Part 7

"Keep your ears open in the next few days," smiled the big young man. "Common gossip will tell you much."

Old Amos wore the look of a peaceful saint, so calm was he of face, so rosy of color, so white of hair, as he bade them good night; and then he went out, leaving them together at the table awaiting the liquor they had ordered.

X

The next morning as Anthony ate his breakfast at the inn he noticed many glances cast in his direction; waiters spoke to each other behind their hands, while they watched him out of the tails of their eyes. He smiled, even while he frowned.

He had finished, and was seated, with a journal, at a window in the public room, when he noted a slight man of middle age come in, look about, and ask a question of a porter.

"Mr. Stevens," said the man, in a hushed sort of voice, as he came forward. "I am from the counting-house of Rufus Stevens' Sons, and have been sent to say that Mr. Charles Stevens is now in the city."

Anthony felt a thrill of satisfaction.

"Thank you," he said. And then, "Did Mr. Stevens direct you to bring me word?"

"No," said the man. "Not Mr. Stevens--Captain Weir."

"I see," said Anthony.

There was something fragile about the man; his skin had a transparent quality, his hands were thin and nervous, his whole aspect was worn. As Anthony looked at him, he became aware of something that impressed itself upon him as a glow--a pallid, luminous something--white, like moonlight.

"I will step down to the counting-house during the course of the day," said the young man. "I trust Mr. Stevens is well?"

"Quite well," said the man.

This luminous quality which Anthony felt the man threw off also lit up his eyes. They were deep-set eyes, light in color and full of pain; in them a pale hope seemed constantly lifting itself through shadows, only to sink again.

"Is there anything more?" asked Anthony, as the other lingered.

The man shook his head, but did not move.

"I am Tom Horn," said he. "As a boy, I worked as clerk for your grandfather. And now I am clerk again."

There was an oddity in this simple statement that supplied a missing portion of Anthony's conception of the man. Surely he was not quite firm in his mind.

"In your grandfather's time," said Tom Horn, "the circles flowed freely about the world. They were wide and wonderful, and the sun and the wind and the stars were in them." He bent closer to Anthony: "Do you know what makes the wind to blow?" he asked.

"No," said Anthony.

"No more does any one else," said Tom Horn. "No one in all the world knows what makes the wind to blow. And no one knows why water flows in circles, and rings in every ship, every island, and every man. Once," he said, "I saw a circle around the moon. The world moves in a circle. I do, too. I began as a clerk; and I am a clerk once more."

"You held a better position once, then," said Anthony.

"I was supercargo in the _William and Mary_," said Tom Horn. "Three voyages in all. She was a stout ship, and well officered. But what can wooden planks and good intentions do when once the circle begins to narrow? Nothing. It is like one man setting his strength to prevent the world turning over. All circles move. There is no power under God's that can stop them."

With that he turned and went out; but in a few moments Anthony saw him peering in at one of the windows, and in his eyes were at once the hope and fear that, perhaps, marked his madness.

It was well toward the middle of the afternoon when Anthony arrived at Rufus Stevens' Sons and was received by the affable clerk.

"Yes, Mr. Stevens is in, sir," said this personage. "I will speak to him."

He hastened through a doorway, and in a moment hastened out again.

"You are to go right in, sir," said he.

Anthony entered. The room that Charles Stevens had fitted up for himself was low-ceilinged like the others; its width and breadth were great; the floor was laid with rugs of marvelous colors and texture, and the walls were hung with rich draperies, pictures, and strange-looking arms. The furniture was all of far-off lands; there were things of ebony, and ivory, of silk and gold, and the breath of the place was vital with rich essences.

Charles sat upon a divan and nursed his lame foot; he was a young-looking man; his color was fresh, and his hair as dark and thick and vital as it had been at twenty-five. He was talking with a settled-looking person who sat at a table with a quill and an ink-pot, scrawling figures upon a sheet of paper.

"I would not lay out another groat," Charles was saying, "upon a ship of the build and stowage-room such as we now have. They are cramped, they are slow, they are tricky. What we want is vessels that will carry both cargo and canvas, and will stand up under a wind that blows above the ordinary."

The settled man looked up from his figures.

"What results I have reached--what results every ship-builder has reached--are reared upon tried and tested things. Little by little we learn how to improve a hull so that it gives less and less resistance to the water; and carrying-room, Mr. Stevens, is largely dependent upon the shape of this hull. A ship is a ship; it is not a hogshead with masts in it."

Charles Stevens's laugh was singularly young. He got up and limped up and down the floor, both hands waving.

"Siddons," said he, "I have the same struggle with you every time I ask anything that is not customary. It's in the records of the house that my father went through the same thing with your father. But keep this in your mind: it is the necessities of trade that improve ships; if their advance had been left to the builders, we'd still be hugging the coasts in galleys and afraid to venture out of sight of land. The Yankee ships are making ours look like Venetian caracks; they have moved ahead of us, Siddons; they are winging it into Calcutta carrying almost twice our merchandise, and doing it in less time."

The settled man consulted his figures.

"You talk of vessels of seven hundred tons burthen," he said, plaintively. "Who ever heard of such things?"

"In New England," said Charles, "they not only have heard of them but have built them." He held up two fingers of his left hand and pointed to them with the forefinger of his right. "Build me two ships, Siddons,--twins,--of live-oak, clear of all defects, bolted well, with all clamps and spirketings and braces of the best metal, and give me room in their bellies to stow cargoes that'll open the eyes of all Massachusetts."

"But seven hundred tons!" complained Siddons. "Is there water enough in the ocean to keep such a monster afloat?"

"Who said anything of seven hundred tons?" demanded Charles. "It was the Salem ship that measured that. The pair you are to build for me are to be of a thousand tons."

Siddons gasped and curled up in his chair.

"A thousand tons! The seas would break their backs in the first blow."

"Ship-builders have been saying that with each additional inch since the beginning. So don't worry me with it; I want the vessels, and they are to be built on this river. The Siddons yard has always laid down the keels for Rufus Stevens' Sons; so get your computers to work; see that the timbers are properly seasoned, and the ironmongery gotten under way."

"There must be new ways erected; there must be new docks," complained the ship-builder. "The outlay will be frightful."

"But think of the income, Siddons," said Charles. "Think of passing the Delaware Capes, inbound from Calcutta, in seventy days." And as Siddons paused in the act of gathering up his sheets of paper, and gazed at him, his jaw hanging slack, Charles laughed and said, "How old is your son, Siddons?"

"Twenty, passed."

"Get him into the yards as quickly as you can. You need a fresh eye. Before he has reached your limitations, a two months' trip from the same port will be thought a long one." As the ship-builder moved toward the door, Charles added, "When can you give me the figures?"

"In a week," replied the man.

"Excellent! In a week I shall expect them."

A number of times in his limping up and down the floor, Charles had passed within a few feet of Anthony, but he had not paid the slightest attention to him; now, as he closed the door upon Siddons, he turned with a boyish smile and looked at him.

"Anthony!" said he. "Robert's Anthony!" And, as he looked, the smile changed in character; the pleased look in his eyes became one of wonder. "You should have been called Rufus, for your grandfather," he said. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-five," said Anthony.

"At that age your grandfather was master of a ship voyaging half across the world," said Charles, "God was in the same mood when he fashioned you two." He looked for another space, and then added, "Yes, they should have called you after him."

Emerging from the surprise, he shook Anthony's hand with great warmth.

"I'm greatly pleased," said he, his face a shining proof of it; "I'm amazingly pleased. I had no thought that such a pleasure as this awaited me. So your father and mother are both dead." He nodded at his nephew wistfully. "Both dead and gone. And you left alone, and I never so much as sending you a line of writing."

"These things escape one," said Anthony; "especially when they happen so far away."

"A brother is a brother, no matter what the distance; and you were of my own blood. There was never a time when I did not hold your mother as the most beautiful and best of women; there was no reason why all these years should have gone by, and I holding my tongue; no reason at all."

They sat down.

"Have you been in the city long?" asked Charles.

"Less than a week. I inquired here for you, but learned you were away."

"And you've had a devil of a dull time, I know, going about in strange places."

"Why, fortunately, no. I dropped in on Christopher Dent--"

"What--old Kit!" Charles laughed, and curled himself up in a corner of the divan, nursing his lame foot. "Good soul! I'm glad you thought of him."

"And while I was there who should come in but Dr. King, and he, when he found who I was, instantly invited me to supper."

"Excellent!" approved Charles. "It couldn't have been better."

They talked for some time of Dr. King and of the city and its changes; then there came a tap upon the door, and the affable clerk put in his head.

"Mr. Clark, of the _Starry Cross_, sir, when you are at leisure."

"I'll speak to him in a few moments." Then, as the clerk withdrew, Charles said to Anthony. "The skipper of one of my tea ships. He reached port while I was away."

"I'm afraid I've come in on you at a time when your attention is much engaged." Anthony got up. "Perhaps to-morrow or next day you'll not be so pressed."

"Sup with me to-night," said Charles, putting his arm about Anthony's shoulders. "I want you to make the acquaintance of Captain Weir."

"I've met the captain already," said the young man.

"You've not wasted your time, at any rate," smiled his uncle. "But sup with me, anyhow; there's thousands of questions I want to ask, and to answer."

"Thank you," said Anthony. "I shall be glad to."

He shook hands with Charles once more and then left the counting-house. At the Half Moon, he encountered the round-faced coachman, seated upon his bench in the passage.

"Good even, sir," said the man. "I suppose they are well settled by this." And then, as Anthony looked at him questioningly, he added. "I mean Mr. Lafargue and his daughter--in their new place."

"New place!" said Anthony. "Have they gone?"

"Why, yes; this morning," said the coachman. "And all their luggage with them. But I couldn't say where. Seeing as they're friends of yours, I thought you knew."

"No," said Anthony, "I didn't."

And then he went, in a heavy-footed way, up the stairs to his room.

XI

The house of Charles Stevens stood in Ninth Street, close to Chestnut. The building was set back from the street and in the midst of a garden which even now, in the bareness of the autumn, looked pleasant with its tall trees, its neat walks, its sun-dial and dove-cote. A black servant in a livery coat admitted the young man; and from the passage he heard the voices of his uncle and Dr. King.

He was shown into a large room on the second floor. This was crowded with rare furniture; its hangings were rich and delightful to the eye; upon stands and shelves were examples of bronze and gold and pottery such as Anthony had never seen before. Charles greeted him.

"James," said the merchant to Dr. King, "here he is, come to visit me like a good fellow, forgetting all about how I've neglected him."

Dr. King shook Anthony's hand, smiling.

"At any rate," said he, "he shows the right disposition. And we should be glad enough to have him back."

As Anthony settled into a chair, Charles limped up and down the room in mounting excitement.

"I've heard of your damned goings-on," stated he, eagerly. "To-day, when you'd told me you'd been in the city almost a week, I was on the verge of commiserating you on your loneliness; and here I learn that you've left a trail of very active devilment strung out behind you." He paused in front of Anthony and clutched his shoulder exultantly. "So you pummeled that infernal sneering fire-eater, Tarrant, did you? What for?"

"He intruded upon me, and refused to give an account of himself," said Anthony. "And, I suppose, I was in no humor to listen to him."

Once more Charles limped up and down; his eyes blazed with excitement.

"A porter saw you pitch him out!" cried Charles. "He saw you pitch him into the passage, and has told it all over town." Here Charles filled the room with his laughter. "He saw you throw his hat after him," he gasped between bursts; "and he had to help the damned villain to his feet, and down the stairs." For a moment he choked back his mirth. "Out into the passage!" he said. "And with his hat after him! Oh, what a picture!" And again he laughed consumedly.

"You know him, then?" said Anthony.

His uncle composed himself, took a seat in a big chair, and nursed his lame foot.

"I have known him these five years," said he. "And in that time I've found him to be a knave and a cheat. It's true he once served aboard a United States frigate, and with some distinction; but a thing like that doesn't light a man through a whole lifetime of roguery. His open doings are of that rakehell kind countenanced by many honest people as the outcomes of a large nature and high spirit. But his connections with the money-lenders and slimy shipping-agents of the Algerian coast are kept out of view and are known to only a few, and even those few don't know enough to speak publicly against him. But," and he looked at Anthony with narrowed eyes, "what of this answer you made to his challenge?"

"It was the answer I'd make to any man's challenge."

"You are not afraid, then," and the eyes of the uncle devoured him, "of being thought a coward?"

Anthony smiled.

"The man who is afraid of being thought one, is one," said he.

"By God!" said Charles. "That's what your grandfather would have said! They are the very words."

Here Captain Weir was shown in, and after greeting Anthony he sat down at the far end of the room with the merchant, while Anthony talked with Dr. King.

"Well," said the physician humorously, "he seems to approve your doings, even though they've been a trifle heady."

"At any rate," said the young man, "he is no friend of Tarrant's; and that is in my favor."

Dr. King lost his jocular expression, and shook his head gravely.

"The time was when the American merchant had only the elements, falling markets, and an occasional corsair to contend with," said he. "But, now that he is growing prosperous and takes his share of the world's wealth, the birds of prey have gathered. Let him show a sign, however slight, of financial weakness; then his sky is dark with them, their beaks whetted to pick his bones. This is the first hint I've had that Tarrant is concerned with the filthy tribe; but I shouldn't wonder if it were true."

"I can understand money-lenders and note-shavers thriving in a port like New Orleans," said Anthony; "for under the hands of the Spanish governors honesty must always pay a toll. But in a city as well managed as this, where banks are numerous, why should a merchant in need of funds go to a usurer?"

Dr. King smiled and shook his head.

"After you are here a while,--if you make up your mind to stay,--you may learn that even a soberly governed place like this has its public tricksters. There are many things a money-lender dare not do--openly. But it is the habit of some of them--as your uncle just now said of Tarrant--to carry on certain operations underground."

The dining-room of Charles Stevens on the floor below was appointed with the same high-pitched taste as the others Anthony had seen; indeed, so lavish had become the exhibition of treasure that it resembled the heaped-up loot of a commercial conqueror.

"Every ship of ours that enters port carries something that I cannot find it in me to sell. It may be a rug, or a gold cup, a cushion, a bolt of rare silk, or an ivory or bronze carving. I have amulets and arms and precious stones from places that are in the books of few traders," added Charles, who had read his nephew's look. "Unfortunately," and he laughed a little ruefully, "I am a collector, as well as a merchant."

There was a soup of terrapin, into which a deft cook had introduced the faint fragrance of a very old sherry. Sturgeon steaks followed, with a wonderful sauce, and with them deviled oysters and a Johannisberger that made Anthony's palate curl in rapture.

"So Siddons is appalled," smiled Charles; he looked at Anthony, but addressed Weir. "Poor fellow, it does not take much to frighten him. Because he is asked to add some feet to his ship ways, he acts as though we required him to enlarge the solar system."

"Perhaps," observed Captain Weir, "it would be well to reconsider the thing, and put it into the hands of the Carters; they are younger and have moved with the times."

But Charles smiled and shook his head.

"No," said he. "The Siddons yard builds honest craft; they built the first my father designed, and so they'll build these for me. Properly prodded, they'll do well enough; on launching-day you'll find us in possession of a pair of well-found ships that'll out-stow and perhaps outsail anything that carries the United States flag. Dick Siddons has always complained, but he has never failed me."

While other matters of food were being brought in, Charles Stevens talked. He was a fascinating talker; all history seemed at his finger ends, and especially the history of shipping. He drew dazzling pictures; events as recorded in his mind were always striking. He followed, at one period of the talk, the great movements of the armed world in the track of each fresh discovery of iron. The greed behind these movements, their terrifying injustices, the gross world fat they accumulated, the merciless labor they brought upon those who had no share in what their work produced, never seemed to present themselves to Charles. He saw only the surge of the thing, the sharp-pointing, definite track, the panoply and power that came into life, the romance in the thought that, snuggling beneath the surface, in places unthought of, except by a venturesome few, there lay the thing that made men great.

"He looks upon it," thought Anthony, "as the old Spaniards of the gulf must have regarded the idea of the fountain of life. It is a sort of magic."

Charles talked of ships and storms, of fabrics and ports, of men and nations, of ideas, prophecy, and signs in the heavens. Anthony followed his flowing words, enthralled by his enthusiasm and the rich color of his thought. But at the same time there was a spot in the young man's brain which remained alert and which the golden flood could not sweep away. And at this spot was an alert sentry, a direct inheritance from old Rufus; and this sentry watched and listened unemotionally. He saw a man moving with joy among the mountain-tops, drinking the thin, strong air as one would drink a heady wine; he saw the long leaps, spectacular and full of grace, from peak to peak, the flashing symbols of victory upon victory. But he did not once see him set foot upon the level earth where the plodders sweated in obscurity. The man's dream was a soaring one, full of color and gorgeousness; he caught lightly at wonders which those who moved in the lower levels did not even see; but, once seized, he threw the wonders to the plodders, and seldom thought of them again.

"To this man," reported the sentry posted by old Rufus in Anthony's brain, "life is all heights. There are no depths. To him, great deed follows upon the heels of noble effort; magnificent achievement springs full-armored into being, glory is a thing made by a single motion. The romance of commerce, as Dr. King called it, he holds to his heart; the reality he leaves to others." Anthony followed this report soberly, for the sentry was one in whom he had great faith. And before he closed his wicket for the night the sentry added, "And I wonder who these people are, through whose hands the realities pass?"

There was a space, after the plates had been removed and the wine and tobacco were brought in, in which Charles took Dr. King into a room adjoining, to point out an example of the work of a Persian artist for whom he expressed great admiration, and Anthony was left with Captain Weir. There was a silence for a moment, and then Weir said:

"Your uncle is in one of his talkative moods to-night." His level gaze was fixed upon Anthony with inquiry, but from his mask no indication was to be had of what was in his mind. "When a man talks we are often able to get a definite impression of him," said Weir.

Anthony nodded, but said nothing. The other waited; then he proceeded.

"I talked with Dr. King for some time to-day. He told me that he had tried to induce you to remain in the city and go into Rufus Stevens' Sons. I agreed with him that this was a thing greatly to be wished."

"What," asked Anthony, "do you think I could do that another could not?"

"I don't know," said Weir. "But I have a feeling that you are needed, and that the house is your natural place."

"But," said Anthony, "I do not know my uncle's attitude."

"He means to ask you to resume where your father stepped out. He's told me so." There was another short pause. "What answer will you give?" asked Weir.

"I'll do it," said Anthony.

And Weir, leaning across the table, gripped his hand.

"That's what I expected you to say," said he. "And I am very glad."

But as he turned away his head there was a glint in the green, stone-like eyes, a glint that Anthony did not see.

XII

A crier with a bell advanced through Dock Street; as the tongue monotonously _galing-galanged_ against the sides of the bell, the man chanted with equal monotony:

"A hogshead of rum! To whom it may concern: a hogshead of fine Jamaica rum will be sold at vendue at the warehouse of William Stone, in Mulberry Street, at two o'clock to-day."

"Another damned cutthroat must be asking for his pound of flesh!" grumbled a gentleman, whose bulbous nose was pinched blue with the snap of the cold. "Stone's interest is no doubt due, and he's forced to send out a crier and sell a hogshead of liquor to keep the shark from turning over on his back."

Mr. Sparhawk, who bore the blue-nosed gentleman company, smiled dryly.

"Mr. Stone, from what I hear of his affairs, need not bother himself. He's so safely in the hands of Bulfinch and his handsome sons that he has no more chance of escape, Mr. Stroude, than the north star has of falling out of the sky."

Mr. Stroude swore eloquently.

"Bulfinch is a villain," announced he. "And I wish his sons were at the devil!"