Miss Spring Morning :: :: University of Virginia Library

Passionately in love with the girl now, Jamison could scarcely be induced to leave the house, nor did his best efforts hide the condition of his heart. Wherever was Spring- morning, Jamison was near at hand, and his hovering, restless, eager presence about the house aroused at first the anxiety and then the suspicion of his mother.

He had insisted that his health was never better, but it was unlike her “boy” to hang about the house in this fashion. She fancied he had lost his appetite, was sure he was thinner, and declared him pale and ill-looking. She implored him to return with her to America, as this was the infallible remedy she always proffered for any of their ills, and when he irritably proclaimed this suggestion as out of the question, and the next moment radiantly averred that he had never been happier in his life, Mrs. Tyrrell found food for further reflection. She wrote to her friend, Miss Latimer, who was now in Kyoto, suggesting that Edith's party prolong its pleasure trip, and that her son be invited to join them at some healthy point. Edith responded that she expected to be in Yokohama in a few days, and her party were already dispersing.

Jamison was in fact consumed with but one purpose and desire at this time. He wished to be alone with Spring- morning, and his arms ached again to hold her in them. Her constant service upon his mother aroused his jealous resentment, and he found himself feeling anything but tenderly disposed toward that one, who, though recently his dear and cherished parent, now appeared in the light of a severe and exacting task-mistress to the one upon whom Jamison had bestowed his heart.

A change, too, was apparent in the girl. More than ever, fearfully, she sought to avoid the Okusama's son. She still thrilled and burned with the remembrance of that brief moment in his arms, and she feared even to raise her eyes lest they meet the always ardent and appealing glance of the young white man.

He would take up a position in the room, directly in front of the girl, and where she might not even raise her eyes without encountering his fixed and most fond gaze directed at her over the back of the unconscious Okusama. Under these compelling and sometimes reproachful glances, Spring-morning turned pale or flushed and trembled so that it seemed impossible for her to continue her work.

Ostentatiously making a pretense of bringing some article to his mother, he never failed to touch the kneeling girl as he passed her, and the furtive passing of his hand upon her cheek, the warm contact of his shoulder against her as he stooped to recover some purposely dropped book, were like enveloping caresses, fascinating and most terrible to the little Japanese girl.

It was vain for her nightly to prostrate herself before the little household shrine she had set up especially in her own room; vain for her to repeat over and over to herself that she was the honorable wife of Yamada Omi, a soldier of Japan! Vain to promise all the eight million gods of the heavens and the seas that she would put forever from her sinful mind all thought of this

699

terribly fascinating Eijin-san! He pervaded her thoughts utterly.

It was, therefore, impossible for the Okusama to continue indifferent to the silent telepathy that existed between these two. She sensed it gradually, though it was suddenly one afternoon when she realized that her previous vague suspicions were well founded. On this particular day she had been reading aloud in the ozashiki. Before her, on her knees, Spring-morning was at work, embroidering, and somewhere (by the window looking to the garden side, as she supposed) her son was listening to the story. She chanced to look up suddenly, and something in that attitude of the girl before her caught her attention. Her fingers were idle upon the embroidery frame, and her gaze was fixed above the head of her mistress. She did not move, even when the Okusama had ceased abruptly to read. Indeed, she seemed unconscious of this face. Something in the rapt, absorbed expression of the girl's face, the deep glow of red that bathed her face from neck to brow, caused her mistress to regard her fixedly. Then, very stealthily, Mrs. Tyrrell turned in her seat. Her son was standing a few paces behind her. He was looking at Spring-morning, and his expression almost duplicated that upon the face of the girl.

For a long time his mother felt unable to move. She was as one paralyzed, physically and mentally. Only one fearful fact seemed borne down upon her comprehension. Her boy— Jamison—was, after all, infatuated with this Japanese girl.

But she must make sure! She tried to control her panic- stricken nerves. She sat rigidly forward, her eyes fixed upon her folded hands in her lap. Had the two not been so absorbed in each other, they might have noticed the curious change in the Okusama, but even when she stood up suddenly and moved toward her room, neither of them suspected what was in her mind. By the door, steadying her voice, she said to the girl:

“I am going to my room--to lie down. I feel like sleeping; but--but I want you to finish the work you are engaged on. You need not--come with me.”

The door had barely closed upon her when Jamison joyfully sprang toward the girl, picked her up literally from the floor and drew her, blushing, laughing and playfully protesting, into his arms.

Neither heard the reopening of the doors, and for a moment the Okusama swayed on the threshold, glaring at them almost in fury. Then a cry, that had in it something of primeval savagery, burst from her lips, and she sprang upon Spring-morning and plucked her bodily from the arms of her son.