Lucius Davoren, Volume II by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

The thought of this conversation with Mr. Sivewright followed Lucius all through the day's work. He meditated upon it in the intervals of his toil, and that meditation only tended to confirm him in his opinion as to the lonely old man. Soured and embittered by his son's ingratitude, Homer Sivewright had consoled himself by the indulgence of that passion which is of all passions the most absorbing-the greed of gain. As he beheld his profits accumulate he became more and more parsimonious; surrendered without regret the pleasures for which he had no taste; and having learned in his poverty to live a life of hardship and deprivation, was contented to do without luxuries and even comforts which had never become necessary to his existence. Thus the sole delight of his days had been the accumulation of money, and who could tell how far the usurer's exorbitant profits had gone to swell the tradesman's honest gains? The art collection might have been little more than a cover for the money-lender's less reputable commerce.

Thus reasoned Lucius. He returned to Cedar House at about five in the afternoon, having dined hastily at a coffee-house in the Shadrack-road, in the midst of his day's work.

He found the table in the spacious old parlour laid for tea, and drawn into one of the open windows. Lucille had contrived, even with her small means, to give a look of grace to the humble meal. There were a few freshly-cut flowers in a Venetian goblet, and some fruit in an old Derby dish; the brown loaf and butter and glass jar of marmalade had a fresher and daintier look than anything Mrs. Babb the charwoman ever set before her master. Lucius thought of the fair surroundings that wealth could buy for the girl he loved; thought how easy their lives would be if he were only rich enough to give her the home he dreamed of, if there were no question of waiting and patience. True that he might give her some kind of home-a home in the Shadrack district-at once, but was it such a shelter as he would care to offer to his fair young bride? Would it not be a dreary beginning of wedded life?

Yes, Mr. Sivewright's hoarded wealth might give them much, but could he, Lucius, as an honest man, feel any satisfaction in the possession of a fortune gained in such crooked ways as the miser treads in his ruthless pursuit of gold? He tried to put all thought of that possible wealth out of his mind. That way lay temptation, perhaps dishonour; for in his mind it was impossible to disassociate the miser's wealth from the means by which it had been amassed.

Lucille had the same pale troubled look which had alarmed him on the previous evening, but this he ascribed to a natural anxiety about her grandfather. He did his best to cheer her, as they drank tea together at the little table by the open window, ministered to by the devoted Wincher, whose bonnet hovered about them throughout the simple meal.

‘She's fidgety about the old gentleman, poor child,' said Mrs. Wincher. ‘I'm sure she's been up and down that blessed old staircase twenty times to-day, that restless she couldn't settle to nothink. And he is a bit cranky I'll allow, not knowing his own mind about anythink, and grumbling about as beautiful a basin of broth as was ever sent up to a ninvalid. But sickness is sickness, as I tell our missy, and she mustn't be surprised if sick folks is contrairy.'

When Mrs. Wincher had departed with the teatray, Lucius told Lucille of the search he had undertaken for Mr. Sivewright.

‘My grandfather told me about it,' she said. ‘I am to show you the cabinet in the loft. He would have sent me up to fetch the papers alone, he said, only there is so much lumber crowded together that he doubted if I should be able to get at the cabinet. We had better go at once before the light begins to fade, for it is rather dark up there.'

‘I am ready, dear.'

Lucille produced a great bunch of rusty keys from the desk at which Mr. Sivewright had been wont to transact the mysterious business of his retirement, and they went up the old staircase side by side in the afternoon sunlight, which had not yet begun to wane. The wide corridor which led to the invalid's room, with the doors of other rooms on either side of it, was familiar enough to Lucius; but he had never yet ascended above this story, and Lucille had told him that the upper floor was a barren desert-the undisputed territory of mice and spiders. She unlocked a door which opened on a narrow flight of stairs-the steep steps worn by the tread of departed generations, and of various levels. This staircase brought them to the topmost story, above which rose the loft they had to explore. The ceiling of the landing on this upper floor was low, blotched and swollen here and there with the rain of many a winter, the dilapidated roof being in some parts little better than a filter. There were curious old panelled doors on either side of this landing, which was lighted by one melancholy window, across whose narrow panes the spider had woven her cloudy tapestries.

‘Are all those rooms empty? ' asked Lucius, looking at the numerous doors.

‘Yes,' answered Lucille hurriedly. ‘My grandfather fancied the floors unsafe, and would put nothing into them. Besides, he had room enough down-stairs. The things he has stowed away in the roof are things upon which he sets no value-mere rubbish which almost any one else would have given away. Come, Lucius.'

There was a steep little staircase leading up to the loft, only one degree better than a ladder. This they mounted cautiously in semi-darkness, and then Lucius found himself in a vast substantially floored chamber, just high enough in the clear to admit of his standing upright, and amidst a forest of massive beams leaning this way and that, evidently the roof of a house built to defy the grim destroyer Time.