The Chinese Coat

XXII

THEY made no friends on the boat as they had made none in the train. It had rested her to leave all social relations behind as the train moved west, and she showed a strange reluctance to forming new ties. She seemed to have swung free from the past.... Richard, as he watched her, had a sense that she gathered herself for something she was journeying to meet.... Her face against the steamer-chair seemed to absorb light. It held a still look—as if it waited some signal.

But if Eleanor More, lying in her chair, made no acquaintances on the boat, and if the groups of Chinamen did not seem to observe her as they passed, there were others on the boat who showed open interest in the quiet figure that lay day after day looking under lowered lids to the west.

More than one woman slowed her pace as she came near the steamer-chair. Sometimes they lingered a moment ready to enter into conversation. But it was always Richard More who spoke to them, and after a minute’s courteous talk walked on with them, leaving the steamer-chair to its unbroken quiet.

His care for his wife, his almost reverent watchfulness for the figure in the chair, gave it a place apart, an aloofness that no one broke in upon.

Yet often they saw her, from a distance, laughing and talking with her husband like a child. There was something unwarranted in the sweetness and freshness of her laugh.... It seemed to have left care behind, and yet to be filled with sympathy that sprang from a deep place.

A woman with little fine lines in her face and a quick mobile mouth looked at her companion and smiled, as the laugh came to them.

They had been standing by the boat-rail, looking out to sea, silent for a long time.

He returned the smile. “Well?”

“I was only thinking—she knows!” She made a little gesture toward the steamer-chair.

“Knows what?” said the man vaguely.

“Everything!” replied the woman. “Things I would give my life for!” She turned her back on him. Her eyes followed the foam in the boat’s wake.

He watched her a minute in silence. Then he moved nearer to her and laid his hand on hers where it lay on the boat’s rail. “Why not?” he said.

She shook her head and smiled. “I cannot be sure!” She faced him. “If I were sure... I would marry you to-morrow—to-day—any time!” She threw the words at him. “How can one be sure?” He regarded her gravely. “Isn’t that what it means?... Isn’t that a part of it—to take the risk?... Suppose there were no risk... would that be—love?”

“Oh—I don’t know! —I don’t know!” She spoke as if urged by something within.

Suddenly she turned to him. “It used to be so simple—to be a woman.... One loved and married—and there were children—and then one died. That was all! But now—!” She broke off.

“Yes. Now, you are free—and being free, you must choose—And that means knowledge.” He looked at her narrowly.

“Yes!” She moved a little from him. “And I shall know—when I have made the mistake—perhaps!”

“When you take the risk!” he responded cheerfully. “Shall we go for our walk? That is safe—ten times round the deck—six times a day!”

She smiled and placed her hand in his arm and they swung into the easy step of the ship’s constitutional.

Six times they passed the quiet figure in its chair. Then the woman slowed her pace a little.

“I cannot bear it any longer—not to know!” She lifted her hand to the figure wrapped in its steamer-rug and lying so still. “When I look at her—I cannot bear it!... She knows. She has foregathered with the great—! She knows the secret!” They had come to a stop, and she turned to him. “If I marry you I shall not be happy—” She seemed to throw out the words accusingly.

“Are you happy now?” he asked gently.

“I am free!” she flung back.... “There are things women must do—for the world!” She looked about her vaguely.

“This is one of them—perhaps. But—” He looked at her narrowly. “Not unless—you love me.”

She looked at him and smiled subtly.

“I want to do brave things. I want to vote and reform cities and states. I want to found kingdoms and rule them! But—I am—going to marry you.”

He moved a little toward her.

She held up her hand. “I am going to marry you—because you hold the secret—of the Past.... I cannot live without it.” She caught her breath and half reached out her hands—as if to a blind god who demanded sacrifice. There was a wistful look in her face.

He regarded it sharply. “You think you will fathom the Past—by marrying me?... That is why you do it?”

She nodded gravely.

He turned his back on her and looked over the rail, out to sea.

“No woman is going to march through my heart, slamming doors behind her!” he said under his breath.

She regarded the obstinate back a minute and her face grew tender.... She had become gentle—as if she saw something precious. She put out her hand and touched his arm.

“Don’t be afraid of me, Gordon! I will wait—at the threshold!”

He wheeled suddenly and held out his arms.

But she glanced over her shoulder. Only the empty decks—a Japanese sailor lounging by the rail—and the quiet figure of the woman asleep in her chair.

She put up her face with the breath of a kiss and drew near to him.... And in her half-slumber, beneath lowered lids, Eleanor More dreamed on.... And the boat moved to the west and to the new world—the old world of the Past—new with coming life in the cycles of the earth and the sun.

At Shanghai there were a few days of delay while Kou Ying arranged for accommodations on the river-steamer, and telegraphed ahead for runners and provisions and an escort to be waiting at the various points where they might wish to stop off.

Richard had instructed him to make arrangements that would leave them free to follow any clew that developed as they went. Strings of cash were provided and paid out by Kou Ying with judicious, watchful hand; and banks in the interior received word to hold sums subject to call. The news of the American who was to follow, penetrated far ahead.... If any help were to be had from tradition or rumor Kou Ying had set turning the wheels that would bring it to them as they ascended the long meandering river that stretches from east to west across the country and forms the waterway and news route of all upper China.

Even in Shanghai the little party became the subject of almost official interest. Courteous overtures were made to Richard More of information to be had—at a price.

The capacious suite of rooms Kou Ying engaged for them in Shanghai’s leading hotel became an emporium of silks and stuffs and woven garments of every shape and kind.... Colored brocades, rich embroideries stiff with gold and gorgeous designs lay about on chairs and tables; and yellow-skinned merchants from the native part of the city displayed their trays and rolls of precious coats and robes for the American lady’s choice.

But she turned from them all with a little smile. “It was much simpler than any of these, and more beautiful—I think,” she said quietly.

And when Kou Ying interpreted her words, to them, they repacked the garments in their long trays, and saluted her gravely and retired.... Was it only fancy, or did swift looks cross between the impassive faces as they moved from her?

It was as if she were in a veiled world—tissues of filmy thinness.... She had only to put out her hand and brush them aside—to find what she sought—something beautiful and fine and eternal that waited.

Rumors from the old city were brought that Kou Ying sifted with cautious hand. Of some he made notes on the thin, yellow, rustling paper he always carried with him; and some he dismissed with a curt wave that swept the bearers in ignominious retreat from his presence.

They fled from the august wrath of this man who had learned American ways, but who had not forgotten, it would seem, the duplicity and crookedness of his native land!

Eleanor More saw very little of Kou Ying during these days of preparation. Except when he was acting as interpreter for her, he came and went with even, inscrutable countenance, arranging details, directing movements—preparing for the long and difficult journey that lay ahead.

Never by word or movement did he indicate other than the most casual interest in the object of their journey or in his employers. He gave the service agreed upon and he handled Richard More’s money with scrupulous exactness; but he showed no other sign of caring for the expedition or of interest in its success.

When the preliminary arrangements were concluded and they sat on the boat’s deck looking out across the Chinese landscape that the season of high water made visible on either bank, Kou Ying showed even less interest in their movements.

He sat, or stood, a little distance from them, his gaze resting stolidly on the level fields and low-lying crops, as they moved past. At a sign from Richard he would approach and explain some point of interest, or give information as to the average yield of the fertile soil or the price of crops.

Then, after a courteous moment of silence, he would return to his solitary watching, and the look of withdrawal would come over his face.

Mile after mile they saw the unvarying fields go by, and the multitudinous boats pass and repass on the great river.

For years, it seemed to them, they had been making their way through this fertile land, plying a steady course up the winding stream that led to the unknown country they sought.

Then one morning Kou Ying came to them.

“In a few hours we disembark,” he said courteously. “There is a shop in Ichang you may wish to visit.”

But the shop in Ichang proved only a duplicate of the shops of old Shanghai, and they returned to the river and moved on—this time in their own boat, a clumsy, roomy junk that went more slowly and was propelled by the wind or by stalwart rowers—up through great gorges, where the river made its tortuous way—up, steadily up, over rapids or along the smooth-flowing water between gigantic walls.

And as Eleanor More watched the muscles in the half-naked backs, bending to the oars or tugging and straining at the rope that hauled the boat through swift foaming rapids, she felt as if she ascended some great river of a dream world.... So Dante may have watched the shades appear and vanish, or a turn of the journey reveal new and mysterious regions of the unknown world.

Already they had fallen into the habit of saying little. They sat in the sedan chairs that had been provided for the upper reaches, motionless and silent.

Above them the great walls stretched dizzily or opened out around quiet waters where the light lay dazzling on distant peaks; or they watched the water as it broke and swirled about the bow and the boat groaned and bumped under the tugging strain that brought it at last one reach higher up.

Often the journey was halted for expeditions into the country on one side or the other as they made their way steadily toward the Thibetan ranges that stretched to the west. But no clew had been reached.... Always the courteous reception of Kou Ying’s inquiries—always the spreading before them of gorgeous robes and flower-embroidered garments—but no glimpse or hint of a blue coat and shining dragons.

“I begin to feel as if it were a dream,” said Eleanor, “we have been remembering all these years—only a dream-coat. It was so long ago!” she mused. “And this is another life.” She motioned to the strange fields about them—the low houses among the trees and the carved, fantastic temple rising from the grove near by. “Almost another world!” she murmured.

The sedan chairs halted for luncheon. A little distance away, the bearers sat or lolled at rest. In the distance Kou Ying consulted with a Taoist priest, who shook his head and turned away.

They saw Kou Ying move swiftly after him and press a coin in his hand. The priest stopped and regarded it with passing motion, and spoke a few words again, and shook his head and went on to his temple.

Kou Ying returned to them with the usual formula of failure. He motioned to the bearers to take up the chairs and continue the journey.

But Richard More stayed him. “Wait,” he said. He was searching in his pocket for something.

Kou Ying paused without interest.

And Richard More took from his pocket a yellow paper, and began to unfold it with slow, rustling fingers.

The Oriental’s face changed subtly. He moved toward it and reached out his hand.

“What is that?” he demanded.

Richard More looked up. “I had forgotten—that I had it,” he said absently.

Kou Ying reached to it. But Richard held it away. His finger traced a line along the paper and paused....

“This must be the place—here?” He looked about him, at the clustering houses and the Taoist temple on the right.

Kou Ying’s face bent eagerly above the paper.

“Where did you get this?” he asked huskily. There was a strange, quiet gleam in the yellow face.

“The man I told you of—Stewart—gave it to me.... I had forgotten—till now. Will it help, do you think?”

Kou Ying looked at him, almost with compassion, it seemed.

His finger touched the paper. But he made no further move to take it.

“Hold it to the light!” he said.

And when Richard More held it against the light they saw, gleaming high, an imperial dragon and beside it the four strange cabalistic marks.

“It is the royal seal,” said Kou Ying quietly—“the seal of a dynasty long since deposed. Only documents of rare value are inscribed on this paper.”

He waited a moment in silence. “It will tell us the way,” he said slowly—“Whoever sees that paper must speak true words—on penalty of death.”

He held out his hand. “Give it to me,” he said quietly.

And Richard More yielded it without demur.

The man’s whole bearing had changed. His face had lost its sullen look. He gazed down at the yellowed paper with quiet intentness.

Presently he looked up. The smile on his face was youthful and full of light. The antagonism was gone, and the repression and difference of race.

“I wish I had known before—that you carried this,” he said gently. He smoothed it in his yellow fingers.

“What would you have done—different?” asked Richard, a little curious.

“I should have served you in spirit,” said Kou Ying. “This is the map of the spirit country.” He touched it reverently and waited a moment.

“I cannot tell you more. My words would not have meaning—for you———”

But Eleanor More leaned forward a little, with parted lips.

“Tell us,” she said swiftly.

And Kou Ying looked at her a moment in grave silence. The paper in his hand seemed to radiate a kind of light and remove him mistily.

“You will know,” he said, “—all that the paper can tell. You will know—soon.... But I cannot tell you.”

He motioned to the bearers and they took up the chairs and moved forward.

And wherever the chairs halted and the paper was presented, there was swift hurrying and obedient response to Kou Ying’s questions and demands. The little procession became a kind of royal convoy. Each village that was entered received it with honor and hastened to serve it and to speed it on its way—almost as if eager to be rid of so fateful a mission.

There was no dallying in progress now, and no detours leading to fruitless results. Each halt found the route ahead prepared and directions ready for Kou Ying’s hand.... But the end that they sought was always a little farther on—a day’s journey on.

They left the travelled region and ascended into a hilly country where the road wound constantly up and the bearers were obliged to force their way through paths that were no longer wide enough for two abreast. At last only the empty chairs could be carried and they ascended by slow stages, halting often to rest.

“We are near the end now!” Kou Ying looked gravely at Eleanor More.

Her face had grown a little tired, but it held a light that scanned each break in the road with quiet happiness.

Richard More watched her uneasily. “You are not tired?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I am strangely rested.... I am getting acclimated, perhaps.”

He looked again at the quiet face. It was true that it seemed rested—more rested than he had ever seen it. But there was a pallor about it that touched him strangely.

He took her hand and held it in his as they ascended the hill, guiding her, almost carrying her over the rough places, till the path before them opened out into a little clearing and they stood on the summit of the mountain.

Below them the path wound downward to a valley of trees and little farms that stretched away to the plain; and in the centre of the valley stood a walled city.... They noted the circling walls and the gates and towers that thrust upward. In the midst of the city was a curious and rounded mountain, and on the summit of the mountain two thin, shining trees and a temple with little points and peaks glinted in the light.... Below the temple, shrined in the face of the mountain, something glowed. The light fell on it and shifted a little and the sun that had been struggling through gray clouds shone full on the face of the god—hewn from the ribs of the mountain and gilded till it shone like brass.... Colossal in dignity and repose, the great face gazed out over the roofs and towers of the walled city, to the plain beyond.

Eleanor More caught her breath and leaned forward, gazing with quiet eyes.

Kou Ying beside her gave a quick cry and flung himself prostrate on his face.... And all the bearers of the little retinue as they came straggling into the opening prostrated themselves, with half-uttered sounds of awe.

Richard More, standing among the kneeling figures, noted quietly the distance of the descending path that led to the city. And when Kou Ying rose and stood beside him, the American motioned with his hand to the mountain and the god that faced them, rising above the city walls.

“From here we go on alone,” he said.

Kou Ying gazed at him a moment in silence. He seemed weighing something in his mind.

“You will need an interpreter,” he said gravely.

Richard More laughed out. He touched the string of cash that hung beneath his coat.

“This will talk!”

But Kou Ying shook his head with a smile.

“You must go to the temple—not the one above, but below. Beside the Buddha—can you see it?”

Richard More shaded his eyes, and nodded assent. At the base of the mountain, rising barely to the knees of the great seated figure, he could see the other temple huddled among the trees.

“I can see it,” he said.

“Go there—and inquire. Here—take the map. I think we are very near now. But—” Kou Ying hesitated. “I should feel safer—” he murmured. Then his eyes fell on Eleanor More standing with relaxed hands, waiting, and his face lighted and glowed curiously. He drew aside with a gesture of abnegation.

“If you need me, signal from the gate—or from the wall. I shall wait here with the men—and come if you need me.” He bowed gravely and motioned to the men. They drew back and watched the two figures descend the winding path that led to the valley.

Sometimes a rock obscured them, and sometimes they passed under overhanging trees or disappeared beneath the arch of a bridge or fantastic tower that spanned the way.... Each time a little nearer to the city and to the great seated figure of the Buddha of the mountain.

And when the two figures halted a minute at the gate and disappeared within the wall Kou Ying made a significant gesture to the men; and the little retinue in the clearing on the mountain above the valley fell on their faces in silence....

Across the valley, the great Buddha brooded, and above it rose the temple and two thin trees, transparent in the gray morning light.

And on the high plateau that faced the god, the single figure of Kou Ying stood erect among the kneeling men and kept watch for a signal from the gate or the city wall.

---

XXIII

Through his barred window, the old priest looked out at them with unseeing eyes.

There was an interval and he stood beside them, looking down at their dusty clothes and travel-stained faces with quiet, understanding gaze.

Even before the interpreter came, with his high, sing-song words that translated their wishes, even before Richard More took from his pocket the yellow map and laid it in the old priest’s hand, they knew that they were come to the end of their search.

The priest listened with bowed head. Once or twice he nodded assent, and when the interpreter finished, he looked at Eleanor More with slow, kind eyes.

He folded the map and handed it back and pointed to a little house among the trees. Then he spoke to the interpreter in a low tone and motioned to the figure of the god cut in the rock above, and entered the temple.

An old man, half-asleep before his door, roused himself. He listened to the interpreter and shook his head. His face was as motionless as the plank it leaned against.

The interpreter spoke again, sharply, and the old eyes turned to him with slow, incurious look.

The interpreter flung one hand upward, toward the seated Buddha towering above; and the old gaze followed it unsteadily—up—up to the great gilded face.

For a long minute he gazed at the god in the face of the mountain. Then he rose slowly and entered the darkened house.

They heard a sound of scraping within and a creaking, as if a door opened, then silence.... The city was very quiet about them—a gentle intoning from the temple and a rustling of leaves on the mountainside.

For a long time they waited in the silence before the half-swung door. The old man appeared and beckoned to them and they passed into the cool quiet.

They traversed a passage and crossed a court and entered a low room.

The room was empty except for two objects on the right as they entered—a shrine to Buddha revealed through the half-open doors the god within; and across the room on a raised platform facing the shrine stood a red-and-black lacquered coffin.

At the sight of the coffin Eleanor More’s face changed subtly. She turned to the interpreter.

“Why have you brought us to a house of mourning?” Her hand moved toward the raised platform.

The old man at the interpreter’s side spoke a few words.... And the interpreter translated in his sing-song voice.

“It is his son—who is dead. He has no other to do him honor,” he chanted slowly, as if the words were full of presage.

And Eleanor More’s eyes turned to the old man with a quiet look. But the stolid face gave no response.

With a courteous gesture and a low word to the interpreter, the old man moved toward the shrine across the room and, squatting before it, opened a drawer beneath the half-open doors and drew out an oblong box.

The three people standing by the red-and-black coffin waited quietly as he lifted it and turned to them.

“What is it?” asked Richard More.

He had a curious thrill—as if at the end of a long quest he put out his hand in the dark and touched a human hand like his own.

The old man crossed to them in silence, and laying the box on the platform by the coffin lifted the lid.... A faint scent of spices drifted out; it floated about them and enveloped them as he took out, one by one, the soft thin papers that filled the box, and revealed lying at the bottom something that glowed and shimmered a little.

Eleanor More leaned forward breathless. Her hands half-reached to the shimmer of blue and gold as the old man lifted it from the box and opened it with slow, reverent fingers.... The dragon’s played across the surface, and on the breast as he held it up were four cabalistic marks—the signs in the transparent map that guided them on their journey.

They stood a moment in silence. All the color of the coat seemed to gather to a soft intensity, and glow.

Eleanor More caught her breath with a little sound. “I had forgotten!” she said. “I had forgotten....!” Her face was filled with light—a look of happiness pervaded it.

Richard More glanced at her. “Ask him how much it is,” he said in a low voice to the interpreter.

The interpreter spoke the words and listened a moment and translated the answer swiftly: “Money will not buy the coat—not all the gold in all the world,” he chanted back.

Again and again Richard More made his demand.... And again he offered larger sums. But the old face opposite remained untouched.

“Money cannot buy it,” replied the interpreter.

It was like a refrain that came and went between the two men, as they faced each other—Richard More urgent, imperious, and strong; the old Chinaman impassive and quiet. His face had not changed from its look of calm endurance.

“He will not sell it,” repeated the interpreter. “He only shows it to you at the priest’s command. It is a legacy—from mother to son.”

“His son is dead,” said Richard almost harshly. His hand moved to the coffin with an abrupt gesture.... “His son is dead——-”

The words held themselves on his lips.

He was facing a small door across the room. His hand fell to his side in a gesture of silence.

The woman in the doorway stood looking at them with deep, intent gaze. Then she moved toward them—as one who comes in her own right.

She spoke a word to the interpreter. He gave quiet assent and waited while she spoke.

“She says the coat is of royal lineage,” he translated slowly—“a heritage in her family—since Time.... She is of a dynasty long since deposed. Only the coat remains. No one remembers whence it came—no one reads the dragon marks....” He translated the words as they came from her lips in quaint exact phrasing. “But there is a tradition—” his voice went on——-

He listened again—a half-curious flutter of his lids rested on Eleanor More’s face.

She had withdrawn to one side and stood looking down at the red-and-black lacquered surface of the coffin.... Her hands were folded quietly. Something within her seemed to hold itself remote.

His gaze ran from her to the woman who stood speaking the words that he translated, half under his breath———

“There is a tradition—” he repeated softly, “that the coat is immortal—”

They turned to it where it lay beside the coffin. It seemed to shimmer and gather light.

“—a tradition that the coat is immortal,” went on the singing voice of the interpreter.... “And one day there shall come from the East—a woman—a woman out of the East.... And her sons shall cherish the coat!”

Eleanor More stirred a little.

The voice of the interpreter took on a high sing-song note, alternating with the low, gentle phrasing of the Chinese woman’s words.... “Her sons and her sons’ sons—forever.”

The voice ceased and the room was very still. From somewhere in the house came a rustling sound that rose and died away.

Eleanor More raised her eyes and looked steadfastly at the other woman. She moved a step—and half held out her hands. But the other did not stir and she crossed the space between them.... They were of equal height. As Richard More turned a startled glance, he was aware of something curiously alike in the two figures—a lift of the head, an air of quiet endurance—but more than all, a kind of dignity—something regal—that stirred vague memories.... When had he stood before and seen two women thus?... Surely in some other life—in some other age and time, he had looked on at a supreme moment of joy and abnegation.

For a long moment, the two women confronted each other, gazing deep into the other’s eyes. Then with a little gesture, the Oriental, in her softly rustling garments, moved to the platform and lifted the Chinese coat in her hands and placed it in Eleanor More’s.

Were there tears in the eyes that gazed... or only a deep, still joy?

Before Richard More could question—the look was gone. The Oriental woman was moving from them and the door closed softly behind her.

He watched it swing together, with a sense that something irretrievable had passed—a mystery and wonder—out of life.... Then he turned and saw his wife’s face.

She was gazing down at the coat with a look almost of fear. “Her sons and her sons’ sons—forever,” flashed through his mind.... She lifted her eyes and smiled at him, holding out the coat.

“Carry it for me, Dick!”

He moved quickly toward her. “You are tired?” he said tenderly.

“No—I am not tired!” She looked about her. “I am only glad.... It was a long journey, wasn’t it?” She spoke with quiet conviction. “But now it seems short—and easy to find....”

She looked about her again. Her eyes rested wonderingly on the shrine of the Buddha and on the shallow platform with its coffin and the three men standing by it....

“I have been here before, I think—and yet...” She passed her hand across her eyes. “I cannot——”

“Never mind!” He had taken the coat from her and handed it to the interpreter, who was folding it in slow, skilful hands.

The old Chinaman had not stirred from his place, a little to one side. He looked on with impassive gaze.

Richard More glanced at him and a sense of something wonted came to him... a sudden vision of the oak-tree with its great roots protruding from the ground, and the low-swung branches. He moved quickly to the platform. From about his neck he removed the long strings of cash and placed them beside the coffin and from his pocket he took handfuls of the Chinese silver “shoes” that had served them on their journey.... They would not need them now.... He piled them about the coffin.

The old eyes of the Chinaman gazed straight before him. His lips parted in half-spoken words that the interpreter took up, translating softly.

“He will go to the grave of his ancestors.... He is old and his sons are dead.... He will bury this son, the last of his race—” His hand touched the lacquered surface gently. “He will offer worship at the sacred mountain and pay vows before the tomb of his ancestors. The money you have given shall make glad the hearts of his ancestors.”

He ceased. The old man approached the coffin. For a long moment he stood with hands resting on it—as if he would gather from it something of the strength of the race that was passing. Then with grave face he lifted the strings of cash and placed them about his neck and gathered up the silver shoes from beside the coffin and took from a little shelf by the platform a red umbrella and a pair of half-worn sandals. With courteous gesture he passed from the room.

---

XXIV

|In the grove outside the city wall they paused to rest.

The interpreter, who had come with them from the house and refused to leave them till the city gate was reached, had been paid and was returning to the temple.

As they passed through the streets, they had been conscious of curious whispers, glances from behind opaque windows and rustling from concealed doorways and passages beyond—so a hive of bees despoiled of its comb stirs with low-murmured sound and the restless whir of wings.... But no one had approached them, no one barred passage to the light oblong box that Richard More carried so carefully in his hand.

At the entrance to the grove he glanced at his wife.

“We shall rest here,” he said with quiet decision.

And she acquiesced—a little smile coming to her lips as they entered the grove.

The green light filtered through the boughs. It touched the twisted trunks with a still look of mystery and strangeness.

“How beautiful!” she said under her breath.

He made a place for her to sit down, and as she leaned against the gnarled trunk, looking up to the boughs where the filtering light came through, he was struck again by the pallor of her face.

“You are tired!” he exclaimed. “I shall signal Kou Ying to bring the chairs!” He moved to the entrance of the grove—but she stayed him.

“No—wait! I like it—to be alone with you.... Don’t call Kou Ying—yet!”

She looked about with dreamy eyes. “It is so beautiful here—and quiet—I shall rest,” she said slowly.

Then her eyes fell on the box and she smiled.

“Open it!” she commanded.

And as his fingers undid the cord and lifted the thin rustling papers and drew the coat from its place, she laughed and chatted like a child. And her laughter, sounding through the grove, had something sweet and strange in it.

He lifted the coat and laid it before her. She looked down at it. She put out her hand and stroked the dragons, the laughter still in her eyes.

“For William Archer,” she said.

“And his sons,” responded Richard.

“And his sons’ sons forever,” she finished dreamily.

Her hand still stroked the dragons.

“I did not think you—would get it—for me!” she said.

“Of course I should get it—if you wanted it.... You had only to say you wanted it!”

“You knew that!” he added after a minute.

“Yes, I knew.” A little sigh touched her lips.

They sat a moment in silence. Then he lifted the coat. “Put it on,” he insisted gently.

She lifted her arms to the sleeves and smiled at him as he wrapped it about her.... Suddenly the look of pallor was in her face. It grew strangely quiet, and a touch of wistfulness curved the smile of the lips.

He looked down at her, startled... the pallor in the quiet face seemed passed to his own.

Hastily he laid down the still figure and ran to the entrance of the grove.... At the edge of the path he paused and looked up and motioned—gesticulating swiftly to a single figure on the plateau above.

From his post above Kou Ying started. He leaned forward and lifted his hand in a swift gesture.

He gave a harsh call.

The men behind him leaped to their feet and ran from the trees. There was confusion and hurry and a swift chatter of voices, as they seized the empty sedan chairs and slung them to their shoulders, and moved forward toward the winding path that led from the hill.

From the edge of the hill before he descended Kou Ying looked down again.

The valley below was still. No one moved among the trees.

From the mountain opposite, the quiet face of the Buddha looked across to the plain.

---

XXV

In the grove he bent above the deathlike face. A tremor crossed it.

She brushed a hand lightly across her eyes, as if visions fled, and sat up. The color came slowly back to her face.

“I had a dream!” she breathed.

The green light of the grove shimmered about her softly and touched her face.

“It was William Archer and the coat. But I cannot remember—” She passed a hand across her forehead.

“Never mind,” said Richard. “We are going to take it home to him.”

Her hand dropped to the dragons and smoothed them absently.

“And to his sons’ sons forever!” she murmured happily.

At the entrance to the grove, dark incurious faces peered in at the blue-robed figure that rested against the gnarled trunk.... The sound of quick, indrawn breath passed among the leaves.

Richard More lifted her to her feet.

“Come!” he said.

They passed out of the grove where the sedan chairs waited them. The bearers prone on their faces on the ground uttered low words that rose in a kind of chant and ended in the long indrawn note of awe.

Kou Ying alone stood erect.

He held out his hand to the blue-robed figure and escorted it to the sedan chair and seated it with grave care.

Richard More took his place in the chair beside her.

“We return by the lower route,” said Kou Ying.

He spoke a sharp word to the bearers. They sprang to their feet and touched the handles of the chairs.

“Keep to the lower hill by the spur,” he commanded.

The procession moved toward the low hill that edged the plain. And as they made their way up the long slope at an easy trot Richard More’s eyes rested on his wife.

She sat erect beneath the canopy of the chair, the blue robe with its gold dragons wrapped about her. Her tranquil face in its white hair looked across the plain.... She was more beautiful than he had ever known her! A queen in this robe of the Past!

He reached his hand till it touched the one that lay on the arm of the chair. The face with its tranquil smile turned to him.

And he saw with a start that the blue of the eyes and the blue of the coat were one....

They reached the spur of the hill and Kou Ying gave the signal to halt.

Behind them in the face of the cliff the seated Buddha looked across the plain.

And ahead, far beyond them on the plain, a single figure beneath a red umbrella plodded stolidly on, moving toward the tomb of its ancestors.

And as it went the red umbrella bobbed slowly, a spot of color in the distant far-reaching grayness of the plain.