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The next morning as Anthony ate his breakfast at the inn he noticed many glances cast in his direction; waiters spoke to each other behind their hands, while they watched him out of the tails of their eyes. He smiled, even while he frowned.
He had finished, and was seated, with a journal, at a window in the public room, when he noted a slight man of middle age come in, look about, and ask a question of a porter.
"Mr. Stevens," said the man, in a hushed sort of voice, as he came forward. "I am from the counting-house of Rufus Stevens' Sons, and have been sent to say that Mr. Charles Stevens is now in the city."
Anthony felt a thrill of satisfaction.
"Thank you," he said. And then, "Did Mr. Stevens direct you to bring me word?"
"No," said the man. "Not Mr. Stevens—Captain Weir."
"I see," said Anthony.
There was something fragile about the man; his skin had a transparent quality, his hands were thin and nervous, his whole aspect was worn. As Anthony looked at him, he became aware of something that impressed itself upon him as a glow—a pallid, luminous something—white, like moonlight.
"I will step down to the counting-house during the course of the day," said the young man. "I trust Mr. Stevens is well?"
"Quite well," said the man.
This luminous quality which Anthony felt the man threw off also lit up his eyes. They were deep-set eyes, light in color and full of pain; in them a pale hope seemed constantly lifting itself through shadows, only to sink again.
"Is there anything more?" asked Anthony, as the other lingered.
The man shook his head, but did not move.
"I am Tom Horn," said he. "As a boy, I worked as clerk for your grandfather. And now I am clerk again."
There was an oddity in this simple statement that supplied a missing portion of Anthony's conception of the man. Surely he was not quite firm in his mind.
"In your grandfather's time," said Tom Horn, "the circles flowed freely about the world. They were wide and wonderful, and the sun and the wind and the stars were in them." He bent closer to Anthony: "Do you know what makes the wind to blow?" he asked.
"No," said Anthony.
"No more does any one else," said Tom Horn. "No one in all the world knows what makes the wind to blow. And no one knows why water flows in circles, and rings in every ship, every island, and every man. Once," he said, "I saw a circle around the moon. The world moves in a circle. I do, too. I began as a clerk; and I am a clerk once more."
"You held a better position once, then," said Anthony.
"I was supercargo in the William and Mary," said Tom Horn. "Three voyages in all. She was a stout ship, and well officered. But what can wooden planks and good intentions do when once the circle begins to narrow? Nothing. It is like one man setting his strength to prevent the world turning over. All circles move. There is no power under God's that can stop them."
With that he turned and went out; but in a few moments Anthony saw him peering in at one of the windows, and in his eyes were at once the hope and fear that, perhaps, marked his madness.
It was well toward the middle of the afternoon when Anthony arrived at Rufus Stevens' Sons and was received by the affable clerk.
"Yes, Mr. Stevens is in, sir," said this personage. "I will speak to him."
He hastened through a doorway, and in a moment hastened out again.
"You are to go right in, sir," said he.
Anthony entered. The room that Charles Stevens had fitted up for himself was low-ceilinged like the others; its width and breadth were great; the floor was laid with rugs of marvelous colors and texture, and the walls were hung with rich draperies, pictures, and strange-looking arms. The furniture was all of far-off lands; there were things of ebony, and ivory, of silk and gold, and the breath of the place was vital with rich essences.
Charles sat upon a divan and nursed his lame foot; he was a young-looking man; his color was fresh, and his hair as dark and thick and vital as it had been at twenty-five. He was talking with a settled-looking person who sat at a table with a quill and an ink-pot, scrawling figures upon a sheet of paper.
"I would not lay out another groat," Charles was saying, "upon a ship of the build and stowage-room such as we now have. They are cramped, they are slow, they are tricky. What we want is vessels that will carry both cargo and canvas, and will stand up under a wind that blows above the ordinary."
The settled man looked up from his figures.
"What results I have reached—what results every ship-builder has reached—are reared upon tried and tested things. Little by little we learn how to improve a hull so that it gives less and less resistance to the water; and carrying-room, Mr. Stevens, is largely dependent upon the shape of this hull. A ship is a ship; it is not a hogshead with masts in it."
Charles Stevens's laugh was singularly young. He got up and limped up and down the floor, both hands waving.
"Siddons," said he, "I have the same struggle with you every time I ask anything that is not customary. It's in the records of the house that my father went through the same thing with your father. But keep this in your mind: it is the necessities of trade that improve ships; if their advance had been left to the builders, we'd still be hugging the coasts in galleys and afraid to venture out of sight of land. The Yankee ships are making ours look like Venetian caracks; they have moved ahead of us, Siddons; they are winging it into Calcutta carrying almost twice our merchandise, and doing it in less time."
The settled man consulted his figures.
"You talk of vessels of seven hundred tons burthen," he said, plaintively. "Who ever heard of such things?"
"In New England," said Charles, "they not only have heard of them but have built them." He held up two fingers of his left hand and pointed to them with the forefinger of his right. "Build me two ships, Siddons,—twins,—of live-oak, clear of all defects, bolted well, with all clamps and spirketings and braces of the best metal, and give me room in their bellies to stow cargoes that'll open the eyes of all Massachusetts."
"But seven hundred tons!" complained Siddons. "Is there water enough in the ocean to keep such a monster afloat?"
"Who said anything of seven hundred tons?" demanded Charles. "It was the Salem ship that measured that. The pair you are to build for me are to be of a thousand tons."
Siddons gasped and curled up in his chair.
"A thousand tons! The seas would break their backs in the first blow."
"Ship-builders have been saying that with each additional inch since the beginning. So don't worry me with it; I want the vessels, and they are to be built on this river. The Siddons yard has always laid down the keels for Rufus Stevens' Sons; so get your computers to work; see that the timbers are properly seasoned, and the ironmongery gotten under way."
"There must be new ways erected; there must be new docks," complained the ship-builder. "The outlay will be frightful."
"But think of the income, Siddons," said Charles. "Think of passing the Delaware Capes, inbound from Calcutta, in seventy days." And as Siddons paused in the act of gathering up his sheets of paper, and gazed at him, his jaw hanging slack, Charles laughed and said, "How old is your son, Siddons?"
"Twenty, passed."
"Get him into the yards as quickly as you can. You need a fresh eye. Before he has reached your limitations, a two months' trip from the same port will be thought a long one." As the ship-builder moved toward the door, Charles added, "When can you give me the figures?"
"In a week," replied the man.
"Excellent! In a week I shall expect them."
A number of times in his limping up and down the floor, Charles had passed within a few feet of Anthony, but he had not paid the slightest attention to him; now, as he closed the door upon Siddons, he turned with a boyish smile and looked at him.
"Anthony!" said he. "Robert's Anthony!" And, as he looked, the smile changed in character; the pleased look in his eyes became one of wonder. "You should have been called Rufus, for your grandfather," he said. "How old are you?"
"Twenty-five," said Anthony.
"At that age your grandfather was master of a ship voyaging half across the world," said Charles, "God was in the same mood when he fashioned you two." He looked for another space, and then added, "Yes, they should have called you after him."
Emerging from the surprise, he shook Anthony's hand with great warmth.
"I'm greatly pleased," said he, his face a shining proof of it; "I'm amazingly pleased. I had no thought that such a pleasure as this awaited me. So your father and mother are both dead." He nodded at his nephew wistfully. "Both dead and gone. And you left alone, and I never so much as sending you a line of writing."
"These things escape one," said Anthony; "especially when they happen so far away."
"A brother is a brother, no matter what the distance; and you were of my own blood. There was never a time when I did not hold your mother as the most beautiful and best of women; there was no reason why all these years should have gone by, and I holding my tongue; no reason at all."
They sat down.
"Have you been in the city long?" asked Charles.
"Less than a week. I inquired here for you, but learned you were away."
"And you've had a devil of a dull time, I know, going about in strange places."
"Why, fortunately, no. I dropped in on Christopher Dent—"
"What—old Kit!" Charles laughed, and curled himself up in a corner of the divan, nursing his lame foot. "Good soul! I'm glad you thought of him."
"And while I was there who should come in but Dr. King, and he, when he found who I was, instantly invited me to supper."
"Excellent!" approved Charles. "It couldn't have been better."
They talked for some time of Dr. King and of the city and its changes; then there came a tap upon the door, and the affable clerk put in his head.
"Mr. Clark, of the Starry Cross, sir, when you are at leisure."
"I'll speak to him in a few moments." Then, as the clerk withdrew, Charles said to Anthony. "The skipper of one of my tea ships. He reached port while I was away."
"I'm afraid I've come in on you at a time when your attention is much engaged." Anthony got up. "Perhaps to-morrow or next day you'll not be so pressed."
"Sup with me to-night," said Charles, putting his arm about Anthony's shoulders. "I want you to make the acquaintance of Captain Weir."
"I've met the captain already," said the young man.
"You've not wasted your time, at any rate," smiled his uncle. "But sup with me, anyhow; there's thousands of questions I want to ask, and to answer."
"Thank you," said Anthony. "I shall be glad to."
He shook hands with Charles once more and then left the counting-house. At the Half Moon, he encountered the round-faced coachman, seated upon his bench in the passage.
"Good even, sir," said the man. "I suppose they are well settled by this." And then, as Anthony looked at him questioningly, he added. "I mean Mr. Lafargue and his daughter—in their new place."
"New place!" said Anthony. "Have they gone?"
"Why, yes; this morning," said the coachman. "And all their luggage with them. But I couldn't say where. Seeing as they're friends of yours, I thought you knew."
"No," said Anthony, "I didn't."
And then he went, in a heavy-footed way, up the stairs to his room.