The Yellow Typhoon

A naval officer, trig in his white twill, strode along the Escolta, Manila's leading thoroughfare. There was something in his stride that suggested anger; and the settled grimness of his lips, visible between his mustache and short beard, and the hard brightness of his blue eyes emphasized this suggestion. He was angry, but it was a cold anger, a kind of clear-minded fury which often makes calculation terrible. He had been carrying this anger in his heart for six bitter years. It was something like glacial ice; it moved always, but never seemed to lose either hardness or configuration. To-day it had the effect of the north wind--that almost forgotten north wind of his native land--in that it winnowed all the chaff from his mind and left one clear thought. He would settle the matter once and for all time. The face and form of an angel, and the heart of a Messalina!

He had known all along that some day she would turn up in Manila. It was impossible for them to resist the temptation to view their handiwork. Tigers, they always return to the kill. But he had her now, had her in the hollow of his hand. All the fear of her was gone. This afternoon he would teach her what the word meant. Civilians were lucky. These sordid things could pop up into their lives, even get into the papers, and shortly be forgotten. But in the navy it was the knell of advancement. It never mattered if the wrong was wholly on the other side; the result was the same. But he had her, thank God! The world would never know what had turned Bob Hallowell into a misanthrope. The tentacles of the octopus had been lopped off, as by a miracle. He was a free man.

Never would he forget the shame and misery, the horror of that night in the Grand Hotel in Yokohama. The brazenness of that confession--on the first night of his honeymoon! He was free, yes, but he would never be able to blot out that infernal night. Well, he had her. She should leave Manila on the first ship that left port; it did not matter whether it went north or east. If she proved obdurate, he would have her arrested. He would fight her tooth and nail. The world had changed since that night. The old order had gone to smash since August, 1914. Traditions had been badly mauled by necessities. Such a scandal, in which he had been merely the dupe, would scarcely leave a ripple in passing. Who would care, these tremendous times?

He stopped abruptly. His thoughts had almost carried him past the hotel, one of those second-rate establishments which you find in all Oriental cities that are seaports, hotels full of tragic and sordid histories. He entered, ran up the first flight of stairs, scrutinized the numbers on two doors, and paused before the third. He raised his hand and struck the panel. A touch of vertigo seized him. Supposing his love for the Jezebel was still a living thing and needed only the sight of the woman to revive it?

"Come in!"

He opened the door and closed it behind him, standing with his back to it. He did not take off his hat. A cold little shudder ran over him. She was more beautiful than ever.

She rose from a dilapidated corduroy divan, pressed the coal of a cigarette into the ash-tray, and faced him, her air one of hesitance and timidity. What she saw was a squat muscular body, a beautiful head with a rugged, kindly face. She noted the hair, shot with silver. That was always a good sign. Still, there was something in the elevation of his jaw and the set of his powerful shoulders she did not like.

What he saw was a woman of medium height, slender but perfectly molded, young, beautiful, exquisite. Her hair was the color of spun molasses, lustrous because the color was genuine. Her eyes were velvety purple. The skin was milk-white, with a hint of peachblow under the eyes and temples. The marvel of her lay in the fact that she never had to make up. The devil had given her all those effectives for which most women strive in vain. Innocence! She might have stepped out of one of Bouguereau's masterpieces. At one corner of her mouth was the most charming mole imaginable. You might look at her nose, her eyes, the curve of her chin, but invariably your glance returned to the mole. The devil's finishing-touch; it permitted you to see the mouth indirectly, and you lost the salient--a certain grim, cruel hardness.