Part 4

“Now, seven is a lucky number, and she stopped there. She said: ‘If I marry another I will have no more luck. He will live, and I have given seven men already to the Emperor. What woman of Japan has done more? Behold, I am a widow seven times over.’

“That is why she is called ‘The Widow of Sanyo.’”

So the story ended.

“Is she still beautiful?” questioned Plum Blossom, wistfully.

“Very.”

“Ugh!” said Marion, “I think she’s horrid.”

Taro rolled into Billy on the grass.

“I’ll be the next,” said Billy.

Iris was softly crying.

“Why, what’s the matter?” asked her father.

“Oh, father,” said she, “I—I’m afraid that _she_ was the fox-woman who sent away our Gozo—and not—mother!”

He embraced her.

“There, it was a foolish story.”

“And told,” said his wife, “in the way an American would tell it—not a Japanese!”

“Hm!” Mr. Kurukawa cleared his throat. “Well, I think you’ll admit I began in the most approved Japanese style, but as I went on I fell under your American influence, and by the time I reached the end the story was just as you might have told it.”

They gathered up their baskets and piled them into the jinrikishas. Juji was sound asleep on the grass. The cherry-blossom petals had fallen so thickly upon him that he seemed half buried in them. Mr. Kurukawa bent over him tenderly. He turned his head back towards his wife; at once she came and knelt among the petals by his side. His voice was husky.

“That is how my Gozo looked as a little boy,” he said, softly.

She kissed the sleeping Juji.

XI

LIFE would be delightful were it made up entirely of flower picnics. But even in the land of sunrise storms must come.

The little family of Kurukawa, idling and playing in the small inland town, for the nonce seemed to put behind them all thought of care. Even the father, in the first few weeks of his return, refused utterly to do otherwise than enjoy what he termed his “honeymoon” with his wife and children. But the honeymoon season began to wane. It was not possible for any Japanese, however optimistic and cheerful in temperament, at such a crisis in his nation’s history to be free from care. Then, was not Gozo at the front? Mr. Kurukawa might laugh and play all day with the children, but at night, when, worn out, they slept soundly and well, he would lie awake thinking and worrying. At first it was his boy Gozo who occupied his night thoughts to the exclusion of all else. After all, he was a true Japanese at heart, for, although father-like, he scarcely dared to think of the possible death of his son, yet he was glad that Gozo was serving the Mikado. All the papers, local and foreign, he could get he read with avidity. Because he knew it would give his wife pain, he read them at night when she was asleep. After a time the father-love was slowly pushed aside for a greater, deeper emotion, the longing to help his country. He was of samurai ancestry, and patriotism was as natural and deep-rooted in him as life itself. Yet he had married a woman belonging to a country that believed that the men of his age did their duty best by remaining at home, the protectors of the weak. So she had told him many times. Often he had believed himself convinced of its truth.

But reading and hearing of his countrymen’s sacrifices, struggles, splendid heroism and victories, a wavering, an aching grew within him to emulate their example and give himself to the glorious service of his nation.

A Japanese wife would have shared in his confidence at this time, would have understood his feelings and suffered with him. More, she would have been the first to urge him, command him to leave her.

Mr. Kurukawa thought he understood completely the character of the American woman who was his wife. Hence he hid from her his feelings.

But his wife was more sensitive than he knew. Her husband’s evident depression began to be noticed by her. She sought the cause, and attributed it to the absence of Gozo. She, too, suffered because she was the innocent cause of his exile. One night there was a moon festival in the little town. The people gathered in the river booths and drank their _sake_ and tea in the moonlight. She remarked to her husband that more than three-quarters of the festival-makers were women. He had turned about with a sudden movement; then answered in an almost hoarse voice:

“That is as it should be.”

So silent and taciturn was he during the rest of the evening that for her the festival was spoiled; but even the moon gave not enough light to show her tears. Restless that night, she could not sleep, or slept so lightly that she waked at intervals. It must have been almost morning, when, waking from a restless sleep, she saw the dim light of an andon shining through the paper shoji that divided their chamber from an adjoining room; clearly outlined by the light on the shoji was the silhouette of her husband. His bed was empty. She went to him quickly and pushed the shoji apart. Then she saw the papers about him on all sides. He had not time to hide them. His startled face betrayed him.

She sank down on the floor beside him, terror in her eyes.

“Kiyo!” she cried. “Oh, Kiyo! I understand—everything. Why did you not tell me before?”

He spoke with difficulty. His hands trembled as he folded up the papers.

“It is all right. I read the news—of the victories. What Japanese could help himself?”

“Oh, but you read it in secret; you hide your feelings from me. Why do you not confide in me?”

He took her hands and stroked them very gently.

“If you were a Japanese woman—” he began, when she interrupted:

“It ought to make no difference what I am. I am your wife. Do not treat me as an alien—a stranger.”

He drew her warmly to him at that.

“No, I will not,” he said. “I will tell you everything—all my thoughts. You know, Ellen, I am of samurai ancestry, and as a young man I was brought up in that school. When I became old enough I served for a time in the army. I hold a commission. Later, my father, who was one of the most enlightened of the men of old Japan, was imbued with the new thought. He put aside old traditions and pride. I was forced, so to speak, into a commercial life. Conditions changed for the samurai then. We were desperately poor for a time. They looked to me to redeem the family fortunes. And to do it I had to be taken from one school of thought and put into another—from samurai to tradesman. It was a strange transformation for a Japanese of such ancestry as mine. But I learned to like the work. I succeeded. You know of my long sojourn in America, till I could almost believe that I thought as your people think, and saw things as you in America see them. I seemed to be a living example of the evolution of an Oriental mind long swayed by Occidental environment. I called myself American many times, as you know. We came back here. The war, with all it meant to Japan, and the old patriotic feeling aroused, began a struggle with my acquired Occidental sense. Now I know that I never can be other than what I am by every inherent instinct—a true Japanese! I loved you, so I feared to tell you. You married me thinking possibly I was other than I am, Japanese only by birth, but of thought the same as you. That is why I have not confided in you.”

“But I knew it all the time,” she said. “_I_ never thought you other than you were. Because you wore our dress, it did not make you of our country, nor did I love you for that, Kiyo. I did not require that _you_ should become like my people. _I_, as your wife, was willing to become one of you, if you would let me.”

For a long time he was silent. Then with a sudden impulse he held the light before her face.

“Let me see your face then,” he said, “when I tell you of my resolve.”

“Tell me,” she whispered; “I am not afraid.”

“I must give you up for one who has a larger claim upon me—for beloved Ten-shi-sama!”

He saw her face whitening in the dim light. She tried to part her lips to speak, but no words came. Then she smiled, a smile so full of bravery and love that he almost dropped the light.

“Now I know,” he said, “that you are my own true wife—not foreign to me, but as my wife should be.”

Then she spoke: “Yes, as a Japanese wife would be. Oh, Kiyo, _I_ have understood them. It is not because they do not love their husbands that they do not weep and protest when they must lose them for a glorious cause. It _is_ brave to give up the loved ones freely, willingly.”

He began rapidly to discuss plans for his going, watching her face closely. She bore it all with that brave cheerfulness peculiar to the Japanese woman. Only when he planned the disposition of his fortune in case of his death, did she protest.

“We will not anticipate the worst, Kiyo.”

“Is it not best to do so?” he gently interposed.

“I know it is Japanese,” she said, wistfully, “but I will always look for you to return. In that you can’t make me Japanese.”

“A Japanese soldier never expects to return. His wife gives him up forever. But I, like you, will have the better hope, my wife. _I_ will come back to you.”

“It is a promise,” she said, and for the first time her eyes were full of tears. He took her in his arms and held her closely.

“It is a promise,” he said, solemnly. He wiped the tears away from her eyes.

“There must be no more of these,” he said, “else how can I have the strength to go?”

“I have shed my last tear, Kiyo,” was her answer. “You have promised me!”

XII

THE “glorious news,” as they termed it, was given to the children the following morning. Even Juji was called to the family council, while the nurse-maid, Norah, held the baby in her arms.

Mr. Kurukawa talked of his going to the front as if it were a cause to make them happy and rejoice. His words had the desired effect upon the Japanese children. Taro, Plum Blossom, and Iris were thrilled with pride and excitement. Taro wanted to rush out to the village at once to proclaim to every one the great tidings. His father was going to serve Ten-shi-sama. He was going to recruit a new regiment from their town and vicinity. And they would all march away, with drums beating and the sun flag flying. His satisfaction and excitement spread to some extent to Billy, who began begging his step-father to let him and Taro go, too, as “drummer-boys,” just as the little boys in the Kipling stories did. But Marion stole from the room to weep. She loved her step-father as dearly as if he were her own father, and so in imagination she saw him wounded, or even killed. Her tender little heart was bruised at the thought. The pride and elation of her step-brothers and sisters horrified her. She could not understand it. She cried out her thoughts in her mother’s arms.

“Oh, mamma, mamma, hear them singing! Oh!—and papa may be killed, and they are _glad—glad_!”

She had expected her mother at least to understand, and to weep with her, but to her astonishment her mother put her gently from her arms.

“Listen, Marion! Listen, darling, to what they are singing! Don’t you know what it is? It is the national hymn, Marion. Oh, my little girl, be brave, too, with them. There is nothing to cry about—nothing—nothing!”

Taro bounded into the room, his cheeks aflame. “My fadder goin’ ride away. Mebbe he leave to-marl-low.”

Billy’s voice was heard in raised tones outside.

“Then we can see into the chest to-day!” he cried, excitedly.

“Yes.”

Taro rushed into the hall to speak in excited Japanese to his father. With the two boys clinging to his arms Mr. Kurukawa came into the room.

“There’s a little ceremony I have promised the boys, mother,” he said. “It was once customary for Japanese soldiers to look at, and often worship, the swords of their ancestors before starting for the seat of war.”

“We are going to look into the ancestor’s chest,” cried Billy; “that old brown thing in the go-down.”

The “old brown thing” was brought reverently into the room by careful servants. At Mr. Kurukawa’s quiet command complete silence reigned before he touched it. Then he said, in the gravest of voices:

“You children must learn to control your feeling. You exhibit too much excitement. You, Billy, and Taro, both of you, evince the same excitement over a solemn occasion such as this, as you would over a festival or a game. Appreciate and remember this occasion, my boys.”

The boys, reproved, hung their heads. Mr. Kurukawa then opened the old chest. One by one he brought forth the various articles within it. Some of them were mouldering with age. These he handled with reverent touch. He explained to the family what each relic was after this fashion:

“This garment, my children, was worn exactly three hundred years ago by your ancestor, Carsunora. He was in the service of the Emperor. The Shogun Lyesade set a price upon his head, and after repeated battles with his clan they succeeded in surrounding his fortress at Carsunora. Here for fifty-five days they kept a siege. His brave men preferred death to surrender, despite the promise of Lyesade. Day and night the assault was made upon the fortress. Its turrets and windows were demolished. Starvation stared them in the face. Still your ancestor held out. Finally one of the enemy started a fire under the walls, and the brave ones were driven out into the open. Your ancestor was surrounded on all sides. The swords of his enemy pierced him. See, there are the rents in his garments. It is said there were over a hundred wounds upon his body. But desperately and valiantly he fought on, killing or wounding all who came within touch of his sword. See it, my children, bent and rusty, with the very stains of the enemy’s blood preserved upon it! But even the most valiant of heroes cannot bear up against a host of men. With his retainers dead on all sides, wounded by the eager swords of a thousand enemies, he suddenly signified his intention of committing supuku.

“For the first time in many hours the enemy, out of respect, lowered their weapons. Your ancestor broke his shorter sword—here are the pieces. Then taking the longer one, he thrust it into his bowels, and expired.”

One bit of grewsome history after another he related to the children, listening with awe-struck faces.

Subdued and very quiet the children left the room when the “ceremony” was over. Marion alone had been unable to contain her emotion, and, weeping bitterly, had been sent from the room. Now husband and wife were alone for the first time that day.

“Does it seem strange to you,” he said, “that I should repeat such tales to my children?”

“No,” she said, steadily, “not if they are accustomed to such things.”

“Japanese children are told stories of war from their youngest years. That is why they seem impassive when their own family’s gory history is unfolded to them.”

“But the little girls,” she said; “their eyes shone with as great a zeal as Taro’s.”

“Yes, they are fine girls. You have heard of their ancestry.”

“And Taro?” she said.

“Taro,” smiled the father, “has a great sorrow. He is too young yet to emulate the deeds of his ancestors. His little heart is almost ready to burst with his longing.”

“Will it be the same with our baby?” she asked, earnestly.

“Would you have it so?” was his question.

She thought a moment, and then she said: “Yes—yes, indeed. Who would not? Even our Billy is affected.”

“Billy has inquired most earnestly of me whether when he grew up he could be a Japanese soldier, and I told him he would have to be a Japanese citizen first. He said his father—meaning me—was Japanese, and he would be whatever he was!”

“And so he will be,” said she, earnestly.

“But we will wait till he is a man to decide that,” said her husband.

XIII

THE old grandmother was the first to arise on the auspicious morning. The sun had not yet made its appearance when she opened her shoji and looked out at the dawning.

She dressed herself hastily, and then went to arouse the servants. While the family still slept the house was put in perfect order, and soon breakfast was preparing. When she had set all the maids at their tasks the grandmother returned to the floor above, and entered the room now shared jointly by Taro and Billy. Opening the shutters she let in the light. Then as they did not stir, she deftly turned down their bedclothes and drew the pillows from beneath their heads. Taro sat up grumbling and yawning, while Billy turned over on his side, felt about for the pillow, and then slept uneasily without it. Taro, now awake, shook Billy.

“Oh, let me sleep,” complained Billy.

“All ride,” said Taro, slipping out of bed and beginning to put on his clothes quickly. “You kin sleep when we marsh off with my fadder. No more Port Authur. Soon no more Lussians!”

Billy was out of bed in a minute, suddenly recalled to the fact of what this day was to bring forth.

“I’ll beat you dressing,” said he.

Meanwhile, Madame Sano was helping the little girls with their toilets.

Iris was standing patiently while her hair was being dressed in an elaborate mode. Plum Blossom, her round, fat little face still flushed with sleep, was sitting on the floor drawing on a white stocking.

A maid was helping Marion. The latter’s hair was arranged in the same fanciful mode as her step-sister’s.

“Grandmother, please let me wear my new cherry-blossom kimono to-day,” coaxed Iris.

“You must wear your white,” said the grandmother; “all wear white to-day. You must look your best. Now, Plum Blossom, let O’Chika arrange your hair.”

“Please, grandmother, tie my obi. You do it so beautifully,” begged Marion.

Smiling, Madame Sano pulled and twisted the little girl’s kimono into correct shape, wound the sash about her, and tied it in a huge bow behind. Then she slipped a fan and two little paper handkerchiefs into the sleeves of each little girl. Now that they were all ready, she took occasion to give them a short lecture.

“You mus’ wear sweed, smiling face to-day, liddle gells. No more cry.”

“Oh, grandmother, how can I help it?” asked Marion, a catch in her voice which already betokened the forbidden tears. “I’d better stay home. I _can’t_ see father go away to that awful, cruel war.”

“When Gozo went away I nebber cry one tear!” said Plum Blossom, fervently.

“I no cry needer,” said Iris; “and when he say good-bye I laff and wave both these han’s like this.”

“She have flag in both those han’s,” explained Plum Blossom. “She have _my_ flag also; so when I also wave _my_ han’s I have no flag, but jus’ same—me—_I_ laff, too.”

“Oh, didn’t Gozo feel bad to see you laughing at him like that?”

“No,” cried Plum Blossom, indignantly. “My! how good he feel. He hol’ himself like thisaway.” She threw out her chest in illustration. “And when he reached corner of street he put Juji down.”

“Juji? Where was he?”

“Gozo carry him on shoulder all way down stleet. And Taro he too marsh ride nex’ his side with Gozo. Then when Gozo reach that corner he put Juji down and he putting his han’ on his head thisaway, and then he turn quick, and thad was las’ time we saw Gozo.”

Her voice fell at the end, and her face had now a distressed expression.

“_I_ only cry after he gone way,” admitted Iris.

Plum Blossom turned on her fiercely.

“If you talk of thad cry _now_, you goin’ cry again, and to-day you _mus’_ smile, accounts our fadder marshing, too.”

Iris smothered all signs of tears.

“_Me?_ _I_ cry to-day?” she said. “Never I cry.”

“Did Juji cry?” asked Marion, curiously, mindful of the child’s talent in that direction.

“No, Juji never cry, even after Gozo gone. Everybody cry then ’cept Juji. He forget he god brudder naime Gozo.”

“Now all honorably go down-stairs and sedately wait for your august parents to descend for breakfast.”

Later the grandmother dressed little Juji, and the baby, too, for the lazy Norah could not see the necessity for such early rising, and grumbled at being awakened.

“Shure an’ wot time is it he’s afther goin’ away?” she inquired of the grandmother.

“Your master go away at three o’clock,” said the grandmother, quietly.

“Thray o’clock! In the afthernoon, may I arsk?”

“Certainly.”

“And you get up at thray in the morning because he laves at thray in the afthernoon?”

The grandmother did not answer. She was unused to such questioning from her own servants, and found it hard to tolerate it from the Irish girl. But Norah persisted:

“What’s the sinse of getting up before you’re awake?”

The grandmother condescended an explanation.

“We desire to make this day a long one, since we can’t have your master with us long.”

Still grumbling, the Irish girl dressed herself, and then took the baby from the grandmother.

XIV

THE farewell breakfast was as merry a one as they could make it under the circumstances. To please the father, it was served in the ceremonious Japanese fashion peculiar to such a time. There were hot rice and freshly fried fish, fruit, persimmons and oranges, and clear, delicious tea. Everything, in fact, there was to tempt the appetite at this time, when the appetite might fail them. Even Mrs. Kurukawa, whose white face showed a night of wakefulness, ate some of the crisp, inviting fish, and drank the tea with grateful relish. Mr. Kurukawa appeared all cheerfulness. He made them gifts. Each of the family had an exchange gift for him. Smiling whimsically, he looked at the little pile.

“Do you suppose I can find room to take them to the front with me?” he asked his wife, jocularly.

“Oh yes, yes,” she said, earnestly, “for I advised them all to get you something you could use there.”

“Let me see.” He began going over the heap of presents. There were needles and thread from Plum Blossom. Iris had bought a tiny pair of scissors. Taro’s gift was a little drinking-cup which folded up, a foreign novelty. Billy gave a jack-knife, such a one as he had long saved to buy for himself. A little Bible was Marion’s gift. The grandparents gave the most sensible gift—certain clothes he would appreciate, compactly rolled in a small bundle, and consisting of Japanese underwear and sandals. He would find them grateful after long use of the uniform. Juji had been permitted to choose his own gift.

“Buy something for father,” said Plum Blossom in the store. Then Juji had pointed with a fat finger at something bright. It proved to be a silk handkerchief. Even Norah and the baby had gifts for him. A pin the Irish girl had prized much, since it had been given her by an old sweetheart, and which bore in twisted letters of silver the legend, “Remember me,” was the nurse’s tribute. The baby’s gift Mrs. Kurukawa had chosen—a leather folder containing the photographs of the entire family. Her own gift she put upon his finger, a ring he had given her. “Bring it back to me,” she said, and he promised that he would.

The parting took place on the threshold. It was not similar to that of most Japanese farewells, for Mr. Kurukawa embraced his little girls and his wife, and they clung about his neck and kissed him, while Marion, because she could not keep back her tears, rushed into the house to hide them.

The boys, Billy, Taro, and Juji, were allowed to go with him to the train. As Gozo had done, Mr. Kurukawa carried Juji on his shoulder.

The little boys waved their flags as the train drew out, and shouted at the top of their voices.

“Banzai! Banzai! Banzai Dai Nippon!”

* * * * *