THE "LA FRANCE"

The fair that had been going on all day in the street leading to the Bund was still in full swing. A lurid sight the street presented, lit by lanterns of all colors, and flare lamps near the booths.

Leslie was glad of the noise and bustle around him; one cannot think much when pressing one's way through a Japanese fair, colored lamps dancing, MousmÈs laughing, and showmen shouting, rikshas passing at a trot, or attempting so to do, children blowing trumpets, babies whirling rattles, men-of-war's men from the ships in harbor walking four abreast and arm in arm, singing "Jean Francis de Nantes," or "We won't go Home till Morning." ChamÈcens and moon fiddles buzzing and tinkling, dogs barking, and gakunin wailing.

It was ten when he reached the hotel. In the entrance-hall, where the orange trees in tubs reflected the lamp-light from their glossy leaves, a Chinese hall porter in a blue silk blouse sat on guard. From the half-open door of the salle À manger, where a party of Russian officers were at dinner, came the sound of laughter and the clinking of glasses.

As he entered the hotel the whole world around him changed. Campanula vanished from his mind. He was no longer in Japan. He was in the same house with Jane, and in a few more hours she would be his.

The Chinaman rose from his seat when he saw Leslie enter and led him down a corridor to the door of the private sitting-room where he had dined with Du Telles. He had promised Jane to wait for her there till the morning.

The sphinx-like Celestial closed the door, and Leslie found himself alone.

The windows were open on account of the warmth, and they gave a view of the narrow mysterious harbor that seems to have been cut in the old heroic days by some giant who was also a poet. The high cliffs cast their shadows like sable robes upon the water, jeweled with the lights of the shipping. The sky all silence and stars, paling now in the moonlight, was almost the sky of Europe. Orion was there, and the Pleiades, and CassiopÆa dreaming in her diamond-studded chair.

The room itself was a strange mixture of Japan and Europe. The floor was the matted floor of Japan, the cane sofas might have been bought at Shoolbred's. The walls were as plain and unadorned as the walls of a Japanese house are wont to be—that is to say, under the fans which the hotel proprietor had fastened to them—fans from Kioto, Tokyo, and Nara crucified against the white paneling and looking like great butterflies in some giant's collection.

He lit a pipe. Jane was upstairs in some room, but there were still nine hours of waiting to be done; and he had promised that he would not go upstairs if permitted to pass the night in the hotel, but wait patiently for her to come to him at the hour of starting.

He felt that if he thought about her he would break his oath, so he drove her from his mind.

He watched the twinkling lights in the harbor; those darting about like fire-flies were the sampans; that long hulk all crusted with light was the La France, the ship in which Jane had intended to sail for Osaka. It was after ten now, and she was overdue to leave. That sister-hulk, equally gemmed, was the Nord Deutscher Lloyd boat leaving at dawn for Colombo. Those three lights in a triangle were the anchor lights of the great Russian cruiser Rurik—the ill-fated Rurik.

Suddenly a horn of light shot out from the bow of the La France, and she began to move like a glittering town towards the sea, and the wind from the west brought the faint music of a band. The La France had unbuoyed and was away.

He watched her as she picked her course through the shipping stealthily like a robber. Now with all side lights showing, now with them half extinguished as she veered to avoid the bell-buoy of the Atraska shoal; now a vague phantom swallowed by the shadows of the night.

The hotel was silent now, the Russians had gone off to their ship. Somewhere outside, somewhere in the gloom of the mysterious night, a chamÈcen was tinkling to the muttering of a little drum. What dancing girl was setting her steps to that tune—and where?

He rose to his feet and began to pace the room, then he turned the lamp up till it smoked, and turned it down till it was nearly out, and cursed the burner for his own stupidity.

Still the distant chamÈcen kept up its buzzing to the devil's tattoo of the distant drum.

He walked to the window and shut it. Result—absolute silence and stifling heat. No matter; anything was better than that infernal drum.

He had shut out the drum, but he had shut in a mosquito. It was in the lace curtain, and its twang brought him again to his feet. He tried to find it in the curtain, failed, pulled the whole curtain down from its attachment, and trampled it under-foot.

Silence, this time unbroken, until one of the fans upon the wall rustled, and from beneath it crept a frightful-looking spider as brown and as broad as a penny.

He did not see it; he was sitting in the arm-chair with his head between his hands, breaking his promise to Jane.

When it was broken he got up, crossed the room, opened the door, and went into the hall.

The Chinese night-porter was sitting like a figure of stone in a blouse of blue silk. Leslie went up to him, spoke some words in a low tone, and handed him some money.

The Chinaman rose and led the way upstairs. Down a passage they went till the guide stopped, pointed to a door, turned, and vanished as silently as he had come.

Leslie went to the door and knocked softly. No answer. He turned the handle, the door opened and he entered—an empty room.

A lamp was burning on a table in one corner, a bed stood close to the window: the bed was empty.

It was Jane's room, for there lay her trunks. A glove lay on the floor. He picked it up, looked at it, smelt it, and then threw it down. The dressing-table held none of those articles of the toilet one might have expected to see. Beside the lamp on the side-table lay a letter.

He had seen the letter almost on the first moment of his entering the room, with that vague, half-terrified comprehension which we may imagine in the brain of the bull when the sun-light flashes on the sword of the matadore.

He approached it now, and read the superscription: "Richard Leslie, Esq. Important."

He opened it, and a number of bank notes came out. These he laid on one side, took the letter that was with them, and began to read.

He read the letter, not as if he were reading a letter, but the face of some scoundrel he had dragged by the ears into the zone of lamplight. He envisaged it, took whole sentences in en bloc. He read first at the end, then in the middle, then at the beginning.

"And now good-bye for ever. Oh, Dick, don't think badly of me for this; I have only done what was right.

"When you get this I shall be gone. I am leaving by the La France to meet George.

"I leave you money. Half what I have is yours; remember we are cousins, and ought to help one another.

"Oh, Dick! Dick! I can't do what you want. I am not thinking of myself but of my people. Imagine the disgrace and ruin it would bring them. My dear old father, it would kill him."