THE HOME-COMING
Maido had not long to wait, though the time seemed never to pass. It was
the first word received from his son, for Shibusawa knew the danger of
even attempting to communicate with either his parent or Kinsan. During
all these years he knew not what effect his departure had wrought at
home, nor of the fortunes of those whom he had left behind. Still he had
always hoped for the best, and when he had definitely made up his mind
to return he so managed to forward the letter of advice as to bring it
safely to Maido's hand; arriving, as it happened, only a few days after
Takara had been seized and carried away by the ronin, and none too
early, for Shibusawa himself came soon thereafter.
To avoid possible compromise Shibusawa had couched the letter in such
terms that no one but a father could be the wiser for its contents;
therefore no dates were fixed, and the anxious daimyo had only to wait,
and for hours sat watching the gate in front. These were suspicious
times at Tokyo, hence no preparations could be made for the home-coming,
nor information given out, save Maido's instructions to the faithful
Okyo. Thereafter no arrival escaped that one's vigilant eye, and when
the expected ship had safely arrived at Yokohama he was there on hand
with an extra pilgrim's outfit on his back.
Late the next evening they two reached home, and Shibusawa, footsore and
weary, hurried up the pathway and into the house, where he bowed low at
his father's feet. Neither attempted to speak. When Shibusawa had
changed his clothing they sat in the cool of the evening, for it was now
late in June, enjoying the breeze that floated in from the bay in the
distance. The family brazier was again brought out, and they sat and
smoked and talked the hours away.
"And now, father," said the son, after they had talked much about the
family and things at home, "you must lie down and sleep, and to-morrow I
shall tell you all about myself. I know you are anxious to hear, but you
must rest now, and then the story will be the more pleasing. You need
have no fear but you shall hear it all--I am returned, and I promise I
shall not soon again leave you. Goodnight, and peace for you."
They had no sooner parted and the father gone to sleep than Shibusawa
hastened to change his dress and once again find his way to the hidden
cave. The time seemed long to him since he had last been there, and now
that he was about to go again he felt that he never would get started.
Just why he wanted to hurry there he did not know; possibly he had not
consulted reason; yet it was his only hope, and that was enough to impel
him to go.
As he approached the familiar gate where he had so often passed he
observed that new locks hung from the latches; that the old guard had
gone; that a haughty, "Who goes there?" greeted his ears, and suddenly
it appeared to him that a great change had taken place. He realised for
the first time that he was no longer in the land which he had left only
a few years before; that here, too, the seed of progress had been sown,
and that already new sprouts were bursting forth. He marvelled at the
new order, and a fresh desire came upon him. Suddenly he turned upon the
trusty, and in answer said convincingly:
"A friend."
He knew it was of no use to deny his purpose or make any extended
explanation; neither was he willing nor the guard desirous that he
should. Under the circumstances just one thing would gain his
admittance; none in that land knew better than Shibusawa, the newly
returned, just what results could be obtained by the judicious use of
money. So, when the pompous keeper jerked his steel from the hip and
held it abreast his chin, with firm footing and erect body, Shibusawa
did not weaken in the least, but boldly approached and unconcernedly
dropped a coin in the fellow's convenient hand.
"All's well!" shouted the subdued guard, as he turned his back and
lowered his arms, the while Shibusawa raised the latch and entered at
one side the ponderous gate.
He did not hesitate nor give the matter further thought, but hurried on
toward the place which to him bore the most pleasant memory of his life.
Each pebble seemed a guide post, and every step an inspiration. He
tramped on without either stopping or lagging until the hill had been
scaled, and then there came over him grave feelings of doubt and of
dread. The pathway was no longer clear. The entrance was a tangled
thicket of brier and weeds. He made further progress with difficulty,
and when he had reached the mouldy place no friendly sight greeted his
eyes. Years of abandonment had obliterated everything except her memory.
He paused and looked around, then shuddered, and stumbled toward that
side where once the stone steps had marked the entrance. They were still
bare, though unused; no trash had gathered there. They were yet as
undefiled as they were on the day he had found Kinsan lying upon them.
He sat down and searched among the stars for an answer to his heart's
yearnings.
Long he studied as to what had been her fate. Each new thought stirred
him to greater determination, every discouragement moved him to plan
afresh. He must find her; yet he sat with his face buried in his hands;
despair overshadowed him. Then he thought of the old hiding-place, where
in days gone by they were wont to secrete such messages as were sacred
to them alone. He arose and climbed up to the entrance as if it were but
yesterday that he had been there.
He raised the wisteria, which had grown heavy and more dense. Inside the
walled den, the webs stretched thicker and stronger than before. Here
and there a spider paused, then ran his way. There was no sound, yet a
voice bade him enter. He searched, and in the centre found two stones,
placed one on top of the other. He knew they were placed there not by
accident. Fear overcame him, and he stood breathless, yet powerless.
Then he stooped and raised the stone, which revealed a message that to
him was sweeter, dearer than all the world.
He hastened back to the cave, and seating himself on the stone steps,
where he had pressed her close to him and listened to her golden words
of confidence, broke the seal from which there unfolded a musty sheet
that in the light of a smiling moon again spoke her heart's content:
"DEAR LOVE:
"It is for you that I write. None other is worth the while. I am
going to-morrow where fate has called me. I have little to
offer, except an undying love; all else is theirs; it is decreed
right. But so long as the soul is and the heart beats, this love
shall be yours and only yours. The spirit which gave it to you
shall keep it for you.
"Oh, decree of man, where is your relish! I bow to your will,
but in him is my god. My Shibusawa, my love, my light! In you
life still has hope. Death shall meet its reward. Think of me a
little, do not judge me harshly, let me live as my heart tells
me, and I shall die happy. The troubles of the earth will be as
the joys of heaven, and you shall be the hand that guides me,
saves me--oh, I love you so! I cannot live except for you, I
shall not die without you.
"Believe me, your true love, your sweetheart,
"K."
The puzzled man read the note again and again with care, then leaned
back in silence. He had divined only too truly her fate, and when he
thought that possibly she, too, had been put up to the highest bidder, a
feeling of faintness took hold of him and he bent forward and sat for a
long time unable to move or to decide.