XXVII
At the counting-room Charles greeted Anthony with a tight hand-clasp and said warmly:
"The villains! The infernal rogues! To strike you down and drag you aboard their dirty craft! We shall see to them before they have gone much further."
In his own room, he sat in the corner of his sofa, nursing his lame foot, and urged Anthony to tell of his escape. As the young man carried the story forward, Charles's face, which had been white and worn, flushed, and his eyes shone with their old brightness; at the episode of the arms-room and that of Anthony's struggle with the captain and the two lieutenants, he flamed up, rocking to and fro on the sofa and chuckling rapturously. But when the picture on deck was thrown before him he got up and began to prowl the floor, his head back and his laughter filling the room; at the girl's being taken out of the schooner, his eyes were filled with tears, his arms were about Anthony's shoulders, he shook with mirth.
"By God!" he pronounced, "it was wonderful! I would have given anything to have seen it. Congreve, nor Webster, nor Kitt Marlowe himself, haven't a bit of comedy to equal it. It was perfect."
During the afternoon Anthony was much noticed in the counting-room because of his bandaged head and the rather wavering account of his experiences which was going about; and at dusk Whitaker bore him away to a tavern for supper.
"Eat what you like," was the dandy's reply to Anthony's protests; "and drink nothing at all if your stomach is not in the way of it. But I must be seen in your company; the city is all agape at your adventures, and it will do me more good socially than the services of a dozen clever tailors."
They ate at the Crooked Billet, and all about there was a murmuring and nodding and a glancing from the corners of eyes; Le Mousquet was still hot on the city's tongue, and the man who had striven so with her company was a person to be seen and commented upon.
"What you did I don't know," said Whitaker. "Some have it that you boarded the vessel of your own free will and tried to capture her single-handed; others insist you were kidnapped, and swam ashore with the blackguards popping at you with small arms from the deck. And I've heard—though Heaven knows how such a tale got abroad—that a woman figured in the matter, that she'd eloped with some jolly blade or other and you'd taken it on yourself to get her back, but whether for her people's sake or your own the gossip does not state."
Anthony replied briefly to the chatter of his friend, and after a little Whitaker drifted to another subject. He split a pigeon in two and helped himself to the good hot bread as he said:
"There's your uncle now. Of late I can't get him out of my mind."
"And why not?" asked Anthony.
"He's changed," said Whitaker. "He's aged and failing in health. There's not the same stingo to him that there once was. And he hesitates. For the first time in his life, I verily believe, he hesitates."
"It's worriment that the new ship will not be launched in time," said Anthony.
"There's no need to worry about her," said Whitaker, "because she'll go into the water on the day he has fixed. No, it's something else."
Anthony was silent; Whitaker gave his attention to the food for a space, and then went on:
"These Bulfinches and their like are the devil's crew. God help the man who's beholding to them; they'll sit about him until the commercial life is out of him, like vultures do, and then be on him and pick his bones."
"Why do you speak of them?" asked Anthony.
"On two occasions, one of those damned twin brothers—I don't know if it was Rehoboam or Nathaniel—visited your uncle; once I was sent to their den in Harmony Court, with a message. I have no wish to pry into any one's affairs," said Whitaker, "much less those of a man who employs and puts confidence in me; but my flesh crawls at thought of these people, and I wish I could get rid of the thought of them."
"What message did you carry to Harmony Court?" asked Anthony.
"I don't know," said Whitaker; "but it was one that gave Charles Stevens little pleasure to send, and the Bulfinches, father and sons, a deal to receive. It came about in a peculiar way," said the dandy. "Late one afternoon Tom Horn said to me that perhaps I'd better wait, as Mr. Stevens thought he'd have need of me. And so I did. The dusk came on; the light filling up the space under the door of your uncle's room showed me he'd lighted the candles, and I could hear him limping up and down the floor as though he couldn't keep still, Tom Horn was the only other person in the place; he had a candle at his elbow and was scratching away at some figures, and every once in so often he'd give me a look and screw up his face and shake his head. So I said to him, 'What is it?'
"'He said he'd never go to them,' says Tom. 'I've heard him say it many a time.'
"'Go to whom?' says I.
"'To the money-brokers,' says Tom. 'To Harmony Court. To Bulfinch's. So he means to send you.'
"But I couldn't believe it," said Whitaker, "for what could any one want with a messenger to that rats' nest if it wasn't on a matter of business? And what business could Rufus Stevens' Sons have there?" Whitaker took up his tankard and whipped the ale about in it with a circular motion; then he drank deeply of it. "But in a half-hour, maybe, Charles called me in." Whitaker put the tankard down and held up a hand as though in affirmation. "I never saw a man so deathly-looking; the sweat stood on his face and his eyes looked like the eyes of a very old man. He gave me a sealed paper and told me to take it to Amos Bulfinch at once. I said it was late, that I thought their place of business would be closed. But he laughed,—I never thought to hear a laugh that would chill me," said Whitaker, "but that one did,—and he told me to have no fear; they'd be waiting."
"And they were?"
"All three of them. The saintly father—whom the devil take!—and the virtuous sons—may they burn together!—sat and smiled and bade me welcome. They opened the sealed paper in an inner room; and afterwards Nathaniel came out with a second paper, also sealed, which he said was for Mr. Charles Stevens, and to whom it was to be delivered without delay. I did deliver it to him in his own place on Ninth Street, and I left him sitting with it unopened, and—shall I say it?—looking like a man broken and unstrung."
It was after dark when Anthony left Whitaker and walked up Water Street to Christopher Dent's. There was a light in the rooms above the apothecary's; and there was a moving shadow thrown on the curtains, graceful, youthful, appealing, with soft gestures. Anthony sounded the knocker at the side door, and in a few moments he talked with her father in the same room in which she had talked with Mr. Sparhawk some months before.
"You know who I am, so there's no need to go into that," said Anthony. "And I am here because there are matters between us which should be spoken of without delay."
Coldly polite, the old Frenchman indicated a chair, but Anthony said:
"Some of what I have to say concerns mademoiselle; would it be asking too much if I desired her presence?"
A few moments later she came into the room; Anthony met her proud, cold look with one steady and undisturbed. And he said:
"All day the city has been pulsing with certain news that's come in; no doubt you've heard, Monsieur Lafargue, how the schooner Le Mousquet has taken the American ship Eclipse."
Monsieur nodded, but was silent.
"Seizures have been expected of late," said Anthony; "for numbers of private armed ships, sanctioned by the French minister, Genêt, and provided with papers by him, have been operating in the waters round about." Anthony looked from the old man to the girl. "There are many who think the citizen is venturing far in these things," he said. "And there are a few who think rash advice is being given him—advice, indeed, that will lead to his undoing."
A lean, shaking hand went to Monsieur Lafargue's lips, and he coughed nervously.
"You have come here to say this?" he asked.
"In part, yes; but only in part." A few hours before, said Anthony, he had talked with a man, marked for his keenness, and it was this man's thought that the advice given Citizen Genêt had not originated with the person who gave it. The things done had been intemperate and unwise. The old head of Monsieur Lafargue was high held at this; his eagle face looked cold and proud; but there was a tremor in the thin hands as they lay upon the arm of his chair. And he desired the young man to proceed.
Anthony called to mind the night at the Crooked Billet: mademoiselle remembered that? Monsieur did not forget? Mr. Tarrant had wanted to arrange a duel. A preposterous thing! And did monsieur know why he so desired this?
"A blow had been given," said monsieur.
But why? A blow is seldom given except for cause. And there was cause enough behind this one, as monsieur would learn, if he cared to listen.
"In things that concern you personally, sir—" began Monsieur Lafargue, in his cold voice, but Anthony stopped him.
Let there be no misunderstanding of the matter, the young man requested, with the sharp, biting note that sometimes came into his voice; this was a concern of monsieur's. It had more to do with monsieur than any one else in the world. And now would he hear it?
Monsieur signed, with a shaking hand, that he would.
Very well. In the telling, said Anthony, he must go back; he must start at Brest, and with the letter which monsieur had received from Magruder.
"Accursed letter!" said monsieur. "Accursed letter!"
It was Magruder's communication which brought monsieur and mademoiselle across the ocean. Mademoiselle had said so. And, in light of this, monsieur might be interested to know that at the time he had received this writing at Brest Anthony had received another, much like it, at New Orleans; and from the same person. The call that had brought them from France had brought him north on the first ship he could get.
At this mademoiselle stirred in her chair; her eyes were eager; but Anthony spoke to her father.
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 board Le 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 desire me to 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 one can blame 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.