 | Chapter XIII Miss Spring Morning |  |
13. Chapter XIII
“I will do what I can for you,” Edith promised Jamison Tyrrell, but her honest gray eyes had something in them that discomfited the young man.
She had come at once in reply to the telegram sent her by Mrs. Tyrrell, and Jamison had met her at the station and had told her his story on the way to the house. She had listened to him, without comment, nor could he tell by her serious face just what her thoughts were in regard to the matter.
Mrs. Tyrrell lay upon her bed, a cloth soaked in witch- hazel upon her forehead. An exclamation of genuine pity and sympathy escaped Edith, and even Jamison, who had followed behind her, went hastily to his mother, and tried to kiss her. But she would not suffer his touch, even, and sprang up fiercely in bed, throwing off the cloth from her face and revealing features distorted with emotion.
“Edith, Edith, do you know what he is threatening to do now?”
“Not--threatening,” broke in Jamison protestingly.
Mrs. Tyrrell's voice rose to a hysterical crescendo.
“Yes--yes--threatening! He says he will marry this girl- -this Japanese--”
Jamison said nothing, but a dark, stubborn frown settled upon his face.
“Now, dear Mrs. Tyrrell,” pleaded Edith, “it isn't fair to speak like that. Try and look at things reasonably.
“What!” Mrs. Tyrrell stared at the girl in angry amazement. “You don't understand. He means to marry her regularly--in our church. White men don't marry Japanese like that, even when they make fools of themselves about them. You know that very well.”
“I know,” said Edith, flushing, but with a certain sweet dignity, “that honorable white men do marry them in our way, and I am glad--glad that Jamison is the man I have always believed him to be.”
“So--you are going to side with him?”
She stared at the girl stupidly, a dull look of dislike for her slowly coming into her face.
“It's not a case of ‘siding,’ dear,” said Edith gently.
“Of course not,” broke in Jamison angrily. “Edith is simply looking at the matter from a common-sense point of view.”
“Do you mean to say, Edith, that you approve of these mixed marriages between white men and Japanese women?” Edith answered somewhat weakly, after a moment's hesitation.
“Well, why should not such a marriage be happy?”
“Happy!” cried the irate Okusama. “It's not a matter of happiness, but of decency. I tell you it's abominable-- against nature. God never meant us to make such marriages. I'd as soon have my son marry a--a--negress!”
“Oh, Mrs. Tyrrell!”
“I would indeed!” she declared fiercely. “I have always believed in the yellow peril, and I think we white people should stand together and do everything in our power to keep these horrible heathens--away from us.”
Jamison had come from behind Edith. His wrathful young face was thrust out, and he was thumping his clinched fist upon the palm of his hand.
“If you weren't beside yourself with your insane prejudice and jealousy I'd tell you a thing or two that might enlighten you. You've done nothing since we came here, Mother, save disparage these people, and you ought to know better than to make such foolish and ignorant statements. Fancy comparing a race like the Japanese with one whose history is that of slavery and degeneration. The Japanese, when it comes to that, are a darned sight more civilized than we are.”
“But white people,” said his mother bitterly, “don't want to be mixed with them. We don't want our race to end in the miserable products such as we see here in Japan--Japan's degraded and despised half-castes. You know yourself how even the Japanese regard them.”
“You exaggerate things. I don't know any place in the world--certainly not in the West--where illegitimate children are regarded with any particular favor or respect. Besides, it's unfair to judge a race by its illegitimates. We know, however, lots of charming people of such blood. You think a lot, don't you, Mother, of Senator Franklin? And you were quite flattered when we were in Spain and the Perraltos condescended to invite us to their princely home. Well, Senator Franklin is a half-blood Indian and is proud of it. The Perraltos--and many other fine Spanish families--like to boast of a strain of Indian blood. Is the Indian blood better than the Japanese? Have they produced imperishable works of art or uttered sublime proverbs, or endowed the world with some of its most prized inventions? You can't answer me, can you, Mother? Your objection to my marrying Spring-morning you say is because of her race. Well, if you can listen to reason, I can prove to you that her race is fully as good as our own.”
Mrs. Tyrrell made a hopeless gesture with her hands. In the stubborn young face looking back at her, she dimly saw her own reflection of many years ago, when she had faced her father and defied him for the sake of the impractical and penniless young actor who had won her heart. “I see,” she said unsteadily, “that it
“You can't do that,” protested Jamison. “It wouldn't be fair to--to--Spring-morning; it would be cruel--to leave her alone in the house here--with me, until--”
“Is she here--still?” inquired Edith, surprised.
“Why, of course,” returned Jamison, almost irritably. “Where else could she be? My mother wanted to turn her out-- on the street--like any-- Oh, what's the use of even speaking about it?”
“But I should have thought,” said Edith gravely, “that she would have gone herself.”
“For heaven's sake, Edith, consider. Where could she go? A young girl like that.”
“We-ll--she had some relative, didn't she--?”
“Do you think I'd let her go back there?”
“Now, Edith,” broke in Mrs. Tyrrell with enforced calmness, “I am going to ask a favor of you. I want to stay with you, in your house, dear, for a few days, till my boat sails. I am going home.”
“Tell her, Edith, that she can't do that--”
“I don't know what to say, Jamison; but, perhaps, it would be best after all for your mother to come with me. I am alone, as you know, and I shall be glad to have her. Maybe, we could go away together somewhere, for a little while, till the excitement is over. See how agitated she is- -all upset. And you arrange for Spring-morning to go somewhere else, until your mother is able to bear it better.”
Mrs. Tyrrell made a scornful sound of dissent, implying that such a time could never come.
“As you wish, then,” said the young man, a trifle surlily, and added after a moment: “Of course you know what this will mean, then--Mother's leaving my house like this. I don't propose to subject Spring-morning to the slightest criticism.” (His mother's lip turned in scorn.) “And so we won't wait, as I planned to do. I'll take her to-night with me to Father Daly.”
Edith said nothing to this. She was assisting Mrs. Tyrrell with her coat and hat, and had deftly packed a few necessary articles in a grip. Jamison, thus ignored, strode agitatedly up and down the room, muttering to himself incoherent exclamations of anger and protest. He made another effort to appeal to his mother:
“Now look here, Mother, you can't go like this. You--”
“Are you ready, Edith?” inquired Mrs. Tyrrell with apparent deadly calmness.
The girl looked from mother to son appealingly.
“Mrs. Tyrrell—” she began, hesitatingly, “I hate to see you two part like this. Please speak to Jamison. —And Jamy,”—turning to the angry-faced young man—“say something kind and gentle to your mother. She loves you—”
“I'll say—” began Jamison, but his mother turned her shoulder to him, and pushed the door abruptly open, so that whatever it was he had intended to say stopped halfway on his lips.
Edith thrust her hand out to him. She tried bravely to smile, as she looked up at him.
“Good-bye, Jamison—and be good to—Spring-morning.”
He lowered his voice for her ear alone.
“And you be good to her—comfort her, and make her see things rationally, if you can, old girl.”
Edith nodded. Then she followed Mrs. Tyrrell, who already was in the street.
| Chapter XIII Miss Spring Morning | |