Matsuda Isami was a small, sharp-eyed man of possibly forty. He was rich
and powerful, the landlord of many of the families in Sanyo. The people
feared him, while they respected his employment of hundreds of coolies,
and it was said his parsimony had made him rich and kept the whole
community poor. In some way, direct or indirect, nearly everyone in the
community was in his service or debt. He was the magnate of the town,
and accordingly hated, feared, dreaded. He had come on foot to the
humble home of Madame Yamada, he, the taciturn, cold-hearted head man of
the town, and all because Azalea, walking in the sun, in a kimona,
patched, faded, but pretty, had turned her head toward him quite
recently and smiled with childish impudence. Few people smiled upon
Matsuda. This shabby daughter of a samurai who in the early days had
made no secret of his lordly contempt for the rich tradesman had
captivated Matsuda by one fleeting, innocent smile. Matsuda desired her
now above all things, and swore by all the gods that he would have her.
Wealth and power, after all, were not sufficient to gratify the
insatiable greed of his nature. He was desirous of something more
priceless, and for which he would have given up all his possessions—this
beautiful young girl, Azalea.
With impatience he listened to Madame Yamada’s servile words of
compliment and welcome. Hardly had he seated himself and with a gesture
refused the proffered pipe, when he spoke of the object of his visit.
In accordance with her suggestion conveyed to him through the Nakoda, he
had come in person to make his suit to her daughter. He desired to see
her at once.
The prevaricating words of temporizing that came to Madame Yamada’s lips
were not even listened to by him.
Her daughter not at home? Very well, he would go, then, at once.
Thereupon he arose. Madame Yamada bit her lip until the blood came. Then
she clapped her hands and bade the maid who answered tell the eldest
daughter of the house to hasten at once to assist the most exalted
Matsuda with his clogs. The latter, however, kicked his feet into his
own sandals. When the maiden appeared, he went shuffling in them toward
the door, returning only a curt nod to her deep and graceful obeisance.
Madame Yamada, clasping her hands in despair, followed him to the door.
Would not His Excellency wait a little while?
No, His Excellency would not—that is to say—yes, His Excellency would;
for just at that moment His Excellency, casting a keen glance about him,
saw a little figure sitting on the doorstep in the garden to the rear of
the house.
“Your daughter, I perceive,” he said, indicating Azalea, “has returned.”
The angry blood buzzed in Madame Yamada’s ears, but she answered calmly
enough:
“Why, yes, it is true, Excellency.” Then raising her voice, she called
to the girl: “Azalea!”
Matsuda, returning to the interior of the house, seated himself in the
guest room, lighted his pipe and drew a long whiff. Then he looked at
Azalea sitting before him pensively. His little keen eyes going from her
to her step-mother and catching the glance of baffled fury bestowed by
Madame Yamada upon her daughter Yuri, he allowed a sound which was oddly
like a chuckle to escape him. Then he put the pipe down and again
regarded the maiden Azalea. He said:
“It is the wish of your step-mother that I address you personally.”
She looked at him with eyes of inquiry. What had Matsuda Isami to say to
her? She did not dream that a man as old as her father, and one who was
so exalted in public opinion, would deign to propose marriage with her,
so insignificant and humble.
“I wish to marry you,” said Matsuda bluntly.
Her lips parted and her eyes enlarged.
“Me?” she said faintly, and repeated the little word. “Me?”
“Yes,” he smiled. “Marry you, Azalea.”
The color came in a frightened ebb to her face. She looked at her mother
and sister fearfully. Their faces were absolutely cold and impassive. In
a flash she understood her step-mother’s attitude of a moment since. It
was all clearer than daylight. Azalea arose and bowed extravagantly down
to the very mats. Then, with her head almost at Matsuda’s feet, she
said:
“The humblest one is altogether too insignificant and small to become
the wife of so exalted a personage.”
The words pleased Matsuda. Plainly this girl would make a most excellent
and humble wife. He bent graciously and touched her head, patting it.
She slipped under his hand to her knees, and then to a sitting position.
But her head was still bent far over, and if the suitor could have seen
that dimpling face, its expression would have perplexed him.
He seated himself opposite to her.
“The marriage,” he said, “can be speedily arranged. I do not like delays
in any of my affairs.”
Madame Yamada interposed, desperately:
“Time will be needed to make her marriage garments, to call together her
august relatives, for maidenly meditation, and for preparation for the
marriage feast.”
“We can dispense with all these things,” said Matsuda suavely.
“Too early a marriage would be unseemly,” said Madame Yamada.
“Madame Yamada exaggerates public opinion,” was Matsuda’s response.
The woman’s voice was barely controlled in its harshness.
“You, Azalea, what have you to say?”
Azalea opened her fan and looked at it thoughtfully, almost as though in
the painted pictures upon it she found an answer. Suddenly she raised
her head.
“I do not wish to marry,” she said, and added as an afterword: “—yet.”
At that moment her step-mother could have embraced her.
Matsuda cleared his throat.
“When, then, will it suit you?” he asked respectfully.
The girl’s eyes were still upon her fan, and without raising them she
replied with a slight shrug of her small, bewitching shoulders:
“I do not know when. Maybe in one year; maybe in ten. I do not wish to
marry—yet.”
Matsuda arose.
“For one year,” he said, “or for ten years, or as long as your caprice
may make it, I will wait for you.”
Azalea’s fan fluttered closed. She bowed her head upon it.
“Excellency is very faithful.”
“Once,” said Matsuda, looking at her with half closed eyes, “your august
samurai father deigned to call me ‘Dog.’ You will learn, maiden, that I
shall prove my title to ‘Dog’ by my watchfulness and faithfulness. I
have sworn to possess you, and possess you I will.”
The moment he was gone Azalea turned toward her step-mother, upon whose
countenance a look of sweetest benevolence toward her step-daughter was
slowly appearing.
“Mother-in-law,” said the girl, “you need not fear that I will marry
him. No, my father spoke true words. He is a dog. He has only the
instincts of a tradesman, and as such he comes here to buy the daughter
of a samurai.”
“Your words are wise, Azalea,” said the step-mother, “and you win my
maternal affection. Matsuda is not the fit husband for a warrior’s
daughter. Yet, Azalea, bear in mind that Yuri, your sister, had for
father one less elevated than a samurai—one, indeed, who was a mere
tradesman. She is well fitted to be the wife of Matsuda Isami.
Therefore, you can help or hinder this our ambition.”
“I will neither help nor hinder,” said Azalea, crossing the room, and
looking through the shoji. “Mother-in-law, I have no interest in the
matter,” she added.
Madame Yamada was behind her and had touched her arm, the arm she had
lately pinched so viciously.
“Promise to be steadfast in your refusal of Matsuda. Promise that,
Azalea, and you will find that harshness is an unknown quality in this
household.”
“Oh, I will promise that, easily,” said Azalea. “I will not even look at
or speak to the man. Other things now occupy my insignificant head.”
[Illustration]
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