Part 24

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.

XXXIV

To one who did not know Tom Horn very well, his manner and his occupations, after Anthony left the city, did not change. He still arose and was abroad while the dawn was touching the river and took his breakfast standing at the bar of the Boatswain-and-Call. Then through Water Street, freshly awakened; with a great copper key he'd open the counting-room door at Rufus Stevens' Sons; it was dusty and silent, for but a trickle of trade ran through it now; but Tom would gravely take off his coat and hang it away; then he'd put on a worn jacket, mount his high stool, and the day had begun.

But what was this scrawling of figures on bits of paper? What was this endless computing and calculating and balancing of facts? As the day wore on he would be surrounded by these fragments, each bearing a mysterious statement; and his mind seemed laboring with some dimly seen thing. He descended into vast pits of speculation and emerged with fresh figures to be worked into new results. But that was not all; in the midst of these calculations he'd be seized with fits of bodily activity; he'd get down from his stool, put on his coat and his tall, shabby hat, and hurry out, locking the door behind him. And these errands always had to do with wind and weather; ships and shipmen also took their places in his interests, as did tides and changes of the moon, and wrecks and loss, and bitter news. Steeped in these he'd hurry back to the silent counting-room; then more figures, more descents into the pit, more reveries, more striving toward the thing sensed so clearly but so dimly seen.

Of a night, after he had taken his supper and read the "Gazette" at the tavern, he'd make his way to Christopher Dent's; the two would sit with the window open and the evening air stirring in the room, and they'd talk.

"There is no thing so natural as a circle," said Tom Horn. "The world is shaped like one; it moves in one. Every finished movement is a circle. The tides of the sea move in a vast one."

"To the eye, at least, the sun and moon are round," agreed Christopher. "Though the stars, indeed, seem to depart from the rule, and have points."

"There are as many tides in the sea," said Tom Horn, "as there are winds. And the winds are countless." He drew his chair nearer the little apothecary, and his voice lowered. "There are waters," said he, with the strange, luminous look in his face, "that crawl through the sea like great serpents; they bend themselves across the world, and ring in hopeless things."

"I have beard tales of such," said Christopher, "but I have not been able to credit them. For how can one body of water move through another and keep its integrity?"

"They are like great serpents," maintained Tom Horn, "miles broad, and with the movements of the earth and moon behind them. Storms blow across these currents, but a storm's authority is only for a moment, and the current goes on; meeting others like it, they join, and so the sea is encircled. And in the center of this circle," said Tom Horn, "is a dead spot, like an ulcer, where all helpless things drift and stay--broken ships and broken men; there they lie, bleaching in the strange lights, and with silent death coming toward them out of the mist and darkness."

"That," said the little apothecary, "would be the Grassy Sea--the Sargasso, as the Spanish shipmen called it. I've heard it spoken of more than once. A strange place," and Christopher shook his head; "a queer, still place, I have no doubt; and they say few men who have seen it have lived to tell of it."

"The currents drag all things about with them which have not the service of the winds," said Tom Horn. "Around they go in the circle, around and around, all the time getting nearer and nearer to its inner edge; and then they drift into the dead spot, and the Sargasso has them for evermore."

"An unhappy fate," said Christopher. "A most unhappy one."

There was a silence; then Tom Horn put out his hand and touched the little apothecary on the knee.

"In mid-Atlantic," said he, "there are no reefs or bars; if a ship is stout and honest she does not readily sink in deep water."

"No," said Christopher, "she should not. There is reason in that."

"If a ship, known to be the work of steady, good artificers, is seen in great distress in mid-ocean," said Tom Horn, "in great distress, but most likely whole of hull, what warrant have we in afterwards thinking her at the bottom of the sea?"

"Why," said the apothecary, his eyes growing round, "I do not know. I have given such possibilities but little thought."

"As there were no rocks to dash her on, and no sands to trap her, reason says she might still be afloat," said Tom Horn. He seemed suddenly excited and got to his feet.

"An honest, good ship, mind you--and in mid-ocean! Who can be sure she'd foundered? With her timbers tight and her hatches down, who can be sure her cargo has been injured?" He took up his hat, and Christopher saw that his hand trembled as he did so. "I will be going," said Tom Horn; "it is past my bedtime, and there is a deal for me to do to-morrow. I have many figures to set down and much study to give them. Good night."

"Good night," said Christopher, rounder-eyed than ever. He followed Tom to the door, and watched him down Water Street. "Good night."

Christopher, after he'd seen the odd clerk out of sight, shut the door, and sat down. But he did not sit long; in a few moments he was up and pacing the floor in much agitation; then he busied himself with some formulas, ground many powders and weighed them in a tiny scale. But he could not take his mind from the surprising thought Tom Horn had planted there; and afterward, when he had gone to bed, he lay and counted the hours each time the clock struck them; at three he fell asleep, and dreamed of wondrous events, and happenings that made him marvel.

It was the middle of the morning when he left off his work, brushed his coat, went to the side door, and asked to see mademoiselle. And while he sat upon the edge of a chair, she upon a sofa before him, he told her, word for word, as well as he could remember, of what Tom Horn had said the night before.

"Too much heed can be given to such things," said Christopher; "for we all have our desires, and so may be led astray by speculations which have no substance. And, again, poor Tom, while a person of many rare qualities is--so it's thought--odd in his manner and in his thinking. So this may be a mad thing only. But it's kept with me all night long and has been at the elbow of my mind so far in the morning; and I thought it as well to speak to some one who I knew had interest in the matter."

There was a spot of color in each of the cheeks of mademoiselle; her eyes sparkled with eager excitement. She asked Christopher many questions; he answered as fully as he could; all the things the clerk had said, he repeated, but further than that he could not go.

"It may be his fancy, as I've said," he told mademoiselle. "I'd pin no faith to it that it carried any value."

"And why not?" asked the girl. "Why should you not? For me, I'd credit him with a deal of knowledge, a deal deeper than most. His mind is quite clear, for all his manner is odd, as the matters I've heard he's said to Anthony Stevens and the things he's pointed out have shown. He is the one among them all in the counting-room who had the keenness to see and the purpose to remember."

"It is so," said the little apothecary. "It is so, indeed. I had something of that in my mind, and it troubled me."

"I should like to speak with him," said mademoiselle. "It may be that with questioning he would say more."

"That's a thing that's easily put to the test," said Christopher. "He lives in Pump Court, but a step or so from this; and we shall go see him any time you wish."

"Thank you," said the girl. "If he returns to your shop in a night or two, send me word; if not, we shall go see him, as you say."

And so Christopher Dent went at once back to his apothecary shop, and in a much more peaceful state of mind.

XXXV

Anthony Stevens' journey across New Jersey was slow; the track he followed was through the pine barrens, dismal even in the flush of spring. The wheels of the wagon sank in the sand, and the span of stout horses sweated in their collars. Of an evening--the fourth since his start--he arrived at a small white town, standing sparsely upon the banks of a creek which let out into the bay. This was Barnegat; and here the young man bargained for transportation to his journey's end.

His goods were transferred to a flat-boat, and with the first peep of morning they were out of the creek; the patched sail filled, and the boat stood away for the long, low shore that faced them. The morning was still wet with mist when they grounded in a cove; across the meadows Anthony saw the blue-white of the dunes, and beyond them was the shine of the moving sea; thousands of migrating birds filled the sky, coming from the south, and hovered in twittering hordes over the wax-myrtle thickets; here and there a pair of black-ducks, delayed in their journey north, paddled about, feeding on the edge of the cove.

"There's the house you mean," said the boatman to Anthony.

It stood upon a dune and overlooked both the bay and the sea; it was low and strong and had small windows much like ships' dead-lights; the timbers plainly were parts of vessels, broken by the sea and cast ashore.

"'Twas built years ago by a man who lived by what he took out of the bay and what he found on the beach," the boatman told Anthony. "But it's seldom used now by any one; this beach is not much frequented; you'd go many a mile along it and never see a soul."

The man helped Anthony carry his provisions along what remained of a track across the meadows; then his bedding and blankets and other equipment followed. The door was fast only by a wooden latch; inside, the place resembled a ship's cabin; and after the boatman had gone Anthony opened the small, round windows and permitted the fresh sea air to blow through it; then he sat down upon a keg and looked around.

The timbers of the hut were massive, and had been hewn to fit; the crevices were overlapped outside by scantling; there were shelves over the windows and the door; in one corner was a rough cupboard, in another a bunk; and there were chairs and a table made up of materials cast up on the shore. A battered brass ship's lamp hung from the center of the ceiling by a chain. Through the open door he saw the dunes and the sea and the sky, like a picture set in a frame--the dunes with their sparse, strong grass, and mist-like blue that blurred the glare of the sun; the sea heaved, green and endless, breaking white upon the bars; the sky carried soft, floating draperies over its deep bosom, and, far out, stooped suddenly to meet the lifting waters.

Anthony cut some soft branches from a small cedar-tree which grew near the hut and fashioned himself a broom; with this he swept the walls and floor; then he unrolled his bedding and made up the bunk, sailor-fashion, stowed his salt beef and dried fish and fruit, his flour and beans and peas, and meal and tea; a well sunken from the top of a neighboring dune was cleaned and made sweet, the roof was seen to, to guard against possible rains. Then Anthony cleared the fireplace of the ash of an ancient fire, and laid some sticks for the building of a new one; he placed a thin array of books upon a shelf over a window, hung a fowling-piece and the pistol which Tom Horn had given him upon the wall; he saw to it that his powder was protected from the damp, and began to feel at home.

Toward evening he set out for a tramp on the beach; it was broad and steep; the broken waves would rush up the incline frothing, and then go swirling dangerously back. High on the horizon-line he saw some filled topsails; and to the northeast he saw a shoal which ran as far as his vision carried, and the hurrying waves broke over its bars in a cloud of mist.

"That," said Anthony, "must be the point Tom Horn spoke of. And I can see well how the 'white ghosts would move through the night when the winds blew.'"