_By Elizabeth Cooper_
It was the last day of September, the maple trees were turning to red
and gold, the mist of purple haze was in the air, and all Japan was
going to the parks and woods to revel in the colors they loved so
well.
Three men came out of the American Embassy, and looked for a moment
over the roofs below them, half conscious of the beauty of this autumn
time. They chatted for a few moments, then one of them motioned to a
servant to put his mail bag in the jinrickshaw and slowly stepping
into the tiny carriage he was whirled away.
The other men watched him for a few moments in silence, then as they
turned to go to the English club, the elder shook his head slowly as
he rather viciously bit the end from his cigar.
"Freeman's made a big fool of himself," he said. "Nice man, too."
The younger man looked after the fast disappearing jinrickshaw and
asked after a moment's hesitation:
"He's married a Jap, hasn't he? I'm new here but I have heard
something about him that's queer."
"Yes," the Ambassador replied. "Married her, preacher, ring, the whole
thing."
"How did it happen? Why did he _marry_ her?" the younger man asked
with a laugh.
"We all talked to him. I talked to him like a father, but he wouldn't
listen to reason. Saw her at the mission school, fell head and heels
in love with her and wouldn't take anyone's advice. Even the
missionary was against it. Told him that mixed marriages never came
out right; that the girl always reverted to type," said the Ambassador
a little bitterly.
"Well, has it turned out as they predicted?" inquired the secretary
interestedly.
"Well, no," admitted the Ambassador. "It's been two years, and
everything seems to be all right so far. No one ever sees much of
either of them. You meet her with him once in a while in some garden
admiring the wistaria, or the lotus. She's a beauty--a real
beauty--and belongs to one of the old Samurai families up north
somewhere."
"How did the mission get her? I thought they went in more for the
lower classes," asked the secretary.
"Well, it seems that some missionary up north saw her and was
attracted by her cleverness and her pretty face, and she persuaded the
girl's parents to send her to school here. They're as poor as Job's
turkey; but they live in a great old palace and observe all the old
time Jap customs. Haven't changed a bit for centuries. The real thing
in old-time aristocracy. But the missionary got past them some way and
the girl came down--when was it?--six years ago, I think. Missionary
says she's clever, has become a Christian, and evidently forgotten
that she's a Jap."
"It'll perhaps be the exception that proves that all mixed marriages
are not failures," said the optimistic secretary.
"No," said the older man, "I know Japan and the Japanese. There's
something in them that never changes--the call of the blood or
whatever it is. No matter how much education they have, change of
religion, life in foreign countries--anything--they're Japanese, and
in a crisis they go back to their gods and the instincts of their
race. We all told Freeman this--the missionary, myself, everybody took
a hit at him when we found he really meant business, but he only
laughed. He said Yuki was as European as he was. Never thought of the
gods, hardly remembered her people, and all that rot. He ought to know
better: this is his second post in Japan. Was out here twelve years
ago and got in some kind of trouble. I was surprised when the
government sent him back; but I suppose they thought it had all blown
over, and I presume it has, although the Japs don't forget."
The Ambassador was quiet for a few moments, then he said:
"No, I don't believe at all in intermarriage between the Oriental and
the Occidental. Their traditions, customs, everything is different.
They have no common meeting ground, and that racial instinct, that
inherent something is stronger in the Oriental than in the Westerner.
A woman here in this country, for example, is taught from babyhood
that she must obey her parents, her clan, _absolutely_. Her family is
first, and she must sacrifice her life if necessary for them, and they
will go to any lengths in this obedience. I told this to Freeman,
everyone did, but he just gave his happy laugh, and said that his
wife-to-be was no more Japanese in feeling and sentiment than he
was--that she had outgrown the old religion, the old beliefs. He
laughed at the idea that her family would have any influence over her
after she was his wife. Yet--I know these people--and have always been
a little worried----"
The two men chatted until they entered the doors of the English club.
Morris Freeman with his fast runner was drawn swiftly through the
modern streets of new Japan, then more slowly through the little
alleys, where the shops were purely native. Finally he drew up at an
entrance and stopped under the tiny roof of a gateway. He had been
expected, evidently, because no sooner had he stopped than the great
gate was swung open and a smiling servant stood in the entrance.
Freeman handed him the mail bag and said:
"Tell the Ok San that I will be back in about an hour," and was taken
swiftly up the street. The coolie at the gate was still watching the
disappearing jinrickshaw when a Japanese approached, and bowing to the
servant asked: "Is your mistress within?" The servant answered in the
affirmative, looking at him interestedly, as he was different from the
average man one sees in Tokio. He was dressed in an old-time costume
that immediately told the city-bred servant that the man was from some
distant province.
The visitor went to the veranda, dropped his clogs, and entered the
doorway. A young girl was kneeling before a koto lightly strumming its
strings and did not hear the entrance of the man. He stood for a
moment looking around the room; then he saw Yuki and walking over to
her sat down facing her. Yuki stared at him first in astonishment;
then a look of fear came into her black eyes. He was silent for many
minutes, then he coolly remarked:
"You do not speak to your uncle. You do not care to make me welcome in
this your home." He looked down at her contemptuously.
She saluted him, touching her head to her folded hands upon the floor.
After a few polite phrases she rose, went to the hibachi, fanned the
flame a moment, poured water from the kettle into the teapot, and
brought a tiny tray on which was a cup and the pot of tea. She poured
out the tea, and, taking the cup in both hands, slid it across the
floor to him; when he took it, she again touched her head to the
floor, and inquired:
"I trust my honorable Uncle is in the enjoyment of good health?"
The man sipped the tea slowly, gazing around the room, taking in all
its details. His eyes especially rested upon the shrine in the corner.
Then he regarded her long and intently.
"I see you have brought your family shrine to the house of the
foreigner with whom you live--the man who has made you forget your
people. Have you opened it; do you offer the daily incense; or is it
simply an article of furniture for your foreign husband to admire?"
Yuki said nothing; she could not explain to this old man that the
shrine had meant nothing to her, but having come from her old home she
had kept it simply as a remembrance of the past.
Not receiving an answer the man continued:
"The foreigner is kind to you?"
Yuki smiled and said softly to herself: "Kind--kind--my Dana San."
Then seeing her uncle expected an answer, she said in a quiet tone:
"Most kind, my honorable Uncle."
"You wonder why I come to you to-night?" he inquired.
Yuki took the tea-things and put them behind her, then remarked:
"My humble house is honored by your presence."
"Honored, yes," sneered the uncle. "But still you wonder. I will tell
you why I came to you to-night. Once upon a time there was a family in
Japan--happy, honored--proud of their title, of their history--and,
more than all, proud of their overlord. He was impetuous, and like
many of the older Japanese, resentful of the foreigner's intrusion.
Here, one day on a visit to his capital, he met a stranger, one of
that hated race who spoke slightingly of his country, of his gods.
There was the quick retort, the blow, and he our lord went to the Land
of Shadows. The evil gods of the foreigner protected the man who gave
the blow. His name was never discovered--it was claimed he did the
cowardly act in self-defense and he got safely away."
Yuki leaned forward eagerly.
"Oh, it is of my honorable father you speak?"
"Yes, it is of your father I speak," said the man in a low, bitter
voice. "Since his death the gods have not favored our house; we have
lost position, money, everything. But at last--at last our prayers to
the gods have been answered. The enemy of our house is delivered into
our hands--into _your_ hands."
Yuki looked bewildered.
"_My_ hands? What do you mean, my honorable Uncle?"
"Yuki San, we have learned the name of the man who struck your
father!" he exclaimed in a low, tense voice.
Yuki looked at the tragic face before her a moment, then she said: "At
last, at last you know?"
"Yes," replied her uncle. "At last, after all these years of patience,
revenge is in our hands. Oh, Yuki San, the foreigner, your husband, is
the man who killed your father."
Yuki drew back, her face pallid, her body trembling.
"Morris, my Dana San?"
"Yes, your Dana San."
Yuki sat for a moment in bewilderment, then the color came back to her
face and she leaned forward eagerly.
"But, my lord, my lord, he could not have done it! He is so kind, so
good, he never hurt a thing in all his life."
The man leaned forward, gazing intently into her eyes.
"Has this stranger made you forget your father? Have you forgotten
your oath, _your_ oath? Have you forgotten why your father is now
in the Land of Shadows?" He pointed to the shrine.
"Look, there is his tablet within that shrine. But the doors are
closed. In our home, in our family temple are tablets. The doors of
the shrines have never been opened. His spirit has not had the incense
to help him on the way. The morning offering has not been his. He has
been compelled to travel alone on the way to the gods, because we, his
family--you and I--have not avenged his death.
"No, do not speak," he continued, as Yuki was about to interrupt. "He
was murdered, and until the man who sent him on his way joins him in
his journey, his spirit can have no peace. And you, his daughter, dare
not, for fear of the gods, open the shrine to make the offering that
the poorest peasant makes to his dead! But to-night I bring you the
final word of the clan. To give you the honor of doing the deed that
will wash the stain from our name. You know that a servant must avenge
the death of his master, a son that of his father, a Samurai the death
of his overlord, and I come to give you--a girl, an inheritance that
will make you envied of men."
"I do not understand--my lord, you mean----"
"Yuki San, he killed your father, the head of our house, and he must
die to-night."
Yuki rose and went to the man. Taking him by the arms she looked up
into his face piteously, with wide, frightened eyes.
"My lord, my lord, you can not mean it--that he shall die--Morris
die!"
The old man looked down into the pale face, the searching, pitiful
eyes; but there shone no mercy in the hard eyes that met the ones
raised pleadingly to his.
"Yes, and you, the only child of the man he killed, shall fulfill the
sacred oath, and bring peace to your father's honorable soul."
Yuki was utterly bewildered and said falteringly: "I do not
understand--I do not understand."
With the monotonous voice of the fatalist the uncle continued:
"It would have been better if a man-child had been born to our lord,
as his arm would not falter; but you will take as sure a way, if not
as honorable as the sword. Here is the means." He drew a little bottle
from the sleeve of his kimono. "A little of this and he sleeps
instantly and well."
Yuki held out her hands to the man sitting like fate before her.
"My lord, how can I? We have been so happy! My Dana San has never
given me an unkind look, never caused me a moment's sorrow. I love
him, Uncle, not as a Japanese woman loves her lord, but as a foreign
woman from over the seas loves the man whom she has chosen from all
the world. For two years we have been in this little house, for two
years he has been my every breath. My first thought in the morning was
for Morris, my Dana San, my last thought at night was joy in the
thought that I was his and that he loved me. Sometimes I waken and
look at him, and wonder how such a great man can care for such a
simple Japanese girl as I am. And now you ask me to hurt him?" She
drew her head up proudly. "I can not and I will not. He is my husband,
and no matter what he has done I will protect him--even from you."
The man rose, and striding to her, grasped her roughly by the arm.
"Woman, you will do as we say. You are a Japanese and you know even
unto death you must obey. I have no fear. It will be done--and by
you--to-night."
He released her arm, and she, looking down upon the tatami, moved her
foot silently to and fro, absorbed with this tragedy that had come
into her happy life. Then she had a thought that brought hope to her,
and she looked up eagerly. "Perhaps it is not true--perhaps it was not
really Morris----"
"Listen," said the man roughly. "It was he. We _know_. But you--if you
do not believe--make him confess to-night. If it was not he, then you
are free. If it is, you will know what to do--and it will be done
to-night--remember."
Yuki looked into the hard black eyes staring at her, fascinating her,
taking all the life from her, and she said slowly as if under a spell:
"Yes--if he confesses--if it was he--I know it will be done. But--if
the gods take him, they will also take me."
The uncle shook her roughly by the arm.
"_No!_ Listen to me. Your work is not yet done. You must live. It
would be too much happiness to have your spirit travel with him the
lonely road. He must walk the path alone, without love to guide him.
You will return to me to-night, return to your home and family who
await you. Our vengeance would be only half complete if we allowed you
to journey to the Land of Shadows with him. Come to me--" and he drew
her to him. "Look at me. I will await you at the Willow Tea House."
He took her face in his hands and gazed steadily into her eyes, saying
in a low, tense voice:
"I do not fear--you will obey. Are you not a Japanese? I
expect--you--to--come--to--me--after your work is done--and the gods
will be with you. Sayonara."
He put on his clogs at the entrance and went away, his form scarcely
distinguishable in the gloom as he went down the pathway. Yuki looked
after him, then threw herself on her face on the floor with a little
moan, beating her hands in the manner of an Eastern woman.
It was absolutely quiet in the room, no noise coming from the street
outside, except from a far distance a woman's voice chanting in a tone
of singular sweetness words that sounded in their minor key like the
soft tones of a flute: "_Amma Konitchi Wahyak Mo_," then between
these sweet calls a plaintive whistle--one long-drawn note, then two
shorter ones--the cry of the blind massage woman, making her rounds
for her evening's toil.
The cry died away, and only the low moan was heard within the little
room. Morris opened the gate and came lightly up the pathway,
whistling a few bars of the latest popular song. He came inside the
room, and, hardly able to distinguish the objects, looked about
wonderingly, then seeing Yuki lying where she had thrown herself, he
went over to her and picked her up.
"My sweetheart, what is it? What has happened?" He sat down upon the
long chair and held her against him. "Tell me, dear one, tell me."
Morris went over to the lamp after a few moments and lighted it, then
came back and showed Yuki a little gift he had brought her. She took
it and looked at it with eyes filled with tragic grief; then, pressing
it against her face, put her head on his shoulder and began sobbing in
a heart-broken way that amazed Morris.
She lay with her face hidden, he softly caressing her hair. Finally
she said:
"Morris, we have been here two years. Tell me--have I made you happy?"
Morris threw back his head and laughed happily.
"Happy, Yuki, happy? Dear heart, I had a long time ago put aside the
thought that love meant happiness and happiness meant love. Now you
have taught me that one cannot exist without the other. I love you, I
live with you, you are mine. That tells everything. When you came into
my life, into my heart, I was soured and embittered. Life meant only
work and duties done; after that, comfort and a cigar--that was all.
But now, I love my work as well, I do it as thoroughly, but there is
something more. I know when I shut the office-door, I can come here
where no one can enter. I can be alone with the woman I love and who
loves me. There is no question of society or dinners, but just us two
alone, you and me--and," turning up her face, "you are happy with me,
my Yuki San? You love me?"
Yuki did not reply at once. Then in a low, sweet voice she replied:
"Morris, we Japanese women never speak of love. It is to us a subject
left to singing girls and geishas. Without it we marry, and without it
we live, and it is, unless by chance, a closed book to us. I do not
know if I love you as the women of your race love their Dana Sans--I
know I think of you by day, and I dream of you by night. I live only
for you--to be what you wish me to be--and when you take me in your
arms and say, 'My Yuki San, my sweetheart,' it seems to me that my
heart with its happiness will break! I do not know if that is
love--but if it be--I love you, my Dana San, I love you."
She lay quietly, and he rested his face against her hair, caressing it
from time to time. After a silence, he inquired lightly:
"What about supper, Yuki?"
Yuki drew him to her again, for he moved as if he would rise.
"Wait, dear, let us talk a little. Tell me, when you to Tokio
came--the first time----"
"Twelve years ago, when O Yuki San was a little girl."
"Twelve years ago--there was much trouble then between foreigners and
Japanese. You and your friends--had--had trouble."
Morris looked at her quickly and his eyes darkened.
"Where did you hear that?" he asked.