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Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
"Well, he's going to get a mighty pretty girl."
"Yes—I suppose so—as good as the rest of them."
The next day Shiku presented himself before the consul with a very
woe-begone and disappointed countenance.
"Well, Shiku, what luck?" Sinclair asked him. For the boy had gone
straight to Koto.
"Koto will not marry with me, master-sir."
"Why, I thought you told me she had already promised."
"Yaes—bud—she changing her mind."
Sinclair laughed, shortly.
"Been fooling you?"
"No;" he hesitated a moment, as though he feared to tell Sinclair the
truth. Then he said: "She not like for to leave her mistress now;—"
he paused again, looking uneasily at the consul, and shifting from
one foot to the other.
Sinclair had been opening some letters with a paper-cutter while the
boy had been speaking. He suddenly laid it down, and wheeled
round on his chair.
"Well?"—he put in.
"Numè-san is quite sick," the boy said.
"Quite sick!" Sinclair rose with an effort. He was struggling with his
desire to seem indifferent, even before the office boy, but a sudden
feeling of longing and tenderness was overpowering him. It shocked
him to think of Numè's being ill—bright, happy, healthful Numè.
"What is the matter?" he asked.
"I not know. Koto say she cry plenty, and grow very thin,—that she
have very much luf for somebody."
"Ah!"
"I tell Koto," the boy continued, "that I think she love Takashima
Orito, and that he not love her she is very sad."
Sinclair began to pace the floor with restless, unsteady strides.
"Yes—it's doubtless that, Shiku," he said, nervously. "Well, I'm sorry
—sorry that your—that your marriage will have to wait."
 CHAPTER XLIX.
THE ANSWER.

The same day that Sinclair had heard of Numè's illness, Cleo Ballard
received a letter from Orito. It was very brief and simple.
"I am coming to see you," it ran, "at seven o'clock to-night, before
your party will start. Then will I ask you for the answer you promised
me."
Mrs. Davis was with her when she received the letter.
"Now, you must be strong, my dear," she said. "See him, and have it
all over."
"Yes, I will," Cleo Ballard said.
Precisely at seven o'clock Takashima Orito presented himself at the
hotel. He had told his father and Omi of his mission there; and the
two old men were waiting in great trepidation for his return.
As he stood, calm but expectant, by the girl's side, waiting for her to
speak first, she felt a sudden fear of him. She did not know what to
say. She knew he was determined to have a direct answer now.
"I don't know what to say." She broke the strained silence
desperately.
"I have only one answer to expect," he said, very gently. This
answer silenced the girl. The Japanese came closer to her and
looked full in her face.
"Will you marry with me, Miss Cleo?"
"I—I——" She shrank back, her face scared and averted.
"I cannot!" she said, scarcely above a whisper.
She did not look at him. She felt, rather than saw, that he had
grown suddenly rigid and still. His voice did not falter, however.
"Will you tell me why?" he asked.
"Because—I—am already betrothed—to Mr. Sinclair. Because I never
could love any one but him."
The shadows began to darken in the little sitting-room. The
Japanese was standing almost as if petrified to the spot, immovable,
silent. Suddenly she turned to him.
"Forgive me," she said, and tried to take his hand.
He turned slowly and left the room without one backward look.
The silence of the room frightened her. She went to a window and
put her head out. A sudden vague terror of she knew not what
seized her. Why was everything so still? Why did he leave her like
that? If he only had reproached her—that would have been better;—
but to go without a word to her! It was awful—it was uncanny—
cruel. What did he intend to do? She began to conjure up in her
mind all sorts of imaginary terrors. She told herself that she hated
the stillness of the Japanese atmosphere; she wanted to go away—
back to America, where she could forget everything—where,
perhaps, Sinclair would be to her as he had been in the old days.
She had been on a nervous strain all day, and she broke down
utterly.
Mrs. Davis found her walking up and down the room hysterically.
"There, dear—it is all over now,"—she put her arms about the girl
and tried to soothe her.
"No, no, Jen; I feel it is not over. I think—I imagine—Oh, Jenny, I
don't know what to think. He acted so queerly. I don't know what to
think. I dread everything. Jenny," she put her hand feverishly on the
other woman's shoulder, "tell me about these Japanese—can they—
do they feel as deeply as we do?"
"Yes—no; don't let's talk about them, dear. Remember, they are
giving you and the travelers a big party to-night at the hotel. You
must dress—it is nearly eight now."
 CHAPTER L.
THE BALL.

Never had Cleo Ballard appeared so beautiful as that night. Her eyes
shone brightly with excitement, her cheeks were a deep scarlet in
hue, and her wonderful rounded neck and arms gleamed dazzlingly
white against the black lace of her gown.
Even Sinclair roused out of his indifference to look after her in deep
admiration.
"You are looking very beautiful to-night, Cleo," he said; and ten
minutes afterwards Tom, passing with Rose Cranston on his arm,
laid his hand on Cleo's shoulder: "You are looking unnaturally
beautiful, Cleo. Anything wrong?"
"Must there necessarily be something wrong, Tom, because I am
looking well?"
Tom gave her a scrutinizing glance. In spite of her quick bantering
words there was something in the girl which made him think she
was laboring under some intense excitement, and that it was this
very excitement that was buoying her up and lending her a brilliancy
that was almost unnatural. Tom knew the reaction must come. All
through the evening he watched his cousin. She was surrounded
almost constantly, save when she danced. Later in the evening he
pushed his way to her side. She was resting after a dance.
"Cleo, you are dancing too much," he said, noting the girl's flushed
cheeks.
"One can't do anything too much, you know, Tom. I hate moderation
in anything—I hate anything lukewarm;" she was answering at
random. He put his hand on hers. They burned with fever.
"You are not well at all," he said, and then added, looking about
them anxiously: "I wonder where Sinclair is?"
The girl was possessed with a sudden anger.
"Don't ask me, Tom. I would be the last person to know of his
whereabouts." The words were very bitter.
"You know, Cleo," he answered her, soothingly, "Sinclair never did
care for this kind of thing. He is doubtless in the grounds
somewhere. Wait—I'll hunt him up." He rose from his seat, but the
girl stayed him peremptorily.
"Not for my sake, Tom. Oh, I assure you, I shall not wither without
him," she said.
Tom sat down beside her again.
"Look here, little sis, don't get cynical—nor—nor untruthful. I know
very well you want to see Sinclair. I have not seen you together all
evening, and I believe it's partially that which makes you so restless.
No use trying to fool old Tom about anything."
Cleo did not argue the point any longer, and Tom passed on to the
piazza of the hotel.
Quite a lot of the guests were congregated there, some of them
telling tales, others listening to the music. Tom made his way to
where he saw Mrs. Davis standing. She was with Fanny Morton, and
they seemed to be waiting for some one.
August is the universal month for holding banquets in honor of the
full moon, in Japan, and gay parties of pleasure-seekers are to be
met on the streets at all hours of the night.
"Seen Sinclair anywhere about?" Tom asked them.
"Yes, Tom," Mrs. Davis said, nervously. "He and Walter went down
the street for a while. Something has happened. Mr. Sinclair thought
some one had got hurt. They said they would be back in a minute."
Tom waited with the two women. The dance music floated out
dreamily on the air, mingled with the incessant chatter and laughter
of the guests. Inside the brilliantly-lighted ball-room the figures of
the dancers passed back and forth before the windows.
As they sat silently listening, and watching the gay revelry, a weird
sound struck on their ears—it was the muffled beating of Buddhist
drums.
The two women and Tom rose to their feet shivering. They turned
instinctively to go indoors. Standing quite near the door by which
they entered was Cleo. Her beautiful face was flushed with fever;
her eyes were filled with terror. She was leaning forward, listening to
the faint, muffled beat of the drums.
"Some one is dead!" she said, in a piercing whisper, and threw her
beautiful bare arms high above her head as she fell prone at their
feet.
 CHAPTER LI.
THE FEARFUL NEWS.

What awful premonition of disaster had filled Cleo Ballard all that
night! The guests gathered awestruck about the fallen figure which,
but a moment before, was so full of life, vivacity, and beauty.
"What is the matter?" some one breathed.
Fanny Morton's sharp words cut the air:
"Some Japanese has died, that is all—killed himself, they say. She
fainted when she heard the drums beat."
Very gently they carried the unconscious girl to her room. The music
had ceased; the guests had lost their appetite for enjoyment. Almost
with one accord all, save a few stragglers, had deserted the ball-
room, and were now grouped in the grounds of the hotel, or on the
steps and piazzas, waiting for the return of the two men who had
gone to learn the cause of the alarm.
At last they came up the path. They walked slowly, laggingly. Mrs.
Davis ran down to meet them.
"What is it?" she whispered, fearfully. "Cleo has fainted, and a panic
has spread among all the guests."
Walter Davis's usually good-tempered face was bleached to a white
horror.
"Orito, his father, and Watanabe Omi have all killed themselves," he
said, huskily.
The American lady stood stock-still, staring at them with fixed eyes
of horror. The news spread rapidly among the guests, all of whom
had known both families well. They were asking each other with pale
lips—the cause? the cause?
Mrs. Davis clung in terror to her husband.
"Keep it from Cleo," she almost wailed. "Oh, don't let her know it—
she must not know it—she must not."
The guests lingered late that night, in the open air. It was past three
o'clock before they began to disperse slowly, one by one, to their
rooms or their homes.
 CHAPTER LII.
THE TRAGEDY.

After leaving Cleo Ballard, Orito had jumped into the waiting
kurumma, and had been driven directly home. There he found the
two old men waiting for him. The house was unlighted, save by the
moonlight, which was very bright that night, and streamed into the
room, touching gently the white heads of the two old men as they
sat on their mats patiently awaiting Orito's return. It touched
something bright, also, that lay on a small table, and which gleamed
with a scintillating light. It was a Japanese sword!
Orito entered the house very silently. He bowed low and courteously
as he entered the room, in strict Japanese fashion. Then he began
to speak.
"My father, you have accused me sometimes of being no longer
Japanese. To-night I will surely be so. The woman of whom I told
you was false, after all." His eyes wandered to the sword and dwelt
there lovingly. He crossed to where it lay and picked it up, running
his hand down its blade.
"I have no further desire to live, my father. Should I live I would go
on loving—her—who is so unworthy. That would be a dishonor to
the woman I would marry for your sakes, perhaps. Therefore, 'tis
better to die an honorable death than to live a dishonorable life; for
it is even so in this country, that my death would atone for all the
suffering I have caused you. Very honorable would it be."
Sadly he bade the two old men farewell; but Sachi stayed his arm,
frantically.
"Oh, my son, let thy father go first," he said.
One thrust only, in a vital part, a sound between a sigh and a moan,
and the old man had fallen. Then quick as lightning Orito had cut his
own throat. Omi stared in horror at the fallen dead. They were all he
had loved on earth, for, alas! Numè had represented to him only the
fact that she would some day be the wife of Orito. Never, since her
birth, had he ceased to regret that she had not been a son. He
picked the bloody sword up, and with a hand that had lost none of
its old Samourai cunning he soon ended his own life.
About an hour after this a horror-stricken servant looked in at the
room in its semi-darkness. He saw the three barely distinguishable
dark forms on the floor, and ran wildly through the house, alarming
all the servants and retainers of the household. Soon the room was
flooded with light, and the dead were being raised gently and
prepared for burial, amidst the lamentations of the servants, who
had fairly idolized them. Relatives were sent for in post haste, and
before the night had half ended the muffled beating of Buddhist
drums was heard on the streets, for the families were well known
and wealthy, and were to be given a great and honorable funeral.
And also, the sounds of passionate weeping filled the air, and floated
out from the house of death.
 CHAPTER LIII.
A LITTLE HEROINE.

It was three days later. Cleo Ballard had been sick with nervous
prostration ever since the night of the ball. Mrs. Davis was with her
constantly, and would permit no one whatever to see her—not even
Sinclair. She had told the facts to her husband and to the doctor, and
had enlisted them on her side; so that it was not a difficult matter
for her, for the time being, and while Cleo lay too ill to countermand
her orders, to forbid any one from intruding, for she did not want
her to know of the awful tragedy that had transpired.
Sinclair inquired day and night after Cleo's health, and sent flowers
to her. He, himself, had suffered a great deal since that same night,
what with the shock of his friend's death, Cleo's unexpected illness,
and, above all, an inexplicable longing and desire to see Numè—to
go to her and comfort her in this fresh trial that had come to her.
She was now utterly alone in the world, he knew, save for one
distant relative.
Thoroughly exhausted with the trials of the last days, and wishing to
get away from the hotel, Sinclair had shut himself indoors, and had
thrown himself on a couch, trying vainly to find rest. He kept
puzzling over the cause of Takashima's death. Whether the truth had
been suspected among some of the Americans who had been on the
boat with Cleo and Orito or not, no one had as yet breathed a word
of it to him. As he lay there restlessly, some one tapped on his wall.
"Who is it?" he called, fretfully.
"It is Shiku, master-sir."
"Well, come in."
The boy entered almost fearfully, and began apologizing profusely in
advance.
"It is Koto who has made me intrude, master," he said. "She is
waiting outside for you, and tells me she must talk with you. She will
not enter the house, however, and she is very much fearful."
The American went to the door. There stood Koto, a trembling,
frightened little figure in the half-light.
"Come in, Koto," he said, noting her embarrassment; and then, as
she still hesitated, he drew her very gently but firmly into the house
and closed the door. Soon she was seated in one of his large chairs,
and because she was such a little thing it seemed almost to swallow
her up.
"Numè not know that I come tell you of our grade sadness," she
said, stumblingly. "Mrs. Davis will not forgive me forever, but I come
tell you the trute, Mister Consul." She began to weep all of a
sudden, and could go no further. The sight of the wretched little
sobbing figure touched Sinclair very deeply. He thought she had
some revelation to make about the death of Orito. He was
unprepared for her next words.
"My mistress, Numè-san, luf vou so much that she going to die, I
thing'."
Sinclair stood up, a strange, doubting, uncomprehending look on his
face.
"What do you mean, Koto?" he asked, sternly. "Are you trying to—to
fool me about something?"
"No! No! I not to fool with you. I tell you the trute. Mrs. Davis tell
Numè of vaery sad story account the august Americazan lady wait
long many years for you, that you love her always, just not love for a
liddle while, because of Numè, that——"
A sudden light began to break in on Sinclair.
"So Numè tell you she not to luf because she want to serve the
honorable Americazan ladies and not to pain her father and
Takashima Sachi. Then she get vaery sick. She cry for you all the
time, and when she is very sick she say: 'Koto, go tell Mr. Sinka I not
mean.' Then when she is better she say: 'No; Koto must not go.'"
Sinclair sat down again, and shaded his face with his hand. His mind
was in confusion. He could not think. Only out of the jumble of his
thoughts came one idea—that Numè loved him, after all. Now he
remembered how unnatural, how excited, she had been that last
day. Ah, what a fool he was to have believed her then!
His voice was quite unsteady when he broke the long silence. "Koto!
Koto! how can I ever repay you for what you have done?"
The little maid was weeping bitterly.
"Ah! Koto is vaery 'fraid that she tell you all this, account Mrs. Davis
will speag that I mus' not worg any longer for Numè; she will tell her
relatives so, and they will send me away. Then Numè will be all
alone; because only Koto love Numè forever."
Sinclair was smiling very tenderly. "You have forgotten me, Koto. I
will take care of both of you, never fear, little woman. I am going
with you to her now."
"It is too late now," the girl said. "Numè will have retired when we
reach home. Shiku is going to take me home, and to-morrow will
you come?"
She rose from her seat, looking more hopeful and happy than when
she had first come in.
"You will make it all good again," she said, looking up at him with
somewhat of Numè's confidence: "for you are so big."
 CHAPTER LIV.
SINCLAIR LEARNS THE TRUTH AT LAST.

After Koto had left Sinclair he sat down to think. His brain was
whirling, for his thoughts and plans were in confusion. His first
impulse had been to go straight to Numè; but he had promised Koto
to wait until the following day. Now that he was alone, he suddenly
remembered Cleo Ballard. Was he free to go, after all? Could he
desert Cleo now while she lay so sick and helpless? His joy in the
renewed assurance of Numè's love for him had been suddenly tinged
with bitter pain. What could he do?
He slept none through the night. In the morning of the next day he
hurried over to the hotel and made his usual enquiries after Cleo's
health. Mr. and Mrs. Davis, with Tom, had done their best to prevent
him from knowing the cause of Orito's suicide. Various reasons had
been suggested; and after the first alarm had worn off, and the
bodies had been interred with due ceremony, the excitement
subsided somewhat, so that they had hopes of the talk quieting
down, and perhaps dying out altogether, without the truth reaching
Sinclair's ears; for, knowing him to be her betrothed, there were few
who were unkind or unscrupulous enough to tell him.
As Sinclair passed through the hotel corridor on his way to the front
door, Fanny Morton came down the wide staircase of the hotel. She
stopped him as he was going out.
"Let me express my sympathy," she said, sweetly.
"Your sympathy!" he said, coldly; for he did not like her. "I do not
understand you, Miss Morton."
"Yes," she cooed. "I am sure I can vouch for Cleo that she never
dreamed he would take it so seriously. I was with them on the
voyage out, you know, and indeed Cleo often said the passengers
were dull. He cheered her up, and—and——"
"Really, Miss Morton, I am at a loss to understand you," he said,
curtly.
Fanny Morton showed her colors. There was no suggestion of
sweetness in her voice now.
"I mean that every one knows that Mr. Takashima killed himself
because he was in love with Miss Ballard; because she let him
believe on the boat that she reciprocated his—affection, and the
night of the ball she told him the truth. He killed himself, they say,
hardly an hour after he had seen her."
Jenny Davis stood right at the back of them. She had heard the
woman's venomous words, but was powerless to refute them.
Sinclair felt her eyes fixed on him with an entreaty that was pitiful.
He raised his hat to Fannie Morton.
"I will wish you good morning," he said, cuttingly, and that was all.
Then he turned to the other woman.
"Let us go in here," he said, and drew her into a small sitting-room.
"What does that woman mean?" he asked.
Mrs. Davis had broken down.
"We can't keep on pretending any longer, Mr. Sinclair. Yes; it is true,
what she says. Poor Cleo did lead him on, thoughtlessly—you know
the rest."
A look of dogged sternness began to settle on Sinclair's face.
"Then she was the real cause of——"
"No! no! don't say that. Arthur, she never intended doing any harm.
Cleo would not willingly harm anything or any one. She really liked
him. Tom will tell you. It was the reason why she never had the
heart to tell him—of—of her engagement to you."
For a long time the two sat in moody silence. Then Sinclair said,
almost bitterly: "And it was for her that Numè suffered."
"Why, Numè—is—what do you mean?" the other asked, showing
signs of hysteria.
"Yes; Mrs. Davis, I know the truth," he said, grimly. "I understand
that you thought you were really serving Cleo and myself by acting
so—but—well, a man is not cured of love so easily, you know. She
(Numè) gave me up because she did not want to spoil a good
woman's life, as she thought, after what you told her. This same
woman did not scruple to take from her the man who might have
comforted her after everything else had failed. Now she is utterly
alone."
"I won't say anything now," Mrs. Davis said, bitterly. "I can't defend
myself. You would not understand. It is easy to be hard where we do
not love;—that is why you have no mercy on Cleo."
"I am thinking of Numè," the man answered.
"May I ask what you intend to do?"
"Last night I was uncertain. This morning, now that I know the
truth, things are plain before me. I am going to Numè," he added,
firmly.
"But Cleo?" the other almost implored.
"I cannot think of her now."
"But you will have to see her. What can you tell her? We are hiding
from her, as best we can, the fact of—of the tragedy. That would kill
her; as for your ceasing to care for her, she suspected the possibility
of it long ago, and might survive that. Yet how can she know the
one without the other?"
Sinclair remained thinking a moment.
"There is only one way. Let her think of me what she will. You are
right; if possible the truth—even Takashima's death—must be kept
from her so long as she is too weak to bear the knowledge. Can we
not have her make the return voyage soon? I will write to her, and
though it will sound brutal, I will tell her that the reason why I
cannot be more to her than a friend is—because I—I do not love her,
—that I love another woman."
Mrs. Davis was weeping bitterly. All her efforts and plans had been
of no avail in Cleo's behalf. She saw it now, and did not even try to
hold Sinclair.
"Yes," she said, almost wildly. "Go to Numè—she will comfort you. At
least your sorrows and hers have ended, now. But as for ours—
Cleo's and mine, for I have always loved her better than if she were
my own sister—we will try to forget, too."
 CHAPTER LV.
LOVERS AGAIN.

Koto had told Numè nothing of her visit to Sinclair. The girl had been
so stunned by the deaths of her father, Orito, and Sachi, that Koto
had not the heart even to tell her good news; for when our friends
are in sorrow the best comfort one can give is to weep and sorrow
with them;—so the Japanese believe. Besides, she wanted Sinclair's
coming to be a surprise to the girl.
 SITTING TOGETHER HAND IN HAND.
In Numè's great sorrow and illness she would have no one by her
save Koto, and once in a while Koto's friend, Matsu, who was visiting
them. Koto had had her come to the house because she played the
harp so beautifully, and she knew the music would please Numè.
Both the girls tried in every way to make up to the grieving orphan
for the sorrows that had suddenly come to darken her young life.
Often the three would sit together hand in hand, Numè between her
two friends, speaking no word to each other, but each feeling
strangely comforted and refreshed with the others' love and
sympathy. After the funeral ceremony, Numè had awakened
somewhat out of her apathy, and tried to take interest in things
about her; but it was a pitiful effort, and always made Koto weep so
much that one day Matsu had suggested to her that she go to the
city and see the American and tell him the truth. For Numè had told
Koto of what Mrs. Davis had caused her to do; and Koto, in her turn,
had told Matsu.
"You have become too secluded and proud, Koto," the city geisha
girl told her. "It is an easy matter to go to the city and perhaps you
will do Numè and the American a great service. I will stay with
Numè-san while you are gone, and will wait on her just as if I were
indeed her maid instead of your being so." It was in this way Koto
had been induced to visit the American.

NUMÈ AND HER TWO FRIENDS KOTO AND MATSU.

The next morning, as she and Numè sat together, she said:
"Numè-san, did you know why Orito killed himself?"
"No."
"It was because he loved the honorable American lady."
Numè did not interrupt her. Koto continued: "The beautiful one that
was betrothed to Mr. Sinka."
Numè's little hands were clasped in her lap. She did not speak, still.
Koto went on: "You see, she was not worthy, after all, that you
sacrificed the pretty American gentleman for her, for Matsu says that
all the Americans say at the hotel that she tell Orito sometime that
she love him just for fun—and she not love—so Takashima Orito kill
himself."
Still Numè did not reply. Her little head had fallen back weakly
against the pillow. She was looking away out before her. After a time
Koto put her arms about her, and they clung together.
"Koto," Numè said, vaguely, "will you leave me now? Or will you stay
with me forever? Numè is so lonely now."
Koto evaded the question.
"I will stay with you, Numè-san, until you do not need me any
longer."
"That will never be," the other said, tenderly.
That afternoon Koto fetched her samisen and played very softly to
Numè. After a time she laid her instrument aside and went to the
door, shading her face with her hand as she scanned the road. It
was about the hour Sinclair had told her to expect him. She heard
the beat of his runners before they were within a mile of the house.
"I am going to leave you all alone, for a little while," she told Numè.
She went down to meet Sinclair, and admitted him into the house.
She pointed to the room where Numè was and then left him.
Sinclair pushed aside the shoji and passed into the room.
Numè raised her head languidly at the opening of the screens. At
first she thought she was dreaming, and she sat up straight on the
little couch on which she had been resting. Suddenly Sinclair was
beside her, and had taken her bodily into his arms.
"Numè! Numè!" he whispered;—and then, as she struggled faintly to
be free, he said, blissfully, "Oh, I know the truth, little sweetheart,
though it is too good for me to understand it yet. Koto has told me
everything, and—and oh! Numè!" He kissed the wistful eyes
rapturously.
He scarcely knew her, she had grown so quiet and sad. In the woods
she had chattered constantly to him;—now, he could not make her
say anything. But after a while, when Sinclair had chided her for her
silence, she said, very shyly:
"Do you luf me, Mr. Sinka, bedder than the beautiful Americazan
lady?"
Sinclair raised her little face between his two hands.
"Sweetheart—do you need to ask?" he said. "I have never loved any
one but you."
The girl smiled—the first time she had smiled in weeks. Her two little
hands met round his neck, she rose on tiptoe. "Numè lig' to kees
with you," she said, artlessly. There is no need to tell what Sinclair
answered.
When the shadows began to deepen, he and Numè still sat together
on the small lounge, neither of them conscious of time or place.
They were renewing their acquaintance with each other, and each
was discovering new delights in the other.
It was Koto who broke in on them. She had been in the next room
all the time, and had watched them through small peep-holes in the
wall.
She made a great noise at the other side of it to let them know it
was now getting late. They looked at each other smiling, both
comprehending.
"Koto is our friend foraever," Numè said.
"We will be Koto's friends forever," Sinclair answered.
 CHAPTER LVI.
THE PENALTY.

When Sinclair returned to the city that night he sat down in his office
and wrote a letter to Cleo Ballard. It was the most difficult thing he
had ever done in his life. It told her briefly of his love for Numè. He
felt he could not be a good husband to her so long as he loved
another woman. It was better she knew it than to find it out after
they had married.
Mrs. Davis gave it to Cleo when she thought her strong enough to
bear the shock. She read it with white lips, her poor, thin hands
trembling as the letter slipped to her feet.
"I expected it," she said, bitterly, to Mrs. Davis; and then suddenly,
without the smallest warning, she leaned over and picked the
scattered sheets from the floor and tore them into a thousand
fragments with such fierceness that it frightened her friend.
After that day Mrs. Davis devoted herself more than ever to her
friend, and scarce left her alone for a moment. A strange calm and
quiet had come over Cleo. She would sit for hours by an open
window, perfectly silent, with her hands clasped in her lap, looking
out before her with large eyes which were dry of tears, but which
held a nameless brooding.
Mrs. Davis tried in every way to cheer her up, but though she
protested that she was not suffering, yet she could not deceive her
friend who knew her so well.
"You are going to be happy, dear, and as soon as you are strong
enough we'll make the voyage back. You didn't know I was going
with you, did you? Well, dear," her sweet voice faltered, "I couldn't
bear to stay here—after—after you were gone. We will all be happy
when in America again. I believe that's what has made us all more
or less gloomy. We have been homesick. Japan is all right, beautiful
and all that—but, well, it is not America. We never could feel the
same here." So she rattled on to Cleo, trying to take the girl's
thoughts out of herself.
And then, one day, Cleo turned to her and told her very quietly that
she knew everything.
Mrs. Davis gasped. "Everything!"
She looked at the girl's calm, emotionless face in horror. "And—and
you——"
"I've known it some time now," the girl continued, grimly. She heard
the other woman sobbing for her, and put her hand out and found
the little sympathetic one extended.
"I know—know, dear, how you tried to hide it from me," she smiled
faintly; "that could not be."
Mrs. Davis was mute. Cleo was an enigma to her now.
"I never guessed you knew."
"No? Mother told me. She did not mean to be cruel, but she was not
well herself then, and she—she reproached me."
She rose suddenly to her feet, the same still, white look on her face
that had come there when she had read Sinclair's letter. She turned
on her friend with an almost fierce movement.
"Why don't you hate me?" she said, with only half-repressed
vehemence. "Why does not every one—as I do myself?"
She was beyond the comfort of her friend now. Jenny Davis could
only watch her with wide eyes of wonder and agony. For a moment
the girl paced the room with restless, dragging step, like a wild
caged thing.
"Jenny, I will tell you something now. You may laugh at me—laugh
as—I can—as I do myself, but——" Again she paused, and she put
her hand to her throat as though the words choked her.
"After I read that—that letter, it seemed as if something broke in me
—not my heart—no, don't think that; but at first I felt desolate, with
a loneliness you could never comprehend. He had been in my mind
so many years then. Yes, I know—I had expected it all—but it was a
shock at first. I never could face anything painful all my life, and
when I actually knew the truth—when I read his letter, and it was
cruel, after all, Jenny, I wanted to go away somewhere and hide
myself—no—I wanted to go to some one—some one who really
loved me, and cry my heart out. Don't you understand me, Jenny?
Oh, you must——" her voice was dragging painfully now. "I wanted
—to—go—to Orito!"
"Cleo!"
"Yes, it is true," she went on, wildly. "He was better than the other.
So much tenderer and truer—the best man I ever knew—the only
person in the whole world who ever really loved me. And I—Jenny, I
killed him! Think of it, and pity me—no, don't pity me—I deserve
none. And then—and then——" she was beginning to lose command
of her speech now. Mrs. Davis tried to draw her into a chair, but she
put the clinging, loving hands from her and continued: "When I
wanted him—when that other had deserted me—had let me know
the truth that he never did care for me—never did care for me," she
repeated, incoherently, "and I loved him all those years. I used to lie
awake at night and cry for him,—for Orito—for his comfort—just as I
do now. I cannot help myself. I thought I would go to him and tell
him everything—he would understand—how—how my heart had
awakened—how I must have loved him all along. And then—then
mother burst out at me only last week, Jenny, and told me the truth
—that—that he was dead—that he had killed himself; no—that I had
killed him. Do you wonder I did not die—go mad when I learned the
truth? Oh, Jenny, I am half dead—I am so numb, dead to all
pleasure, all hope in life."
She had been speaking spasmodically; at first with a hard, metallic
ring to her voice, and then wildly and passionately. Now her voice
suddenly trembled and melted. She was still quite weak, and had
excited herself. Her friend caught her to her breast just in time for
the flood of tears to come—tears that were a necessary, blessed
relief. She broke down utterly and began to sob in a pitiful, hopeless,
heart-breaking fashion.
From that day, however, she seemed to improve, though she was
erratic and moody. She would insist on seeing all the callers—those
who came because of their genuine liking for her, and sorrow in her
illness, and the larger number who came out of curiosity. However
much of her heart she had shown to Mrs. Davis, no one else of all
Cleo's friends guessed the turmoil that battled in her breast.
 CHAPTER LVII.
THE PITY OF IT ALL.

Although it was nearly two weeks since Sinclair had written to her,
she had not seen him once. He had talked the matter over with Tom
and Mrs. Davis, and they had decided that, for a time at least, it
would be best for her not to see him. About a week before the
Ballards sailed, Cleo wrote to Sinclair. She made no allusion
whatever to his letter to her. She simply asked him to come and see
her before she left Japan, and without a moment's hesitation Sinclair
went straight to her. He could afford to be generous now that his
own happiness was assured.
It was a strange meeting. The man was at first constrained and ill at
ease. On the other hand, the girl met him in a perfectly emotionless,
calm fashion. She gave him her hand steadily, and her voice did not
falter in the slightest.
"I want you to know the truth," she said, "before I go away."
"Don't let us talk about it, Cleo," Sinclair said. "It will only cause you
pain."
"That is what I deserve," she said. "That is why I have always been
wrong—I was afraid to look anything painful in the face. I avoided
and shrank from it till—till it broke my heart. It does me good now to
talk—to speak of it all."
He sat down beside Cleo, and looked at her with eyes of
compassion.
"You must not pity me," she said, a trifle unsteadily. "I do not
deserve it. I have been a very wicked woman."
"It was not altogether your fault, Cleo," he said, vaguely trying to
comfort, but she contradicted him almost fiercely.
"It was—it was, indeed, all my fault." She caught her breath sharply.
"However, that was not what I wanted to speak about. It was this. I
wanted to tell you that—that—after all, I do not love you. That I—I
loved him—Orito!" She half-breathed the last word.
Sinclair sat back in his chair, and looked at her with slow, studying
eyes.
She repeated wearily: "Yes; I loved him—but I—did not—know—it till
it was too late!"
For a long time after that the two sat in complete silence. Sinclair
could not find words to speak to her, and the girl had exhausted her
heart in that heart-breaking and now tragic confession.
Then the man broke the silence with a sharp, almost impatient,
ejaculation, which escaped him unconsciously. "The pity of it all!—
Good God!"
"Arthur, I want to see—to speak to Numè before I go away. You will
let me; will you not?"
He hesitated only a moment, and then: "Yes, dear, anything you
want."
And when he was leaving her, she said to him, abruptly, with a sharp
questioning note in her voice that wanted to be denied:
"I am a very wicked woman!"
"No—no; anything but that," he said, and stooping kissed her thin,
frail hand.
Something choked him at the heart and blinded his eyes as he left
her, and all the way back to his office, in the jinrikisha, he kept
thinking of the girl's white, suffering face, and memories of the gay,
happy, careless Cleo he had known in America mingled with it in his
thoughts in a frightful medley. Something like remorse crept into his
own heart; for was he entirely blameless? But he forgot everything
painful when he arrived home, for there was a perfume-scented little
note written on thin rice-paper, waiting for him, and Numè was
expecting him that day. When one has present happiness, it is not
hard to forget the sorrows of others.
 CHAPTER LVIII.
MRS. DAVIS'S NERVES.

The next day Sinclair brought Cleo to call on Numè. It was the first
time the two girls had ever really talked with each other. At first
Numè declared she would not see the American girl, whom she held
responsible for her father's, Sachi's and Orito's deaths, but after
Sinclair had talked to her for a while and had told her how the other
girl was suffering, and how she, after all, really loved Orito, the girl's
tender little heart was touched, and she was as anxious to see Cleo
as Cleo was to see her.
She went herself down the little garden path to meet Cleo, and held
her two little hands out with a great show of cordiality and almost
affection.
"Tha's so perlite thad you cummin' to see me," she said.
Cleo smiled, the first time in days, perhaps. It pleased Numè. "Ah!"
she said, "how nize thad is—jus' lig' sunbeam in dark room!"
She was very anxious to please the American girl and make her feel
at her ease, and she chatted on happily to her. She wanted Cleo to
understand that in spite of her father's death she was not altogether
unhappy, for she had talked the matter over very solemnly with Koto
and Matsu only the previous night, and they had all agreed that
Cleo's desire to see her (Numè) was prompted by remorse, which
remorse Numè wished to lessen, to please Sinclair.
Sinclair left them alone together, and strolled over to Mrs. Davis's
house. She had been kept in ignorance of this proposed visit. Sinclair
found her busily engaged in packing, preparatory to leaving. Mrs.
Davis was in despair over some American furniture that she did not
want to take with her.
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