She was sewing by a half-opened shoji. The garment upon which Azalea was
working was very tiny. It seemed almost ridiculous to conceive of the
amount of labor she was expending upon an article so trivial.
Nevertheless, she worked unceasingly upon it. The little garment was
gorgeous with the embroidery wrought by her nimble fingers, embroidery
so fine and exquisite that even a connoisseur in Tokyo would have been
delighted to see it. From early morning till the darkening night, Azalea
worked upon this one garment. Upon it she had expended all her passion,
her love. This labor was a balm, a salve, a comfort for her ever-aching
loneliness of spirit, for it was the garment in which the child was to
be dressed when his father should return.
Azalea, alone in the little cottage, ostracised by her former friends
and without the presence of her husband, found a nameless comfort in
working upon the garments of her baby. She said:
“My baby came in Springtime. If it had been a girl, she should be called
Sakurasan, after the cherry blossoms that he so loved. But his great God
was kinder. He blessed us with a man-child, and it shall bear the name
of Sachi. Now I shall fashion a little garment which shall hold all the
tints of the Spring, and, like my baby, will be a thing of joy.”
As she sat on this day, with her head bent above her sewing, she became
conscious of the fact that some one had entered her garden and was
looking in at her. But when she peered out through her shoji she could
see no one. Feeling uneasy, she folded her work and, leaving it, stepped
out into the garden. Then she saw at once Matsuda Isami. He had
evidently been talking to the maid Natsu, for the latter had disappeared
into her kitchen. Azalea went forward to meet the visitor. He was very
cheerful, though at first constrained by her sudden appearance. He
inquired solicitously after her honorable health and insisted that she
was pale and heavy-eyed from too much sewing. She smiled faintly as she
shook her head and assured him that she was most honorably well.
“And your august husband? His health also is good?”
“My husband——” her voice faltered, but she finished with pride: “Yes,
his health is good.”
“Ah! Then you have heard from him?”
She flushed. Did Matsuda guess the truth, that since the going of her
husband, nearly two months before, no letter from him had reached her
hands? She did not answer the question and he repeated it.
“You have a letter from your honorable husband?”
She bowed her head without speaking. It was the simplest way of lying.
He had taught her it was an evil thing to prevaricate with the lips.
Matsuda appeared somewhat taken aback.
“And when do you expect his return?”
She looked away from her interlocutor. Her eyes were wide and wistful.
“I look for him to come at any time—any day—any hour,” she said. “Always
by day I look to the West for his coming, and all night long I burn the
light, with its flame to the West. He is always expected.”
“You are a most estimable wife,” said Matsuda sneeringly. “Yet has it
never occurred to you that your faithfulness is old-fashioned and fit
only for a Japanese woman? You, the wife of a foreigner, should not
entertain such feeling.”
“Is not faithfulness esteemed by all nations?” she asked quickly.
“No. The Westerners make light of its qualities. Have you not heard how
many of these foreigners who marry in Japan leave their wives never to
return?”
“My husband is different,” she said.
“So they all say—while they wait,” said Matsuda.
Half unconsciously her hand went to her heart. She looked as if she were
in some sudden pain as she spoke.
“You do not understand. He was a priest of the great God. He could not
lie. Ah! he was different from all other men.”
“The eyes of a foolish wife are blind,” said Matsuda. “What a pity that
yours could not sooner perceive the baseness of the barbarian.”
“Baseness,” she repeated. “I do not understand.”
“You think your husband will return to you?”
“I am sure of it.”
“And against his coming you embroider rich garments for his child.”
The blood rose slowly to her temples. Her fingers twitched and then she
closed them tightly.
“Yes,” she said; “it is true.”
Matsuda laughed harshly.
“Yet,” said he, “it is not your husband who pays for these garments of
your child.”
She stared at him incredulously.
“You are insane to speak so,” she finally said. “My husband gave me
money with which to purchase the articles upon which I work.”
He bent his lean, evil face to hers.
“That money he accepted from me,” he said.
She shrunk back a step.
“From you! I do not believe you.”
He fumbled in the bosom of his gown.
“Behold this,” he said, shaking before her eyes a piece of paper. “This
is his receipt.”
She pushed the paper from her.
“I will not look at it,” she said.
“You are afraid.”
“No!”
She seized the paper and read, her eyes dilating with horror as she did
so. It was a receipt for a loan of 75 yen. Her hand fell limply to her
side. The paper fluttered to the ground.
What! Was the money of this Matsuda paying for the sacred garments of
her child! Ah, how terribly blind must have been her husband to accept
help from such a source. Her pride scorched her. She suddenly turned and
walked swiftly into the house. In a moment, however, she returned, a
lacquer box and the tiny garment upon which she had worked in her arms.
She set the box at Matsuda’s feet.
“There,” she said, “is what is left of your evil money. Some of it I
have already spent upon this garment. I would not let it touch my
child.” She tore it across and threw the pieces upon the box.
“Go now!” She pointed to the gate. “You contaminate his august home. I
have always hated you, Matsuda Isami, now more than ever. My father
spoke true words. You are a dog!”
Laughing softly, he stooped and lifted the box, then slowly counted its
contents.
“Seventy-five yen,” he said, “was the amount of the loan. There are but
twenty-five here.”
“My husband’s letter will come in the next foreign mail,” she replied
proudly. “You will wait until then.”
He changed his tone.
“Madame Azalea, it is well known that you are deserted by the barbarian.
No one pities you, because it is alleged you insulted your ancestors for
the sake of this beast. Now you have become an outcast. Even the beggars
will not ask you for charity. Yet I—I, Matsuda Isami, whom you have
named ‘dog,’ have compassion upon you.”
He paused to note the effect of his words. She was staring coldly and
stonily before her. Her thoughts were bitter. Matsuda went a step nearer
to her.
“You do not believe in my pity for you?” he asked.
She raised her head proudly.
“I do not need it,” she said.
“Hah! Your words are proud. You will learn soon to frame your lips to
meeker words.”
She turned as if to re-enter the house, but he sprang lithely before her
and stood in her path, his hideous face thrust before the range of her
vision.
“Listen once again. You have come to beggary, Madame Azalea, for in my
sleeve this minute rests the last of your yen. What will you do now?”
“Yes, Matsuda Isami,” she said, “you hold the last of the money, but
there are things I can sell, and the house is yet mine. Let me pass.”
He laughed in her face so that his breath struck her.
“Every article within the house belongs to me—me!” he said, touching his
breast with his fingers. She stared at him with horrified eyes. Inside
the house the wail of her baby, awakened from its sleep, floated out to
them, and the sound silenced both for a moment. Then she pushed by him,
and still he barred her passage.
“Where would you go?” he taunted. She slipped desperately under his arm
and snapped the shoji between them. He could have pushed it aside
without the smallest difficulty, but he stood on the steps like one
already having possession, and laughed softly to himself.
------------------------------------------------------------------------