The Shadow of the East | Page 6

murmur, clinging to him passionately.
"Little O Hara San," he said gently as she pressed closer to him. He tilted her head, stooping to kiss the tiny mouth that trembled at the touch of his lips. She closed her eyes and he felt an almost convulsive shudder shake her.
"Have you missed me, O Hara San?" "It is a thousand moons since you are gone," she whispered unsteadily.
"Are you glad to see me?"
Her grey eyes opened suddenly with a look of utter content and happiness.
"You know, Bar-ree. Oh, Bar-ree!"
His face clouded, the teasing word that rose to his lips died away unspoken and he pressed her head against him almost roughly to hide the look of trusting devotion that suddenly hurt him. For a few moments she lay still, then slipped free of his arms and stood before him, swaying slightly from side to side, her hands busily patting her hair into order and smiling up at him happily.
"Being very rude. Forgetting honourable hospitality. You please forgive?"
She backed a few steps toward the doorway and her pliant figure bent for an instant in the prescribed form of Japanese courtesy and salutation. Then she clasped both hands together with a little cry of dismay. "Oh, so sorree," she murmured in contrition, "forgot honourable lord forbidding that."
"Your honourable lord will beat you with a very big stick if you forget again," said Craven laughing as he followed her into the little room. O Hara San pouted her scarlet lips at him and laughed softly as she subsided on to a mat on the floor and clapped her hands. Craven sat down opposite her more slowly. In spite of the months he had spent in Japan he still found it difficult to adapt his long legs to the national attitude.
In answer to the summons an old armah brought tea and little rice cakes which O Hara San dispensed with great dignity and seriousness. She drank innumerable cupfuls while Craven took three or four to please her and then lit a cigarette. He smoked in silence watching the dainty little kneeling figure, following the quick movements of her hands as she manipulated the fragile china on the low stool before her, the restraint she imposed upon herself as she struggled with the excited happiness that manifested itself in the rapid heaving of her bosom, and the transient smile on her lips, and a heavy frown gathered on his face. She looked up suddenly, the tiny cup poised in her hand midway to her mouth.
"You happy in Tokio?"
"Yes."
It was not the answer for which she had hoped and her eyes dropped at the curt monosyllable. She put the cup back on the tray and folded her hands in her lap with a faint little sigh of disappointment, her head drooping pensively. Craven knew instinctively that he had hurt her and hated himself. It was like striking a child. But presently she looked up again and gazed at him soberly, wrinkling her forehead in unconscious imitation of his.
"O Hara San very bad selfish girl. Hoping you very _un_happy in Tokio," she said contritely.
He laughed at the naive confession and the gloom vanished from his face as he stood up, his long limbs cramped with the uncongenial attitude.
"What have you been doing while I was away?" he asked, crossing the room to look at a new kakemono on the wall.
She flitted away silently and returned in a few moments carrying a small panel. She put it into his hands, drawing near to him within the arm he slipped round her and slanted her head against him, waiting for his criticism with the innate patience of her race.
Craven looked long at the painting. It was a study of a solitary fir tree, growing at the edge of a cliff--wind-swept, rugged. The high precipice on which it stood was only suggested and far below there was a hint of boundless ocean--foam-crested.
It was the tree that gripped attention--a lonely outpost, clinging doggedly to its jutting headland, rearing its head proudly in its isolation; the wind seemed to rustle through its branches, its gnarled trunk showed rough and weather-beaten. It was a poem of loneliness and strength.
At last Craven laid it down carefully, and gathering up the slender clasped hands, kissed them silently. The mute homage was more to her than words. The colour rushed to her cheeks and her eyes devoured his face almost hungrily.
"You like it?" she whispered wistfully.
"Like it?" he echoed, "Gad! little girl, it's wonderful. It's more than a fir tree--it's power, tenacity, independence. I know that all your work is symbolical to you. What does the tree mean--Japan?"
She turned her head away, the flush deepening in her cheeks, her fingers gripping his.
"It means--more to me than Japan," she murmured. "More to me than life--it means--you," she added almost