THE MAN SHE DID LOVE.
When she reached her stateroom, she threw herself on the couch, being
overcome by a sudden weakness. She could not understand nor recognize
herself. It was impossible that she was in love with Takashima, for she
already loved another; and yet she could not understand why she should
feel so keenly about Takashima, nor why it hurt her,--the idea of his
caring for any one else. Was it merely the selfishness and vanity of a
coquette? Cleo could scarcely remember a time, since she was old enough
to understand that man was woman's natural plaything, that she had not
thoughtlessly and gayly coquetted, flirted and led on all the men who
had dared to fall in love with her. There was so seldom a real pang with
her, because she had seldom permitted any affair to go beyond a certain
length. That is, almost from the beginning she would let them know that
her heart was not touched--that she was merely playing with them,
because she could not help being a flirt. Then Arthur Sinclair had come
into her life. As she thought of him a wonderful tenderness stole over
her face, a tenderness that Takashima had never been able to call there.
It had been a case of love on her side almost from the first night they
had met. But with the man it was different; and perhaps it was because
of the fact that he at first had been almost indifferent to her, that
the girl who had wearied of the over-attention of the other men, who had
loved her unquestioningly, and whose love had been such an easy thing to
win, specially picked him out as the one man to whom she could give her
heart. How often it happens that she who has been loved and courted by
every one, should actually love the only one who perhaps had been almost
indifferent to her! True, Sinclair had paid her a good deal of attention
from the beginning, but it was because he admired her solely on account
of her beautiful face, and because she was popular everywhere with every
one, and it touched his vanity that she should single him out.
Later, the girl's wonderful charm had grown on him; and one night when
they stood on the conservatory balcony of her home, when the moon's
kindly rays touched her head and lighted her face with an almost wild
beauty, when the perfume of the roses in her breast and hair had stolen
into his senses, and the great speaking eyes told the story of her
heart, Sinclair had told her he loved her. He had told her so with a
wild passion; had told her so at a time when, a moment before, he had
not himself known it. That she was wonderfully beautiful he had always
known, but he had thought himself proof against her. He was not. It came
to him that night--the knowledge of an overmastering love for her that
had suddenly possessed him--a love that was so unexpected and violent
in its coming, that half of its passion was spent in that one glorious
first night, when she had answered his passionate declaration solely by
holding her hands out to him, and he had drawn her into his arms.
Sinclair had returned to his rooms that night almost dazed. Did he love
her? he asked himself. A memory came back of the girl's wonderful
beauty, of the love that had reflected itself in her eyes and had
beautified them so. And yet he had seen her often so--she had always
been beautiful, but before that he had been unable to call up anything
more than strong admiration of her beauty. Was it not that he had drank
too much wine that night? No! he seldom did that. It was the girl's
beauty and the knowledge that she loved him that had turned his head; it
was the wine too, perhaps, and the surroundings, the moonlight, the
flowers, their fragrance--everything combined. And then, having thought
confusedly over the whole thing, Arthur Sinclair had risen to his feet
and walked restlessly up and down his room--because he was not sure of
his own heart after all.
Cleo Ballard had known nothing of this struggle he had had with himself.
After that night he had been an ideal lover,--always considerate,
gentle, and tender. The girl's imperious nature had melted under the
great love that had come into her life. She ceased for a time to be a
coquette. Then she was only a loving, tender woman.
It was hardly a month after this that Sinclair was appointed American
Vice-Consul at Kyoto, Japan. He had told Cleo very gently of the
appointment, and they had discussed their future together. It meant
separation for a time, for Sinclair did not urge an early marriage, and
Cleo Ballard was perhaps too proud to want it.
"We will marry," Sinclair had said, "when I am thoroughly established,
when I have something to offer you--when I can afford to keep my wife as
I would like to keep you."
The girl had answered with half-quivering lip: "Neither of us is poor
now, Arthur;" and Sinclair had answered, hastily, "Yes, but I had better
make a place in the world for myself first--get established, you see,
dear. We don't need to hurry. We have lots of time yet."
Cleo had remained silent.
"When I am settled I will send for you to join me, dear," Sinclair had
added, "if you are willing to come."
"Willing!" she had answered, with indignant passion. "Oh, Arthur, I am
willing to go anywhere where you are."
Her mother's illness, soon after this, absorbed Cleo for a time, so that
when Sinclair left her, the date of their marriage still remained
unsettled.
That was three years before. Since then the girl had kept up an almost
constant correspondence with Sinclair. His letters were like him, tender
and loving, almost boyish in their tone of joyousness, for Sinclair
liked his new home and position so much that he wanted to remain there
altogether. He wrote to Cleo, asking if she would not now come to Japan
and judge for them, and if she liked the country they would live there
altogether; if not--they would return to America.
The girl's pride had long been roused in her, and but for her love for
Sinclair she might have given him up long before. But always the
overmastering love she had for him kept her waiting, waiting on for
him--waiting for him to send for her as he had promised he would. It is
true, she had grown used to his absence, and often tried to console
herself with the homage and love given by others, but it could not
be--her heart turned always back to the man she had loved from the
first, and even the little flirtations she indulged in were
half-hearted. Sometimes Sinclair's letters showed a trace of haste and
carelessness, often they were almost cold and perfunctory. At such times
she would plunge into a round of reckless gayety, and try to forget for
the time being her unsatisfied longing and love. And now she was on her
way to join him. The voyage was long, and would have been tedious had it
not been for Takashima. He gave her a new interest. Most of the other
passengers she found uninteresting. Sinclair's last letters, although
speaking of her trip, and seemingly urging her to come, appeared to her,
sometimes, almost forced. The girl's proud, spoiled heart rebelled. It
was with a feeling as much of hunger for sympathy and love, as of
coquetry, that she had started her acquaintance with Takashima, and now
as she lay in the narrow little couch in her room, she was asking her
heart with a sudden fear whether her hunger for love had overpowered
her. She was of a passionate, intense nature. It galled her always that
she was separated from the man she loved,--that she could not at once
have by her the love he had protested he felt for her. She buried her
face in the pillows and sobbed bitterly. With a passionate nervousness,
she thrust his picture away from her, and tried to think, instead, of
Takashima, the gentle young Japanese who now loved her--not as Sinclair
had done, with a passion of a moment that swept her from her feet, but
with deference and respect, and yet with as strong a love as she could
have desired.