Christopher Dent spoke to Anthony at his lodgings in Sassafras Street
a few days later; the young man was hollow-faced and his eyes were hot
and tired. But he listened to the little apothecary gratefully.
"So," said Christopher, "from what I hear, away he went with her, and
with the papers in his pocket."
"Where did he take her?" asked Anthony.
"Where but Crousillat's? There they had a long conversation with the
old gentleman himself; and then they went to Girard's."
Anthony stirred on his bed.
"With what result?" he asked.
"Both the Frenchmen listened carefully. Was not mademoiselle a
countrywoman of theirs? Ah, but this Sparhawk is a crafty little whip.
He knows what to do. And after he had their favor,--and the favor of
two such as they is of a deal of value when one means to approach
others,--he went to Wilcock's, at the India Stores, and afterwards to
some others. In the space of one day's going about he had the matter
well in hand; he had spoken to banks and legal people, and a conference
was had with such creditors as were within call. Matters were arranged,
it seems, as easily as you'd turn your hand; everything was made
comfortable and snug, and with nothing unpleasant in the whole of it."
"Good news, Christopher," said Anthony. "Fine news, indeed."
"I felt you'd think so, though I was in a fright at fetching it,"
said Christopher. He sat regarding Anthony for a space and then said:
"There have been many hulks broken up in Harmony Court, but the house
of Stevens is not to be one of them--at least, not yet. For Mr.
Sparhawk, together with Mr. Crousillat--a most excellent pair for such
a task,--have been agreed upon to receive what is left of the business
and to conduct it until such times as matters begin to clear up."
"Good news again," said Anthony. "I feel as though I had a heart in
my body once again, and there's a stir in my blood. And who but you,
Christopher, would have thought to bring me such good word?"
But the apothecary shook his head.
"The truth is that is was not I who thought of it," said he. "It was
mademoiselle."
"Ah!" said Anthony.
"'There he lies, ill,' she said. 'There he lies in his bed with never
a one to carry a word to him of what's being done.' With that," said
Christopher, "I spoke of the doctor's directions, and how you must be
kept from care. But she would not hear to it. 'News like this,' she
says, 'will do good; certain worries have leagued to trouble his mind;
and this will put an end to them. He'll get ease by it.'"
"She is kind," said Anthony. "Please carry her my thanks. She is very
kind."
"Did I not say you'd hold her in a deal of esteem when you came to know
her better?" said Christopher, gratified. "She has a fine spirit and is
well instructed; and things like those make excellent women. The matter
that rose up between you had no real place in either of your minds; I
always felt that. And, now that you see each other in a proper light,
I'm much pleased."
The news brought by Christopher Dent so heartened Anthony that in
less than a week he was out of his bed; and in a day or two more he
was taking slow-paced walks in the street, trying his strength and
steadiness. On one of these he stopped at Dr. King's; and in the hall
he met Mademoiselle Lafargue, just on the point of leaving. She held
out her hand to him and smiled; and, as he took the hand and held it
closely, she said:
"It is so good to see you out once more. From what I'd been told, I had
not expected it so soon."
"God knows how long I'd have been upon my back, grieving for strength,"
said Anthony. "But your good offices saved me a deal of it."
"Your thanks should go to Mr. Sparhawk more than to me," said the girl.
"Without his shrewd wit and ready realization, I'm afraid little would
have been done."
They talked for a space; their voices were level, their manners still;
but there was a something about each of them which glowed like an aura;
the edges of these sought to meet and lap but the dregs of a bitter
wind still blew between them, and it was not yet to be. Then Dr. King
appeared and took Anthony away into his study.
"There is a space yet to bridge before his health is fully recovered,"
said Mrs. King to mademoiselle. "He is not yet strong."
"His eyes are tired," said mademoiselle. "His spirit looks through them
and tells of the sufferings of the past months."
"The doctor is concerned about him," said Mrs. King, as the girl was
going. "He recommends a simple, natural life, in a place where he can
rebuild his body while his mind rests. He is of an outdoor breed, and
you cannot keep such housed up when their vitality is lowered without
grave risk."
Mademoiselle carried this away with her, and that night, as Christopher
Dent and Tom Horn sat in the room back of the shop, the little
apothecary grinding some healing agent into a proper fineness, and Tom
sitting silent, his eyes fixed upon the wall before him, the girl came
in. At once Christopher brought forward a chair, dusted it carefully,
and offered it to her. She sat down and looked at them both.
"You are always so comfortable here, and so contented," she said. "You
have your work and your books and your thoughts. I can envy one who has
such quiet interests."
The little apothecary looked gratified and rubbed his bald crown.
"But," he said, "your own affairs will quiet down before long. Oh, yes,
you may be sure of that. You have gone through a deal; but a calm comes
finally, and then we are less stirred by those affairs of which others
have control. We grow content within ourselves; and that, Mademoiselle,
is as it should be."
He turned once more to the mortar and began grinding at the substance
in it, nodding in the wise way he had; and she sat smiling at a fancy
that came into her mind, that he was really an ancient nature sprite
who had gathered great stores of peace in the woodlands and fields,
along with the barks and roots and flowers of his trade. And then the
thought of woodlands and fields caused her mind to go to Anthony and to
what Mrs. King had said earlier in the day. So she repeated the saying
to Christopher, and he listened with concern.
"The doctor spoke of that, here, only a few days ago, when I urged
certain curative things as being desirable in our young friend's case.
'There is no remedy like air and quiet and work with one's hands,' he
said. And who knows but he spoke truth?"
"It may be," she said, "that in your going about in unfrequented places
in search of simples you have come upon a place with the qualities Dr.
King has in mind."
Christopher ceased bruising the bark and put the pestle carefully down.
"Dr. King spoke of the sea," said he. "He believes greatly in the winds
that blow from it, and the salts and other substances that are in it.
But the spot I have in mind on the coast of the Jerseys is lonely and
desolate."
Tom Horn stirred.
"It is a lonely place that is needed," said he; "a place of sun and
open spaces, where a man can live close to the eternal facts."
The girl looked at him with sudden attention.
"Why," she said, "that sounds like the truth."
"There is one strip of coast that I know well," said the apothecary;
"but it is too wild and too far from help for a man as lowered in
health as Anthony Stevens."
"He needs no help," said Tom Horn. "His body is tough and strong. It's
his spirit that's been trampled down; and there is healing for that in
the stillness of the sea and the vast sky. I have felt the touch of
these things, and I know. Each is a potent good, and has been to the
advantage of many a man."
"I'll not gainsay you," said Christopher hopefully. "And there is a
hut," to the girl, "tight against the weather when I slept there last;
this would serve him if he'd care to venture to those parts, which I
doubt."
Tom Horn looked at Christopher, his pale, luminous face wistful and
oddly intent. But he spoke to mademoiselle.
"He comes here sometimes of a night," said he, "to smoke and to talk
for an hour before bed. It might be well," to the apothecary, "if you
spoke to him of this, should he chance in to-night."
Anthony did chance in; but it was after mademoiselle had gone; and
while he kindled the tobacco in his long-stemmed clay, and made himself
comfortable, the little apothecary pounded and ground away at the bark
in the mortar and took on a look of enormous guile.
"Do you mark how thick the city's air is, in spite of the bright days?"
he asked.
Anthony looked surprised.
"Why," said he, "I've thought it quick and pleasant enough."
But Christopher shook his head forebodingly.
"It will be many a long day before the lees of the plague are driven
entirely away," he said. "It clings to those things and places it has
touched for a long time after. There is no health here," and he shook
his head again; "it's a sickly place just now. And, in your weakened
state, you'd do well if you'd leave it for a space."
"Sea air is driven clean," said Tom Horn. "Sea air would enrich you."
"I've thought of that once or twice," said Anthony. "A short voyage
might go well with me."
"To be sure," said Christopher readily. "Of course. Why hadn't that
occurred to me? A steady ship might be best after all. Let us say, a
coastwise brig, with a sober master, and carrying cargo that's in no
haste."
"A ship is no place for you," said Tom Horn to Anthony. "You need a
quiet mind; and aboard ship there will be bellowing mates, and foremast
hands who swear sour oaths. And at sea you'd be beyond call if needed
in any matter of business."
"Why, yes," said Christopher. "That is true. Perhaps the hut I spoke
of on the shore is best for you, after all." And then, as the young
man looked at him inquiringly, he told of what had passed between
mademoiselle and Tom Horn and himself. And Anthony listened with favor.
"There you'd be quite alone," said Tom Horn. "It cleanses the soul to
be alone after a time of great stress; and things resolve themselves
as they would not otherwise."
Anthony asked many questions of Christopher, and the answers seemed
greatly to his liking. There were fish to snare and wild fowl to shoot;
the hut was snug and faced the sea; the wind swept the beach and
the dunes and the bay. The young man drew the air into his lungs in
anticipation.
"In such a place," said he, "a man might grow as well as he had a mind
to."
"You'll go, then," said the little apothecary, pleased.
"I will," said Anthony. "It's a good thought, and I thank you for it."
Tom Horn said nothing but sat and watched Anthony in the same odd way
he had formerly done when the young man first came to Rufus Stevens'
Sons. And when, at last, Anthony arose to go Tom went with him.
"I'll take you a step or two on your way," he said.
They paced along, side by side; Anthony was silent; now and again Tom
Horn would look at him; more than once the odd clerk seemed about to
speak, but paused on the verge of it. At last he said, his head nodding:
"There is a shoal there, and the white ghosts move through the night
when the winds blow."
"Eh?" Anthony looked at him.
"They reach miles out to sea, and shipmen avoid them as they would
death," said Tom Horn.
"Oh!" said Anthony, understanding, "you mean at the place Christopher
spoke of? Yes, I've heard the coast in that region is counted
dangerous."
They fell silent and walked on; as they passed under the dim
street-lamps, Tom Horn would again look at Anthony with some of the
old, strange speculation in his eyes. Once, when the young man caught
his glance, he said:
"You are not strong; your life's circle is too narrow. But," and he
nodded assuringly, "it will grow wider; and then we shall see."
Anthony made his preparations quietly; none knew he was leaving the
city except those already acquainted with his purpose. He would have
told Captain Weir, but when he asked for him at the counting-house Tom
Horn shook his head.
"He has been gone these four days," said the clerk. "And he left no
word."
"Ah, well, it's no matter." Anthony stood, cutting at his boot-leg with
a riding-whip, and gazing about the silent counting-room. He thought
of what this house once had been, and of what it now had come to; he
thought of Charles as he had seen him that morning, smiling, childlike,
engaged in meaningless pastimes. His breath grew tight in his chest,
and he turned, about to go.
"The wagon, I suppose," said Tom Horn, "is already beyond the river,
laden with your goods?"
"Yes," said Anthony, "and will start across the Jerseys as soon as I
reach it. Good-by."
"Good-by," said Tom Horn. He reached into his high desk and produced a
long pistol, carefully oiled and polished. "Take this and keep it by
you," said he. "The place you are going to is an unfrequented one; and
in such places unexpected things are sometimes met."
Anthony took the weapon and stood regarding the man for a moment.
"Thank you," said he. And again, "Good-by."
He went out, mounted his waiting horse, and rode away toward the ferry
at the foot of High Street; and Tom Horn stood in the counting-house
door, gazing after him until he had disappeared.