DAUGHTERS OF NIJO
MASAGO spoke, her words strangely enunciated.
“Lady—you—you desired to speak with me?”
Her voice broke the spell of silence. The visitor bowed her head simply
but eloquently. Masago went a nervous step toward her. There was fear in
both her face and voice as she began deprecatingly:—
“It was an honorable mistake, lady, that you were not shown within the
ozashishi (guest room). I beg you, lady, will you not speak?”
Her fears overcame her politeness. There was something unreal, strange,
almost spiritual, in this woman who looked at her with her own eyes. For
Masago almost thought she dreamed, and that she stood before a magic
mirror wherein she saw reflected her own beauteous image, clad as only
in dreams. But the vision spoke, and Masago’s fright vanished.
“It was my wish,” she said in a low voice, “to see you in your chamber.
I begged this privilege, Masago.”
“Then, pray you, please be seated,” urged the girl. She brought a mat
and set it for the guest.
The visitor stooped, but not to the mat. She lifted up an andon, and
carrying it in her hand went closer to Masago.
“A moment and I will be seated, but first I wish to see your face—quite
close.”
She held the light near to the countenance of Masago and scanned her
startled features. Then, swinging it before her own, she said:
“Look you at mine also.”
Masago started, with a thrill of wondering amaze.
“Now,” said the other, “I will be seated, and pray you also, sit by me,
Masago.”
“I do not know you, lady,” said Masago, with sudden brusqueness. “I pray
you, speak your mission in my father’s house.”
The other smiled.
“Your father’s house!” she repeated.
“Why do you repeat my words?” said Masago.
“I was told the Prince of Nijo—”
Masago started toward her with a little cry, and that same savage
movement with which she had sprung upon the servant. Though inwardly she
cherished thought of Nijo, she could not bear that others should speak
of it.
“You come here to insult me!” she cried, her bosom heaving with
suppressed excitement.
“Be not angry,” said the other, softly. “I came but to speak the truth,
and—and to gaze upon—my sister!”
“Sister!” The word escaped the lips of Masago like a cry of pain.
“You—you are—”
“Sado-ko,” she answered, smiling still, yet sadly.
A moment Masago stared at her dumbly, then with an indescribable
movement she knelt down at the princess’s feet and put her head upon the
mats. Sado-ko bent over her, stooped, touching her head.
“I pray you, kneel not thus to me,” she said.
Slowly Masago arose, the color flowing back into her pale face in a
flood. Her eyes were bright and wide and feverish. That moment’s servile
impulse, when she had fallen down upon her knees, was past. She looked
the Princess Sado-ko in the eyes, with conscious equality.
“Now,” said the princess, simply, “will you not be seated?”
Silently the two sought the mats. Opposite each other they sat, each
with her eyes upon the other. Each spoke at once, and each the same
words:—
“You know then—”
“You know then—”
They bowed their heads. Thus both confessed their knowledge of the fact
that not one of them, but both, were daughters of the Prince of Nijo,
and hence sisters. Then Masago:—
“Why do you come to me, exalted princess? I am but a lowly maiden, who
cannot even touch the hem of your kimono.”
“There is a bitter tone within your voice,” said Sado-ko. “Why is it
so?”
Masago did not answer, and the princess continued:—
“Of your history I had learned, Masago. It matters not how or where or
when. One spoke of you with—love—”
She broke off sharply to wring her hands unconsciously.
“And so I came to—to look upon you—sister.”
“You came from curiosity,” said Masago, in that same bitter tone. “It
was the passing whim of a languid princess, bored with her greatness.”
“You misjudge me,” said the Princess Sado-ko, with a sigh.
“Not so,” replied Masago, the color flaming in her face; “I can but
recognize that same idle fancy that also once possessed your father when
he—”
She bit her lips and turned her face away. Angry tears clouded her eyes.
She could not speak for her proud emotion.
“There was another reason,” said the princess, softly. “Masago, pray
turn not your head in pride from me. I came not out of condescension,
nor yet from idle curiosity, but because of a strange hunger of my
heart, which I could not resist.”
“How can _you_ have heart-hunger?” asked Masago, coldly.
“And why not I?” Her very voice was thrilling with its sadness. Masago
would not look upon her face. She was conscious only of that raging
jealousy and pain swelling up in her breast.
“And why not I?” repeated Sado-ko.
“You, who are a princess of the royal family!” cried Masago, with a
sudden fierceness. “You, of whom all the poets in the realm have sung
and raved! You, at whose feet the whole bright, glittering world is
strewn! You, the cherished Daughter of the Sun—the bride-to-be of
the—the Prince Komatzu!”
“But still a sad and wretched woman,” said the Princess Sado-ko.
Masago turned upon her fiercely.
“And if you are so sad, as you say,” she cried, “who can have pity for
your sorrow? Are you, then, a statue that you do not appreciate these
priceless gifts of all the gods?”
“Masago, gifts unsought are oftentimes not desired, and sometimes those
which glitter in the sun do but reflect its light. What are the gilded
outward wrappings of the gods to me, if inwardly still my heart breaks?”
“Your heart breaks!” Masago laughed in scorn. “What, you—who are about
to marry the noblest, bravest, the most divine—” She broke off, holding
her hands to her throat.
With a sudden movement the Princess Sado-ko bent forward and looked into
the averted face of the maid Masago.
“You!” she cried, “you love this—” She could not finish her words.
Masago dropped her face within her hands.
“I,” she said. “Yes, I—so humble—the daughter of—”
“The Prince of Nijo!” whispered Sado-ko.
Slowly the hands fell from the girl’s face. Her eyes met those of
Sado-ko’s.
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