“LET us go outside. See, many of the citizens stand on the roofs of the
cars. We can see nothing from here.”
Thus coaxed Ohano. With Gonji’s parents she was traveling, their train
running parallel with another crowded with the departing troops. The
trains moved slowly, for all the country had come to see the departing
ones and to acclaim them with loud banzais.
Lady Saito’s hard features were unrecognizable because of their swollen
and agonized appearance. She allowed the younger woman to support her
and finally draw her outside. The people made way respectfully for them.
Every one knew their history—knew, moreover, of the sacrifice they were
making in giving up the only son, and of how generously they had
contributed to the war fund. Here were the brave, patriotic father and
mother! Here the young and beautiful wife.
Ohano’s round cheeks were pink with excitement. She had forgotten, for
the time being at least, her last interview with her husband. The
excitement of the situation, the murmured admiration and respect of
those about her, upheld her. There was almost an element of enjoyment
mingled with her excitement, as her eyes wandered eagerly over the
crowds.
The train bearing the troops moved a bit swifter along its course, and
the fourth car came opposite to that on the platform of which stood the
Saito family.
“There he is! There he is!” cried Ohano, excitedly; and she leaned far
out, restrained by the solicitous hand of her father-in-law, and, waving
her silk handkerchief, called to her husband by name:
“Gonji! Gonji! My Lord Gonji!”
“My son!” moaned the aged woman, unable longer to restrain her feelings.
Stoically, and with no sign of the ache within her, she had parted from
her son. Japanese women send their men on perilous journeys with smiles
upon their lips, even while their hearts are breaking; but now, as the
mother saw the train carrying away the only child the gods had given
her, the tension broke. She clung moaning to her husband and her
daughter-in-law.
For the first time, as she saw the thin profile of the young man in the
window of the car opposite, she was seized with an overwhelming sense of
remorse. What happiness had she ever helped to bring into the life of
her boy? She had put him from her after the manner of a Spartan woman
while he was yet in tender years. She had done this fiercely, heroically
as she believed, fearing that otherwise she might not sufficiently do
her duty to both him and the ancestors. But now—now! He was going from
her forever! She had given him to the Emperor! Soon her terrible prayer
that he might give his young life in service for his Emperor and country
might indeed be answered.
She felt very old, very feeble, and utterly forsaken and forlorn. Even
as she looked through tear-blinded eyes at her son there came vividly
before her memory the pale and tragic face of the young and outcast wife
he had loved so passionately. She burst into a loud cry, stretching out
her arms frantically:
“Oh, my son! Oh, my son!”
In the opposite train Gonji raised his head, saw his people, but,
possibly because of the crowds and the intervening glass pane, did not
notice their intense anguish. He smiled, bowed, and made a slight motion
of salute with his hand.
His mother was silenced, and remained staring at him like one turned to
stone. Ohano’s face fell, and she stood like a pouting child unjustly
punished. He had not even risen in his seat nor so much as opened the
window.
Both trains had now come to a standstill at the little suburban station.
Crowds of people swarmed over the platform, some even climbing the steps
of the troop-train and penetrating into the cars themselves. A band
began to beat out the monotonous droning music of the national hymn.
Windows were raised, caps lifted, and cheering ensued for a time. But
still the Lord Gonji remained unmoved, not rousing from the moody
reverie into which he seemed plunged, and casting not even a glance in
the direction of the party that watched him so eagerly from across the
way: so oblivious and indifferent to his surroundings did he seem.
Suddenly an officer in the seat behind him leaned over and spoke to him.
His family saw Gonji start as if he had been struck. Turning about
quickly in his seat, he tore at the fastenings of the window. Now he
leaned far out, his ears strained, his eyes searching above the vast
crowds without.
They watched him curiously, following his gaze. His lips moved; he
seemed about to leap from the window, but was held back by the
restraining hand of his brother-officer, and the train began to move
rapidly.
A hush had fallen not alone upon the family of the Saito, but on the
throngs pressing on all sides. As if compelled, their united gaze
followed that of the seemingly entranced Gonji.
Upon a little hillock a short space removed from the station, one lone
figure stood out, silhouetted against the clear blue sky. Her kimono was
of a vermilion color, embroidered with dragons of gold. Gold, too, was
her obi, and in the bright sunlight her scarlet fan and the poppies in
her hair flashed like sparks of fire.
To the crowds in the valley below, surging like a swarm of sheep all
along the railway-tracks, following the troop-trains, their hoarse
cheers mingling with that of the beating drums and the chanting of the
national hymn, she seemed a symbol of triumph, an exquisite omen of
victory to come!
Some one shouted her name aloud:
“The glorious Spider of the House of Slender Pines!”
“Nay,” cried another, “it is the vision of the Sun Lady herself!”
The soldiers, too, saw her, and began to cheer, their wild banzais
ringing out triumphantly and reaching the geisha on the hill.
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