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."