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.