Part 4

As the American looked at them, nerving themselves thus bravely for an encounter which to them at least was a deadly one, he suddenly thought of that frail, fleeing shadow which had gone before him in the gloom of the unlighted halls, and, unconsciously, he smiled. Why, boys as they were, any one of them could surely have crushed her between the palms of his sinewy young hands. If there were a real risk to run, he knew he would be the first to thrust himself in their way. But no! The undertaking was worth while, necessary, indeed, if only for the purpose of demonstrating the foolishness and cruelty of superstition. Even the melancholy tones of his favorite pupil, chanting almost monotonously the Buddhist text:

“Brief is the time of pleasure, and quickly turns to pain, and whatsoever is born must necessarily die,” failed to move him.

Young heroic fatalists! His heart went out to them overwhelmingly.

X

THEY had dug a trench hard by the castle moat. Over this they spread a net made of stout hempen rope, the edges of which were threaded in and out with elastic of great strength. This was stretched out and pinned, not too firmly, till it encircled and covered the pit. Then the sod and leaves and flower petals were carefully, though thinly, replaced, and the trap was ready for the Fox-Woman of Atago Yama.

Over all the Matsuhaira Shiro a tense, silent excitement pervaded. Though the students had worked in secret, swiftly and silently on a dusky, rainy night, when their prey would not be likely to be abroad, nevertheless no smallest menial on the place but knew that measures had been taken to entrap the fox-woman. They shivered deliciously over the dreadful prospect, for dire things had been promised them by the too garrulous Genji Negato, should any slightest inkling of the plans leak out from the Shiro itself.

Even the Tojin-san, who had been kept in complete ignorance of the actual methods they had taken to entrap her, was affected by that nameless feeling of uneasiness and unquiet, of repressed excitement and strained fear, which animated every other individual of his household.

Throughout the evening he paced his great chamber in a moody, wretched silence. The sense of aloneness, of homesickness that sometimes came upon him in this land, seemed somehow this night to be deeper, more depressing. For days, indeed, he had been affected by a feeling of impending gloom and disaster. He had been restless, dissatisfied, nervous—unconsciously listening and waiting for something he seemed to expect was about to happen. Now he found himself analyzing this sick sense of depression which had pervaded his whole being these latter days, and seemed to reach its culmination on this silent night.

Was it something in the look or tone of a student who recalled one of his own people, or was it the letters that had come to him from across the seas that made him realize they had cared for him more in that other country than he had realized? No—he faced the situation. This was not what had awakened the fever within him.

It was something deeper, something very beautiful and mystic. It was the golden hair of this Japanese Lorelei which had ensnared his longing! He could not banish its glitter, its “sun” as they called it here, its wild appeal from his mind. What was this creature of the mountains then, whom the gentlest of people had outcast? And what was this spell they said she had cast upon him? The words seized upon his fancy, writhed his lips into a tortured smile. He, whom a mere woman had scorned, under the spell of a witch—a wild creature of these Japanese mountains whose face he had never even seen! It was preposterous—fantastic! And yet!

The blood forsook his face, his lips. For days, for weeks, aye, for months he had thought of little else. Through half the luminous nights he had watched and waited for her—had sought her desperately, hungrily. Day and night he had been waiting for her—waiting and listening, always listening, for that appealing voice of mockery and anguish that called to him insistently—to him alone! What mad fancies were these that had woven themselves like a subtle spider’s web into his clear, sane mind? It was the country, the people! He was in a land of gods and spirits!

The night was very still and humid. The rain was gone, but its wet touch still clung in the air and was moist upon the grass and trees. The shoji of the chamber had been removed entirely on the garden side, so that he practically was out-of-doors in an open pavilion or verandah. He could see the moon-tipped branches of the trees under whose shade myriad fireflies flickered in and out, rivalling the distant stars above them in brilliancy.

A cherry grove, from which blew fairy flakes, like confetti at a carnival, was at the extremity of the garden, and ever and anon a shower of these dancing-petals blew into his apartment, giving it an almost festive air. Great drifts of them lay in the corners of the room, like snow, and upon his couch, his tables, chairs and other furnishings, marking them with a white touch. In the shadow of a bamboo grove an uguisu thrilled forth its liquid song, and the wind-bells on the eaves tinkled musically back and forth in a faint breeze, as if in unison with the song of the wood-bird.

From across the mountains came the gentle booming of the temple bells, telling the hour of the night, and, as if they were a signal listened for, the fox-woman crept out of the dense bamboo grove and felt her way among the shadows till she came to the brink of the castle moat. Along its edge she wended her fleet, cautious way, till she came to a narrow wing, and over this she stepped silently. In the vague light of the moon, she seemed indeed a wraith, in her clinging gown of white, enshrouded in the wild veil of her hair. On and on she moved, as though she travelled over known and familiar paths.

Suddenly, piercingly, in the still moonlight sounded the cry of the fox-woman, and, as suddenly, a silence fell, still as death itself. It was as if every living thing had paused to listen to that appealing cry of agony and terror.

Silence! No one stirring. No one breathing.

Then, as if brought violently into life, the Tojin-san bounded to his feet, and in the light of the swinging takahiras, for a moment his great form loomed up menacingly. From all parts of the estate now came the sound of movement, and he saw the samourai guard, their gleaming swords drawn fully and flashing eerily in the moonlight, charge down blindly in the direction of the cry. Within the woods came the sound of battle, the rumble of men’s savage, triumphant voices—a wild stirring and crying, and then again—the silence!

Presently from out the brush they came, bearing their burden—stalwart men of war, all with their hands upon her. Out along the whitewashed paths, across the green-clipped lawns and through the garden of fragrant, blowing flowers they carried the fox-woman into the cherry-petalled chamber of the Tojin-san. There they set her down, still entangled, like a wild beast of the woods, in the net they had made to snare her.

Unmoving she lay, as one indeed in whom life was extinct; but when the Tojin-san moved with an impulse of passionate yearning toward her, the boy Junzo, who loved him, sprang in his path.

“Touch her not, beloved sensei! She is accursed, unclean!”

He put the boy roughly, savagely aside, and in a moment was kneeling above her. It was the task of a minute to cut free the bonds that bound her. Still she did not move. With hands that trembled in spite of themselves, gently, softly, he put back from her face the glittering veil of her hair, and as he did so his heart came up in his throat in a great, suffocating bound—for the face he uncovered was that of a white woman!

So perfect, so exquisite the small, sensitive face, he could only gaze upon it spell-bound. The great purple eyes, wide open, and shadowed with their long, gilded lashes; the thin little nose; the lips red as a new blown rose, and as sweet!—and crowning it all, the golden glory of her hair.

In this land where only the brown face and densely black hair and eyes had been known for centuries, was it strange that this creature of the mountains seemed as of another world—a sprite indeed. This persecuted, hunted creature, whom they had trapped with ropes, as the hunter does the wild animals of the forests; this fragile, trembling, quivering little child—of his own skin and blood—_this_ was the fox-woman!

She spoke not at all, though her wide-open eyes never moved from the Tojin’s face. Something in their glassy stare, their curious look as of a mist before them, brought an exclamation to his lips. He bent nearer to her, looked deeply, keenly into those unflickering eyes, and an imprecation swept his lips.

“And blind! My God!” he cried.

As if his voice had moved her spirit into a sudden life, the fox-woman stirred soundlessly as a cat would have done. Suddenly she leaped blindly in the face of the Tojin. He stood unmoving, a great stolid wall against which she might hurl her puny strength in vain.

Presently, gasping, exhausted, she drew backward, her fluttering hands crushed upon her heart as if to stop its frantic beating. A sound that had the vaguest, most piteous of human notes came from the fox-woman’s lips, and suddenly, with the motion of a lost child in despair, she buried her face in the fragile shelter of her hands.

XI

SHE was the daughter of the damyuraisu (foreign sailor) and of the Nii-no-ama (Noble Nun of second rank). Bit by bit he drew forth her history from the students, who remained with him throughout the night. There was little enough they could tell him, beyond the fact of her parentage. Her father had betrayed his friend and benefactor, an Echizen prince; her mother had broken her vows to the Lord Buddha. And the creature herself! Now the Tojin-san could see for himself that the tales told about her were by no means chimerical.

She was free to go, for he had cut the ropes that bound her. Though blind, she could have found any exit of the chamber unaided. She made not the slightest move to go. Crouched back there against the farthest wall she stayed, with her wild flushed face peering out from between her parted hair, the eyes wide open, unblinking, scarcely moving. If she understood what they spoke, she made no sign; yet her face had a strained, listening look—as though she heard strange sounds that both baffled and troubled her.

The dawn crept into the chamber, murky and sunless, and found them still there on guard as it were, with the distance of almost the entire room between them and the fox-woman, but watching her with unabated emotion. It was the Tojin-san who at last approached her. She sensed his coming and shrank back farther, if that were possible against the wall. Now he stood directly before her, studying her in a profound silence.

Slowly, cautiously she raised herself to her knees, and then to her feet. Now she stood fairly facing him, her back against the wall. A thin, searching little hand felt blindly before her, touched him. With a quick, animated movement her fingers now flew from his hand, up along his arm and shoulder, paused upon his pitted cheek, moved to his lips and rested there, soft as a feather, fragrant as a flower.

Never in all the days of his life had he looked upon such a face as hers. Every quivering, sensitive feature seemed alive with the quickened, subtle sense of the blind. Even the little feeling fingers, how mortally alive they were, as they swept with their light, electrical touch across him!

When he put his great, firm hands upon her shoulders, he felt the shock, the startling tremble that agitated her. She stood poised for flight, uncertain, fearful, with the wild defiance of her nature only in part checked; but as his deep, compassionate voice addressed her, she became gradually passive and very still.

“You may not understand my words,” he said, “but you will their meaning. I want to help you. I am your friend.”

Her eyes became curiously blue, and the misty look faded like a shadow from their depths. Across the tremulous, scarlet lips a smile crept like the dawn. She moved a step nearer to him, and as he regarded her, fascinated, thrilled, the student, Junzo, broke the spell of silence. He had thrust himself forward with an impetuous, imploring motion.

“Sensei!—honored sir, teacher—!”

She turned her head craftily in the direction of the new voice, then slowly back to the Tojin-san. There was a low, accusing note in her voice:

“To-o-jin-san! Thou too!” she said.

XII

THE Palace Matsuhaira, wherein the courteous Prince of Echizen had housed the foreign teacher, had lost all but two of its tenants. The odorous kitchens where but lately the army of servants had happily and noisily labored were now quite empty. So were the vast, cool halls, and the great, bare chambers. Like an army of rats, one and all, they had deserted the place, leaving the Tojin-san alone, save for that unseen one, who alternatively teased and entreated him.

Even the faithful students, who had brought about her capture, had ceased to visit the Shiro, having vainly implored the Tojin-san to abandon the place. With a grim and stubborn patience, he kept doggedly to the course he had set himself.

All over the house he found traces of her. Now she had slept in this chamber, now in that. Here she had prepared her diminutive, stolen meal of fruit, honey, and rice.

He was aware of her constant nearness, and had he so desired, at almost any moment, he could have again seen her; but he was taking a more subtle means this time to entrap her. She must come forth of her own free will; then he would know he had her confidence, that she knew him for a friend. He found himself talking to her, sometimes sternly, in the chiding, coaxing tone one uses to a child. He would move from screen to screen as he talked, until he knew behind which one she pressed; but he made no effort to force her from her hiding-place.

Never a word would she speak in response until he was seated far removed from the sheltering screens, then she would begin reiterating the one appealing, accusing sentence:

“Tojin-san, thou too! thou too!”

It was as if she knew no other words of her father’s language. He pondered their meaning. What was it she asked of him? Of what accused and reproached him? Did she hold him responsible for the manner of her capture—its cruelty? He told her in slow, forceful words that he had known nothing of this, and waited in anxiety for some word or sound from her to indicate that at least she understood. She only laughed, that soft, mocking, tremulous little laugh with its inner sound of tears.

The burning, humid days of June slipped by on drowsy wing. School was closed for the season, and the foreign sensei was at liberty to travel if he wished upon his vacation. The samourai body-guard were anxious to attend him upon any expedition that would take them away from the Shiro. Genji Negato was available, outside the place. Every cringing, fearful, cowardly servant, who still drew wages from the Daimio’s high officer, was anxious again to serve him. They made up deputations and committees, which fearfully approached the mansion, and threw their messages in little balls that pelted against the paper summer walls of the shoji and pierced their way into the Tojin-san’s apartment. And still not once did he venture forth.

Every sliding door and screen he had himself put in place. He did not venture outside the house, even to step into the grounds. And a strange restless rumor began to float about the little town below, which told of the spell which chained the white man.

Meanwhile within the mansion itself, the Tojin-san was winning a strange victory. Timidly, like a fascinated wild bird, now approaching, now retreating, nearer and yet nearer, had come the fox-woman. There came a day when, though he did not turn to look at her, fearing instantly to lose her, she stood at last revealed. Only a few paces from him, there of her own free will, timorous, trembling, but unafraid.

Her name was Tama (Jewel). She told it to him voluntarily, her hand upon her breast. He had not even asked her, nor did he by the slightest motion reveal the eager emotion her words aroused when he found they were spoken in his own tongue. Haltingly, uncertainly, like a child for the first time feeling for its words, she essayed to speak.

“I am Tama,” softly she said, and then, as if enchanted by her ability to speak actual words to one who might hear and understand, she lapsed into excited, trembling speech, wholly unintelligible to the Tojin-san, for it was a medley of both her father and her mother tongue, neither of which she could properly speak.

Suddenly she stopped abruptly, as if affrighted by her own bravado, and her fears again besetting her panically she retreated behind the screens. For the rest of that day, at least, he saw nothing further of her. But he was well pleased with matters as they were. It was worth waiting for this, he told himself. As he paced his chamber, he made no effort to curb the exhilarating excitement that pervaded his whole being.

XIII

TWO days later she again came forth from her hiding-place. He had been aware of her hovering nearness all through the morning, but made no effort to induce her to come to him. One may entrap a wild bird; one cannot make it sing. He knew the course he was taking with her was right; he was exuberantly, boyishly happy at its evident success.

Shyly, trustingly, of her own free will, again she had come to him. On the sensitive questioning face there was scarcely a trace of the wild, impish defiance that had seemed on that first day its only expression. She even smiled tentatively, pleadingly, as though she sought in this wise to win his approval. He spoke to her quietly, as though her presence there were but natural:

“Won’t you be seated?” he said.

She hesitated a moment, sat a moment, rose to her knees uncertainly, and gradually subsided to the mat. Her face was down-drooped, the little white hands folded meekly in her lap.

“You are not Japanese,” said the Tojin-san, gently. It was a simple, clear statement. If she understood anything of his language, it would be plain to her what he meant. A marvellous flush spread over her eager little face. The humid, misty eyes were clear as blue-bells now. A sound like an excited sob, half laugh, escaped her.

“Nipponese?” she said. “No—me? I am—To-o-jin-san!”

Her hands went out to him in a sudden impulsive motion. She moved on her knees nearer to him.

“Ah,” she cried, “speag those words of my father! Thas—beautiful!”

He was deeply moved, and took the little hands closely in his own. They were soft and small, clinging and confiding as a child’s. How they trembled and fluttered at first; then rested still, as if with a joyous new confidence.

He could not bear to look at her beseeching face. In all the days of her life he knew he was the first she had not held at bay. She knew mankind only as creatures of prey. Was this the mocking sprite of the mountains, who even when entangled in the ropes of the hunter had fought so desperately, so savagely? What could he say to her, what words of assurance that would penetrate her full understanding? As he pondered the matter, he saw the startled change that swept suddenly across her face. The hands in his own grew tense, rigid, clung to his own in a passionate frenzy of fear.

“You are afraid of something? What is it?”

The old hunted, listening look was upon her face again. She was shivering, trembling violently. Her voice came in a whispering gasp:

“I hear—those sound!” she said, her head uplifted.

Only a lazy breeze was stirring, and moving the wind-bells to and fro. Suddenly he saw the silhouetted shadow on the shoji wall. It moved silently, cautiously. Then the screens were slid soundlessly open, and the student Junzo appeared. For a moment he remained staring down upon them, his young face becoming gray and stern.

“Sensei! Then it is true!” he burst out, and the look of despair on his face deepened.

The Tojin-san arose to his full gigantic height. His hand fell like a heavy weight upon the shoulder of the youth. His voice was rough, commanding.

“Look at this child, Takemoto Junzo. What is there you see in her to fear—to hate?”

“Ah, you, beloved sensei,” cried the boy passionately, “are bewitched, enchanted. Do I not see with my honorable eyes the change that has befallen you? It is spoken of all over Fukui that you are in the toils of this siren. I could not longer bear it, and, against my honorable parent’s stern command, I came here to see for myself. Alas, it is too true! You are bewitched, obsessed!”

The Tojin-san curbed his temper. His voice, though stern, was calm, as though he sought to humor the boy.

“What is the change you observe in me then?”

“Your eyes are weak and soft like the dove’s. There is a melting, tender look unfit for man upon your face. Your voice is gentle, like unto a woman’s. It is as if—as if—the enamored weakness of a love possessed you!”

“A love!” repeated the Tojin-san, as though the very word were new to him. Suddenly a look of anguish came into his face, giving it a poignant, withering expression.

The fox-woman had crept softly across the room. Now she leaned upon the farthest shoji, her head lifted in a dreaming trance.

“Leave this accursed place with me to-day,” urged the boy entreatingly. “My honorable father will gladly receive you as our honored guest. Throw off the burden of this foul witch of the mountains. She can only soil your excellency, and Fukui is prepared to mete out to her at last her proper fate.”

“I am a white man,” said the Tojin-san slowly, in a deadly voice, and never had his student seen such an expression upon his face before. “As such I protect, not abandon, the women of my race. It will not be well for Fukui if harm comes to either me, your guest and teacher, or to her, whom I choose to befriend.”

“Sayonara, then, excellent sensei,” said the boy brokenly, “I have done my best.”

As he pushed back the doors, the fox-woman glided soundlessly across his path. The boy found himself looking directly into that shining face that had distracted all who had gazed upon it. Breathing heavily, almost as if he sobbed, he drew backward from her, his young face drawn and shaken. She spoke not at all, though she touched him with a timid, questioning hand. Something in the expression of the upturned face, in the tears that stood like dew in the wide, sightless eyes, aroused a new strangling emotion in the Japanese youth—reached at last his innermost sense of chivalry. He threw up his arm, with a sudden motion almost as of defense. Then, without a word or look backward, he jumped into the garden below, and fled along its paths.

XIV

THE days stole by with light tread. Without the Shiro Matsuhaira events of great national import were taking place. Fukui was disrupted, torn by the new tide of events that was to alter its destiny, for the Yaku doshi (evil years) were again upon them.

No longer were the provinces to be ruled by individual princes, for one and all had come under the dominion of the Emperor.