Daughters of Nijo: A Romance of Japan
And so the evening meal was served. The night was spent in quiet saké
sipping, and dreamy introspection by the guests, while the heart of the
genial host was heavy.
In a chamber of the lower story Ohano snored in healthy forgetfulness of
all the little ills of life. The maiden Haru-no drowsed by the shoji of
the Ozashiki; and by her side, immovable and silent, but with wide,
wakeful eyes, the mother of Kamura Junzo kept the night watch.
“It is the fate of the humble female,” she had protested, when the young
Haru-no had begged her to sleep. “Bear this precept, daughter, always in
your mind: The mother, wife, the sister, daughter, must ever watch and
wait upon the comfort of the male. It is the law; it is our duty; it is
our fate. We bow to it with submissive philosophy.”
At twelve there was a stir upon the upper floor. Madame Kamura heard the
shuffling movement of the breaking of the council. By the drowsy
footfalls she knew the guests were anxious for their beds. She bade a
servant attend the guests. Then she returned to her station. She did not
turn her head when the sound of footsteps passed along the hall. Her
husband quietly took his place by her side, without speaking. Thus all
night long these two kept watch for Junzo.
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CHAPTER XVII
THE NEW MASAGO
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CHAPTER XVII
THE NEW MASAGO
THE following morning dawned clear and bright, not a remnant of mist or
fog remaining to recall the previous night. A bright yellow sun arose
from behind the hills and beat away every vista of gloom from the skies.
It poised above the river Hayama, as though to look upon its own
reflected light; then swept along its early course, flooding the land
with new light, and piercing the shoji walls of the chamber of the maid
Masago.
The Princess Sado-ko opened her eyes, looked half dazedly, half
wonderingly, a moment at the unfamiliar ceiling overhead, then sat up on
the mattress. Her eyes wandered about the room in a helpless, bewildered
fashion for a moment, then suddenly a little flickering smile of
recollection came. She slipped from the mosquito netting.
She was in pale blue linen. Below her gown her little bare feet twinkled
over the matting as she hastily crossed the room, pushed the casement a
small way open, and peeped without. A breath of delight escaped her, for
from Masago’s chamber her eyes looked out upon the old delightful scenes
of her childhood, the far-reaching meadows, sloping hills, and Fuji-Yama
smiling in the morning light.
For some time she remained by the casement, enjoying simply the morning
and its gentle breezes. Almost unconsciously she found herself waiting
for the attendance of her maiden, Natsu-no. Then recalling Masago’s
words that henceforth she must robe herself, she laughed.
She had no difficulty in dressing. Masago’s wardrobe was of the
simplest, Yamada Kwacho limiting her in dress expenditure. Sado-ko
donned a pretty plum-colored crêpe kimono and a dark, gold-figured obi.
Her hands fluttered delightedly over Masago’s clothes; they were so
simple and comfortable, she thought.
When she was quite dressed, she forgot to put away the bed,—a duty
Masago always performed,—but stepping out upon the balcony loitered for
a moment in the sun. Then the garden’s fragrance captivating her, she
ran down the little flight of stairs into the garden.
Flowers grew abundantly there,—simple and common flowers they were, but
preferred by Kwacho because of their very lack of cultivation, and hence
their naturalness.
Almost recklessly Sado-ko plucked them, filling her arms with blossoms.
She had an inclination to sing and laugh and pick flowers all the day,
she felt so strangely free and happy.
When a servant came and watched her from the kitchen door, the girl
smiled toward her. The woman appeared taken aback at the good will in
the girl’s face. Masago had been over-bearing toward her father’s
servants, which had made her generally unpopular among them. The
servant’s voice was not so sharp as she had intended it to be. Would
Masago have her morning meal?
The young girl in the sunny garden nodded cheerfully, then hastened
toward the house, her flowers in her arms. She drank her morning tea in
happy silence, but smiled so often at the waiting maid, that the latter
marvelled at her amiability of mood. When Sado-ko had finished, the
woman said, almost in a deprecating tone:—
“I did not mean to give offence last night, Masago.”
“Offence?” repeated Sado-ko. “Did you give offence—to me?”
“Why, yes. Do you not recall my looking at the picture in your hands?”
“What picture? Oh, yes, yes. Did you do so? Now I do recall it.”
She moved toward the door to cover her confusion, then turned her head
backward, smiling sweetly at the servant.
“Do not worry, maid. I am not offended.”
A moment the woman stared at her in bewilderment. Then she said with
some hesitancy:
“Before you went to Kyoto, Masago, I always took the liberties with you,
which since your late return you appeared not to desire. I, being long
in your family service, as you know, was hurt.”
Sado-ko paused in the doorway.
“When—when did I return?” she asked, in a curious tone, as though she
could not recall the exact date. “I have been away it seems—yes—I have
been away; but when did I return?”
“Why, only two days since,” declared the maid, in astonishment.
“How absent is my little mind,” she laughed. “Two days ago. Why, yes, of
course—and let me see, I have been gone—” She appeared to calculate the
time.
“But half a year,” said the servant. “You were to have stayed one year,
but your affianced, having acquired such great fame at court, your
father wished to hasten on your honorable marriage.”
“Oh,” said the girl, and then repeated in a low, happy voice, “hasten on
my marriage.”
She turned suddenly toward the maid.
“Do you find me changed?” she asked.
The woman regarded her dubiously.
“Ye-es—no. Last night I thought you more than usually impatient,
Masago.”
“Ah—was I so? I did not mean it.”
“But to-day you seem more kind than even as a child, though you were the
most gentle, passive, and best of little ones.”
“And so I am just now,” said Sado-ko, merrily. “I am not changed one
little bit. Think of me, if you please, as a child.”
“Perhaps the fault was mine last night,” pursued the woman, glad to
prolong the conversation with Masago.
“Look!” exclaimed the girl, pointing to the garden. “See, some little
children!”
“Your brothers, Masago. Can you not see?”
“Brothers—mine! Oh-h!”
Dropping her flowers on the veranda, she ran lightly down the path, as
though to meet the little boys. Halfway down the path a sense of panic
seized upon the princess. She paused in painful hesitancy, scarce
knowing which way to turn.
Would not these little brothers of Masago recognize the deception? Could
the likeness be so strong as to deceive Masago’s own family? A maid’s
judgment was but a poor criterion.
She stood quite still, waiting, yet dreading their approach. Her first
impulse had been to run in loving fashion to meet the little boys. Her
sudden fear of these individuals saved her from doing that which Masago
never had done, caress or fondle her small brothers.
While Sado-ko possessed an innate love of nature and of children, these
things but irritated poor Masago, who called the country dull, the town
enchanting, children wearisome, and fashion fascinating. Though each
feature of the faces of these two sisters was identically alike, their
natures vastly differed. Sado-ko was all her mother in nature, and even
the cold harshness of her life had frozen but her exterior self. Masago
was the complement of Prince Nijo. Her previous environment, association
with Ohano, and possibly a little portion of the latter’s nature made
her what she was,—a girl of weak and vain ambitions.
Now the princess stood hesitating, fearfully, before the little army of
Masago’s brothers, five in all. The older ones spoke her name
respectfully, as they had been taught to do. The smaller ones pulled her
sleeves and obi mischievously, as though they sought to tease her; but
when she laughed, they seemed abashed, and ran to hide behind a tree
from whence they peered at her.
The maid who brought them from the neighbor’s bade the girl an apathetic
good morning, and seemed surprised at the cordiality of the other’s
greeting.
Sado-ko breathed with some relief as the children disappeared within the
house. Then for the first time she sighed wistfully.
“If they had loved Masago,” she said, “surely they would miss her. But
no, a stranger steps into her clothes, takes her place within the house,
and fickle childhood cannot see.”
In gentle depression she moved toward the house, then slowly up the
steps to Masago’s balcony, from which she watched the children take
their morning bath in the family pond. It was a pretty sight, she
thought, to see their little bare, brown bodies shining in the sun. A
little later the elder children went whistling down the path to school
while the nurse disappeared with the younger ones.
“Strange,” said Princess Sado-ko, “that none of them seemed glad to see
their sister. Was not Masago loved, then?”
She pushed the doors open and thoughtfully entered the chamber.
“Perhaps,” she said, “the foreigners speak truth. What is that pretty
proverb of their honorable religion? Is it not, ‘The love begets the
love’? Masago plainly did not love her little brothers. Hence they have
but indifference for her.”
Again she sighed.
“Ah,” she said, “what kind of maiden, then, is this I have exchanged for
me?”
She saw the tumbled couch upon which she had slept. She recalled the
fact that Masago had told her she would be required to make her own bed
and attend her own chamber, for Kwacho deemed such household tasks
desirable and admirable in a woman.
Therefore the exalted Princess Sado-ko, the daughter of the sun-god, as
she was called by all loyal Japanese, fell to work upon the homely
employment of rolling up a mattress bed, beating the little rocking
pillow, folding the quilts and the netting. Suddenly she sat down
breathlessly among the simple paraphernalia which constituted Masago’s
bed. She had forgotten where the maid Masago had told her the clothes
were kept! The little thought perplexed and troubled the Princess
Sado-ko.
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CHAPTER XVIII
A MOTHER BLIND
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CHAPTER XVIII
A MOTHER BLIND
WHILE the Princess Sado-ko was sitting ruefully among the folded bed
things, and pondering upon the weighty question of their disposal,
Kwacho and Ohano arrived home in jinrikishas. The former hastened to the
kitchen for a cup of tea before departing on a mission to Tokyo, while
Ohano hurried up the stairs to her daughter. Ohano was so eager to pour
out recent confidences to her daughter, that she labored at every step
in her ascent.
When she entered Masago’s room without knocking, as was her custom, she
was astonished at the sudden start the girl gave. However, Ohano had
such a story to pour out that she did not pause, but said in almost one
breath:—
“Masago, I have the greatest news for you—it will make you the happiest