Daughters of Nijo: A Romance of Japan
shrill cry of a runner outside the house and the sing-song, mellow
answer of the guide Oka.
“Heu! Heu! This way! Ah-ho! So!”
Her parents had returned home she thought, as she ran to the balcony.
She leaned over the railing, forgetting the murmured voices she had
already heard within the house itself.
“Mother! Father! You have returned!”
The cry of the runner floated up to her through the dark mist. Then the
loud, hoarse cry of Oka, the guide, proclaiming:—
“August guests for the maid Masago-san.”
The girl’s eyes expressed astonishment.
Guests for her! and at such an hour! Surely that stupid maid would not
admit them till she had learned their names and mission. She, Masago,
was but a maiden and little used to receiving guests unchaperoned within
her father’s house. Masago had forgotten her vague thoughts of but a
moment since. Now she was the simple daughter of a respectable
household, agitated at the unexpected advent of evening guests.
“No doubt,” she thought, “they come to see my father, who is not at
home. I must descend and beseech them to remain and venture not out
again into the fog, though Shaka knows I little wished for guests
to-night.”
Sighing, she turned back to her room. Within the light was soft but
clear, for an officious one had brought in other andons, and by the hall
sliding doors, which were opened, Masago saw a bright Takahiri (lantern)
flickering without. By this light she saw a kneeling form, crouching
with head to mats. Over her the servant who had brought Masago her
evening meal stretched a hand to close the shoji.
Then Masago’s eyes turned to that other one within her chamber, and
coming to her face, were fixed. She started back a pace, her lips apart.
Her visitor did not move or speak. In silent, strange absorption her
eyes were fixed upon Masago’s face. Thus for a long moment these two
stood and looked upon each other, neither speaking, neither moving.
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CHAPTER XIII
DAUGHTERS OF NIJO
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CHAPTER XIII
DAUGHTERS OF NIJO
MASAGO spoke, her words strangely enunciated.
“Lady—you—you desired to speak with me?”
Her voice broke the spell of silence. The visitor bowed her head simply
but eloquently. Masago went a nervous step toward her. There was fear in
both her face and voice as she began deprecatingly:—
“It was an honorable mistake, lady, that you were not shown within the
ozashishi (guest room). I beg you, lady, will you not speak?”
Her fears overcame her politeness. There was something unreal, strange,
almost spiritual, in this woman who looked at her with her own eyes. For
Masago almost thought she dreamed, and that she stood before a magic
mirror wherein she saw reflected her own beauteous image, clad as only
in dreams. But the vision spoke, and Masago’s fright vanished.
“It was my wish,” she said in a low voice, “to see you in your chamber.
I begged this privilege, Masago.”
“Then, pray you, please be seated,” urged the girl. She brought a mat
and set it for the guest.
The visitor stooped, but not to the mat. She lifted up an andon, and
carrying it in her hand went closer to Masago.
“A moment and I will be seated, but first I wish to see your face—quite
close.”
She held the light near to the countenance of Masago and scanned her
startled features. Then, swinging it before her own, she said:
“Look you at mine also.”
Masago started, with a thrill of wondering amaze.
“Now,” said the other, “I will be seated, and pray you also, sit by me,
Masago.”
“I do not know you, lady,” said Masago, with sudden brusqueness. “I pray
you, speak your mission in my father’s house.”
The other smiled.
“Your father’s house!” she repeated.
“Why do you repeat my words?” said Masago.
“I was told the Prince of Nijo—”
Masago started toward her with a little cry, and that same savage
movement with which she had sprung upon the servant. Though inwardly she
cherished thought of Nijo, she could not bear that others should speak
of it.
“You come here to insult me!” she cried, her bosom heaving with
suppressed excitement.
“Be not angry,” said the other, softly. “I came but to speak the truth,
and—and to gaze upon—my sister!”
“Sister!” The word escaped the lips of Masago like a cry of pain.
“You—you are—”
“Sado-ko,” she answered, smiling still, yet sadly.
A moment Masago stared at her dumbly, then with an indescribable
movement she knelt down at the princess’s feet and put her head upon the
mats. Sado-ko bent over her, stooped, touching her head.
“I pray you, kneel not thus to me,” she said.
Slowly Masago arose, the color flowing back into her pale face in a
flood. Her eyes were bright and wide and feverish. That moment’s servile
impulse, when she had fallen down upon her knees, was past. She looked
the Princess Sado-ko in the eyes, with conscious equality.
“Now,” said the princess, simply, “will you not be seated?”
Silently the two sought the mats. Opposite each other they sat, each
with her eyes upon the other. Each spoke at once, and each the same
words:—
“You know then—”
“You know then—”
They bowed their heads. Thus both confessed their knowledge of the fact
that not one of them, but both, were daughters of the Prince of Nijo,
and hence sisters. Then Masago:—
“Why do you come to me, exalted princess? I am but a lowly maiden, who
cannot even touch the hem of your kimono.”
“There is a bitter tone within your voice,” said Sado-ko. “Why is it
so?”
Masago did not answer, and the princess continued:—
“Of your history I had learned, Masago. It matters not how or where or
when. One spoke of you with—love—”
She broke off sharply to wring her hands unconsciously.
“And so I came to—to look upon you—sister.”
“You came from curiosity,” said Masago, in that same bitter tone. “It
was the passing whim of a languid princess, bored with her greatness.”
“You misjudge me,” said the Princess Sado-ko, with a sigh.
“Not so,” replied Masago, the color flaming in her face; “I can but
recognize that same idle fancy that also once possessed your father when
he—”
She bit her lips and turned her face away. Angry tears clouded her eyes.
She could not speak for her proud emotion.
“There was another reason,” said the princess, softly. “Masago, pray
turn not your head in pride from me. I came not out of condescension,
nor yet from idle curiosity, but because of a strange hunger of my
heart, which I could not resist.”
“How can _you_ have heart-hunger?” asked Masago, coldly.
“And why not I?” Her very voice was thrilling with its sadness. Masago
would not look upon her face. She was conscious only of that raging
jealousy and pain swelling up in her breast.
“And why not I?” repeated Sado-ko.
“You, who are a princess of the royal family!” cried Masago, with a
sudden fierceness. “You, of whom all the poets in the realm have sung
and raved! You, at whose feet the whole bright, glittering world is
strewn! You, the cherished Daughter of the Sun—the bride-to-be of
the—the Prince Komatzu!”
“But still a sad and wretched woman,” said the Princess Sado-ko.
Masago turned upon her fiercely.
“And if you are so sad, as you say,” she cried, “who can have pity for
your sorrow? Are you, then, a statue that you do not appreciate these
priceless gifts of all the gods?”
“Masago, gifts unsought are oftentimes not desired, and sometimes those
which glitter in the sun do but reflect its light. What are the gilded
outward wrappings of the gods to me, if inwardly still my heart breaks?”
“Your heart breaks!” Masago laughed in scorn. “What, you—who are about
to marry the noblest, bravest, the most divine—” She broke off, holding
her hands to her throat.
With a sudden movement the Princess Sado-ko bent forward and looked into
the averted face of the maid Masago.
“You!” she cried, “you love this—” She could not finish her words.
Masago dropped her face within her hands.
“I,” she said. “Yes, I—so humble—the daughter of—”
“The Prince of Nijo!” whispered Sado-ko.
Slowly the hands fell from the girl’s face. Her eyes met those of
Sado-ko’s.
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CHAPTER XIV
SOLUTION OF THE GODS
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CHAPTER XIV
SOLUTION OF THE GODS
A WILD flush of color rushed to the face of Sado-ko; a light so clear as
at first to dazzle her, flashed through her mind.
“Masago—sister!” she cried. “Oh, the gods give me solution of both our
griefs!”
“There is, alas! none for mine,” said Masago, and sullenly wiped away
the tears.
“Listen!”
The Princess Sado-ko leaned over and spoke in a lowered voice.
“You are affianced to the artist, Kamura Junzo. Is it not so, Masago?”
A motion of impatient assent was the girl’s reply.
“And you do not joyfully anticipate the union?”
“I loathe the very thought,” returned Masago, bitterly.
The princess paused a moment as though to master her amazement.
“Loathe thought of union with Junzo!” she repeated, then laughed with
almost childish joy. “It is not strange—in you, perhaps. Now listen once
again, and pray you, answer me.”
“I am listening,” said Masago, with sullen impatience. “I will also
answer, princess.”
“Call me sister. Name me Sado-ko, I beg.”
“I will call you princess.”
“Perhaps you will not do so, Masago, when I have completed. But hear me.
You love your home, of course, and also your good parents?”
“It is said I am of an honorably dutiful and filial temperament,”
replied Masago, coldly.
“But,” continued Sado-ko, “there are other things you love still more
than your dear home? It is possible?”
“It is so,” replied Masago, briefly. “Do not look surprised, O princess.
Homes are not all palaces, nor yet are parents all royal.”
“Masago,” said the princess gently, “a palace never makes a home, nor
royalty a parent. Your home,” she looked about her with approving
eyes,—“it is most sweet and choice, Masago.”
“The simple cottage of a merchant,” said Masago.
“Your parents—they are kind?”
“They are kind,” said Masago, and for the first time flushed with some
evident feeling.
“And you have little brothers—yes?” Sado-ko’s voice was wistful.
“Five brothers. They are noisy, and sometimes, princess, rough and most
uncouth, and therefore tiresome.”
“But loving. You will grant that?”
“Oh, yes!”
“You were unhappy—you missed them, did you not, when you left them for
the school, Masago?”
“I was free,” said the girl, slowly.
“Free! Free from loving home, from parents—Junzo—all who loved you.
Free! You prize such freedom, Masago?”
The girl remained silent, her head drooping, her brows drawn. Suddenly
she raised her face defiantly.
“I am not unappreciative of their good qualities. It was not my fault
that I was fashioned—so!” She smote her hands against her breast with an
eloquent gesture.
“Yet, I confess, since I was but a little child, I have felt like one
oppressed—caged—stifled! Still I was deemed submissive! My lips were
sealed in silence. I was patient, for only once did I protest against
the dull monotony of my lot. I asked Yamada Kwacho for just one year of
freedom. I did not name it such, but such it was. For this small
respite, Sado-ko, I tied my life to another’s and affianced myself to
Junzo. It was a bitter moment.”