University of Virginia Library

11. Chapter XI

The exclusive study of a very pretty girl is at all times a dangerous and fascinating employment for a young and impressionable man. Especially is it so when he chances to be in a foreign land, removed from the distractions and influences of his own people, and, as is nearly always the case, unconsciously lonely.

Jamison Tyrrell, indolently lingering in a land which charmed and delighted him, found no subject at this time of more absorbing interest than the lovely little girl whom it had been his good fortune, as he believed, to befriend, and her very avoidance and even fear of him served rather to excite and fascinate him the more.

The Okusama's health had been poor, and almost unconsciously she began to lean upon the really capable Spring-morning. Somewhat of her former suspicions and even dislike for the girl had departed, and she had written to her friend, Miss Latimer, to say that she had decided to keep Spring-morning with her as long as she remained in Japan, though it had been previously decided that the girl should be sent to Miss Latimer upon her return to Yokohama from a pleasure trip in another province.

It became an easy matter for Tyrrell to see Spring- morning daily, for she was in almost constant attendance upon his mother. With the exception of that one brief interview with her, however, he had been unable to speak to the girl alone, much as he desired to do so.

He even schemed to make opportunities for being alone with the girl, and since that first morning when he had watched her in the garden at the dawn, he had arisen at the most unseemly hours, in the hope of again seeing her there. Once he had been so sure he had seen the bright scarlet of the girl's obi in the gardens, that he had actually stolen down from his room. But a vain search about the place showed no traces of her, and he returned to his room with a sense of disappointment, and even resentment.

He was not his usual cheery self. His actions amazed and confounded him.

He could not have told himself what it was he wanted of Spring-morning, for the idea that he could possibly be in love with her aroused his angry derision. He told himself he was merely sorry for the Japanese girl. She was a forlorn and pitiful waif, whom he--and he took an amazing pride and satisfaction in this thought--had rescued from a most dreadful fate. It was only natural that he should feel an interest in her. Besides, the girl was so distractingly pretty, no man could have remained indifferent to her charms.

He would have liked to know more about that Japanese soldier whom she had so vehemently and excitedly and tearfully denied was her lover, and with whom she had studied the English language. For her sake, Jamison told himself, he trusted the young man would return safely from the war. Yet the picture he conjured up of Spring-morning living in domestic bliss with the aforesaid soldier gave him no particular joy.

His mother remarked his restlessness with complacent approval. She was glad her son showed signs of being bored with his existence in Japan. This surely meant an earlier return to their home than she had hoped for.

Then came a night, when returning late to his home from a little sketching trip in the country, he stopped, as he never failed to do before retiring, in his mother's room to kiss her good-night. A light was burning dimly, and his mother was breathing heavily and regularly. As he approached the bed, Jamison saw in the shadow, the movement of something above his mother's head. On her knees, her little pretty head drooped wearily over, was Spring-morning. Her whole attitude bespoke the most intense weariness and exhaustion, and there was something pathetically childish in her little crouched-over position. Though her eyes were closed, her hand still continued its mechanical motion upon the forehead of the Okusama.

“Spring-morning!” he whispered, fearful of awakening his mother. “What are you doing here? at this hour?”

She looked up languidly, the flush of sleep upon her cheeks, and her tired eyes drooping drowsily. His mother stirred, muttering querulously.

“You must not stop--my head--” And she drowsed off again.

The girl smiled across at the man--a wise, patient little smile, which seemed to say:

“You see? I am needed here! I must stay!”

He went into his own room, and sat in a chair with his frowning face held in his hands. Half an hour passed away. He returned to his mother's door and looked into the room. Spring-morning was still there, her hand on her mistress' head; but she had slipped forward. Her face seemed buried on the Okusama's pillow.

Jamison put out the light. Then, in the darkness of the room, he felt his way to where the girl knelt by his mother's bed. She made no resistance when he compellingly lifted her to her feet and drew her along. In the hall without, still supporting her, he said very roughly:

“It's not right. No one individual has a right to expect that sort of service from another. You shall not do it again. I will not let you.”

Spring-morning's eyes were as languid and soft as a tired child's. They smiled up at him in gentle reproof. His grasp tightened upon her arm. There was something in the still night that affected him strangely, or was it merely the contact of the girl's warm little body at his side? He was conscious of an almost imperative impulse to put his arm hungrily about her, and to draw her closely against him, and, fearing to yield to this impulse, he released her suddenly. He could hear his own heavy breathing in the silence that followed.

“Go to bed now,” he said, trying to speak gayly. “It's past your ox-hour, and you won't have a chance to salute the honorable sun to-morrow.”

She moved along the hall, a forlorn, tired, drooping little figure. Halfway down its length she turned, hesitated, looking back at him wistfully. There was something eerily witching in her face as she came back slowly to him and, without speaking, thrust her two little

hands into his now eager ones. For a moment neither spoke; then very softly she said:

“Eijin-san, I lig tell unto you mos' beautiful proverb ad Japan.”

“Yes, tell me it,” he whispered eagerly, and even as he spoke he drew her nearer and nearer to him, till her uplifted face was close to his own.

“‘Bes' thing in traveling,’ say those proverb,” said she, “‘is a companion; but mos' bes' thing in all those worl' is--kindness!’”

He murmured something almost against her lips, and when she drew back slightly, held her:

“I will tell you something better still that that, Spring-morning,” he said. “Look at me, and I will tell you what it is. There's no word in the Japanese language to express it, but in my land we call it--Love!”