenance by the weather.
"The ice in the river," said he, "is so thick that the whole population seems skating on it of a night. Access to the Jerseys is very easy now; carts are going to and fro by the dozens; and venison and wild fowl are very cheap. But when will an anchor be lifted? When will another ship get up, to discharge her merchandise? They say the ice is solid all the way to New Castle."
"And yet," said Anthony, "you must have seen many a winter that was as bad."
Griggs nodded. He was of that comfortable temper that loves reminiscence; and, then, his mug of ale was mulled to his liking, hot and delectable, and smelling of ginger, a drink well suited to keeping the winter out of the system.
"The last winter Clinton's men held the city was a cold one," said he. "You are too young to recall it. Their big ships of war were so thick with ice that it looked as though they were to be cased in it forever. I try not to speak ill of any one," said the affable clerk, "but those men of Clinton's were a loutish lot; such guzzlers of malt liquor you never saw. You'd thought, from the way they acted, that a plain man such as myself hadn't so much as a mouth on him. In the spring, when the ice had gone, they left; and glad enough we were to see their backs. Your grandfather was one of the first to come tearing into the city afterwards; they'd driven him out two years before, and he'd carried on what business he could from Baltimore, New London, and other places. I sat in this very bar, with a mug of this selfsame ale in my hand, and saw him go by on a fine roan horse. In a fortnight those of his ships that were left were running in and out, around the capes, under the very noses of the blockaders. He was a forthright man, was old Mr. Stevens."
"Was it after that time that you came into his employ?" asked Anthony.
"Oh, no," said Griggs. "Before. In fact, Tom Horn and myself have almost grown up in Rufus Stevens' Sons. I was a boy, keeping tally on the docks, when your grandfather was still master of one of Brownlow's ships; an Indiaman, she was. And when he began to adventure for himself he selected me to be clerk in his counting-room. And very proud I was of it."
"Have you always been stationed in the city?"
"Always, except for a few times when I went in a schooner to Havana, or one of the islands, to see to some small matter."
"I understand the house is one that's always been quite steady—that there's been few ups and downs."
"No house has had fewer," said Griggs. "A solid, stable business, if there ever was one. Of course," with a deprecating wave of the hand, "there have been flurries now and then. Little things, that were somewhat annoying. But, then, one can't always control excitable people."
"Flurries!" said Anthony, his interest fixed. "What sort of flurries? And who were the people who were excited?"
"Misfortune, at times, overtakes every one," said the affable clerk. "And we have had our full share of it on the sea, from time to time. Ships have been lost, and there have been discussions about insurance, and such-like."
"I see; the excited persons were insurance people." Anthony stroked his long jaw. "What were the discussions about?"
Griggs gestured his contempt.
"Why, I don't rightly know," said he. "I make it a rule never to listen to foolish clacking. If a ship is lost, say I, she's lost; and the insurance should be paid over without delay. A few times—in the matter of theSea Mew, particularly—I was afraid these people would grow offensive with their prying and their questioning. Mr. Sparhawk, who is well known to your uncle, seemed to be specially forward in this. I don't see how Captain Weir kept his patience at times, for it was usually the captain who received him, and Mr. Sparhawk's persistence must have been very trying."
Sparhawk! Anthony recalled the perky little man whom he had met at Dr. King's, and he stored the name away for future reference. This conversation with Griggs occupied the best part of an hour, but Anthony got nothing from it; several times during the same week he returned to the task, but the result was the same. Griggs was a good-natured, honest, competent man in his work, but thick-headed.
And so Anthony turned to Twitchell. When the subject of the house was touched upon, the gray old clerk began to beam. It was, so he held, a model for all other establishments; and that it was so highly regarded was most gratifying. When one mentioned its name to any one, a sound footing was entered upon at once. It was a pleasure to be connected with such a house; indeed, it was almost like being in government employ. And its ships were so famous! The merchandise it dealt in was so sought after! And every one about the premises, from the boy who swept the warehouse to the head of the business, had some jolly or endearing quality, so that it was the most enjoyable thing imaginable to be associated with them.
Twitchell, with his silver-rimmed spectacles mounted upon his forehead, and his quill underscoring in the air all his points, maintained this level of unalloyed gratification and belief whenever Anthony approached the subject which interested him most. And finally the young man gave it up and took to sitting at a window and glowering at the winter street, the ice-choked river, and the empty ships, hung with their thousand crystal points of light.
"First I have a dandy," growled Anthony, "who thinks of little but dress, pretty women, and his own importance. Next, a good-natured dunce; then a kindly soul, blinded by his own optimism. None of them ever see anything except what they are asked to see; and so what chance have I of coming on anything by way of them."
Of course there was still Tom Horn. And Anthony smiled as he thought of him. Tom Horn never spoke to any one unless he was spoken to. All day he added, and subtracted, and multiplied, and dotted his "i's" and crossed his "t's." His white, nervous hands seemed tireless; his thin body was bent over the high desk where the great books of the house lay open before him. On the first morning Anthony spent in the counting-room Griggs said, behind his hand:
"Don't mind Tom. A kindly chap and harmless, but queer."
Once Anthony mentioned the man to his uncle; Charles smiled and said;
"Poor Tom! I'm very fond of him. But I'm afraid thereistoo much moon-glow in his mind. He was shipwrecked once, and I think that was the cause of it. But he's a shrewd hand at accounts; I've seen no better anywhere, and he's as dependable as might be. But he's queer."
The queerness Anthony was prepared to grant; but after a few days in the place, when he'd got settled down sufficiently to notice details, he began to feel it manifest itself in ways that carried a disquieting touch. Should he pass Tom Horn's desk, Anthony would see him bent over, scratching away at his figures; but as soon as the young man got by he had the feeling that the bent head had been lifted and that the man was following him with his eyes. Sometimes Anthony would sit with a heap of the routine work of the place before him or turning some vexed thing over in his mind; then an odd, restless feeling would come over him, and he'd look up, irritated. Over the edge of the tall desk he'd see the peculiarly glowing eyes of the man fixed upon him. This Anthony noted quite often, and in various ways. In the street he'd see Tom Horn standing behind a bale of goods or a hogshead, watching him guardedly; or it might be that his vantage-place would be a doorway, or behind the jutting edge of a sharp window. But always he had the same steady stare, his brows bent, a difficult something apparently revolving in his troubled mind. Tom was always first in the counting-room of a morning; an old porter told Anthony that he was there very often as early as four o'clock.
"I always have a fire for Mr. Horn," said the man. "There's no telling when he'll come in and start his day. He's an early bird, indeed, Mr. Horn is."
Anthony always bade the eccentric clerk the time of day; but Tom Horn never replied except with a questioning look that continued long after the young man had turned away. But one morning Anthony had occasion to hand him some bills for entry, and Tom surprised him by saying in his peculiarly hushed voice:
"Every one gives me figures. I see figures in my sleep."
"I don't doubt it," smiled Anthony.
"Each figure," said Tom Horn, "is made up of parts of other figures. Have you ever thought of that? Each leads into each; and so they make a circle. All circles are open, but they grow narrower. Sometimes they do it themselves; sometimes," and he nodded his head, his eyes fast upon Anthony's face, "we make them do it. There's a law for it; it's a law every one should study."
He again nodded his head, and remained looking after Anthony until the young man went out of the room. After that, when Anthony saw the strange eyes upon him,—and this was likely to occur at any hour of the day,—Tom Horn always nodded to him; and, oddly enough, Anthony fancied he detected in it something of approval—something, too, of encouragement.
But the days of the early winter dragged. There was none of the stir of vessels arriving and departing; none of the receiving of stores of new merchandise, none of the sudden bustlings and gossip of trade, and of money and exchange, that quickened things when the river was open. And, as each slow day went by, Anthony was weighted more and more with the conviction that no arresting sign would show itself in the midst of this commercial usualness; no signcouldshow itself. He watched minutely; he carefully balanced what he saw against the indefinite things he suspected. But the result was emptiness. His mind met with polished perfection; his thoughts seemed to slip futilely about among the smooth ways of the business. Not one thing threw even the shadow of a promise across his path.
One early morning, as he shook the snow from his cloak and stamped it from his boots before the counting-room fire, Tom Horn was arranging his books upon the desk; and Anthony said, smilingly:
"You'll be a very wise man one day, Tom. All this poring over books should lead to something."
"The books of the world, hold the world's knowledge," said Tom Horn. "And too few people give attention to them."
"That's true," said Anthony, "most of us do not employ ourselves with as many of them as we should."
"Sometimes," said the clerk, "men try to draw their knowledge from the things in which they find themselves. In that way they limit their possibilities; for there are always other and wider things that might serve them better. One man can only hope to gain a little from the world as it turns, and that little is not of much service. But the accumulated findings of many men are ready written down. If you desire to make plain what's keenest in your mind, go to books, study them diligently, study many of them; it will cost you but the price of so much lamp-oil, or so many candles, and the use of evening hours that you'd otherwise throw away."
Anthony smiled.
"That's excellent advice, Tom," he said. "And I've no doubt I'd do well to follow it."
The nights were long and cold and dark that winter; Anthony had no desire for social diversions, and he resisted the calls made upon him by his uncle, by Dr. King, by Whitaker; he desired to hold his mind to one thing, and every hour was given to its solution.
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."
There was an array of pudgy little books, with stout leather backs and stained edges, upon a shelf quite low in the case. Anthony stooped, took one out, and opened it. The eyes of Charles sparkled.
"Voyages!" said he. "That one, I'll wager, is Bartholomew Diaz; how often I've sailed with him as a boy through the pages of that book, to the mouth of the Great Fish River. And there is fine old Vasco da Gama! Many a summer afternoon he and I have doubled the cape, put the complaining pilots in irons, and thrown their quadrants into the sea. And Columbus, and Cabot, and the Merchant Adventurers' Company. There's a rank and file for you, if you want actual deeds and fine accomplishment; Hawkins, Drake, Davis, Sir Humphrey Gilbert, and that never-beaten Yorkshireman, Martin Frobisher—"
"What are these?" asked Anthony.
At the bottom of the bookcase, stacked one upon the other, was an array of huge volumes, strong-looking and clean, and each with a number marked upon the leather back, in ink.
"More voyages," smiled Charles. "More expeditions, traffickings, and discoveries. But they are quite modern. In those a patient reader would find a complete record of the doings of Rufus Stevens' Sons, set down from the beginning."
Again Anthony thought of Tom Horn, but now in a new way. Again he saw him, with the successors of these same books before him on the tall desk, and heard him repeat, with an odd significance appearing in the words for the first time:
"The accumulated findings of many men are already written down. If you desire to make plain what's keenest in your mind, go to books, study them diligently, study many of them. It will cost you but the price of lamp-oil, or so many candles, and the use of some winter nights that you might otherwise throw away."
Anthony carried one of the big volumes to the table and opened it under the light. It was kept in a fine, flowing hand, in very black ink and with its rulings perfectly done.
"That's one of old Carberry's," said Charles. "A fine old fellow. He was before Tom Horn. Before him was Lucas, and before Lucas was Parker, a young Quaker who went into a business of his own. Mason had the books while your father was still with us, but there were two or three others between Mason and Parker."
Anthony gave him an odd look.
"You seem to have had a number of accountants of late years," said he.
Charles smiled, rather ruefully.
"Yes," said he, "that's true. I don't understand how it is. Our other work-people stay on with us for years. But, among those who have kept our accounts, Tom Horn seems to be the only one who could or would remain."
Anthony's eyes went hungrily up and down the careful columns.
"I think," said he, "I'd rather dip into these than into any other books you have." And then, as his uncle looked at him in surprise, he added, "If I'm to come to the core of the firm's doings, I see no more direct way than this."
"Well, after all," said Charles amusedly, "I was not far wrong. You are your grandfather over again. He'd have preferred the counting-house books to any romance or comedy ever penned."
And so when Anthony set out for his lodgings that night, he carried with him a number of the firm's books; they ran in regular order, and the dates on their backs were of the years immediately following his father's withdrawal from the business.
Anthony found a fine flavor in the old books of Rufus Stevens' Sons, a rich color, and an admirable reticence. Everything was set down with clerkly care, but for all that there was no humdrum routine, no dull insistence on profit and loss, no sordid grasping or squeezing of little things. The columns of figures, as Anthony studied them, did not mean so much the dollars paid out or taken in; they did not seem to deal with hard money, or price, with bargain or sale; when a line was struck under one of them, the result had none of the smell of the counting-room; rather it told of singular adventuring, of hazards, of stratagems in the midst of danger, of bleak days and plunging nights at sea.
He saw wide stretches of water: he saw a red sun and strange stars, and high-hulled ships with odd rigs and worked by dark-skinned men. He saw ports which grew masts as a forest grows trees; he saw boundless riches, precious stuffs, and ant-like populations; and he felt the spiritual depression that emanates from vast huddles of submissive people.
The names of the houses dealt with gave a tropic savor to many an entry; through a list of merchandise Anthony could fancy a caravan plodding; the glare of the sands made his eyes ache; he felt the hot wind on his face.
Batavia! Calcutta! Canton! Silent bells seemed to ring the names in his mind.
Batavia! Dutch Javanese, a place of stinks, of green canals, of hordes of slaves, of stolid Chinamen, a place of pepper, of rattan, of sandalwood; of indigo, arrack and cloves. And its coffee! Its strong, brown, whip-like coffee that made the nerves jump, and started a fever in the blood. And Calcutta! held in one of the holy hands of the Ganges, standing away, many a laborious mile from the sea which made it; Calcutta, bright, opulent, hot, city of the Parsee merchant, of the Hindu, the Greek, the Armenian; place of silks, of wonderful shawls, of rice, ginger, and hides; of oils, ointments, and opium; city of crowding ships, of tangled flags, of many tongues; gateway of riches; sluice carrying off the toil of a patient people; filter through which went all that was good, and which gave back dregs alone.
Then Canton! with its staggering, shell-walled junks, its narrow streets, its sharp smells, its teeming, sweating, cheapened population, its grotesque vice. Grass cloth, damask, nankeen. Table ware! oh, excellent stuff! smooth, durable, shapely, with all the craft of attentive minds in its fabrication. And tea! The fortunes and the fragrance that were boxed up in those little chests! The swift ships that were sent for them: wide-winged ships that took them in, expectantly, departed hastily, and arrived breathlessly. And then such a gathering of merchants, such an uplifting of voices, such a scurrying and planning, such a laying out of money, such profiting and such satisfaction! Boxes of magic! Little chests of sorcery! marked with incantations and odorous of flowers.
A little wicket in Anthony's mind would be thrown open at some such place as this, and the sentinel, posted there by old Rufus, would put out his head.
"You are a true nephew to Charles," the sentinel would say. "You have a deal of the strain of blood that makes play of what should be serious man's work. You refused romances when Charles offered them. You said you'd rather read the books of the house. Very well, but how are you reading them? Are they any more than tale books, taken in the spirit in which you sit down to them? It was your hope, was it not, to come upon some cunning contrivance, or artful bit of knavery? But it will take an open mind for that, and a seeing eye; and neither of those are had by one who reads into a book things that are not there."
"I was wrong," said Anthony. "I admit it. I was wrong."
"The winter is an excellent time for a search like this," spoke the sentinel; "and the winter is passing. In the spring other things will take your attention. So work diligently now; give your mind to it, and put aside all else. The things you have been thinking are those a man finds who reads by moonlight."
And then the wicket would close with an exasperated little snap; and Anthony would set himself squarely to his task, hunting, tracing, and examining. There was now no line of writing in any of the books that was so honest but it had to prove itself; there were no figures so obvious but they came under suspicion. As fast as he finished with the books he had, he brought more to his lodgings, and there was not a night but one of them was open on the table; his light burned steadily into the small hours while he read and made notes of those things which drew his attention.
"A coffee-house or a playhouse would be far better entertainment for him," said Charles, in speaking of the matter to Captain Weir. "But when a young man is as set in disposition as Anthony, one may as well give him his way."
Weir stood at a window with his back turned, and Charles did not see the ugly twist at his mouth or the narrowing of his cold eyes. But what he said was:
"I would venture he's nearer right than wrong. A solid knowledge may be had by doing what he's elected to do."
Whitaker smiled; also he shrugged in the new French way when Griggs spoke of Anthony's labors. "Of course, every man to his own way of doing things," said he. "But my own method is to look forward, not backward; and I've found it does very well."
One night Anthony was drawing on his boots before the counting-room fire; Tom Horn was busy at his tall desk with his ledgers, a candle burning on either side of him. He suddenly paused in his labor and looked at Anthony.
"I have noticed in bits of your writing," said he, "that your pen is not a skilled one."
"No," confessed Anthony, readily. "I write very badly."
"Your capitals do not tower enough," said Tom Horn; "your round letters are too full in the belly, and your loops are squat." He peered at Anthony over the great ledger, the candle on either side toning out the transparent quality of his skin but adding to the worn expression; the shadows made the deep-set eyes seem deeper, the hope in them more despairing. "To give smoothness to your hand," said he, "you should study some one who took pride in such things." He nodded, his gaze holding to the young man's face. "Back before my day with the firm's books, there was a man of the name of Lucas who wrote a very useful hand. And Carberry, who came after him, also had a well-ordered pen. You would do well to give attention to both; but, of the two, Lucas would give you most for your effort."
"I have not yet come to Lucas's period in the books," said Anthony; "nor yet Carberry's. But when I do I'll remember what you say."
The winter drew on, a series of bitter nights and gray, wind-driven days; the report came that the bay was a mass of great floes, and that sledges heavily burdened were venturing a mile or more from shore on either side. The roads were filled with hard-packed snow; wheeled vehicles had not been seen for weeks.
Then one evening there walked into the counting-room of Rufus Stevens' Sons one Corkery, mate of the firm's shipGeneral Stark, and, in a brief seaman-like way, told how the vessel was ice-bound at New Castle and from all appearances would remain so until the coming of spring.
This news caused Anthony to walk the floor; for theStarkwas laden with hides, drugs, and sugar, and the market for these things was brisk. The ship should never have ventured into the bay. It seemed that Captain Small had managed her indifferently.
"Captain Small is ill of a lung fever," said Corkery. "He hasn't set foot on deck since we left Hatteras."
"As mate," said Anthony, "you took his place. When you saw the floes, you should have headed the vessel for New York. With the merchandise landed there we'd have contrived a way to deal with it."
Corkery was a blunt man, with no affectation of speech.
"With a master tumbling about on his bed, and praying to God, and raving about things that must have passed in his boyhood, I was glad to arrive, as near as I could, at the place called for in the ship's papers," said he. "You here in the counting-room can talk of markets easily enough, for you are always where you can watch them; also, you can talk offhand of changing a ship's destination, for you've no one to answer to if you've guessed wrong."
Anthony smiled and nodded, for he knew the mate spoke truth.
"I hope all that could be done for Captain Small has been done," said he.
"He is ashore at New Castle, at the house of a doctor in the place, and is being well seen to," said Corkery.
"That is good," said Charles. "And, as to the ship, I suppose all we can do now is see that she's well watched to keep her from thieves, and from damage by the ice."
"That is all. The second mate is aboard, and the crew is one to be depended on. I'll go back myself in a day or two."
But Anthony frowned; and after Corkery had gone he continued to pace the floor.
"Ah, well," said Whitaker, after a time, approaching him, "it does no good to fidget. It's the hard season, and nothing else was to be expected. We can only wait until the ice is out, and the vessel can come comfortably up to her dock."
"But while excellent cargo is within hands' reach are we to sit here twiddling our thumbs?"
"What else can we do?" asked Whitaker cheerily. "When a ship is lodged in the river's gullet as this one seems to be, and there's a month or more of bad weather still to come, why fret and get in a state of mind?"
But this submissive state did not appeal to Anthony; he resented the easy air of the counting-room under defeat; so he thought hard about the matter during the day, and for most of the night; and the next morning found him in the public room of a tavern on Second Street where he heard Corkery was lodged. The mate sat before the tavern fire chipping bits of tobacco from a dark cake, with which to charge his pipe, and greeted Anthony with a nod; the young man drew a stool up to the fire and sat warming his hands at the blaze.
"They tell me," said Anthony, "that you are of this port and know the river and bay very well."
"Why," said Corkery, as he carefully chipped away at the tobacco, "I was a boy aboard a sloop that sailed between here and Bristol, carrying bricks; then I shipped on the New Castle packets. Yes, I can claim to know the river and bay quite well."
"How did you come up to the city?" asked Anthony.
"By sledge," replied the mate.
"In what state are the roads?"
"Filled with snow, but packed hard. The sledge I came up on carried a good weight of freight as well."
"Are there many sledges in the neighborhood of New Castle, and could one engage the use of them?"
"The farmers and traders could muster a deal of them," said Corkery, "and, I suppose, would put them out for hire with little dispute."
Anthony smiled at the fire; and then he began questioning the man about the position of the ship, and the condition of the ice about her. The replies being satisfactory, the young man went into the bar and spoke to the landlord.
"I want a span of good-stepping horses," he said. "Also I want a sleigh and a driver who knows the roads as far south as New Castle."
The landlord was a Scot, a hard-featured, scrubby man with the manner of one whom the world had failed to convince.
"There's many a team," said he, "and like enough there's many a sleigh. And I've spoken to many a man who knows the very roads you have in mind. But where are they now? is the question, and could they be engaged if found?" He frowned and looked doubtful. "But you might try Churchman in Cobbler's Place," said he.
Churchman was located; he was the exact opposite of the Scot; he took life as a pleasant experience, and seemed to have the fullest confidence in everything.
"I have just the span you want, and exactly the sleigh," said he. "But the driver is another matter. Couldn't you drive yourself? Your way is as plain as a-b-c."
Anthony had traveled the roads with Christopher Dent as far as the Delaware line, on more occasions than one, and he felt sure that he'd manage to keep to the way. So he gave his orders and went back to the counting-room. Charles had not yet arrived, for it was still a fairly early hour. However, Captain Weir was there; he stood with his back to the fire, his hands behind him, and greeted Anthony pleasantly.
"You are still going on with the books, I suppose," said he, after a space.
"Yes," said Anthony.
"Mind you don't overdo it; too much candle-light is a bad thing. But with all this attention you must be making progress."
"Yes," said the young man, "things are becoming plainer to me, I think." He took up a poker and shoved a billet, which was throwing a thin spiral of smoke into the room, back into the fireplace. "Though, I must admit, there are some I don't understand."
"To be sure," said Weir. "That is to be expected. But, perhaps, I could help you?"
But Anthony shook his head.
"Not yet," said he. "For I haven't made up my mind about the matters, except to think them curious, and to note that they stand out singularly."
"Books are kept for a firm's information," said Weir; "but, speaking for myself, I get little out of them. After a little they are a kind of a maze, and often mislead me."
"So far, I can't complain of that. But, as I've said, I've come upon an odd flavor here and there in the ledgers; it's made me curious, and I hope to come upon the reason for the oddness further on."
Here Charles came in, cheery and rosy from the nip of the cold.
"I have made arrangements to go to New Castle to-day," said Anthony.
Charles threw his cloak to a porter, and looked at his nephew in surprise.
"Why?" he asked.
"To look at the roads, to get the position of the ship, and study the chances of getting the cargo up to the city."
Charles laughed good-humoredly.
"Well, thank God, you've got an active mind," said he. "But here's a thing, I'm afraid, that's bigger than you think for."
"That can't be told until the conditions are known to a certainty," said Anthony. "If the roads are as I have been assured they are, and sledges are to be had, I can bring the important details of theStark'scargo into the warehouse in ten days' time."
Charles looked at him for a moment, and then turned to Weir.
"What do you think?" he asked.
"I don't know," said Weir. "I've never heard of it being done under these conditions; but, then," and he nodded his head, his eye fixed thoughtfully upon Anthony, "we have here a young man who has led trains through the wilderness, and across the deserts. So, under any human circumstances, from New Castle to the city should be no impossible task."
"Well," said Charles to Anthony, "if you have the mind to try the thing, there it is for you."
An hour later, while the horses were being put to the sleigh in Cobbler's Place, Anthony told Churchman what he had in mind. The optimist rose freshly to the idea, his eyes snapping.
"The only thing against you is a sudden change in the weather great enough to soften the roads," said he. Then he scanned the patch of sky that could be seen between the walls of the court and seemed to taste of the quality of the wind. "And there's not much chance of that," said he. "This cold wind will keep things hard as iron for weeks to come."
Anthony settled the thick, warm robes about him and was off along Second Street; and, finally below the lower ferry, he struck into the road that ran along the river. It was afternoon when he drew up in Chester for a snack of food, some warming drink, and to have the horses seen to. He crossed the state line in that gray hour just before nightfall; the wind from the river, away to the left, was bleak and heavy; the runners whined as they slid over the frozen snow; Anthony's knees were stiff, and despite the generous wrappings he began to feel his blood chill. He saw a man cutting wood in a patch of timber not far from the road, and drove toward him.
"How many miles is it to the nearest tavern where a bed can be had for the night?"
The ax bit deeply into the log and was allowed to stay so, while the man beat his blue hands together and answered:
"There's a village about five miles along the way you're going. But the inn is a rough place, and small; and the food is not over-good."
"Years ago," said Anthony, "when I knew something of the roads further to the north, I'd hear of a tavern called "the Brig" which I understood was somewhere hereabouts."
The man's face wore a curious expression as he looked at Anthony. Then he said:
"It's open still, and is clean, and has excellent, good beds. There's cookery to be had in that place the like of which you seldom come upon; and as for its spirits and malt liquors, well, sir, they are rare, indeed!"
The place where Anthony had stopped was on the shoulder of a hill; night was now lowering over the desolate winter landscape with its bare fields, stunted trees, and ice-filled marsh. The wood-cutter pointed in the direction of the river.
"Do you see that road winding along there?" asked he. "And there, in a hollow near it, a clump of cedars?"
"I do," said Anthony. "And I also see something rising up from among the trees like the mast of a ship."
"It is one," said the man, "and with a topmast and rigging all complete, just as it would be if it were stepped in a vessel instead of the dooryard of the Brig Tavern."
Anthony looked at the mast for a moment, then turned his eyes upon the man.
"When I inquired about an inn," said he, "you spoke of an indifferent one a long way off, but made no mention of this excellent one so close at hand."
The wood-cutter grasped the haft of his ax and plucked its blade out of the log.
"The Brig is so off the road," said he, "I thought you'd not care to go there."
There was a look in the man's face that gave a different story; but Anthony did not stay to go further into the matter; he thanked him, turned his horses back to the road, and proceeded on. In a little while he came to the place where the winding road crossed the main one; taking to this he journeyed on toward the tavern. The winter twilight had grown thicker; and ahead in the hollow where the cedars grew, night had already thrown itself down. There was a dull glow from the inn; it served to light the way through the trees, and as Anthony's sleigh drew up a man came out of a barn with a lantern.
"What, Mr. Blake," said the man, "are you back so soon?"
"I am not Mr. Blake," said Anthony, as he threw aside the robes and got out. "What encouragement is there here for a traveler who has the mind to stay overnight?"
The man held the lantern up so that its lighted candle might bring out Anthony's face.
"I was sure you were Mr. Blake," said he. "Your horses feet pattered on the road just as his do, and you came in at the gate in the same free fashion."
"As I so resemble friend Blake in those ways," said Anthony, "I wonder is he like me in being hungry and in need of a fire and a bed."
"I have no doubt but you can have both if you inquire within," said the man. "And if you desire I'll rub and feed and bed your horses."
Anthony turned the animals over to him, and walked up the paved way to the door of the tavern. There were some massive hewn steps leading up to the door, and a hood projected over it to keep out the wash of the weather. Anthony went through the wide hall and into a room at one side. Two men sat by a fire playing drafts, and a woman stood by the table watching them. One of the men was a furtive, dry-looking person with a patch over one eye; the other was Monsieur Lafargue. And she who stood looking on was his daughter.
As Anthony stood in the doorway, unnoticed by those in the room, a man came down the passage. It was the landlord, a massive man, with a glowing vitality and a quick eye.
"Pardon," said he, "I did not know monsieur had arrived. I was expecting no one, for the night is shutting down."
Anthony followed him along the passage and into another room; this was larger than the first, but it was snug enough, there being a good fire blazing, and the curtains being drawn to keep out the bleak look of the falling night.
Anthony warmed himself by the fire and examined the host, who was without doubt a Frenchman—a huge, swift man who at once gained the attention.
"I had hoped to reach Wilmington before night overtook me," said Anthony. "But I could not do it; and so I recalled this place."
A quick, bright interest was in the landlord's eye.
"Ah," said he, "monsieur has been here before?"
"No," said Anthony.
"So few come to us from the roads," said the man. "We are out of the track, you see. Our guests are from the river: masters and mates and supercargoes of vessels working up to the city, or bound out to sea, who are at anchor awaiting orders, or repairs, or one of many other things. It was for them, monsieur, that the inn was originally built."
"You have not much patronage when the ice is in the river, I suppose?"
"Ah! then it is a lean time, indeed," complained the host. "There is nothing."
"And yet," continued Anthony, "as I think I've noticed, you do not altogether lack patronage."
"A few people who will be gone as soon as they have eaten and rested," said the Frenchman briefly. And then, "Will monsieur remain for the night?"
Anthony replied that he would; also that he was hungry and looked forward to a good supper; and then, with many assurances, the landlord left him. The young man stood before the fire for a time, his eyes fixed on the floor, frowning, his hands clasped behind him. There was a moaning of the winter wind among the high, pointed roofs of the Brig; and the mast planted in the dooryard sung keenly.
He tried to think what Lafargue and his daughter were doing in so unexpected a place. In pleasanter weather it might be laid to the desire of strangers to journey about, but the bare fields and cold roads beckoned no one on days like these. For a space he wondered at their presence; then, easily, so easily that he was not aware of it, his mind slipped into the thought that mademoiselle was beautiful. He'd always known it, yet he'd never felt it so forcefully as he did at the moment he'd seen her at the table near her father, amusedly watching his interest in the draft-board. Her tallness was marked, and—
"What the devil of it?" said Anthony. "She could be as tall and slim as a spire, and yet it would mean nothing to me."
Again he pinned his mind to a more practical thing. Rufus Stevens' Sons had a rich ship fast in the ice not many miles below; and Rufus Stevens' Sons had enemies. Among those enemies—and the young man would have laid his head on the block in support of this—was Tarrant. And Tarrant was a friend to Lafargue, and apparently to Lafargue's daughter. Anthony fixed his eye on the long flare of a candle, and stood frowning at it. He had always thought her hair quite dark; but now he knew it was not. There was a great deal of copper in it, a deep, rich copper that had shone warmly in the candle-light. He wondered what that something was that candle-light had—it seemed to bring out truth so. That's why they burned them on altars, perhaps, or that's why their lighting, spoken of in certain books, was always the signal for the appearance of pixies and fairies. He stood for a long time so.
Then he took his eyes from the candle and cursed himself for a fool! The gentle shape against the lovely glow was gone; in its place was the dirty hull of theGeneral Stark, fast in the grip of the river; and filling the remainder of Anthony's world were the eyes of Tarrant—cold, malicious eyes, and greedy, too, and fixed upon the helpless vessel.
A man came into the room and smirked at Anthony.
"How do you do, sir?" said he.
It was the man with the patch over his eye, and he approached the fire, where he warmed his large-boned hands and basked in the heat with many little gasps and whistlings of pleasure.
"A bitter night," said he. "A bitter, raw night. It's very fortunate that one has a place like this to depend upon when affairs draw one so far from the city."
"It is so," said Anthony.
"A fine, generous place," said the man appreciatively. "Good food and drink, clean beds. Comfortable surroundings. A traveler should give thanks for gifts as good as these."
"Especially as the place is so unexpected," said Anthony.
Again the man smirked. He rubbed his hands together over the fire; there was something furtive in the way he did this, as though he were filching the warmth, and getting pleasure out of the fact that no one noticed it.
"The inniscuriously located," said he. "Very curiously. I've spoken of it more than once. But, then, shipmen are a fine-hearted lot, and when they come up from the sea they want comfort ashore. And who will blame them?"
"Not I," said Anthony.
There was a little pause; then the man spoke again.
"You are connected with shipping, I'd say."
"Yes."
The man nodded.
"There is something of the manner of the seaman about you," said he. "And yet," with another smirk, "I seem to see the merchant, too."
"You have an excellent eye," said Anthony.
"I wonder," said the man, "if I've ever come upon you before. I have a passing acquaintance with most of the traders, ship-owners, and traffickers in the port, and yet I can't recall you."
"I have been in the North only a short time," said Anthony. "I'm of Rufus Stevens' Sons."
The man sucked in his lips, and left off warming his hands; his one good eye searched Anthony's face with startled sharpness.
"A good house," he said finally. "An excellent house. You are perhaps," and he said this with care, "that nephew to Charles of whom I have heard."
"I am his only nephew," said Anthony.
"There are those who speak of Charles as erratic," observed the man with the one eye. "But that is an error. Heisdifferent from most of his occupation, but difference signifies nothing to a man's discredit. He is an unusual and desirable person. I congratulate you in him."
Anthony nodded. He wished the man would take himself off, for the furtive manner and crafty eye did not please him.
"It is too bad your ship is in so unfortunate a situation in the river," said the man. "Some one has told me that she carries cargo of immediate value."
"Yes," said Anthony.
"But what can be done?" said the man. He awaited an answer; but none came, and he proceeded. "Providence decrees these things, and so it is scarcely proper for us to object."
Anthony was one who did not readily put the blame of things on Providence, and he held his tongue with difficulty. However, he saw the one-eyed man shrewdly awaiting an observation from him, and that made silence easier. The stranger talked of ships, cargoes, weather, and misadventures, but Anthony replied only briefly; then the landlord came in, and laid the cloth for the young man's supper. Anthony sat down, and the one-eyed man, with a parting smirk, left the room. The supper was hot and plentiful and good; the host served him himself with great attention. When he had finished, Anthony sat and smoked a Spanish cigar by the fire, listening to the wind whining among the roofs of the tavern and quite at his ease. Now and then the tall, graceful figure in the candle-light would venture to the edge of his thoughts, but he drove it back with resolution.
A clock from somewhere in the place struck nine; Anthony arose and went to see to his horses. He found them well provided for, in warm stalls, watered and fed, and bedded thickly in fresh straw.
"A good team," said the hostler, who held the lantern so that Anthony might see that all was well. "Well set upon their feet, and with fine barrels and strong legs. I like sorrels; they are not as common as some, and they have plenty of courage."
"I suppose," said Anthony, "you have handled horses for a long time."
"Yes," said the man, "for many years, indeed. I've been employed at a half-score inns in my time—inns that have stood on much-traveled roads, and have taken in all who came their way."
"The Brig must be a quiet place after those," said Anthony.
The man smoothed his jaws with a nervous hand.
"I like a place to be quiet," said he. "There's few come by this track, for it leads only to the marsh and the river. Yes, it's quiet here; and I am away from all urging."
Anthony looked curiously at the man; the rays of the lantern were in his face, and his deep-set eyes showed the habit of fear.
"The main road is a good piece away," said he. "I'm glad of that, for I'm afraid of roads. There are many strange things that happen on them. If you listen, in quiet weather," said he, and pointed in the direction of the highway, "you can hear that one speak. Of a night in the summer-time I lie awake and listen to it whispering in its sleep as though it were dreaming. The dreams of roads must be strange ones," said the man. "There are times when they must be monstrous. And I keep from them as much as I may."
"It is a queer thing to be afraid of a road," said Anthony.
"You'd not say that if you'd had as much to do with them as I," said the man. "I know what they are. Much danger is to be met on roads; many an honest man has lost his life upon them; and many a foul thing creeps along their lengths."
"I've traveled a deal," said Anthony, "and I've met with no harm."
The man shook his head.
"Do not trust them," he said. "More than any other time, do not trust them of a night. There is more goes on of a night on the road than is thought."
"If a man does not come to know the highways by traveling them, how is he to do it?" asked Anthony.
"To know a road, even in a small way," said the man, "you must live by the side of it a very long time. You must lie down by it in the darkness; you must listen for its mutterings, and to the pulse that beats always in it; you must give your mind to the messages it brings of happenings a long way off. Yes, roads are strange, and for all their talk you never get the full truth of their doings. That's why I am afraid of them. When travel is high, and they are flowing along, they try to take one with them. Did you know that? You can feel them reaching out for you and grasping at you. A quiet place is best; and this place is very quiet. There is nothing goes by this door that might take one up and away. Yes, it's very quiet here; there is nothing to be afraid of."