A RESPITE FOR SINCLAIR.
It was about two weeks later. Orito had not returned from Yokohama,
neither had Cleo Ballard returned from Matsushima. She was enchanted
with the beauty of the wonderful bay, and after the strain she had been
under in Tokyo, it was a great relief for her to be away from the noise
of the city in a spot that suggested only beauty and rest.
Sinclair had not accompanied them on the trip. He had been somewhat
surprised at the haste in which it had been undertaken, and had told
Cleo that unless he could travel leisurely he did not care to go at all;
besides, he never enjoyed traveling with a large party of tourists,
preferring to go alone with one congenial companion. However, he urged
her to go, saying that he might run down himself and join them in a few
days.
After the departure of the party he was left almost entirely to himself.
He found time for looking about him. It was a relief for the time being
to feel free once more, and to come and go as he chose; whereas, when
the Ballards were in the city, he had always felt in duty bound to be
with them constantly, and to place himself and his time entirely at
their disposal. Sinclair was not looking well. He had grown thin and
nervous, and there was a harassed look about his usually sunny face.
Sinclair was by no means an extraordinary or brilliant man. He was
easy-going in disposition, a trifle stern and harsh to those he
disliked, but as a rule genial and easy to get on with. He was a
favorite both with men and women. He was too good-natured to be a strong
man, perhaps, and was easily swayed by his own likes and dislikes.
His engagement worried him more than he cared to admit. He told himself
constantly that he ought to be happy, that nine men out of ten would
have envied him Cleo. He recognized that she was good and generous, as
well as beautiful; but yet all this seemed rather to paralyze his
efforts to love her than otherwise. He knew her beauty and charms too
well. When a man admits to himself that he has summed up all a woman's
charms, then be sure affection begins to wane; for where there is love
the lover is constantly discovering new charms, and, in fact, even those
he has known are ever new to him.
Sinclair was weary. The prospect of his marriage appalled him. Even the
beauty of the country, in which he had hitherto taken such great
delight, ceased to interest him. It was replete with sadness now. The
girl's departure was an unconscious respite and relief to him.
After they had left he threw himself into the actual joy of living,
which life in Japan always suggests. He succumbed to the _dolce far
niente_ of the atmosphere, went out into the country, with his Japanese
interpreter and office boy, and even on two or three occasions visited
the tea-houses and frivolled away a few dreamy hours with the
light-hearted geishas.
Often he and an English traveler named Taylor would find a quiet spot on
the Hayama, where they would spend the entire day fishing, a favorite
pastime of Sinclair's. Shiku would accompany them, carrying their rods
and the Englishman's sketching apparatus, for in a quiet, unobtrusive
fashion Taylor was quite a clever artist, though he painted almost
entirely for his own pleasure. He would often desert the rod for the
brush and leave Sinclair to fish alone, while he tried to reproduce
parts of the exquisite, incomparable landscape; for, as some clever
Japanese poet has described the scenery in Japan, it consists of
"precious jewels in little caskets," and that within the vicinity of
Fuji-Yama, from many points of which a distant view of the peerless
mountain can be seen, is one of the most beautiful of all the lovely
spots in Japan.
Taylor was of an uncommunicative, reticent nature,--strong and staunch.
Between the two men an inexplicable friendship had sprung up, one that
partook of no confidence betwixt them, but showed itself simply in the
pleasure they took in being together.