CHAPTER VIII
"SALLY IN OUR ALLEY"
She thought no one heard, but out by the azalea hedge, a man wasstanding, listening to the hushed chords floating through the openwindow.
From the bungalow on the Yokohama Bluff, Daunt had come back to Tokyowith a sense of dissatisfaction deeper than should have been caused byhis jarring talk with Phil. Perhaps, though he did not guess it, hismood had to do with a bulky letter in his pocket, received that day. Itwas from "Big" Murray, his chum at college, whom he had commonlyaddressed by opprobrious epithets that covered an affection time had notdiminished. Of all the men in his class Daunt would have picked him asthe one least likely to marry. Yet the letter had contained awedding-invitation and a ream of the usual hyperbole. "Going to name megodfather, is he!" Daunt had muttered as he read. "The driveling oldhorse-thief!" For in some elusive way the intended distinction suggestedthat he himself was a hoary back-number, not to be reckoned among theforces of youth. Strolling from Shimbashi Station, under the clustered,gaily-colored paper-lanterns, swaying above the rustle and stir of theexotic street, this thought rankled. A vague discontent stirred in him.
Tokyo had been the objective point of Daunt's six years of diplomaticcareer, and he had found the Kingdom of the Slender Swords a fascinatingand absorbing study. He loved its contrasts and its contradictions, itsmarvelous artistry, the reserve and nobility of its people, and itssavage, unshamed, sincerity of purpose. In the absorbing routine of theChancery and the bright gaieties of the capital's diplomatic circle, thefirst year had gone swiftly enough. Since then the Glider experimentshad lent an added zest.
Even at college, Langley's first aeroplane had interested him and out ofthat interest had grown a course of reading which had given him a broadtechnical knowledge of applied mechanics. In Japan he had conceived theidea of the new fan-propeller, worked out in many an hour of study inthe little Japanese house in Aoyama, which he had taken because itadjoined the parade-ground where his earliest experiments were made. Atfirst the _Corps Diplomatique_ had smiled at this as a harmless _pourpasser le temps_, to be classified with the Roumanian Minister's kennelof Pomeranians or the Chilian Secretary's collection of _daimyo_ dolls.But week by week the little crowd of Japanese spectators had grownlarger; often Daunt had recognized among the attentive brown faces thisor that superior military officer whom he knew, albeit in civiliandress. One day his friend, Viscount Sakai, a dapper young officer on theGeneral Staff, had surprised him with the offer from the Japanese WarDepartment of the use of an empty garage on the edge of the greatesplanade. Only a month ago, he had awaked to the knowledge that hisname was known to the aero enthusiasts of Paris, New York and Vienna,and that his propeller was an assured success.
Yet to-night he felt that he had somehow failed. The splendid vitalityof the moving scene, the thud and click of wooden _geta_ and the whirrof _rick'sha_--all the many-keyed diapason of the rustling, lanternedvistas stretching under the pale moon-lighted sky--lacked the sense ofintimate companionship. The warm still air, freighted with aromaticscents of cedar from some new-built shop, the pungent smell of incenseburning before some shadowed shrine, the odors of drenched shrubberybehind the massive retaining wall of some rich noble's compound, came tohim with a new sense of estrangement. The murmured sound of voicesbehind the glimmering paper _shoji_ told him, suddenly, that he waslonely. For the first time in six years, he was feeling keenly his longisolation from the things of home, the pleasant fellowship and thefiresides of old friends. In this foreign service which he so loved, hehad been growing out of touch, he told himself, out of thought, of thethings "Big" Murray had sought and found.
Unconsciously, the "drivel," as he had denominated it, of the letter inhis pocket, had infected him with sweet and foolish imaginings, andslowly these took the nebulous shape of a woman. He had often dreamed ofher, though he had never seen her face. It was half-veiled now in thebluish haze of his pipe, while she talked to him before a fire ofdriftwood (that burned with red and blue lights because of sea-ghosts init) and her voice was low and clear like a flute.
The wavering outline was still before his mind's eye as he trod thequiet road that led to the Embassy, entered its wide gate and slowlycrossed the silent garden toward his bachelor cottage on the lawn. Andthere, suddenly, the vision had seized a vagrant melody and had spokento him in song. Daunt thrust his cold pipe into his pocket and listenedwith head thrown back.
It was no brilliant display of technique that held him, for the playerwas touching simple chords, but these were singing old melodies thattook him far to other scenes and other times. He smiled to himself. Howlong it had been since he had sung them--not since the old college days!That happy, irresponsible era of senior dignities came back vividly tohim, the campus and the singing. For years he had not recollected it allso keenly! He had been glee-club soloist, pushed forward on alloccasions and applauded to the echo. Praise of his singing he hadaccepted somewhat humorously--never but once had it touched him deeply,and that had been on commencement afternoon.
He had slipped away from the wavering cheers at the station, because hecould not bear the farewells, and, far down one of the campus lanes, hadcome on pretty Mrs. Claybourne sitting on a rustic bench. Again he heardher speak, as plainly as if it were yesterday: "Why, if it isn't Mr.Daunt! I wonder how the university can open in the fall without you!" Hehad sat down beside her as she said: "This very insistent young personwith me has been heartbroken because we could not get tickets for theGlee-Club Concert last night. She wanted to hear you sing."
He had looked up then to see a young girl, seated on the leaning trunkof a tulip-tree. Her neutral-tinted skirt lay against the dark bark; herface was almost hidden by a spray of the great, creamy-pink blossoms.Some quality in its delicate loveliness had made him wish to please her,and sitting there he had sung the song that was his favorite. Mrs.Claybourne had pulled a big branch of the tulip-tree to hand him like abouquet over the footlights, but the girl's parted lips, her wide deepbrown eyes, had thanked him in a better way!
The music, now floating over the garden, by such subconsciousassociation, recalled this scene, overlaid, but never forgotten. Hark! Acascade of silver notes, and then an old air that had been revived inhis time to become the madness of the music-halls and the pet of thepianolas--the one the crowded campus had been wont to demand withloudest voice when his tenor led the "Senior Singing." It brought backwith a rush the familiar faces, the gray ivied dormitories with theirslim iron balconies, the throbbing plaint of mandolins, and his ownvoice--
"Of all the girls that are so smart, There's none like pretty Sally! She is the darling of my heart, And she lives----"
He scarcely knew he sang, but the vibrant tenor, lifting across thescent of the wistaria, came clearly to the girl at the piano. For amoment Barbara's fingers played on, as she listened with a strainedwonder. Then the music ceased with a discord and she came quicklythrough the opened window.
The song was smitten from Daunt's lips. In the instant that she stoodoutlined on the broad piazza, a fierce snarling yelp and a clatter camefrom within the house and there rang out a screamed Japanese warning. Anouter door flew open and the huge figure of Doctor Bersonin ran out,pursued by a leaping white shadow, while the air thrilled to the savagecry of a hound, shaken with rage.
"_Run, Barbara!_" The Ambassador's voice came from the doorway. But thewhite, moonlit figure, in its gauzy evening gown, turned too late.Empty-handed, Daunt dashed for the piazza, as, with a crash, a heavyporch chair, hurled by a Japanese house-boy, penned the animal for aninstant in a corner. He caught the white figure up in his arms, spranginto the shade of the wistaria arbor, and set her feet on its highrailing. The voice from the doorway called again, sharply.
"This way, Doctor! _Quick!_"
The wolf-hound, trailing its broken chain, had leaped the barrier andwas launched straight at the crouching expert. The latter had draggedsomething sma
ll and square from his pocket and he seemed now to holdthis out before him. Daunt, wrenching a cleat from the arbor railing,felt a puff of cold wind strike his face, and something like an elfinnote of music, high and thin as an insect's, drifted across theconfusion. He rushed forward with his improvised weapon--then stoppedshort. The dog was no longer there.
The Ambassador made an exclamation. He stepped down and peered under thepiazza; even in the dim light the long space was palpably empty. Thehead-boy spoke rapidly in Japanese and pointed toward the gate.
"He says he must have jumped down this side," explained Daunt, "and runout to the street. He's nowhere in the garden, at any rate. We can seeevery inch. How surprising!" He spoke to the boy in the vernacular. "Hewill have the gates closed at once and telephone a warning to the policestation."
Bersonin had sat down on the edge of the piazza. He was crouched farover; his big frame was shaken with violent shudderings. Suddenly hishead went back and he began to laugh--a jarring, grating, weirdman-hysteria that seemed to burst suddenly beyond his control.
The Ambassador went to him hurriedly, but Bersonin shook off the hand onhis shoulder and rising, still emitting his dreadful laughter, staggeredacross the lawn and out of the gate.
The appalling mirth reechoed from far down the quiet road.
The Kingdom of Slender Swords Page 10
