"Take your mind from provoking things," he insisted. "The world is full of such, but they were never made to think about. To-day is shabby and has nothing to give you; keep your thoughts on to-morrow."
But the gaunt present had its spell on Anthony; and he could not take his mind from its grim approach. Later he spoke bitterly to Captain Weir.
"There is enough come to us already to give us our deaths, once the weight of it falls together; and what is to come, in his expectations, rests upon no better foundation than a tale told to children. But, nevertheless, the stroke of fortune you spoke of some time since seems the only thing that promises. If the house is to go on at all,—and I see the thing plainer each day,—my uncle's dream must come true."
"His visionings of the past had a way of doing so," said Weir. "And, who knows? fortune may repeat itself. This I know: let the ship once come to port, and there will be enough money to enrich a prince."
Two days later the sky, in the morning, was leaden; a bitter wind blew out of the northeast; the river was sealed, but there was a broad channel through the bay from New Castle to the sea, and ships attempting to beat out, so the news came up to the city, were driven back. For a week the wind continued, and the sky lowered like a dismal casque upon the world. The news of what was happening trickled in slowly, from down the river, from across the Jerseys, from New York. The gale was the heaviest known in years; the hardiest mariners, the stoutest ships had ridden in the bays, content to tug at their anchors and with no thought to face it. It had torn and yelled along the coast; the ocean had risen until spent waves were sweeping between the huts in some of the fishing hamlets.
Charles and Anthony had gone out early of an afternoon to get a bite at the City Tavern, and had paused to read a bulletin posted at the door; as they were turning from it they met old Martin Dacy, mate of many a deep-water ship and master of more than one coastwise brig.
"Eh?" said old Dacy. "Wild winds! And no fresh news? Leave it alone, Mr. Stevens; leave it alone. The news'll come fast enough. What the winds have done inside the capes and along the coast is all you've heard of yet. You'll hear more than that as the days go on; and when the thing's blown itself out you'll hear the worst. This has been none of your gusty blows, none of your mad things that don't know their own minds. There's been a devil behind this one, a bitter, wicked devil, and he's pressed steadily for days and days in the one direction, and he's piled seas before him so that out there it must look as though the whole world were a-churning. The news'll come later; and that merchant is lucky, sir, who has no ships at sea; and that sailor is lucky that has a fire to sit at, ashore, and a chimney for the wind to roar in."
Charles and Anthony went into the tavern.
"Old seamen are fond of mumbling such prophecies," smiled Charles, as they sat down at a table in the public room. "As they grow weaker themselves, the danger and power of the ocean magnifies in their minds. What would have been the day's work in their youth or their prime comes to be looked upon as vast peril in their old age. God help them," said Charles, "it may be a sort of compensation; they, like enough, think themselves fortunate in having grown well away from such dangerous days."
But, though there was a smile in Charles's eyes as he said this, Anthony saw a look of strained wistfulness; and, for all the laugh, there was something fixed and frightened in his face.