CHAPTER XLI
UNFORGOT
The sharp sense of imminence which had come to Barbara with AustenWare's gift remained with her that evening. The dinner was none toomerry. For the first time Patricia had failed to be enthused over theNikko _matsuri_, and the bishop, since Haru's disappearance, had lackedhis usual sallies. Barbara had told him nothing of her visit to thehouse in the Street-of-the-Misty-Valley; to speak of it would probe herown wound too deeply.
The after-dinner piazza exhaled the bouquet of evening cigars and thechatter of tourists. Far below, across the gorge, lights twinkled innative doorways and _shoji_ glimmered like oblong yellow lanterns. Theair was heavy with balsam odors, and beneath the trees, sparkling nowwith incandescents, tiny black moths had replaced the sunlight flashingdragon-flies. Sitting in a semicircle on straw mats the _samisen_players at length mingled their _outre_, twittering cadences with thesoft thunder of the water.
As the musicians finished their last number and trooped away, Patriciayawned and rose. "Here," she observed, "is where little Patsy puts herface and hands to bed. This mountain air is perfectly demoralizing!" Thetwo girls went up-stairs together.
At her own room Patsy put her arms around the other and kissed her. "Oh,I wonder if you're _sure_!" she said. Then she fled inside.
Barbara threw open the window of her room and drew a low stool to thebalcony. "I wonder!" she said aloud. With elbows on the railing and chinin hands, she looked long and earnestly into the dark void. Why was sheno longer able to warm to all this beauty and meaning? These cryptomeriashadows, dreaming of the faded splendors of a feudal past--the streetsalong which legions of pilgrims had walked muttering prayers to theirgods--the marvelous lacquered temples of red and gold, wrought bypatient love of long dead yesterdays, in handiwork to which time hadgiven a softened glory such as those who dreamed them never saw--theheavenly soaring of pagoda doves against the peach-blow sky--the shrinesworn with their centuries of worship and dancing and booming bells!Forgetting--and remembering no more--would that be a soul-task too hardfor her? Was all that had been instinct with wonder and joy to behenceforth but emptiness and desolation--because an ideal had gone fromher for ever? She thought of the belled and rosaried pilgrims climbingNantai-Zan. She seemed to see the faint, far glimmer of their lanterns.Beyond that pilgrimage over dark crags and grim precipices lay for themthe sunrise of hope!
In the room behind her hung one of the famous prints of Hiroshige, thegreat Japanese master--a group of peasants crossing the long skeletonbridge of Enoshima. She thought of this now, and suddenly all the spothad meant to her welled over her. She saw again the enchantedIsland--the long shaded stairways of gray stone, the brown-legged girlsgathering seaweed, and beyond the old seawall the gulls calling to theirmates. She saw the generations of lovers pass one by one beforeBen-ten's altar, murmuring their hearts' desire. Daunt's arms seemed tobe again around her. She felt his kisses, heard his voice as they walkedunder the singing trees--walked and dreamed and forgot that pain wasever born into the world.
She started. A horse was coming up the hill, his hoofs thudding softlyin the loose shale. The rider dismounted at the porch. A moment later,crop in hand, he passed beneath her window. The light fell on his face.Barbara's heart bounded and then stood still, for she recognized him.
"There has never been another woman to me, Barbara!" Mocking voicesseemed to shout it satirically from the emptiness, and against the darkHaru's face rose up before her.
She shivered. She went in and closed the window, drawing down the blindwith a nervous haste.
But she could not shut out that face, and in spite of herself herthoughts had their will with her. What was Daunt doing there? Patsy hadsaid that he was in Chuzenji. But that was only a handful of miles away.He looked worn and older--he had been suffering, too! She hugged thisknowledge to her heart. He knew, of course, why she had ended itall--_Haru would have told him_!
She clenched her hands and began to pace up and down the room, nowstopping to peer with bright miserable eyes into the mirror, nowthrowing herself into a chair. Once she put her hand into her bosom,groping for her father's picture--to withdraw it with an added pang. Forshe had forgotten; she had lost the locket the afternoon of her drivewith Patricia.
A knock came at the door, and a bell-boy handed her a penciled note.
She read it wonderingly, then, hastily smoothing her hair, went quicklyalong the hall to the sitting-room.
In the dimly lighted room a figure came toward her from the shadow. Itwas Philip Ware.