A gasping sound came from the leaning bishop. "John! John Fairfax!" he cried, composure dropping from him, and fell on his knees. "After these years!"
The other lifted his hand and touched the bishop's pale, smooth-shaven face.
"I am going, Arthur," he said. "I never intended to speak, though I've seen you often.... I thought it was best. Did she—did my wife never tell you?"
"Never a word, John! I have never known!" cried the bishop, in a shaken voice.
"It was my fault. All mine! I—never believed as she did, Arthur, and here in the East what was breath and bread to her, to me came to seem all mumbo-jumbo. I had had a hard life, and I wanted comfort—for her. Then I found out about the gold-lacquer."
He paused to gather the strength that was fast ebbing.
"I got the formula from a crazy priest, and I began in a small way—the idol-making, I mean. I had a shop at Saga. At first it was only for the mandarins in the China trade, and ... no one knew. But the lacquer grew famous, and within a year I was shipping to Rangoon and Thibet. I made all sorts of praying-tackle. Then—then I quarreled with my agent, and—he told my wife. She didn't believe it, but one day ... he brought her to where I was at work. I was modeling an Amida for a temple in Nagasaki!"
He threw an arm across his face and moaned.
"She left me that night. A ship was in the harbor. I ... never saw her again. I never knew I had a daughter till a week ago!... I never knew!"
There was a silence.