 | Chapter XXI Miss Spring Morning |  |
21. Chapter XXI
The torturing events of the day had left Jamison Tyrrell so stunned that he scarcely realized Edith's words that there was something he must know concerning his wife; that there was some one else, besides Spring-morning, waiting to see him at his house. His chief thought, as he entered his house, was that his wife was back! She had been a “bad child,” but he was not going to scold her. Poor little suffering soul! Who could tell what she had been through mentally?
Crossing the great living-room toward the stairway that led directly to his own room above, he was made aware of the presence of a stranger in the room by that curious hissing in and out of the breath peculiar to the Japanese when bowing formally.
Inwardly he damned his caller for coming at such an unseasonable time, and he continued hastily toward the little stairs, determined to go to his wife in spite of his visitor, who, however, deliberately stepped before him and addressed him.
“You are Misterer Tearel?”
Jamison now perceived that his caller was a young soldier, very straight and stiff as a mannikin, his bronzed face impassive and proud.
“I am Mr. Tyrrell, yes. What can I do for you?”
“I am Yamada Omi,” said the soldier simply.
“Omi? My wife's brother!”
His whole manner had melted in an instant, and he went toward his visitor with outstretched hand, which, however, the Japanese seemed not to see. He seemed to have drawn himself up straighter, if that were possible.
“I am Spring-morning's husband!” he said distinctly.
“Spring-morn—”
The room began to swim about Jamison. He staggered backward, almost falling into the chair by the low study table at which he worked. He grasped the sides of the chair, and when he could command himself sufficiently to speak, the words seemed wrung from him in a savage, agonized whisper.
“What—did you—say?”
Apparently unmoved, his gaze fixed calmly above the head of the American, Omi answered quietly:
“I am Spring-morning's husband. We were married in Yawata, in the Province of Echizen. It may be you recall the occasion, for you were a guest of my Captain Taganouchi at the time the ceremony took place.”
The American stared at the soldier dully. Slowly through his mind filtered the memory of the little town of Yawata—of the marriage music across the way—of the girl upon the balcony—of Spring-morning, as he had seen her first at the window of the old rickety house in Yokohama— little Spring-morning, soft, yielding, lovely, appealing to every sense of desire in him. She was the bride of that day- -the bride whose fate had so moved him! It was impossible! She was his—his own!
The face of the boy before him seemed to recede into darkness and disappear. He seemed to hear his silken, monotonous voice as in a dream.
“I did not know myself till I returned to Japan of my wife's marriage also to you. It is impossible for one to blame a mother; yet I wish to be just to my wife also. I believe her intentions were innocent. Hence I forgive her, and I am come now to take her back to my home.”
“Do you imagine,” said Jamison in a low, hoarse voice, “that I am going to give up my wife to you?”
“The law will force you to do so, Mr. Sir,” said the soldier coldly. “Her mar-
Jamison started halfway to his feet, a savage imprecation upon his lips; then he sank down again into the chair, and buried his face in his hands.
For a long time there was silence in the room. The composed young Japanese soldier watched the white man with a curious look of wonder upon his face. The emotion of the Westerner aroused his interest rather than his pity. Omi had come from a field where men met death itself unflinchingly, aye, proudly! It was a matter of pride indeed among his countrymen that not even the harshest of pain could wring a murmur from the lips of a Japanese soldier. Yet here was this white man giving himself up to an exhibition of weak emotion over the matter of a mere wife!
Presently Tyrrell raised a drawn and haggard face, but he held himself now under control.
“I remember very well,” he said in a low voice, “the marriage you speak of. I am trying to get used to the fact that my wife—that Spring-morning was—was—that girl.”
“There is no question of it,” returned the Japanese quietly.
“And if she were,” went on the American, with more spirit, “I think I understand things now. Her marriage then to you was a farce. She was never your wife in fact. She was merely the victim of others. She was a poor, weak child forced into a union that she looked upon with horror. I saw her weeping—yes—I remember it all well. How was it possible for you to marry this poor, helpless little girl against her will? You did not love her—”
A dull red stole across the face of the Japanese. For a moment his stiff features relaxed, his eyes flashed. He seemed about to make some passionate rejoinder, but the next moment his figure became stiffer, his features more inscrutable.
“Japanese heart just the same as American,” he said, looking steadily into the eye of the American.
“But—but if you had cared for her, you could not have left her like that on your marriage day.”
A puzzled look came into Omi's face.
“You think it possible I could have remained at home?” he asked incredulously. “My wife herself would then have hated me.”
“She is not your wife,” said the American steadily. “She was an unwilling victim at that enforced ceremony with you. I married her in the only true way. My church recognizes only one form of marriage. My wife became a Christian before the ceremony. In her eyes, therefore, the Japanese ceremony with you was neither binding nor legal. She felt free, therefore, to marry the man she loved. I intend to uphold and protect her.”
He stood up, looking firmly and defiantly at his very grave little caller now. Indeed, his motion seemed to dismiss his caller, but the latter stood his ground steadily. His monotonous gentle voice had a curiously exasperating effect upon the white man, who curbed a savage impulse to spring upon and annihilate him.
“You forget,” said Omi suavely, “that Spring-morning is a Japanese citizen, even though you say she is a Christian. By law, undoubtedly, sir, she is my wife.”
“That too is a debatable question,” said Jamison excitedly. “I think you will find that as my wife she is an American citizen. We will have the question settled, you may be sure, once and for all; and meanwhile, I am obliged to ask you to—go.”
The Japanese bowed, but still he made no move to go. Very politely and respectfully he insisted that he must be accompanied by his wife. Jamison told him that was impossible, and the Japanese then asked him a question that the American appeared to regard as preposterous.
“Sup-pose, Mr. Tearerl, Spring-morning should desire to return to me. Is it not fair that she should be consulted in this matter?”
Jamison waved the question aside as too improbable for consideration.
“Why should she? She is happy here. She loves me. I am sure of that.”
“Sir,” said the Japanese, “I will explain to you some little thing. Japanese love is not the same as American. You
“For your sake? Preposterous. My poor young man, you are deceiving yourself.”
“I am told by my honorable mother that my wife went first to the Yoshiwara that she might earn money to support my mother. When, later, she became your—wife, all that she earned in that capacity,”—he did not flinch, even when the other angrily took a threatening step toward him, at that— “she sent unto my mother, writing always that it was for me! I have seen the letters, Mr. Sir.”
“You are deluding yourself,” said Jamison. “My wife, it is true, appreciated what you were doing—it may be—she was unusually patriotic—she exaggerated your—your achievements. I knew that she sent what money I gave her to- -you, but I believed you were her brother. That you are not does not alter the main facts. She sent this money in the same way as she would some contribution to the war fund—and not for any personal affection for you. Of that I am sure.”
“If,” said the Japanese, “I believed my wife had ceased to regard me as her husband—had ceased in fact to feel for me that proper wifely devotion—I would gladly set her free. Always I have found much courage and bravery to do my fight for my country and my Emperor. In so small matter then as insignificant wife, I am competent also to be equally brave!”
He paused, as if in troubled thought, a moment. Then very carefully, choosing his words, he added:
“Let but Spring-morning herself tell me that she wishes no longer to be my wife—and, at once, Mr. Foreigner, I will leave your house, never again to trouble you.”
“That's the way to look at it,” said Jamison, with an almost pitiful sense of relief.
After all, it was not the thought of his wife's deceit, the revelation of her former marriage, that had weighed the heaviest upon him; it was the horrible fear of losing her. He tried even to smile at Omi now, and his tone was conciliatory.
“She is not very well. You won't say anything—anything that will upset her, will you? I—I appreciate your position- -the claim you feel you have upon her; but if you could take my word—and let matters end there—”
Omi said nothing as the young fellow stammered on, but into his little eyes came that glitter of steel which they had borne when in the teeth of a storm of fire and hell itself, as it seemed, with his comrades dropping fast on all sides of him, he, Omi, a soldier of Japan, had torn up the hill at Port Arthur and attained the desired goal. It was an expression common to the Japanese face in time of peril, and the Russians had flinched before it, knowing the bull-dog tenacity and superb stubbornness that lurked behind it. Poor Jamison felt its sinister power now, and he knew that he could not save Spring-morning from the painful interview which this man demanded as his right.
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