"A thoughtless boy," I said. "But if you want to be a man, here's your
chance. You go right back to your ship; write to Zura; tell her of your
engagement and why you cannot see her any more; then stay away."
I knew as little about men as I did about fashion, but I plunged on.
"What do you think the girl back home would think? Suppose somebody
treated her as you have treated Zura? Shame on you, boy! Be a man and
help an old woman as well as a young one."
The desire to have his own way died hard, but something conquered.
"I'll do it! Just watch me," he said at last, a certain bravado
accompanying his words.
I could see that he was much disturbed by our interview. He rose and
moved towards the gate. His effort to live up to his newly-awakened
manhood was boyish, but sincere.
He whirled about suddenly and said, "Miss Jenkins, I apologize to you
and Zura. I--I'm awfully sorry. Zura is such a jolly chum, and she was
very lonely; I wasn't any too gay myself at leaving home. But, honestly,
I didn't mean to make it hard for her. I--I didn't think. Please tell
her."
Impulsively he took my hand and lightly kissed it. But for his
earnestness I would have thought it impudent. He was soon gone.
* * * * *
"Where's Pink Tommy?" cried Zura, as I entered the living-room.
"Where's Mr. Hanaford?" I questioned back.
"Why, he took his book and left. Didn't you say he was in a hurry?"
"Yes, I did; so was Mr. Chalmers. He left good-by!"
"Good-by?" In Zura's question there was much annoyance and some anger.
Jane chimed in. "Both the boys gone? What a pity! I've just made a relly
joll."
Whether intentional or not, Jane's twisted words sent a little breeze of
laughter before the coming storm. For the rest of the afternoon Zura had
little to say. Book in hand she sat in the windowseat overlooking the
water, watching the snow-white sails skim the opal sea.
I made no further explanation of Mr. Chalmers or his call, thinking it
best to await the arrival of his note.
It came just before night. The reading of it left Zura white. She looked
at me stonily, "I suppose," she began, stiff with anger, "that you did
this."
"I did," I answered, looking into her blazing eyes.
"And I suppose too," she continued with withering scorn, "that was why
the gay cavalier kissed your hand. I saw him through the window. So
touching! That's what you were plotting when I found you in the garden.
Page Hanaford was in it too; I saw it in his face. I hate him! I hate
everything! Oh!" she cried, with a sudden outburst of passion, "the lot
of you are a pack of withered mummies. Not one of you know what it means
to be homesick; how I'm aching for a good time! Yes, I was going with
Pinkey to have a picnic on the island. Yes, I was going to slip off
without telling you. How could you understand? What was the harm in my
having a little pleasure? Do you think I intend to bend to the rules of
this law-cursed country? No, I will not! I'll go where I please. I'll
have my own friends!"
As gently as I could I forced her to go to her room and listen to what I
had to say. I related what had passed between Mr. Chalmers and me, of
the fatal thing she was contemplating and how her grandfather had
appealed to me for help. Never had I dreamed of such passion, such grief
in a young girl. She was like some wild thing, trying to beat its way to
freedom through prison bars.
No word of mine, however tender, seemed to touch her. I began to feel
useless, miserable, and a joy killer in general. I almost wished for the
dull days of old; at least I knew how to deal with them. I could give
points to the Minister of Education, talk volubly at Mothers' Meetings
and translate Confucius from the original, but I was helpless before
this girl in her conflict with conditions to which she could never yield
and which she fought with all the fierceness of undisciplined strength.
I could think of no word to comfort her. I sought to divert her. "Zura,
listen! Do you remember the hat I wore the first day I came to see you?
You do remember, for I saw you smiling at it. Well, I've worn it for
eight years. Don't cry, Dearie; please don't; and I'll let you send to
Yokohama and select me another one."
Sending to Yokohama for anything had always been an event to me. It was
the only excitement I could think of. But Zura flung herself around at
me. "Hang your old hat! What is a hat to a man, and he the only friend I
have out here. I don't care if there was another girl! She can have him.
He was somebody to play with. It was something to do, a touch of home.
Oh! it's cruel! cruel!"
Though another ideal was gone to smash, I was almost ready to cry myself
with relief that it was only a playmate Zura wanted in Pinkey and not a
sweetheart. Even at that I was at my wit's ends again to know what to
say next when the door opened. Jane had heard the commotion, and there
she stood in her sleeping garments and cap, a kimono floating behind
her. In one hand was her candle, in the other the only ornament she
possessed--a stuffed parrot!
She came in and, as if talking to soothe a three-year-old child, she
coaxed, "Zury, Zury, don't cry! Look what Jane has to show you. This is
Willie. For a long time he was my only friend; then he died. I missed
him terribly at first; but don't you cry about Mr. Pinkey. There are
plenty more men in this world, just as there are plenty more parrots and
as easy to get."
"Oh, I wish everybody had died!" the girl sobbed on, heedless of Jane's
attempt at comfort. Suddenly, turning away from us, she stretched her
arms to the starlit space beyond the windows and cried, "I want my home!
I want my friends! I want life!"
* * * * *
Hours later the great golden moon rose from out the velvety shadows of
the mountains. It looked in the window, found a sleeping girl, and
kissed the heavy lashes still wet with passionate tears. Veering still
farther around to the balcony, it rested on two silent old women.
From the city there floated up to us the tinkling of the samisens in the
tea-houses; the high, sweet voice of a dancing girl as she sang the
story of an old, old love; the sad notes of the blind masseur as he
sought for trade by the pathos of his bamboo flute; the night-taps from
the far-away barracks. Off to the west we could see the
fast-disappearing lights of a Pacific steamer.
Neither sounds nor sights seemed to touch Miss Gray nor ruffle her
serenity. For a long time she had been looking steadily into space, as
if held by a mental vision of some spiritual glory.
"Jane," I asked at last, "what shall we do?"
Maybe it was the moon, but something had smoothed out every wrinkle in
her face. She looked young and wise, as she leaned over and put her hand
on mine. Here was a Jane I had never known before. In a voice low and
sweet, she repeated the ancient hymn:
"God holds the key of all unknown
And I am glad.
If other hands should hold the key,
Or if He trusted it to me,
I might be sad."
From that night my feeling of superiority to Jane diminished. Some of
her strong sweetness, penetrating what seemed the crusty exterior of my
heart, entered in to abide with me always.