 | Chapter XIX Miss Spring Morning |  |
19. Chapter XIX
The following morning Jamison Tyrrell awoke early. His head ached so abominably that he could barely see, as he sat up, his hands pressed to his forehead.
Spring-morning apparently had already arisen, for she was not in her bed. Accustomed always to retire earlier than her husband, she had sat up late with him the previous night, and to serve him especially, so she said, had prepared some sweet native drink for him. It was shortly after that, that her husband became very drowsy, and he had slept throughout the night as soundly as though he had been in some trance.
Now he called hoarsely for Spring-morning; but though he went to the doors and called her name through the halls, there was no response to his summons, though a maid showed a curious face; and, seeing her, he withdrew, frowning, to his room.
Only his wife could rid him of such a beastly headache, he thought, and, stumbling across the room, he clumsily bathed his head, and then dressed. Feeling very little better, and intending to seek his wife in the garden, whither he presumed she had gone, as was her early-morning custom, he descended to the lower floor. Here he found the amado were still in place. They were a sort of heavy storm- door or window, put up in the night, and Jamison knew that if his wife had gone down to the gardens she could not have closed the amado from the outside.
She was not in the living-room, however, and he stood frowning, puzzlingly, over her curious absence. Ume, yawning and stretching herself, with her skirts and sleeves tucked up about her, appeared in the room with bamboo broom and duster, to begin her morning's customary toil. She stopped, open-mouthed, at seeing the master so early in the ozashiki. “Where is Mrs. Tyrrell?” he inquired.
The servant did not answer, and he prompted her with an irritable “Well?” as she continued to stare at him wonderingly.
“Well? Why don't you answer me?” he demanded.
“Oku-sa-ma!” stammered the wench. (They had now transferred to the young wife the name of Okusama, as it meant literally, “Honorable lady of the house.”)
“Yes—my—our Okusama, where is she? Upstairs?”
The maid shook her head uncertainly and then began a discomfiting series of deep and most humble bows, which merely moved her master to deeper wrath.
“Stop your kow-tow-ing, and answer my question.” —and in an inward aside he anathematized the polite habits of the natives and determined to have his wife institute a new order of things in their own house. He felt out of humor and really sick.
The maid, still on her knees, then announced in a placid, sing-song voice, that: “Okusama long way gone away last night.”
As though unaware of the electrical effect of her words, she added:
Even after Ume had picked up her broom and pattered stolidly across the floor, Jamison Tyrrell found himself unable to arouse himself from the sudden condition of shock. It seemed as if his mind had, without the slightest further explanation, grasped at the actual facts of the case. His wife had simply gone—Spring-morning had left him. He had failed to make her happy, and she was gone!
The mere statement of the maid brought out from him not a single ejaculation or question. Slowly, his mind, so dull and slow it seemed this morning, set to work to recall the various acts of his wife lately—her unhappy looks—her unexpected tears, her piteous pleas that he would forgive her “mebbe ad those udder life.”
When finally he aroused himself from the stupor which had seized him at the maid's words, he rose slowly to his feet, though his knees felt weak as those of one long ill. He walked unsteadily toward the stairs and found his way to their room. He examined her bed and saw it had not been slept upon. It was strange he had not noticed this before, he thought. She must have lain down for a while upon the coverlets, for there was the slight pressure of her body still upon the bed. He remembered how quickly he had fallen asleep the previous night. Suddenly he recalled the drink she had made for him. His teeth gritted together, stifling the groan which would come despite his best efforts. He had been drugged! Spring-morning had drugged him! It was unbelievable that she could do such a thing! Spring-morning! His wife!
He buried his face in his hands. The room swam about him. He felt he was going with it. It was the effect of that cursed drug. No, it was the knowledge of his wife's falsity. He had endowed her with graces and qualities she did not possess. Never again would he believe in any woman. And then he thought of his mother, and his head cleared. He felt strong enough to find his way at least to her.
| Chapter XIX Miss Spring Morning | |