CHAPTER XLVII
"IF THIS BE FORGETTING"
The sailing-master of the yacht _Barbara_, with his mate and crony, satin the main saloon, whiling away a tedious hour.
The room bore all the earmarks of "a rich man's plaything." It wastastefully and luxuriously furnished. The upholstery was of dark greenbrocade, thin Persian prayer-rugs were on the hardwood floor, andelectric bulbs in clusters were set in silver sconces, which swung witha long, slow motion as the yacht rocked to the deepening respiration ofthe sea. At one side a small square table held the remains of acomfortable refection, and by it, on a stand, sat a phonograph withwhich the two men had been gloomily diverting themselves.
But though the _repertoire_ of the instrument was extended, it hadbrought little satisfaction to-night. The last irksome fortnight ofinactivity had made each selection trite and familiar. Moreover, thecaptain's spirits were not of the best. The abrupt change of ownership,followed hard by the death of the yacht's former master, was a_bouleversement_ that had confused his automatic temperament, and thesight of the double-locked cabin-door in the saloon was a dailydepressant. He had never seen the yacht's new owner, though she hadwritten him that he might expect her at any time, and the enigma of afuture under a woman's orders troubled his sturdy and unimaginativemind.
"Wish to the Lord she'd come, if she's ever coming!" he muttered, as thephonograph ran down with a wheeze. "This is two days I've kept thedinghy lying at the _hatoba_."
The mate nodded. It was not the first time the remark had been made. "Iwonder why she ordered his cabin door kept locked?" he said.
"Papers," returned the captain sapiently. "Wants to seal 'em up for theexecutor. New owner must be rich, I guess. I'd like to know what shepaid for the outfit. First time I ever signed under a new skipper sightunseen!"
"Miss Barbara Fairfax," mused the mate. "Nice name. Curious only onepiece of mail should come for her--and second class, too." He picked upa thin package from the table, folded in dark paper. This had been madesodden by the rain; now it parted and a flat, black disk of hard rubberslipped from it and rolled across the floor.
"Blamed if it isn't a phonograph record," he said, as he picked it up."It's out of the wrapper now--let's try it." He set it in place andrewound the spring, and the saloon filled with a chorus of chirps andtinklings from quivering catgut smitten by ivory plectrums.
"_Samisen!_" said the captain. "I've heard 'em in the tea-houses. Giveme a fiddle for mine, any day."
The yacht's cabin-boy entered. "The dinghy's coming, sir," he said."Lady and gentleman aboard of her."
The captain got up hastily, put out a hand and stopped the machine."Take away those dishes, and be quick about it," he ordered. "Mr.Rogers, pipe up the men."
He hurried on deck and watched the bobbing craft approach. Under therising wind the sea was lifting rapidly and the dinghy buried its nosein the spray. Presently he was giving a helping hand to the visitors atthe break in the rail, looking into a pair of brown eyes that he thoughtwere the saddest he had ever seen, and replying to a voice that wassaying:
"I am Miss Fairfax, Captain Hart, and this is my uncle, BishopRandolph."
* * * * *
The train which brought Barbara and the bishop from Tokyo had crawledfor miles along what seemed a narrow ribbon laid on a yellow floor. Thesteady, continuous downpour had flooded the rice-fields and thelandscape was a waste of turbid freshet, the rivers deep and swollentorrents. At one bridge a small army of workmen were dumping loads ofstone about a pier-head and shoring-up the track with heavy timbers. Thetrain crossed this at a snail's pace, that inspired anxiety.
"I'm not an engineer," the bishop had said, "but I prophesy this bridgewon't be safe to-morrow unless the water falls."
The early daylight dinner at the hotel had been well nigh a silentceremonial. That day, with the temple solitary, Barbara had gone downinto a deeper Valley of Shadow. Just as her longing to go to him in hertrouble had seemed to her overwrought, so now her grief was strangelypoignant. When she thought of him her mind was a confusion of tremuloushalf-thoughts and new emotions. She could not know that the voice shedimly heard was the call of blood--that she was in the grip of thatmighty instinct of filiation which strengthens the life-currents of theworld. Her grief--mysterious because its springs were haunting andunknown--added its aching pang now to the misery that had encompassedher. She had felt the fierce bounding of the stout little boat, thegusts of windy spray that flew over them, with a tinge of relief, sincethe buffeting made the inner pain less keen.
As she stood at length, with her task, in the cabin whose door had beenso long locked, she remembered the white-robed priests of Kudan Hill,stalking barefooted across the hot coals. Her soul, she thought, musttread a fiery path on which rested no miracle of painlessness, and whichhad no end. Above her she could hear the irregular footfalls of thebishop on the tilting deck, and the shrill humming of the wind in theventilators. It seemed to be mocking her. Before the world she wasliving a painful pretense. Even her uncle believed her to be grievingfor the man whose life had gone out that night at Nikko!
When all had been done and the papers sealed in a portmanteau fordelivery to the Consul-General, Barbara came into the brilliant saloon.The yacht was pitching heavily and she could stand with difficulty.Steadying herself against the table, she saw the empty wrapper addressedto herself. It bore a Nikko postmark. Who could have sent it here? Asshe stood holding the paper in her hand, the bishop entered.
"Captain Hart thinks we would better stay aboard to-night, Barbara," hesaid. "There is a nasty sea and we should be sure of a drenching in thedinghy. We have no change of clothing, you know."
"You will be quite comfortable, Miss Fairfax," the captain's voice spokedeferentially from the doorway. "The guest-rooms are always kept ready."
"Very well," she said, a little wearily. "That will be best, no doubt."She held up the torn wrapper. "What was in this, I wonder?"
The captain confessed his indiscretion with embarrassment, and sheabsolved him with a smile that covered a sharper pang than she had yetfelt that evening. For that thin disk had been on the hillside thatNikko night--perhaps had heard that quarrel, had seen that blow, hadwatched a man crawling, staggering foot by foot, till he collapsedagainst the frame that held it! By what strange chance had it been sentto her here?
Her uncle bade her good night presently, being an indifferent sailor,and betook himself to bed. The room that had been prepared for heropened into the saloon. She was too restless to retire, and after a timeshe climbed up the companion-way to the windy deck.
The vaulted sapphire of the sky had been swept clean of cloud and thestars sparkled whitely. Off at one side, a flock of sinister shadows,she could make out the Squadron of battle-ships, and beyond, in acurving line, the twinkling lights of the Bund. Could it ever again beto her that magical shore she had first seen from a ship's deck, withhills which the cherry-trees made fairy tapestries of green-rose, andmountains creased of purple velvet and veined with gold? The great whitephantom lifting above them--would it henceforth be but a bulk of ice andstone, no longer the shrine of the Goddess-of-Radiant-Flower-Bloom? Thesky--would it ever again seem the same violet arch that had bent over aTokyo garden of musk flowers and moonlight? Would the world never seembeautiful to her again?
All about her the foam-stippled water glowed with points ofphosphorescence, as though a thousand ghostly lanterns were afloat. Itmade her think of the festival of the _Bon_, of which Thorn had toldher, when the _Shoryo-bune_--the boats of the departed spirits--inlambent flotillas, go glimpsing down to the sea. How unbelievable thatshe should never see him again! She felt a sudden envy of the placidmillions encircling her to whose faith no life was ever lost, whoseloved ones were ever coming back in the perennial cherry-blooms, themaple-leaves, the whispering pines.
Her love would come back to her only in bitter memories, in painfulthoughts that would shame and
burn. All else beside, she had been AustenWare's promised wife. How could she still feel love for the man who hadcaused his death? Yet--if she must--if she could never tear that imagefrom her breast!
Like the reflection of a camera-obscura, memory painted a sudden pictureon the void; she saw herself sitting amid the branches of a tulip-tree,while some one sang--a song the wind was humming in the cordage:
"Forgotten you? Well, if forgetting Be yearning with all my heart, With a longing, half pain and half rapture, For the time when we never shall part; If the wild wish to see you and hear you, To be held in your arms again-- If this be forgetting, you're right, dear, And I have forgotten you then."
Great, slow tears gathered in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks.