 | Chapter X Miss Spring Morning |  |
10. Chapter X
It was only a few days later that, by maneuvers that he would have hesitated to admit to himself, Jamison Tyrrell managed again to be alone with the little Japanese girl in whom he was so frankly interested.
An errant housemaid had been summarily dismissed for some unpardonable offense in the eye of the Okusama, and Spring-morning, upon whose slender shoulders the assorted work of the many departing ones always temporarily descended, was too busy to be spared for the daily marketing, a particular task long ago assigned to her, and which she carried out with such conscientiousness and prudence that she won even the grudging approval of the critical Okusama. Mrs. Tyrrell was debating whom to send upon this important errand, when her son lightly stated his intention of faring forth for a short sketching tramp into the country, and offering, if she wished, to accompany his mother as far as the street where the daily marketing was done. Mrs. Tyrrell accepted this invitation with alacrity. It was a pleasure always to her to be with her boy, and it solved the little problem neatly for her. And so, in one of his most devoted and charming of moods, he accompanied his mother to the desired market, and then he left her, turning in the direction his mother knew vaguely was “the country.” In reality, it led, by devious paths, directly back to their Japanese-American home.
He found Spring-morning, as he expected, in the ozashiki, which his mother had transformed into a general work-room and living room for herself and him.
The girl was industriously engaged in polishing a very large and very beautiful hibachi, one of the possessions of her mistress' son, and for which she had an especial fondness, and kept always shining and immaculate. She started to arise almost panic-stricken, however, upon the advent of the young man himself, and only subsided back to her knees at his most urgent, and apparently stern request.
“No--no--you must finish your work,” said the Okusama's son seri-
The Okusama's son watched her, furtively, from behind a prominently held newspaper; but presently he put the unscanned sheet down upon his desk, and moving his chair nearer to where the girl worked he frankly watched her, much to her discomfort, though she gave him only a timorous glance, and then carefully refrained from looking in his direction again. After a moment:
“Afraid of me?” he queried, with that humorous, kindly edge to his voice which Spring-morning had never heard in a Japanese voice and thought must be distinctive of the American race. It was most fascinating, comforting and bewildering--all in one, the little Japanese girl had decided.
She considered the word afraid for a moment; then, very gravely, she nodded:
“Yes--I 'fraid!” she admitted.
“Why?”
She paused in her work, her hands resting upon the bronze bowl. The Okusama's son regarded her so fixedly that twice she raised her head to answer him, and twice dropped it in blushing confusion. She shook her head finally in bewilderment.
“I nod--know--why. Thas better nod speag unto Americazan gents,” she said.
“Who told you that? My mother?”
“No! No!” She emphatically and very virtuously denied that it was his mother who had imparted this injunction to her.
“Miss Latimer?”
“I--I dunno--” said Spring-morning, trying to make her face very blank. “I--forgitting.”
“I see. And who taught you how to speak English?”
It distressed Spring-morning very much that the Eijin- san should persist in speaking to her; also it made her most palpitatingly agitated to have him sit there so closely to her, and watch her with those keen gray eyes that never for a moment seemed to leave her face. She must bring this embarrassing interview to a close. It was very difficult to kow-tow with a great golden hibachi before one's knees, and Spring-morning was troubled that the Eijin-san's expression was now so very grave and, as it seemed to her, stern. Had she then offended him? she wondered.
What, indeed, the man was thinking was that the girl's beauty was the most perfect he had seen in this land of his temporary adoption; and he wished that his mother had not extracted a promise from him on no account to use Spring- morning as a model. Jamison Tyrrell wished ardently to paint Spring-morning, just as she was now, in her poor faded little gown of drab crape, as she knelt there before the fire-box.
She had been very pale and quite thin when first she had entered his mother's employ a month before, and so painfully shy and elusive, it scarcely seemed she was in the house at all. And yet, insensibly, it seemed to the artist, she added to the attractiveness of his house, just as indeed a sunbeam might have done, a graceful flower or a lovely work of art. She was the finishing touch in this Japanese house--the touch that it lacked, for the buxom, tittering wenches who served as scullery maids and servants were of so totally different a type that they might have belonged to a different nation. Spring-morning was of the pure Yamato type, with fine, thin features, and an olive skin warmed by a moving blush that was as lovely as a rose. He found himself likening her to a hundred beautiful and poetic things. She was like her name--Spring-morning, fresh and dainty and dewy. She was like a calm and softly flowing stream, disturbed only by the gentlest of ripples.
Tyrrell had never seen Spring-morning much excited, save once, and that was a day when the Mikado's troops, some regiment on the march for the front, had passed by their house. She had trembled, wept with excitement then, and, as if deaf to the remonstrances of her mistress, had run out almost frantically from the house and into the street, to see yet closer the soldiers of her Emperor. But that was in
“Where did you learn to speak English?”
“Alas, I kinnod do,” she said. “I no can speag those Angleish. Jos--liddle bit do.”
“You speak it very well. I hear you with my mother and I understand everything you say now to me. You must have known English-speaking people somewhere before, though Miss Latimer told me you came from the interior.”
“In those interior,” she said, “all Japanese mek a try speag those Angleish. Ad my home--long way gone in country also I got once mos' kind teacher. He tich me those Angleish!”
“Oh--some Englishman?” Jamison could not have told himself why his abrupt question should have sounded harsh.
“No--he nod Angleish. He Japanese jus' same me--I am. But he got lots books, and he learn spik Angleish from those books. He velly grade brains got on top hees head.”
Her glance had wandered and she looked out absently before her, a somewhat vaguely sad expression coming over her face.
“Who was your--friend?” inquired the American.
“Who--my frien'?” she repeated, and then, as if the question started a sad train of thought, she turned very pale, and the old troubled, haunted expression came back into her dark eyes. She answered him with a reluctance that was almost painful.
“He--Japanese soldier!”
Her voice had the sound of tears in it, and she repeated the words, as if almost to herself: “Japanese soldier,”--and added, tensely, “--to Mikado!” Mechanically, her head bowed at the Emperor's name. When she recovered herself, she had turned her back toward her questioner and now was at work again, vigorously polishing the neglected hibachi.
Jamison Tyrrell bent over the girl, where she knelt above her work. She looked up at him fearfully, an expression of almost terror in her eyes.
He started to say something, then broke off, exclaiming:
“Why, I believe you are afraid of me!”
She shook her head, tottered to her feet, and began a series of discomforting obeisances. He waited till she had finished and then, almost roughly, asked:
“Are you?”
“No--no, Eijin-san, bud me? I go worg' jus' same those soldier, and Okusama--she--mebbe she nod lig' me so lazy ad my worg'. No time me got speag wiz Eijin-san. Plees excusea me theese day!”
She was backing toward the main doors, bowing timorously at every step as she went.
“Wait a minute!” He got up and stood for a moment looking steadily at her little, slightly up-raised face. Whatever he meant to say to Spring-morning he had forgotten. Inconsequentially he asked:
“Has anyone--has any man ever told you how pretty you are?”
“No-o,” she faltered. “No mans told me those--jos' ole womans. She tole me those. She say thas mos' nize t'ing for Japanese girl--be beautiful. Japanese mans cannot be lig' those. He got be brave, velly strong and noble, account our exalted Emperor need him for hees service. But Japanese girl she can only be--pretty, lig' you say. Account she got stay home and worg--and wait till
The man was silent. So the girl's heart, her thoughts, all her alarms and fears then were for some absent Japanese soldier! This was the solution of her dreaming, her sadness, and the thought, strangely enough, did not please him. He sighed suddenly, and turning on his heel, went back to his desk. He did not realize that the girl had followed him, so light was her tread, until he felt the timid touch of her hand upon his arm, nor could he have told why the mere touch of Spring-morning's soft little hand should have thrilled him so strangely.
“Eijin-san,” she whispered, “I lig' ask you one question. You velly wise mans. Mebbe perhaps you also know every-t'ings?”
He shook his head, smiling a bit ruefully, but her words did not displease him.
“Listen,” she continued earnestly: “All Japanese soldier fight--fight for Mikado. Ah, all of them wish to mek a die for him. Bud, whad you think?--mebbe those Russian soldiers they also kill some of those Japanese soldiers, yes?”
“Some of them, of course, will be killed. That is to be expected.”
Spring-morning's hand dropped from his arm. Her lips were parted, and her eyes, moist and clouded now, looked out very forlornly before her.
“I t'ink thas better--die!” she said slowly. “Thas honorable to--die. I pray ad all the gods mek Japanese soldiers die--for Emperor!”
“Have you a lover at the front?” inquired Jamison Tyrrell, regarding her gravely.
She awoke from her day-dream with a start.
“No--no!” she cried vehemently. “He nod my lover--He nod! He--he jos' some one mek proud my honorable family account he soldier of Japan!”
She retreated hurriedly towards the doors, as if his suggestion of her having a lover both frightened and shamed her, and the thought that this idea was displeasing to her lightened the heart of the American.
| Chapter X Miss Spring Morning | |