Despair's Last Journey Part 31

'Oh,' said Claudia, 'it would be sweet to think you cared so much if I could only believe you.'

'Believe me? cried Paul. 'Oh, Claudia!'

And then he choked, and could say no more.

But Claudia, whose self-possession was less disturbed than his, heard a footstep on the staircase, and whispered an eager warning to him just in time. He shot back into his seat, and feigned to be busy with his accounts and his orderly little pile of money. Miss Belmont stooped at the table, and when Mr. Berry entered he found her initialling the pay-sheet. She looked up with a sweet smile, nodded a greeting to him, inspected the contents of the envelope, transferred them to her purse, and moved to the door; then she turned.

'Oh, Mr. Armstrong, would you mind taking the trouble to run down to my lodgings when you have got through with this? I have something very particular to ask you, if you don't mind. You know where I'm staying?

Thank you _so_ much. Good-afternoon.'

She was gone, and everything was gone. Paul made a mechanical effort to get through his business.

'I say, young Armstrong,' cried Mr. Berry, 'you're woolgathering; you've given me an extra fiver, or has old Darco found out what I'm worth at last?'

'My mistake,' said Paul; 'I don't know what I'm doing. I've got a beastly headache; I can't think or see.'

'Hair of the dog?' suggested Mr. Berry. 'Hi! Chips, old sonnie'--he was bawling down the staircase--' catch 'Oh, b.u.t.ter-fingers! There it is, just behind you. Half-a-crown. Just nip across, will you? Two Scotches and a split. Take a pull at your own tap while you're there, and look slippy. Armstrong, dear boy, you're looking very chalky. Don't overdo it, dear boy, whatever you do. In my youth I never did apply hot and rebellious liquors to the blood. I take to 'em very kindly now, but I never began till thirty. A man's a seasoned cask at thirty.'

Paul let him talk, and was glad enough not to be further noticed. He sat with his head in his hands and stared at the table, and tried to realize what life would be without Claudia. It looked wholly vacant and intolerable.

'Here you are,' said Mr. Berry, releasing the soda-water with a pop, and foaming the contents of the bottle into the gla.s.ses.

Paul groaned and drank, and by-and-by felt a little better. He would see Claudia, would decide on some scheme of action, however desperate, which would prevent him from wholly losing sight of her. He would release himself from his engagement with Darco. That made him feel like a hound, for who had been so good to him as Darco? Who had taken him out of hunger and trouble but Darco? He recalled himself characterless, despairing; he contrasted his old lot with the present. The change was all of Darco's working, and he had grown to love the man, and the man on his side had given proofs enough of liking. It looked like a black ingrat.i.tude to leave him. It was what it looked like--neither more nor less. But, then, Claudia, Claudia, Claudia! How could he live without Claudia?

He looked at things all round. He had a fixed position, which was so excellent that he could not hope to mend it for years to come if he left it now. He had a true friend whose friends.h.i.+p he might lose if he left him now. He had perhaps an open avenue to fame, and it would close if he retired from it, and might never open any more. All these things he counted clearly, and reckoned the world well lost for Claudia.

The afternoon work was over, the pay-sheet initialled from top to bottom, the accounts made up and balanced, and the change and papers locked up in Darco's cash-box. He was free to go to Claudia.

A fly carried him in ten minutes to her door, and she herself admitted him.

'Come in, Paul,' she said 'I have been thinking, and I want to speak to you very, very seriously.' She led him into her sitting-room.

'Miss Pounceby is out for the day, so that we shall have time to talk together.' Miss Pounceby was the _ingenue_, and she and Claudia lived together. 'Sit down, dear, and let me see if I can't bring you to reason.'

'You can't persuade me to lose you, Claudia,' said Paul gloomily. 'It isn't to be done; it isn't to be thought about.'

'Silly boy!' said Claudia, seating herself beside him, and taking his hand in both of hers, 'you know I love you like a sister.'

'I don't want a sister's love,' said Paul. 'I want you to marry me.'

'Why, Paul,' she answered, 'the world would laugh at me. You are only just one-and-twenty; I am four years older. That is ages, you know, and it is ages on the wrong side.'

'Why should we care about the world?' Paul asked. 'What has the world to do with us so long as we can be happy?'

'But I don't love you in that way, Paul,' said Claudia. She leaned forward and sideways, and looked gravely in his eyes. 'I love you very much, dear Paul--very, very much indeed--and I shall be grieved to lose you.'

'I shan't lose you,' said Paul. 'I have made my mind up.'

'You dear boy!' she said, and kissed him; but when he would have embraced her she drew back with a warning forefinger upraised. 'You must not presume upon my kindness, Paul; but I know that I can trust you.

I should not have asked you to meet me here if I had not been sure of that.'

'Claudia,' cried Paul, rising and pacing about the room, 'have some pity. I am not a child; I am a man. I can't bear this. You must be everything or you must be nothing.'

'Nothing, Paul?' said Claudia, with grave, accusing eyes and wounded face and voice. 'Nothing?'

It was exquisite practice, and she was a hundred times a better actress off the boards than on. Paul could appreciate her art at its full value in later years, but just now he found earnestness enough for two, and would have broken his heart outright if he had known how she was playing with him.

'Nothing or all,' he said. 'You treat me like a child, Claudia, but I am a man, if I _am_ only a little over one-and-twenty. I have a man's heart and a man's blood in my veins. No. Don't come near me yet; I want to be my own master.'

'Oh, Paul, dear!' said Claudia; 'you mustn't talk so I never thought you felt so deeply. How could I? Must it all be over, Paul? Are they all gone, dear--all the happy, peaceful, tranquil hours? Can't I give my little brother Paul a simple kiss without making such a tempest?'

'I have had no peaceful, tranquil hours,' cried Paul. 'Oh, Claudia!

Claudia!'

'Kiss and be friends, Paul,' said Claudia, and Paul was lured back to his absurd paradise, and fed on kisses and caresses which were sometimes suffered to reach the edge of ardour, and then skilfully chilled.

If feminine nine-and-twenty thinks it worth while to befool masculine one-and-twenty, and knows her business as well as Claudia knew it, the task is fairly easy. Claudia would not hear of Paul throwing away his prospects for so mad a purpose as to follow her to London. She covered her pretty ears with her ringed fingers when he talked of it, and positively refused to listen. But he must be rewarded for his devotion, too, and Claudia wished with all her heart that she could love Paul as he loved her. But it would be wicked to marry without a proper feeling for a husband, and Paul was her brother, her dear, dear younger brother, and to talk of marriage at their ages was such a folly. Wouldn't Paul always be her brother? And she laid her soft warm cheek against his and kissed his hand. What more could he ask for, silly boy? Wasn't that happiness enough for him if he really loved her? If he would be good, and promise never, never, never to be foolish again, and frighten Claudia with his anger--why _should_ he want to frighten his poor Claudia?--they might always love each other, and be, oh, so happy!

The programme thus presented was actually admitted at last to be reasonable--for the time being--and Paul was sent away with the tenderest farewells and a profound belief--for the time being--that Claudia was an angel.

'Whatever you do, dear,' she had said at parting, with her sisterly arms about his neck, 'you must not dream of following me to London. I could not bear to think that you had imperilled your prospects for my sake.'

'I care for nothing in the world but you,' said Paul.

He played honest coin against counters.

'It is sweet to hear you say so,' said the sisterly Claudia, and she was so touched by his devotion that she allowed him to kiss her almost as wildly as he wished to do.

An hour or two later Paul was in Darco's presence. He had a hang-dog look and felt ashamed, but he was resolute.

'I beg your pardon, sir,'he said, 'but it has become absolutely necessary that I should go to London.'

'Oh!' said Darco, 'is there anythings the madder? Ven do you want to co and for how lonk?'

'I must go at the end of next week,' Paul answered, not daring to look at him, 'and I must go for good.'

'I am baying you goot vages,' said Darco. 'You vill not get as goot vages. Vot is the madder?'

'It is no question of wages, sir,' returned Paul 'I had not thought of looking for another situation even, though I shall have to do so, of course. But it is absolutely essential that I should be in London. I hope you won't think that I am acting ungratefully. I feel as if I were, but it will be easy for you to fill my place, and I shall always remember how kind and generous you have been to me.'

'Now, loog you here,' said Darco; 'there is somethings the madder. I can see it in your vace. You dell me vod it is, and I will but it straight for you. I can see that somethings is the madder. I am not a fool. I am Cheorge Dargo. Now dell me.'

'I can't explain,' said Paul. 'I can only tell you that I have to go to London. I must go.'

'You vait there a liddle bid,' returned Darco. 'I am going to think.'

He rolled away, and Paul hoped he might think to little purpose, but in half an hour he was back again. His eyes snapped, but he was as cold as an iceberg. 'Ven do you vant to co?' he asked abruptly.

'As soon as you can spare me,' Paul answered.

'I can sbare you now,' said Darco. 'You are a pick-headed younk itiot, ant you can co at once. There is your zalary for next week. Goot-efening to you.'