THE GOLDEN CRUCIFIX
The bishop went quickly through the crowd to a gap under the great
gables, where the beams had been sawed through and the rubbish shoveled
to one side, making a difficult way into the interior. The enormous span
of the roof had sunk sidewise, splitting its supporting beams and
bending the walls outward, but its great ridge had remained intact and
it now stretched, a squat, ungainly lean-to, over what had been the
altar. The space was strewn with brasses, fragments of fretted and
carven doors, and splintered beneath a mass of tiling lay a great image
of Kwan-on. The daylight came dimly in through the chinks in the ruin.
The air was warm and close and had a smell of pulverized plaster, of
stale incense and rotting wood. A group of priests stood on the altar
platform beside a huddle of wadded mats and brocaded draperies, on which
a man was lying, his open eyes upturned to the painted monsters on the
twisted tangle of rafters.
The bishop hesitated, then came close.
The man's head turned toward him--for an instant he seemed to shrink
into the cushions; then in his eyes, dark with the last shadow, came a
swift yearning. He spoke to the priests and they drew back.
"Arthur," he said, "don't you know me?"
A gasping sound came from the leaning bishop. "John! John Fairfax!" he
cried, composure dropping from him, and fell on his knees. "After these
years!"
The other lifted his hand and touched the bishop's pale, smooth-shaven
face.
"I am going, Arthur," he said. "I never intended to speak, though I've
seen you often.... I thought it was best. Did she--did my wife never
tell you?"
"Never a word, John! I have never known!" cried the bishop, in a shaken
voice.
"It was my fault. All mine! I--never believed as she did, Arthur, and
here in the East what was breath and bread to her, to me came to seem
all mumbo-jumbo. I had had a hard life, and I wanted comfort--for her.
Then I found out about the gold-lacquer."
He paused to gather the strength that was fast ebbing.
"I got the formula from a crazy priest, and I began in a small way--the
idol-making, I mean. I had a shop at Saga. At first it was only for the
mandarins in the China trade, and ... no one knew. But the lacquer grew
famous, and within a year I was shipping to Rangoon and Thibet. I made
all sorts of praying-tackle. Then--then I quarreled with my agent,
and--he told my wife. She didn't believe it, but one day ... he brought
her to where I was at work. I was modeling an Amida for a temple in
Nagasaki!"
He threw an arm across his face and moaned.
"She left me that night. A ship was in the harbor. I ... never saw her
again. I never knew I had a daughter till a week ago!... I never knew!"
There was a silence.
"I have seen her. She must never guess, Arthur! She thinks I ... died in
Nagasaki. It's better so. Promise me!"
"I promise, John," said the bishop. "I promise."
The bell of the temple across the inclosure began to strike. "It sounds
... like the bell of the old Greek church," the failing voice said.
"When I left home the priest said I would do nothing good. But--" the
grim ghost of a smile touched his lips--"I made ... good idols, Arthur!"
The smile flickered out. "My little girl! My own, own daughter! Don't
you ... think it was cruel, Arthur?"
"Would you like to see her?" asked the bishop. "She is just outside."
The wan face was illumined. "Yes, yes," he said. "God bless you, Arthur!
Bring her--but quickly!"
For a few moments there was stillness. The priests whispered together,
but approached no nearer. In the other temple, the _Bioki-Fuji_, the
Buddhist ceremony of Sick-Healing, had begun for the injured man, and
the muffled pounding of the _mok'gyo_ came dully into the propped ruins.
The dying man's eyes were closed when Barbara knelt down and took his
chilling hand between hers.
"It is I," she said softly.
His gaze was dimming, but he knew her. "I can't see your face much
longer," he said, "but I can feel your hands. How long ago it seems ...
our Flower-of-Dream. It bloomed to-day, my dear."
She was weeping silently. There was a pause, in which the wind droned
through the shattered timbers. The dying man's free hand wandered feebly
at his side, found a gold-lacquer crucifix, and drew it closer.
"The white cross on the roof. It ... called me back!" He tried to lift
the golden crucifix. "I've been ... making this for a long time. I was
outside when the shock came, but I ... went back to save it.... I should
like it to be ... in your Chapel, Barbara."
She laid her young cheek against his hand; she could not speak.
Across the silence the bishop's low and broken voice rose in the Prayer
for the Sick:
"_O most merciful God, who, according to the multitude of Thy mercies,
dost so put away the sins of those who truly repent, that Thou
rememberest them no more: Open Thine eye of mercy.... Renew in him, most
loving Father.... Impute not unto him his former sins...._"
* * * * *
"Are you still there, Barbara?"
"Yes."
"A little longer." Death was heavy on his tongue. "_Namu Amida Butsu!_"
he muttered. "But at the end--the old things--the old faith--"
The tears ran down the bishop's face.
"They are all dead now," came the broken whisper through the closing
darkness. "There is no one to forgive me, except--"
"God will forgive you!" said the bishop, with a sob.
But the idol-maker did not hear.