Daughters of Nijo: A Romance of Japan
against the romance, though I severely disapproved the slander, and
named it such; for I deemed your condescension to the man the idle fancy
of a princess noted for her oddities and caprices. But lately, the mere
thought of him causes my brain to burn with raging and unworthy
jealousy.”
She rested one small hand against the railing of her balcony, then
slowly drew up her slender figure.
“The artist is no more to me,” she said, “than any slave who dresses me,
sings to me, entertains me, comes at my command, or paints for me my
picture.”
“Yet, Sado-ko, the artist did not paint your picture.”
For a moment she stood still in bewilderment, then went a step toward
him. Her words were stammering, then changed to fervent, passionate
appeal.
“Why, yes, he painted—that—assuredly he painted—it does not matter what
the artist did. Komatzu, I have no thought within my mind, nor love
within my heart, for any one in all the world save you.”
He took her hands and drew them upward to his lips, there to hold them
for a space, then let them go again.
“I am quite satisfied,” he said. “Truth itself shines in your face, my
Sado-ko. And now, sweet cousin, we will say good night, for it is late,
and I would not have your beauteous eyes lose one small atom of their
lustre. And so for the night, sayonara!”
Softly and lingeringly she repeated the word. She watched him as he
walked along the path, until he had quite disappeared. Then slowly,
dreamily she ascended the little steps. She stopped in sudden irritation
at the sound of the restless bird within the cage. Moving toward it, she
shook the cage with some nervous violence.
“Be still!” she said. “You break my thoughts, you foolish bird! Be
still, I say!”
The Lady Fuji touched the artist’s arm. He did not stir. Peering up into
his face, she started back at sight of the dull, frozen look. A glimmer
of compassion crossed her breast. She whispered:—
“Artist, come away.”
He did not move.
“Pray come!” urged Fuji.
Masago, standing by the bird-cage on the balcony, thought she heard some
whispering voices close at hand. She leaned over the railing and called,
in fearful voice:—
“Who are the honorable ones below?”
As Fuji sought to draw the artist away, the movement of her effort
reached the ears of her mistress. The latter crossed the veranda with
quick steps, and, leaning down close to the sound, saw those two figures
in the shadow. A moment later the Lady Fuji-no, drawing her cape before
her face, fled along the path, and disappeared.
Moving mechanically to the light, the artist turned his face to Masago.
A muffled cry escaped her lips. She shrank back, still clinging to the
railing of the balcony.
“Kamura Junzo!” she cried. “You!—and here!”
“I do not know your voice,” he said in strange, wondering tones.
“I remember now,” she said. “You wrote a letter to the Princess Sado-ko.
You wished to look—look at her. You—you asked the favor. Well—I—I am
Sado-ko!”
He moved his head and stared upon her face with straining eyes.
“You are not Sado-ko!” he said.
She trembled with fear.
“I do assure you”—she began, her hand going to her throat to stay her
frightened breathing.
“You are not Sado-ko, I say!”
Her voice was raised and shrill.
“I am the Princess Sado-ko,” she cried. “I do defy you, artist-man, to
prove I am not Sado-ko.”
His vague and wandering words recalled her self-possession. She knew
that she had needlessly excited her fears.
“You are not Sado-ko,” he said, “for she was kind and sweet; but you—you
are a nightmare of my Sado-ko. Your face is hers, yet still you are not
Sado-ko. Your soul is false; your heart is dead, for Sado-ko is dead,
and you who once were Sado-ko are but her ghost. You are not Sado-ko.”
She grew afraid of that white, glaring face, and hoarse, wandering
voice. Turning, she hastened to her room, drawing the doors close behind
her.
The artist stood alone. Then suddenly he laughed out wildly, loudly.
Again he paused in silence. Then laughed aloud again, in that wild way.
He heard the noise, the heavy step of palace guards. Then Junzo turned
and fled like the wind, his fleet and sandalled feet carrying him with
more than natural speed onward and onward. Past startled groups of
garden revellers, past loitering lovers, and past guards about the
grounds, and outward through the palace gates he plunged on toward the
city, gleaming out in specks of light below.
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CHAPTER XXII
THE COMING HOME OF JUNZO
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CHAPTER XXII
THE COMING HOME OF JUNZO
THOUGH samurai by birth, the Kamura family were of gentler nature than
their stern ancestors, and so no feeling of anger or bitterness had been
cherished against their son Junzo. His parents made their sad apologies
to their guests, who hastily departed, cloaking their feelings behind
their well-bred, stoic faces. Yamada Kwacho alone lingered to speak a
word of gruff sympathy to the parents, and to offer what aid was in his
power. When they insisted that their son was surely ill, Kwacho said at
once he would go to Tokyo and personally seek the young man in the
capital.
Meanwhile, the Kamura family kept a tireless, ceaseless watch for Junzo.
Though days and weeks and then a month slipped slowly by, each member of
the household took his place by day at a small lookout station to watch
for any sight of ani-san (elder brother). By night a light turned to the
east burned at the casement of Junzo’s chamber, while mother and father
knelt at shoji doors, keeping the watch. Thus would they watch by day
and night, so any hour he might come would find them waiting patiently.
Two months had passed since Junzo left Kamakura, when the belated word
came from Tokyo. Yamada Kwacho had found the wandering Junzo.
No member of the Kamura family retired that night. Even the smallest
child knelt by the shoji and watched for Junzo. A series of heavy rains
had darkened the days and nights. The clinging fog of the Hayama hung
heavily in the atmosphere.
Not a star or gleam of moon shone out to soften the blackness of the
night sky. When the slothful morning crept in timid wonder over the
hills, and pushed with soft, gray hands the night away, the watchers saw
the fog was vanquished, and that the pale morning mist bespoke a
brighter day to dawn.
When the first gleam of the long-looked-for sun came up the eastern
slope, Junzo staggered down the hills of Kamakura toward his home. Those
watching at the shoji saw him as he passed with down-bent head within
the gate. Then the calm of caste and school broke down before the throb
of parenthood. Father and mother hastened down the garden path to meet
their son.
“The fog!” It was the mother who spoke in sobbing tones, as she fondled
the hands of her eldest son. “You honorably did lose your way, Junzo.”
His restless eyes wandered from hers, and he pushed back, absently, the
long black locks that tumbled on his brow.
“It was the fog that kept you, Junzo?” she urged.
“The fog?” he said dazedly. “No—that is, yes. It was the fog, good
mother.”
“So dark at night! Oh, son, we thought that you might wander from the
path and come to the river bank.” She shuddered at the thought.
“Yet, you came down from the direction of the hills,” said his father,
anxiously. “Did you abide there last night?”
“Yes,” said Junzo, “throughout the long, long night, my father.”
The silent Kwacho shook his head, then whispered in the father’s ear:—
“We arrived last night, good friend, quite early, but Junzo, as you see,
is ill and I could not leave him for a moment. Hence, Oka being nowhere
at hand, and not a vehicle in sight, I sought to lead him homeward. But
no, he turned his feet in new directions. He stumbled here and there
across the fields and up and down the hills, and finally we reached the
walls of Aoyama. I could not lead him, since he would not have it so,
and so I humored his strange fancy, and hence, good friend, have spent
the night crouched down beside the palace walls, without covering,
indeed, without the much-desired good sleep.”
“Oh, come indoors, at once,” the mother entreated, for Junzo lingered
absently on the threshold. “Your face is pale, dear son, and oh, your
clothes are quite soaked with dew.”
He followed her mechanically, though he seemed, as yet, to have noted
nothing of the haggard aspect of their loving faces. His thoughts seemed
far away. When his youngest brother, a little boy of five, came with
running steps to meet him and called his name, he simply tapped the
child upon the head.
The anxious mother had now become the zealous nurse and housewife. She
clapped her hands a dozen times, and sent two attendants speeding for
warm tea and dry clothes. The children were put in charge of Haru-no,
who took them immediately to a neighbor’s house. Soon there was no one
left in the apartment save mother and son.
“We will take good care of you, my son,” she said, “and when you are
quite recovered, we will have another council.”
He repeated the word stupidly.
“Of what council do you speak?”
She stroked the damp hair backward with her tender fingers.
“My Junzo always was the absent-minded son, so given to his studies and
his art he could not spare a thought for other matters.”
He put his hands upon those on his head, and drew his mother about until
she was before him. Then, looking in her face with searching, troubled
eyes, he said:—
“Was there a council of our family?”
“Why, yes, my son,—that day you went to Tokyo.”
He passed his hand across his brow, then seemed to listen for a space.
Slowly a look of horror crept across his face.
“It was my marriage council!” he gasped.
“Why, yes, dear Junzo; your marriage to the maid Masago. Ah, you are
quite ill, my son.”
He sprang to his feet, and stood in quivering thought. She heard him
mutter half aloud, despairingly:—
“But she had gone away—to Tokyo. They told me so.”
“Why, no, it is a mistake. Who told you that she went to Tokyo, my son?”
“The palace guards,” he said, not looking at his mother.
“Oh, you are surely ill, my son.”
“I am not ill,” he said, with persistent gentleness; “but I am speaking
truth, dear mother. Do I not know of what I speak, for was I not close
by the palace walls throughout the length of one whole night? I tell
you, mother, that I _saw_ her go to Tokyo.”
His mother threw her arms about his neck, then, bursting into tears,
clung to him.
“Son,” she sobbed, “do not speak of Tokyo. The parent of your fiancée,
Yamada Kwacho, is even now within our domicile, and the chaste maiden is
safe in her home.”
He spoke with slow and hazy positiveness:—
“She went to Tokyo that night. I was so close unto her norimon that I
could even touch it, and through the fog and the dim night I cried her
name aloud. It sounded wildly in the night air.”
He undid the clinging arms about his neck, and stood as though plunged
deep in moody thought. When his father and brother came into the room,
he did not lift his head.
“Junzo, do you know your brother?” asked the youth Okido, stepping to
his side.
Junzo raised his head.
“Why, yes, you are my younger brother, Kido-sama. Good morning!”
“Oh, ani-san!” cried the youth, in mournful tones. “How strangely you
speak, how strangely you look!”
“Son,” said the father, sternly, laying his hands on Junzo’s shoulder,
“it is your father speaking now. I named you Junzo (obedience). From
youth you have obeyed my voice. Now come! I bid you go to your chamber.