XIII
In the window at Christopher Dent's, among the gray dried herbs, the crooked, moisture-seeking roots, the barks and flowers, there had stood for a long time a small board upon which had been carefully lettered the information that upon the second floor desirable lodgings were to be had.
"Clean and roomy," Christopher described them in his talk. "And not of too great cost. The furnishings are not sumptuous, but are adequate to a modest taste; and any one inclined to occupy the premises must be so adjusted as to see no harm in occasional fumes resulting from the distilling, simmering, fermenting, or otherwise compounding of curative drugs, medicines, or chemicals. Any one of such a habit of mind will find themselves reasonably well bestowed." The board, however, had now disappeared from the window; this hinted at the second floor's being occupied; and a glance upward carried the hint to the border of certainty. The shutters were all open; and lights were seen behind trim white curtains. Water Street was quiet of an evening; the drays had ceased to trundle over the stones; porters, clerks, and merchants, who had all day been matching themselves against the mounds of goods that grew before the warehouses, the bills and figures and entries that crowded the desks of the counting-rooms, and the wits and wants of buyers, sellers, and agents, had all melted from view, into their homes, or into the bars or eating-rooms of favorite taverns.
Christopher Dent sat in his back room, his spectacles upon his nose, and a big book in Latin text upon his knee. A cheery fire crackled in the stove; two candles burned upon the table; and a number of other books, each as big as the one Christopher held, lay beside them. Outside the yellow flare lurked the retorts, the rows of bottles and jars full of pent-up possibilities, still and waiting. Tom Horn sat upon a bench near the stove; he rubbed his knees in the warmth, as the little apothecary looked at him over the edge of his spectacles.
"In none of the elder tongues," said Christopher, "is there much to do with the sea. As you say, the ancients were wise; they had a knowledge of many strange things; but they seldom ventured far from land, and so the sea as we know it was a darkened thing to them. So, knowing nothing of its secrets, they could scarcely agree with you. Bear in mind," said Christopher earnestly, "I am not denying; I only announce a lack of authority in the ancients."
"The sea," said Tom Horn in his hushed voice, "has a meaning. It is more than a mass of water, washing around in the hollows of the world."
"I grant you that," said Christopher readily. "I grant you that much active principle is in the sea; it holds many vital elements, crystallized or in solution. Soda, for example, is the cinder of sea-plants; and without this friendly alkali we'd many times be brought to a stand. The ocean gives rare and agreeable substances to materia medica, and in time, as we plumb its depths, it will give more."
But Tom Horn shook his head at this conception.
"I have watched the sea with the sun on it," he said; "and I've watched it running through the night. Hurricanes blow over it and make it leap and rave; but hurricanes die down, and the sea goes on. It is always muttering," said Tom Horn. "I've listened to it, hour after hour; it's always muttering over something it has hidden. But it never tells; it keeps its secrets well."
"The moon guides the ocean's tides," said Christopher. "And the wind ruffles or smooths its surface. It does nothing of itself."
"That is a common error," said Tom Horn, "and held to by men who have not watched, and seen, and listened. The sea slips around the world in a circle. It touches and knows all things. And inside the great circle there are many smaller ones, all moving the same way." He leaned forward in his chair so that his face was close to Christopher. "The world moves that way, too—does it not?—round and round. And so do the stars, and the moon, and the wind." There was a little pause, and then Tom Horn's hushed voice grew more whisper-like than ever. "Who ever saw a circle begin?" said he. "Did you?"
The little apothecary looked perplexed, and regarded his questioner seriously over the lenses of his spectacles.
"No one ever did," said Tom Horn, "because they begin outside the world's rim. The circle of your life, now, began ages before you were born, and in the emptiness of space. It grew narrower as it neared the earth, and the day it touched its surface you began to live. And so it went around and around, and so it continues to go around and around; it keeps growing narrower and narrower, as it has done from the first; it gets tighter and tighter about you. And one day it will close, and so disappear, upon a little spot of ground, in a quiet place. And there you will lie."
"Thankfully, I hope, and untroubled," said Christopher Dent soberly. "And with the little that's been given me to do well accomplished."
The street door opened, and Christopher went into the store.
"Good evening, Mr. Sparhawk," said he.
"Good evening," said Mr. Sparhawk in his perky little way. "I hope I find you very well, Christopher."
"Quite," said Christopher. "Never better, indeed."
"And prosperous, too, I trust."
The little apothecary moved his hand toward his store of dried plants.
"The fields," said he, "and the roadsides and thickets and stream margins have never in my day given themselves so completely to medicinal production. During the spring and summer the earth teemed with curative power, and I harvested abundantly."
Mr. Sparhawk rubbed his hands with satisfaction.
"Excellent," said he. "I am delighted to hear it. And, I think," said he, wisely, "I see the law of compensation at work in what you say; if nature brings us a sickly season such as we've seen of late she makes up for it in her lavish gifts of healing agents. Nature is remarkable," and Mr. Sparhawk wagged his head, "and the more minutely she is studied, the more remarkable she becomes."
The apothecary agreed to this readily enough, and advanced testimony containing instances proving how really remarkable she was.
"And that you are prospering, Christopher," said Mr. Sparhawk, halting the testimony at the first opportunity, "is gratifying. But," and he looked about with his lips pursed primly, "to have fat stores is one thing, and custom is another. I hope trade is active with you." Christopher nodded, and Mr. Sparhawk, much pleased, nodded in return. "Excellent!" said he. "That is good. Of course, in a profession such as yours,—and a most interesting and necessary profession,—custom must be active if one's income is to retain a proper level."
"Usually that is true," said Christopher. "But," and he beamed through his spectacles, "just now I am not forced to depend upon my trade alone."
"Ah!" Mr. Sparhawk looked both surprised and expectant. "I see. You have other sources of revenue, then?"
"Yes," said Christopher. "Lodgers."
"Lodgers!" Mr. Sparhawk now looked more surprised than ever. "So you have taken in lodgers?"
Christopher pointed toward the ceiling.
"Two of them," he said. "French people."
"Two Frenchmen," said Mr. Sparhawk. "Well, well!"
"One Frenchman, and his daughter," Christopher informed him. "The name is Lafargue."
"I have heard of them," nodded Mr. Sparhawk. "Quite genteel people, I think; and the father is engaged in a commercial way with some one in the city. So they are lodged in your house? Well, well, I am glad to hear it. You have been too much alone this long time, Christopher; and that is not good for a man. Now, these people will not only add to your income, but they'll give you someone to chat with. That will be a pleasure. For I suppose," and Mr. Sparhawk smiled agreeably at the little apothecary, "you do chat together?"
"I have spoken with them," said Christopher.
"Of course you have. That is quite right. They are very presentable people, as I have said, and are well circumstanced in their own country. I suppose they have come to America upon matters of pressing importance."
"I don't know," said Christopher Dent.
"Surely," said Mr. Sparhawk persuasively, "they have at some time or other asked you for some small item of information that would give you an idea of their mission."
"Why, no," said the little apothecary. "They have not. They are people who keep themselves to themselves a great deal."
"I see," said Mr. Sparhawk. "Yes, yes, I see."
He then changed the subject and talked of trade in general, the coming winter, of the lighting of the streets, of the watch. And then of crime.
"Time was," said he, "when actual crime of any sort was rare among us. But, now, we've reached a point where even those of violence cause no more than a flurry. Take that affair of Magruder, now—an honest, thriving man. Someone enters his place while he is engaged with his work, and in an instant stops his life. The coroner's jury speaks harshly against the criminals and invites all law-abiding people to bring them to justice. But it will take more than a declaration of indignation and a summons to civic reprisal to effect any good. The persons guilty of this action are still at large and, from all appearances, are likely to remain so."
The little apothecary shook his head and looked perturbed.
"Dear, dear," said he. "A pretty pass, indeed. I suspect the safety of the streets, for all they are so well lit, and so told Monsieur Lafargue, as he went out to-night."
"He has gone out, then?" said Mr. Sparhawk, and there was interest in his face.
"A half-hour or more ago," replied Christopher. "And he seemed quite infirm, and made much use of his cane."
Mr. Sparhawk now made some trifling purchase and left the shop. Christopher returned to the back room. Tom was staring at the blaze through the open door of the stove; without turning his head, or shifting his eyes, he said:
"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 subdued rat-tat-tat of 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."