University of Virginia Library

6. Chapter VI

Tyrrell's knock was answered by Madame Yamada herself. She came to the door, with her pipe in her hand, and stood for a moment, looking up loweringly at the young man upon her threshold. Though it was dark already, and the street unlighted, she perceived at once that her caller was a foreigner, and somehow this fact awoke in her venomous old breast a sense of fury and yet of bitter triumph, as she realized that she had placed her daughter beyond the reach of these most detested ones.

She met his request for Spring-morning, with the response that she could not understand such language, and was about to close the door, practically in his face, when he stepped resolutely across the threshold and into the room.

“What you want, Mr. Foreigner?” she demanded fiercely, her little black eyes taking in, in one penetrating glance, the cool, clean-looking young man whose very attractiveness she resented.

“Why, I merely want to see the young girl who lives here,” he said, pleasantly, disregarding entirely the very patent animosity shown by the old woman. “I want to offer her some work to do,” he added, smiling, reassuringly.

At that, Madame Yamada made a curious sound that was half a croak of scorn, and half an angry laugh of derision. She shook the ash from her pipe, and now, with her little finger in its bowl, she thrust it out in an almost menacing motion toward the American.

“Our men,” she said, “fight for the Emperor--fight men like you, Mr. Sir--of the white skin. Soon, perhaps, the war will be over. Our sons will come back, for not all are killed. Well! There is much poverty in a land after war. Shall our men return to starve in Japan? No! Not while we have daughters who are healthy--and beautiful!”

Somewhat of the meaning of her words reached the comprehension of Jamison Tyrrell, and almost unconsciously he moved back toward the door. A sense of overwhelming disgust for the Japanese swept him. He regretted that he had gone as far as he had to help any one of them, and this regret, for the moment, swept aside his first fine impulse.

The wretched old crone had hobbled back to the fire- box, had lighted her pipe, and now, crouched down upon her knees, she was smoking drowsily. She was a repulsive, detestable object--this relative of Spring-morning; yet, even as he studied her, the tragic face of the young girl herself came up suddenly before him, and the thought of leaving her in the hands of this wretched old woman revolted him.

Tyrrell knew his Japan fairly well, and he knew that the average Japanese girl of the lower class would submit passively and often indifferently to the fate ordained for her by her guardians; and how was he to know that Spring- morning after all was different from any one of these? Only some subtle instinct--the memory of the girl's face with its poignant look of suffering, Miss Latimer's story of her efforts to make a livelihood, her half-starving condition when found by the good priest--these thoughts prevailed, and stopped him, even as he reached the door.

“It is possible,” he said gently, “that I may be able to help you. Let me speak to the young girl for a moment.”

Madame Yamada laughed weirdly.

“My daughter,” she said harshly--and it was somewhat of a shock to Tyrrell to learn that this sweet and refined young girl was the daughter of this repulsive old woman,-- “is not at home any more. You will find her, foreign mister, in the Yoshiwara. She set out for the honorable place an hour ago.”

Having imparted this information, Madame Yamada deliberately turned her shoulder toward Tyrrell, and half closing her eyes drowsily, she gave herself up to pulling upon her pipe.

Tyrrell was conscious of a choking sensation of fury and impotence now, as he looked at the old woman, now seemingly indifferent to his presence, and placidly, contentedly smoking her pipe. Presently her head began to nod. She was either about to fall asleep, or was feigning sleep for the benefit of the foreigner. Sick, disgusted, and nauseated, he turned away, and, as the cold, clear air struck him, he heaved a great sigh of relief.

As he threaded his way through the narrow little streets of the quarter, Tyrrell was unable, much as he desired to do so, to dismiss from his mind the thought of this unhappy girl.

Suddenly it occurred to him that Spring-morning might not yet have actually entered the Yoshiwara, and the idea persisted, till it became almost a torment, that there was a possibility that he still might save this girl from a dreadful fate. He stopped abruptly in the street, and then turning, hastily began to retrace his steps. He scarcely knew himself what it was he intended to do, or whither he was going. His feet seemed almost to carry him along unconsciously, as though directed by some irresistible, magnetic point; and presently his swift walk became a run, and he found himself rushing breathlessly along through the now almost deserted streets.

At the very gates of the Yoshiwara, he found Spring- morning. She had set forth bravely enough, her small white face held high, as though her resolve brought her not shame, but pride and courage; but when the lights and music of the “infernal hell city,” as her countrymen had aptly named the place, burst at last upon her, the girl had drawn back, seized with a new terror, and, covering her face with her sleeve, she tottered along, like some frail, helpless leaf driven resistlessly before a relentless storm.

An impassive-faced “policeman” threw her a word of advice as she passed[8], pointing out to her the way. He knew, without being told, the mission upon which the girl had come thither. Her distress and agony of soul impressed not at all this little man of the sword. Many hapless ones had arrived before her in just such a fashion, their poor faces shrouded in their sleeves. In the eyes of the Japanese officer, this kind deserved

no sympathy. They were weaklings and cowards. All the world admired the valiant ones, who entered for this supreme sacrifice with smiling faces and proud, upheld heads.

Now Spring-morning found the gates themselves were fronting her. She stood staring at them in a dumb-stricken silence. At that moment, weak and helpless as she felt, there recurred to the girl all the horrible tales and proverbs she had heard concerning this place, and not even its charming exterior--for the streets of the Yoshiwara and its houses are the most beautiful to be found in the cities of Japan--had the power to dazzle this wretched girl.

She began to cry--breathless, piteous sobs that tore her; and, shrinking back against the walls, trembling from head to foot, she hesitated there by the gates, trying vainly to summon the courage which must aid her to carry her within.

Suddenly, above her own sobs, above the din of the scraping, mocking music which seemed to beat ceaselessly within the Yoshiwara, a new sound smote upon the girl's ears. Some one, heavily booted, was running down the road she had taken. A moment later, she saw a great figure stop by the little officer who had directed her, and then speed on toward the gates. Under the illuminated gateway he paused, and then he saw Spring-morning, leaning back there against the wall. It was the “whistling man” of the morning, the white foreigner, who had smiled up at her in the dingy street, and had sent a strange thrill of warmth and comfort to the girl's aching heart. Now he was towering above her. Spring-morning felt herself slipping lower and lower. Now she was on her knees, her head at the feet of the stranger.

“I--afraid!” she cried frantically. “I--I unworthily-- afraid!”