The Shadow of the East | Page 8

had come to the long flight of stone steps that led to

the terrace. He had laboriously climbed them one foot at a time, his
toes curling at the contact with the chill stone, and at the top he had
halted suddenly, holding his breath. Close to him was a tall indistinct
figure wrapped in dark draperies. For a moment fear gripped him and
then an immense curiosity swamped every other feeling and he moved
forward cautiously. The tall figure had turned suddenly and it was his
mother's sad girlish face that looked down at him. She had lifted him up
into her arms, wrapping her warm cloak round his slightly clad little
body--she had asked no questions and she had not scolded. She had
seemed to understand, even though he gave no explanation, and it was
the beginning of a sympathy between them that had developed to an
unusual degree and lasted until her death, ten years ago. She had
hugged him tightly and he had always remembered, without fully
understanding in his childhood, the half incredulous, half regretful
whisper in his ear, "Has it come to you so soon, little son?"
The hereditary instinct, born thus, had grown with his own growth from
boyhood to manhood until it was an integral part of himself.
And the lure of the eastern nights--more marvellous and compelling
even than in colder climates--had become almost an obsession.
Little O Hara San, firm believer in all devils, djinns and midnight
workers of mischief, had grown accustomed to the eccentricities of the
man who was her whole world. If it pleased him to spend long hours of
the night sitting on the verandah when ordinary folk were sensibly shut
up in their houses she did not care so long as she might be with him.
No demon in Japan could harm her while she lay securely in his strong
arms. And if unpleasant shadows crept uncomfortably near the little
house she resolutely turned her head and hiding her face against him
shut out all disagreeable sights and slept peacefully, confident in his
ability to keep far from her all danger. Her love was boundless and her
trust absolute. But tonight there was no thought of sleep. For three long
weeks she had not seen him and during that time for her the sun had
ceased to shine. She had counted each hour until his return and she
could not waste the precious moments now that he had really come.
The djinns and devils in the garden might present themselves in all

their hideousness if it so pleased them but tonight she was heedless of
them. She had eyes for nothing but the man she worshipped. Even in
his silent moods she was content. It was enough to feel his arms about
her, to hear his heart beating rhythmically beneath her head and, lying
so, to look up and see the firm curve of his chin and the slight
moustache golden brown against his tanned cheek.
She stirred slightly in his arms with a little sigh of happiness, and the
faint movement woke him from his abstraction.
"Sleepy?" he asked gently.
She laughed gaily at the suggestion and sat up to show how wide
awake she was. The light from a lantern fell full on her face and Craven
studied it with an intensity of which he was hardly aware. She bore his
scrutiny in silence for a few moments and then looked away with a
little grimace.
"Thinking me very ugly?" she hazarded tentatively.
"No. Very pretty," he replied truthfully. She leaned forward and laid
her cheek for a second against his, then cuddled down into his arms
again with a happy laugh. He lit a cigarette and tossed the match over
the verandah rail.
"What is your news, O Hara San?"
She did not speak for a moment, and when she did it was no answer to
his question. She reached up her hands and drawing his head down
toward her, looked earnestly into his eyes.
"You loving me?" she asked a little tremulously.
"You know I love you," he answered quietly.
"Very much?"
"Very much."

Her eyes flickered and her hands released their hold.
"Men not loving like women," she murmured at length wistfully. And
then suddenly, with her face hidden against him, she told him--of the
fulfilling of all her hope, the supreme desire of eastern women, pouring
out her happiness in quick passionate sentences, her body shaking with
emotion, her fingers gripping his convulsively.
Craven sat aghast. It was a possibility of which he had always been
aware but which with other unpleasant contingencies he had relegated
to the background of his mind. He had put it from him and had drifted,
careless and indifferent. And now the shadowy possibility had become
a