It was the same Atherton—but more human, more humble, if such a word could be applied to an American millionaire. He felt a sudden curiosity to see the woman who had brought that new look into his old friend’s keen blue eyes. He was conscious of an odd feeling of envy. Atherton became aware at last of his attentive gaze and grinned sheepishly.
“Must seem a bit of a fool to you, old man, but I feel like a boy going home for the holidays and that’s the truth. But I’ve been yapping about my own affair all evening. What about you—staying on in Japan? Been here quite a while now, haven’t you?”
“Just over a year.”
“Like it?”
“Yes, Japan has got into my bones.”
“Lazy kind of life, isn’t it?”
There was no apparent change in Atherton’s drawl, but Craven turned his head quickly and looked at him before answering.
“I’m a lazy kind of fellow,” he replied quietly.
“You weren’t lazy in the Rockies,” said Atherton sharply.
“Oh, yes I was. There are grades of laziness.”
Atherton flung the stub of his cigar overboard and selecting a fresh one, cut the end off carefully.
“Still got that Jap boy who was with you in America?”
“Yoshio? Yes. I picked him up in San Francisco ten years ago. He’ll never leave me now.”
“Saved his life, didn’t you? He spun me a great yarn one day in camp.”
Craven laughed and shrugged. “Yoshio has an Oriental imagination and quite a flair for romance. I did pull him out of a hole in ‘Frisco but he was putting up a very tidy little show on his own account. He’s the toughest little beggar I’ve ever come across and doesn’t know the meaning of fear. If I’m ever in a big scrap I hope I shall have Yoshio behind me.”
“You seem to be pretty well known over yonder,” said Atherton with a vague movement of his head toward the shore.
“It is not a big town and the foreign population is not vast. Besides, there are traditions. I am the second Barry Craven to live in Yokohama—my father lived several years and finally died here. He was obsessed with Japan.”
“And with the Japanese?”
“And with the Japanese.”
Atherton frowned at the glowing end of his cigar.
“Nina and I ran down to see Craven Towers when we were on our wedding trip in England last year,” he said at length with seeming irrelevance. “Your agent, Mr. Peters, ran us round.”
“Good old Peters,” murmured Craven lazily. “The place would have gone to the bow-wows long ago if it hadn’t been for him. He adored my mother and has the worst possible opinion of me. But he’s a loyal old bird, he probably endowed me with all the virtues for your benefit.”
But Atherton ignored the comment. He polished his eyeglass vigorously and screwed it firmly into position.
“If I was an Englishman with a place like Craven Towers that had been in my family for generations,” he said soberly, “I should go home and marry a nice girl and settle down on my estate.”
“That’s precisely Peters’ opinion,” replied Craven promptly with a good-tempered laugh. “I get reams from him to that effect nearly every mail—with detailed descriptions of all the eligible debutantes whom he thinks suitable. I often wonder whether he runs the estate on the same lines and keeps a matrimonial agency for the tenants.”
Atherton laughed with him but persisted.
“If your own countrywomen don’t appeal to you, take a run out to the States and see what we can do for you.”
The laugh died out of Craven’s eyes and he moved restlessly in his chair.
“It’s no good, Jermyn. I’m not a marrying man,” he said shortly.
Atherton smiled grimly at the recollection of a similar remark emphatically uttered by himself at their last meeting.
For a time neither spoke. Each was conscious of a vague difference in the other, developed during the years that had elapsed since their last meeting—an intangible barrier checking the open confidence of earlier days.
It was growing late. The sampans had nearly all disappeared and only an occasional launch skimmed across the harbour.
A neighbouring yacht’s band that had been silent for the last hour began to play again—appropriately to the vicinity—Puccini’s well-known opera. The strains came subdued but clear across the water on the scent-laden air. Craven sat forward in his chair, his heels on the ground, his hands loosely clasped between his knees, whistling softly the Consul’s solo in the first act. From behind a cloud of cigar smoke Atherton watched him keenly, and as he watched he was thinking rapidly. He was used to making decisions quickly—he was accustomed to accepting risks at which others shied, but the risk he was now contemplating meant the taking of an unwarranted liberty that might be resented and might result in the loss of a friendship that he valued. But he was going to take the risk—as he had taken many another—he had known that from the first. He screwed his eyeglass firmer into his eye, a characteristic gesture well-known on the New York stock market.
“Ever see Madame Butterfly? he asked abruptly.
“Yes.”
Atherton blew another big cloud of smoke.
“Damn fool, Pinkerton,” he said gruffly, “Never could see the attraction myself—dancing girls—almond eyes—and all that sort of thing.”
Craven made no answer but his whistling stopped suddenly and the knuckles of his clasped hands whitened. Atherton looked away quickly and his eyeglass fell with a little tinkle against a waistcoat button. There was another long pause. Finally the music died away and the stillness was broken only by the soft slap-slap of the water against the ship’s side.
Atherton scowled at his immaculate deck shoes and then seized his eyeglass again decisively.
“Say, Barry, you saved my life in the Rockies that trip and I guess a fellow whose life you’ve saved has a pull on you no one else has. Anyhow I’ll chance it, and if I’m a damned interfering meddler it’s up to you to say so and I’ll apologise—handsomely. Are you in a hole?”
Craven got up, walked away to the side of the yacht and leaning on the rail stared down into the water. A solitary sampan was passing the broad streak of moonlight and he watched it intently until it passed and merged into the shadows beyond.
“I’ve been the usual fool,” he said at last quietly.
“Oh, hell!” came softly from behind him. “Chuck it, Barry. Clear out right now—with us. I’ll put off sailing until tomorrow.”
“I—can’t.”
Atherton rose and joined him, and for a moment his hand rested on the younger man’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry—dashed sorry,” he murmured. “Gee!” he added with a half shy, half humorous glance, wiping his forehead frankly, “I’d rather face a grizzly than do that again. Leslie keeps telling me that my habit of butting in will land me in the family vault before my time.”
Craven smiled wryly.
“It’s all right. I’m grateful—really. But I must hoe my own row.”
The American swung irresolutely on his heels.
“That’s so, that’s so,” he agreed reluctantly. “Oh damn it all,” he burst out, “have a drink!” and going back to the table he pounded in the stopper of a soda-water-bottle savagely.
Craven laughed constrainedly as he tilted the whisky into a glass.
“Universal panacea,” he said a little bitterly, “but it’s not my method of oblivion.”
He put the peg tumbler down with a smothered sigh.
“I must be off, Jermyn. It’s time you were getting under way. It’s been like the old days to have had a yarn with you again. Good luck and a quick run home—you lucky devil.”
Atherton walked with him to the head of the gangway and watched him into the launch.