Part 20

"The garret is high," said the old man. "It's well out of reach, and airy, and cool. From there I can watch the wind blow the smoke from the chimneys, and see the weather-vanes turn, and the flags fly from the mast tops. So put me in the garret, Nathaniel. And draw the cupboard near to my bed."

"Ha, ha!" said the old woman. "The cupboard!"

"And the chest, Rehoboam; place the chest where I can reach it. Beside my bed. And then I will sleep; and to-morrow I will be well."

"To-morrow," said the old woman, "you'll be with the worms. And you'll give them no joy, either; for there'll be spare picking, indeed, on the like of you."

"Who is this?" asked Anthony, as he moved toward the bed.

"This, sir," said the hag, "is old Bulfinch. He's a usurer by trade, and now lies here rotting of the fever."

"Is he badly off?" asked the young man.

"I would not care to be as badly," said the crone. "I've seen men better off than he die like that," and she puffed out her breath. "But _he'll_ not die readily. Oh, no; he's one of the kind whose claws are sunk into life. He has cupboards and chests to anchor him to the world, has this gentleman; and, if all the tales you hear are true, they'll be rare, heavy bits of furniture, indeed." She chuckled and wagged her ancient head. "They'd be a fine sight for famished eyes, those two things," she said. "And I wish it were given to me to open them. Gold," she said. "And silver. Bags of it. Spanish and Dutch and British pieces, as broad as your hand. He was a sharp-nosed one for minted bits of metal, was old Bulfinch. Chests and cupboards stuffed with them. God save us! And, for all, here we have him, with yellow-jack pinched tight in his bowels."

"And his sons brought him here, you say?"

"They did; in a cart; and in the night. And they pitched him down by the door, and stayed hardly long enough for a word."

"I'll lie in the garret, Nathaniel," persisted the old man. "I'll lie in the garret, where it's airy and cool. I'll be quiet, there, and the pain in my head will leave me."

The hag chuckled gleefully.

"What, my gentleman," she said, "would you be where you'd stop the brisk snapping of locks, the opening of drawers, the throwing back of chest-lids? Out on you for a spoil-sport! Some one else counts your money to-night," she said. "Your noble sons have the handling of your broad, fine, bright pieces. I can see them settling to it now like a pair of weasels."

The clouded mind of the sick man sensed only a little of what she said.

"Plenty of room in the chest," he muttered. "Oh, yes, plenty of room for more. The years and years it takes to gain a very little. The weary years."

The old woman held a candle so that the light could fall on his face.

"There will be no more years for you," she said. "Hours will tell your tale." She nodded toward Anthony. "And short hours, too."

"It's a deep chest," said old Bulfinch. "As deep as a ship." Gradually a look of glee came into his face; his hands opened and shut covetously. "A fine ship," he said. "A tall ship; and with the old man's name painted on her. Such spaces she has for storing goods. Such wide, wonderful spaces! There is the room of a town in her. She went away grandly," he said. "Like a bride, all in white. And when she returns, what a dowry she'll bring! There will be magnificence! There will be splendor! Her cargo will be a jewel, and her oaken hull the casket." He gloated over this for a space; and then a trouble began to show. "If it were not Gorman, now," he said. "If it were not Gorman that is to step aboard her at Calcutta. We could trust Hollister. He is sound and tried. But he's done too much. Oh, yes, far too much to be safe; for there are sharp eyes watching; there are minds, too, that are like knife-blades, and they are thinking, always thinking."

Anthony's eyes met those of Mademoiselle Lafargue; but before either could speak there came the choking shriek:

"Water! One drop to cool my throat! Water, for God's love!"

"Hold your tongue!" said the old woman, lowering evilly at the sufferer. "It's always something with you. There's not enough water in the river to fill your gullet; so ease yourself back, and be still."

The French girl gave the sick man a cup of water; and while she was doing so old Bulfinch stirred uneasily.

"Nathaniel," he said, "are you there? Rehoboam, my son, where are you? I am not sick. The doctor is a fool. I am well and strong. It is true I have a pain in my head, and the hot sun has got into my blood. But I am not sick. The doctors are all frightened. Do not listen to them. They know nothing. By and by," and he laughed with a ghastly assumption of lightness, "this one will say I have the plague. It would be like him. Turn him away, Nathaniel; do not listen to him. And do not pay him money for his folly; it is waste, my sons, and money is hard to get. Take me to the garret; it will be quiet there, and I'll be up and strong in another day. Be careful, Nathaniel; lift me gently, and see to the stairs, Rehoboam; they are crooked and treacherous." There was a pause, and sudden panic seemed to seize him. His eyes stared, and his jaws fell open; he clawed about in the straw, and then, with sudden power, rose up. "No, no!" he raved. "Not here! Not this place of death! My curse on you, Nathaniel, if you leave me; my blood and death on you, Rehoboam, if you give me into the hands of these wretches!"

Shriek after shriek came from him; then he fell back with a foam about his lips and his eyes full of fear and loathing.

With the blood pounding in his head, Anthony took mademoiselle by the arm.

"Come, let us go," said he.

And he led her out, and across the hot, moon-bathed fields, toward the city.

XXIX

Weeks went by; the plague drew its horrible length along the river, through the town's byways, through the unsunned huddled places, through creeks and docks and open gutters, through wells and cisterns and cesspools; and all its attendant horrors followed in ghastly procession. Death no longer stooped, hawk-like; it settled heavily down beside its victim as a vulture settles, filthy, evil, cold.

From the night of their meeting at Bush Hill, Anthony and Mademoiselle Lafargue saw a deal of each other; there were no words said, no compact made; but the fights which both were pressing were paired, and the good they had been able to accomplish was greatly multiplied. Seeing this, others added their help; Bush Hill was cleansed of its villainies; aid was carried into neglected quarters. The group became compact and strong; others, like it, sprang up; a wall of resolution began to rear itself in the path of the pestilence--a wall behind which fear and superstition died.

Those who had fled weeks before watched and waited from the heights beyond the city. Over the point of land between the two rivers, upon which the city had been built, they saw a bank of vapor hanging; and gradually the belief spread that in this was contained the essence of the plague. Frightened eyes watched it. If a wind stirred the trees on the hillsides, the refugees were up, thrilling with dread. In what direction did it blow? Was it from the city? What if it got under the poisonous mist and lifted it toward them? After all, were they quite safe? Would it not be better if they traveled north toward the higher hills?

At Rufus Stevens' Sons, as at other mercantile houses, things were at a stop. Charles was seldom there; at times he might be found in a deep sleep on a sofa at his house on Ninth Street; but his waking hours were spent among the sick. What little business stirred was taken care of by Captain Weir, who came punctually to the counting-house each day; Whitaker was gone, having been one of the first to leave the city; Griggs and Twitchell, men of family both, kept themselves close to their homes and ventured nowhere. But Tom Horn came. As regularly as day dawned, he was up and cooked himself a meager breakfast at his lodgings in Pump Court, and then off to Rufus Stevens' Sons in Water Street, and the ledgers, and the day's doings. The river was full of craft which had been forbidden to sail; hand-barrows and horse-drawn vehicles had disappeared from the streets during the day; the people met with were few; they passed furtively, and at as great a distance as possible for fear of contagion. Tom would take down the shutters, for the porters, too, were gone; then he'd take the books from the chest in which they were kept and put them upon the tall desk, and look at the clock.

"Five in the morning," he'd say, "and it might as well be the dead of night for all the movement there is. Indeed, the night has more stir, what with the death-carts and the calling of the ghouls that manage them."

At seven o'clock Captain Weir would come in, and nod to Tom.

"All's still well with you?" he'd ask.

"Still well," Tom would reply. "And you?"

"So far--brisk enough."

"Pump Court is a healthy place," said Tom. "There have been but twelve carried from it so far. But it may be that I'm too spare of body for the pestilence to bother with."

"It may be," said Captain Weir. "But take care."

"Just over the way from me," said Tom, "there was a fat man lodging, a great, strong fellow with thews like a bull, and a red face as broad as a bucket. He was a most excellent feeder; I've seen him cutting into joints of beef in eating-places in a most astonishing way."

"One can't keep away the yellow-boy by gorging," said Captain Weir.

"Of a morning," said Tom Horn, "he'd shave himself at an open window, and bellow songs out into the court. And he'd thump himself on the chest and defy the plague to harm him. 'The cart is not made,' said he, 'that'll carry me away in the night. When the scourge gets me, the city might well sit back on its haunches and take fear. For when I go what chance have the others? Here's solidness for you,' he says, and he thumps away at himself; 'here's guts and brawn! I'd like to see the plague that'll set itself to choking up _my_ vitals. I'll have a surprise waiting for it."

"Ah," said Captain Weir. "A surprise."

"The surprise came," said Tom Horn. "But it was for the fat man. The plague worked very quietly; but it made an end of him in two days. And when the cart came for him, it was quite an old one; it had been made many years. And I marked, as it rolled with him out of the court in the light of the torches, that the city was very quiet. For all his fatness, his brawn, and his blood, there was nothing unusual. He was but a man, the same as others; if the grave-makers were forced to make the pit a little wider to let him in, that was the only difference."

It was the day they talked about the fat man in Pump Court that visitors came to the counting-room, the first in many a day; and the visitors were Rehoboam and Nathaniel Bulfinch. They entered together, and stepped toward Tom together; their gaunt, gangling frames were alike, as were their outstanding ears and the large spaces between their teeth, and the same eager, covetous look was in both their faces.

"It is refreshing to see a place of business open in times like these," said Nathaniel. "But I knew Rufus Stevens' Sons would be. Your pushing merchant does not permit an unfortunate state of public mind to step into his path."

"As we were coming down the street," said Rehoboam, "I said to Nathaniel, 'Brother, I am sure Rufus Stevens' Sons will be open and thriving as usual.' It is not for nothing," and Rehoboam showed all the spaces between his teeth in a wide smile, "that this business has earned such approval in the community."

Tom Horn did not speak; he sat on his long-legged stool, and looked at them, as a man might look at a pair of corbies that had thrust themselves upon his attention.

"You are Mr. Horn," said Nathaniel, grinning engagingly; "Mr. Horn, who has been with the house so long. Faithful service, sir, will be rewarded. Oh, yes, sooner or later, it will be rewarded. That is a rule that has never failed." He looked about and asked, "Where is Mr. Charles?"

"I don't know," said Tom Horn.

"He has not gone away!" said Nathaniel hastily. "Oh, no. _He_ would not be afraid of the plague."

"He is still in the city," affirmed Rehoboam. "He has been seen more than once of late, in the street, and working with the grave-makers in the potter's-field."

"I have not said he had gone away," answered Tom Horn. "I have said, I do not know where he is; and no more do I."

"Very well," said Nathaniel. "It does not matter. We may see Captain Weir, I suppose?"

"You may," said Tom Horn, "if he is willing."

It proved that the captain was, and the twins, gangling, grinning, vulture-like, went into the room where he sat.

"We were quite sure we'd find you at your post," said Rehoboam. "No matter what the day, or who be absent, we knew you'd be at hand."

"Sit down," said Weir, and he said it coldly. And when they had done so, he added, "What is your errand?"

"A trifle," said Nathaniel. "Only a trifle." He coughed behind his hand and looked at Rehoboam. It was Rehoboam who spoke.

"It may, or may not, have come to your attention," said he, "but in the past half-year Mr. Charles Stevens has had some dealings with our house. A number of times--how often was it, brother?" appealing to Nathaniel.

"Four times," said Nathaniel. "Exactly four."

"Just four," Rehoboam told Captain Weir. "I like to be quite correct. Four times in the past half-year, Mr. Charles Stevens requested us to come here; we did so, and each time a transaction was entered in our books."

"He borrowed money of your father," said Captain Weir; "I know that."

"The bills," said Rehoboam, "were dated some few months or so apart. Of course," and he grinned at Captain Weir most calculatingly, "our calling here to-day is the merest form--"

"It means nothing at all," said Nathaniel.

"But, now that we are here," said Rehoboam, "it will do no harm, I think, to say that the first of the bills will be due in three days' time."

"No difficulty is expected," said Nathaniel. "Such a thing has not entered our minds. But clerks will sometimes make mistakes; they will sometimes forget--"

Captain Weir stopped them.

"All the firm's transactions have been had with your father," said he. "When you return to your counting-house, have the goodness to mention that I'd like a word with him, in confidence."

The twins grinned, first at Weir and then at each other. Then Rehoboam said:

"These are times, Captain Weir, when we can speak with little assurance of any one. Those who are here to-day are gone to-morrow. And those who--"

Weir frowned at him.

"Speak plainly," he said.

"The pestilence spares none," said Rehoboam. "When once it marks them out, it does its work quickly. Our father is dead."

"Dead," said Nathaniel, "and his property--" then, hastily, "what little he left--has come to us."

"Also," said Rehoboam, "his business, and his bills. Rufus Stevens' Sons, Captain, now deals with his heirs and assignees. And in three days, as I've said, the first bill comes due. Of course there will be no delay here," he grinned. "We have expected none."

"Of course," said Nathaniel, his jaws agape, mirthfully. "To be sure."

"We are at Harmony Court until six each day," said Rehoboam. "And we shall await a communication. In the meantime," and he got up, "good day to you. And be careful of your health," as he and his brother were about to go. "Do not venture where there is no necessity."

"Upon no account do so," said Nathaniel earnestly. "One never knows what may come of a rashness. Spend nothing needlessly, neither health nor money. That is the course of wisdom, sir."

Captain Weir walked the floor when they had gone; his eyes shone as hard as agates and his mouth set wickedly. The old man dead! Well, that was an unexpected turn. And now here were these two harpies with bills in their hands, about the doors, promising ruin to the fairest of prospects for profit.

"I'll take them by the throats first," said the captain. "I'll squeeze the breath from them."

He took up his hat and went out; there was a coach-house in Mulberry Street, and to this he made his way straight, and was greeted by a mournful-looking man, in boots with yellow tops.

"Duff," said Captain Weir, "I want a man to carry a message to the Brig Tavern, below Chester."

The mournful man shook his head.

"Riders are scarce. They can't be had for love nor money; even the mails are left uncarried. The sentries are very watchful on the roads; and more than one person has been fired upon trying to win by."

Captain Weir chinked some gold coins in his pocket; and a sandy, foxy youth, stretched out upon a feed-box, lifted his head.

"I never saw anything that wouldn't be ventured if the pay was heavy enough," said the captain. "Here you, sir, what's your price?"

The sandy youth grinned wisely, and puckered his narrow forehead.

"What'll you say to twenty gold dollars?" said he.

"I'll say it's a deal of money," said Captain Weir. "But, nevertheless, I'll pay it. Can you start at once?"

"In a half-hour," promised the sandy one, now briskly on his feet.

Captain Weir went into the coach-house and wrote his letter; when he came out with it in his hand he found a likely-looking horse ready saddled, and the man standing beside it.

"To be delivered to either of the two persons whose name is written here," said Weir. "And, now, all haste; your money will be waiting you when you return."

As the captain went back to the counting-house, the sky was becoming overcast; a trace of chilliness was in the air. Weir was not the only one to mark the change; for scores of lips muttered prayers that it might be the end of the summer's heat, that the chill in the air might lower the death-rate, that a frost might come whose touch would end the course of the plague. Toward nightfall the wind rose; rain began to fall. It was still falling and the wind was still blowing when Captain Weir started for his house in Shackamaxon; when he reached there a gale had set in; he could see the river creaming under its whip, and heard the hissing and complaining among chimney-pots and ships' rigging; the rain drove smartly before the wind in steadily increasing volume. Captain Weir threw off his cloak and boots; a servant had lighted a small fire in his sitting-room, and here a glass of brandy, hot and spiced, was given him; and he sat down and sipped it slowly.

His house was one of the period of George I, and excellently conceived; it stood on a knoll overlooking the river while behind it and to the south and north were green, level fields and clumps of spreading trees. Captain Weir's sitting-room was a comfortable place, high-ceilinged, with polished floor and broad, deep chairs; upon the walls were some prints that told of a taste in such things; a few pieces of Eastern bronze stood on a shelf between two windows.

In the sudden turn of the weather the fire was most desirable, and Captain Weir sat beside it and sipped at the glass of spiced brandy with appreciation. But all the time there was a frown upon his brow, the same that had come upon it at the visit of the two Bulfinches, and it was plain to see that his mind still remained fixed to the things the two had said and the things these sayings promised.

After a long time spent thinking, and sipping at his drink, the captain's supper was served in another room; this he ate in silence and slowly. Afterward a bottle of port was placed upon a small table at his elbow as he resumed his seat at the fire; he smoked a Spanish cheroot, and between-times let the fine, thick flavor of the wine rest upon his tongue. He smoked and drank and thought; then he arose, took a key from his pocket, and unlocked a cupboard. Inside was a chest, small, bound with copper, and riveted strongly; this was also unlocked, and from it he took a quantity of papers and a parchment-bound book. Drawing up a table to the fire he sat down to the papers and the book, an ink-pot and pen at hand; and after a long study of the papers, and a vast scribbling of figures upon the backs of old letters, he made a single entry in the book, which he at once closed and sat tapping while he looked, smiling quietly, into the fire. He remained this way for a long time; the clock, which had been ticking sturdily in one corner, now struck ten; he arose, put away the papers and the book, locked both the chest and the cupboard, and then fell to pacing the floor. The storm had increased in violence; the wind whistled keenly about the ends of the house; now and then it came plunging down the chimney, making the fire leap and roar; the rain, driven in sheets, streamed down the window-panes and fell from the eaves like a cascade. Suddenly through the sounds of the storm came a rhythmic beat; Captain Weir halted in his pacing and listened. The beat grew nearer; there was a sudden rush of iron-shod hoofs upon the stone pavement at his door, the voices of men, and then a loud and incessant _rat-tat-ing_ at the knocker. Weir smiled quietly and seemed well pleased; the front door opened and closed; and then his servant appeared.

"Two gentlemen, sir," said the man.

"Ask them to come in," said Weir.

In a moment Tarrant and Blake came into the room: their hats and cloaks streamed with water; their boots were splashed with mud. Motioning to the servant to take the dripping things from his visitors and draw chairs up to the fire, Captain Weir said:

"A blustering night to be out, gentlemen."

Tarrant regarded him with hostile eyes.

"We were snug enough at the Brig," said he, "and were content enough to stay there."

"I am sorry," said Weir quietly.

"The roads ran water enough to float a long-boat," said Blake.