Part 5

“Will you tell me, then, whom you have been taught to regard as the ruler of Japan?”

“Why, our good Shogun Iyesada,” she returned, promptly.

“Yet he is not so regarded by every one in Japan.”

“Why is that?”

“Because there are many who would see our rightful sovereign, our divine Emperor, upon the throne.”

“But, my lord, his Imperial Majesty is, indeed, already upon the throne, is he not?”

“Only nominally. I fear, my lady, that you have not read the _Dai Nihon Shi_ of the Prince of Mori?”

“No, but I am much interested in it.”

“The history,” continued the young man, with vehement bitterness, “was purged repeatedly by the Yedo censor of the Shogun. It dared to speak the truth to the people. I do assure you it was not destroyed, however, before it had done its work well.”

“How? Pray do tell me all about it.”

“Have you never heard that pious—fanatical, if you will—cry, a barely half-muffled war-cry now, ‘Daigi Heibunor!’” [the King and the subject].

His voice rose with a growing passion. Into his eyes leaped the gleam of the patriot.

An exclamation escaped the lips of the young girl.

“Oh, my lord, do not speak so loudly. I would feign warn you. I—I—”

She broke off in her agitation. But her apparent fear for him only filled her lover with a great joy. His voice softened.

“Fuji-wara, will you suffer yourself to listen hereafter to a confessed traitor?”

“Dear lord, traitor to the wrong?”

“Oh, dearest girl, can it actually be that you sympathize with our noble cause?”

“I—I—Tell me, do, pray tell me, with whom does the young Prince of Mori sympathize?”

“Oh, the rascal is a descendant of the Mori of whom I spoke just now.”

“And an adherent to his views?”

“Possibly.”

“You do not know for a fact,” she urged, tremulously, “just to what party the Prince does adhere?”

“My lady,” replied the lover, with some constraint, “the Prince has his pride of caste. He is also not without the inherited germs of patriotism in his soul.”

“And still they do say that he is as silly as a butterfly, and so given to frivolity that his head can hold no serious thought.”

“I do assure you,” replied the other, flushing warmly, “that our prince is not all he may seem.”

“My lord, I have conceived the most overwhelming interest in this young Prince Mori.”

“Indeed!” The young man started back in humorous dismay. The girl smiled now, a little, dreary smile.

“Be assured, my lord, that the interest is not of a sentimental nature. But it would seem that the young Prince was surely born for a great purpose.”

“Yes?” inquired the other, eagerly.

“And that is, to follow in the steps of his honorable ancestor.”

“Oh, dearest girl, you fill my soul with joy! I am ready to swear that your sweet heart beats for the right—the noble cause to which—”

“The Prince Mori is sworn?” she interrupted, quickly.

“Ay! and all the patriotic sons of Japan!”

“And what do these sons of Japan propose to do? What are the plans of the Prince Mori?”

“My lady!”

“Pray, why do you start so, Keiki-sama?”

“You ask a weighty question with the same lightness you would bestow if inquiring about the weather!”

“Then the tones of my voice do me injustice.”

“Wistaria, I swear I will not speak another word on this subject. No—not even to you.”

“But—”

“No, no. I swear I will not.”

“My lord—”

“Did I arise an hour before the sun, think you, to preach politics to my mistress?”

“You recall the hour to me now. It seems I must bid you farewell. My maid even now is tapping on my door. Do, pray then, depart.”

The young man appeared cut to the heart at the parting. He sighed so deeply that Wistaria could not bear to gaze upon him, and, conscious of the impatient presence within, she drew her windows back hastily and shut out the sight of her lover from her. Then she faced her father within.

“You have heard all, honored parent?”

“Everything.”

“You are a witness of my continued efforts. I fear we have learned all there is to know.”

“Your opinion was not asked,” replied the father, coldly. “Your services are all I require. You will resume them to-morrow.”

The Lady Wistaria prostrated herself before her parent with the utmost humility.

“I am prepared to obey your august will in all things,” she murmured, in the most filial and submissive of voices.

X

THE aged castle moat was darkly melancholy, though its banks on either side were beautiful with the damp grass and the meeting willow and wistaria. Cold, still, and deep were its waters. At night it seemed grewsome and uncanny, perhaps because of the tragedy of its history, which every Catzu courtier knew. Even in the bright sunlight its beauty was seductively sad, for its dark waters were covered with white lotus, mingled with red and purple, with golden hearts, whose little cups each held one drop of dew—a glistening tear.

Wandering dejectedly along the banks of the old moat, Keiki vainly sought in his mind for some clew to the phenomenal change in his mistress. Though at times her eyes seemed drowned in tears of tenderness, more often they were coldly glassy. Her conversation, too, was spasmodic, devoid of all endearment, and of a sort alien to lovers. When he had first seen her after the illness which had kept her from his sight for some days, he had lost all self-control in the joy of beholding her once more. In ardent imagination he revived the memory of those dream-days on the little rock island of the twenty geishas, but though she appeared to have recovered her health, she no longer accompanied him upon such excursions. Indeed, she was rarely seen in the Catzu palace, except on the formal occasions of the guest-room. Keiki had been forced to content himself with those early morning meetings at her casement, so brief, so unsatisfactory. For she no longer murmured shy words of love and happiness. She talked, instead, of ridiculous matters, the politics of the country!

Nevertheless, through her apparent sympathy for this cause so close to the heart of the young man, she had revivified those thrills of patriotism which, for the nonce, he had pushed aside to devote all his heart and mind to the sweeter employment of loving.

In a moment of enthusiasm, only two days before, he had confided to her the far-reaching plans of the Mori princes for their country. She had begged him with tears in her eyes to tell her of them; then, before he had half finished, she had entreated him wildly to tell her no more, and the next instant, piteously, tremblingly, begged him to continue. And then as he went on she had dropped her head upon her arms and buried her face from his sight. Her emotion had thrilled him. At the moment he could have fallen on his knees, beseeching her to do something to hasten their marriage so that he might return to Choshui to do his part in this noble cause. Before he could speak, however, she had raised her face and gazed for a moment upon him with such an expression of penetrating agony and appeal that he had sprung towards her, hastily crying out her name, “Wistaria! Wistaria!”

A moment later she was gone. The following morning he had waited in vain in the garden beneath her casement. Over and over again he had tapped upon her shutters and called her name, but there was no response. He had met with the same experience this morning. Keiki was very miserable. Since the change in her seemed inexplicable, his confidence was shaken—not his confidence in her faith or truthfulness, but in her love. He began to torture his mind with the possibility that she might not love him, that she had been but a girl, after all, who, flattered by his manner of wooing her, had thought she returned his affection. His faith in her purity of soul was so perfect that no slightest thought of any designs upon his political schemes ever occurred to him in connection with Wistaria.

Thus unhappy, worried, and very much in love, Keiki walked moodily along the bank of the old castle moat, his old assurance and egotism completely gone from him.

Suddenly as he strolled along something struck him sharply on the temple. Stooping, he raised from the ground what seemed to be a soft pebble. Examining it more closely, however, he perceived it to be a lady’s fine paper handkerchief rolled into a little ball. Half wonderingly, half idly, Keiki undid it. A faint, familiar perfume exuded from it as he shook it out. In an instant he was pressing it rapturously to his face. It was from Wistaria. Tenderly turning it about and enjoying its sweetness, he found as he was smoothing it out a little word in the centre:

“Go.”

The lover became pale as death. He read it again, then repeated it aloud—“Go!” Its meaning was plain. He did not doubt for an instant from whom it came. That one little word from her explained everything—the change in her, her realization that she did not love him, and this silent means of telling him the truth. He crumpled the handkerchief in his hand. A moment later he was pacing—almost running—up and down along the bank of the silent, mocking moat. He could not think. He could only feel. Then he threw himself prone upon the ground, his face buried in the long grasses. He was smothering and choking back the hoarse, terrible sobs of a man—one who had been trained in the inflexible school of the samurai.

The day passed over his head. The sky, ruddy with the setting sun, paled gradually, until it seemed as though a veil were drawn softly across it. Still Keiki gave himself up to his despair. For him it seemed that the sun had gone out, life had ceased.

As the shadows continued to spread their batlike wings over the heavens, darkening, darkening the skies, until only an impenetrable vault of darkness dotted with myriad magic lights was above and about him, he still lay there.

A rustle disturbed the grass. Possibly a hare running by. Keiki heeded it not. Something was stirring, moving near him. Mechanically, dully, he listened. Some one had lost his way among the willows and with his hands was feeling his way. From his own despair Keiki was recalled by the sudden acute knowledge of possible danger to this person who had evidently lost his way. One false step towards the boggy grass, and beyond was the treacherous moat, whose water-flowers and reeds hid its dark surface. Suddenly he sprang to his feet and called out hoarsely:

“Who is the honorable one?”

He fancied he heard a cry. He ran towards it, then stopped short. He had come upon her there in the willows. Her kimono shone out startlingly white with a stray moon-beam upon it, but her gown was not less white than her face, which stared into the darkness like that of a statue.

Slowly he went to her as though drawn by subtle, compelling hands. Close to her, almost touching her; he did not speak, because he could not. Bitter words had sprung to his lips only to die before birth. He perceived that she was trembling from head to foot. Her hands stood out from her sleeves, each finger apart, and they trembled, quivered, shook.

With an inarticulate cry he caught them in his own, inclosing them warmly, almost savagely, in his grasp. Then his voice came to him. It was very husky and strange.

“Speak!”

“Go!—Go!”

This was all she whisperingly cried. She kept repeating it over and over between her chattering teeth. As he wound his arms about her shivering form he found that she was dripping wet. Could it be that she had fallen into the moat? By what miracle of the gods, then, had she been saved? The dark waters were so deep—so deep!

“You are wet and cold! You have met with an accident?”

“No, no,” she said. “It was the honorable grass—so wet—so cold, like a lake. I crawled through it, on my hands and knees, close to the moat.”

“But why did you do it, why did you do it?” His voice was imploring.

“To come to you. To be with you—to—”

He clasped her closer, warmed to the soul by her words.

“Ah, then it is not true,” he cried, “and you do still love me, Fuji-wara?”

“Better than my soul. Better than my duty to the gods,” she whispered.

The sound of her voice was muffled. Her words literally sighed through her lips. He could not comprehend; he knew only that she loved him, had come to him, and now she was all water-wet, pale-eyed, and trembling as one who sleeps with fear. And because that strange voice hurt his soul, he covered her lips with his hand. She made no remonstrance, but sank into his arms, almost as if she had fainted. But looking down he saw her eyes were wide open, shining like dark stars. They startled him. They were like those of a dead woman. He shook her almost roughly in his fright.

“Wistaria! Speak to me! What is it? Tell me your trouble.”

“Trouble?” she repeated, dazedly. “Trouble!”

Then she remembered. She grasped his arm till her fingers almost pierced through the silk into his flesh.

“You must go—go! Go quickly—run all the way. Do not stop one moment—not one little moment.”

“Go away? Run? What are you saying?”

“Listen! In a moment, perhaps, I may not have power to speak. My strength is failing me. I thought you would obey the word I sent you. But I saw you fall down among the grasses, and all day long I have watched from my window, waiting, waiting, waiting to see you depart. No, no—listen unto me—do not speak. I escaped the vigilance of my jailers—my executioners. Oh, will you not understand? I have come through perils you cannot imagine to warn you—to beg you on my knees to go away at once. Hasten to Choshui!”

Her breath failed her. She had been speaking quickly, in sharp gasps.

“But I do not understand,” he said.

“Your prince—your august prince is in danger!”

“What?”

“The Prince of—the young Prince Keiki,” she gasped.

“The young Prince Keiki!” he repeated, incredulously.

“Yes, yes; they have discovered his secrets—they will arrest him for treason and—”

He almost shouted.

“His secrets! The cause! Oh, all the gods!”

“You can save him. There may be time. They will take him and cast him into a dungeon and kill him!”

“I must set off at once,” excitedly he muttered. “What could have happened in my absence?”

Her shivering, trembling presence recalled him. He was distracted at the thought of leaving her. He could think of nothing else. He tried to see her white face in the darkness, but could only trace the pale outlines. Suddenly he took it in his hands.

“Fuji-wara,” he whispered, in a voice of mingled love and agony. “How can I leave you? How can I do so? And yet you would not have me act the part of a coward, the false traitor. You would be the first to bid me go.”

“Go, go!” she cried, releasing herself from his hands feverishly.

“And you?”

“Lead me back into the path. I shall find my way from there.”

Leading her, he questioned anxiously:

“There is danger for you here, Wistaria? Tell me, or I shall not depart.”

She turned the question.

“Last night there was a slight earthquake in the province. There is always danger. But you and I have pledged each other. For the time of this life and the next, and as many after as may come, I will be your flower-wife and you my husband.”

At parting he kissed the hem of her kimono and the little, water-soaked foot beneath.

XI

WHEN the tender veil of the first hours of the morning was raised from the face of the sun, the early light revealed a small, still, white face at a window where the morningglory, rising from the midst of spring roses, mingled with the wild ivy of Japan, clambered up and encircled the casement, and nodded until the blossoms touched and caressed the small, dark head. The eyes, darkly overcast with ceaseless watching, stared out through the mist of the morning, across the musk-laden gardens and over the silent moat, trying to pierce with the vision of love the distance beyond the lines of the province.

Thus all night long had the delicate Lady Wistaria crouched at her casement. Did the night winds stir the long grasses or rattle the boughs of the trees and bushes, the young girl started and trembled with unspeakable fear. Did the steady beat, beat of the wooden sandals of the guards at the palace gates for a moment cease or increase their rhythmic, orderly tramp, her heart bounded up, then almost stopped its beating. The slightest sound or stir made her tremble and quiver. Only the nightingale, softly, piercingly, ceaselessly singing throughout the night, comforted and soothed her like the song of an angel. Under its soothing influence she had fallen asleep, with her little, tired head upon her arms. But even while she slept, she sighed and trembled. Awaking before daybreak, she heeded not the shivering breezes of the passing night, but waited for the sunlight.

An alert guard of the palace gates, after the night watch, was wending his way through one of the paths which led out of the grounds, when he thought he heard some one calling his name. It was very early. But for the chirping of a few waking birds, the gardens were very silent and still. He stopped short in his walk and listened. There it was again—a woman’s or a child’s voice, calling his name, softly, almost appealingly. Turning sharply, the guard retraced his steps down the path, looking about him anxiously as he neared the palace.

“O—Yone! Yone-yara!”

He turned in the direction of the voice.

“O—Yone! This way! It is I—your lady!”

Then the guard saw the Lady Wistaria leaning far out from her casement. He ran forward and dropped on his knees, touching the earth with his head.

“Closer! Still closer!” she called, in a whisper.

“Yes, my lady!”

He knelt close under her casement, his head bent, and respectfully attentive.

She whispered.

“I wish you to do me a service; will you not, Yone?”

“Oh, my lady!” was all the young man could stammer, out of his eagerness to serve her.

“I know you are tired after your watch, and it was long—so long!” She sighed, as though she, too, had kept the watch with him.

“No, no!” cried the young guard, hastily. “Indeed I am honorably fresh, my lady. Do not spare me any service.”

“Then do you please run as swiftly as your honorable feet will carry you to the home of Sir Takemoto Genji, and bid him hasten to me here at once, without one moment’s delay. Now hasten—do not wait!”

Like a flash of wind the young soldier had sprung to his feet, had leaped across the small division to the bridge spanning the moat, and was speeding through the wooded park beyond.

In less than fifteen minutes the samurai Genji was bending the knee to the Lady Wistaria.

“Thy service, my lady!”

“Oh, Sir Genji,” she cried out, throwing all caution to the winds, “I am in such dire trouble—such fearful, cruel trouble!”

“Why, my little lady?” The big samurai was on his feet, regarding her with amazed eyes.

“Yes, yes—I know it seems incredible to you that I should have trouble of any sort, but indeed it is so, and—”

“Aré moshi, moshi!” soothed the samurai, patting her hand reassuringly.

“You will be my very good friend, will you not, Sir Gen?”

“Friend! Command me to cut myself in half and I will do so at once!”

“Last night,” she whispered, “he—”

He nodded comprehendingly, certain that only one “he” could exist in my lady’s mind.

“—he escaped!” she gasped.

“Escaped?”

“Oh, you know—you know of whom I speak.”

“Yes, yes—certainly; but how do you mean—escaped? He was our honored guest, was he not?”

“His prince is my father’s mortal enemy. My father has been my jailer for many days now, and I—I have been forced to cause him to betray his prince. Oh, will you not understand!”

“Hah! It is all quite plain! But why did you not inform me sooner?”

“Because until yesterday my father kept so constant a watch over me that I could make no movement he would not have perceived. But do not ask useless questions now, Gen. Help me. Tell me what to do—what to do.”

“You say he has escaped? When and how did he go?”

“Last night, Gen. I climbed down the vine of the casement here. See, it is strong. My father for the first time had not been near me all day, and I thought I was safe from observation, though indeed I could not be sure. But I went to him and warned him of the danger, and he has gone to Choshui.”

“That is very well, then.”

“But my father may know the truth and will track him through the woods. I cannot live for the fear, the august dread, of what may befall him.”

“Do not tremble so, my lady. Things are not so dark as they seem. It is quite impossible for your father to have overheard you; he left Catzu at noon yesterday.”

“Ah! Then if that is so, it will be too late to warn the young Prince Mori,” she cried.

“But do not think of this prince, my lady. Be happy that your august lover is safe.”

“Oh,” she cried, despairingly, “but I cannot have the death of this innocent prince upon my hands. I should die if anything happened to him.”

“Well, do take some comfort, my lady. You say your lover departed last night. Very good. The samurai Shimadzu left yesterday at noon. Yet the young man, I am ready to swear by my sword, will be the first to reach Choshui.”

“Oh, but vengeance and hatred will lend wings to my parent’s feet.”

“And the wings of vengeance and hatred, my lady, are not so fleet as those of the wings of love. Be assured.”

“Sir Gen, you do not know, you would not believe all I have suffered.”

Sir Genji’s brows contracted. Ever since he had followed her to the old Catzu palace, when she was a tiny, bewitching little creature of five, with laughing lips and shining eyes, a flower ornament tumbling down the side of her hair and a miniature kimono tied about with a purple obi, she had been his favorite. He could scarcely believe it possible that any one could be cruel to this beautiful young girl. His looks just then bode ill for any one who should cause her pain. Nevertheless, for many days now the young girl’s chamber had been not unlike that of an inquisitorial prison. It was true there were no thumb-screws or neck-halters or burning-irons within, but there were instruments of torture more refined and excruciating in their torture, because they pierced the mind rather than the body.

If the girl awoke screaming in the night, one could be sure that some creeping, spying presence had entered her chamber and had grown upon the consciousness of her dreams, rudely awakening her to the fearful nightmare of an unseen presence. In the early morning she was awakened from her sleep and forced to carry on those nerve-shocking, heart-breaking interviews with her lover. She fell asleep at night with the intuitive knowledge that one watched unceasingly in her chamber. She might make no stir or movement unobserved.

This Sir Genji heard for the first time.

“And I may rely on you for the future?” she asked, in conclusion.

The samurai raised his sword.

“With this, gentle lady, I’ll serve thee and him,” he said.

Then with a quick movement he flung the sword to the ground.

Three days passed away. She seemed like one in a dream, under a spell, as she hung over her flowers. Under the fruit-trees she wandered. Their petals, odorous and dewy-laden, fell around and upon her like a cloud of summer snow-flakes. They made her quiver with memories that caused her pain. She ran through the grasses away from them, her little feet scattering the petals before her, seeking the banks of the moat far away from where he had been wont to stand at the dawning, pleading for her love.