THE CHILD
Upon Kinsan's arrival at Tetsutaisho's house she was treated with every
consideration by her master, and in reality though not in fact given
equal rank with the mistress. She was settled in that part of the house
over which his mother was supposed to reign and his lawful wife,
Nehachibana, had been the principal personage, and while not raised to
the place of a concubine she was given all the privileges of one. Her
position was supposed to be that of a servant, yet in turn she was given
servants and no duties were, by Tetsutaisho, exacted of her. It was not
because he did not intend her to be his full-fledged concubine, nor
because he had any scruples about Nehachibana that he did not give
Kinsan that position; but simply because he entertained grave doubts
about Takara's pleasure in the matter--something with which even he as
yet hesitated to trifle.
He had gained Takara's love, and her honest love, upon the strength of
an affinity--a thing which, so long as it lasted, brooked no rival. He
had, though, in taking her into his house assumed responsibilities far
beyond personal ones; and recognising the superiority of her position
realised that, should he incur her displeasure, she had but to call upon
a power that might overthrow and discard him in spite of his usefulness.
He sought, therefore, to deceive Takara as to his real purpose in
bringing Kinsan into the house, and to let her discover by slow degrees
that, without a proper encouragement, even affinity may wane and finally
cease to hold the object of its affection.
Takara still loved him and was none the wiser; thus he continued without
danger his complicated relations, though she felt a growing coldness and
the oncoming of something, she knew not what. She was now deeply worried
and much given to thinking, for there was approaching also a critical
period; but when rumours came to her ears, and she chided him about
Kinsan, he answered:
"Takara, you do me a great injustice. I am not only true, as you see,
but I have anticipated the necessity of keeping at hand one upon whose
shoulders may be placed the responsibilities for the care of our child."
"But why not intrust that service to one whom we know to be best
fitted?" asked Takara, anxiously. "There is Nannoto, whose mother
carried in her arms your mother's mother."
"No, Takara; it is not the service I would trouble myself about. My lady
should not so degrade herself."
"Why degraded? You told me not."
"It is not the fashion."
"But if it is my choice?"
"You have no choice."
"Would you take from a mother her child?"
"The law allows it."
"Then the law is unjust, and there is a better way."
"Fashion is inexorable, and the law must be upheld."
"Whether the fashion or the law, it is wrong. A mother's breast is a
woman's joy."
"Obedience is a woman's highest virtue."
Takara understood fully the force as well as the law of her chosen
lord's argument, though she was none the less aware of her own recourse.
While she felt the chagrin of defeat she realised the danger of appeal;
therefore she concluded to bide her time and make the best use of her
opportunities. Her love for him was not dead, but there was awakening
within her a new light, a better purpose.
Nehachibana, though better informed, had been the more easily deceived.
Not that she in the least misunderstood her husband's motive in foisting
upon her another and a still more unwelcome rival, but that she entirely
mistook Kinsan's position. Nehachibana loved Tetsutaisho--just why she
had never stopped to inquire. If it was because she was his wife, her
love was none the less intense; and because she was in love with him,
she thought every other woman must be--at least all those who evinced
the slightest interest, whether courted or courting. And if she was to
share another portion, she found much consolation if not happiness in
the thought that Takara, too, must lose in like proportion. It was a
reiteration of the old adage that there can be no great loss without
some small gain; a jealous reward and a revengeful satisfaction. She now
pitied Takara and hated Kinsan (in virtue of a community of
feeling)--the one because of her position, the other in consequence of
hers.
The mother's indifference proved to be as great a blessing to Kinsan as
it was a curse to Nehachibana. What the one gained by being let alone
the other lost in virtue of being served likewise, thus results struck a
happy balance. But it was from another source that fear and anxiety came
to both alike, to Nehachibana because of neglect and to Kinsan because
of danger.
As the last sight of the latter's childhood home had vanished from her
view she bent down under the weight of her grief, but when she had
arrived at Tetsutaisho's place of sin and had been brought face to face
with his mock glances she fell upon her knees, not in humble
supplication, but in the full recognition of her weakness. It was then
that she prayed as only one can pray who values life less than honour;
and when the fiendish touch came she did not yield, but shrank from him
and spoke her mind in a voice that is beyond the power of words. Sheer
courage lost him his victim, determination saved her.
Stunned by the force of her great purity, he did not lessen his
persistence, but delayed from time to time a more cowardly intention;
finally there dawned within him the impulse of a purer love, which
gradually overcame his weakness and made it possible to find a better
way. He decided now to hold her in reality as a servant, and on the
seventh day after the birth of the child, himself took it, and carrying
it to Kinsan, placed it in her arms and told her that it should be her
charge. It was a fine, large boy, the eyes and mould revealing its
mother's heritage, and as Tetsutaisho gave Kinsan the baby, he bade her
call it Sodachinojoi, and say nothing more. Then he said to her:
"You have refused me; now you must serve mine. So long as you do that,
and do it well, and as I bid, you shall know no penalty, though it is a
grave sin to oppose your master's will. And when you have done, I shall
trust to gratitude for what you have so persistently withheld. Go now,
and beware of the inquisitive."
"My heart bids me do my part," said she, in answer. "This burden is even
more, it is a blessing. I pray for strength that I may serve well and
please much. The reward is already mine."
"Then you would mock me, heigh? Bring me the child--no; I shall send you
both to the dungeon," and he arose and stood meditating.
"I pray you, sir, send me, but save the child. It is innocent, and it
has a mother. I am unworthy, yet I will pay the penalty. Pray, sir?"
He did not answer at once, but stood regarding her; he may have
marvelled at her charity, possibly he was touched by her tenderness. At
all events he moved closer, and whispered:
"Kinsan, I truly love you."
She did not hear him. Her eyes rested on the child in her arms. She was
thinking of a mother's sorrow, possibly a child's fate. He came close up
and would have touched her had she not shrunk from him and cried:
"I do not comprehend. It is not his voice. It is not true."
"Aha," said Tetsutaisho to himself, as he leaned back in silence. "It is
not I that she disdains, but it is another whom she loves."
Then after a while he addressed her saying:
"Kinsan, I trust you will pardon my incivility. I did not mean to be
rude, though I may deserve your censure. And now that it is done, I do
not want you to feel that it is my heart that is wrong. Do me the honour
to serve this child, and Tetsutaisho shall see to it that the reward be
as you desire. I leave you free to say as much, if it is your pleasure."
"The honour is mine to serve. The pleasure, yours to grant. And is there
any higher?" asked she, confident and earnest.
Tetsutaisho soon after withdrew and left Kinsan to begin her new duties
with a lighter heart and a better confidence. She felt with renewed hope
that there was still a chance for the right. And now that her hands were
no longer idle, she must drive away despair and set about with fresh
courage to make much happiness out of the little that life offered.
She soon learned to love the child, and often took it from the nurse and
held it in her own arms. At dusk of night she would sit for hours,
singing lullabies or reciting favourite poems. Sometimes she peered
dreamily, softly, into the far distance, and then her voice would rise
to the sweet, lonely pitch of the nightingale or deepen into tenderest
pathos. Once these sad, weird strains reached Tetsutaisho's ears, and
they touched him more deeply, strangely, than when he first heard her at
the garden.
"It is her soul speaking its wonderful love," said he to himself, as he
lounged and listened from his own mat on a dark, still night, "and I
would give all that is in this world were that love for me."
Then he asked Ikamon to come to his house and listen in the cool of the
evening to her songs and her poems. No mention was made to her of her
intended audience, for Tetsutaisho had learned her true spirit and was
now beginning to respect her. He would not so intrude as to ask her to
sing; her heart only alone and undisturbed could invoke such melody; yet
he could not resist inviting his friend to share the pleasure of her
voice, though only by chance might they be so privileged. Ikamon came
and he, too, was charmed.
"It is the grandest voice I ever heard," said he, with enthusiasm, as he
arose and thanked his host for the entertainment, preparatory to taking
his leave.