The period of “Little Plenty” was wearing to its close. Already the
wistaria blossoms were fading and the gorgeous azaleas were dropping
their petals. In the fields the barley heads had turned to yellow and
the young rice in the seed beds stood tall and strong in its thick green
rows awaiting the harvest that should make room for it. It was a day when
even nature rested and basked in the smile of heaven. The sun shone as if
pouring the accumulated experience of millions of years into each moment,
saturating earth and trees and flowers and grass with a deluge of molten
gold. The vast blue arch gleamed like a great aërial mirror, reflecting
the wide expanse of motionless sea that lay shimmering in the sunlight,
unmarked by a single ripple. On its sleeping surface myriad fishing
boats, with dull gray hulls and red brown sails, drifted and dozed. The
noisy calls of the city were hushed, and to the girl sitting among the
trees on the crest of the pine-clad cone beyond the end of Timber Street
there rose only now and then a muffled sound, like the dull roll of surf
on a far-distant beach. Only life that was wild sent its challenge to
her. Natsu-zemi shrilled his strident ji-i-iii from the branches over the
Shinto shrine in vigorous chorus, as if determined to make the uttermost
of such a day, and Min-min-zemi chanted his ritual over and over from
scores of trees, singing the prayer that has no end.
Six years had more than fulfilled the promise of her childhood for Kudo
O-Mitsu. At eighteen she was the full-blown flower of which at twelve she
had been only the bud. Such an one she was as would set the hearts of
half a city a-throb by a single glance, even a city where men care not
overmuch for maidens, and passion is rarely of the tender sort until
years of association have coddled it into flame. Her face was a long,
narrow oval, the stamp of her gentle birth, exquisitely curved from cheek
to chin and rounded to the delicate point that emphasized her beauty
and yet revealed her determination. Narrow at the top and broadening to
the temples, her ivory-white forehead disclosed the outline of beloved
Fujiyama, the sacred mountain of her race. The full lips of her little
mouth were brilliant with the stain of luscious cherries. Above a great
mass of shining, jetlike hair gleamed softly the green jade of the
ornaments that betrayed her years.
She sat leaning a little forward, the slender fingers of one hand half
supporting, half caressing her chin, and gazed dreamily out at the
splendid pageant of sea and shore spread before her. But its beauty
was not in her thought. The wonderful shimmer of the opalescent water,
now heliotrope, now tan, now pearl, under the rapturous rays of the
afternoon sun, the soft blue of the roofs rising here and there through
the brilliant green of the verdured hills, had now no charm for her. The
melancholy note of the wild dove, calling sweetly from the deep recesses
of the pines, suited more her mood. For trouble had come to O-Mitsu, of a
kind she did not know how to meet. Chukei, the _nakodo_, the professional
matchmaker, had called to see her father.
To the old Samurai, hardly less than to the girl, his message had come
with a shock. For as unconsciously as she had grown to womanhood, so
unconsciously had he seen her grow, with never a thought of the demand
for her that time was certain to bring. The son of whom he was so proud
was gone to the army. That year he had received his commission and joined
his regiment. The red cap-band of the Guards was a badge of honor for
Jukichi, and he dwelt lovingly on the future of the young officer who
had begun his career by winning appointment to the proudest service in
the land. But the old man missed the boy, and honor could not entirely
fill his place in the lonely house. It was the girl who brought sunshine
into Jukichi’s daily routine. The classes and the lessons that had earned
their humble subsistence still occupied part of his time, but the old
man had lost his zest for them, and his urgent need had passed. Kokan’s
pay was enough for them all considering their simple way of life, and
Jukichi, feeling his years, was beginning to contemplate the time when he
should resign his cares, and as _inkyo_, live out his days in rest and
peace.
In all such dreams O-Mitsu had her share. Jukichi did not mean
deliberately to keep her from the marriage to which every Japanese girl
looks forward, but he put the thought of it from him as unpleasant, and
Chukei had forced it on him against his will. He turned the _nakodo_
away with evasive answer and scant encouragement. Then for hours he sat
thinking of the girl and her future. After supper, when she brought his
pipe, he said:
“I have received a proposal of marriage for you.”
She put down his tobacco pouch and sat still, a sudden clutching about
her heart as if of suffocation. For some time Jukichi said nothing more,
then he added:
“Chukei-san, a _nakodo_, has been here to see me about it.”
“Ah,” she said, with a pitiful little effort to smile. Her father had
given no hint yet of his own feeling, and she dreaded what was to come.
She was not prepared for this. She had not thought of it. Kokan and her
father had made up her world, and she did not know what to say. The old
man sat looking at her fondly, and for a few moments neither spoke. Then
he said slowly:
“Yamamoto-san, the silk merchant, makes proposal on behalf of his son.”
She smiled again, and with better will, for somehow she found relief in
the words and manner of speaking. Besides, she did not know the young man
who had honored her, and she began to feel that perhaps her father might
not consent. She had no wish to marry, and she was not the girl to do so
simply for the asking. At length, as her father said no more, she plucked
up courage, and bowing deferentially to him, said:
“I do not wish to marry yet. It is better for me, if you will, to live
here with you until perhaps Kokan shall bring you another daughter to
keep the house.”
A smile of pleasure lighted the old man’s face.
“Ha,” he said, “it is as I wished you would feel.”
Then, if he had been an Occidental, he would have kissed his daughter,
and heart to heart they would have talked until the matter was settled.
But deep and true though affection may be among the Japanese, it finds
small show in outward expression, and caresses are signs of weakness.
“I have made no answer,” he went on, after a little. “I had no will to
have you marry if you were not ready.”
His hand moved a little as if to touch her arm, and his eyes glistened
with unusual emotion.
“I will tell Chukei-san.”
That was all. The incident was ended; but the girl, wiser by instinct
than her father, although without experience, marked it for the
beginning. What was it that stirred her heart in protest so strangely and
so strongly? She did not know. The ghost of some long dead experience,
perhaps. The wood dove in the trees behind her called plaintively to its
unseen mate. The sun slid down the western heaven and threw his long
rays caressingly over her, face to face with a world-old perplexity. Why
should she be sad at the prospect for which other girls longed? It was
the pleasant homelife with her father, and the deep, quiet home love,
she thought at last; life and love that knew no change. That was the
way she wished to go on, and with a sudden blaze of anger she hated old
Chukei for his unwelcome interference. Gradually her mind recovered its
old poise, and she saw the course she would take. Her father’s attitude
was her good fortune. As long as he continued in that mood the menace was
shorn of its power, and after that—The huge red sun splashed into the
flaming sea, and with its parting fire flashing back from her lambent
eyes she rose and started down the winding path toward home.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]