CHAPTER VIITHE LESSON
Twoweeks 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 knowthat.”
“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 theéclatwhich 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 isépriswith 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 admonitoryfinger 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, herface 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 belèse majestéin 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 itto 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 tovisit 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 andlook 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 amongher 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.