During the weeks following my visit I had good reason to believe that
Kishimoto San's power to command was not in working order. Zura failed
to put in an appearance for her lessons, nor did any message come from
the ancient house by the sea to explain the delay.
I could only guess how things stood between the grandfather and the
alien child.
Every minute of my day was filled with classes, demands and sick babies,
but between duties and when Jane was elsewhere I snatched time to
inspect eagerly every visitor who clicked a sandal or shoe-heel on the
rough stones of my crooked front path. I kept up the vigil for my
desired pupil until I heard one of my adoring housemaids confide to the
other that she had "the great grief to relate Jenkins Sensie was getting
little illness in her head. She condescended to respond to the honorable
knock at her door--and she a great teacher lady!"
After this I transferred my observations to the crescent-shaped window
at one end of my study. This ornamental opening in the wall commanded a
full view of the main highway of Hijiyama. Through it I could look down
far below upon the street life which was a panorama quietly intense, but
gay and hopeful. The moving throng resembled a great bouquet swayed by a
friendly breeze, so bright in coloring with the flower-sellers,
white-garbed jinricksha men, vegetable vendors, and troops of butterfly
children that any tone of softer hue attracted immediate attention.
This led me to a discovery one day when I caught sight of a dark-brown
velvet dress, and I knew that my promised pupil was inside it. Her
shining hair made me sure, and I guessed that the young man with whom
she walked was the ship's officer. The sight troubled me; but
interference except by invitation was not my part. I could do nothing
but wait.
However, so unusual a creature as Zura Wingate could neither escape
notice nor outspoken comment in a conservative, etiquette-bound old town
like Hijiyama. Through my pupils, most of them boys and eager to
practise their English, I heard of many startling things she did. They
talked of her fearlessness; with what skill she could trim a sail; how
she had raced with the crack oarsman of the Naval College; and how the
aforesaid cadet was now in disgrace because he had condescended to
compete with a girl. Much of the talk was of the girl's wonderful talent
in putting on paper Japanese women and babies in a way so true that
Chinda, a withered old man in whom the love of art was the only sign of
life, said, "Except for her foreign blood the child would be a gift of
the gods." I had dwelt too long in the Orient, though, to hear with much
peace of mind the girl's name so freely used and I discouraged the talk.
Even if I had thought it best to do so, there was no chance for a
repetition of my visit to Kishimoto San's house. The demands upon my
time and my resources were heavier than ever before. The winter had been
bitterly cold. As the thermometer went down and somebody cornered the
supply of sweet potatoes, the price of rice soared till there seemed
nothing left to sustain the working people except the scent of the early
plum flowers that flourished in the poorer districts. Sheltered by a
great mountain from the keen winds, they thrust their pink blossoms
through the covering of snow and cheered the beauty-loving people to
much silent endurance. The plum tree was almost an object of worship in
this part of the Empire. It stood for bravery and loyalty in the face of
disaster, but as one tottering old woman put it, as she went down on her
knees begging food for her grandbabies, "The Ume Ke makes me suffer
great shame for my weakness. It gives joy to weary eyes, courage to
fainting heart, but no food for babies." In the outlying districts many
children on their way to school fainted for want of food; hospitals were
full of the half-starved; police stations were crowded with the
desperate; and temples were packed with petitioners beseeching the gods.
It was near the holidays. My pupil teachers and helpers worked extra
hours and pinched from their scant savings that those they could reach
might not have a hungry Christmas. They put together the price of their
gifts to each other and bought rice. In gay little groups they went from
door to door and gathered up twenty feeble old women, brought them to my
house and feasted them to the utmost.
Hardly a day passed without some new and unusual demand, until learning
to stand up and sit down at the same time was almost a necessity.
Had my own life lacked absorbing interest, Jane Gray's activities would
have furnished an inexhaustible supply. As she grew stronger and could
come and go at her pleasure, her unexpectedness upset my systematic
household to the point of confusion. She supplied untold excitement to
Pine Tree and Maple Leaf, the two serving maids earning an education by
service, and drove old Ishi the gardener to tearful protest. "Miss
Jaygray dangerful girl. She boldly confisteal a dimension of flower
house and request strange demons to roost on premises."
This all came about because my fireside companion was a born collector.
Not of any reasonable thing like stamps or butterflies, but of stray
animals and wandering humans. Her affections embraced every created
thing that came out of the ark, including all the descendants of Mr. and
Mrs. Noah. A choice spot in my beloved garden, which was also Ishi's
heaven, housed a family of weather-beaten world-weary cats, three
chattering monkeys, that made love to Jane and hideous faces at
everybody else, a parrakeet and a blind pup. If the collection fell
short in quality, it abounded in variety. On one occasion she brought
home two ragged and hungry American sailors, and it required military
tactics to piece out the "left-over" lunch for them. Another time she
shared her room with a poor creature who had been a pretty woman, now
seeking shelter till her transportation could be secured.
Late one snowy night Jane came stumbling in weighted with an extra
bundle. Tenderly unwrapping the covering she disclosed a half-starved
baby. That day she had gone to a distant part of the city to assist in
organizing a soup kitchen, and a Bible class. On her way home she heard
a feeble cry coming from a ditch. She located a bundle of rags, and
found a bit of discarded humanity.
"Isn't it sweet?" murmured the little missionary as she laid the
weakling before the fire and fed it barley water with an ink dropper.
"I'm going to keep it for my very own. I've always wanted one," she
announced joyfully.
"Well, you just won't do anything of the kind," was my firm conclusion.
I had no wish to be unkind, but repression was the only course left. I
loved children, as I loved flowers, but it was impossible to inflate
another figure for expense.
"It's all we can do to support that menagerie in the garden without
starting an orphan asylum. Babies, as well as cats and dogs, cost
money."
"Yes, yes, I know, Miss Jenkins," replied my companion eagerly, her face
bright with some inner sunbeam of hope, "but wait till I tell you of a
darling plan. The other day I saw the nicest sign over a door. It said
'Moderated and modified milk for babies and small animals.' It's tin,
the milk I mean, and that is what I am going to feed them on. It's so
filling."
"Beautifully simple, and tin milk must be so nourishing, is it not?" I
snapped, ruffled by Miss Gray's never-defeated hopefulness. "Of course
the kind gentleman who keeps this magic food, stands at the door and
hands it out by the bucketful."
That was before I learned that sarcasm could no more pierce Jane's
optimism, than a hair would cut a diamond.
"No," she answered sweetly, "he sits on the floor, and takes cans from a
box. He gets money for it, but I am going to make a grand bargain with
him. I am going to trade him a package of tracts and that cunning
parrakeet for milk."
"How do you know he wants parrots or tracts?" I said.
"Oh, yes, he does. I talked to him. He showed me a faded old tract he
had been reading every day for twenty years. Now his eyes are failing.
He can get his customers to read a new one to him. He wants the bird for
a spot of color as it grows darker. Please, dear Miss Jenkins, let me
keep the baby!"
Of course I was weak enough to give in. Jane made her bargain and for a
month the little stray stayed with us. Then one glorious dawn the tiny
creature smiled as only a baby can, and gave up the struggle. In a
corner of the garden, where the pigeons are ever cooing, we made a small
mound.
To this good day Ishi declares the children's god Jizo comes every night
to take the child away, but cannot because it lies in a Christian grave,
and that is why he keeps the spot smothered in flowers.
Not in the least discouraged by death or desertion of her protégés, Jane
Gray continued to bring things home, and one day she burst into the room
calling, "Oh, Jenkins San! Come quick! See what I have found."
Her find proved to be a youthful American about twenty-four, whom she
introduced as Page Hanaford.
From the moment the tall young man stood before me, hat in hand, a
wistful something in his gray eyes, I had to crush a sudden desire to
lay my hand on his shoulder and call him son. It would have been against
my principles to be so outspokenly sentimental, but his light hair waved
back from a boyish face pallid with illness and the playful curve of
his mouth touched me. If I had been Jane Gray I should have cried over
him. From the forced smile to the button hanging loose on his vest there
was a silent appeal. All the mother in me was aroused and mentally I had
to give myself a good slap to meet the situation with dignity.
I asked the young man to come into the sitting-room and we soon heard
the story he had to tell.
He said his home had been in Texas. His father, an oil operator and
supposed to be very rich, died a bankrupt. He was the only member of the
family left, and he had recently started to the Far East to begin making
his fortune. By chance he had drifted into Hijiyama. He understood there
was a demand for teachers here. He was quite sure he could teach; but he
would have to go slow at first, for he was just recovering from a slight
illness.
"Have you been ill a long time?" I asked, striving to keep my fast
rising sympathy in hand.
"Y-es; no," was the uncertain reply. "You see, I don't quite remember.
Time seems to have run away from me."
"Were you ill before you left America, or after you sailed?" I inquired
with increasing interest.
The boy paled, flushed, then stammered out his answer. "I--I--I'm
sorry, but really I can't tell you. The beastly thing seems to have left
me a bit hazy."
A bit hazy indeed! It was as plain as the marks of his severe illness
that he was evading my question. His hands trembled so he could hardly
hold the cup of tea I gave him, so I pursued my inquiries no further. As
I was hostess to my guests, whoever they might be, I asked neither for
credentials nor the right to judge them, for their temptations had not
been mine.
After a long pause he slowly tried again to tell his story. "I was
seeking employment when Miss Gray found me. My! but I was glad to see
some one who seemed like home. The way she walked right up to me and
said, 'Why, howdy do. I'm glad to see you. Now come right up to the
"Misty Star" with me,' I tell you it made my heart thump. Didn't know
whether the Misty Star was a balloon or a planet; didn't care much. Miss
Gray was so kind and I was tired. Hunting a job in an unknown language
is rather discouraging."
"Discouraged!" laughed Jane, poking up the fire and arranging a big
chair in which she put Mr. Hanaford, at the same time stuffing a pillow
behind his back. "The idea of being discouraged when the world is full
of poetry and love staring you right in the face! Besides, there is
always hope blooming everywhere like a dield full of faisies."
Our visitor's face crinkled with suppressed amusement at the little
lady's funny mixture of words and he asked, "Are you never discouraged?"
"Goodness me, no! Not now. Every time I see a blue thought sticking its
head around the corner, I begin to sing the long meter doxology. My
music sends it flying. I can't afford to be discouraged. You see, I'm
pledged to help a lot of unfortunate friends. I haven't a cent of money
and every time I let the teeniest little discouragement show its face,
it would surely knock a plank out of the hospital I'm going to build for
them."
"Build a hospital without money?" said he. "If you are that kind of a
magician, perhaps you can tell me where I can find so many students that
riches will pour in upon me?"
"Yes, indeed, I can," assented Miss Gray generously. "The pupils are
sure, if the pay isn't. Miss Jenkins can find you a barrelful."
The young man turned to me. "A baker's dozen would do to start with.
Would you be so kind? I need them very much. I must have work."
His manner was so earnest and appealing, his need so evident that I was
ready to turn over to him every student on my list, if that were the
thing necessary to enable him to earn a living and get a new grip on
life. There were more than enough pupils to go around, and I was glad to
put away my work and give the afternoon to planning for a place in which
to house Mr. Hanaford and his going-to-be-pupils.
Our guest entered into all our suggestions eagerly. The environment of
our simple home, the ministrations of motherly hands touched hidden
chords. He did not hide his enjoyment, but talked well and
entertainingly of everything--except himself. At times he was boyishly
gay; then, seemingly without cause, the expectant look of his eyes would
fade into one of bewildered confusion and he would sit in silence. I
hoped it was the effect of his illness.
Jane was happier over this last addition to her collection than any
previous specimen.
When at last he rose reluctantly and said he must be going, she
anxiously inquired if he would be sure to come back to-morrow and the
day after.
"Why, dear lady, you are very kind! Sure there will be no risk of
wearing out a welcome? And I have no letter of introduction."
"You can't even dent the welcome at Miss Jenkins's house. It has been
forged with kindness and polished with love, and we wouldn't have time
to read a letter of introduction if you had one. Please come right
away."
Our visitor stood voicing his thanks and bidding us adieu when the
tuneful gong at the front door was struck by no uncertain hand.
The setting sun wrapped "The House of the Misty Star" in a veil of
purple, shot with pink. The subdued radiance crept into the room and
covered its shabbiness with a soft glory, the paper door slid open and,
framed in the tender twilight, stood Zura Wingate.
"I've come--" she began, then stopped.
The unfinished speech still parting her lips, with hair wind-blown and
face aglow, she gazed in surprise at Page Hanaford, and he, bending
slightly forward, gazed back at the girl, who radiated youth and all its
glorious freedom in every movement.
The silence was brief, but intense. Then Jane Gray gave vent to a long
ecstatic "Oh-h-h-h!" I made haste to welcome and introduce Zura.
"I can't stop," she said when I offered her a chair and refreshment;
and she added rather breathlessly: "I started for this house at noon;
side-tracked and went sailing. Just come to say thank you very much, but
I don't care for any lessons in English or manners, and I won't have any
kind old grandpa interfering with my affairs. Now I must hustle. If I
don't, there'll be an uprising of my ancestors. Good-by."
She went as suddenly as she had come. It was as though a wild sea-bird
had swept through the room, leaving us startled, but refreshed.
From the shadows near the door came Page Hanaford's half-humorous query,
"Do these visions have a habit of appearing in your doorway, Miss
Jenkins, or how much of what I saw was real?"
"Zura Wingate is the realest girl I know, Mr. Hanaford." He listened
intently to the short history of the girl I gave him, made no comment,
asked no questions, but said good-night very gently and went out into
the dusk.
Jane stood looking into the fire. Tightly clasping her hands across her
thin chest and closing her eyes, she murmured delightedly, "Oh, the
sweet darlings!"
I did not ask whether she referred to our late visitors or something in
her menagerie.
I was in a whirl of thought myself. I had lost a pupil; my purse was
leaner than ever, my responsibilities heavier; yet intangible joys were
storming my old heart, and it was athrill with visions of youth and hope
and love, although I saw them through windows doubly barred and locked.
V