 | Daughter of Two Lands |  |
II.
Walking swiftly down Fifth Avenue, scarcely conscious of her companion, Sakura's tumultuous heart beat rebelliously. She turned quickly at the half-soothing, half-humorous tone of Burrows.
“Well—I didn't do it, you know,” he protested.
“No—not you!” she said passionately, “but—your countrymen. Oh, to think,” she cried, “of the brazenness of it all! The open, bragging, public display!”
“Most of it was loot,” admitted the Lieutenant, “but then, the Wardwells were no worse than others, though of course it was too bad in an ambassador. You should have seen the French and German and English people licking up the stuff. You should have been in China at the Boxer period. That was the time of plenty, I can tell you. Got a thing or two myself for that matter.” Fishing into a vest pocket he brought up a single mandarin stone, a thing of beauty, pink, glossy, and quite as large as a walnut.
“Want it?” he asked, noting, with unconcealed admiration, the color mantling the girl's cheeks.
“Want it!” she cried impulsively, taking the stone, and looking at it with wide eyes. “Yes—for that purpose!” And she threw it into the gutter, as if it were something unclean.
The young man's face fell.
““Well, I didn't steal it,” said he ruefully. “I bought it from one of my men who—”
“Stole it for you,” she finished bitterly.
They walked on in silence for some time. She spoke at last,[1] tremulously, the sound of tears in her voice.
“Tony, I'm sorry I threw away your—your stone,” she said.
“Don't say that,” he begged, almost pleadingly, “I can't bear to have you speak to me like that. You can throw away anything of mine you want—even my—heart!” She shook her head wearily. The color had died down from her face, leaving it pale and wistful. All the passionate indignation which had throbbed within her was stilled now. She was not thinking of a country's wrongs, but hearing and seeing only her young American lover. He was there vividly before her, big, strong, so good to look at.
“Don't you know what I mean?” he urged in his insistent way. “I've told you often enough.”
“I do know what you mean,” she answered softly, “but I wouldn't throw away your heart, Tony.”
“You'd keep it?” he demanded eagerly, pressing, close to her, unmindful that they were on the street.
“No,” she said, “I couldn't even—take it, Tony.” “Why?” he demanded, hoarsely.
They were before her house now, and she stood with one little hand pressed against the great stone colonial pillar. “Because of such things as this afternoon—that sale, and all that it meant,” she said.
“How does it concern me?” he pleaded.
“Don't you see? You are American, and I—why, I am half Japanese—Eurasian. I've lived here—in my mother's home most of my life, but I know, deep in my heart, I am more Japanese than anything else.”
“If you could see yourself now—as I see you—you wouldn't say it. Why you are as Western as I am,” he protested.
“I'm an individual. Marry me as such, Sakura-san.”
“Why, Tony, you are a soldier, more American indeed than a mere citizen, because you are one of your country's appointed defenders.”
Their eyes met, hers piteous, his with an honest appeal in them she could not have long resisted.
“That's the answer then,” he said, bravely.
“Yes—”
Her hand came timidly from her muff, and touched his just for a second. Then she fled up the steps. At the top she turned and saw him, still waiting there below.
“Ah,” she breathed, “maybe—at another time. But not—to- day!”
| Daughter of Two Lands | |