Daughters of Nijo: A Romance of Japan
“I, too,” she rejoined.
He moved restlessly, and even in the dim light her watching eyes saw the
uneasiness in his face.
“Let us watch for her together, artist.”
“I would not take you from your pleasures within, my lady.”
“Nay, the pleasures without overshadow those within.”
Again she saw the anxious glance upward toward the hills, and in the
darkness the Lady Fuji smiled behind her opened fan. Junzo moved
downward a few steps; he paused irresolutely.
“The garden is fragrant, Lady Fuji-no. I would enjoy it for a little
while.”
“And I,” said she, and went a step downward.
“But the air is chill, my lady.”
“Balmy sweet, Sir Artist.”
“Lady, your august neck and arms are bare to the night,” he said.
She drew herself up slightly, and looked down a space at her low gown.
“The musicians and the geishas in the booths,” he said, “would dishonor
you with their rude glances.”
Without replying she clapped, her hands. A page came at the signal.
“A wrap, if you please,” she ordered.
Junzo, now at the foot of the steps, stirred uneasily. The moon was in
full view. The sight for which he had watched so anxiously filled him
now only with agitation and despair. He thought of one waiting in the
darkness of the private gardens beyond. Anxiety rendered him reckless.
He bowed deeply to the Lady Fuji-no.
“Lady, I implore your august pardon, but the night has claims upon my
desires. I wish to wander with it alone.”
She stooped down toward him. Her words, though whispered, were perfectly
clear.
“You have a moon tryst, Sir Artist. Oh, beware!”
He turned about sharply and faced her.
“The Moon,” she said,—“you will become her plaything, artist. Be
cautioned!”
Uncertain and irresolute he stood a moment, then turned upon his heel
and swiftly strode down along the path, disappearing into the shadows of
the trees.
* * * * *
Sado-ko wandered through the dewy gardens, beneath the drooping bamboos
and the towering pines. Her little feet were swift and willing, as she
hastened along with beating heart; but when she approached the end of
the grove, though there was light beyond, she could not see even the
shadow of that one who was to have kept the tryst with her. Her steps
faltered; she went less swiftly.
“The moon is late,” she said. And then, “It was the light of the stars I
saw.”
She walked so slowly now, that her little feet became entangled in her
flowing gown, which she had absently let fall to the ground. The end of
the grove was now reached. She could see the bright silver light
without.
In the shadow of the last bamboo the princess stood and trembled. She
did not need to peer into the distance, for all was clear outside the
bamboo grove, as far off as the dividing line of the boxwood shrub and
the small white gate. How long she stood in silent waiting she could not
have told. Every passing summer breeze made her shiver. Once she raised
her hand to her face, and something wet was wiped away.
“’Tis but the dew upon my face,” she said, but her own trembling voice
broke the spell of anguished waiting. At the foot of the drooping bamboo
she slipped to the earth, and crouched beneath the shadow, deaf now to
all sounds, save her own inward heart cries and the tears which even she
could not command to cease.
Yet after only a little while, one appeared at the bamboo gate, vaulted
quickly over it, and came with running feet on toward the grove. A
moment later, Sado-ko was in the arms of her lover.
“Oh, is it you—you!” she said through her sighs, “at last. Oh, at last
you have come!”
“It is I, sweet Sado-ko.”
“So late!” she said, her breath caught by her sobs.
“Yes, late,” he said, “but it was not the fault of Junzo.”
“I kept the tryst,” she said, “and waited long for the moon to rise—and
then—then you did not come, and I—and then I wept.”
She turned her face toward a moonbeam streaming through the grove that
he might see the glistening tears.
“Sado-ko!” he cried in an agony, “oh, that I should cause you pain—I who
would sell my very soul to save you from a tear.”
She had recovered somewhat of her natural calm, and for a moment her old
bright self shone out.
“Nay, then, and what is a little tear? So slight a thing—see, I will
wipe it away with the sleeve of my Junzo.”
“My lotos maiden! O Sado-ko, I have made enemies for you here in this
very palace.”
“But I am stronger than the enemies, my Junzo. Indeed, I can afford to
laugh at them.”
“One—the Lady Fuji, do not trust her, I beseech you, Sado-ko.”
“She would become wife to my father,” said Sado-ko, with quiet scorn,
“yet her power is small and her hope vain.”
“She tried to prevent my coming here to-night. I fear she has suspected
our tryst.”
“Lady Fuji-no is wise. Were I to marry soon the Prince Komatzu, her
fortunes would change. She would possibly be out of service, and knows
or thinks my father would befriend her.”
“There are still others. I fear the Duchess Aoi has no love for you or
me.”
“She has love for only one besides herself,—the Prince Komatzu. She
could much better herself in his graces, could she betray Sado-ko in
some base act.”
“And baseness is not possible in Sado-ko,” he said.
Her little hands moved softly across his breast and upon his arms.
“You are truly here, my Junzo,” she said, “I do not dream.”
“Hark, something is stirring close by!”
“The wind,” she said. “Pray you, be not fearful of the wind.”
“It seemed a sound more human-like, as of one who crept along the
grove.”
“Perchance a deer. The parks are fully stocked, and many wander hither
to my own private gardens.”
He raised her face upward between his hands, within which he framed it.
“Listen, Sado-ko. Do you forget that we made this tryst to-night for a
sad purpose?”
“I have forgotten,” she murmured; and added in so soft a voice, “I would
forget, dear Junzo.”
“O Sado-ko, it is sweet to be together, but sadder still than sweet, for
this must be the last time.”
She shook her head.
“No, no,” she said. “I will not let you go.”
“I must go,” he said sadly.
“I will command you to stay,” she said.
“I cannot longer stay. To-morrow—”
“I will implore you, then. Go not away from me, dear Junzo!”
“Have you forgotten that our tryst to-night was made to say our most sad
sayonaras?”
She lifted his sleeve, and held it close against her face.
“No, no—leave me not!”
His voice was husky.
“Why, Sado-ko, to-morrow there will be an exodus from the palace. I
could not stay, even if I would. Does not the Prince Komatzu journey
back to Tokyo?”
“And you—you, too, will go with us,” she said.
“I?”
“I have myself asked this favor of my cousin.”
“You asked his Highness—”
“Yes. I bade him ask you to accompany us, so you might have the
honorable commission to paint the pictures of the ladies of the court.”
“Paint the pictures—” repeated Junzo, stupidly.
“Yes, that will be the good excuse. Yet you must not do so. No, I would
not have you work upon another’s beauty.”
“I cannot go,” he said, raising his voice. “It is impossible. I must
return.”
She started back, her hands above her heart.
“I understand,” she said. “You will return to—”
He seized her hands with impulsive passion.
“My father bids me return. Can I refuse?” he cried.
“Oh, go not back!” she said, with tears in her pleading voice.
“I must return. I am but a son. Does not a son owe his first obedience
in life to his father?”
“It is an ancient fancy,” she said, “and these moderns are more wise.
They say a man must give his first thought to”—her voice dropped and
broke—“his wife!”
She drew her hands from his, and covered her face with them. While yet
her face was hidden in them she spoke:—
“You will make _her_—your wife?”
He could not answer. Her hands dropped from her face to clinch now at
her sides.
“Answer, if you please!” she said.
“It is my father’s command,” he said in a low voice.
“Your father’s command is greater, then, than mine?” she demanded with
fierceness.
“O Sado-ko, do you not perceive my despair?”
“But why should you despair?—you who are to marry Masago!”
“Sado-ko!” he cried with piercing reproach, “all the gods of heaven have
forbidden me union with you. Tell me what other course is left.”
“Oh, leave me not!” said Sado-ko.
“Even if I would, I could not stay. Your august relatives would hastily
learn the truth, and then—”
They heard a slight cry within the darkness of the grove. Then something
white flashed by them into the open.
“Look!” cried Sado-ko, clutching his sleeve. “Oh, see!”
By the white bamboo gate two figures were outlined,—a man and woman. And
in the clear moonlight the lovers recognized them as the Prince Komatzu
and the Duchess Aoi. But the maid Onatsu-no, who had rushed by them so
swiftly through the grove, came up toward these two by the gate, and
prostrated herself before them.
“Quick!” cried Sado-ko. “They have not seen us yet. Natsu-no will speak
to them. Meanwhile run with all the speed your love for me can lend,
back through the grove. Hide among the shadows of the trees until the
prince and I shall pass. Then return along the grove.”
He lingered, seeming averse to hiding; but she urged him, pushing him
with her own hands.
“There—go—for my sake—my sake—do this thing for me!” she urged
disjointedly.
He stooped and drew her hands close to his face, and for a moment looked
deep into her eyes.
“Sayonara!” he whispered. “It is forever.”
“Sayonara!” she repeated, and sobbed over the word, “for a little time,”
she said.
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CHAPTER X
COUSIN KOMATZU
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CHAPTER X
COUSIN KOMATZU
SADO-KO stepped from out the shadow of the bamboo grove into the
moon-lit path, and seemingly pensive, made her way toward the two at the
gate. She paused before them silently for a moment, then made a gesture
of dismissal to the maid Natsu-no, who ceased her excited apologies for
having interrupted them, through sudden fright at their appearance.
“Cousin,” said the princess to Komatzu, ignoring altogether the Duchess
Aoi, “your sudden appearance at my gate has frightened both my maid and
me, who in our solitary evening rambles not often meet with visitors.”
Komatzu answered:—
“The Duchess Aoi and the Lady Moon both beguiled me into a like garden
wandering. We came but by chance to your august gate.”
“But will you not step inside?” asked Sado-ko. “Pray, cousin, will you
not walk with me?” she sweetly urged.
Glad to accompany his cousin, the prince, softly clapping his hands,
ordered an attendant to unfasten the gate. Aoi was about to follow him
to the other side, when stopped by the voice of the princess. “We do not
need your further service to-night,” she said.
The mortified duchess bowed to the earth, and slowly moved away.
When she was gone and the Princess Sado-ko should have breathed more
freely, a reaction came. She clung with sudden faintness to the
waiting-maid, Natsu-no.
“Cousin, you are ill!” cried the dismayed Komatzu.
She tried to laugh, but her voice was shaking and her words piteous.
“I but stumbled on my gown, Sir Cousin.”
She raised herself, lifting the kimono a little upward from the ground.
“It is the punishment of vanity,” she continued in a somewhat weary
voice. “I was not ready to part with my fair gown, Komatzu. It is of
ancient style and very long and cumbersome.”