It was the evening of the return of Richard Verley to Sanyo. Azalea was
sitting passively under the hands of the maid, Natsu, having her shining
black hair brushed and twisted into the elaborate mode approved by
Matsuda. Word had come into the room where thus far she had been kept a
prisoner, ordering her to prepare for the wedding ceremony. Whatever her
inward emotions, now as she sat under the hands of the woman, she showed
only a stoical calm. That nameless antagonism which had always existed
between these two had become a deeper thing during these days in the
house of Matsuda. Instinctively Azalea knew the woman for an enemy, and
accordingly feared and hated her. Though forced to submit to the woman’s
attendance, yet she would not condescend a word either of entreaty or
command. Matsuda held her destiny in his hand. He could rob her of her
child. He had kept his word and taught her lips to frame themselves to
meeker words. But the woman—Natsu-san—to her at least she need not
kneel. Now on this day as Natsu dressed her mistress, Azalea showed no
interest in the other’s evident agitation, despite the fact that the
woman showed unusual signs of being discomposed. Finally as the silence
became unbearable to her, the woman broke it with strange words:
“Mistress,” she said, “the man Okido is waiting below in the guest
room.”
Azalea inclined her head, but made no comment. Okido, like all other
people, was of no interest to her. The woman lowered her voice.
“I have taken a patch from your floor, mistress. If you will put your
head to it you will hear what he has to say to the master.”
Azalea’s glittering eyes looked at the patch uplifted by the woman.
Still she remained silent.
The woman’s insidious voice continued carefully:
“Mistress, you have heard the ancient saying of the samurai: ‘To die
with honor when one can no longer live with honor.’”
The girl beneath her hands did not stir, nor did she deign to turn her
head to where the woman pointed. The shorter sword of the samurai was
set close to the patch. It was covered with a white cloth—the cloth of
honorable death. The woman had provided the wife of the white priest
with a means of escape. Yet she had judged wrongly. Azalea was not
merely the daughter of samurai. She was the wife of a Christian. Life
could not be taken so easily as the woman supposed. The code of the
samurai pointed out that death was better than dishonor. The new
religion said nothing on this matter. It simply forbade the suicide.
The woman, her task completed, arose and brought a mirror to Azalea,
who, still silent, stared fixedly and unseeingly at the reflected face.
She started somewhat as the maid’s lips touched her ears, and in the
glass she saw the fat red face close to her own.
“Mistress, to-day if you listen you will learn the full extent of your
folly and the dupe you have been to us all.”
The mirror slipped from Azalea’s hands. She reached them up suddenly and
pushed them against the face of the maid. Her nails sank into the puffed
fatness of the woman’s cheeks.
“Your touch offends me,” she said. “Come not so near, low-born one.”
With a cry of rage the woman sprang back, clasping her hands over her
hurt cheeks. Then, muttering, she shuffled toward the doors. There she
paused vindictively.
“You are a peacock now, Madame Azalea, but your feathers will look less
proud and pretty when you learn what they have cost you. You disdained
the servant of the white Highness and taught him to do likewise. But the
lowly one was in his service long before his eyes desired you. Even a
snake crawling in the grass may strike a revenge. There is nothing too
small or lowly to bite.”
Azalea did not move or deign to turn her head, even after the woman had
gone and she could hear her glide along the hall. For a long time she
sat in silence. Once she looked with fearful stealth at the opening in
the floor, but she did not look for long. There was nothing further for
her to hear, she told herself. Who knew already better than herself the
extent of her debasement?
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