XVII
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 the General 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 inn is curiously 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. He is different 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."
Anthony went back to the fire, and sat for an hour or more considering what he'd better do next day; then he called the landlord, and a porter was given a candle and told to show him to his room. This was at the side of the house facing the river; and when the porter had gone Anthony blew out the candle, pulled back the window-curtains, and stood looking out. The wind was blowing in gusts, and had a thin, bitter sound; clouds were driving along the sky; the stars were small and cold and far away. Across the dismal wrack of the winter marsh he saw the ice-choked river, running like a gray streak across the darkness. He watched this for some time; then he drew the curtains once more, relighted the candle, opened his roll of belongings, and prepared for bed.
It was a solid, honest-looking room: the bed had tall posts and a tick swollen with feathers; the sheets were white and smelled sweet as he stretched himself between them. There was not a sound but the wind and the shaking of the window-frames. All the people of the countryside must be indoors, he thought, to avoid the cold. And they showed good sense in that. There was nothing so disagreeable as a bleak night, afloat or ashore; and there was nothing quite so comfortable as a snug bed. He had nothing to say against good company, mind you, or a cheery fire and some hot drink, and tales of adventuring here and there. Many a bad night might be turned to pleasant account that way. It was a fine, good-humored, and companionable way. But, after all, a good bed—long enough, so that one might stretch out in it—was best; you could lie and think if you had the mind, or you could doze off luxuriously with nothing to prevent you.
Anthony dozed off; and then he slept. And finally he awoke. He did not know how much time had passed; but he did know that his room door was partly open, and that some one stood there looking in. The part-light glinted coldly upon the long barrel of a pistol; a man held the weapon in both hands, and it was pointed toward the bed; one eye of the man glanced sharply along its length, and the other was covered by a patch.
Then there were quick feet in the passage; there was a voice,—a woman's voice,—angry, but whispering, a scuffling, a curse! Then the door closed and a key shot-to the bolt. Anthony leaped out of bed; he opened the door with his own key, and looked out. The passage was lighted grayly by a window at one end; it was empty and silent. For an instant it was in his mind to believe he had been dreaming; but there upon the floor, the morning light cold upon its barrel, lay a holster pistol, its hammer drawn back at full cock.