THE LESSON
TWO weeks had glided by and Julian Barclay was no nearer solving the
mystery surrounding the death of Dwight Tilghman than the day the
crime was committed. He had turned in despair to a more fascinating
enigma--Ethel Ogden; and too late he realized that she was becoming all
in all to him, and his stifled conscience gave him little peace when
away from her bewitching presence. Ethel, to the secret indignation of
her cousin, Mrs. Ogden, did not discourage his attentions, closing her
eyes to the future and to James Patterson’s growing fury.
“You must talk to her, Jane,” declared Walter Ogden, as Ethel
bidding them a laughing good-by, left the house to give her Tuesday
morning lesson to Maru Takasaki. “This flirtation cannot keep up.
Ethel is treating Jim Patterson shamefully if, as you have given me
to understand”--shooting a keen look at her from under his shaggy
eyebrows, “Ethel has virtually accepted him.”
Mrs. Ogden flushed; she was prone to exaggeration, and with her to
wish a thing was often to state its materialization.
“I am greatly surprised at Ethel,” she replied, carefully avoiding a
direct answer. “She must realize the desirability of the match. Aside
from Mr. Patterson’s agreeable personality--why, every mother with
marriageable daughters has angled for him--he is madly in love with
Ethel, I know _that_.”
“Then, if such is the case there is certainly no excuse for Ethel’s
playing Barclay against him,” Ogden dug his pen viciously into the
inkstand. “It’s a great pity, Jane, that you ever invited Barclay here;
wasn’t there some old scandal”--and he puckered his forehead in thought.
“Mercy, that’s long since lived down and forgotten,” exclaimed Mrs.
Ogden cheerily, but she had paled and her husband observed it in
silence. “I’ve never had an opportunity to return the Barclays’
kindness to me when I most needed assistance--before I met you, dear,”
kissing him affectionately. “This is the first hospitality I’ve ever
shown Julian.”
“That is not your fault,” said Ogden impatiently. “Julian apparently
has chosen to ignore his relatives, until his letter to you last month
out of a clear sky, and you are under no obligation to assist his idle
flirtation with my cousin, Ethel. I advise your giving him a hint that
he terminate his visit.”
“Walter!” But Mrs. Ogden’s scandalized expression was lost on her
husband, who was busy casting up a long array of figures. “I shall do
nothing so inhospitable. No, Ethel must work out her own salvation.
I”--primly, “never interfere in other people’s affairs.”
Ogden smiled, not unkindly. “Then send Ethel to me, or better still,
I’ll talk to Barclay.”
“You must not put all the blame on Julian,” protested Mrs. Ogden,
quick to resent another’s disapproval of her cousin, although
secretly displeased with him. She was longing for the _éclat_ which
a fashionable wedding would give her in Washington society, and had
already planned to ask Ethel and Representative Patterson to hold
their wedding in her house. And now her own cousin had come along
and threatened by his inconsiderate flirtation to upset her social
campaign. “Walter,” moving nearer her husband and lowering her voice,
“has it not struck you that Professor Norcross is _épris_ with Ethel?”
“Norcross?” Ogden leaned back and indulged in a dry chuckle. “My dear
Jane, your imagination is working overtime.”
“Well, he got married once!”
Ogden chuckled again. “Jane, romancing is your forte. If you are not
careful,” shaking an admonitory finger at his wife, “you may imagine I
have fallen a victim to Ethel’s charms. Now, run along, and leave me to
my accounts. How often must I tell you that I cannot be interrupted by
trivialities?”
“Why, you commenced the argument,” protested Mrs. Ogden, but ten
years of married life had taught her the uselessness of combating her
husband’s wishes, and she reluctantly withdrew. Ogden did not at once
resume his perusal of his business affairs.
“What was it I heard about Julian Barclay,” he muttered. “For a
chatterbox Jane is marvelously close-mouthed where her relatives are
concerned.”
Two blocks away Ethel Ogden was indulging in bitter reflections, in
which Jim Patterson and Julian Barclay largely figured--much to the
detriment of the English lesson. But Maru Takasaki came of a patient
race, and neither by word or sign betrayed his knowledge of Ethel’s
inattention or the flight of time.
“The President leaves tomorrow for California,” announced Ethel,
awakening from her day dreams.
“Is it so?” and Takasaki took up his pencil, his voice expressing mild
surprise.
“He is not really going,” explained Ethel, her face dimpling into a
smile. “I used the first sentence that came into my head for dictation
purposes. I suppose to mention the Mikado in such a manner would be
_lèse majesté_ in your country?”
Instead of replying Takasaki contented himself with writing out the
dictation in his precise, careful writing, and Ethel, leaning across
the table examined the paper with interest.
“Very well done,” she said. “I think I have gotten you to remember the
definite and indefinite articles.”
“I thank you so much.” Takasaki’s deferential bow always delighted
Ethel, it was the only thing expressive and individual about the
Japanese. “My wife, who studied at the English school for the highborn
in Nippon, predicts that I do well.”
“Madame Takasaki is a very earnest scholar,” commented Ethel. “It
delights me to see her pegging away so silently.”
“Pegging?” Takasaki eyed Ethel in puzzled surprise, the word did not
fit into his knowledge of English; then a grieved look crept into his
eyes, and he said in a tone of the blankest astonishment. “Mees Ogden,
did you ever hear a noise I made?”
Ethel hastened to reassure him. “No, I never did,” she said with honest
vehemence. “You and your wife are the most silent pupils I have.”
Takasaki bowed. “May we talk?” he asked as Ethel picked up a textbook.
“Surely. Tell me of your impressions of the mobilization of our fleet
in Hampton Roads.”
“Grand, majestic,” replied Takasaki. “Such a harbor! I see you there
for a glimpse at the hotel?” The last was unmistakably an interrogation.
“Yes. My cousins, Mr. and Mrs. Walter Ogden, Professor Norcross, Mr.
Barclay and I made up a party and went down to Old Point Comfort. I
have an idea,” Ethel examined her pencil with care, “that Mr. Barclay
must have spent much time in Japan.”
“So?” was Takasaki’s only comment.
“Have you ever met him in the East?” asked Ethel, choosing directness
as the only method of getting an answer from the Japanese.
Takasaki pondered her question. “I think not,” he answered. “Mr. James
Patterson, yes; he came with a party from your Congress.”
“Mr. Patterson, oh, yes, he is very much interested in the Eastern
question,” Ethel pulled herself up short; Jim Patterson’s interest in
the Japanese was far from complimentary, and his endeavors had been to
assist legislation for their exclusion from the country. To discuss him
and his opinions would be in the present company a ticklish subject.
“Well, what did you think of our battleships?” she queried, anxious to
get away from dangerous ground.
“Wonderful,” the Japanese raised his hands in a characteristic gesture.
“You say Mr. Barclay travel much in Nippon?”
“Well, I believe so,” Ethel gathered up her belongings preparatory
to leaving. “But he has never told me much about his travels. It
just occurred to me that perhaps you had met him before coming to
Washington.”
Takasaki shook his head. “You forget I in Diplomatic Service,” he said
speaking more quickly than usual, and dropping his precise and formal
English. “I seldom in Nippon.”
“True.” Ethel concealed her disappointment. She was gradually awakening
to the realization that Julian Barclay was absorbing her thoughts to
the exclusion of all else, and to her consternation his name invariably
cropped up in her conversations if he was not present.
A discreet tap sounded on the door, and at Takasaki’s command a man
servant stepped into the drawing room.
“Mr. Barclay call for the Honorable Miss,” he announced.
Ethel colored hotly as she rose in some haste. “You make my lessons so
agreeable, Mr. Takasaki,” she said. “I never realize when the time is
up.”
“You so kind,” the Japanese bowed low over her hand. “Why not wait and
permit that Mr. Barclay be entertained. My wife, she better, and be
down in a little second.” Turning to the servant he gave a rapid order
in his native tongue, and bowing, the Japanese servant withdrew, to
return almost immediately with Julian Barclay.
Ethel watched the greeting between the two men, but learned nothing
from Barclay’s sauvely polite manner and Takasaki’s changeless
expression; if they had met before there was no indication of it in
words and behavior.
“Mees Ogden tells that you visit in Nippon,” said Takasaki, and Ethel
again colored warmly; what must Barclay think of her for discussing him
with the Japanese?
“I stopped there en route to the Philippines some years ago,” said
Barclay. “I was greatly interested in your embroideries, tapestries,
and works of art.”
“Ah, yes. Many Americans buy our art work, and we are left without.”
“But in your progressive land there must be skilled workmen who
duplicate the curios and sell them to tourists as originals, are there
not?” questioned Barclay.
“Don’t tell me that Yankee ingenuity abides in the land of the
chrysanthemum,” protested Ethel.
Takasaki smiled broadly. “There live deceivers in every land; but it
not possible for the antiques to be made again; the design of which is
a lost art.”
“How about silver ornaments--flasks?” Barclay’s eyes never left the
Japanese. “I bought one, curiously shaped, with a chrysanthemum pattern
traced upon it, and believed it to be the only one of its kind. And
yet, I have seen two of these flasks within two weeks.”
“We no have silver flasks in Nippon,” replied Takasaki quietly. “We
have saki bottles--you mean those? No? Then you no buy silver flask in
Nippon.” Takasaki’s tone of finality caused Ethel to stare at the two
men, and she grew aware of an under-current of antagonism between them,
and like the born diplomat that she was, instantly plunged into the
conversation.
“I should love to own some real Japanese jewelry,” she said. “I imagine
it must be very beautiful.”
“We no have jewelry,” announced Takasaki, smiling at her enthusiasm.
“Only coat ornaments, neck charms, but no rings----”
“Then this must be Chinese.” As he spoke Barclay drew a ring from his
little finger and passed it to the Japanese, who carried it to the
window to inspect it in the sunshine.
“What a beautiful piece of jade!” exclaimed Ethel peeping over his
shoulder. “It is so green, and what a unique setting!”
The jade, cut almost square, was set high in solid gold, and a dragon,
heavily carved in the gold, was coiled around the jade, its head and
claws overlapping the brilliant green stone.
“The ring is made by hand,” volunteered Takasaki, after a brief
silence, and turning it over and over. “A Chinese curio----”
“And if I am not mistaken, a woman’s ring,” supplemented Barclay. “It
is very small, and barely fits my little finger.”
“Has it no legend?” asked Ethel.
“It was perhaps worn by the highborn many many years ago,” said
Takasaki. “In Nippon I have believed what you call”--he thought a
moment for the word he wanted--“tradition, which says that jade for the
woman wearer on the coats is a token of love’s loyalty.”
“And for the man?” asked Barclay, accepting the ring and slipping it on
his little finger.
“For the man”--again Takasaki paused, and his face was unsmiling, “it
signifies betrayal and death.”
“What a very gloomy outlook!” laughed Barclay, inspecting the ring on
his finger. “I am glad your tradition is more kind to the woman, and
grants her”--his eyes sought Ethel--“love’s loyalty.”
“We Nipponese are loyal to our gods, our country, and our women,”
Takasaki’s tone was almost a rebuke in its seriousness. “Betrayal
merits death.”
“Quite so.” Barclay stooped over to pick up Ethel’s fur muff, and she
missed seeing his expression. “Let me carry those books, Miss Ogden?”
putting out a hand toward a small pile of them on the table.
“Thank you, but the books stay here for Mr. Takasaki,” smiling at their
host. “You will write that composition before the next lesson.”
“But yes.” They moved toward the hall and Barclay dropped behind for
a second. “My wife--” Takasaki turned about and waited for Barclay to
catch up with them. “She will be at the next lesson. When you come to
Nippon again, Mr. Barclay, do not only look at curios.”
Ethel darted a look at the two men--her quick ear had caught a hint of
menace in Takasaki’s monotonous voice, but his expression was devoid of
meaning. Barclay’s cheery smile reassured her.
“I’ll follow your advice, Mr. Takasaki,” replied Barclay, passing out
of the front door held open by the attentive servant. “But I hardly
expect to visit Japan again. Good morning,” and the door closed behind
him.
Barclay caught up to Ethel and suited his step to hers. “We have plenty
of time,” he coaxed. “Let’s go over to the Corcoran Gallery. There is
an exhibition of Japanese paintings which I particularly want you to
see.”
But Ethel shook her head. “Don’t tempt me to be idle,” she said. “I
have letters to write for Cousin Jane. You”--with a kindly glance for
his evident disappointment--“can come with me if you wish?”
“If I wish!” he echoed with such emphasis that both laughed
involuntarily. Before he could say more Ethel sprang on board an
up-town electric car, and to his chagrin he had no opportunity in the
crowded street car to exchange further words with her. On reaching the
Ogden residence Ethel went at once to Walter Ogden’s den on the second
floor.
“Claiming the privilege of cousinship, I am coming in, too,” announced
Barclay from the doorway. “I feel sure I can help you get rid of those
letters”--pointing to several lying on a desk.
“Come in,” replied Ethel, seating herself and sorting writing paper and
pens. “But, oh, please don’t talk.”
Barclay did not need the injunction--to sit and look at Ethel had
become a matter of habit and happiness with him, and he watched her
deft fingers cover page after page with legible but stylish writing
with never flagging interest, and the intensity of his regard brought
an added light to her eyes.
It was the first time Barclay had been in the large costly furnished
room which, opening out of Walter Ogden’s bedroom, he had taken for an
upstairs sitting room, and which Mrs. Ogden had promptly called the
den. Ethel had been installed there soon after her arrival, and her art
metal typewriting desk, which she had brought with her as well as her
Underwood typewriter, had been placed midway between the hall door and
the entrance to Ogden’s bedroom. She had been somewhat upset over being
so far from the light, but Ogden had given her a powerful electric
droplight and that had helped her materially. Ogden’s own desk, a
massive affair, occupied the space between the two windows, while Mrs.
Ogden’s lounge, a bookcase filled with light literature, a highboy,
several tables, and numerous upholstered chairs and a small fireplace
took up most of the space in the room.
“What are you searching for?” asked Barclay, breaking his long silence.
“Cousin Jane’s seal.” Ethel laid the sealing wax down on the desk and
searched diligently among her papers. “How provoking! The notes are
all written, and I cannot send them off until they are sealed--Cousin
Jane’s latest fad,” she added in explanation. “And the invitations must
be sent out this morning.”
“Use this,” Barclay, drawing his chair nearer, removed his Chinese ring
and laid it in Ethel’s hand.
“Oh, won’t I ruin the stone?”
“I think not, the dealer said it could be used as a seal.”
Ethel again examined the ring. “I think he was wrong,” she announced.
“I would be afraid to use it--the jade is too beautiful.”
“You admire it then?” eagerly.
“Very much; it is unique,” proffering it back again, and Barclay held
the ring against the whiteness of her hand.
“It will be becoming to you,” he said, and before she guessed his
intention, he had slipped it on her finger. “Ah, I was right; don’t
remove it.”
Ethel laughed unsteadily. “I never accept presents of value from
acquaintances.”
Barclay drew back as if struck. “Acquaintances?” he repeated. “Ah, no,
never. Say friends, Ethel”--and neither noticed the use of her first
name.
“Well, friends,” Ethel’s voice shook a trifle, and she strove to change
the conversation. “Your ring is too large.”
“But it can be made smaller,” quickly. “See, it is too tight for me,”
indicating his little finger and the redness of the skin where the ring
had been.
Ethel leaned forward and glanced at the strong slender fingers spread
wide before her. “You have the hand of a surgeon,” she remarked. “Why
have you stopped wearing the ring on your right hand?”
“How can you tell that?” and Barclay scrutinized her keenly.
“By the worn circle around the little finger of the right hand.”
Barclay bent nearer. “If that is an indication, I must find out how
many you are accustomed to wear,” he announced, and Ethel laughed
softly.
“I never wear rings,” spreading her fingers. “See, no marks.”
“But you will wear mine?” insistently, and then as her face paled, he
added more lightly, “On humanitarian grounds.”
“I don’t catch your meaning?” in puzzled surprise.
“Takasaki has just told us that jade is unlucky for a man.”
“Well, if it’s to ward off the evil eye,” laughed Ethel, “I may consent
to keep it.”
“I have your word for it?” with quick impetuosity.
“Yes,” blushing as her eyes met his.
Barclay drew a long breath. “For the woman wearer it betokens love’s
loyalty,” he quoted, and his hands imprisoned hers.
“Loyalty,” faltered Ethel, her eyes on the ring.
“And love,” he supplemented steadily, though his heart was beating
almost to suffocation. “Ethel, my darling----”
A heavy step in the adjoining room and the banging of a door brought
Ethel to her feet and snatching her hands from Barclay’s detaining
clasp she slipped from the room as her cousin, Walter Ogden, entered by
the other door.