"Speak!--fully!" said he, after a pause.
"He offered me marriage many times, your Highness, and I refused, saying
that not without my parents' consent could I answer. Then, at one hour,
being weak, I promised. In the foreign land, where you and my father
sent me, such promises bind,--even as the oaths of men. I have been
bound."
"Gods of my ancestors! Must I listen to this cat-mewing?" groaned Onda.
"Be quiet! The girl shall speak. Yes, Yuki," he continued, his eyes
softening as they returned to her white face, "I felt that you had
promised. And so, in my letter, if you will recall, I assured you that
you were not bound."
"Your Highness!" ventured the girl, at length. "It was your noble
thought, your decision, not my own. I am bound."
Hagané looked at her in mild wonder, with the faintest touch of a smile.
"And not even your daimyo's word can free your childish promise? You
have courage."
"The mad lynx! Let me deal with her!" panted Tetsujo.
"He, my father, so speaks and thinks of me!" broke in the girl, with
passionate protest and a wide-flung gesture toward Onda. "In that
country no shame is felt for such a promise. Yet my father treats me as
an outcast, a blot upon the family name! I ask you, Lord, who are great
and strong, to help me!"
"To what shall I help you, little one? To marriage with an
alien?--repudiation of a country that I serve?"
"No, Lord; for of myself I could not marry him, now, with my dear land
at war. When I first knew him, war had not become even a threat. Only
against--misunderstanding--and, Lord,--being forced--!"
Hagané interrupted her with his slight gesture. "You will be forced to
nothing!--not now, nor so long as my voice can use the speech of living
men! Your decision is valueless unless it be your own. It may be even
harmful; for the young branch, held down by force, slashes heaven in its
rebound. Nay, child! I would have you bend slowly to my proffered
opportunity, weighted by your own ripening desire for loyalty and
service. To compel you would be impiety. Believe yourself protected by
my word, and by my faith in you! Be calm and think seriously, for upon
this hour depends more than you can fathom!"
His deep voice boomed into a silence long maintained. One of the tall
candles sputtered and flared. Iriya rose quickly to mend it. Tetsujo's
arms, within short blue cotton sleeves, were folded and pressed tightly
down upon his chest, as if to keep back straining utterance. Through the
stillness his quick breaths ran. The girl gazed out now, motionless,
beyond Hagané into the wet blankness of the garden. Familiar outlines of
rock and bridge and pine kept there, she knew, their changeless
postures. Only a fallen darkness hid them. So in her heart must be
immovable shapes and living growths of heroism and selfless devotion. An
Occidental training superimposed upon a child's fresh fancy; a foreign
love, jealously guarding for its own purpose the tissues of new
thought,--these things hid the garden of her heart as night now hid her
father's garden. Hagané's look and words were bringing dawn, a dawn
perhaps of sorrow, a day dragged up from an heroic past, and trailing
its own hung clouds of tears.
Hagané spoke again. His deep voice calmed and satisfied the unstable
silence. He changed his position very slightly, facing Yuki more
squarely. He raised his massive chin, and a smile played on a mouth that
seemed made for stern sadness. Quite irrelevantly, he began to relate to
his small audience an incident of his crowded day.
"Do you remember, Tetsujo,--Yuki also may recall from her childhood's
impression,--that, as one stands on the jutting corner of my Tabata
land, by the large leaning maple,--a corner so steep that it must be
upheld by the hewn trunks of pines,--exactly at foot of the cliff stands
a very small cottage, with roof patched by the rusted sides of old
foreign kerosene cans?" He paused for an answer. Yuki's eyes would not
leave the dark mystery of the night.
"I remember most clearly, your august Highness," murmured Onda, with a
respectful inclination of his head toward the great man, but an
indignant scowl in the direction of Yuki.
"An aged woman and her only child, a son, live in that house. He is a
good son, for though hot with the desire for military service, he has
kept steadily to his labor as under-gardener on my place. There seemed
to be no one else with whom his mother could find a home. Of late the
boy has looked ill. I have overheard the servants say that his soul was
attempting to leave the chained body and go off, as it wished, to the
battlefield. Such agony as this repression, I believe only our
countrymen are capable of experiencing or of enduring."
Now, at last, Yuki turned and fixed her look on Hagané. He did not
notice this any more than he had seemed to observe her previous
indifference.
"The youth dutifully kept this longing from the old dame. But
she questioned, and through her slow round of domestic services
she pondered. Then she came to understand. Perhaps the young
soldier-husband, dead for thirty years, had returned--to whisper.
Whatever the cause, she came--to--understand." He paused an instant, as
if to take a firmer hold upon his voice. "To-day,--scarcely an hour ago,
Yuki,--the youth, returning from labor, found his mother--dead--before
the family shrine. She had used her husband's short sword. It will be
buried with her. The smile upon her old face had gained already the
youth and glory of a god's. She left no message; the smile told him
all.--To-morrow the son takes passage for Manchuria."
Yuki's dawn had come. It hurt her, like the birth of a soul. Hagané saw
the same look which, for one fleet instant, he had evoked from her at
Washington. His strong heart reeled toward the girl. Iriya was sobbing
softly. Tetsujo sat square like a box. He envied the mother and the son.
He saw no pathos in the tale, only victory. Those two would be together
on the Yalu; while he, Tetsujo, famed warrior, skilled swordsman, must
pine at home and listen to the pulings of weak women!
The glory grew on Yuki. Above the flowers of the tokonoma, above
Hagané's head, hung a tattered battle-flag of their own clan. She
recognized it now. Her hands trembled. She lifted them toward Hagané.
"Onda Yuki-ko!" he almost whispered, so deep and tense his voice became.
"This year, this day, this very hour, may be the pivot of human history
upon this planet! And is not the diamond-point on which that mighty
turning rests, the Spirit of Japan?"
"Banzai Nippon! Dai Nippon! Banzai! Banzai!" shouted Tetsujo, and beat
his fists on the matting.
Hagané, with a smile that seemed to deprecate yet condone his kerai's
vehemence, went on directly to Yuki. "Strange that Western minds--the
astute American politician, the journalist, even the cleverest of
Europe's statesmen--hardly claim to look forward more than a few
years,--five, ten, at best half a century! They want results they shall
live to see--after them the deluge! As they have forgotten the very
names of their grandfathers, so they ignore their descendants. But we of
the East count time in other lengths. We do not bound our horizon with
personal aim or the catchword of a day. We owe,--we owe ourselves,--all,
to a future that we may not comprehend, but have no right, in our
ignorance, to cramp. What we are fighting for at this moment will not be
fully realized for two hundred years. Then it will be seen as a great
landscape in a valley. Your foreigners are like children that play now
in that valley. But every Japanese patriot stands lonely on a
mountain,--very lonely, very lonely!"
"Is one alone in a shining company of spirits, Lord?" asked Yuki, a
wonderful glow now kindling in her long eyes. "Will that youth of whom
you told us be lonely, though he stand singly against a squadron of
Cossacks? Where is his mother's soul? O Gods of my country! O my dear
Christian God! why was it not given to me to be a man?"
"Do you think that the soul of a woman who shirks would be less cowardly
if put into the body of a man? Even your Christians could tell you
better."
"Lord! Lord!" cried the girl to him in great stress, "am I indeed of the
coward's heart? Is this thing I call fidelity but a shirking?"
"A Japanese has no fidelity but to his Emperor!" thundered Onda.
"Be quiet, Tetsujo! Listen, poor wavering little heart; I will try to
make you understand. You cannot be allowed to marry this man, not
because we wish to thwart you, but--"
"I said I would not marry him, now,--not now!"
"Then what will you do?" asked Hagané. "All are striving to their
utmost. What will be your part? Do you intend to sit sullen and inactive
here, at home?"
"The wench shall remain no longer under my roof!" raged Tetsujo.
"She will remain under your roof, good Tetsujo, and be treated with
courtesy," corrected the prince.
"Let me go as a nurse! Oh, I could never stay with them! Their harsh
eyes would flay me! I feel even now their hatred!"
"Not mine, my baby, my only child!" wailed Iriya. "Think not so of your
mother's imperishable love!"
Yuki at last hid her face. The note of anguish in her mother's voice
overcame her pathetic defiance.
"My official residence is cold and lonely," remarked Hagané, sipping
slowly at some tea. "It sorely needs a mistress well acquainted with
foreign etiquette. Foreigners are to be met and conciliated. The Emperor
himself, and his shining spouse, would receive one who so served her
land, and hear from her own lips impressions of America, and the
sentiments of the people there toward us. A woman's intuition is keen,
and penetrates farther than a man's weightier judgment,--just as the
tendrils of a vine creep into lattices which a tree would only darken.
It is in such a capacity, Yuki-ko, that you could do immediate good. My
disorganized servants would again be set into grooves of usefulness.
Another reason, which must not be spoken openly, as yet,--I may soon be
called to the front, and the several residences should not be closed."
"Lord! You would trust with such responsibilities a weak, untutored girl
like me?"
"Yes, little one, I would trust you."
"And I would be in all respects--your--wife?" asked Yuki, in a very low
tone.
"Yes. Why not? What is the human body but a petal drifting in the wind?
If, for a moment, the bright tint or the fleeting perfume please, is it
not best to grasp the trivial pleasure? Yet it is to great things that I
call you, Onda Yuki. Things of service, of the spirit, heroism perhaps,
perhaps self-sacrifice,--for the flesh is stubborn. This shall be your
proof of loyalty to your Emperor and to this land!"
"I would gladly die for them!" she cried.
Hagané emptied the few dregs of his teacup into the hot ashes of the
hibachi, ignoring the ceremonial little bowl put near for the purpose.
"It was in Washington, I believe, that once before you made that foolish
remark. What use would death be, especially if you seek it as an escape
from conditions that do not please you? Cowardice is a crime of the
spirit! I see no chance for you to serve but this."
"But to be your wife, your wife--while yet he--that other--holds my
pledge!" murmured the girl, piteously, under her breath. "I prayed for
freedom, but he would not send it--!" Gwendolen's telegraphic words, "I
would accept H." came to her like a little gust of refreshing wind. She
looked again squarely into Hagané's noble face. For the first time
Pierre's rose before her, a little weak, a little over-delicate, with
incipient lines of self-indulgence.
"My child," said Hagané, almost in a pleading tone, "Japan must not lose
you. Put your life into my hands, and let me wield it for our country's
need. I believe my motives to be selfless. If indeed your young beauty
blurs my vision, then will punishment rightly follow. But I take that
hazard. Had I a son, you should be, more fitly, his wife."
"If your father's everlasting curse--" Tetsujo began; but Hagané stopped
him.
"We need no curses, Tetsujo! You are showing yourself unworthy of this
brave child. Be quiet, I say; and let her own soul speak to her!"
Iriya gasped, and Onda bit his thick lip to the blood. Yuki's lifted
face had the pathos of dying music. "Will my soul speak, Lord?" she
breathed. The sound of her voice was cold and thin, and touched with a
mystic fear.
Almost as if gathered in to answer, from the far distance a muffled
chorus of a thousand whispering voices quivered in the air,--drawing
nearer, nearer,--until the sound seemed to press upon their very hearts.
Now over the garden a soft, pale light began to dawn. It grew to a
concourse of a thousand spirit-lamps, crossing, recrossing, flickering,
then passing on. Feet moving softly, though by the hundred, went by in
ghostly rhythm.
"Lord! Lord!" panted Yuki, wild-eyed. "What is it? Do you hear also? or
is it only I?"
Hagané did not answer at once. He watched the girl's face as one watches
a changing chemical. When the sound had grown unmistakably human, though
of voices kept low and tense with unusual awe, he said quietly, "You
have all heard of the brave young Commander Hirosé, who died rescuing
his friend, in the second attempt to block Port Arthur. This is a band
of Koishikawa students passing down to the railway station to meet him."
He stopped, wondering how much the girl could endure. The glare of the
white lanterns, borne aloft, ploughed a great soundless trench of light
through the trees and houses that line the steep slope of Kobinata's
hill. Light surged over the thorn and bamboo hedges of Onda's home,
brimming the garden with a tender radiance, and revealing hillock,
shrub, and tree as in a faint unearthly dream. It threw a deeper glow
into the face of Hagané, and over the battle-flag above him.
As for Tetsujo, he listened to the passing of countless feet in sullen
gloom. He hated the students that they were young. He envied the death
of Hirosé. It would be a clear personal joy to die that way, and have
one's name blazoned as a new god. A nobler soul might have cared little
for such posthumous recognition; but old Onda's generosity did not reach
that height. To him, heaven was a place where spirits swaggered, and
bore the two swords of the samurai.
Hagané, looking only at Yuki, continued softly: "A hundred thousand
lanterns of the dead will be carried this night, for the brave boy. It
is but a fragment of his flesh, that was found with a bit of uniform
clinging to it; but the precious relic will have--friends, to bear it to
the temple. There his young widow, smiling like a statue of Kwannon,
awaits it; and his little son, calmly proud that his father has become a
great spirit. No heart in Nippon, to-night--but worships--Hirosé!"
Hagané's voice had been even enough, and calm; but something in it
loosened Yuki's soul from the flesh. Again she stared at him, as if
mesmerized. Then suddenly she half rose, leaning toward him, and hurled
herself face down on the mats, within reach of his hand.
"All that I have to give is dust! The body is nothing! The gods have
released me! Take me, great-hearted man, and use me to my country's
need!"
The shifting footsteps all had passed. The faint reflected glamour of
the lanterns spread far below along the level stone road by the Arsenal.
The garden was plunged again into blackness. Onda stared, as if dazed,
after the lights, then brought his eyes to Yuki's prostrate body. His
slow wits could not seize, at once, the realization of so ineffable a
hope. Iriya muffled her sobs in her sleeve.
Hagané, to reassure Yuki, had put a hand lightly upon her thick hair. No
one but the spirits--if they were near--saw a dull red tide of passion
surge up to his broad face, swelling his neck into purple veins, and
twitching at the sinews of the powerful hands. But his voice, when he
answered, was that of a high-priest. "In our Emperor's name, my child, I
accept the gift. May the gods assist me to use it worthily!"
Tetsujo, half crawling, reached the tea-tray, and drained a stale cup to
the dregs. Yuki lay so still that Iriya took fond alarm. The joy and
triumph faded from her face. She met Hagané's look with a slight
appealing gesture toward her child. Hagané nodded. She crept to Yuki,
tugging at her sleeve, and trying to push her up from the floor. Hagané
leaned forward, and picked the girl up like a toy. She put out a
faltering hand and touched her mother.
"Come, come, my treasure!" whispered Iriya. "Let us go together to your
little room, where quiet will best restore you!"
"One moment, dame!" said Hagané. "I must speak with Tetsujo, in your
presence." The old kerai was on his knees, bowing, his exultation only
exaggerating his humility.
From the impersonal ring of Hagané's orders, he might have been
outlining a Manchurian campaign. "Let there be no delay! Since at any
hour I may be ordered to the front, I wish the ceremony over, that I may
instruct Yuki in certain official duties before I leave. And remember,
this is no time for expenditure or display."
"Your will is mine, Augustness."
"This is Friday. Next Wednesday, then, at my Tabata villa! All shall be
in readiness. Is this as you wish, Yuki-ko?"
"Your will is mine, Lord," whispered Yuki, echoing unconsciously her
father's words.
"The child trembles. May I not conduct her to her chamber?" asked Iriya
of the prince.
"Yes, dame," replied he, kindly. "And, brave little one, farewell! I am
overcharged with duties, and may not see you again till Wednesday, at
noon. One instant!" The two women paused, Iriya facing him expectantly,
Yuki with head hung low. "I want to say, here, in the presence of my
too-zealous Tetsujo, that Yuki is to be treated, from this moment, with
the respect and dignity that becomes a Princess Hagané. There is to be
no espionage; no opposition; no suggestion of restraint of any kind! My
entire confidence is with my future wife. Do you understand that, Onda
Tetsujo?"
"Yes, Lord," growled Tetsujo, crimson with mortification; but he did not
forget to bow.
In her own room Yuki stood staring, dazed, ignoring her mother's
frequent suggestion to be seated. "No! Let me breathe! Let me learn to
breathe again!" muttered she at last, and caught her mother's arm as she
stepped to the tiny veranda. From the guest-room beyond, where the two
men talked, a soft light gleamed, throwing the pebbled paths of the
garden into little Milky Ways of light. The shrubs lay round and dark,
like a flock of little clouds. Beyond all rose the tall black hedge of
bamboo and of thorn.
"My child," said the mother, "you have brought to us great happiness and
pride. Surely reward will come to you, even in this incarnation. I will
pray ceaselessly to Kwannon in your behalf."
Yuki leaned closer to her mother. The cool wet smell of the garden
already stole away some of the hot bewilderment from her brain. The
angry waves of indecision, girlish longing, and patriotism, which had
raged so furiously together, now began to recede, leaving bare at last a
small white strip of thought. She was safe now, pledged, not to personal
joy, but to heroic service. The greatest of all men was to be her
teacher, her helper, her--husband! Well, what of it? Nothing was too
great a sacrifice for Nippon. And if Pierre would only not misjudge too
cruelly! Even in this first vicarious shudder of Pierre's grief, she
could not feel that he would suffer long. His agony might at first be
intense and uncontrolled, but, through its very exaggeration, would the
more swiftly pass. For her sake, now, he must leave Japan. This was the
last boon that love should ask of him.
From the street, from the other side of that inky bamboo wall, came the
low notes of a foreign song,--a strain from Carmen. The girl shivered
once, and was still.
"Oh, what is it?" cried Iriya, herself on edge, and looking about in
terror.
Again came the song, soft and clear. The singer stood, evidently, just
beyond the bamboos. Yuki's lips writhed together. Her fingers tore and
twitched, one hand in the other.
"Yuki! My Yuki!" came a voice. "Is it too late?"
Suddenly wrenching herself from Iriya's arms, the girl sprang down the
two stone steps and plunged into the shadows of the garden. As one
fiend-driven, she sped over paths, shrubs, rocks, and prim
garden-stakes, until, at the hedge, she hurled herself upon it, beating
at it with frantic hands, and sobbing.
"Oh, go! Go, beloved! Never again come here! Never sing that song again,
or--I cannot live at all! I have promised--promised--a new
pledge--stronger than the other! It's of my free will I give myself to
him! Go home to your native land! Go! go!"
"What sound is that? What do I hear?" cried Tetsujo, from the guest-room
balcony.
"It is our Yuki, walking in the garden," came Iriya's placid voice.
"Disturb not your honorable spirit, Master! I am with the child."
Tetsujo returned, to be met by a chiding, half-contemptuous remark from
his deity. A moment later, Iriya's ashen face was in the kitchen.
"Suzumé! Maru! For the love of Kwannon, come quickly! Miss Yuki is in a
dead faint, against the thorn hedge! Her hands are bleeding!--Make no
noise! The master and Prince Hagané must not know!"