He was scrimping in every way; his case was growing desperate. The
books, the pictures, the bric-a-brac so precious in his eyes, he was
loath to part with; moreover, he was well aware that if he were to
trundle his effects down to an auction-room they would not bring him
enough to cover his expenses for a single week. "Better to starve in the
midst of my household gods," thought he, "than to part with them for the
sake of prolonging this misery." The situation was in some respects
serio-comic. While he seemed to have everything, he really had almost
nothing; he was in a certain sense at the mercy of his friends and
dependent upon them.
As the dinner hour approached, Paul was called upon to make choice of
the character of his table-talk; there were several standing invitations
to dine at the houses of old friends, and these were a boon to him, for
at such houses the homeless fellow felt much at home. There were special
invitations, sometimes an embarrassing profusion of them--all kindly,
some persistent, and some even imperative; thus the dinner was a fixed
fact; the mood alone was to be consulted in his choice of a table and
after all how much of the success of a dinner depends upon the mood of
the diner!
Paul's income was uncertain; while he had written much, and traveled
much as a special correspondent, he had never regularly connected
himself with any journal, and he knew nothing of the routine of
office-work. Sometimes, I may say not infrequently, he could not write
at all; yet his pen was his only source of revenue, and often he was
without a copper to his credit. He was, therefore, constrained to dine
sumptuously with friends, when he would have found a solitary salad a
sweet alternative, and independence far more acceptable. The state of
the exchequer was very often alarming, and his predicament might have
cast a stronger man into the depths; but Paul could fast without
complaint, when necessary, for he had fasted often; and, to confess the
truth, he would much rather have fasted on and on, than parted with any
of the little souvenirs that made his surroundings charming in spite of
his privations. The friends who loved and fondled him were wont to send
messengers to his door with gifts of flowers, books, pictures and the
like, when soup-tickets would have been more serviceable, though by no
means more acceptable. It had happened to him more than once, that
having failed to break his fast--for he had a judicious horror of debt,
born of bitter experience--he received at a late hour as tokens of
sincere interest in his welfare, scarf pins, perfumery and scented soap;
or it may have been a silk handkerchief bearing the richly wrought
monogram of the happy but hungry recipient. At any rate these
testimonials of his popularity were never edible. Was this hard luck? He
went from one swell dinner to another, day after day, with never so much
as a crumb between meals. It of course made some difference to him--this
prolonged abstinence--but fortunately, or unfortunately, the effect upon
him mentally, morally and physically was hardly visible to the naked
eye.
He had a dress coat of the strictly correct type, which he had worn but
a few times; he had lectured in it; once or twice, he had recited poems
in it to the audiences of admiring lady friends. It was of no use to him
now, and he felt that he should never need it again. On the street below
him was a small shop, kept by the customary Israelite. Again and again,
Paul had noted the sun-faded frock-coat swinging from a hook over the
sidewalk in front of this shop; he had said, "I will take this coat to
him; it is a costly garment; divide the original price of it by the
number of times I have worn it and I find it has cost me about ten
dollars an evening. Perhaps this old-clothes dealer will pay me a fair
price for it; Jew though he be, he may be possessed of the heart of a
Christian!"
Alas and alack! All of Clitheroe's sufferings could be traced to the
cool, calculating hardness of the Christian's heart. Probably it was
prejudice alone that caused him to trust the Christian, and distrust the
Jew.
From day to day he passed the shop, striving to muster courage enough to
enter and propose his bargain. At first he had imagined the dealer
offering him but ten dollars for the coat--it had cost him a goodly sum;
a little later he concluded that ten dollars was too little for any one
to offer him; he might take twenty; a day later thirty seemed to him a
probable offer, and shortly after he imagined himself consenting to
receive fifty dollars, since the coat was in such admirable repair.
One day he took it to the dealer; he was not cordially welcomed by the
man in shirt sleeves, with whom of late he had held innumerable
imaginary conversations. The shop was extremely small and dark; the odor
of dead garments pervaded it. With an earnest and kindly glance, Paul
invited the sympathy of Abraham the son of Moses who was the son of
Isaac; he saw nothing but speculation in those eyes. His coat was
examined and tossed aside, as possessing few attractions. Clitheroe's
heart sunk within him; and it sank deeper and deeper as it began to
dawn upon him that the Hebrew had no wish to possess the garment, and,
if he did so, he did so only to oblige the Christian youth. A bargain
was at last struck; Paul departed with five dollars in his pocket--his
dress-coat was a thing of the past.
What could he do next to extricate himself from his dubious dilemma? He
had a small gold watch, a precious souvenir: "Gold is gold," said he,
"and worth its weight in gold." He had the address of one who was known
far and wide as "Uncle." He had heard of persons of the highest
respectability seeking this uncle when close pressed, and there finding
temporary relief at the hands of one who is in some respects a good
Samaritan in disguise. Paul found it absolutely impossible for him to
enter the not unattractive front of this establishment but there was a
"private entrance" in a small dark alley-way; so delicate is the
consideration of an uncle whose business it is to nourish those in
distress.
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.
* * * * *