Daughters of Nijo: A Romance of Japan
of maidens in Kamakura—What! your bedclothes not put away yet? Well—but
I must tell you all that happened, at once.”
She broke off breathlessly, her eyes upon the young girl’s face.
Something unfamiliar and strange about it stopped her flying tongue. She
stared at her in stupefied perplexity, her mouth wide open.
Sado-ko averted her face. With her head slightly turned, she stood in a
listening attitude, as though waiting for Ohano to proceed.
“How strangely you looked at me just now!” gasped Ohano, and, leaning
over, pulled her sleeve. “Masago! You have not spoken to me yet!”
“I have not had the chance,” said Sado-ko, in a stifled voice.
“Why—your voice is strange! What has happened, daughter?”
Sado-ko attempted to recover her composure, fighting against a sense of
weakness that overpowered her at the thought that Ohano would penetrate
the disguise. What mother would not have done so? she thought with fear.
With some bravado she turned and faced Ohano.
“Nothing is the matter,” she declared. “You—you said you had some news
to tell me, mother.” She bit her lip at the last word, as the thought
came to her that this woman might not be the mother. The words of Ohano
reassured her.
“Well, come and sit here,” she said. “I have much to tell.”
When Sado-ko was seated at her side with averted face, the words of the
mother became piteous.
“Your mother always was so stupid,” said poor Ohano, “but, Masago, you
really are much changed since your return from school. Yet truly—why, I
never noticed it before.” She stopped as though to give the girl a
chance to speak, but the latter remained silent.
“Now let me see,” said Ohano, “I will tell you from the first of all
that happened. I know, Masago, you will be happy at my news. You see, we
waited all the day and all the night for him to come and—”
“For _him_?” said Sado-ko, in a low voice.
“Yes—for Junzo.”
“Junzo!” She turned toward Ohano with a sudden swiftness. Her eyes were
dilated with trembling excitement, “Yes, yes—pray speak on.”
Pausing, Ohano looked in astonishment at the girl’s flushing face.
“Ah, now I know why you seem changed, Masago,” she said finally. “It was
thinking all night long upon your wedding. Well, who could blame a
maiden for feeling and for acting somewhat—changed?”
“But tell me,” said the girl, pleadingly, “of—of Junzo. Why do you not
proceed?”
“Well, we waited for him all the day, Masago, and all the—”
“You have already said that. Do proceed.”
“He did not come.”
“Not come! Why, where—”
“You hardly give me breath to speak to-day, Masago. Do not hasten my
words so. I told you that I had good news for you. Be patient, as a
maiden should be, and hear my story.”
“Yes, yes, yes.”
“Well, your affianced did not come. Is not that welcome news for you?”
Sado-ko smote her hands together. She had become white, and her lips
were quivering.
“Why did he not come?”
Ohano shrugged her plump shoulders.
“The gods alone know why, Masago. It seems he went out early in the day
before the fog arose, and—Why, how you startle me to-day!”
With a half-stifled cry the princess sprang to her feet, and stood
before Ohano trembling in agitation.
“You do not mean that he has met with harm?” she cried in a horrified
tone. “Oh, you sit there smiling when my heart is bursting with its
fear. Why do you not explain—”
Her breath came in gasps. She could scarcely enunciate her words. Ohano
stared up at her aghast.
“Shaka, Masago! You are beside yourself with most incomprehensible
agitation.”
With an eloquent, piteous gesture the girl threw out her hands.
“Oh, will you not tell me what has happened to him?” she cried.
“Happened to whom? You do not mean to Junzo?”
Sado-ko nodded her head and clasped her hands.
“Who else could I mean?” she asked.
“Well, nothing that we know has happened to the man,” said Ohano. “He
simply would not come to his own marriage council. The reason is most
plain, I think.”
“But the fog—you spoke of it—” The girl was now upon the verge of tears.
“The fog was good excuse for his absence, Masago. Yet no one of the
guests believed it was the reason he did not come; and when this morning
brought a guard from Aoyama, why, even the most stupid of us all—your
simple mother—knew the cause of your fiancé’s absence, and why he went
to Tokyo.”
The girl repeated the words dazedly. “To Tokyo!”
“So the guard declared. He said that Junzo followed the norimon of the
Princess Sado-ko down to the railway station—then—”
Ohano paused at the odd exclamation which escaped the girl.
“Sado-ko!” she said in a soft voice, then began to laugh in a strange
fashion.
“Do not mind my silly laughter. I—I am not well to-day. Continue, if you
please. Do not stop.”
Ohano looked concerned, but continued obediently.
“The guard informed us that when they reached the station Junzo, acting
like one crazed, sought passage on the royal train. This being denied
him, he followed on the next, while his parents and relations, and good
Kwacho and myself, were waiting for his coming at his father’s house.
There is only one solution.”
The girl was laughing softly, yet in a strangely tearful way. She said:—
“He followed Sado-ko!”
“Just so, Masago. She is his patroness, and I have heard—But never mind,
you look so pale this morning I will not gossip of that other matter.
His parents say the honor paid him at the court has turned his head, but
I am of another thought.” She shook her head knowingly. “It is my firm
belief, Masago, despite the smooth words of his family and the rough
ones of your father, that Junzo went away because he dreaded thought of
wedding you. He has another fancy.”
Sado-ko smiled through her tears.
“It is true,” she said, “I do not doubt it. He dreaded thought of union
with Masago.”
“Just as you, Masago,” said Ohano, bridling, “dreaded the thought of
marrying him. You were ill suited to each other. The gods know best.”
“Yes,” said the princess, softly, “the gods know best.”
She looked out through the casement toward the hills of Aoyama. As
though she spoke to herself, she said:—
“He will return. He will understand.” Then, in a lower voice, “He loves
me.”
Ohano, engaged in putting away the bedding, had not heard the latter
words. As she set them, neatly folded, in a little cupboard, she said in
tones of conviction:—
“Do not worry, daughter. He will not return. The gods have given you the
freedom that you wished so much. Be thankful—”
Sado-ko did not hear her words. She went to the balcony, and looked with
wistful eyes toward her former castle home.
“He will return,” she whispered to her questioning heart, “I am not
stranded here alone.”
A thrill of apprehension smote her. Had the change she had effected with
Masago been in vain? Would Junzo follow the new Sado-ko? Could it be
that his eyes were no keener than those of Masago’s relatives?
All about her the yellow sunlight smiled. The hills were warm. The skies
were blue. The air was still and sweet. Peace and silence were
everywhere in Kamakura.
“The gods are good,” said Sado-ko, with divine faith; “he must return to
me.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER XIX
WITHIN THE PALACE NIJO
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER XIX
WITHIN THE PALACE NIJO
THE palace Nijo, the resort of West-desiring nobility and court, was
possibly the oddest if most expensive residence in Tokyo. Originally it
had been a Yashiki of the Daimio of Mito. Time and the impulsive
treatment of the Imperialists had demolished portions of the place. With
each persistent rebuilding, strangely enough, the palace took on a more
modern, foreign aspect, until this time, when, in spite of its ancient
moat, quite dry and overgrown with trees, its lodges, and its few
melancholy turrets, it bore a strong resemblance to those houses built
upon the bluffs of Yokohama by the foreign residents.
The Nijo palace in itself was a monument to the country’s change. Bit by
bit its ancient Eastern aspect was disappearing, so that now, except for
the rambling character of portions of its yashiki-like walls, and its
enormous size, it was as Western in outward looks as the Japanese modern
himself appeared when clad in Western dress.
Even its grounds were typical of the new era, for close-clipped lawns
replaced the gardens, groves, shrines, fish-ponds, hillocks, and
artificial landscapes, once the rule within the walls of this yashiki.
No longer at the palace gates the lordly, haughty man of swords scowled
upon the passer-by. The days of the samurai and ancient chivalry were
dead,—since but a score of years. So rapid was the sweeping “progress”
of the new Japan! Now stiff guards, in heavy foreign uniform, patrolled
the grounds; while within the house itself the very servants wore the
buttoned livery of the West. Fashion shook her foolish hand over the
city of Tokyo, and her subjects, adoring and submissive as ever, named
her guilelessly, “Progression.”
Within the palace Nijo all wore the garb of Europe,—the thick, sticking,
heavy cloth of man, and the tight, suffocating dress of woman. The
gentleman of fashion and means, at this time, possessed two residences,
a town and country place,—sometimes several of the latter.
In Tokyo foreign life and foreign dress ruled supreme at court, save,
possibly, within the secret privacy of chambers, when heated men and
panting women flung aside their Western garb, and, sighing breaths of
eased relief, slipped on the soft and cool hakama or kimono.
Junzo, the artist of Kamakura, had no difficulty in gaining ingress to
the palace, for the guards, some of them late from Komatzu, recognized
him, and thought him possibly still a member of the household. It was
late afternoon when he walked with down-bent head along the broad and
gravelled pathway which led to the green lawn of the palace Nijo.
It was two months since Junzo had left his home in Kamakura, and,
following the cortège of Princess Sado-ko, had come to Tokyo. There,
during this time, he had wandered aimlessly about the city, trying to
conquer the mad longing within him to see once again this princess. But
his passion was stronger than himself, and now it had mastered him.
A servant, clad in modern livery, smiled behind his hand as the artist
slipped his shoes off at the door; but Junzo, usually so quick to take
offence at insolence, did not notice this new disdain of an old and
honorable habit. He handed a letter and his card to the attendant, who,
becoming more respectful, bowed his head to the level of Junzo’s knees
and ushered him with ceremony into a reception room.
The artist did not see the odd furnishing of the room, the plush
upholstered chairs, the cabinets, the pictures in heavy gilt frames
nailed to the light frame of shoji walls. His head bowed, his hands
clasped behind him, Junzo walked up and down the apartment, while
through his soul coursed the longing of his letter.
“Sado-ko! I will not call you princess, for this you have commanded me I
must not do. I will call you Sado-ko—sweet Sado-ko! I come a mendicant
to your august father’s house, hungering for the sight of your dear
face. I famish for the touch of your beloved hands, and cannot live for
longing for your voice. And so, in beggar-wise, I come, beseeching you
to see me for the space of one short hour again, to speak to me, to let
me touch the hem of your kimono. Or if I ask too much, my Sado-ko, then
let me once but look upon your face again, even though I may not speak