The House of the Misty Star by Frances Little (ereader for android TXT) 📕

missionary. If I were, I would leave off teaching the so-called heathen at once and be head chaplain to some of the ninety millions you were talking about. Speaking of golden texts, I know my Bible too well to cast pearls. Now, young man, once for all let me say, this thing simply cannot be. Zura is a lonely girl in a strange land. She must live under her grandfather's roof. Your slightest attention will make mountains of difficulty for her, and she is not going with you to-night even if you mean to marry her to-morrow."

  Pinkey turned nearly white. "Marry her!" he exclaimed, "Why, I'm engaged to a girl back home."

  "Why, I never intended to marry her," he went on, more concerned than at any time before. "I was just having a little flirtation."

  A little flirtation! By the powers that be! My country had progressed if it had come to the place where a man could swear allegiance to one woman, then blithely sail the seas to find heaven in another woman's eyes!

  My few days' experience with a girl had set me more problems than I ever found in arithmetic. This boy was a whole algebra, and they both belonged to my country where I thought rearing children was like growing flowers. Not only were things happening, I was learning new lessons faster than I really cared for. I asked him if Zura knew of his engagement.

  "No," he replied as he walked restlessly about, "I just met her coming over. She isn't in love with me and I don't trouble others with my private affairs."

  "Really! I am afraid your manly self-control will cause Zura many a heart ache. I know of nothing more contemptible than being engaged to one girl and flirting with another."

  "Most men do it," he answered sullenly.

  "I don't believe you, boy, and it will take more proof than you can furnish to convince me that the men of my country have so low a standard of honor." I put a heavy accent on "men."

  My guest flushed. "Well, I like that! What do you call me?"

  "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: