Out San Miguel way there are many two-storied brick villas with
Spanish-red tiles. Sometimes there are three or four almost neighborly,
then one aloof and alone. In Manila most white folk live up-stairs, the
servants down. It permits white folk to talk over their affairs without
listeners--and the servants to run away to cock-fights as often as they
dare.
One of these isolated villas was walled in, except on the river side, by
a wall of rubble coated with whitewash. Rising above the _chevaux de
frise_ of broken bottles was a fringe of feathery bamboo. There was an
alley of these trees from the gate to the door. There was also a garden;
but the precise formality with which it had been laid out was a mute
testimony of the absence of womankind.
Two Americans lived there--bachelors. One of them lived there
continuously; the other, whenever his ship was in port. They were
officers in the United States navy. An odd pair, agreed official and
social Manila; and after futile efforts to make friends with them,
dismissed them. Odd, because bachelor officers who have incomes outside
their pay are generally gay sailormen. Off duty, these two formed an
association of hermits. They never went anywhere except officially, and
avoided women as other men avoided the plague. One of them was
woman-shy; the other hated them, it was said.
Captain Hallowell of the staff would in all probability never go to sea
again, actively. An experiment had severely injured one of his eyes,
though the defect was not noticeable.
Lieutenant-Commander Mathison was an officer of the line--a fighting
sailor. They were as unlike physically as it is possible for two men to
be.
Hallowell was the dreamer, the thinker. He was short, thick, rugged, and
a trifle gray. His head and short beard were shot with silver, though
his mustache was still black. There was something about him that
reminded you of the gorilla. You were likely to carry this idea in your
head until you knew him; then you understood that he was in the same
category as the St. Bernard--the gentlest and friendliest dog in the
world until thoroughly aroused. They called him a woman-hater with some
justice, though no one in official Manila ever learned the true facts,
not even Mathison, who surmised that Hallowell had run afoul some
worthless woman and had got past the reefs by a hair.
Mathison was the man of action. He was tall, slender, and handsome, with
a smooth olive skin. This deep color gave conspicuity to his gray eyes,
the whites of which were dazzling. Every line and turn of his face gave
you the impression that by nature he was amiable in the extreme. Given
cause, he could be as savage and relentless as the gorilla his friend
resembled.
Woman-shy, they called him, because they could find no other suitable
name for the puzzle. He was always courteous when, by those accidents of
chance called official receptions, he found himself among women. But
there was always a cold reserve the brightest eyes could not batter
down. Rest assured, there were many feminine campaigns. He was the
combination of two things women prize highly, greedily or
sentimentally--money and good looks.
What had the aspect of shyness was merely an idea, held to with
surpassing resolution. I shall tell you about this idea later on. There
are, here and there across this world, men like Mathison, who are
neither mollycoddles nor sanctimonious nincompoops. They are not
gregarious--the type from which explorers come, men who know how to live
alone, to whom the most necessary and alluring thing in life is to
overcome obstacles.
This resolution had toughened Mathison, morally and physically. Packed
away in that lithe body of his was tremendous vitality. He was perfectly
willing to be called woman-shy. Such a reputation was a considerable
barricade. He was content to rest behind it. There had been battles,
bitter conflicts. There are certain fires which hypnotize; one _must_
reach out and touch them. I might say that this idea of his was always
in a state of siege.
After this exposition, it sounds odd to remark that Mathison was as full
of romance as a Chinese water-chestnut is of starch; that his
day-dreams were peopled with lovely women. He never saw a beautiful
woman that he did not immediately clothe her in his colorful
imagination. He rescued her from Chinese pirates, he was shipwrecked and
cast away on a desert island with her, he tore her from the hands of
brigands or the latticed window of some rajah's haremlik; and he always
married her in the end. Everything in him inclined toward the
companionship of women, and he had built a Chinese wall around this
inclination.
Among men, however, he was companionable, witty, humorous, and full of
sound common sense. But no one ever called him Jack, not even Hallowell,
the best friend he had. He was always John or Mathison to his equals and
superiors, and "sir" to his subordinates. Hallowell, however, had
compromised on "Mat." And yet Mathison bubbled with personal magnetism.
You never get deeply into a naval officer's character by rubbing elbows
with him in wardrooms or officers' clubs. If you want to know the real
man, go down into the boiler-rooms, the gun-rooms, anywhere but the
quarter-deck. The rough-necks will tell you. They sometimes weigh you
with a glance. Two things they require of you--absolute justice and
firmness. That was Mathison to his men; and he always backed these
attributes with a smiling eye. There was something in the snap of his
voice that inclined men to obey him at once, without question; not that
they were afraid of him, but that they knew he was right. In the
navy--in all navies--there are underground wireless stations. A man's
reputation travels from ship to ship, and when an officer is transferred
the men try him out just to see if his crown is of tinsel or of gold.
A fighting-sailor with red blood, with a born gambler's interest in
chance, winning or losing with a smile, as you shall see; thirty years
of age, and no anchor to windward.
He never forgot anything. They said of him that he could hide his
collar-button during a dream and go directly to it in the morning.
Hallowell, however, was very absent-minded. Often he would go about the
living-room in search of his pipe, in the end to find it dangling in his
teeth. Or he would wash his face with his spectacles on and wonder what
in thunderation ailed his sound eye.
Hallowell he, too, was full of romance--miracles in steel, visions
which cast into shape huge fighting-machines, tremendous guns, flying
torpedoes. He was, aside from his official duties, a successful
inventor. Few of the grim floating forts of the navy were without
certain devices of his. He had just completed plans which eventually
were going to cause the German Admiralty a good deal of anxiety.
There were still two or three points he had not cleared up to his own
satisfaction. The plans were absolutely complete as they stood; and he
believed he saw a chance to reduce the complexity of certain phases; and
he was hammering away at this problem after hours, often far into the
night.
Mathison, Hallowell and Company (the Company being the Rajputana
parrakeet); an odd pair of men, rather misunderstood, with few
intimates, sharing a deep, abiding love, never spoken of, but tacitly
understood. They were jocularly known as "The Two Orphans" and the villa
as "The Orphanage," as both men were without immediate family ties.
Lately Hallowell had formed the habit of going to the Botanical Gardens
for a half-hour's ramble, between four and five. He had discovered that
this mild exercise cleared his mind of all routine and left it free to
creative musings. He tramped about the paths at a moderate gait, his
hands behind his back, the tip of his short, gray-peppered beard
projecting like a bowsprit over his collar. I doubt if during these
pleasant peregrinations he ever saw anything but the white markings on
blue-prints. Half an hour to the minute, then he would shake off the
spell, set his shoulders, and hurry away for the trolley to San Miguel.
Having delivered his ultimatum to the woman known as The Yellow Typhoon
and having learned, on the following day, that she had left the hotel in
the Escolta, all thought of her went out of his mind completely. It was
an unhappy page turned down for good. But to-day, one week later, as he
came out of his day-dreams, she popped into his head.
A wave of shame ran over him. He would never forgive himself for that
violence. Not that he felt any pity toward the woman. The act had
lowered himself eternally in his own eyes; the luster was gone from his
self-esteem. He had kissed another man's wife, not his own. And what
was worse, she might interpret the act as a sign that he still cared for
her and try to re-enter his life at some later day. Fool! A mad impulse
to hurt her, and he had hurt only himself. Well, the damage was done;
berating his folly would not wipe it off the slate.
Suddenly his sound eye lost its introspective look and became alert.
Coming down the path toward him was a woman. She was dressed in pongee,
a _sola-topee_ on her head. Round this sun-helmet ran the folds of a
gray veil which could be lowered or raised at will. At this moment the
woman's face was clear. It was young and vividly beautiful. Her hair was
a ruddy gold, like the tips of ripe wheat after rain. The sun, directly
behind her, cast a golden nimbus on each side of her head. Her eyes were
purple-blue, like wood-violets, and her skin was the tint of pale amber.
She walked with a free stride of one who loved the air and sunshine. She
saw Hallowell only after he had deliberately stepped in front of her,
blocking the way.
Her mouth opened slightly and a vague bewilderment took the zest out of
her face.
"Still in town, then?"
"Sir ...!"
He interrupted with a laugh. "You're magnificent; I'll always grant you
that. You should have gone on the stage. But I'm no longer to be fooled.
The pearl is gone from the oyster, the juice from the orange; so why
tarry, pretty blackmailer? I warned you to clear out, and I thought
you'd have sense enough to do so. To-morrow morning I'll hunt for you;
and if I find you I'll have you locked up. God knows how you women do
it! Here you are straight out of perdition, with more beauty than ever.
And innocence! That's the pitfall; your look of innocence. That's what
draws us poor, trusting fools. Well, the night to clear out in. If I
find you to-morrow I'll stamp on you as I would a cobra. The Yellow
Typhoon! Some poor devil named you well. But you'll never break another
white man, not in these parts. I apologize for those kisses. I forgot
you weren't my wife. I'm giving you until morning."
Insolently he swung on his heel and marched down the path.
The woman remained exactly where he had left her, in the center of the
path. Have you ever seen a clean, upstanding flower suddenly beaten
down by a squall of rain? Her bodily attitude resembled that, at least
for a space. One hand went slowly to her eyes, then fell limply to her
side. But soon she stiffened, and there were volcanic flashes in her
eyes. As Hallowell vanished behind the clove-trees she turned. Near by
she saw a marine and he was eying her curiously. Evidently he had
witnessed the scene. She approached him.
What followed, the marine himself recounted at mess that night.
"I was amblin' along at a safe distance. My orders were t' keep ol' Pop
Hallowell under eye s' long as he was in th' Gardens. Hennessy picks him
up outside an' follows him until he gits safe on th' trolley. Well, he
was goin' along, when down the path comes a lady. She walked as if she
didn't know where she was goin', either. An' out steps Pop in front of
her, like he was a gay bird with the ladies. Th' dame gives him th'
haughty. But he comes back. Her mouth opens a little, but she don't make
no move. I couldn't hear nothin', but Pop was layin' down some law or
other, which he winds up with a bang on his palm, an' marches off, with
the lady starin' after him like I'd stare if I saw a flyin'-fish come
int' th' mess port an' ask for whitebait.
"I kind o' thought I'd move on, when she pipes me an' comes over.
"'Who was that officer?' she asks me. Bo, believe me, she had all the
little Marys an' Normas an' Paulines in th' movies laid away with the
long-cruise eggs. Gee! You'll gimme th' ha-ha, but I on'y needed a look
t' tell that she was _straight_.
"'Well,' I says, 'that's Captain Hallowell, miss,' I says.
"'Captain Hallowell,' she repeats after me. 'Where does he live?'
"'He has a villa out in San Miguel, on th' Pasig,' I says. 'He an'
Lieutenant-Commander Mathison live there together.'
"'He's not married, then?'
"I laughs. 'No, lady. Both of 'em are gun-shy.' She looks puzzled an' I
adds, 'They don't have nothin' t' do with the ladies, miss.'
"'Oh! Then he's th' inventor?'
"'That's him, miss.' Then I freezes up a bit, rememberin' orders. I'm t'
report anybody who asks questions about ol' Pop. But I tumbles that she
ain't no officer's wife or nothin', an' I asks what he'd said to her.
"'He mistook me for some one else,' she says. So help me, if there's two
like that in Manila, th' place is due t' go on th' blink in a week. Then
she lowers th' veil an' goes off toward th' exit, me trailin'. Had t'
find out where she was puttin' up. An' hang me if she doesn't go plump
into that joint in th' Escolta where Murphy an' me was thrown out last
month an' just missed restin' up in th' brig. Which shows that you can't
dope a woman out by her looks."
The young woman--she was possibly twenty-six--eventually reached her
room. Her maid welcomed her effusively.
"Sarah we must leave here at once. Pack."
"Another hotel before we sail?" cried the astonished maid.
"Yes. And until I give you further orders never speak my name. Always
call me madame. Be on your guard about this. I'm very fond of you, and
I've let you have your way often. It may be a matter of life and death.
We shall dine here in the room. Have a carriage at the curb at
six-thirty. Fortunately our heavy luggage went on. When you pack the
steamer-trunk, lay all the darker and heavier things on top. And the box
of make-up where I can reach it handily. I have decided to grow old
quickly. I understand, Sarah. You are becoming bewildered. No less so am
I."
"Madame's nerves...."
"They happen to be steel now. Don't worry about me. Only, be sure always
to obey me ... if you love me!"
"If I love you! Oh, madame, a mother could not love her daughter more
than I love you! You left America so gaily and happily to see this
Orient. The sea voyage built you up. And then, that dreadful night in
Shanghai. You came and woke me and clung to me all night, and you would
not speak. And then it began. We move from one place to another, not
like persons touring--like people who have done something wrong. And I
know that you have done nothing wrong. Ah, madame, what is happening to
us?"
"So strange a thing, Sarah, that your poor brain would not accept the
facts if I told them. Be patient with me."
"Oh, madame, who would not be patient with you? I am French; we know
what the word gratitude means. Command me; I obey. But yes! Here is a
cable for you, madame. I will go order the dinner and the carriage."
Her mistress took the cablegram absently. She was not at all excited
over the receipt of it, for the simple reason she knew exactly what it
would contain--a single word. _Hurry_. Once a week, often twice, this
same distracted word. _Hurry_. It was always at Cook's or at the
American Express. The poor man! He would soon be pulling his hair. When
she heard the door close behind the maid, instinctively she picked out a
channel 'twixt the bed and chairs and proceeded to navigate it back and
forth.
The Yellow Typhoon! They called her that, strange men, in Yokohama,
Tokio, Hong-Kong, Shanghai; and always with that air men use toward
women of a certain type. Everything in her called out wildly for
vengeance, reprisal; and she was bound tragically, inconceivably, like a
dreamer in the mesh of some monstrous nightmare.... To stamp on her as
he would a cobra, if he found her! Helpless; all she could do to defend
herself would be to move on, hide. That was what galled her; she could
not retaliate. But one thing she could do--forestall, anticipate,
nullify. And oh! she would do that with all the strength and cunning she
possessed.
Horrible as it was, that meeting in the Gardens was fortunate. She now
possessed hand hold. Hallowell, a naval inventor, living in a villa out
in San Miguel, on the Pasig. Blue-prints. There was sense to all those
broken sentences which had come through yonder door a few days gone.
Danish words--her own blood-tongue! She had not seen the man, so she
could not describe him. But his companion!
She stopped before the mirror and studied her face carefully. What an
incredible thing it was! Mirrors, once so pleasant to gaze into, had now
become chambers of horror. She no longer saw herself--she saw a grave
open and the dead arise. After eight years! And to stumble upon the
truth through the agency of strange men addressing her familiarly! The
Yellow Typhoon! Drawn by instinct, repelled by intellect and breeding,
she felt as if invisible wild horses were rending her.
In that room there, within reach of her voice and hand! Whither had she
gone, this ghost? Terror and cowardly fear had held her back from making
her own presence known; and now it was too late. She had fallen asleep
somewhere, back there in China, and hadn't yet waked up. That _must_ be
it! The Yellow Typhoon! And _she_ had stumbled across the wrecks
innocently--across an open grave which had never been filled! Berta, in
the next room! Who, then, was in the grave in Greenwood? The malicious
cruelty of it!
Very well. She would telephone this Captain Hallowell. She would warn
him.
She became conscious of the unopened cablegram. She tore off the edge of
the envelope. For a moment she thought there must be some mistake.
Jargon. Then she awoke.
"Oh!" she cried. She ran over to her steamer-trunk and things flew about
for a space. The result was a diary-book from the rear pages of which
she took a folded square of tissue-paper. She sat down, cross-legged,
and laid this square carefully upon a knee. Ten minutes later she had
the message decoded.
Mathison. Hallowell's blue-prints. _Nippon Maru_. He may be
followed. Sail with him. Keep in touch with Washington wireless.
This is your chance.
She sprang up, found a match, and applied it to the cablegram, powdering
the ashes. Alive! She was alive again. What she had stumbled upon
disconnectedly was now made clear. Her chance! She had a great debt to
pay, and here was the opportunity to pay it. Pay it she would, through
fire and water. She would show them that there was one who could be
grateful. Fame and riches and honor, she owed for these. She would pay
the debt.
Singular thing! In these months of wandering in this bewildering maze of
dark and yellow peoples no one had ever recognized her. And yet it
wasn't so singular, if one thought it out. Her world was at home, busy
with war.
She would telephone Hallowell at once and warn him that he was in
danger. And the thought of him brought back the thought of Berta. The
colossal irony! So be it. If Berta stood in her way, she would crush
her, relentlessly, inexorably. And what was Berta? Only a wandering
ghost, a lie. A phantom men called The Yellow Typhoon.
Her telephone call, however, was not answered. There was no one,
apparently, at the villa in San Miguel. She would have to drive out and
leave a note. Either the captain or Mathison, his friend, would find it
when he returned. She found a Tagalog boy with a tough Manchurian pony,
and she went clattering away into the night. The dry monsoon carried the
dust along with them.
Just about this time a man in civilian clothes, but with authority
written distinctly on his tanned face, entered the hotel in the Escolta.
The proprietor began obsequiously to dry-wash his hands.
"The Señor Morgan!"
"Where's Berta Nordstrom, the woman known as The Yellow Typhoon?"
"She?" A gesture. "She went away a week ago, señor."
"She is here now. She was seen to enter here a little after five."
"That is impossible."
"I say she did. Bring her down. She wore pongee and a white pith
helmet."
"She? Oh, that was not the Nordstrom woman. No one here has seen this
woman's face. She wears a veil always, and dines in her room."
"Bring her down."
"But, señor, she left at six-thirty."
"What? Where did she go?"
"That I don't know."
"The devil! Any man with her?"
"No, señor. Shall I take you to her room?"
"No. She fooled you."
"That is not possible, for the two women were here at the same time. I
can prove that, señor."
"I have seen the Nordstrom woman. The description of the woman in the
pith helmet agrees absolutely."
"I cannot help that, señor. They were here at the same time, though they
did not meet."
"All right. If I find you haven't told me the truth, we'll lock up the
place. You are not very good Americans around here. Good night." Outside
in the street Morgan of the Intelligence--who switched from uniform to
mufti frequently--pushed back his hat, perplexed. "Two? Impossible! A
trick. I'll set a man to watch. I'll quiz that marine again. If he
didn't describe the Nordstrom woman, I'll eat my hat!"
Could he have peered into one of the thousand huts of bamboo and nipa
palm, in the Tondo, he might have been convinced of one thing--that
there was still a thrill left in the dizzy old world for men even as
_blasé_ as himself. A woman, wearing the gay little costume of a
high-caste Chinese woman, sat on a cushion, her legs curled under her.
She was smoking a cigarette. From a brass bowl at one side of her rose
faint spirals of smoke. Into this bowl she flicked the ash. There was a
smile, inscrutable, on her lips--the smile particular to one god and one
woman, Buddha and Mona Lisa. By and by she picked up a fresh cigarette;
but she did not light it. She broke it in two. In fancy it was a man.
The little Tagalog serving-girl, squatting on the floor and blowing
chaff from rice, could not keep her wondering gaze off this exquisite
creature whose hair shone like the gold bangles on the ankles of the
dancing-girls. There would be a good deal of chaff in that rice when the
time came to cook it.