IX

There was plenty of work at the new bank, and Kutami divided his time

between it and his old affairs. In the street one morning as he was going

to the bank he came upon Chukei, the _nakodo_, of whom he had not a

thought since that day he saw him at Kudo-san’s gate.

“Good morning, Chukei-san,” he said; “what young people are you trying to

make happy now?”

“Not your son, surely,” answered the middleman, instantly scenting the

possibility of a fortunate stroke, and bowing very low to make a good

impression.

“Ho, ho!” cried Chobei, with a hearty laugh. “You are quite right. Surely

not my son. He has no thought of marrying yet.”

“Be not oversure,” replied the _nakodo_. “One never can tell what is in

the minds of these likely young fellows.”

“That is so,” returned the banker; “but I think I know my son quite

well enough. I saw you coming from Kudo-san’s house a while ago. That

must have been a proposal for his pretty daughter?” He chucked at his

shrewdness in guessing.

Chukei was not much inclined to discuss his clients’ affairs, but he was

tempted by the hope of gaining a new one, and besides, he loved a bit of

gossip.

“Yes,” he answered grinning sheepishly, “and a very good proposal it was,

too.”

“Indeed,” said Chobei, with neighborly interest. “I had not heard of the

wedding.”

“No, and you will not,” replied the matchmaker, a little sourly, for it

always angered him to think of the good business he had lost because of

O-Mitsu’s refusal. “My proposal was not accepted.”

“Dear me!” exclaimed Kutami; “that is very strange. Who was the man?”

“Yamamoto-san, the silk merchant,” responded the _nakodo_. “His son is

one of the finest young men in the city.”

“Yes, indeed,” said the banker, “I should think any man would be glad to

have his daughter make such a fortunate marriage. What did Kudo-san say?”

“That was the greatest surprise,” answered old Chukei. “He said his

daughter did not wish to marry.”

“Well, well!” cried the banker. “Who ever heard of a girl refusing to

marry when her father wished her too? Things have changed very much in

Japan when that can happen.”

“They have indeed,” replied the _nakodo_. “Least of all would one have

thought it of Kudo-san, but it is quite true. I have been there three

times since summer, each time with a very excellent marriage to offer,

and always it has been the same answer.”

“I wonder what the reason can be,” said the banker thoughtfully. “It is

certainly very strange. Good morning, Chukei-san,” and Chobei went on to

the bank, leaving the middleman quite uncertain whether he had made a

good investment of his gossip or not.

Jukichi’s neighbors had not missed the visits of the _nakodo_ to his

house, and as he had only one daughter and there was no wedding, it was

quite evident that several proposals for O-Mitsu had been rejected. It

was whispered about, in Lower Timber Street, that it was the girl herself

who had made the refusals. But if Jukichi had any regrets, they never

appeared. He loved the spirited girl and her gentle ways about the house,

and it mattered nothing to him if the neighborhood gossips talked of the

scandal of a girl who dared disclose a preference of her own contrary to

the wish of her father. Such a wonder might not be heard of again in all

Japan. He did not care. He enjoyed his home and his ease, and she was the

great factor in both.

Perhaps if he had been less fond, he might have been more suspicious. Yet

it had not occurred to the simple Samurai that there could be reasons

for his daughter’s hot distemper with the hopeful authors of Chukei’s

vicarious proposals other than her own demonstrative desire to remain in

the old home with him. The clever girl was shrewder than he guessed. But

who shall follow the blind trail of Love and pick out his footprints with

the certainty which may say, “There he stepped,” or “Here he stopped,” or

“See where he ran!”

There was lively interest in the house in Azalea Street that evening when

Chobei recounted his conversation with the _nakodo_. O-Koyo listened with

the kindly sympathy that ever kindles the matchmaking maternal heart. As

for Soichi, he heard with a growing feeling of impending disaster that

made it difficult for him to conceal his emotion. O-Mitsu had never told

him anything of this, and if she had been rejoiced at the discovery of

qualities in him which she had not anticipated, it was his turn to be

surprised at her ability to keep to herself a subject which she knew

would be so disquieting to him. He got out his little writing-box and

began a letter to her. O-Koyo sighed fondly as she glanced at the corner

where he sat with his ink and brush, busily covering a long roll of paper

with she knew not what words.

“Ah,” she said, “if only one of the proposals had been for Soichi

perhaps she would not have refused.”

“Hut!” cried her husband sharply. “Our son marry the daughter of

Kudo-san! What can you be thinking of?”

“Why not?” she replied quickly, undaunted by his scornful look. “Strange

things happen nowadays. Stranger than that have happened already, why not

again? We are rich and they are very poor.”

“Ah, yes,” returned Chobei soberly. “That is true. But money is not so

much yet, in Japan, and many more very strange things must come to pass

before it is. Besides, we are Eta and they Samurai.”

“No, no!” cried his wife, with unaccustomed daring; “we were Eta and they

were Samurai. Now all that is ended, and you have the best cause to know

it who were yourself associated so closely with this Kudo-san in the

school. To be sure we are only Commoners yet, but who knows what may not

come? If there should be war, what opportunities for advancement may it

not bring? One who can do for himself what you have done may do a great

deal more. Why should not you, or Soichi himself, win the promotion that

would make old Kudo-san glad to consent?”

She paused, excited and trembling, surprised at herself for making

so much argument against her husband. Chobei sat looking at her in

astonishment. Never before had she shown such feeling.

“Whatever is the world coming to,” he exclaimed at length, “when foolish

women can talk like that!”

He filled his little pipe and exhausted the pellet of tobacco almost at

one puff. But Soichi said nothing at all, and went on making his brush

fly like a dragon over the paper as if he had heard not a word of their

talk. O-Koyo said no more, and her husband smoked furiously, rapping

his pipe on the _hibachi_ to knock out the ashes, as if he meant to

smash it to pieces. At length Soichi rolled up his yards of affectionate

ideographs and slipped them deftly inside the long, narrow envelope, with

sprays of delicate pink cherry blossoms trailing over it. Then he went

out into the night and stole down to the corner of Kudo-san’s fence. Only

the plum-tree saw him slip the cap of the bamboo post and lay his love

letter carefully inside. Then he strode off toward the path up the hill.

His heart was in a tumult. Straight up to the old shrine he went, paused

a moment before it, and hurried on to their trysting-place at the big

rock. There he sat down, and a long time pondered the strange, exciting

news he had heard that evening. When he returned he found his father

still silently smoking rapid pipefuls and O-Koyo sitting beside him with

never a word, her hands busy with sewing. As he entered Chobei looked up

and asked:

“Where have you been?”

“I went out to walk,” answered Soichi, “and climbed up to the shrine on

the hill-top.”

Perhaps it was his talk with the _nakodo_, perhaps it was the suggestion

of his wife that had set Chobei to thinking definitely about the future

of his son. Theretofore there had been only a vague recognition of the

fact that sometime Soichi would marry. Now suddenly it came to him that

the boy was grown to man’s estate, that the condition he half dreaded,

half expected, was already come. With the realization came back the

mental picture of old Chukei. It was time to look about them, he thought,

to consider the possibility of finding a suitable mate for his promising

son, and, perhaps, to employ the middleman. After a time Chobei put aside

his pipe and began to speak of what he had been thinking. Soichi listened

like the dutiful son he was, and O-Koyo heard gladly, for even if it were

not to be the beautiful daughter of the Samurai, she would be happy to

see the son of whom she was so proud well married, and the daughter in

the house would make her cares much lighter. When at length there came a

pause in which Soichi could speak, it was with an air of quiet unconcern

that he said:

“But first I must do my service in the army. If war does come, perhaps

there will be no need for Chukei-san.”

Then, because they were alone in their own privacy, where no outside

eye or ear might see or hear, and it was not necessary to conceal their

genuine emotions, they gave full rein to the expression of their sober

feelings, and the mother, who would be proudly scornful of tears or

outward show of grief if the time should come to send her boy to the

hardships and hazards of camps and battlefields, gave the hot, protesting

drops unheeded flow. But Soichi showed the mettle that was in him,

saying calmly:

“But if the Emperor wishes it!”

Reverently the Commoner and his wife bowed at the mention of that name

and the suggestion of his possible desire. There was no more loyal

family in all his realm than they, and if he needed the sacrifice of all

they had, and life itself, they had only to know his need to make the

offering. The proudest opportunity life held was to die for him, and it

was with heartfelt acquiescence that they heard their son add:

“Then I should be sorry that I had only one life to give him.”

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

X

“Three times, he told my father, he had made offer of marriage for you,

and each time it was refused.”

Soichi looked down upon her where she sat by the big rock, and his black

eyes shone with a great tenderness. She did not look up, but gazed away

toward the sea and made no reply. All the time since she had read his

letter she had wondered what to say to him. For she had wished earnestly

that he might not know. There was trouble enough already for them, and it

could do no good to tell him. It could only add to his disquiet, and as

it was they seldom met without some shadow of their specter falling over

them. So she meant to bear this alone, and if by and by the barriers were

destroyed, then it would add to their joy. But now it had come, through

the foolish gabble of old Chukei. She looked up at him standing there, so

strong and manly, and the sadness she saw smote her heart.

“Three times,” he repeated.

The old roguish smile came into her eyes. “But none of them was from a

banker,” she said softly.

As always, she had only to seem merry to drive away his sober mood, and

now the light-hearted answer brought its quick smile in return.

“But why did you not tell me?” he demanded.

“Thou art dull, Big One,” she answered, “to ask me such questions. Surely

thou must have guessed.”

“I am not quick with riddles,” he said.

Manlike he had but one way. He must know it all and she must tell. The

intuition that would have conjured up the whole scene for her was

utterly lacking in him, and as she watched him, she saw the shadow settle

on his brow that warned her of his shifting mood.

“For one,” she said quickly, “how could I tell when you were not here,

and thought so little of me you had not even told me where you were?”

He did not understand, and she laughed at his puzzled look. Then he saw.

“So long ago,” he said, “before I came home?”

“Is it so very long?” she asked. “I do not remember. It seemed but

yesterday I saw you here. How many years is it, man to whom it has been

so long?”

He gazed at her bewildered. He was no match for her at such fencing of

wits. He flung himself down beside her and said shortly:

“Have the kindness to explain, if you please. Do you not see how I am

tortured?”

“No, no!” she cried, “not that! Were they not all refused? For what are

you tortured? Ah, if you had been a woman you would have been taught

in childhood how foolish it is to admit jealous thoughts. Well, then,

since you insist so much, the first one was refused—I did not know why.

My father gave me my wish and I said No. Then one day I went to visit an

old shrine I love very much, and I found out why. After that, with the

others—there was no other reason. Now is the torture ended?”

He turned to her and the smile in his eyes was complete reward. “I am

very glad,” he said.

“And very foolish,” she added softly.

“I wished very much to know,” he said after a pause. “To-morrow I am

summoned to the temple for examination.”

“To-morrow!” she cried. She knew it was to come but had not thought it

was so near. “To-morrow!” she repeated, whispering, as if to herself.

“Are you glad to go? Perhaps you will not be taken.”

“Nay,” he said, “if there is war I shall be glad and proud, and if there

is no war the time will soon be ended.”

“Very soon,” she said demurely, and made as if counting on her fingers.

“When a few months may seem so many years how long will three years be?”

“Long enough for more refusals,” he answered, and she laughed at the

retort.

“But it is by lot that they are chosen,” she said, “and it may not fall

on you.”

He smiled fondly at her eagerness and innocence. “Yes, by lot,” he

answered. “But your Samurai policemen know well where to make the lots

fall.”

She knew what he meant. Young men as tall and sturdy as he did not

escape, even though the selection was by chance. There was a keen-eyed,

patriotic, military intelligence that supervised the casting of the lots,

and the girl, who gloried in his strength, foresaw the certainty that

he would be chosen. Nor was he, in truth, unwilling to go. If it should

happen that the wheel of the lottery left him free to stay at home, as it

did some quite as fit as he for service, he would accept the result with

a clean conscience. For brief and infrequent as were his opportunities

for seeing O-Mitsu, even they would be lost if he were in the army. Thus

far his loyalty and sense of duty to the empire let him go. Before the

lots were drawn he could hope that they would miss him. When the decision

was made, if he were taken he would set his heart to his work with a

will and devotion no tie of home, no merely personal consideration, would

ever cause to waver for an instant. And of all who knew and loved him

none would urge him on more eagerly than the girl. She was looking at

him proudly as he sat before her, and it came to her that he was of the

build and stature sought for throughout the empire for the distinguished

regiments which had the honor of bearing the imperial name.

“You will go to the Guards,” she said.

“Oh, no,” he answered quickly; “I could not hope for such an honor.”

“Honor!” she said with a smile. “It will be an honor to the Guards to

have such a soldier.”

That was too much and he laughed at the joke. “But I am not a soldier,”

he protested.

“You will be,” she answered confidently. “There are some things about

you, Big One, which you do not know yourself, but I know. Come, it is

time to go. You must drink no sake to-night, and sleep well, to be ready

for the examination.”

There was plenty of company for Soichi at the temple the next morning.

All the young men of his age in the district had been summoned, and there

was a clatter of eager talk among them as they awaited their turns with

the examiners. But Soichi had little to say. He heard with amusement

the boastful words of some who knew themselves to be at the threshold

of distinction and honor, and he had a strange sympathy for some who

hoped to escape. For himself, a night of agitated reflection, sleepless

in spite of O-Mitsu’s parting injunction, had brought him a day of calm

indifference. He was ready for whatever might come. The businesslike

surgeon, working rapidly but carefully, pronounced his verdict with

prompt decision, and one after another was set free or sent on to the

recruiting captain. At length it was Soichi’s turn. The brusque doctor’s

eyes glistened as he saw the rippling muscles of the broad shoulders, and

an exclamation of professional pleasure broke from his lips as he caught

the rhythmic note of the deep breathing.

“Lungs like a bellows,” he cried to his assistant.

Weight, height, and measurements were quickly taken, and with an

enthusiasm he had not displayed in many a day the surgeon called to the

recording sergeant:

“_Ichiban_” (first-class).

Already Soichi knew his fate. His university degree would take the place

of the recruiting captain’s mental examination, and after that there

would be only the certainty of the lots. It did not take the captain

long to repeat the surgeon’s “_Ichiban_,” and as Soichi turned away from

giving his record at the desk, he heard the recruiting officer say to the

inspector major, who had just come in:

“There is one for the Guards. Just look at him.”

O-Mitsu’s judgment was confirmed, and he went home to await the notice of

his selection, and to write perhaps his last letter to her. For he would

not dare to write to her home when he was away, and they had no friend

whom they would trust with their secret. It was a sober letter. There

seemed little chance now that war would be avoided. Already men said that

the throat of the Dragon had been touched, and throughout the Empire

preparations were going on rapidly for the time when he should strike.

With simple directness Soichi told his news, and spoke proudly of the

intimation he had had that he should go to the Guards. There would be a

few weeks of drill and preliminary work, he supposed, in the barracks

at division headquarters in the near-by city, and it might be that once

or twice more he should have the opportunity of seeing her before he

went to Tokyo to join his regiment. After that would come the war and

the battlefield. She would know he did not say it to boast, but he meant

to do a soldier’s duty. It would have been sweet, it there had been no

war (he spoke of it as if it were already begun), to live on there with

her, for in some way it would have worked out for them. But that was

impossible now; a dream to be forgotten. The dearest wish of his heart

was to die for the Emperor, and he prayed only that Shaka would permit

him to meet his fate gloriously and with honor.

That was all. Not a word to her of the love that filled his heart. Not

a message of hope or farewell, not a hint of constancy or patience. All

that was behind him. His duty lay to the future and to the grim chance of

war.

It was a raw, cold night, with a bitter wind searching through the bare

branches of the plum tree, and Soichi shivered as he lifted the cap of

the bamboo post and thrust in his letter. Then he patted the cap back

into place and turned away, nor noticed that a telltale corner of the

envelope projected through the joint he had not closed tightly. And of

all the evenings in the year, that was the one Jukichi chose to visit the

plum tree.

Next day the notification came. Soichi had been selected for immediate

service and was to go to the Guards. His record in the military work

at school was such that the preliminary training at adjacent division

headquarters would be waived and he would report directly to his

regiment. He would start the following day.

He went to the bank and finished up his work there in preparation for

indefinite absence. Then he wrote a little note to O-Mitsu, telling her

the orders he had received, and started home. The early winter evening

had fallen before he reached the house in Timber Street, and he stopped

at the bamboo post to leave his note and perhaps to find a letter from

her. He lifted the cap with excited eagerness and felt in the hollow.

There, sure enough, was a letter. He took it out with thumping heart and

dropped in his own; then hurried around the corner home, impatient for

light to read her words.

The first glance at the envelope sent a queer sensation of coldness

through his heart, as if he had suddenly been struck chill. The writing

was strange. The delicate characters of O-Mitsu, beautiful as the work

of a famous artist, were replaced by the strong, heavy, brush strokes of

an angry man. For an instant he stared at them with mind a blank. Then

he knew. Someone had found them out. He stood as if paralyzed by shock,

nerveless, inert, expecting some dire calamity. Then he tore open the

envelope.

A single glance was sufficient to tell the story. The signature was the

first thing his eye caught, and after that he could hardly see the other

words. Those two dominated everything—“Kudo Jukichi”—her father! The

new-clothed dignity of the law that made him a Commoner slipped from him

like a kimono unfastened; the honor of his new service, the pride of his

regimental assignment faded away, and he was again the Eta of the old

days, outcast, despised, a very pollution. All that he had done, all

that his father had done, the position they had won in the community,

the consideration of their fellows were made as nothing by the simple

apparition of those two words.

But after a little the old inborn pride of race came back to him and

he straightened up like a new man. He was one of whom the Emperor had

deigned to think; what should he care what others said? What mattered

it after all that her father had learned their secret? Nothing but that

was changed, and sooner or later that must have come. He had done no

wrong. He was not changed. The law that had given him citizenship was

still the law. The Emperor’s care was over him. It was his Sovereign’s

wish that he was what he was. He took new heart and began to read the

letter. His brain was cooler now. In the mental numbness that followed

the first shock he had felt only a vague terror of the fury of Kudo. But

as he read, the words that had seemed so awful in anticipation lost some

of their dreaded force. The wild outburst of rage was not there, but in

its place a cool, fine sarcasm that cut as if the Samurai who wrote had

wielded his sword instead.

A curious calm possessed him as he finished the letter. The haughty pride

of the Samurai, his bitter contempt for the “outcast” who dared presume

to think of his daughter, his jeers at the “upstart trader” had lost

their sting. It was a soldier of the Empire, a man of the Guards, who

folded the letter and replaced it in its envelope. With a smiling face he

met his father and mother and sat down to supper.

After the meal, when the pipes were brought out, he handed the letter

to his father to read. It might as well be told now. His poor little

secret, stripped of its veil, seemed very small and miserable. But he

was going away to-morrow, and unknown to-morrow might do what it would

with him. He listened unmoved while Chobei slowly read aloud the bitter,

mocking words of the man for whom he had done so much. O-Koyo covered

her face with her kimono sleeves and wept openly; but father and son sat

with steady features and gave no sign, save that when the reading was

ended the Commoner laid his strong arm across his son’s shoulder in shy,

unaccustomed caress, and said:

“My son! My son!” No more.

[Illustration]