In The Footprints Of The Padres Part 16

When the Ma.s.s 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 suns.h.i.+ne; 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 pa.s.sion 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 pa.s.sing 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 c.l.i.theroe 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 crus.h.i.+ng 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 pa.s.sed. 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 pa.s.sed 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 phosph.o.r.escent 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 c.l.i.theroe 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 fis.h.i.+ng 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 s.h.i.+p-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.

_One Bell! Two Bells!_ c.l.i.theroe had for a long time been sitting un.o.bserved by the companion-way. He had dined with a riotous company and withdrew as soon after dinner as possible; this privilege was freely accorded him, for he was at intervals gloomy, or silent, and his companions were quite willing to dispense with his society. Hilarity had ceased for the night, the fact was patent. The truth is, there was apt to be something too much of it aboard that s.h.i.+p. When a young gentleman, on the death of a distant relative, comes suddenly into an almost fabulous fortune, he is apt to set about doing that which pleases him best; in all probability he overdoes it. If he be fond of any society and is willing to pay for the purchase of it, he will find no difficulty in supplying himself, even to the verge of satiety.

A certain gentleman who shall be nameless in these pages but who came to be known among his followers as _The Commodore_, finding himself heir to a fortune, chartered a yacht for a summer cruise, and invited his friends to join him. The yacht had been for some weeks the scene of unceasing festivity; the joyous party on board her had pa.s.sed from island to island, the feted guests of Kings and Queens and dusky Chiefs; feasting, dancing, and the exchange of gifts--these were the order of entertainment night and day.

It was a novel life for most who were on board, filled with adventure and spectacular surprises. The Commodore's hospitality was boundless; the appet.i.tes of his guests insatiable. But c.l.i.theroe had seen all this from quite another point of view; he had been a native among the natives; admitted into brotherhood with the tribe, he had lived the life they lead until it had become as natural to him as if he had been born to it. Their thoughts were his thoughts, their tongue, his tongue. He was thinking of this as he sat by the companion-way, in the silence, un.o.bserved.

_Three Bells!_ He rose and going to the open transom, looked down into the cabin. The long dinner table had been relieved of dessert-dishes, but the after-dinner bottles were there in profusion, and cigar-boxes and cigarettes within convenient reach; it was an odd scene; a picture of confusion in a dead calm. The lights were burning low and there was no sound save the hoa.r.s.e breathing of some of the revelers who had subsided into uncomfortable positions and were too heavy with sleep to seek easier ones. c.l.i.theroe saw at the head of the table the Commodore, stretched back in his easy chair; he was fast asleep; there was no doubt about that. His guests one and all were dozing. The drowsy stupor that follows a debauch pervaded the whole company. I venture the a.s.surance that not one person present could have been aroused in season to save himself or herself had the s.h.i.+p at that moment struck a reef, and foundered.

There they were, dimly outlined under the cabin-lamps, the companions with whom for a season c.l.i.theroe had been more or less intimately a.s.sociated in the Misty City; the Bohemians who had found it an easy and pleasant thing to flock upon the deck of the "_Waring_," one foggy afternoon, and set sail on a summer cruise. The Commodore invited them for his entertainment, and because he was a mighty good fellow and could afford to. They went for a change of air and scene, in search of adventure--and moreover they were sure of luxurious hospitality for at least six months. c.l.i.theroe joined the company, not only for the reason that there seemed nothing else for him to do, but he was glad of the opportunity of revisiting a quarter of the globe so very dear to him.

This voyage, he thought, might re-awaken his interest in life; at any rate, he could lose nothing by taking it, and that settled the question for him.

The singers, the dancers, the painters and poets made life very lively in that summer sea; it was a case of sweet idleness with wine, women and wits, and all the world before them where to choose. It must be confessed that c.l.i.theroe had enjoyed himself in the society of these old comrades--you would recognize most of them were he to name them; but tonight, or rather this early morning he had begun to moralize, as he peered down the transom upon the half-shadowy forms of those feasters who had fallen by the way. He was asking himself if it paid--this high-pressure happiness that knew no respite save temporary insensibility? He began to think that it did not, and with a shrug of his shoulders and a faint sigh, he turned away. He was about to resume his solitary watch, for he could not sleep on such a night, when his eye was attracted by a flitting shadow weaving to and fro astern; it seemed to be soaring upon the face of the waters; was it some broad-winged sea-bird following in their wake? He watched it as it drew near, growing larger and larger every moment. No! it was not a bird; but it was the next thing to one.

Out of the darkness was evolved the slender hull of a canoe, the wide, many ribbed sail, and the dusky forms of three naked islanders. They had not yet taken note of him; with a sudden impulse, he stole up to the transom, and standing over it so that the lights from the cabin-lamps shone full upon him, he waved a signal to the savages, enjoining silence, and bidding them approach with caution.

In a few moments they had wafted themselves noiselessly up under the companion ladder, and there, with suppressed excitement, he was recognized. Old friends these, pals in the past, young chiefs from an island he had loved and mourned.

There was a moment of pa.s.sionate greeting, and but a moment, in the silence under the stars, then, with a sudden resolve, and with never a glance backward, c.l.i.theroe, descending the ladder, entered the canoe and it swung off into the night.

Two hours later, the "_Waring_," having run clear of the labyrinthine reefs, steamed up and was out of sight before daybreak.

"_And what is left? Dust and Ash and a Tale--or not even a Tale_!"

MARCUS AURELIUS.