Carefully Damaris closed Winter when she had displayed the last of this woven richness. "No yellow—because that is the Emperor's color and Grandfather could not ever buy anything which might be woven for the Palace. But all the rest—they're to make dresses. And if you can teach me how to sew— I would never show these to Prune Face, She would have run right away to tell her. And think how she would want this!"
"Damaris, these are too precious, too rich for us to work with." Saranna was appalled at the thought of putting scissors to any of those shimmering, priceless lengths.
"Not now." To her relief, Damaris nodded. "I would have to learn a lot. But someday, yes. And you must choose a piece too, Saranna." She stood back and studied the older girl. "One of the greens, I think—maybe that lighter one in the Spring box. It makes one think of new plants pushing up into the sun. Yes, I do believe you must have that green from Spring."
"Not now—" Saranna denied.
" 'Course not. If you had a dress like that now, she would be right after us to know where you got it. But someday— you'll have it for your own self."
"We'll wait and see," Saranna temporized. She watched Damaris once more unlock and lock the door, return the key to hiding under her apron. In the finest shops in Boston, the older girl had never seen such lengths as Captain Whaley had gathered. That a man would buy such material and store it puzzled her a little. Damaris had not been born, she understood, until long after his retirement from the Far East. Had it been the color, the texture, the sheer beauty which had so awakened the Captain's covetousness that he could not resist adding them to his collection? What had he originally intended to use them for? Curtains? The heavy brocades might have served well in that manner. But the light silks, no. It puzzled her a little as Damaris turned to her once more and said eagerly.
"Mrs. Parton has to let us into the sewing room now. She said you could use the machine. I'll bring my workbox. There, that's the sewing room." She pointed to a door just beyond that of the locked chamber of the four chests.
Two long steps brought Damaris to it and she turned the handle. The knob gave. She nodded triumphantly back over her shoulder at Saranna.
"Yes, it's open. I'm going to get my workbox and tell Millie to bring yours and all those dresses and things. Then you can start to show me—"
She was off before Saranna could answer, leaving the door she had tried a little ajar. The older girl opened it wider to enter.
10
SHIH HO-CRIMINAL PROCEEDINGS
Sunday, until midafternoon, was indeed a day of peace as Saranna had hoped it would be. They had driven in the carriage, accompanied by Mrs. Parton (with Rufus, together with the very taciturn and self-effacing Collis Parton, riding escort), to the church. Luckily, the Partons did not try to share the family pew which she and Damaris enjoyed in solitary splendor. Thus Saranna was relieved of her unwelcome admirer's presence during the service.
Saranna studied the vicar with close attention, more intent upon the personality of the man than his sermon. In Sussex, Pastor Willis had been a bulwark of aid to those in distress. She wondered whether this far more worldly appearing man might possibly be one in whom she could confide her doubts and forebodings. But there was something about him which she could not warm up to, a certain loftiness of manner, as if he felt himself in a superior station of life, so assured of his own correct position that he would not welcome anything which might tend to ruffle the even tenor of his ways.
Mr. Fowke occupied another large pew to her left on the other side of the church, doubtless that belonging to his family. She sighted on the walls various memorial tablets to both Fowkes and Whaleys, already worn looking, though the church was less than a hundred years old.
When the service at last came to an end, Saranna was eager to be on her way back to Tiensin. She had not been unconscious of those curious glances flashed in her direction from beneath the brims of bonnets and hats when she and Damans had taken their seats. And, though no one ought property to think of one's clothes on such an occasion, she had been painfully aware that hers were poorer even than those of the black servants who sat in the galleries above. That she must make such a distressed appearance on her first meeting with the neighborhood she found mortifying.
"Miss Stowell, Damaris—" It was Mr. Fowke, tall beaver in hand, who awaited them as they edged their full skirts out of the pew door, into the aisle. "A pleasant day—"
For a moment, Saranna could forget the poor figure she made under the sharp eyes of those who were undoubtedly Honora's acquaintances. It was a pleasant day. Though their drive here had been marred for her because Rufus had urged his mount (except where the road was mercifully too narrow) up level with the carriage, watching her slyly. A surveillance she had refused to acknowledge in any form.
"Yes," she answered breathlessly now, once more aware that a large portion of the feminine section of the congregation were focused on their meeting, that ears were being strained to catch the slightest word of this exchange. She had no doubt that Gerrad Fowke was very much the subject of female speculation in the neighborhood. And there must be more than a little disappointment that he had already fixed his attentions on Honora.
"Pleasant enough for a short drive?" he asked.
"Where?" Damaris was not in the least shy and Saranna was very glad at that moment that the younger girl did have the tendency to forwardness.
"Past Queen's Pleasure," he said. "Even Mrs. Parton cannot demand that you be at the table before one, and I promise to have you back safely again before that hour. Since she shares your carriage, as I noticed, that will further delay her plans." He was smiling and Saranna smiled uncertainly back.
With Mrs. Parton to accompany them, there would certainly be no impropriety in such a small divergence from their path. And she had to admit to herself that she wanted to go, to see the old Manor Gerrad Fowke was slowly rescuing from the ruin into which his cousin had plunged the estate.
"Oh—I want to!" Damaris caught eagerly at Saranna's gloved hand. "We can, can't we?"
They had reached the door of the church and Mr. Fowke bowed slightly to the housekeeper who, in her stiff, bottle-green best, rustled up to join them.
"I have persuaded the young ladies to make a short detour on their way home—past Queen's Pleasure. I will promise not to delay your household arrangements for long. Perhaps your husband and your son can carry on to Tiensin any message you wish to give the cook."
Mrs. Parton's small mouth opened as if she were about to utter some protest. Did it close again because of Mr. Fowke's air of calm assurance? Saranna thought it unfair that no female could deliver such a quelling tone when she wished. At least no young female—
So it was Mr. Fowke who handed them into their carriage. Saranna was well aware that Rufus had moved forward. But Gerrad Fowke's complete indifference to young Parton's presence (as if Rufus were indeed invisible) was something Rufus could not prevail against. She saw his father put out a hand to his son's arm, draw him back. But there was a black look on the younger man's face.
"Queen's Pleasure, Sam—" Mr. Fowke gave the order easily and clearly to their coachman, mounted himself on a powerful looking gray horse to rein in, keeping pace with the carriage as they moved off at a sedate amble suitable for the day.
"The Manor has a romantic name—Queen's Pleasure—" Saranna observed.
Damaris nodded vehemently. "That's because a real Queen gave the land to one of her favorite ladies-in-waiting. Later, that lady married one of the Fowkes, the one who built the first Manor House. Of course, that has been added to a lot. The first house was kind of small. But you can see Queen Anne's name carved over the door with a crowned lion. 'Cause she was the Queen who gave it at her pleasure."
When they pulled to a stop before the door, Mr. Fowke, who had trotted his mount ahead once they turned into the driveway, had dismounted and was waiting to hand them down from the carriage. Glancing up beyond his shoulder Saranna did indeed see that deeply cut name of
the royal Anne and the weathered lion playing sentry.
Inside there was the smell of paint and freshly sawed wood, but the stair leading to the second floor was untouched save by years of careful polishing. While the paneling about the walls glowed with the same patina provided by age.
"Let me show you the drawing room. It is my intention," Gerrad Fowke said to Saranna, "to retain as much of the original fittings of this room, of all the house at that matter, as I can. You see—the extra width of the wall provides window seats—" He gestured. "This center block which was the original house is united with two pavilions, one of which provides me with a library-office. The summer veranda is on the north facing the garden—cooler during the hottest weather. We Marylanders have a liking for our northern verandas, Miss Stowell."
"Miss Saranna, Miss Damaris—" Mrs. Parton had not advanced any farther into the room than just within the door. "It is getting on nigh to one o'clock."
Saranna was a little surprised that the housekeeper had had the audacity to interrupt them with a reminder of the time. Perhaps, in spite of her chaperonage, they had been forward in coming here. The girl was too ignorant herself of the manners of the countryside to be sure. Though certainly Damaris had every right to accept such an invitation from her stepmother's betrothed, and she, herself, saw no harm in what they had done.
For a moment there was a shadow of a frown on Mr. Fowke's rugged face, as if he found Mrs. Parton overstepping the bounds of her position. Then he shrugged and turned to the door.
"I am sorry that it is so late," he said. "I would have liked you to see the rest of the house, all that is being done to render it comfortable after long disuse. My cousin kept to one room largely in the last years of his life. I do not think he even looked into the others. Perhaps another time we can arrange that—"
Mrs. Parton, her object achieved, had turned her back on them and was hurrying out. Damaris had wandered off to run her hand along one of the window seats.
Mr. Fowke inclined his head closer to Saranna's bevelled and out-of-fashion bonnet.
"Miss Stowell," his voice was so low that it hardly escaped the pitch of a whisper. "Is it true that you know young Parton—?"
He did not quite finish that sentence. It was as if he feared he had taken a liberty as a gentleman should disdain to use.
Before she thought, Saranna blurted out the truth.
"I know him only as Mrs. Parton's son."
“Then he did not—"
"You know," Damaris was back at their side, "this is the kind of house which ought to have a secret place for treasure —like Grandfather's—only maybe not as much." She shook her head determinedly, unable to admit that anything could ever eclipse the wonders of Tiensin.
To her despair, Saranna had no chance to hear the rest of Mr. Fowke's question. Did she dare to believe he was testing the truth of what Honora had told him? And that, if Damaris had given them only a moment or two more, she could have made plain her dilemma and perhaps even gained enough of his sympathy to enlist his influence with his bride-to-be on her behalf so that the threat of Rufus Parton's interest in her would be lessened? If he had meant it so, they had no further chance to go into the matter, for Damaris continued to chatter on about treasure and secrets until they were once more in the carriage.
Then, at Mrs. Parton's quick order, the carriage moved off, leaving Gerrad Fowke on his doorstep and hardly giving them a chance to thank him for their small expedition away from Tiensin and all the shadows which hung to obscure the future there.
"I like Mr. Fowke," Damaris announced as they went along at a much smarter pace, suggesting that Sam was properly influenced by the housekeeper to make their return as short a trip as possible. "But I like Tiensin better than Queen's Pleasure. I think she does, too. Tiensin's bigger and more important."
After lunch Saranna sought the parlor, which appeared to be one of the areas forbidden to Rufus. She settled herself thankfully therein, her mother's worn Bible in her hands. For a while she thought of the time past, of the good days when Keturah Stowell had not been driven by poverty to constant labor with her needle, and there had been Bible stories on Sunday, the singing of hymns to the music of the harpsichord which had been Saranna's grandmother's prized possession. Then memories became too painful, and Saranna resolutely applied herself to blocking away those which hurt the most
She had been staring idly, more intent upon her own thoughts, at the massive twelve-panel teak screen which stood half-concealing the door into the hall. It was at least seven feet high, and a large portion of it was made up of blue and white porcelain tiles; those in the upper panels pictured landscapes, the lower ones contained figures. Between these were carved characters which Damaris had informed her represented the Five Blessings—counting them out on her fingers as she had recited them.
Long life, riches, good health and peace of mind, love of virtue, an end fulfilling the will of Heaven. Over only two of those perhaps did mankind have control—the third and fourth; maybe only the fourth. The rest were certainly a matter of chance, fortune, or perhaps divine will. But one could choose to love virtue.
Her attention shifted from those deeply graven characters, looking so odd to the Western eyes, so difficult to see as true writing, to the fancifully pictured panels set below them. First, tall mountains in queer full humps, and dwarfed beneath them, three horsemen on a lonely road. For all its strangeness of line one sensed the barrenness, the threat of that country through which the horsemen pushed. Next came a garden, a man sitting under a flowering tree before a table on which were set out a scholar's tools, inkstone, inkstick, brush, paper, brush rest, seal—and a little behind him another man cross-legged on the ground, his back against a rock, a flute in his hands.
The third— Saranna's gaze became fixed. She sat upright as if jerked. How could she not have seen that before? Or maybe she had seen it without really remembering, until it came to life in her dream.
Because this was, in some ways, the very core of her dream!
There were three musicians to one side, a drum player, a man with a flute to his lips; the third, a woman cradling a long-necked stringed instrument against her knee as she plucked upon it. In the center of the tile postured a dancer, her long sleeve ends aflutter, the swirl of skirts about her as if she had only this second come to the end of her dance. Her hair was dressed in the same looped and puffed fashion as the Fox Lady's had been.
There were only two things missing—the circle of foxes watching, and the fox's mask. For this dancer in blue and white had entirely human features. That was it! Saranna must have seen this tile, some unremarked portion of her memory had stored it away as an impression. Then the stories she had heard about the foxes of Tiensin had released that memory in the form of a dream!
Only— Her hand went to where she still wore in hiding the jade pendant. Where had that come from then? If it had been the gift of the Fox Lady, why was it given? But, of course, there was no Fox Lady! She was a dream taken from a screen tile and—
"Saranna!"
Damaris whipped around the screen. Saranna had seen the younger girl defiant, she had seen her rebellious, and even in the grip of some fear she would not explain. But she had never seen her so distraught as she was at this moment.
"Saranna—it is gone! Out of the desk—it is gone!" Her words were scrambled together so it almost seemed she was stuttering in her distress.
Saranna held out her hands and Damaris caught them in a hold so tight that her nails made painful impressions in the older girl's flesh.
The child gave a great gulp. Then tears spilled from her eyes. She was shaking, clearly in a near-hysterical state. One which awoke fear in Saranna, remembering all Honora's hints of Damaris' heritage.
"Now, then," she tried to speak calmly, in a way which would reach through whatever emotion had been so aroused in the younger girl, give her a sense of security so that she herself might discover what had brought on this perilous attack.
"What
is gone?" She drew Damaris closer until the child half-perched on the sofa behind her. Damaris could not loosen that fierce grip she had on Saranna's hands. "What is gone?" the older girl repeated in as even a tone as she could, fighting the inner foreboding which made her want to shiver in turn.
"The book—Grandfather's book!" Damaris spoke with impatience, as if she expected Saranna to know at once and share with her that frantic sense of loss which plainly filled her.
"What kind of book—?" Saranna continued. That this was plainly some volume Damaris valued highly there could be no mistake.
Damaris shivered. Her voice was as unsteady as her body when she answered:
"The book—the book Grandfather had made! The one about his treasures." Perhaps Saranna had had some calming effect upon her for now she lifted her eyes and stared imploringly into the older girl's face.
"He—he made it about his treasures. It had drawings in it—of all the best things. The names of those written in Chinese. And then he wrote descriptions of the pieces in English. All about who might have made them, how old they were—everything the scholars and artists could tell him. He had the book specially bound with tribute silk—a piece which was supposed to come from an Emperor's own storehouse. It was so important. Grandfather never, never allowed it to be taken out of the library. He had a special drawer in his desk and he kept that locked. I was the only one —the only, only one with a key to open it!
"But, Saranna, when I went to look for it just now—the drawer was empty. It was gone! Who could have taken it?'*
"I don't know, but we shall find out!" Maybe she was promising more with those words than she could deliver. But at least Damaris needed all her support at this moment. "Show me where it was; perhaps there is some sign there—"
"Of who took it?" Damaris' despair had changed now to eagerness in a mercurial fashion which Saranna did not like. But that she had accomplished this much in reducing Damaris' reaction to the loss was perhaps good.