 | Chapter XX Miss Spring Morning |  |
20. Chapter XX
It was late in the evening of the same day that he finally went to his mother's house. One glance only at his haggard, drawn face was enough for her. Before he could tell her what had befallen him, her mother-heart sensed his trouble and knew almost instinctively the cause.
“Spring—?” she began, and he finished hoarsely,
“—has gone, Mother. I found her gone when I got up this morning. I've been looking for her all day.”
“My poor Jamy!”
“Listen, Mother: promise me that you won't say anything against her—or—or I can't speak to you then. I—I think there was something wrong—from the first.”
“Oh, there was; there was, indeed. I never did believe in these mixed marriages, Jamy. It broke my heart when—but I won't say a word about it now, dear. There! We'll forget all about it. Do sit down beside me here, and try to tell me all.”
Her trembling hands drew him down beside her. Her glasses dropped from her nose and hung by the ribbon from her ear in a characteristic way.
“Dear, dear,” said she, “if only Edith were here. But— she was called away quite unexpectedly last night.”
He still sat forward, with his chin hugged in his hand, his brows drawn, the lines deep about his mouth.
“I am trying to think where she could have gone—and why?”
“Her mother—?”
“I have been there. She too had left the previous night. No one knew where she had gone.”
“Where did Spring-morning come from originally, Jamy? What was her native town?”
“I don't know. Curious, she never told me. I never thought to ask her. She never wanted to speak about her people, for some reason or other—I don't know why.”
“Had she spoken of going anywhere lately?”
“Yes—she did.” He sat up abruptly. “She asked my permission to go to Saseho. There's a military hospital
He picked up his hat and turned toward the door.
“I shall go there at once.”
He had forgotten in his abstraction even to kiss his mother, and with a little cry she ran to him now and put her arms around him, drawing his face down to hers.
“Oh, Jamy—Jamy—you don't know how I have longed to see you!” she cried brokenly.
He patted her on the shoulder.
“You might've let me know then, Mother. You knew you wouldn't see me before we went away, and since we got back, why—Spring-morning—”
Someone had opened the door, and they both turned toward it, to see Edith Latimer standing in the doorway, her wide, clear eyes looking strangely troubled. As soon as she saw Jamison, a slow, hectic flush mantled her face, suffusing her eyes with tears. Dumbly she held out her hand to him, and he took it without speaking.
Even then, while his mind was whirling in a haze of his own miseries, it occurred to him that Edith's face was astonishingly beautiful, with that expression of gentle compassion and sympathy in it.
“You know?” he inquired briefly.
She nodded, silently.
“I am going to Saseho now.” He made the statement simply, as if he knew that Edith would know the reason why, without his saying more. Her hand still retained his own, and now she put her other upon it.
“No, Jamison,” she said gently, “Spring-morning is—not in Saseho.”
“You know where—?”
She turned away from his eager face, looking almost desperately about her to escape his hopeful scrutiny. “Where—?”
His voice was hoarse. All the pent-up agony of the long day when he had tramped the terrible streets of the city seeking his wife, filled with horrible forebodings of the fate that might have befallen her, so weak, so helpless and so lovely—showed now in his voice.
“Tell me, Edith—if you know. For the love of God, answer me. Where is my wife?”
“Jamy, dear, don't look like that,” said the girl, pleadingly. “Try and be brave. You know we all have certain things to bear—certain things that come to us. I—I have— them, just as you have. It's part of life, I suppose—meant to strengthen us.”
“But I want to know—about my wife. Nothing else matters now to me. Do you know where she is?”
“Yes. I can answer you that, at least, but the rest she must tell you herself, though I promised her I—I would try to. I can't. Jamison—she is home—at your house now. I left her there—I—I took her back there.”
“Thank God!” he said. Then, recovering himself slightly, he added somewhat vaguely, “She—she's not been very well, and—I planned to take her to America, and I broke the news to her clumsily. She—she's not herself lately.”
“Jamison,” said Edith gently, “there are things you must know about Spring-morning. I think she will tell you. And—and—there is some one else there at your house. I—I'm afraid you'll have to see him, too.”
“Him?”
“Yes. Don't ask me about it. Please go.”
“She—my wife was with you last night, Edith?” he demanded suddenly.
“Yes—all night—with me,” she responded quickly.
“But, my dear,” put in Mrs. Tyrrell, “you were not at home. Don't you remember you were called away—?”
“I was called away by—Spring-morning,” said Edith. “We- -we traveled part way to—Saseho, and then—she came back with me to-day. That is all.”
She started nervously when the door banged as Jamison went out, and, sitting down on a couch, she began to sob, gaspingly.
“Why, Edith, Edith, dear child, I have never seen you like this before,” said Mrs. Tyrrell. “Something has happened to you, dear. You are in trouble, too. What is it?”
“Oh n-no!” she said. “I am not in
| Chapter XX Miss Spring Morning | |