“What way is that you’ve folded your kimono? Just run into the house and put it right. I’ll bide here on the verandy and smoke my pipe.”
She vanished into the house, and Mac sat down, but he did not light his pipe. What could be the meaning of all this? Surely he was dead, and laid long ago in the green woods of Nikko—could it be possible that the dead return?
Why was it that she alone could see him, hear him, and speak to him?
His eye caught the crimson azaleas as they bloomed in their beauty and splendor, and the Nikko road rose before him, the mysterious valley, peopled by the crimson flowers, the cypress trees, the far-off country, and the distant sea hills beyond Tanagura.
He heard Leslie’s voice as it denied the existence of God, and declared that if he had ever been given a creature that loved him, he would have cared for and loved it.
Then he felt something touch his shoulder, and, turning with a start, found it was Campanula.
“Come,” said she, in the manner of a person who would say, “I wish to show you something.”
He rose and followed her into the house. She led the way upstairs, and down the narrow passage to Leslie’s room.
At the door she paused and pointed to an object on the floor. It was a portmanteau packed and strapped.
They both looked at it without saying a word: a silence, that spoke of the deep, unconscious understanding between them.