“Is there a secret? You and others have searched the house. If there was anything to be discovered it would have come to light by now, I feel sure.”

“Do you sense something here?”

I hesitated. “I think that it is possible to build up this… what is it you called it? An aura? It is something in the mind. It is nothing tangible.”

“You are a sensible woman, Jane. And you are right. Fear is often in the minds of those who suffer it. You could be the one to discover the secret of the house which could be that there is no secret. That the mystery exists only in the minds of those who created it. Read to me now.”

I read from the works of Dickens which he always enjoyed. I think that took him far away from the moment to another world, for nothing could have been farther from his room with its swinging lanterns than the English scene.

He kept a book of quotations from the great Chinese writers by his bedside and he used to study them before he slept.

I remember some of them. Two seemed particularly to apply to me. One was “The gem cannot be polished without friction, nor man perfected without trials.” And I thought then what a different person I had become since those days with Joliffe. I was more understanding now of others, more mellow. I wondered whether the girl I had been in those days—in love with my own life and without much thought to spare for others—would have been able to offer the comfort to Sylvester which I did at this time. Another of these quotations was “The error of a moment becomes the sorrow of a lifetime.”

I used to think of this quite a lot.

That was a strange time for in Sylvester’s room was this sense of acceptance, of a brooding watchfulness. The house seemed quiet, waiting. Yet there was a subtle expectancy. Although I might assure myself that it did not exist outside my imagination I sensed it. It was in the quiet rooms each with its center lantern and other small ones placed about; it was in the soft swish of a curtain and the breeze which gently ruffled the miniature trees and the wind bells. It was in the pagoda, that place which had been a tryst for Joliffe and Jason. I went there often because I wondered whether Lottie had disobeyed me and had brought Jason to see Joliffe there. I half hoped I would find Joliffe and I half feared to.

I felt that I was living in a strange half world—between two lives, for the house would have told me, if Sylvester had not, that he was going to die.

I wondered what would happen then, but I forced myself to shut my eyes to one dazzling prospect. Joliffe was free… as I would be. I felt guilty and ashamed that I could contemplate a possible outcome of this.

I was very conscious of the presence of Adam in the house. Often I resented his didactic manner; he had a disconcerting way of announcing something of which he was sure. I always wanted to contradict but I discovered that he was almost always right.

He had adopted a kind of pose of protection; as though he were there to defend me even against my will. I was irritated by this and wanted to tell him that I was not in the least feeble. Sylvester had schooled me and I had learned my lessons well. And the first of these was the capability of standing on my own feet.

But I said nothing and we drifted on.

Lottie said: “The Master is tranquil. He is waiting for Yen-wang.”

I knew that Yen-wang was to the Chinese what Pluto was to the Greeks. Yet there were times when I rebelled at this calm acceptance. I tried to shake Sylvester out of it.

“One of your theories used to be that anyone could do anything. If a man wants to get well and determines to, why should he not?”

“We have self-will up to a point,” he said. “But when the hour is approaching there is no turning back the clock.”


* * *

That night I awakened startled. I sat up in bed and it was as though horror crawled over my skin. There was a faint light in the room which came from a crescent moon and the lantern was like a black creature hanging from the ceiling.

Then I knew what had awakened me. It was a movement at my door. The creak of a handle being slowly turned. I leaped from my bed and as I did so the door slowly opened.

In the gloom I made out a figure standing there. For a few seconds I thought that one of the ghosts of The House of a Thousand Lanterns had materialized.

Then to my astonishment I saw that it was Sylvester.

I was dreaming. It couldn’t be Sylvester. He could only mount the stairs with the greatest difficulty.

I whispered: “Sylvester.” There was no response. He had held up both hands before him and was advancing into the room.

I stared. I must be dreaming. Then the realization came to me: Sylvester is walking in his sleep.

Stealthily I went towards him. I took his hand. A slow smile seemed to touch his lips yet I could see that he was asleep.

I marveled that he should have been able to get up the stairs. I felt he had been impelled to come to me and that although he was sleeping he seemed to be aware that he had found me.

I had heard that if people walked in their sleep it was unwise to awaken them and that they should be led quietly back to their beds. I therefore gently turned Sylvester and drew him from my room and to the stairs. I went ahead of him and slowly led him down.

I took him back to his bed and covered him up. But I was loath to leave him lest he get up again.

I sat there for some time watching him. He looked like a man who is already dead. The flesh seemed to have fallen away and exposed the bone structure of his face. I thought of all the comfort he had brought into my life and what his loss would mean to me, for I knew, as certainly as he did, that his end was near.

I was growing cold and there was nothing I could do for him by sitting there so I rose but as I did so he opened his eyes.

“Jane,” he said.

“It’s all right, Sylvester.”

“What time is it? Why are you here?”

“It’s all right.” I knew I had to tell him the truth, so I said: “You were walking in your sleep. I brought you back.”

He half rose and I said: “Lie back. Well talk about it in the morning. You will sleep peacefully now.”

“Jane,” he whispered.

I bent over him and kissed his forehead.

“Try to sleep,” I said.


* * *

In the morning we talked about it. He was puzzled. “I don’t think I ever did it before,” he said.

“Perhaps many people do,” I replied soothingly, “and it is never found out.”

“And I was in your room. How did I manage that?”

“It was amazing.”

“It must have been some compulsion… in my dream… something which gave me the strength to mount the stairs.”

“Is that possible?”

“I think it might be. I have been anxious about you, Jane. Perhaps that was how it manifested itself in the dream. I must have been dreaming I had to get you… to tell you something perhaps. It may have been that I dreamed you were in danger. I must have been forcibly impelled to see you if I could mount the stairs. Jane, I am anxious about you. When I am no longer here…”

“Please, it distresses me.”

“My dear Jane, how good you are to me and always have been. You know I owe most of the happiness I have ever known to you.”

“That gives me a lot of comfort but I want you to stop talking as though you are going to die. Perhaps this dream is a sign of what you can do if you want to. Let’s concentrate on your getting well.”

“No, no, Jane. We must face the truth. Death is in the house.”

I shivered. “Oh no. That’s wrong. We must not even think such a thing.”

“But it’s true. I sense it. And so do you. We are sensitive people, Jane. And here there is an affinity with the occult, don’t you feel it?”

“I always thought you were a shrewd and practical businessman.”

“I am so because I recognize that there is much in life that is a mystery to me and to us all. I have seen death, Jane. Yes, really seen death in a material form.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was late afternoon. The door of my room opened and there was a shape there. A dragon shape with the mask of death. I’ve seen it in processions and there it was… looking straight at me. It was there and it was gone.”

“It was a bad dream, for how could there be such a thing?”

“No, I was awake. And although it might seem impossible at home in Roland’s Croft, here it could happen.”

“You can’t believe such things.”

“I knew it for Death, Jane. This is no ordinary house. You sense that even as I do. Things could happen here which never would elsewhere. Don’t you sense the secrets, the mystery, the presence of the past?”

“I am going to ask the doctor to give you something to make you sleep soundly. I intend to watch over you, Sylvester.”

He smiled and taking my hand kissed it.

I felt very tender towards him.


* * *

The month of April had come and I thought with nostalgia of spring in England. The daffodils would be blooming in the London parks and I imagined the children with their boats on the Round Pond. Then I was transported straight back to that brief ecstatic period with Joliffe and quite clearly I saw Bella’s face smiling, with the sinister look in her eyes—the messenger of Fate who had come to destroy my happiness at one stroke.

Excitement invaded the house; the servants whispered together. A great occasion was approaching.

Sylvester said to me: “You know what is coming, Jane. It is the Feast of the Dead.”

I felt sick with horror. I remembered this custom from my reading and had forgotten that this was the time of the year it took place.

“It occurs twice yearly,” said Sylvester, “in the spring and in the autumn, but the great occasion is the springtime… now.”

“It’s a morbid custom,” I said.

“Oh no, they don’t make a morbid thing of it. They honor their ancestors. As you know the main force in Chinese life is ancestor worship. Any sin is forgivable in the pursuit of it. Confucius laid down the law that burial and mourning rites are the most important of all duties. “The Chinese adore with a kind of idolatry those who have died. This is the most important occasion of the year therefore—the honoring of the dead.”

The preparations had begun. Throughout the day we would see parties making for the hillside where the burial grounds were situated. Sylvester had told me that such spots were chosen throughout China because the land could not be used for cultivation and there were buried the grandest mandarins and the lowliest peasants.

For days men, women, and children went there to wash the tombs in readiness for the great day. When I rode out with Toby we saw the red and white streamers of paper flying out in the wind. These had been attached to the tombs that all might know they had been cleaned and made ready and that no dead person had been forgotten.

Lottie was among those who made the pilgrimage to the hill. She took food and candles and wrapped herself in coarse cloth.

I shall never forget that day. The house was deserted. All the servants had gone to the hills.

Tobias had taken Jason out on a small pony, for Jason was learning to ride, and Sylvester and I were alone in the house.

How quiet it was apart from the occasional sound of the gongs which came from the mourning processions as they wound their way up to the hillside.

I would be glad when this day was over.

Sylvester had been dressed and sat in his chair. He had become very thin and in the dim light he resembled a skeleton.

How I wished they would not keep sounding those gongs. They reminded me of the knell of the funeral bell. And I was reminded of my bright mother who had been dying and keeping that terrible knowledge from me.

“This is a horrid ceremony,” I said aloud.

“The sadness is brief,” Sylvester replied. “Very soon now the feasting will begin.”

“The feasting!”

“You don’t imagine they will waste all that food they’ve taken up there, do you? They are too practical for that. They have paid honor to the dead, now they will have a banquet of the food they have brought. Up at the hills they will light the lanterns and the wailing will cease. All will sit down for the food will be spread on the tombs and they will eat, as they would tell you, with their ancestors.”