AT THE JOURNEY'S END.
Cleo Ballard could not have told what it was that made her so restless,
almost feverish, during those remaining five days. She knew Takashima
had meant to ask her to show in some way, during that time, just what he
might expect. It was almost a prayer to her to spare him, if she knew it
was in vain. But the girl was possessed, during those days, with an
almost feverish longing for his companionship and sympathy. She showed
it constantly when with him; she would look unspeakable longings into
his eyes, longings she could not understand or analyze herself; she led
him on to talk of his plans, and he even told her of some wherein he had
counted on her companionship--how he would have a Japanese-American
house--a home wherein both the beauty of Japan and the comfort of
America would be combined; and of the trips they would take to Europe,
and the friends they would make. He used the word "we" always, in
speaking, and she never once questioned his right to do so. Often she
herself grew so interested in his plans for the future that she made
suggestions, and they laughed with light-hearted joyousness at the
prospect. At the end of the five days Takashima had not even a lingering
doubt left.
As the shores of his home came into view, and the passengers were all
clustered on deck watching the speck of land in the offing grow larger
and larger as they approached it, the young Japanese placed his hand
firmly on Cleo's--so soft and slender--and said: "Soon we will reach
home now--your home and mine."
A sudden vague fear crept into the girl's heart. She shivered as his
hand touched hers, and there was a frightened, almost hunted, look in
her eyes.
"Shall I have my answer now?" he continued.
Again she shivered. "Wait till we are on shore," she pleaded, "till we
have rested; wait five more days--I must think--I--I----"
"Ah, Miss Cleo, yes, I will wait," he said, gently. "Surely, I can
afford to do so. It is after all merely the formal answer I will ask
for. These last days you have already answered me--with your beautiful
eyes."
"Tom," the girl said, desperately, as the passengers were passing from
the boat on to the dock below, and her cousin was tying the heavy straps
around their loose baggage, "Oh, Tom--I am afraid now--I am afraid
of--of Takashima."
Tom's usually sympathetic face was almost stern. He rose stiffly and
looked at the girl remorselessly.
"I warned you, Cleo," he said; "I told you to be careful. You ought to
have answered him directly five days ago, when he spoke to you. You are
the greatest moral coward I know. I believe you could not summon pluck
enough to refuse anybody. Don't know how you ever did. It is a wonder
you are not engaged to a dozen at once."