Part 9

“Will you not permit me to remain one month?” she said, somewhat timidly, and her eyes suddenly fell. She could not tell why, but a flood of emotions seemed to fill her heart, so that she could no longer contain herself if she must look into the face of her father.

“We expected to leave at once,” he said, gently; “but if it is your wish to remain longer, understand, I want you to have your desires gratified.”

She went towards him falteringly a few steps. She held out her hands uncertainly.

He took them quickly in his own. She raised her face to his, and suddenly her eyes became blinded with tears; but, when he stooped to kiss her, she slipped to the floor at his feet.

He clasped his slender, nervous hands together and looked down at the queer little figure, now seeming to bow to him after the strange fashion of the Japanese in bidding adieu. Then he turned to his wife.

“We had better go now,” he said, huskily.

XXVIII

On an early morning in the month of August, two young people were drifting in a light sail-boat in and out of the waters surrounding the rock islands of Matsushima. They might have been new lovers, they were so silent, and always they were gazing into each other’s faces, flushing and trembling when their eyes met.

The boy, for he seemed still very young, was graceful, and of grave, sombre beauty. He was tall and dark, and the expression of his deep-brown eyes was tender and piercing. His limbs were well formed, and his strong arms, as he handled the boat, showed that he was no mean athlete. He was dressed in a gray hakama, the sleeves rolled back. His head was bare, and the wind, lifting the soft, dark locks, showed his high, fine brow.

The girl was small. Her hair, though brown, had a strangely sunny sheen to it, and her eyes were gray-blue, dreamy, and wistful. Koma, as he watched the changing expressions of her face, thought her fairer and lovelier than all the women of the great world he had seen.

There was a little padded seat in the boat, and against this she leaned back, trailing her hand in the still water, and watching now the sky, now the bay, now the hills on either side, and sometimes Komazawa.

They drifted about the bay in this silent, thrilling fashion for some time; then she suddenly spoke. Koma dropped the oar and sat forward.

“Do you know what the days seem like to me now?” she asked.

“No,” he said, his eyes wandering inconstantly over her face.

“They are like a lotus bloom,” she said, “always pink and gold, and so beautiful that they are sure to fade.”

For a moment he did not reply, then, leaning on his oar, he said:

“And if the day must fade, will not the morrow be as beautiful?”

“Ah, no,” she said, sadly; “besides, we are not acquainted with the morrow. We only know the to-day, and so the heart breaks at the thought of parting from what is with us now.”

“You are sad to-day. Yesterday you were merry.”

“I was not merry at heart,” she said, plaintively. “You are very clever, Koma, but, ah, you do not know everything.”

He watched her face in silence.

“You think because I laugh and say gay things that my heart, too, is light.”

“No, I do not think that,” he said, earnestly; “but why should you not be happy and gay? You are only a maiden. You cannot know tears yet—little one.” He added the old, familiar term “little one” so softly that she strained her ears to hear it.

She held a lotos blossom close to her face, and looked down into its heart.

“See,” she said, holding it towards him, “there is one drop of dew in the heart of the lotos. It is like a tear. It, too, poor flower, must fade away with the summer.”

“Why do you say ‘it, too’?”

“Like me,” she said; “I will not be here when the summer has passed.” Her voice broke. “You said I should not go. Yet—yet the days pass so swiftly. Only one week more—and—after that—? Ah, I cannot bear to think of it.”

“Do you, then, love this Japan of ours so dearly?”

She looked about her, her eyes filled with tears. She clasped her little hands together.

“Ah, yes,” she said.

“And you would not even be content to go to the home of your ancestors for—for a little while?”

“I am afraid,” she said, simply—“afraid to leave the land of gods and go out into the unknown. It is the unknown that has such horror for me. And the great seas are flat and bottomless. I could not have courage to cross them unless I were forced to do so.”

“But you would not be afraid to cross them with me, would you, little one?”

“No—not with you, Koma,” she said, looking into his eyes.

Leaning across, he took one of her little hands, held it a space between both his own, then lifted it to his lips.

“Never was there such faith as yours, and in one—one who is not worthy to touch you.”

“When you talk like that, Koma,” she said, with tears in her voice, “you make me sadder still, because when I am gone from you I must recall those words.”

“Then if such words make you sad, I will not speak them again. Nothing but joy and sunshine should dwell in your face. So let us talk of happier things. See how near to the shore we are coming. Shall we land?”

“No. Let us drift on.”

“Look how the sunbeams are gliding down the pine trunks. See how they, too, have tinted the green leaves to gold.”

“There are no—no pine-trees in America. No more—And there are no sunbeams there. The sensei told me so.”

“The sensei is ignorant. The sun is generous. He scatters his gifts all over the world.”

“But he favors Nippon.”

“Yes,” he repeated, “he favors Nippon—all nature does so.”

“And that America is cold.”

“It has its summers, little one.”

“Look,” she said; “see, there is a little white fox on the hill there. It is looking at us. Ah, it is gone!”

“That is a good omen, is it not?” said Koma, smiling.

“Oh, surely. The foxes are sacred. Every one believes so except the mission-house people.”

“We do not belong to the mission-house. We will believe so.”

“How cheerful you are, Koma. You are not sorry to see me go?”

“You are not gone yet.”

“But there is only one week left,” she said, “and despair craves company. Do you, therefore, give me your sympathy?”

“Wait till the week is gone,” he said, “and then if you still wish it, none will be sadder with you than I.”

XXIX

A few days later. It is early evening and the crickets are making a great bustle in the grasses, while a small, gray ape, swinging in a bamboo, is mingling its chattering with the cawing of the crows in the camphor-trees.

“Summer is passing,” said Hyacinth, “for everything is complaining.”

“I do not complain,” said Koma.

“No; life will always be summer for you. You are not going away from Nippon.”

“Are you?” he asked.

“There is no help for me,” she said. “I grow more melancholy each day.”

“Is it only Japan you care about leaving?”

“Japan holds all—all that is dear to me.”

“And can you enumerate them—the things that are dear to you?”

She shook her head drearily.

“No,” she said, “I cannot.”

“Yet you could stay here if you wished.”

“No. How could I?”

“Did not that young American from the consulate in Tokyo ask you to marry him? He lives here in Japan, necessarily.”

She laughed.

“Was he not kind?” she said.

“Why did you refuse him?”

“Oh, for many reasons.”

“Tell me them.”

“He belongs to the West country, after all.”

“He does not think so. For your sake he would forswear even that.”

“Ah, but he does so, nevertheless. The gods—no, his God—fashioned him for his own land.”

“And was that the only reason why you refused him?”

“No. I do—do not—” She hesitated, and turned her head droopingly from him. “I do not love him,” she said, simply.

“You did not love Yamashiro Yoshida, yet you would have married him.”

“I did not know better,” she said, faintly.

“But it is only a little while since.”

“A month,” she said; “since you returned.”

“Confess to me,” he said, his eyes gleaming, “that it was I who made you know the meaning of love, and I will tell you why you are not going to America to-morrow—no, nor the day after, nor until you shall go with me.”

“What can I confess?” she said, tremulously. “I do not know what you wish, dear Koma.” She was trembling now.

“Confess to me,” he said, “else I cannot speak, for fear I should wrong you, my little one. I will not try to urge you to stay here—with me—unless—”

“I—I cannot speak,” she said. “I know not what to say.”

“Then I will speak,” he said. “I love you, I love you, Hyacinth; with all the life that throbs within me, I love you. Do you understand? No, do not speak unless you can answer my heart with your own. I want you for my own. Ah, I know I have won you! It is not a delusion, for I see it in your eyes, your lips. You do not know it yet, you are so innocent and pure, but I—ah, I am sure of it!”

She raised her quivering face to his in the moonlight. Then suddenly her head fell upon her clasped hands.

“Ah, is this—love?” she said.

He lifted her face and kissed her lips, her eyes, then her little, trembling hands.

“This is love—and this, and this.”

Later they came to a hidden path arched on either side by the drooping bamboos. The moon was above them, making a silver pathway for their feet.

“Whither do we go?” she tremulously whispered.

“I know the way,” said he, gently leading her onward.

They came to an open space, a narrow field. And on the grass, the winds, gently blowing, moved back and forth in the moonlight strange wisps of white paper.

“It is the Path of Prayer,” said Koma.

She understood, and was dumb with the thrilling of her emotions.

“Here,” he said, “the Goddess of Mercy walks nightly. Though we are no longer sad, let us leave our prayer here among these sad petitions for her to read.”

“Yes,” she said, “and we will pray to Kuannon for those less fortunate than we.”

Kneeling there in the silver light, they wrote on fragments of paper their simple prayers. Did the Heavenly Lady, when trailing her robes of mercy through the Path of Prayer, read also the petitions of the lovers?

They left the Path of Prayer and climbed to the summit of the hill. Softly they turned their feet towards the mission-house.

“We have said our prayers to Kuannon—now we will turn to the God of our fathers,” he whispered.

They paused a moment on the missionary’s doorstep. She raised her face to his.

“The Reverend Blount may refuse,” she said.

“He will not,” he assured her, “since he has promised me. Come!”

● Transcriber’s note:

○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.

○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.

○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only when a predominant form was found in this book.