He shone on the far side of the eastern azure hills and set all the tree
tops in the wood beyond the wold aflame; he looked over the silhouette
out of a cloudless sky upon a Bay whose breadth and beauty is one of the
seven hundred wonders of the world; he paved the waves with gold, a path
celestial that angels might not fear to tread. He touched the heights of
the Misty City and the sea-fog that had walled it in through the night
as with walls of unquarried marble--albeit the eaves had dripped in the
darkness as after a summer shower--and anon the opaque vapors dissolved
and fled away. There she lay, the Misty City, in all her wasted and
scattered beauty; she might have been a picture for Poets to dream on
and Artists to love--their wonder and their despair--but she is not; she
is hideous to look upon save in the sunset or the after-glow when you
cannot see her, but only the dim vision of what she might have been.
He rose as a God refreshed with sleep and called the weary to their
work, and disturbed the slumbers of those that toil not and spin not,
and have nothing to do but sleep.
There were no secrets from him now; every detail was discovered; and so
having gilded for a moment the mossy shingles of the Eyrie he stole into
the room where Paul Clitheroe passed most of his waking hours, and
through the curtain of ivy and geraniums that screened the conservatory
from the eyes of the curious world, and where Paul was at this moment
sleeping the sleep of the just. From the bed of the ravine below the
Eyrie rose the rumble and roar of traffic. The hours passed by. The
sleeper began to turn uneasily on his pillow. The sound of hurrying feet
was heard upon the board walks in front of the Eyrie-cliff; many voices,
youthful voices, swelled the chorus that told of the regiments of
children now hastening to school. From dreamland Paul returned by easy
stages to the work-a-day world. He arose, donned a trailing garment with
angel sleeves and a large crucifix embroidered in scarlet upon the
breast--that robe made of him a cross between a Monk and a
Marchioness--slipped his feet into sandals and entered the larger
chamber which was at once living-room and library. He opened the
shutters in the deep bay window and greeted the day with the silent
solemnity of a fire-worshipper; gave drink to his potted palms and ferns
and flowering plants; let his eye wander leisurely over the titles of
his books; lingered a little while over his favorites and patted some of
them fondly on the back. Taking a small key from its nail by the door he
opened the mail box without, carrying his letters to his writing table
and leaving them there unopened. He loved to speculate as to whom the
writers were and what they may have said to him. This piqued his
curiosity, and tided him over a scant breakfast at an inexpensive but
fly-blown restaurant where he was wont to eat or make a more or less
brave effort to eat whenever he had the wherewithal to settle for the
same. Breakfast over and gone the young man returned to his Eyrie, and
in due course was at his writing table, and at work upon the weekly
article that had been appearing in the Sunday issue of one of the
popular Dailies for an indefinite period, and the price of which had on
several occasions kept him from becoming a conspicuous object of
charity.
Having written himself out for the day, as he was apt to in a few hours,
he wandered down to the Club for a bit of refreshment which was sure to
be forthcoming, for his friends there were ever ready to dine him, or
more frequently to wine him, merely for the pleasure of his company.
[Illustration: San Francisco in 1856]
So the afternoon waned and the dinner hour approached; fortunately this
hour was usually bespoken and for a little while at least he was lapped
in luxury. On his way home he was very apt to turn in at the wicker
gates of a typical German Rathskellar where he was unmolested; where the
blustering pipes of a colossal orchestrion brayed through an aria from
Trovatore with more sound than sentiment and all unmindful of
modulation.
He was at home by midnight, for the beer and the bravura ceased to flow
at the witching hour. Then he lounged in the easy chair, gradually and
not unconsciously shedding all the worldly influences that had been
clothing him as with a hair-shirt even since he first went forth that
morning. Safely he sank into the silence of the place. Every breath he
drew was balm; every moment healing. So he passed into the silence,
enfolded by invisible arms that led him gently to his pillow where he
sank to sleep with the trustful resignation of a tired babe.
If this routine was ever varied it was a variation with a vengeance.
"From grave to gay, from lively to severe" might have been engraved upon
his escutcheon. It chanced that the family motto was Festina Lente; this
also was appropriate; had he not all his life made haste slowly? For
this very reason he had been accounted one of the laziest of his kind;
his indolence was a byword merely because he did not throw himself into
an easy chair at the Club, of an evening, and bewail his fate; because
he did not puff and blow and talk often of the work he had
accomplished, was accomplishing, or hastening forward to accomplishment.
With all his faults, thank heaven, that sin cannot be charged against
him.