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Little Sister Snow (version 2)

<h3> CHAPTER III </h3> Twelve times had the plum-tree scattered its petals to the wind, and Yuki San [Footnote: The honorific Chan, used only in childhood, is changed to San in later years.] had passed from childhood into girlhood, and had already touched the border of that grave land of grown-up, where all the worries lie. For though she was apparently only a larger edition of the spoiled, impulsive happy child of old, yet often her eyes were shadowed with the struggle of shielding her aging father and mother from the poverty that was coming closer day by day. During the three years she had been gaining her education at the English mission-school, they had toiled unceasingly that she might have the best the country could afford, but now that she had returned after her long struggle with a strange language and a strange people, it was but fitting that she should take up her duties as the daughter of an impoverished family of high rank. The father, grown old and feeble, gave up the battle for existence, and being a devout Buddhist, turned his thoughts upon Nirvana, which he strove diligently to enter by perpetual meditation and prayer. The mother, used to guidance and unable to think or plan for herself, turned helplessly to Yuki San. The duties were heavy for girlish shoulders, and often as the dawn crept over the mountains it found the girl wide-eyed and still, trying to solve the problem of modest demand and meager supply. She had learned many things at the mission-school. She could read and write English imperfectly, she could recite the multiplication table faster than any one else, she could perform the most intricate figures in physical culture, and if she had infinite time she could play three hymns on the organ. These varied accomplishments, however, seemed of little assistance in showing her how to stretch her father's small pension beyond the barest necessities of the household. Tales had been told her of a great land, far beyond her sea-bound home, where women of the highest birth went out to work in the busy world. How she had marveled at their boldness and wondered at the customs that would permit it! Now she half envied them their freedom, and sighed over the iron-bound etiquette that forbade a departure from her father's roof save for the inevitable end of all Japanese women—a prearranged marriage. It was for this she had been so carefully trained in all phases of housekeeping, and in all the intricacies of social life. Her education from birth had been with a view of making smooth the path of her future husband that his home might be peaceful and he untroubled. Each day as the burden grew heavier she fought her battle with the bravery and courage of youth. With jests and chatter she served her parents' simple meals, constantly urging them to further indulgence of what she pretended was a great feast, but which in reality she had secretly sacrificed some household treasure to obtain. She deftly turned the rice-bucket as she served, that they might not see the scant supply. With great ceremony she poured the hot water into the bowls, insisting that no other sake was made such as this. Her determination to keep them happy and ignorant of the true conditions taxed her every resource, but it was her duty, and duty to Yuki San was the only religion of which she was sure. But one day a great event happened in the little home. Yuki San was called before her father and told, in ceremonious language, that a marriage had been arranged for her with Saito San, a wealthy officer in the Emperor's household. She laid her head upon the mats and gave thanks to the gods. Now her father and mother would live in luxury for the rest of their lives! <div class="fig"> <ANTIMG alt="004.jpg (70K)" src="images/004.jpg" width-obs="100%" /> </div> Saito San was to her only a far-away, shadowy being, whom she was to obey for the rest of her life and whose house she was to keep in order. He was a means to an end, and entered into her thoughts merely as one to whom she was deeply grateful. Youth and all its joys were strong within her, and the pressure of poverty gone, her whole nature rebounded with delight. Many times had marriage been proposed for her, for the story of her beauty and obedience had spread, but her father guarded his treasure zealously, and it was not until an offer came, suiting his former rank and condition, that he gave his consent. Now, when he saw the happy light in the eyes of his child, and saw the color come into her cheeks, he laid his hands upon her head and blessed her. When Yuki San was by herself she clapped her hands joyfully. "I make happy like 'Merican," she whispered. "Hooray, hooray! now my troublesome make absence," and she hurried away to put a thank-offering before the household god. Having arranged all preliminaries and instructed the mother to sell every household treasure that his child's clothes might do honor to the rich man's house, the father went back once more to his pipe and his dreams. Yuki San and her mother were up with the sun, sewing and embroidering, and going about their daily task with zest and song. The past trials were forgotten and the future not considered. One morning, not many weeks after the marriage had been arranged, Yuki San heard the call of the Yubin San, and running out to meet him, received a strange-looking letter. The envelope was white and square, and straight across the middle, in very plain English, was her name and address. Puzzled, she turned it over and over, then broke the seal. The picture of the big hotel at the top of the sheet was so distracting that for a time she could get no further, but a word here and there and the signature at the end finally made her cry out with delight and surprise. "Oh! it's from that funny lil' boy what gave spank to my hands long time ago. He want to come to my house for stay. Listen." There was no one to listen but her own happy self, and lying flat upon the floor she propped her glowing face between her palms, while she read aloud from the letter spread before her: <blockquote> <blockquote> YOKOHAMA. Miss YUKI INOUYE— Dear Miss Inouye: I wonder if you remember an American boy with whom you had an encounter in your very early days, because he dared to thwart your plans concerning a cat? I remember it very well, and the jolly picnics and excursions that you and my mother and I took together afterward. I hope you have not forgotten me, for I am going to claim the privilege of the conqueror in that old battle and ask a favor of you. My Government has sent me out to your country on some important business, and finding there was no hotel close to my work, I wrote to the school where my mother and I visited twelve years ago, and asked them to recommend a family that would be good enough to take me in for two months. Strangely enough your father's name was suggested, and when I read that the only daughter both spoke and wrote English, and that her name was Yuki San, my mind flew back to my "Little Sister Snow" of the days gone by. Could your father manage to accommodate me for a couple of months, if I promise to be very good and take up as little room as possible? If you think he can, please wire me here at Yokohama, and I'll come straight down. Hoping to see you very soon, I am Your old friend, RICHARD MELTON MERRIT. </blockquote> </blockquote> Yuki San turned the letter this way and that, and vainly tried to decipher the strange words. It was undoubtedly English, but not the English she was used to. She ran for her small dictionary and diligently searched out the meaning of each phrase. Yes, she remembered the boy—he had light hair, and blue eyes that laughed, and he was a big, big boy and carried her on his shoulder. She sat with the folded letter clasped carefully in her hands and gave herself up to joyous anticipation. A foreign guest was coming to stay two whole months in her house; after that she was to be married and wear her beautiful kimono, and give rich gifts to her father and mother. Surely Buddha was caring for her! There had been grave moments of doubt about it since she left the mission-school, for he had never seemed to listen, though she prayed him night and day. But he had been only waiting to send all her happiness at once—he was a good god, kind and thoughtful. To-morrow, before the sun touched the big pine- tree on the mountain-top, she would go to the temple and tell him so. Yuki San's plans found favor with her parents, chiefly because of their great desire to give her pleasure, and incidentally because the board of the foreigner would swell the fund that was needed for her marriage. The plighted maid to them was already the wife, and the danger of a youthful heart defying tradition and clearing the bars of conventionality to reach its own desire was something unknown to these simple people. The child wished the foreigner to come—they could give her few pleasures—she should have her desire. The sending of the telegram was the first exciting thing to be attended to. Five times Yuki San rewrote the short message, finding her fingers less deft than her tongue in framing an English sentence. Gravely and with effort she wrote: "I give you all my house. Your lovely friend, Yuki." But she shook her head over this and tried again: "You have the welcome of my heart. Yuki." This, too, fell short of her ideal, so she decided to send simply two words of which she was quite sure: "Please come." The days that followed were crowded with busy preparation. The difficulty of providing the ease and comfort that the presence of so honorable a guest demanded taxed to the utmost Yuki San's resourceful nature. Gaily she set her wits and fingers to work—placing a heavy brass hibachi over a black scorch in the matting, fitting new rice- paper into the small wooden squares of the shoji, and hanging kakemono over the ugly holes made by the missing plaster in the wall. From one part of the house to another she flitted, laughing and working, while the old garden echoed her happiness and overflowed with blossom and song. On the day of Merrit's expected arrival, when the last flower had been put in the vases, and the last speck of dust flecked from the matting, Yuki San's keen eyes detected a torn place in the paper door which separated the guest-chamber from the narrow hall. A puzzled little frown drew her black brows together, but it soon fled before her smile. "Ah!" she cried, "idea come quickly! I write picture of bamboo on teared place." With paint and brush she fell to work, and beneath her skilful fingers the ugly tear disappeared in a forest of slender take which stretched away to the foot of a snow-capped mountain. <div class="fig"> <ANTIMG alt="005.jpg (66K)" src="images/005.jpg" width-obs="100%" /> </div> With a last touch she sank back on her heels and viewed her work with deep satisfaction. "All finished," she said, opening wide her arms; "no more to do now but wait for that time 'Merican sensei call jollyful!" A laugh behind her made her turn her head quickly, and there in the doorway stood a tall foreigner, with outstretched hand of welcome. Hand-shaking was an unknown art with Yuki San, so after one startled upward glance she touched her head to the floor in gracious courtesy. All her gay spirits and freedom of speech vanished, and she was instantly enveloped in a mist of shyness and reserve that Merrit's direct look did not serve to lessen. With lowered eyes, she ushered him into the larger living-room, and bade him be seated and accept all the hospitality her father's poor house could give. After a long and tiresome journey Merrit found something inexpressibly charming in the quiet, picturesque place, and in the silent young girl who sat so demurely in the shadow. He tactfully ignored her timidity by talking cheerful nonsense about impersonal things, treating her as a bashful child who wanted to be friends but hardly dared. As he talked Yuki San gained courage, and ventured many curious glances at the broad-shouldered young fellow, whose figure seemed completely to fill the room. At first she saw only a strange foreigner, but gradually, as she watched his face and listened to his unfamiliar speech, she discovered a long-lost playmate. Through all the years that she had struggled for an education at the mission-school, English had been invariably associated with a tall, awkward, foreign boy, whose mouth made funny curves and whose eyes laughed when he made strange sounds. How big and splendid and handsome he had grown! How different his clothes from any she had ever seen before! How white his long hands, whose strong, firm touch she remembered so well! She looked and looked again, drinking in the tones of his deep voice, till the throbbing of her heart sent a flood of crimson to her cheeks. But gradually her shyness wore away, and when Merrit asked her how in the world he was to conduct his business with so few Japanese words at his command, she ventured to answer: "I know; I give you the teach of Nippon, you give me the wise of dat funny 'Merican tongue." "That's a go!" said Dick, as he held out his hand to close the bargain. But the girl drew back, troubled. "No, no, you no go! You stay. I give you all my intellect of Nippon speech. Please!" and she looked up pleadingly. Merrit laughed outright. "That's all right, Yuki San; I am going to stay, and we will begin school in the morning." By this time the mother and father had learned of the guest's arrival and hurried in to bid him welcome. The unpacking of his steamer-trunk and the disposal of his possessions in his small apartment was a matter of interest to the whole family. Each article was politely examined and exclaimed over, and when Merrit drew out a package of photographs and showed them his home and family and friends, the excitement became intense. That night Yuki San lay once more on her soft futon and watched the shadow of the night-lamp play upon the screens. Nothing was changed in the homely room since she had lain there in her babyhood: the same little lamp, the same little Buddha on the shelf looking at her with inscrutable eyes. Yuki San stirred restlessly. "Dat most nice girl in picture," she said to herself. "Him make marry with dat girl, he say." Then she added inconsequently, with a sigh, "I much hope Saito San go to war for long, long time." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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