The letter that summoned him, he said, was a furtive one; it was plain that it came from a person of little courage. But, for all, there was that in it which compelled attention. No doubt monsieur had received much the same impression.
"When I first saw Magruder in his counting-room," said Anthony, "his vitals were knotted in dread. He feared for his money; he feared for it shamelessly. And he choked with the thought it'd be found out he'd given me warning. As I watched him," said Anthony, "I grew sick at him; never before had I seen such a frantic, tight-hearted, cowering wretch."
And then the New York packet. Monsieur, no doubt, recalled how he and mademoiselle had come ashore from her? And the circumstances? And the boisterous young man who made so free with their conveyance? Very good. Anthony had not expected to see the boisterous young man again. But he did see him. That night! And so monsieur and mademoiselle listened to the tale of the two men in the moonlight; of how one strode, laughing, away toward the river; and how the other had come into his room with much confident hectoring.
"This, monsieur," said Anthony, "was Tarrant. And while I do not care for him, overmuch, I'll say this for him: he is none of your mealy-mouthed ones. He directed me to leave the city—and at once; his talk was full of gibes and sneers. That is why I struck him."
"You have not yet said in what way all this concerns me," said Monsieur Lafargue.
Patience! A moment more. Anthony was now coming to that. Did monsieur mark what night this happened? The clock had just struck one. As far as it was possible to judge, Magruder had been done to death in his counting-room on the river front at about that hour. Note that the laughing man had gone in that direction at that time.
Monsieur Lafargue spoke in a voice that shook. He had no doubt, he said, that more than one man had gone in that direction, at that hour, and on that same night, and innocently enough.
Anthony agreed. It might very readily be so. But which of them had the finger pointing at him this man had? Would monsieur join together the facts? Would he note that the desperate taking off of Magruder was of a piece with the orders Tarrant had given Anthony at the Half Moon? Did he not see that both grew from the same dark stem?
"I had received a warning," said Anthony. "And upon the heels of it came Tarrant with his threats. It was Magruder who gave me the warning; and, for it, Blake gave him his death."
Mademoiselle gasped. She had sat still, with her face averted; she now turned it, and Anthony saw that it was white, and her eyes wide with fear.
"Having seen to Magruder and done what they could with me, these ruffians then gave their attention to you, monsieur," said the young man. "You had not spoken to Magruder; nevertheless you were dangerous, for at any moment, upon the return of my uncle, you might go to him and frankly state your case. To them this might be very perilous, indeed. So they, in what manner I don't know, gained your attention. All the crimes of which they were guilty they placed at the door of Rufus Stevens' Sons. And the death of Magruder was one of these; for you, mademoiselle," turning to the girl, "had appealed to me; they feared what might come of this, and, to destroy any ground that might be between us, they charged that my hand had struck the blow."
They were a cunning and close-thinking crew! And, like all finished liars, they were careful to use a part of the truth. They had told her Anthony was seen coming from Magruder's at a quiet hour. This was true, mademoiselle. But had they given the hour a name? They had not said it was six o'clock in the morning, had they? They had not told her it was some five hours after she had found the man dead in his chair! And after this they did the thing that rendered monsieur and mademoiselle harmless. It was softly spread about that a woman was concerned in Magruder's death. Suspicion was lifting its head, so they had been told; mademoiselle's name was being whispered; there were grave fears for her safety. Both monsieur and mademoiselle must be very quiet. Were they not told that? They must be little seen; they must consult no one. Perhaps, in this way, the thing would spend itself, and die down. And so fear shut monsieur's mouth; and it placed mademoiselle in her enemies' hands.
Monsieur Lafargue said:
"If our presence in the city was a peril to these men, why was not this fear used to drive us away?"
"Was it not used to drive mademoiselle away?" asked Anthony. "Did I not find her on boardLe Mousquet, flying from the phantom they raised in her mind?"
Again the shaking hand went to the lips of Monsieur Lafargue. And he said:
"But they did not desiremeto be gone. And I wanted to. I longed to go back to France. But they begged me to remain."
"And why?" said Anthony. "I think, from what I've seen to-night in monsieur's manner, he has had some thoughts as to that."
Here the girl's arms went about her father as though to protect him.
"They had use for you, I think," said Anthony. "They had plans, had they not? And these plans mademoiselle did not altogether favor. Am I right? They wanted her influence away. They desired you to be alone and unadvised." Monsieur Lafargue got up. His face was gray and drawn; his legs shook under him.
"At my years," said he, "the mind does not think directly. I may have been wrong in acting against your wish," to the girl; "but it was for France; it was for the republic, one and indivisible. Do not our enemies crowd the sea? Only a word was asked of me. It was a word that would launch a blow against the enemy. Could I withhold it?"
"Please, please!" said the girl, and the gentleness in her voice made Anthony marvel. "There is no one to blame you." Her arms were tightly about him. "No onecanblame you!"
"Is it wrong to do a deed for one's country?" said monsieur. "If the fat bustards flock in the air, shall I not loose the hawks against them? If a man puts a weapon in my hand to use against the foes of France, am I to think that man a—"
He sagged here, and for an instant the girl held his weight; then Anthony carried him to a sofa and laid him carefully down.
"He is old," said the girl; "he is very old. And he is not strong." In a few moments, under her ministrations, he began to revive. She looked at Anthony. "He has been uneasy," she said, "and this was too much for him."
Anthony took up his hat, but at the head of the stairs he paused.
"I hope," said he, "that I have made certain things plain. And I urge you to close your mind to these people, for they are your enemies as they are mine."
And so he followed the quadroon maid down the stairs and went out of the house. For an hour or more he paced the streets, his mind full of the girl; and then he went home. The door of his room he found unlocked, which was not usual. Inside there was the smell of burnt paper, the fireplace was choked with a blackened mass of ash; upon the floor lay the covers of some half-dozen of Rufus Stevens' Sons' old ledgers. The dates on the backs of them told Anthony they were of the period of Lucas and Carberry; and he sat down and stared dully at the ruin of that upon which he had counted so much.
Charles Stevens stared when Anthony told him of the burning of the old ledgers. Then he smiled. "What matter?" said he. "It's a curious happening, to be sure; but let them go, and think no more of them."
Anthony put his hand on his uncle's arm.
"Through those books," said he, "I hoped to come at certain things that have been troubling this house."
"What things?" asked Charles. He wore a smiling lightness; but there was a sick look in his eyes.
"I don't know," said Anthony. "I can only hazard a guess." He regarded his uncle a moment, his hand still on his arm. "Up to this time I have never spoken to you directly," said he, "and I had not meant to until I had all the facts that it were possible to collect. But I ask you, now: has it never come into your mind that things here have not been well?"
"Nothing could come out of those old books but ghosts," said Charles. "Ghosts of old transactions, of old merchants, of old voyages. Shall we give time to such things now,—shadows, matters past and done,—when there is so much present substance to engage one's attentions? Let us fill our minds with the future, for the future has gifts to give, and all its days are unused. The past is dust. Let us close our eyes to it; let us put its sad corpses back into their graves." Charles patted Anthony on the back. "Come, now! You've spoken of this once; let that once be enough." He went to a cabinet, took out a decanter, and poured out two brimming goblets of wine. "To the days ahead!" said Charles. "To the good days ahead: a sharp lookout, swift voyages, and rich cargoes!"
In the immediate days that followed this, Charles was more active than any one had ever seen him before. A fever of energy seemed to consume him; he tracked up and down the floor of his private room, his lame foot dragging, his brain glowing and planning; the letters he wrote went to the ends of the world. May passed. June came and spent its sunny days. And on one of these theRufus Stevensslipped down the ways and into the water—a mighty ship, her hull dipping and bowing before hundreds. And how the workmen swarmed in her; how her masts reared when set in place; how wide and smooth and clean her deck was! What wondrous spaces were in the hold! What excellent quarters for'ard! What enormous yards and sails. And the goods that were stored in her! There seemed no end to it! And then she sailed away for the Far East, sail over sail, her bow cutting the water and piling it whitely about her. Charles and Anthony and Captain Weir left her outside the capes, and, from the deck of a sloop, saw her wing away into the depths beyond the ocean's curve.
"With wind and weather," said Charles, "she'll dock in Calcutta in ninety days. And next spring, when the ice is well out, she'll show her topsails in the river once again. And then," he slapped Anthony gleefully on the back, "I'll engage to surprise you. Such a cargo as she'll carry you'll never have seen before. I'll make their eyes pop," said Charles extravagantly, his own snapping with expectation. "There has never been any merchandizing in this port that could properly be called such. Small ships make narrow markets; trade has been undernourished. But with vessels like theRufus Stevenswe'll mark a change; we'll come to our due now, swiftly enough."
In the days that followed this, Charles fitted back into his old habits and ways. He was cheerful and easy; he ceased walking the floor; he sat in the corner of his sofa and dreamed; he talked with confidence of the great gull of a ship, pushing eastward around the world. He loved the idea of her return. That day was to be one of amazements; strange lights were to be in the sky; the ship, as though manned by genii and sailing out of enchanted seas, was to appear suddenly, magnificently laden. What was to result was like the providence of a young and generous god; wharves and warehouses were to be showered with extraordinary stuffs.
Charles touched this picture with a new color each day; and every touch seemed to fit him more snugly into his old groove. Each sad corpse, of which he had spoken to Anthony, had been buried deep, and its dull woe had been buried with it. He took his old, careless hold upon the business; he gave unusual orders in a casual way; he chuckled over the pages of "Tom Jones"; he voyaged with his robust old mariners; he laughed with the dramatists of the Restoration. Fear fell from him.
July, hot, wearing, lowering, drew its length through the port; and out of the steam and stink of it a terror grew and took shape. Among the islands, the Barbados distemper lifted its head. But it had done this in every hot season in the memory of living men, and so no attention was paid to it. A ship brought its poisonous essence into the port; several persons died of it along the waterfront; but still no heed was given. Many people whom it touched had died at various times; it was a thing to be expected. And so, ghostly and furtive and purposeful, the thing crept on its million feet, and took hold with its million hands. August came in, even hotter than July. Dock Creek, ill favored, filled with market sloops, threw up a steam; at low tide the accumulated filth in the city docks poured poison into the air; carcasses of animals rotted in the streets.
"Nine dead this week," said Christopher Dent. "Inflamed eyes, rough tongues, aching heads, hot skins, at first; then the whites of the eyes turned yellow, free bleeding at the nose, black vomit, and death in eight days with the body turned purple. 'Tis the Barbados monster come freshly among us."
A stout old man in a wig, and with a walking-staff and varnished boots, who stood at the counter in the apothecary's shop, smiled at this.
"Let him grimace as he will," said he. "He'll frighten none but the old women. We know him, and have measured the lengths he can go."
"Nine dead in a week," said Christopher Dent. "That's a deal, Dr. Blue."
"It is nothing," said the physician. "You have your mind fixed on it, and so it seems important. As many will die in the same time of the bloody-flux, and you'll never say a word." Having transacted his business, Dr. Blue grasped his staff firmly and prepared to go. "But if it advance," said he, with stout assurance, "we know how to meet it. The letting of a little blood takes the venom out of these disorders fast enough; and where the lancet will not do a purge will act in its stead. After all," said the doctor, "the pill of aloes and white soap is the final defense of mankind."
After he had gone Christopher turned to Tom Horn.
"I have noticed," said he, "that fat men always talk like that. Little can disturb their confidence. Nevertheless," and he shook his head, "I look to see much trouble from this visitation."
"Of a night," said Tom Horn, "there is a thickness in the air—a warm, slippery thickness such as I've noticed in hot countries in time of pestilence. And the dawn breaks yellow across the Jerseys. I've seen it many a morning of late from my window; people are going about with dread in their faces, and every man looks oddly at his neighbor."
The next week seven only died; and those who were disposed to take the threat lightly, smiled and wore tolerant looks.
"Seven dead," said Christopher, as he looked up from a mortar in which he was grinding some bark; "but do you take heed to those who are ill? There are more poor people tossing on hot beds to-night with yellow death sitting beside them than have ever done so in this region before."
Anthony spoke to Dr. King across the physician's table.
"From time to time this distemper takes a great toll of lives in New Orleans," said he. "And there's little done to fight it back, except bitter drafts and things that are a deal like witchcraft."
Dr. King looked serious.
"We practise equal follies here," said he. "Blood has always run to propitiate the demons in time of pestilence; and we are still calling for it. Only to-day I heard of a man who had been bled five times between dawn and sundown, to drain the venom of the complaint from his system. But, I suppose, if the disease mounts, these things must go their course; after they've failed we can have the filth of the town buried or burned, and bring some degree of sanity into practise."
So each day the city's surgeons proudly flashed their lancets; blood ran into basins in every household; the sick were given slimy, bitter drinks; not a stir of air was permitted in their chambers. Outdoors the heat poured down on the rotting masses in docks and byways; street by street the beleaguering pestilence took the town. The church-bells began to toll early of a morning; at first there were little spaces between their ringing; then the spaces closed up—filled in; the tolling grew constant—never ceasing. It was death sounding in the citizen's ear; and death met his eye in the funeral cortèges that darkened the streets.
The roads leading from the town were filled with vehicles and people on foot, carrying bundles of belongings, all in flight before the pestilence. Those who kept in the city lighted fires in the streets, as the smoke and flame were said to have a killing effect on the plague. The burning of gunpowder was universally recommended; fowling-pieces, muskets, small ordnance, holster pistols, barked and roared and stuttered through the storm of bells, and the smoke of the fires. Tobacco was cherished as a foe to the disease by many, and was smoked and snuffed in quantities; garlic was considered unfriendly to the thing and was chewed and kept in the pockets and placed in the shoes; pitch was set alight in fire-shovels and carried smoking through dwellings to drive out the possible presence.
"THE ROADS LEADING FROM THE TOWN WERE FILLED WITH VEHICLES AND PEOPLE ON FOOT."
"THE ROADS LEADING FROM THE TOWN WERE FILLED WITH VEHICLES AND PEOPLE ON FOOT."
"THE ROADS LEADING FROM THE TOWN WERE FILLED WITH VEHICLES AND PEOPLE ON FOOT."
"I cling to it," said Christopher Dent, as he labored in his laboratory, distilling and compounding the cures and preventatives most in demand, "that camphor is the most efficient and harmless agent in treatment of this disorder; unctuous, pellucid, bitterly aromatic, if inhaled it overcomes the poisons of the fever, and has a cooling effect upon the brain and blood."
"Many keep to a remedy discovered by four French thieves," said Tom Horn. "These villains went about among the sick and dead while the plague ravaged Marseilles some years ago, never catching the disorder. When taken in their plundering they said the medicine had kept it from them, and bartered the secret for their liberty."
"Rogues who would rob the dead would lie with little remorse," said Christopher. "And the thing is but a vinegar sprinkled upon the clothes. It may have a certain virtue, but I doubt the method of its use; to do good a medicine must be drunken, or inhaled directly, or taken up through the pores of the body. However, if a man comes to my shop who has faith invinaigre des quatre voleurs, make it for him quickly, and of good materials."
The number of people who left the city as the pestilence advanced was large; among them were government officials and doctors of medicine, whose fear was greater than their sense of duty. So thick was the flying horde along the roads that the outlying villages and towns were stirred with fright; sentinels were posted, weapons in their hands, to stem the advance. New York, in a panic, refused to allow the stricken port's shipping to come up to the city, forbade coaches to run between the two places, and appointed a day of fasting and prayer. The highways were abandoned by commerce; the mails were discontinued; armed guards were stationed at all the ferries, and patrolled the waterfronts.
What physicians were left in the city were worked to desperation: nurses of character could not be had; and the friendless sick fell into the hands of the reckless, drunken, and depraved. The hospital at Bush Hill was gorged with the stricken; loathsome wretches made sport of burying the dead. And, as the gates of doom seemed folding back, fanatics made haste in coming forward, lifting their doleful voices as they came. Woe! woe! unto the wicked! As the cities of the plain had withered under the anger of the Almighty, so would this city on the river. Its sins had been many; it had given itself to lechery, to strong drink, and to following after idols; it had lusted after women, after gold; evil desires had burned shameful letters into its forehead; it had been strong in its wickedness, and had looked at righteousness with a face of brass. And now it was stricken; evil had come upon it. Woe! Sorrow to the sinner caught in the day of his sin, and the strength of his passion. Heavy was the hand of the Almighty: dreadful was the day when an answer was asked, and none could be given!
As the infection grew and the customary remedies failed, one by one, the protests of Dr. King, of Charles Stevens, and other forward-looking men began to be heeded. The streets and open gutters were cleaned and flushed, pestilential pits were filled in, rotting accumulations were burned. The ceaseless tolling of bells, keeping death ever before the eyes of the sick, was stopped; the solemn-pacing funeral processions, which frightened the public mind, were forbidden; the burning of street-fires, the exploding of muskets were put an end to, for the mental states they brought about could not but feed fresh lives to the plague. The dead were now buried in the still of the night, and no bells marked their going to their graves; the glare of the fires and rattling of shots no longer frightened the timid.
The hospital established for the poor was an old mansion on the outskirts of the city; here, so the thought was, beds were to be had, also food and nurses, and physicians were to be frequently in attendance. Anthony had heard of it during the days and nights which he spent striving to ease the suffering of the desperately circumstanced; but he had had no time to pause for facts. The young man's experience with the same malady at New Orleans had taught him many shrewd ways of meeting it; and his money went in medicines and in food the sick could eat. But after a month of this he felt his strength going; and his nerves were shaken. The number of his charges had grown enormously; he could not take care of them all; so he spoke of Bush Hill.
But they cried out in fright! Any suffering, but not that place! Any death, uncared for, unthought of, but not Bush Hill! So, frowning, surprised, Anthony went to the place to look and see.
It was night; few people were abroad; the death-carts, lighted by torches in the hands of men walking ahead, trundled through the streets; at each door marked with the dreaded sign a sad, wrapped form was thrust out and thrown into the vehicle with its fellows in death. Torches glimmered in the potter's-field, as the young man passed; dim figures were digging, digging; the place was scarred as by a plow.
Anthony approached Bush Hill across the fields; a veil of insects hummed in the glare from its open windows; a stench seemed to drip from it; now and then the roar of drunken carnival came from its recesses. He went in. The sick were huddled on dirty straw, filthy, abandoned, terrible in the smoky lamplight; they moaned and called for water; they raved and babbled and cursed in their utter wretchedness. The awful dead, stark and neglected, were on every side.
"In God's name!" said Anthony.
At his feet a woman was gasping: she was a Spanish woman; she held tightly to a brass crucifix, and called upon angels and saints, upon glorious martyrs and confessors to see her die. O immaculate heart of God! Most holy and exalted Virgin! Cherubim! Pillars of high heaven! Shining archangels! A naïve paradise was strewn about her in the filth; the way of death was ranked with the holy, gathered to watch her pass.
"Water!" A man lifted himself out of the dirty straw. "If there's a human heart in this place, and a hand that's able to give it—water!"
A woman moved forward with a cup; after the man had drunk she eased him back, and, as she turned, Anthony saw it was Mademoiselle Lafargue.
"Here!" said he, startled.
"Some one must do it," she said.
"Are there no nurses?"
The roar of drunken carnival lifted from the recesses of the buildings; shrieks of laughter and screamed curses rose with it.
"Those are the nurses," she said. "None would risk death but them; and they are here not to care for the sick but to eat and drink what has been given for the comfort of the sick."
"How long have you been here?"'
"I come for a time each day, but I am able to do very little."
Anthony looked about at the piteous horror of the place.
"I wonder," he said, "that you have been able to do anything. It seems beyond human help."
During the last few weeks, while he was working himself deeper and deeper into the rotting heart of the plague, he caught the flitting of another, on ahead of him, who was giving of strength and spirit, and who was followed by blessings. Then the name came to him, back along the way she had gone, and a comfort had soothed him, an exaltation had stirred his heart. Then one night they met in a place of death, and he had marveled at the courage in her face, the readiness of her hands. A second time he met her, again in the night, and heard her plead with the brutal drivers of the death-carts for reverence for the dead; once in the potter's-field he had taken the spade from her hands, and finished the shallow grave she had been digging for a dead child.
And now, as he stood talking with her in the pest-house, there arose a voice.
"In the garret, my dear sons," it said. "I must lie in the garret; that is the place I like best."
A bent, withered old woman, whom Anthony had noted prowling among the sick, muttering and chuckling, paused beside the man's bed; her long, discolored teeth showed in a kind of horrid glee as she looked down at him.
"So you'd like the garret, would you, my gentleman?" she said. "The garret of that little place which you have kept so close all these years? So would I. I'd like to lie there, too. God's truth, I would. It'd be a rare place to ransack; I'd love, sir, to go about in it."
The man tried to arise; but he could not.
"Where is Rehoboam? Where is Nathaniel?" he asked. "Where are my sons?"
The old woman cackled.
"Now, there are the shrewd ones for you," she said. "There is the careful pair. Down at the door, outside, they put you; and away with them, as hard as they could pelt!"
The old man closed his eyes and began to mutter.
"It is nothing, my sons. Nothing at all. Have I not had pains in the head before? The plague will not enter my house. No, no! There is no gorging and stuffing and high living here. And so there is nothing to attract it."
"Gorging and stuffing," said the hag, her yellow teeth showing all the more. "Not enough food has gone into that house in a year to keep a pigeon fat a fortnight."
"The garret is high," said the old man. "It's well out of reach, and airy, and cool. From there I can watch the wind blow the smoke from the chimneys, and see the weather-vanes turn, and the flags fly from the mast tops. So put me in the garret, Nathaniel. And draw the cupboard near to my bed."
"Ha, ha!" said the old woman. "The cupboard!"
"And the chest, Rehoboam; place the chest where I can reach it. Beside my bed. And then I will sleep; and to-morrow I will be well."
"To-morrow," said the old woman, "you'll be with the worms. And you'll give them no joy, either; for there'll be spare picking, indeed, on the like of you."
"Who is this?" asked Anthony, as he moved toward the bed.
"This, sir," said the hag, "is old Bulfinch. He's a usurer by trade, and now lies here rotting of the fever."
"Is he badly off?" asked the young man.
"I would not care to be as badly," said the crone. "I've seen men better off than he die like that," and she puffed out her breath. "Buthe'llnot die readily. Oh, no; he's one of the kind whose claws are sunk into life. He has cupboards and chests to anchor him to the world, has this gentleman; and, if all the tales you hear are true, they'll be rare, heavy bits of furniture, indeed." She chuckled and wagged her ancient head. "They'd be a fine sight for famished eyes, those two things," she said. "And I wish it were given to me to open them. Gold," she said. "And silver. Bags of it. Spanish and Dutch and British pieces, as broad as your hand. He was a sharp-nosed one for minted bits of metal, was old Bulfinch. Chests and cupboards stuffed with them. God save us! And, for all, here we have him, with yellow-jack pinched tight in his bowels."
"And his sons brought him here, you say?"
"They did; in a cart; and in the night. And they pitched him down by the door, and stayed hardly long enough for a word."
"I'll lie in the garret, Nathaniel," persisted the old man. "I'll lie in the garret, where it's airy and cool. I'll be quiet, there, and the pain in my head will leave me."
The hag chuckled gleefully.
"What, my gentleman," she said, "would you be where you'd stop the brisk snapping of locks, the opening of drawers, the throwing back of chest-lids? Out on you for a spoil-sport! Some one else counts your money to-night," she said. "Your noble sons have the handling of your broad, fine, bright pieces. I can see them settling to it now like a pair of weasels."
The clouded mind of the sick man sensed only a little of what she said.
"Plenty of room in the chest," he muttered. "Oh, yes, plenty of room for more. The years and years it takes to gain a very little. The weary years."
The old woman held a candle so that the light could fall on his face.
"There will be no more years for you," she said. "Hours will tell your tale." She nodded toward Anthony. "And short hours, too."
"It's a deep chest," said old Bulfinch. "As deep as a ship." Gradually a look of glee came into his face; his hands opened and shut covetously. "A fine ship," he said. "A tall ship; and with the old man's name painted on her. Such spaces she has for storing goods. Such wide, wonderful spaces! There is the room of a town in her. She went away grandly," he said. "Like a bride, all in white. And when she returns, what a dowry she'll bring! There will be magnificence! There will be splendor! Her cargo will be a jewel, and her oaken hull the casket." He gloated over this for a space; and then a trouble began to show. "If it were not Gorman, now," he said. "If it were not Gorman that is to step aboard her at Calcutta. We could trust Hollister. He is sound and tried. But he's done too much. Oh, yes, far too much to be safe; for there are sharp eyes watching; there are minds, too, that are like knife-blades, and they are thinking, always thinking."
Anthony's eyes met those of Mademoiselle Lafargue; but before either could speak there came the choking shriek:
"Water! One drop to cool my throat! Water, for God's love!"
"Hold your tongue!" said the old woman, lowering evilly at the sufferer. "It's always something with you. There's not enough water in the river to fill your gullet; so ease yourself back, and be still."
The French girl gave the sick man a cup of water; and while she was doing so old Bulfinch stirred uneasily.
"Nathaniel," he said, "are you there? Rehoboam, my son, where are you? I am not sick. The doctor is a fool. I am well and strong. It is true I have a pain in my head, and the hot sun has got into my blood. But I am not sick. The doctors are all frightened. Do not listen to them. They know nothing. By and by," and he laughed with a ghastly assumption of lightness, "this one will say I have the plague. It would be like him. Turn him away, Nathaniel; do not listen to him. And do not pay him money for his folly; it is waste, my sons, and money is hard to get. Take me to the garret; it will be quiet there, and I'll be up and strong in another day. Be careful, Nathaniel; lift me gently, and see to the stairs, Rehoboam; they are crooked and treacherous." There was a pause, and sudden panic seemed to seize him. His eyes stared, and his jaws fell open; he clawed about in the straw, and then, with sudden power, rose up. "No, no!" he raved. "Not here! Not this place of death! My curse on you, Nathaniel, if you leave me; my blood and death on you, Rehoboam, if you give me into the hands of these wretches!"
Shriek after shriek came from him; then he fell back with a foam about his lips and his eyes full of fear and loathing.
With the blood pounding in his head, Anthony took mademoiselle by the arm.
"Come, let us go," said he.
And he led her out, and across the hot, moon-bathed fields, toward the city.
Weeks went by; the plague drew its horrible length along the river, through the town's byways, through the unsunned huddled places, through creeks and docks and open gutters, through wells and cisterns and cesspools; and all its attendant horrors followed in ghastly procession. Death no longer stooped, hawk-like; it settled heavily down beside its victim as a vulture settles, filthy, evil, cold.
From the night of their meeting at Bush Hill, Anthony and Mademoiselle Lafargue saw a deal of each other; there were no words said, no compact made; but the fights which both were pressing were paired, and the good they had been able to accomplish was greatly multiplied. Seeing this, others added their help; Bush Hill was cleansed of its villainies; aid was carried into neglected quarters. The group became compact and strong; others, like it, sprang up; a wall of resolution began to rear itself in the path of the pestilence—a wall behind which fear and superstition died.
Those who had fled weeks before watched and waited from the heights beyond the city. Over the point of land between the two rivers, upon which the city had been built, they saw a bank of vapor hanging; and gradually the belief spread that in this was contained the essence of the plague. Frightened eyes watched it. If a wind stirred the trees on the hillsides, the refugees were up, thrilling with dread. In what direction did it blow? Was it from the city? What if it got under the poisonous mist and lifted it toward them? After all, were they quite safe? Would it not be better if they traveled north toward the higher hills?
At Rufus Stevens' Sons, as at other mercantile houses, things were at a stop. Charles was seldom there; at times he might be found in a deep sleep on a sofa at his house on Ninth Street; but his waking hours were spent among the sick. What little business stirred was taken care of by Captain Weir, who came punctually to the counting-house each day; Whitaker was gone, having been one of the first to leave the city; Griggs and Twitchell, men of family both, kept themselves close to their homes and ventured nowhere. But Tom Horn came. As regularly as day dawned, he was up and cooked himself a meager breakfast at his lodgings in Pump Court, and then off to Rufus Stevens' Sons in Water Street, and the ledgers, and the day's doings. The river was full of craft which had been forbidden to sail; hand-barrows and horse-drawn vehicles had disappeared from the streets during the day; the people met with were few; they passed furtively, and at as great a distance as possible for fear of contagion. Tom would take down the shutters, for the porters, too, were gone; then he'd take the books from the chest in which they were kept and put them upon the tall desk, and look at the clock.
"Five in the morning," he'd say, "and it might as well be the dead of night for all the movement there is. Indeed, the night has more stir, what with the death-carts and the calling of the ghouls that manage them."
At seven o'clock Captain Weir would come in, and nod to Tom.
"All's still well with you?" he'd ask.
"Still well," Tom would reply. "And you?"
"So far—brisk enough."
"Pump Court is a healthy place," said Tom. "There have been but twelve carried from it so far. But it may be that I'm too spare of body for the pestilence to bother with."
"It may be," said Captain Weir. "But take care."
"Just over the way from me," said Tom, "there was a fat man lodging, a great, strong fellow with thews like a bull, and a red face as broad as a bucket. He was a most excellent feeder; I've seen him cutting into joints of beef in eating-places in a most astonishing way."
"One can't keep away the yellow-boy by gorging," said Captain Weir.
"Of a morning," said Tom Horn, "he'd shave himself at an open window, and bellow songs out into the court. And he'd thump himself on the chest and defy the plague to harm him. 'The cart is not made,' said he, 'that'll carry me away in the night. When the scourge gets me, the city might well sit back on its haunches and take fear. For when I go what chance have the others? Here's solidness for you,' he says, and he thumps away at himself; 'here's guts and brawn! I'd like to see the plague that'll set itself to choking upmyvitals. I'll have a surprise waiting for it."
"Ah," said Captain Weir. "A surprise."
"The surprise came," said Tom Horn. "But it was for the fat man. The plague worked very quietly; but it made an end of him in two days. And when the cart came for him, it was quite an old one; it had been made many years. And I marked, as it rolled with him out of the court in the light of the torches, that the city was very quiet. For all his fatness, his brawn, and his blood, there was nothing unusual. He was but a man, the same as others; if the grave-makers were forced to make the pit a little wider to let him in, that was the only difference."
It was the day they talked about the fat man in Pump Court that visitors came to the counting-room, the first in many a day; and the visitors were Rehoboam and Nathaniel Bulfinch. They entered together, and stepped toward Tom together; their gaunt, gangling frames were alike, as were their outstanding ears and the large spaces between their teeth, and the same eager, covetous look was in both their faces.
"It is refreshing to see a place of business open in times like these," said Nathaniel. "But I knew Rufus Stevens' Sons would be. Your pushing merchant does not permit an unfortunate state of public mind to step into his path."
"As we were coming down the street," said Rehoboam, "I said to Nathaniel, 'Brother, I am sure Rufus Stevens' Sons will be open and thriving as usual.' It is not for nothing," and Rehoboam showed all the spaces between his teeth in a wide smile, "that this business has earned such approval in the community."
Tom Horn did not speak; he sat on his long-legged stool, and looked at them, as a man might look at a pair of corbies that had thrust themselves upon his attention.
"You are Mr. Horn," said Nathaniel, grinning engagingly; "Mr. Horn, who has been with the house so long. Faithful service, sir, will be rewarded. Oh, yes, sooner or later, it will be rewarded. That is a rule that has never failed." He looked about and asked, "Where is Mr. Charles?"
"I don't know," said Tom Horn.
"He has not gone away!" said Nathaniel hastily. "Oh, no.Hewould not be afraid of the plague."
"He is still in the city," affirmed Rehoboam. "He has been seen more than once of late, in the street, and working with the grave-makers in the potter's-field."
"I have not said he had gone away," answered Tom Horn. "I have said, I do not know where he is; and no more do I."
"Very well," said Nathaniel. "It does not matter. We may see Captain Weir, I suppose?"
"You may," said Tom Horn, "if he is willing."
It proved that the captain was, and the twins, gangling, grinning, vulture-like, went into the room where he sat.
"We were quite sure we'd find you at your post," said Rehoboam. "No matter what the day, or who be absent, we knew you'd be at hand."
"Sit down," said Weir, and he said it coldly. And when they had done so, he added, "What is your errand?"
"A trifle," said Nathaniel. "Only a trifle." He coughed behind his hand and looked at Rehoboam. It was Rehoboam who spoke.
"It may, or may not, have come to your attention," said he, "but in the past half-year Mr. Charles Stevens has had some dealings with our house. A number of times—how often was it, brother?" appealing to Nathaniel.
"Four times," said Nathaniel. "Exactly four."
"Just four," Rehoboam told Captain Weir. "I like to be quite correct. Four times in the past half-year, Mr. Charles Stevens requested us to come here; we did so, and each time a transaction was entered in our books."
"He borrowed money of your father," said Captain Weir; "I know that."
"The bills," said Rehoboam, "were dated some few months or so apart. Of course," and he grinned at Captain Weir most calculatingly, "our calling here to-day is the merest form—"
"It means nothing at all," said Nathaniel.
"But, now that we are here," said Rehoboam, "it will do no harm, I think, to say that the first of the bills will be due in three days' time."
"No difficulty is expected," said Nathaniel. "Such a thing has not entered our minds. But clerks will sometimes make mistakes; they will sometimes forget—"
Captain Weir stopped them.
"All the firm's transactions have been had with your father," said he. "When you return to your counting-house, have the goodness to mention that I'd like a word with him, in confidence."
The twins grinned, first at Weir and then at each other. Then Rehoboam said:
"These are times, Captain Weir, when we can speak with little assurance of any one. Those who are here to-day are gone to-morrow. And those who—"
Weir frowned at him.
"Speak plainly," he said.
"The pestilence spares none," said Rehoboam. "When once it marks them out, it does its work quickly. Our father is dead."
"Dead," said Nathaniel, "and his property—" then, hastily, "what little he left—has come to us."
"Also," said Rehoboam, "his business, and his bills. Rufus Stevens' Sons, Captain, now deals with his heirs and assignees. And in three days, as I've said, the first bill comes due. Of course there will be no delay here," he grinned. "We have expected none."
"Of course," said Nathaniel, his jaws agape, mirthfully. "To be sure."
"We are at Harmony Court until six each day," said Rehoboam. "And we shall await a communication. In the meantime," and he got up, "good day to you. And be careful of your health," as he and his brother were about to go. "Do not venture where there is no necessity."
"Upon no account do so," said Nathaniel earnestly. "One never knows what may come of a rashness. Spend nothing needlessly, neither health nor money. That is the course of wisdom, sir."
Captain Weir walked the floor when they had gone; his eyes shone as hard as agates and his mouth set wickedly. The old man dead! Well, that was an unexpected turn. And now here were these two harpies with bills in their hands, about the doors, promising ruin to the fairest of prospects for profit.
"I'll take them by the throats first," said the captain. "I'll squeeze the breath from them."
He took up his hat and went out; there was a coach-house in Mulberry Street, and to this he made his way straight, and was greeted by a mournful-looking man, in boots with yellow tops.
"Duff," said Captain Weir, "I want a man to carry a message to the Brig Tavern, below Chester."
The mournful man shook his head.
"Riders are scarce. They can't be had for love nor money; even the mails are left uncarried. The sentries are very watchful on the roads; and more than one person has been fired upon trying to win by."
Captain Weir chinked some gold coins in his pocket; and a sandy, foxy youth, stretched out upon a feed-box, lifted his head.
"I never saw anything that wouldn't be ventured if the pay was heavy enough," said the captain. "Here you, sir, what's your price?"
The sandy youth grinned wisely, and puckered his narrow forehead.
"What'll you say to twenty gold dollars?" said he.
"I'll say it's a deal of money," said Captain Weir. "But, nevertheless, I'll pay it. Can you start at once?"
"In a half-hour," promised the sandy one, now briskly on his feet.
Captain Weir went into the coach-house and wrote his letter; when he came out with it in his hand he found a likely-looking horse ready saddled, and the man standing beside it.
"To be delivered to either of the two persons whose name is written here," said Weir. "And, now, all haste; your money will be waiting you when you return."
As the captain went back to the counting-house, the sky was becoming overcast; a trace of chilliness was in the air. Weir was not the only one to mark the change; for scores of lips muttered prayers that it might be the end of the summer's heat, that the chill in the air might lower the death-rate, that a frost might come whose touch would end the course of the plague. Toward nightfall the wind rose; rain began to fall. It was still falling and the wind was still blowing when Captain Weir started for his house in Shackamaxon; when he reached there a gale had set in; he could see the river creaming under its whip, and heard the hissing and complaining among chimney-pots and ships' rigging; the rain drove smartly before the wind in steadily increasing volume. Captain Weir threw off his cloak and boots; a servant had lighted a small fire in his sitting-room, and here a glass of brandy, hot and spiced, was given him; and he sat down and sipped it slowly.
His house was one of the period of George I, and excellently conceived; it stood on a knoll overlooking the river while behind it and to the south and north were green, level fields and clumps of spreading trees. Captain Weir's sitting-room was a comfortable place, high-ceilinged, with polished floor and broad, deep chairs; upon the walls were some prints that told of a taste in such things; a few pieces of Eastern bronze stood on a shelf between two windows.
In the sudden turn of the weather the fire was most desirable, and Captain Weir sat beside it and sipped at the glass of spiced brandy with appreciation. But all the time there was a frown upon his brow, the same that had come upon it at the visit of the two Bulfinches, and it was plain to see that his mind still remained fixed to the things the two had said and the things these sayings promised.
After a long time spent thinking, and sipping at his drink, the captain's supper was served in another room; this he ate in silence and slowly. Afterward a bottle of port was placed upon a small table at his elbow as he resumed his seat at the fire; he smoked a Spanish cheroot, and between-times let the fine, thick flavor of the wine rest upon his tongue. He smoked and drank and thought; then he arose, took a key from his pocket, and unlocked a cupboard. Inside was a chest, small, bound with copper, and riveted strongly; this was also unlocked, and from it he took a quantity of papers and a parchment-bound book. Drawing up a table to the fire he sat down to the papers and the book, an ink-pot and pen at hand; and after a long study of the papers, and a vast scribbling of figures upon the backs of old letters, he made a single entry in the book, which he at once closed and sat tapping while he looked, smiling quietly, into the fire. He remained this way for a long time; the clock, which had been ticking sturdily in one corner, now struck ten; he arose, put away the papers and the book, locked both the chest and the cupboard, and then fell to pacing the floor. The storm had increased in violence; the wind whistled keenly about the ends of the house; now and then it came plunging down the chimney, making the fire leap and roar; the rain, driven in sheets, streamed down the window-panes and fell from the eaves like a cascade. Suddenly through the sounds of the storm came a rhythmic beat; Captain Weir halted in his pacing and listened. The beat grew nearer; there was a sudden rush of iron-shod hoofs upon the stone pavement at his door, the voices of men, and then a loud and incessantrat-tat-ingat the knocker. Weir smiled quietly and seemed well pleased; the front door opened and closed; and then his servant appeared.
"Two gentlemen, sir," said the man.
"Ask them to come in," said Weir.
In a moment Tarrant and Blake came into the room: their hats and cloaks streamed with water; their boots were splashed with mud. Motioning to the servant to take the dripping things from his visitors and draw chairs up to the fire, Captain Weir said:
"A blustering night to be out, gentlemen."
Tarrant regarded him with hostile eyes.
"We were snug enough at the Brig," said he, "and were content enough to stay there."
"I am sorry," said Weir quietly.
"The roads ran water enough to float a long-boat," said Blake.
"If I am unfortunate enough to call you out in a storm," said the captain, "I can, at least, give you a fire, and some food and drink. They may keep its rigors from fastening upon your bodies."
The two men sat down; brandy was brought, and some plates of hot bread, and potted hare, and cold meats. They ate and drank, and this, together with the fire, quieted them. At their third glass, Captain Weir said:
"Of course, I'd a deal rather have chosen a more comfortable time; but, as matters have shown themselves, I had no choice and was forced to ask your presence at once."
Tarrant, glass in hand, looked at the speaker; and there was still a glint of his first mood in his eye.
"There have been a few occasions," said he, "when you all but had us here without your asking."
Captain Weir raised his brows; Blake laughed and said to him:
"A half-dozen times in the past year he has been for putting a pistol to your ribs. It was all I could do to persuade him."
Weir said nothing, but looked at Tarrant, his brows still up.
"Was there a lack of cause for the desire?" said Tarrant. "I could name you five reasons," giving Weir's look back steadily, "for each separate impulse. But we'll speak of the last one only."
"It will save time," said Weir composedly.
"Why," demanded Tarrant, "when the whole city was up and bleating in the matter of the French letters of marque, must you put yourself forward in it? We were your friends, yet you spoke to our discredit early and late. Mortal foes couldn't have suffered worse because of you."
"I had warned you all in that matter," said Weir coldly. "I pointed out the state of the public mind. I showed you as plainly as any ready men need be shown that no good could come of the venture in the long run. If it had concerned yourselves only, you could have pressed it to any conclusion you saw fit; but, as I knew, I, too, would be involved in any mischance, and, as it was plain that you meant to give no heed to my sayings, I moved in the matter myself. It was I who made it impossible for you to carry it any further. Wait!" as Tarrant was working into a bitter speech; "one word more, so that I may be sure you understand what the situation was. If your plan had carried, we three, instead of sitting here at our ease, would be at this minute swinging from gibbets on Windmill Island."
Tarrant caught his breath and sank back in his chair. Blake crossed his legs, lifted a new-filled glass, and said:
"All gibbets behind us, Captain! And to the devil with the hangman!"
"I did not believe in this adventure from the first, and so told you," said Weir. "However, there are those of another sort," with a nod of his head, "which a man of my growing years can approve of—a surer profit and a lesser hazard."
Tarrant, attracted by the tone and manner of Weir, valued him with a steady look. Then he looked at Blake; the freebooter shifted to a more comfortable position in his chair. But neither spoke.
"Have more of the brandy," said Captain Weir. "It's thought to be excellent. One of our captains brought it with him on his last visit to France. It was taken from the cellar of a nobleman's house, while its unfortunate owner was being taken from his library."
The liquor shone, a fine amber, in the glasses; but Tarrant did not touch it.
"So," said he, "there is another matter going forward?"
Captain Weir admired the color of the brandy, holding it against the candle-light.
"Yes," said he.
"And, as seems usual of late, it has been kept from me."
Again Weir nodded.
"I have been very careful to do so," he said coldly. "For it is a matter that needs patience; and you long ago convinced me that you have little of that."
Tarrant arose; his look was threatening and bitter.
"By God," he said. "Am I a chuckle-head? Am I to be put aside whenever you feel so disposed? Am I to be used as though I had no brains in my skull?"
He stood over Weir, his face white with passion. But Weir did not move; the cold green eyes glinted like agate, and when he spoke his voice was level.
"Some day," he said, "when you insist on interfering with my way of dealing with matters, I'll crack your skull with a bullet; then we shall see if it holds the brains you boast of."
Tarrant seemed on the point of leaping upon him; but Blake leaned forward and shook a warning finger.
"Sit down," he said unemotionally. "Are we not friends and co-laborers? Sit down."
But Tarrant's lips curled back from his teeth like a dog's.
"Do you think," he said to Weir, "I don't know it was I who stood out in all the dirty weather, while you rode safe in shelter? I've struck the blows you've planned; and I've taken the hard, open word from all who cared to give it, so that no eye would turn in your direction. And now you all but tell me you are done with me."
Blake arose and pushed him back into his chair.
"He has told you nothing as yet," said the freebooter. "Keep still for a bit, and maybe he will."
Weir, now that there was silence, showed no haste to speak but sat enjoying the sips he took of the brandy and watching the blaze on the hearth fluttering under the sudden downward gusts of wind. But finally he spoke, and it was in a way that was cold and measured.
"A year ago, if you remember," said he, "we were called together somewhat hurriedly to advise in a dangerous matter."
"The affair of Magruder?" said Blake.
"Yes. How much the man had ferreted out we'll never know; but his panic for his money drew two sharp perils upon us. I placed the managing of the matter in your hands," and he looked at Tarrant. "I recall that my instructions were that you be cautious but final. And you blundered from the first. It would not have been so bad had you never heard of Anthony Stevens and so had no knowledge of his character. But Blake's tales, sent to us from the South, had told you of the manner of a man he was; you approached him with your eyes wide open, and yet you tried to browbeat him, to bundle him out of your way, like snapping your fingers."
"Well," said Tarrant with his ready sneer. "You have had a deal of time to use your own methods upon him. And I note that he is still in the city, waiting to do us what mischief he can."
"He is here," said the captain quietly, "but the mischief he has done is little. My methods have wasted his efforts; and in time," with a gesture, "I hope to do more."
"If I had been given a free hand that night at the Crooked Billet," said Tarrant, "this young spark would have troubled none of us afterwards."
"I doubt if you'd have been able to do anything," said Weir. "Like as not he would have killed you. I saw it in his eye."
"An active lad," admitted Blake, "and a clever one." But Tarrant sat frowning into the fire, and said nothing; and Blake went on, speaking to Weir, "Well, you've brought us from Chester in the devil's own downpour; and, as I think it was not to talk of bygones, suppose we come to the point of the matter at once and so settle our minds."
"It can be made plain to you in a moment," said Weir. "The usurer, Bulfinch, is dead, and his sons hold certain bills of his against Rufus Stevens' Sons, which are about to mature."
"Well?" said Blake.
"Their father and I had a private understanding—one completely between ourselves. If he had lived, the time of these bills would have been extended. He would have understood the necessity of this, but his heirs do not. You," to Tarrant, "have had dealings of one sort or another with this pair, and have influence with them. That is why I have called you to-night. You must speak to them; it is most important that nothing be done that might cloud the credit of Rufus Stevens' Sons at this time."
"At this time?" repeated Tarrant, his eyes narrowing. "Why not just at this time?"
"Rumors spread," said Captain Weir. "They seem to be carried by the wind. Ship's gossips take them across the seas; letters carry them. I would not for a great deal have even a hint of trouble for the firm now; for in the space of a few months the shipRufus Stevensbegins taking in her cargo at Calcutta, and who knows what damage a slighting rumor might do?"
"I see," said Tarrant, and he turned fully about in his chair.
"The vessel is to stow as rich a cargo as ever came out of the East; and even the smallest evil report may prevent its being put aboard."
"I understand," said Tarrant. There was a silence; then he asked: "And am I to further understand that old arrangements between us, in matters of this kind, still stand?"
"They do. And your share of the labor is to see to it that the Bulfinches hold both their hands and their tongues."
Tarrant now laughed gleefully. All the anger had gone out of his face; he was vastly excited; words poured from him.
"They'll do it," he said. "To be sure, they'll do it! The richest cargo that ever came out of the East! Well, well! That's saying a deal, for some fine ones have come from that part of the world. Oh, yes, have no fear of the twins. They will give what time is needed. So the old rat is dead! Well, well! But what matter? I can manage the sons. They'll do what I ask. They'll hold their hands until theRufus Stevensis stowed, and weighs for home, if it takes till doomsday, or the day after!"
The storm of wind and rain lasted through the night; straight out of the north it washed and blew sturdily, and with the deep voice of fall. By dawn the rain had abated; but the wind continued to blow shrewdly, and there was a cut to it, a keenness that hadn't been felt since the early spring.
It was six o'clock when Anthony arose; he looked from his window into Sassafras Street; the way was drenched clean; the gutters were full of running rainwater; and the tang in the air caught his attention.
"A little more!" said he. "Let the wind hold in the north another day, and we'll have frost."
And hold to the north it did; not only for another day, but for two days; and under its cold, clear breath of a night a thin ice began to form in the hollows. It got under the sickly miasma of the city and scattered it across the world. The death-rate dropped like magic; people took heart and regarded life with a new eye; even those who had clung to the heights in fear began in thought to venture back; and those who had held to the town, facing death and fighting the advance of the pestilence, allowed their nerves to go slack, and rested from their labors, white and worn and all but beaten.
It was the second day after the change that Anthony was summoned to the counting-house; immediately upon his entering, Tom Horn said:
"Your uncle is in his room."
Anthony knocked and went in. Charles sat at a table with Captain Weir; he looked haggard, as well he might, for in the last weeks of the plague his efforts had been tireless, and he had slept little. But, for all, there was a smile in his eyes, and his manner was as light as of old.
"Why, now," said he, "you're prompt."
"There is something for me to do?"
"Something whichIshould do," admitted Charles, "only I have a distaste for such things. But if you are so minded, you can attend to it very well."
"I am quite ready," said Anthony.
Weir looked at Charles, who drummed upon the edge of the table with his finger-tips and seemed at a loss for words with which to frame what was in his mind. But, with an effort, he finally said:
"Things do not always go as smoothly as one could wish; not even with Rufus Stevens' Sons, as," with a look at Anthony, "you've had occasion to see. Some time since, for one reason or another, it was needful that ready money in some quantity be on hand, and I was forced to go to old Bulfinch for it. The bills," said Charles, "are coming due, and, Bulfinch being dead, I'd like an arrangement of some sort with his sons that would carry the matter over to a more convenient time."
"And is it your thought that I should speak to them?"
"If, as I've said, you have the mind to."
"It may be as well to go at once," said Anthony.
"Now, there's an excellent, ready-handed fellow," beamed Charles. "I would to God I had a talent for such things; but I have none—not a bit. And it plagues me to see matters needing doing, and I with no way of arranging them. So go to these rascals," said Charles, as he stood up, and patted Anthony smilingly on the shoulder, "and bargain with them to as good effect as you can. If they demand a large increase in their usance, pay it, with a prayer that one day the devil may take them both."
"I'll do what I can," said Anthony.
"In some months more," said Charles lightly, "we'll laugh at all their kind, for theRufus Stevenswill have rounded the bend by then, and we'll have dazzled the market as it's never been dazzled before." As Anthony was about to go, Charles continued, "Weir has business in your direction, I think." Weir nodded to Anthony. "Suppose you take him as far as the entrance to the fox's den," smiled Charles, to the captain. "You may have a word of advice for him."
The two set out; and Captain Weir talked of the money-lender as a species, and of those of the Algerian coast in particular. They turned off Third Street and into Harmony Court with its shabby, leering buildings, its dusty windows and dirty passages. There was a trimly dressed quadroon maid standing in a shabby doorway, and Captain Weir eyed her keenly. Seeing the name of Bulfinch upon the shutter of the place, Anthony paused. But, before he could speak, Weir, still with his eye upon the quadroon maid, said:
"Now that I'm here, I'll step up with you. I may be of service, and my other business can wait."
Though surprised at this, Anthony said nothing. So they climbed the crooked, narrow stairs together and groped in the dark passage for the handle of Bulfinch's door. Within, their long legs stuck under a meager table, and grinning like a pair of gargoyles, sat the twins, Nathaniel and Rehoboam; and before them stood Mademoiselle Lafargue.
"We are sorry," Nathaniel was saying. "We are very sorry. But we no longer have this matter in charge."
"The money was had of you, I believe," said the girl.
"Of my father; but the bill was sold some time since," said Rehoboam. "Nevens, a broker on the floor below, was the purchaser. It was he who sent you the message, no doubt; and it's with him you'll have to deal."
The girl was moving toward the door; Anthony opened it for her, and went with her out into the passage.
"It is some distance to your lodging-place," he said. "Must you return alone?"
"My maid is awaiting me below," she said.
"Is there anything I can do?" he asked.
"I'm afraid not," she said in a troubled voice. "It's a matter of my father's—money borrowed at a time when it was much needed. They have begun to press him for it; he's greatly distressed, for he had been given to understand that he had his own time to pay it in."
Anthony frowned.
"That has not the sound of a usurer's articles," said he.
He watched her down-stairs, then reëntered Bulfinch's counting-room. Nathaniel was speaking, addressing Weir, and his voice was pitched high in complaint.
"The sum she speaks of was gotten from our father, a man so old that he was in his dotage, and who must needs pay out moneys on undated paper. And a round sum, too, in Dutch pieces, and the bill with never a name of any substance on it."
Anthony came at once to the matter at hand: Weir stood by the table and listened composedly.
"More time!" said Nathaniel, in almost a shriek. "Rufus Stevens' Sons asking more time! You are joking!"
"Three months' extension is desired on the note due to-morrow," said Anthony bluntly, a transcript of the bill in his hand.
"A man who asks for time these days asks for hard money," said Rehoboam. "He is demanding minted gold. And money of any kind was never scarcer."
"We should like to oblige you—" began Nathaniel, but Anthony stopped him.
"What terms will you make for another three months? You've done your worst here, it seems to me," glancing at the paper; "no man with bowels could ask for more."
"Consider!" said Nathaniel. "Think of whatwemust pay for money."
"Think," said Rehoboam, "of the charges, interests, bonuses, asked of us in each transaction."
"To save your words and my patience," said Anthony, "let us restate the present terms in the new bill."
"With an added twenty-five per cent. to fit the altered times, said Nathaniel eagerly. "And that will cover but half of what it will cost us."
"Twenty-five!" Rehoboam looked horrified. "Twenty-five? Brother, you are going mad! How can you talk such a sum as twenty-five per cent. when—"
"I'll give ten," said Anthony, interrupting him. "So make out the paper, and let's have an end to the matter."
With many lamentations, but with sly glances of glee, the twins set about drawing up a new bill for Charles' signature; this they gave to Anthony, protesting that they were undone and that ruin itself would not surprise them. But the young man buttoned it up in his breast pocket with plain unbelief; then he gave them a curt nod and left the room, with Captain Weir behind him. At the next landing Weir paused.
"Mademoiselle Lafargue," said he. "Has she left this place?"
"No," said Anthony. "She has gone to speak to the other leech of whom they told her."
"Nevens was the name, I think," said Weir. He made it out, painted upon a door in the darkest corner of an obscure passage. "If you don't mind," said he, "we shall go in for a moment. We may be of some assistance."
Anthony readily followed him into a low-ceilinged room, where daylight crept through the dirty glass of a single window. Huddles of time-stained and dusty papers were upon shelves, and in cubbyholes, and impaled upon hooks. A crazy old desk was all but buried under them; a corner cupboard was so gorged that papers bulged from doors and drawers that could not have been closed for years.
A little man with a short nose, a snuffy neck-cloth, and red-rimmed eyes was talking with Mademoiselle Lafargue. She turned a look upon Anthony that was surprised and grateful.
"Good day to you, gentlemen," said the little man in a squeaky voice. "I will give you my best attention in a moment." To the girl he said: "Pay heed to what I tell you. Women are not fitted for the carrying of important words. Say to your father that he is the person I desire to see. And I must see him immediately."
Weir stepped toward the usurer.
"Might I ask why, Mr. Nevens?" said he.
The man put his hand behind his ear, forming a sort of cup; he screwed his face into an expression of great interest and squeaked:
"Hey? I am hard of hearing."
"It happens," said Weir to the girl, "that I know something of the operations of this man, and I thought that Mr. Stevens and myself might be of some help to you."
"The matter that brings Mademoiselle Lafargue here," said Anthony, "seems to be a paper of her father's."
"I know its nature," said Weir. "After you had stepped out into the passage up-stairs, the Bulfinches talked quite openly of it."
While they were speaking the broker kept his hand cupped behind his ear, while his eyes searched their faces like those of some sly little animal.
"Eh?" said he. "What do you say? Speak up. My hearing is not of the best."
"If you'll permit me," said Weir to the girl, "I can probably save your father a journey here and the exasperation he'd be sure to feel in dealing with a man like this." Without waiting for a reply he turned to Nevens. "Now, sir," he said, "a word with you."
Nevens seemed to get Weir's purpose,—perhaps it was from his attitude,—and he began to gesticulate excitedly.