ALONE in his deserted apartments the Mori sat—prince no longer, for with
other nobles and daimios he had resigned his fief into the Mikado’s
hands. The officers had long ago departed, to enter upon the new courses
the parting benefits of their leader had determined for them. Some were
already upon their way to the provinces, the offices of Mori had
procured for them, as governors appointed by the Mikado.
Toro had gone to Catzu, to govern for the Mikado the territory his
father had administered for the Shogun. Father and son had been
reunited. The Lady Evening Glory had long been dead, and Catzu was
without a mistress.
Yet Mori had detailed for Toro what he considered a greater reward.
“Toro,” said Mori, “you will deliver this order, signed by me, in person
to the Lady Hollyhock, directing her to cease forthwith her mutinous
rebellion, and to render herself as a conquered province into thy
hands.”
“But, your highness,” said Toro, “I do not desire an unwilling bride,
who yields herself but to superior command.”
Mori’s smile had within it the tinge of a satirical wisdom.
“Toro, my comrade and friend,” he said, gravely, “I do assure you that
you will not need that order. The heart of the lady is yours. Only her
coquetry holds out, and finding in my writ a convenient pretext, she
will gladly go the way the heart has long directed.”
With exuberant joy Toro had started from the apartment.
“Yet, once again, Toro,” said Mori. “While I aid you with the Lady
Hollyhock, I warn you that you will never find your complete happiness
in a woman. After the first days you must look to the faithful
administration of your province for your chief satisfaction in living.”
“I do not agree with you, your highness,” Toro replied. Then he added,
with a cheery laugh:
“But there will be some satisfaction, truly, in administering my
province, and mine ancient, rebellious sire.”
Before the officers departed, Toro, as their spokesman, had presented to
their old commander two swords, richly wrought, the usual token of the
samurai as their parting tribute.
“I do assure you,” Mori had responded, “that in giving me these swords
you have not merely given me a reminder, as your spokesman has said, of
our services for the New Japan, but you have given me as well the
conquest of a newer, higher, more happy universe. As a citizen of a
greater universe, I thank you.”
In these words, and in every act of the former Prince that day, the
officers, save the delight-blinded Toro, had observed a touch of
finality, the savoring grace of a farewell to earthly things, that,
samurai as they were, had not failed to move them. Plainly their lord
contemplated something that their order called honorable; yet they
shuddered at the thought.
Now they were all gone out of Mori’s life, into the new life he and they
had created together. The Shining Prince was left alone—alone with two
swords that lay upon a low table at his side.
The moment long waited by Mori had come. The Mikado had been restored to
his ancient sovereignty; peace was once more upon the land. The great
purpose of his efforts was attained; every thread connecting Mori with
this new order of things had gone from his opponents—from his life—save
two swords alone, which he had said were means for another conquest.
Yet in spite of the atmosphere of finality that he felt pervading his
apartments, Mori was not thinking of the termination he had set to his
activities. His thoughts carried him beyond the black period he had said
should close his sentence. Over into regions of life across finality his
imagination strayed. The Lady Wistaria came back to his memory, his
mind, his heart—occupied his whole being with the force of the magic
spell she had woven about him.
When Jiro had made his plea the day previous Mori had instantly
recognized its meaning. It came with no joy to him. His course of
thought and heart had been too long bent in one direction for the timid,
blind words of a youth to swing it abruptly.
“It is one more device, perchance, of my enemies,” he had said, dully,
in the first bitterness that came when the lad’s words had touched his
heart.
Now, when all was over, he was again, in spite of his will, weighing the
possibilities. Of course there might be truth in what Jiro had said, but
it could not be determined save in the eyes of the Lady Wistaria
herself, and now the lad Jiro had not come, as he had promised.
With a profound sigh, Mori, raising his head, caught sight again of the
two swords. Yes, they held their meaning for him. Jiro’s words were not
worthy of belief. He stretched out his hands to the swords.
“She was false—and Jiro lied!” he muttered.
His hand sought and found the hilt of one of the swords and grasped it
firmly, stiffened, and fell to his side. Suddenly the face of the Lady
Wistaria with its all-pervading purity and truth-compelling quality
arose before his vision. As he regarded the unsought vision which had
come to his uncontrolled imagination, it dawned upon him with a sudden,
great light that he had been wrong—wrong. Back to his consciousness
floated that dark night by the side of the stagnant moat, the memory of
the tortured white face that shone out from the interlacing boughs of
bushes about them, the trembling hands and the little water-soaked feet.
Were she utterly false as he had thought, would she have thus come to
him to warn him of the danger that encompassed the one she did not know
was he himself?
A great upheaval arose in Keiki. The rush of emotions ingulfed him. A
cry, a groan, escaped him, as, burying his face in his arms, he threw
from him the swords.
“She was truth itself,” he said. “It is I who have wronged her—I who
have been unworthy.”
“Too late!” a voice within his world-dulled soul said. He recalled now
the intelligence he had heard somewhere many months before. The Princess
of Mori had become a priestess of the Temple Zuiganji.
“My lord!”
The voice behind him, vaguely familiar, passed into that of the boy
Jiro.
“My lord,” repeated the soft voice, “it is I, Jiro, returned to thee.”
Mori answered:
“Alas, you come too late, my Jiro. Thou canst tell me nothing now, for I
know that she was guiltless. I was at fault. The gods alone can forgive
me.”
Again he bent over the swords. The figure behind him moved from its
position. It stood before the bending Prince now. A white robe reached
to the floor, brushing his hand and covering the swords at his feet.
Impelled by a force he could not resist, Mori raised his head.
Wistaria—Wistaria in her bridal robes, with white flowers in her
glorious hair, stood before him.
Mori started to his feet.
“Jiro—Jiro—”
He looked about the room, as though he still thought the boy within the
apartment. Was he dreaming, or had he actually heard the voice of the
boy Jiro, saying:
“It is I, Jiro, returned to thee.”
But where was Jiro, and who was this white being who had taken his
place? Not the Lady Wistaria, she who had become a priestess because of
her wrongs. Then her lips framed themselves in words that reached his
consciousness.
“If it please thee, my lord, I am Jiro.”
“Lady Wistaria!” he gasped.
“I am Wistaria,” she said.
Slowly, with the movement of one dazed, Mori moved towards her. Her
exquisite hands she held out to him. He seized them with his own. For a
moment he held them in a close, spasmodic clasp, then suddenly he sank
to the floor, burying his face in the folds of her kimono.
But the Lady Wistaria was upon her knees beside him, her hands upon his
head.
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● Transcriber’s note:
○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.
○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.
○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only
when a predominant form was found in this book.
○ Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).