As Azalea walked homeward from the minister’s house, she could still
hear in dreamy fancy the eloquent tones of his voice. She found that
though beyond his presence she still thrilled at the very memory of his
face. He had cast a spell upon her, she told herself. He was a disciple
of the Evil One. She must go to the temple of Kwannon for help. Possibly
the priests there would give her some talisman which would preserve her
from any spell the barbarian might cast upon her. For though her ruse
had failed and her sleeves were empty of yen, yet still she had promised
the minister to visit him again the following day. Now she found herself
wishing that the morrow would come speedily.
Her step-mother met her at the door of the house. Her lips were drawn in
a strange fashion apart and her long teeth showed. This was her manner
of smiling. It was uglier and more sinister than a frown. Azalea
quickened her steps, the color beating up into her face. When she saw
that set smile upon Madame Yamada’s face she stopped abruptly before the
woman. But her step-mother spoke in the most amiable of tones:
“You must be hungry, my daughter, since you have not had your noon
meal.”
The girl raised her eyes inquiringly toward the woman. Then she answered
simply:
“Yes, mother-in-law, I am hungry.”
“Come into the kitchen, then, Azalea. The maid has kept your rice warm.”
Azalea was too much accustomed to the vicissitudes of fortune to wonder
at the sudden generosity of the step-mother. She ate the rice and sipped
the fragrant tea with mechanical relish. The meal was unexpected, but
none the less palatable to a hungry young girl. She suspected that her
step-mother required something of her, but her mind, occupied with its
late thoughts of the minister, had no room for speculation over the
motives of her step-mother. She let Madame Yamada herself open the
subject.
“Daughter,” said the woman, “would you enjoy a trip to Tokyo?”
Azalea looked up quickly; then she answered shortly:
“No.”
Madame Yamada’s eyes narrowed. She controlled her feelings, however.
“What, Azalea! You do not wish to go to Tokyo, where everything is so
gay and bright and beautiful?”
Azalea rested her chin upon her hand and looked out from the kitchen
shoji across the fields. She did not answer.
“You are becoming old,” said the step-mother. “You will have to earn
your living soon.”
Azalea did not move, but her step-mother knew she was listening to her
words.
“Here,” she continued, “there is no way in which you could earn money,
for you are of samurai descent and your august ancestors would not rest
easily should you be reduced to manual labor.”
“Mother-in-law,” said the girl quietly, “you would be ashamed before our
neighbors if I were to obtain work here. My august ancestors would feel
no shame.”
“What could you do here?”
Azalea looked at her small white hands thoughtfully.
“I could work in the mills,” she said, and added with a girlish sigh,
“but it would maim my hands.”
“Yes, and also your back, your knees, and afterwards your spirit. Let
the stout peasant women labor that way, Azalea. Such employment is not
for one of gentle birth. You shall go to Tokyo.”
“What shall I do there?” inquired the girl.
“You have beauty and youth,” said Madame Yamada slowly.
The girl moved uneasily and then catching sight of the expression upon
her mother’s face, she made as if to arise; but the other held her by
the sleeve.
“Why do you start so?” she inquired gruffly. “Do you suppose I referred
to the yoshiwara?”
“Yes,” said Azalea, white to the lips. Her voice became passionate. “I
will not go, then,” she said. “You shall not sell me. I am the daughter
of a samurai.”
“Foolish child! Who spoke of selling you to the yoshiwara?”
“Ah, your eyes spoke, mother-in-law. Besides, what other employment
could my youth and beauty find in Tokyo?”
“Are there not geishas and tea house girls, and is not their employment
esteemed admirable?”
“Yes, but I have not their accomplishments, and I am too old to learn
how to dance. To be a geisha, I have heard, one must apprentice at the
age of twelve. I am eighteen years. Yes, I am getting old,” she
finished.
Madame Yamada, who sat behind her, looked at her with eyes that held no
mercy. In some manner the girl must be sent away. Matsuda should then be
told that she preferred the life of gayety in Tokyo to marriage with
him. After that, Yuri-san, the oldest daughter, would console and win
him. Azalea had always appeared passive and obedient by nature. This
sudden impulse of stubbornness was as unexpected as it was disturbing to
her step-mother. What if this slim young girl, with her childish face of
innocence, should develop the strong will of her samurai parent? Madame
Yamada smiled unpleasantly at the prospect, and her smile boded no good
for the young girl.
Meanwhile Azalea continued to look out dreamily through the opened shoji
toward the hill, upon whose slope stood the little peaked mission house.
The words of the minister kept repeating themselves in her head.
“There is only one true God. He it was who created the world—and you. He
loves you, and will watch over and care for you always.”
Ah, if it were only true, thought Azalea. If this new God would only be
kinder than those she had known, then she might even close the eyes of
her heart to the words of the priests of Kwannon, and forget they had
told her the God of the barbarians was an evil spirit. She would prove
Him. If He proved unkind to her she would believe it, but if it were
otherwise, why how could the evil one be kind? It was not possible.
“Answer when you are spoken to,” broke in her step-mother’s sharp voice.
Azalea started.
“I did not hear you speak, honorable step-mother.”
“Your ears are accommodatingly dull. You did not care to hear.”
Azalea sighed, then pressed her lips together, as if to prevent the
retort that might have escaped them.
Madame Yamada bent toward her.
“Do you wish to marry?”
Azalea reflected.
“No-o,” she said softly, and then, “perhaps, yes. It would be a solution
of my troubles, step-mother, would it not?”
“Would you marry any one who asked you, then? You appear to lack the
common qualities of maiden modesty.”
“I did not say I would marry any one,” said the girl, flushing, “but
almost anyone would be kinder than you.”
They were daring words, and she anticipated their effect upon her
step-mother, for, after having spoken them she made a frightened motion
from the older woman, who had seized her arm and was cruelly pinching
it. Tears of pain came into the girl’s eyes, but she made no outcry.
Suddenly Madame Yamada flung the girl’s arm from her.
“Did my touch hurt, then?” she inquired.
“Yes,” said Azalea briefly, her arm still sore, though released.
“Yet,” said her step-mother, “the pain inflicted by a woman, who is
weak, is nothing to that inflicted by a man. What will you do when your
husband beats you?”
“I do not know,” said Azalea mechanically, and then added slowly, “but I
should not weep, mother-in-law. I would not give him that pleasure.
But—” she paused; “all husbands do not beat their wives. Perhaps the
gods will favor me with a kind one. I should not marry him otherwise.”
“How will you test his kindness?” asked her mother scornfully.
“I will know,” she answered. “I will see him and love him before I marry
him.”
She arose and fluttered her sleeves back and forth. Her arm was in pain.
She moved it thus mechanically as a nervous method of relief, but Madame
Yamada had seen the figure coming along the white road toward their
house, and she leaped to her feet like a savage.
“What!” she cried. “You stand shamelessly in the open doorway shaking
your arms in unmaidenly fashion because a man approaches.”
“I did not even see him,” said Azalea, shrinking before the anger of her
step-mother’s expression, “and, mother-in-law, see for yourself. The man
is Matsuda Isami. Is it likely I would fling my sleeves at him?”
“At him most of all,” said her step-mother hoarsely. “Do not deny it,
shameless girl!”
Before Azalea could recover from the surprise occasioned by these words,
Madame Yamada, with one black look cast back at her, had left the
kitchen, and was hastening to the front part of the house, there to
prostrate herself with slavish sweetness and politeness before the
exalted Matsuda Isami.
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