XXII
The end of April saw Anthony draw to the end of his long search among the ledgers. A heap of them lay in his lodgings; and written into the notes which he carried about in his pockets were many curious facts. And in those days the frown between his eyes was fixed, and he went about with lips tightly shut.
"Within a week," he told his uncle, "I shall have done; and then I'll want a long talk with you."
Charles smiled. It was not the quick, vital smile Anthony had come to know, and there was not the snap of the eyes, nor the flash of sound, white teeth.
"Very well," said Charles. "But I'm sure I'll not be able to follow you; for I've never permitted the books to trouble me greatly. However, Weir may be your man for that," with a nod toward that gentleman, who was present. "He has a talent for obscure things."
"If he will contrive to give me his attention when the time comes, I shall be pleased," said Anthony. Then he cocked his eye at them, for both had amused looks and neither seemed to hold the matter as very weighty. "No doubt," said he, "as you see the thing, its promise is a dull one."
"Old ledgers are not like old wine," said Captain Weir. "And while they may be, in a manner, useful, still I can't hope that age has given them any sparkle."
"I'll promise that the items I'll offer will cut into your interest like a flash." He tapped his breast-pocket. "Give me a few more facts like these," he said, "and then a talk with you will mortar them together. After that, who can say what astonishments are in store for us all?"
Charles had a puzzled look as Anthony went out of the room, and his hands, grown thin and white, picked at the tapestry that covered the sofa.
"He's like his grandfather, indeed," said he. "A purpose grows fixed with him, and nothing can turn him from it." There was a pause, and then he asked: "What has he come upon in the books, do you think, that has so taken his attention?"
"It would puzzle me to say," replied Captain Weir. "But, then, a pair of quick eyes and an insistent, inquiring mind have often turned up a vital fact in mold deader than Rufus Stevens' Sons' old ledgers."
Charles lay back in his sofa and studied Weir for a moment, his hands still picking at the tapestry.
"You've never felt much beholden to youth," said Charles to Weir, "and your expressed thoughts on its aspirations and vagaries and proneness to make much of little have always worn a cutting edge. But I've never seen, in your manner or tone, that you've thought Anthony a fool."
"The man who takes him for a fool," said Captain Weir, with a wry smile, "will quickly learn to alter his opinion." There was a pause; the captain looked through the window into the sun-lit street, his brows were thickened and heavy over his cold eyes. "As to the books," he added, "if your nephew says he's come at something in them, it's safe to say he has; and, if he says he means to astonish us, in my opinion we'd do well to prepare for something unusual."
That night, as Christopher Dent sat in his laboratory, his big spectacles on his nose, a candle beside him and the usual bulky black-letter volume in his hands, Anthony came in. The young man sat down in a chair and lighted his long-stemmed clay; and the little apothecary talked of the problems that rise up in one's daily path and make life, if not a vexation, at least an uncertainty.
"It is the time of year for dandelions and other soft, early herbs," said Christopher. "The sun has been gentle; the earth is mellow and seems full of gifts; but the plants are late. It may be the winter we've gone through has had much to do with it, for the frost was deep-setting, indeed."
"It was," agreed Anthony.
"Here is a book," said Christopher, "written by a man of sound parts, and in a day when learning was a thing to arrest the attention." His fingers traced the lines of deep black, which made their rigorous way across the yellowed page. "He tells much of the seasons, and of the mysteries and chemistries of the soil. He sees not a deal of difference between the vegetable and the animal; they are both produced from seeds, and are endowed with much the same functions; the element they take in is changed into forms which give growth and virtue, and the power to resist enemies."
Anthony drew at his pipe.
"Strength and power are not always given for protection," said he. "As often as not, they are meant for offense."
"That," said Christopher, "is never so when the regulations of nature are held to. Offense comes of brutality, and brutality is occasioned by an excess of life; nature never gives too much life, for she knows it to be dangerous. The finer aromatic plants, whose proper home is in dry, sandy soils, if transplanted to a moist, rich one, leap up, robustly; they attain to a thick bulk, a vigor not known before, and a rich oiliness of sap. But they lose their fragrance; their active principle is sacrificed to their increased vitality."
"If that's a saying of your scholar, I think he said truly," said Anthony.
"What is true of plants is also true of animals, of men, and of nations," pronounced Christopher. "Your horse, now, is an excellent servant and a steady friend. But feed him high and work him little and he's hard to control. Give a man riches, and he begins to fatten, if not in body, then in wits; and fat about the wits, as any doctor of the soul can tell you, is a dangerous thing, for it promotes the growth of self, which is the essence of that brutality of which I just now spoke."
From outside came the sharp rat-tat-tat of a knocker.
"Visitors to my lodgers," said the little apothecary. There was the sound of feet on the stairs, the opening and closing of a door, and faint voices beyond the wall. "They have many, for people who mingle so little in the social life of the town."
"Men, mostly, I should say," said Anthony.
"Why, yes," said Christopher, "I think that's true, though I had not thought of it before."
"Foreign men, I think you have told me."
"French," said Christopher. "But, then, that is not strange, since they are French themselves."
"I wonder," said Anthony, "have you ever noticed a man go in and out who wore a black patch over his eye?"
"I have, more than once. But he is an American. Do you know," asked Christopher, with some pride, "that the much-spoken-of French minister, Citizen Genêt, has been here?"
"No," said Anthony, and put aside his pipe.
"It was not many days ago; almost as soon as he reached the city. My lodgers seem people of consequence."
Anthony was silent for a space; then he said:
"Have you taken note of any of their American visitors?"
"Yes, I've seen Mr. Tarrant a few times; and once, while he was there, a companion of his, who had not gone in, stepped into my place to be out of the cold. A strapping young man; and good-humored, too. I never saw any one so ready to laugh."
Then the little apothecary began talking of mademoiselle. Such a fine creature—oh, such a really wonderful young woman! There were so many kindly notes in her voice when she talked to one, and there was so much gentleness in her eyes.
"And she is beautiful," said Christopher. "I have stood and wondered at her, with not a word to say. And she is learned in the plants," with enthusiasm; "she knows the flowers of the roadsides and fields, both by name and by sight. Not our flowers, of course," regretfully, "but then in France they must have many that are rich in fine properties. She was but a child when her interest in nature began," said the little apothecary. "She'd ramble the fields and wade in the streams with her uncle, who was a botanist and who lived in very pleasant parts. Her telling me this made me think of you," said Christopher, "and of how you'd journey along with me all through the hot day, seeking coralroot in the woods, about the feet of the trees, and devil's-bit in the meadows, and spotted alder in the low, thick-grown places. She laughed a deal at some of your pranks and wished she had been with us."
"You did not tell her my name?" said Anthony.
"I did afterwards," said Christopher, and he fell to rubbing his smooth crown in a troubled way.
"And what did she say?"
"Nothing," said the little apothecary. "But, indeed, she spoke little more of anything after that; and then she went away."
Anthony sat in silence for a time, and Christopher watched his face with much concern. Then the sound of footsteps was once more heard on the stairs beyond the wall—voices, and a loud thumping that made the windows shake.
"It is a chest being brought down," said the apothecary, listening. "Can it be that they are going on a journey? No coaches start until early morning."
They heard the chest tumbled out through the door, and the crash of it, as it was thrown into a vehicle; there was much rapid talk and a woman's sobs.
"The father is going away," said Christopher; "and the daughter is in tears."
There were hurried good-byes in French, called out amid the rolling of wheels, the door shut, and footsteps went up the stairs. Anthony and the little apothecary looked at each other, for the steps were heavy and stumbling.
"That is the father," said Christopher. "I know his foot. It is the girl, then, who has gone away."
"It would seem so," said Anthony.
"And the chest and the tears at parting tell of a long journey," said the apothecary. "And it must be an urgent one, to be undertaken at this hour."
Anthony said little; it was almost eleven by the clock on the apothecary's wall, and he arose to go.
"You are in low spirits," said Christopher.
"My star is swinging downward, I fear," said Anthony, with the ghost of a smile. "But when it is at its lowest, Christopher, it will begin to curve upward."
"If you knew her better," said Christopher, his hand on Anthony's sleeve; "or if she knew you better—"
"She has shown plainly enough that she has no desire for that," said Anthony. "Good night."
"Good night," said Christopher Dent.
Anthony walked through Water to Sassafras Street, and as he turned away from the river he saw a group of men who stood silently in the shadow of a building. One of them moved toward him, as he appeared, and said in French:
"Citizen, pardon. We cannot find our ship. She is Le Mousquet; and we should be on board by now."
Anthony pointed to where three masts shot up above some low buildings and stood outlined against the copper sky.
"That," said he, "is the Eclipse. I have heard Le Mousquet is anchored in the stream, opposite her."
"We thank you," said the man. "You are kind." There was a stir among the group. Anthony stepped back to let them pass; as he did so a blow fell upon his head and he staggered. Then they were upon him like cats; another blow and he was down; and after that he knew nothing.