Part 24

One night, it was late at night, Clitheroe stole guiltily in through the private entrance, and sought succor of his uncle: this was an unctuous uncle, who was as sympathetic and emotional as an undertaker. Paul exhibited his watch; not for worlds would he part with it forever; money he must have at once, and surely some good angel would come to his assistance before many days; this state of affairs could not exist much longer. Mine uncle examined the watch with kindly eyes; with a pathetic shake of his head, a pitiful lifting of his bushy eyebrows, a commiserating shrug of his fat shoulders, and a petulant pursing of his plump lips as much as to say, "Well, it is a pity, but we must make the best of it, you know"--he told Clitheroe he would advance him ten dollars on the watch. For this the boy was to pay one dollar per week, and in the end receive his watch, as good as new, for the sum of ten dollars, as originally advanced. Paul hesitated, but consented since he had no choice in the matter.

"What name?" asked the Uncle, benevolently.

"P. Clitheroe," said Paul under his breath, as if he feared the whole world might know of his disgrace; he looked upon this transaction as nothing short of disgrace, and he wished to keep it a profound secret.

"Oh, yes; I know the name very well. Well, Mr. Clitheroe, here is your ticket; take good care of it; and here is your money--you will always pay your money in advance, and weekly, until you redeem your pledge. I deduct the dollar for the first week."

Clitheroe took the proffered money, and withdrew. To his surprise and chagrin he found himself possessed of but nine dollars. "It will not go far," thought he with a heavy sigh; "and where is the dollar to come from? I don't see that I have gained much by this exchange."

What he gained was this: for fifteen weeks he managed by the strictest economy to pay his dollar. At the end of that time, he no longer found it possible to even pay a dollar and the affair with the Uncle ended with his having lost, not only his watch, but sixteen dollars into the bargain.

* * * * *

A month has passed: the sun is streaming through the tall narrow windows of a small chapel; the air is flooded with the music that floats from the organ loft, the solemn strains of a requiem chanted by sweet boy-voices; clouds of fragrant incense half obscure the altar, where the priest in black vestments is offering the solemn sacrifice of the Mass for the repose of the soul of one whom Paul had loved dearly ever since he was a child. There is one chief mourner kneeling before the altar--it is Paul Clitheroe.

When the Mass is over, while the exquisite silence of the place is broken only by the occasional note of some bird lodging in the branches of the trees without, Paul lingers in profound meditation. He is not at all the Paul whom we knew but a few months ago; through some mysterious influence he seems to have cast off his careless youth, and to have become a grave and thoughtful man.

From the chapel he wanders into the quiet library on the opposite side of a cloister, where the flowers grow in tangle, and a fountain splashes musically night and day, and the birds build and the bees swarm among the blossoms. Now we see him chatting with the Fathers as they stroll up and down in the sunshine; now musing over the graves of the Franciscan Friars who founded the early missions on the Coast; now dreaming in the ruins of the orchard--wandering always apart from the novices and the scholastics, who sometimes regard him curiously as if he were not wholly human but a kind of shadow haunting the place.

His heart grew warm and mellow as he sat by the adobe wall under the red-baked Spanish tiles, richly mossed with age, and contemplated the statue of the Madonna in the trellised shrine overgrown with passion flowers. There were votive offerings of flowers at her feet, and he laid his tribute there from day to day. Neither did he neglect to pay his visit to the shrine of St. Joseph, in the cloister, or St. Anthony of Padua, whom he loved best of all, and whose statue stood under the willows by the great pool of gold fish.

He used to count the hours and the quarter hours as they chimed in the belfry and he was beginning to grow fond of the inexorable routine and to find it passing sweet and restful.

He was unconsciously falling into a mode of life such as he had never known before, and he seemed to feel a growing repugnance to the world without him; how very far away it seemed now! He realized an increasing sense of security so long as he lodged within those gates. His dark robed companions, the amiable Fathers, cheered him, comforted him, strengthened him; and yet when his ghostly father one day sent word to Clitheroe that he desired to see him immediately, and thereupon insisted that the heart-broken boy accompany him to the retreat of his Order, he had no thought other than to offer Paul the change of scene which alone might help to tide the youth over the first crushing pangs of bereavement.

"Give me a week or two of your time," pleaded the good priest--"and I will introduce you to a course of life such as you have never known; it should interest and perhaps benefit you; possibly you may find it delightful. At any rate you must be hastened out of the morbid mood which now possesses you, even if we have to drag you by force."

So Paul went with him, suddenly and in a kind of desperation: his visit was prolonged from day to day, until some weeks had passed. Peace was returning to him--peace such as he had never known before.

* * * * *

Meanwhile certain of the young poet's friends had called to see him at the Eyrie, and to their amazement found his rooms deserted; in the staring bay window with the inner blinds thrown wide open was notice "To Let." His landlady knew nothing of his whereabouts. He had said good-bye to no one. His disappearance was perhaps the most mysterious of mysterious disappearances!

* * * * *

Now, what really happened was this. Having packed everything he valued and seen it safely stored, he settled with his landlady and went down to the Club. It was his P.P.C., though no one there suspected it, and with just a touch of sentiment--he walked through the rooms alone; he saw at a glance that the usual habitues of the place were employing themselves in the same old way. Though he had not been there often of late, no one seemed much surprised to see him; he passed through the suite of rooms without addressing himself to any one in particular; a glance of recognition here and there; a smile, a slight nod, now and again, this was all. Having made the rounds he returned to the cloak-room, took his hat and cane and departed.

From that hour dated his disappearance. From that hour the Eyrie saw him no more forever.

* * * * *

IV.

BY THE WORLD FORGOT

For a long while he had been listening to the moan of the sea--the wail and the warning that rise from every reef in that wild waste of waters. There was no moon, but the large stars cast each a wake upon the wave, and the distant surf-lines were faintly illuminated by a phosphorescent glow.

There were reefs on every hand, and treacherous currents that would have imperilled the ribs of any craft depending on the winds alone for its salvation; but the "Waring," its pulse of steam throbbing with a slow measured beat, picked its way in the glimmering night with a confidence that made light of dangers past, present, and to come.

It had struck eight-bells forward; midnight; the air was warm, moist, caressing; it stole forth from invisible but not far distant vales ladened with the unmistakable odor of the land--a fragrance that was at times faint enough, but at other times was almost overwhelming; from the heart of the tropics only, is such perfume distilled; few who inhale it for the first time can resist its subtle charm; its influence once yielded to, the soul is soon enslaved and the dreams that follow are never to be forgotten.

Eight-bells, and silence broken only by the swish of the propeller as it ploughed slowly, deliberately, through the sea; the slap of the ripples under the prow, and an occasional harp-like sigh of the zephyr in the softly-vibrating shrouds; Paul Clitheroe had stolen out of the cabin and was sitting by the companion-way on the port side. A small ladder still hung there, for there had been boating and bathing just before dinner, and there was sure to be more or less fishing whenever the weather was favorable. Moreover, it must be acknowledged that the yacht was liberty-hall afloat, yes, adrift, on a go-as-you-please cruise, and things were not always in ship-shape.

An old half-breed Trader, who knew these seas as the star-gazer knows the skies, was in the wheelhouse; every wakeful eye among officers and crew, was at the prow peering into the depth in search of danger-signals; every ear was listening intently for an order from the lips of the pilot, and for the first whisper of the wave upon the reef. Meanwhile the vessel crept forward with utmost caution, barely ruffling the water under her keel.