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I 10 GOODWIN'S WEEKLY
I AT THE FEET OF BUDDHA
I RE-UNITED IN THE SHADOW OF DAI-BUTSU $y Clarissa Mackic '
H' 's-r't T was rather atDrdid story this sequel to Angela Dysatt's
H; I romantic Wooing" by and marriage to the successful land-
H p scape artist. Lance Dysart had remained a devoted -lover
H' jwl as well as husband, but into the dizzying whirl of Angela's
1 gay life there" subtly stole her infatuation for Krukar, the German
Bf violinist His passionate fnusic stirred her soul to its very founda-
Hi tions, ahfl, it was Angela's" triumph that he who performed before
H kings would obey her lightest behest to play to her in the shadowy
B ( drawing-room.
H Of anything more than this passionate adoration for Krukar,
H Angela was quite innocent. But Lance Dysart strayed into his
H drawing-room one afternoon 'and hoard the German's fervid utter-
B ances, surprised Angela's glorified, upturned face and stumbled out,
H white-lipped and broken-hearted. His brief letter to his wife offering
B her her freedom was too gladly accepted.
H ' He went away to the other end of the earth, and they gave
B Angela her freedom on the grounds of desertion.
H ' Krukar, strong, masterful, magnetic, was also circumspect. After
H the esclandre of the Dysart divorce he prudently ceased to play with
H the fire of Angela's temperamental nature and, abruptly ending his
B highly successful season in America, returned to the Fatherland,
H where it subsequently developed that a loving wife and children
Hj awaited him.
H - "Whert Angela's brief madness was over when the scales had
H dropped. from her eyes when' she saw the wreck of her life she
H turned the key on her past and joined the sorry company of pilgrims
B , who wander over the face of the earth seeking the shrine of happi-
H ness ; and pitiably few are those who find it and may worship there !
H Kamakma drowsed in the heat of the noonday sun. Against the
H tender blue of; the Japanese sky was smudged the dark foliage of
H cryptomerjias. "In the foreground loomed the colossal bronze statue
H of -Buddha: - From the adjoining temple in the pine grove ame a
B faint-tinkle- of wind-stirred 'bells.
H Mrs. Dysart slowly mounted the steps that led to the famous
H statue." At the top she paused and leaned against one of the
i stone Janterns.
" Fifty feet above her towered the nobly planned head of Dai-
H ' ButW. The .impassive face, with its patiently dropping mouth, the
H half-hidden eyes of gold, the beautiful decorations, the jewel set in
H the wide, peaceful forehead- all these things she had seen before,
H during her honeymoon spent in the Land of Chrysanthemum.
H It was inevitable that she must return and look upon it again,
H for then she had said to her husband : "If ever I am in great trouble,
Q Lance, I shall come to Daj-Butsu to learn the secret of peace it is
H .-written in that beautiful, solemn face."
"Little pagan!" Lance had laughed. "You will never find cause
H no come liere.JW -'
H "Now, it -was seven years afterwards and she was here at the
H Sfeejt of Dai-Butsu!
Hi ' She looked up at the shape and was soothed by the gentle, pas-
H sionless beauty of those features If she remained here here at
H the feet of Dai-Butsu she must learn the secret of that immense
H repose that is only given to those who know; to those who havd
H vanquished that bitter foe, memory; to those who have quaffed the
H waters of Mara and lived.
H The Soul of the East looked down at the woman through half-
H closed lids of bronze, and Angela learned that sorrow is world-old
H and, if shared alone, must be beaten into numbness, for it is only by
H forgetting that one attains peace.
H A footstep that was unlike the soft padding of straw sandals,
fl nor yet the sharp patter of geta, drew Angela's attention from Dai-
H ' ,A. man had passed her swiftly and was standing in mute con-
H templation of the great idol. It was Lance Dysart.
H Angela shrank back against the stone lantern until her gray
H Igpwn, gray hat and veilblended into the monotone of the ancient
H tstbne. Her heart stofipe&euiing.
I I .r. rJ?pr-a moment he paused thve, his graying hair bared to the
H "sunshine; then he replaced his hat and strode around the statue, dis-
Hj j appearing among the cryptomerias on the hillside.
H4 Footsteps came and went on the pavement the pad-pad of
H . straw Bandals, the click of geta, the rap and tap of foreign-made
HM shoes, as pilgrims, native devotees and tourists troopeel to and fro.
H . Few ,of them noticed the gray-clad form of the woman sitting in
Hf the .shadow of Dai-Butsu.
D "Two American women sentimentalized gushingly about the in-
H i scrutable face towering above them. Then said one of them :
"They say Lance Dysart, the painter, has a bungalow up there on
"And a Japanese wife, I suppose," returned the other Hjjlijfc,
"Ccrtainement!" The first speaker shrugged her shoulder!.
They both laughed as they moved away.
Angela was still sitting there when the last tourist had scurried
for the last tr? .i when the last devotee had tossed his dole into the
old priest's lac juered bowl.
She was alone with Dai-Butsu.
The level rays of the setting sun flooded the image with a golden
light. It was very peaceful.
Presently Angela arose and went around the statue. She found
the path where Lance had disappeared and followed it up the slope
of the hill. It led over ancient, moss-grown steps, past ruined tem
ples and weather-beaten shrines. Azaleas hedged the way and min
gled with the scent of the pines was the savor of the nearby sea.
Then she came to the place. It was a fairy-like bungalow, of Jaj A
anese construction. The tiled roof gleamed redly through the trees.
A hedge of bamboos half hid a miniature garden where a waterfall
tinkled into a lotus pond spanned by a little rustic bridge.
It was the bungalow she and Lance had planned when they were
on their honeymoon.
Angela leaned her forehead against the bamboos and looked into
the garden like an Eve yearning over a lost Paradise.
There came English-speaking voices. Someone pushed aside the
paper shoji and ran laughingly from the veranda into the garden
Angela held her breath with wonder.
The girl was so beautiful so delicately lovely like one of Uta
moro's old color prints. Her charming kimono of lilac brocade,
with obi of violet velvet, the silver butterfly in her blue-black hair
all made a picture that wrung the watcher's heart. The girl paused
on the rustic bridge and laughed saucily.
Lance Dysart came out of he house waving a small samisen.
"Just one song, Morning jloryl" he pleaded.
The girl relented and, coming forward, took the stringed instru
ment from his hands. She sat down in the veranda and her long,
pale fingers swept a chord.
The song was a native one, and Morning Glory sang it in a high,
sweet soprano. Angela saw nothing save the wedding ring on the
girl's finger and her husband's face. Lance looked thinner, older,
and his hair was quite gray. She missed the old, confident ring in
his voice and his shoulders drooped a little as if he were tired.
Another man stepped out into the veranda and sat down on the
white mats. He, too, was an American a small, smooth-shaven
man with straw-colored hair and bright, blue eyes. Undoubtedly he
was one of the artist friends that were always in Dysart's train.
The twilight fell swiftly while Morning Glory sang one song after
another. The moon rose, large and luminous, and the little garden
was flooded with a wonderful mystic light.
The music ceased, and the three talked in low tones. Sometimes
the laugh of the Japanese girl rang out like tinkling bells. Angela
shivered a little. Morning Glory! what a fitting name for that
lovely, dewy-eyed young creature! Angela felt old and faded by
From a distant temple came the deep boom of the sacred bell a
sound deep as thunder, followed by rich billows of dying echoes.
Angela pressed her lips against the gates of Paradise and fled '
down the azalea path. Her feet stumbled over the mossy stones, for
her eyes were blind with hot tears. Within her heart there was one
" lqnging to look once more on the face of Dai-Butsu and learn how
to forget. Then to go away.
Dai-Butsu brooded alone in the white moonlight. The crypto
merias made dense, black shadows. Somewhere on the hillside a
nightingale sang and there was the scent of crushed jasmine flowers
from the bronze votive table.
Angela sank down in the shadow of Dai-Butsu. Presently the
moon would light the majestic features so that she might learn the
After a while she knew that she was no longer alone. A man
was standing there. A tall figure in white linen, with shoulders
slightly bowed, with hair the color of the moonlight.
For a long time he stood there looking up at the shadowy, brazen
face of the image. At last he spoke:
"It's a long while to wait, old fellpw," he laughed brokenly as he
turned away. Then he saw Angela's desolate little figure.
(Continued on Page 12.)