UNFORGOT
The sharp sense of imminence which had come to Barbara with Austen
Ware's gift remained with her that evening. The dinner was none too
merry. For the first time Patricia had failed to be enthused over the
Nikko _matsuri_, and the bishop, since Haru's disappearance, had lacked
his usual sallies. Barbara had told him nothing of her visit to the
house in the Street-of-the-Misty-Valley; to speak of it would probe her
own wound too deeply.
The after-dinner piazza exhaled the bouquet of evening cigars and the
chatter of tourists. Far below, across the gorge, lights twinkled in
native doorways and _shoji_ glimmered like oblong yellow lanterns. The
air was heavy with balsam odors, and beneath the trees, sparkling now
with incandescents, tiny black moths had replaced the sunlight flashing
dragon-flies. Sitting in a semicircle on straw mats the _samisen_
players at length mingled their _outré_, twittering cadences with the
soft thunder of the water.
As the musicians finished their last number and trooped away, Patricia
yawned and rose. "Here," she observed, "is where little Patsy puts her
face and hands to bed. This mountain air is perfectly demoralizing!" The
two 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 the
balcony. "I wonder!" she said aloud. With elbows on the railing and chin
in hands, she looked long and earnestly into the dark void. Why was she
no longer able to warm to all this beauty and meaning? These cryptomeria
shadows, dreaming of the faded splendors of a feudal past--the streets
along which legions of pilgrims had walked muttering prayers to their
gods--the marvelous lacquered temples of red and gold, wrought by
patient love of long dead yesterdays, in handiwork to which time had
given a softened glory such as those who dreamed them never saw--the
heavenly soaring of pagoda doves against the peach-blow sky--the shrines
worn with their centuries of worship and dancing and booming bells!
Forgetting--and remembering no more--would that be a soul-task too hard
for her? Was all that had been instinct with wonder and joy to be
henceforth but emptiness and desolation--because an ideal had gone from
her for ever? She thought of the belled and rosaried pilgrims climbing
Nantai-Zan. She seemed to see the faint, far glimmer of their lanterns.
Beyond that pilgrimage over dark crags and grim precipices lay for them
the sunrise of hope!
In the room behind her hung one of the famous prints of Hiroshige, the
great Japanese master--a group of peasants crossing the long skeleton
bridge of Enoshima. She thought of this now, and suddenly all the spot
had meant to her welled over her. She saw again the enchanted
Island--the long shaded stairways of gray stone, the brown-legged girls
gathering seaweed, and beyond the old seawall the gulls calling to their
mates. She saw the generations of lovers pass one by one before
Ben-ten's altar, murmuring their hearts' desire. Daunt's arms seemed to
be again around her. She felt his kisses, heard his voice as they walked
under the singing trees--walked and dreamed and forgot that pain was
ever born into the world.
She started. A horse was coming up the hill, his hoofs thudding softly
in 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 voices
seemed to shout it satirically from the emptiness, and against the dark
Haru's face rose up before her.
She shivered. She went in and closed the window, drawing down the blind
with a nervous haste.
But she could not shut out that face, and in spite of herself her
thoughts had their will with her. What was Daunt doing there? Patsy had
said 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 this
knowledge to her heart. He knew, of course, why she had ended it
all--_Haru would have told him_!
She clenched her hands and began to pace up and down the room, now
stopping to peer with bright miserable eyes into the mirror, now
throwing 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. For
she had forgotten; she had lost the locket the afternoon of her drive
with 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 quickly
along the hall to the sitting-room.
In the dimly lighted room a figure came toward her from the shadow. It
was Philip Ware.