IN THE EMPEROR’S GARDENS
“If we could only have had a glimpse of the man’s face,” Phil Perry
exclaimed dejectedly as the three naval men who had occupied the
compartment together were driving rapidly from the railroad station.
“Who can he be, and to whom was he talking?”
The streets fronting the depot were filled with a curious and
enthusiastic crowd of Japanese, and as the Americans passed rapidly
through in victorias, their mafoos wearing the royal liveries, the
multitude gave voice to their welcome in repeated and prolonged shouts
of “Banzai--Ten Thousand Years of Happiness!”
“Don’t give yourself too much credit for discovering a plot,”
Lieutenant Winston returned sceptically, after their carriage had freed
itself of the crowd and was moving along a quieter street. “What you
heard is only the usual stereotyped opinion of our so-called friends
here in the Far East. The European merchant and also the European
resident in the Orient are trembling for fear the United States may get
all the trade of China, which she might readily be doing now, if our
merchant marine were equal to that of Germany or England.”
“I don’t see how that has any bearing on the subject,” Phil exclaimed,
somewhat nettled at Winston’s tone of patronage.
“Simply that in order to put us out of the running they are doing their
best to talk Japan and the United States into a war,” Winston replied.
“To your face they are very friendly, but, behind your back! Well!
it’s really best to refrain from hearing, if you can, for it’s never
complimentary. They don’t love Japan any too well, but the grasping
Yankee----” he ended with an expressive wave of his hand, for the
crunching of gravel under the wheels of their carriage drowned his
voice completely. They were entering the courtyard of the Imperial
Hotel. A few minutes later all had alighted in the spacious lobby, and
were being led ceremoniously to their rooms, engaged by the imperial
government, whose guests they were as long as they remained in Tokyo.
“They are doing things lavishly,” Sydney exclaimed, after he had
surveyed the street from his window. Great crowds of eager people had
gathered about the hotel with small American flags in their hands to
bid their guests welcome, while the avenue beyond as far as the eye
could reach was festooned with the colors of the two nations.
“Here’s a program of our entertainment,” Winston called from his room
adjoining. “They are certainly most hospitable.”
Phil and Sydney looked closely at the printed program which the servant
had brought them. It was carefully and handsomely arranged, giving a
sketch map of Tokyo with all the important buildings marked, and the
locations of the numerous places of entertainment.
“You’d think we were foreign princes instead of only common every-day
naval officers,” Sydney said as he finished reading. Phil’s face was
thoughtful.
“I wonder if this welcome is really sincere,” he questioned. “The
newspapers say that the relations between the two countries are
terribly strained. In America we could not display this mask of
friendship if there was dislike in our hearts. But the Orientals, if
one may believe the writers on the subject, are different. An order
from their Emperor would be sufficient to freeze a smile on everyone’s
face;--a perpetual smile, made for the occasion.”
The midshipmen and Winston were now fully dressed in their most
official uniform, and were patiently waiting the summons to join their
captain.
Captain Rodgers, in command of the United States cruiser “Alaska,” had
arrived with his ship in Japan at the time of the annual garden fête,
given at the height of bloom of the chrysanthemum, the sacred flower
of Japan. It had been rumored that this was not the reason of the
“Alaska’s” visit; but certain it was that His Majesty had immediately
sent them out invitations for the royal fête, provided a special train,
rooms at the Imperial Hotel, put carriages always at their disposal,
and caused to be prepared an elaborate program of entertainment,--all
for his unexpected American naval visitors.
All Tokyo was in gala dress. Everywhere the chrysanthemum was
displayed, of all sizes and all colors. The holiday crowd was in good
humor, and as the carriages of the naval men, in all their gold lace,
drove rapidly along, they were greeted on all sides with welcoming
“banzais” from hundreds of throats.
“There’s nothing belligerent in this welcome,” Lieutenant Winston
exclaimed, as he waved gallantly to the smiling faces below him.
They were soon approaching the residence of the ambassador; farther
up the street the bridge, across which lay the sacred grounds of the
Emperor’s palace, came into view. The crowd here became more dense, and
the carriages slowed to a snail’s pace. The familiar uniform of the
American sailors was seen, dotted here and there among the crowd. Some
were in rikishas, while others were on foot; but all were thoroughly
enjoying the novel spectacle.
The ambassador’s carriage met the naval officers in front of his own
gate and led the way toward the stone bridge. Many policemen were lined
up on each side of the thoroughfare, intent upon keeping the roadway
clear for the numerous state carriages. The little jinrikishas darted
here and there between the carriages, making the onlooker almost
fearful for the life of their occupants.
“If we were in New York, the traffic squad policeman would be on that
fellow’s trail,” Sydney Monroe cried out as an automobile dashed by
them.
The three watched the speeding machine with bated breath. A loud cry
from the crowd and then a hoarse murmur of protest, and the machine had
come to a stop alongside the next carriage ahead.
Phil’s quick eye had seen the whole affair, and indignantly he jumped
to the ground to see if the sailorman whose jinrikisha had been so
ruthlessly bowled over had received injuries. The Japanese onlookers,
quick to resent injustice, had formed a solid wall about the machine,
their intention evidently being not to allow the culprits to escape
until the police had investigated the damages and injuries.
Phil helped the sailor occupant of the overturned jinrikisha to his
feet. He was dazed but unhurt. One of the man’s friends had excitedly
taken the driver of the machine to task for his recklessness, and the
answer was angry and, Phil thought, almost brutal.
“It served him jolly well right. What right have you sailors to block
the roadway?”
A toot of the horn and the crowd melted away from in front of the
machine. There are few who can stand calmly before an automobile if its
engine is whirring and the loud screech of its syren bids you to step
aside. But the lad was angry straight through, not only at the man’s
recklessness, but at his unfeeling answer to the sailor, and further,
there was something familiar in the man’s voice. Phil therefore stood
his ground.
“Please, I’d like your number,” he cried out, raising his hand
impetuously to stay the machine. The car gave a quick leap, and Phil
all but fell to the ground. Then it stopped, and as Phil recovered
himself the picture he beheld was a very stirring one. The motor had
come to a halt, but not voluntarily; a sailorman was standing on the
step, the clutch lever held securely back, while the man in the car had
taken off his goggles and was staring angrily at the bold American.
“How dare you lay hands on me!” he cried.
Jack O’Neil, boatswain’s mate in the United States navy, might not
have heard the angry exclamation, for all the answer he gave. He was
awaiting orders from his superior officer.
“I’ve got him, sir,” he said quietly.
“We have his number, sir,” another sailor volunteered.
Phil waved his hand to O’Neil; the latter let go the clutch lever, and
slid back into the gaping crowd, not however without a parting sally.
“Say, mister, remember next time when you’re in a hurry not to run over
an American; he is liable to puncture your tire.”
The noise of the gears drowned his words, but from his gleeful chuckle
O’Neil seemed to have enjoyed his own bit of pleasantry, and after all
that was all that was necessary, for a foreigner could not be expected
to understand American wit.
The little Japanese police had been hard by, and doubtless enjoyed the
businesslike way in which O’Neil handled a delicate situation, but they
were carrying out their orders received from no less an authority
than the chief of police--to hold themselves aloof from the visiting
man-of-war’s men, and under no circumstances to make arrests unless for
the sailors’ own safety.
The little incident was all over in a few moments, and before the
occupants of any other carriage could reach the scene to inquire into
the cause of the disturbance, Phil was back again in his own carriage,
writing the number given him by the sailor in his pocket note-book, to
be saved for future reference.
“Not hurt, only jolted a bit,” was his explanation to the inquiries of
his companions.
“Did you notice beauty in distress on the rear seat of the auto?”
Lieutenant Winston’s eyes were twinkling. “There were two of them, and,
by Jove! I envied you standing there championing the fallen, with their
admiring eyes upon you.”
He read the surprise in Phil’s face. “What, didn’t see them! My! it
looked to me as if you were playing up to the part. I’ll wager that the
chap driving will have a bad half hour with them for his recklessness.”
Phil decided not to announce his suspicions, for after all he might be
mistaken. The man’s voice certainly sounded like the one in the next
compartment in the train, but then there was a great similarity between
English voices to an American ear.
The arrival of the leaders at the gates of the palace grounds cut short
further speculation upon the incident.
“On foot from here,” they were told by obsequious gentlemen in waiting,
and glad to be able to stretch their limbs after the drive, the
officers alighted, and were conducted through the Emperor’s magnificent
gardens to the large pavilion where the fête was to be held.
For the next half hour the two midshipmen felt that they were peeping
at a scene from fairy-land. The grace and color of everything the eye
touched upon was pleasing--the foliage of the trees, the profusion of
flowers, the delicate perfume impregnating the air. Silks, satins, and
gold lace were on every hand. Men whose names were household words for
diplomacy and war were where a hand could be reached out to touch them.
“This is as near fame as I’ll ever get, probably,” Sydney whispered as
the well-known features of the prime minister appeared at his elbow,
their coat sleeves touching in the crowd.
“Look at Winston over there,” Phil returned in the same spirit of fun.
“That’s as near to a naval hero as he’ll be for some time.”
So engrossed were the lads in noting the famous Japanese statesmen and
celebrities of two foreign wars, whose likenesses had become familiar
to them from studies of the history of this wonderful island kingdom,
that an elderly gentleman had been striving to speak to them for
several moments before they became aware of his presence.
Turning, both midshipmen grasped eagerly the outstretched hand of the
American ambassador.
“I have you both here, after all, and I mean to hold on to you if I
must imprison you to do it,” the Honorable Henry Tillotson exclaimed,
shaking their hands warmly and smiling down upon them from his stand on
the grassy embankment.
“Nothing would suit us better, eh, Syd?” Phil cried gladly.
A young girl, dressed all in white, stood at the ambassador’s side,
but he paid her no attention, so delighted was he in welcoming the two
lads. She smiled happily upon the scene, while her gloved hand plucked
her father’s arm gently to remind him of her presence.
The passing crowd glanced admiringly at the group, and especially at
the graceful American girl.
The ambassador was still oblivious of her. His kindly face beamed with
pleasure, and he was loath to give up the sturdy brown hands within his
own.
Then came a sudden pause, and the smile on Mr. Tillotson’s face died
suddenly away. His thoughts had quickly traveled far off to the
Philippine Islands, where he had last seen these young men beside
him. He had gone there to bring away the body of an only boy--a son
whom he had loved, but who had grieved his father’s heart by his wild
and erratic life. A soldier’s grave had sealed within it his boy and
all the bitterness that had been in the father’s breast for him. And
these young men, barely more than boys, had been important actors in
the closing tragedy of that son’s life. One of them had led a forlorn
hope in an endeavor to save him from the Filipino traitor who had taken
his life, and yet there this boy stood--Philip Perry--in the bright
sunlight, and he would never see his son again.
But his boy had been a soldier, and had died a soldier’s death. The joy
of the present must not be marred.
The ambassador was being attentively observed by the young girl at his
elbow; she had seen his keen joy upon greeting these two striking young
American officers, and then almost immediately had seen the smile fade
and his shoulders perceptibly droop, and her womanly instinct was at
once alert to help him overcome this burden of sorrow and dead hope.
“Father, I shall have to introduce myself, if you forget your parental
duty,” she whispered softly in his ear.
This brought the wandering thoughts of the sorrowing man to the scene
before him.
He was again his jovial self. His arm went out and about the girlish
waist and he drew her gently to his side.
“Why, child, I thought you were with the Kingsleys,” he said. “My
daughter, Helen,” he added proudly.
The midshipmen bowed. Phil felt a deep blush mount to his face as he
took her proffered fingers. He had expected to see a child, and here
was a grown up young lady. Yet he assured himself that he was not sorry.
“I feel as if I had known you both for years,” she said cordially. “We
came in a motor,” she added to her father’s exclamation. “That was how
we arrived before you.” Phil cast a swift glance of inquiry at her, and
the quick look of understanding in Helen Tillotson’s face brought again
the blush to his cheek. She had been one of the two ladies in the car
he had stopped. Then she would know the name of the man who had run
down the sailor. “I don’t want to go into the receiving tent with the
Kingsleys, when I can go in with my own countrymen,” Helen continued
coaxingly to her father.
“I must present Captain Rodgers and his officers, Helen,” the
ambassador returned, his face anxious. “I thought you were quite
satisfied with the plan. You are very uncertain,” he added in some
annoyance. “You know how much the Japanese think of etiquette in these
formal affairs.”
“Why not go in with Mr. Perry and me?” Sydney asked, as he stepped
forward eagerly to the girl’s side. “We are not important--midshipmen
don’t count for much with all this rank about.” Phil smiled broadly on
his companion for so ably saving the situation; the ambassador appeared
greatly relieved, while Helen gladly accepted the offered escort.
“They are going in now,” she exclaimed, letting go her father’s arm as
a Japanese aide-de-camp of high naval rank bowed ceremoniously to the
ambassador and offered himself as their companion to escort them into
the presence of their Majesties.
The two midshipmen experienced that sensation that every one has
felt who has marched behind a band as they walked slowly between two
lines of Japanese imperial guards, their rifles held rigidly at the
“present,” while the Emperor’s band played the impressive national
anthem of Japan. Ahead of them were many notables; the diplomatic corps
in their court dress, their breasts emblazoned with jeweled orders
and decorations; officers of the army and navy, and with these were
the naval and military attachés from foreign lands. Helen and her
midshipmen followed after the military and naval men, while behind them
came the court set of Tokyo.
Neither of the lads remembered afterward much of what happened when
they were once inside of the spacious receiving tent; its walls
hung with flags to represent one great red and white chrysanthemum,
emblematic of both the flower and the Mikado’s family crest. To Phil
the Emperor’s face had been a blur, while the Empress he could recall
only as a slight figure in black with many sparkling jewels. It was
over in a moment, and the three young people found themselves strolling
together along one of the beautifully kept garden paths.
“Isn’t it marvelous?” Helen exclaimed as she saw the wonder in the
lads’ faces. “The Japanese are the most artistic people in the world.
Every place they touch turns into a fairy-land.”
“What strikes me most forcibly,” Phil replied enthusiastically, “is how
such matter-of-fact, serious people as they are can find time to be so
artistic. Now with us in America we find ourselves too busy keeping up
with the progress of the day to indulge in art and beauty. We leave
that to those who have nothing else to do.”
“I know,” Helen said sorrowfully, “and more’s the pity. We are so
prosaic in America; while here even the poorest artisan has the magic
gift of beautifying what he creates. A thing that displeases the eye,
never mind how strongly it is made, is a failure.”
“And all this fuss is being made over the blooming of a flower,” Sydney
said questioningly. “We don’t have any such fête in our country.”
“I see you don’t know your own country,” Helen replied banteringly.
“In California they have the flower battles when the roses are in full
bloom, and they crown a king and queen, while in New Orleans they have
the winter carnival. Both ideas are very similar to the flower fêtes
in Japan, only here there is no necessity to crown a king.”
They stopped before a number of large plants which appeared covered
with flowers; the stalk of each had been secured to a stick stuck in
the ground to support its burden of blossoms.
“There is the highest chrysanthemum cultivation,” Helen said,
indicating the bush; “you may count sometimes one thousand flowers on a
single plant.”
The lads looked disappointedly at the tiny blossoms.
“They don’t look like the chrysanthemums we know,” Phil said. “They are
so small. Ours are big and massive.”
“So were these before the Japanese began the cultivation,” the girl
returned. “They consider our flowers crude and ugly. The highest art
is accomplished when one small plant is grown to give many hundred
blossoms.”
Phil strived to appear interested in the cultivation of Japan’s
national flower, but his thoughts were mostly upon the identity of the
man in the next compartment on the train from Tokyo. He was on the
point of inquiring from Helen Tillotson the name of the driver of the
machine she had come in, but he decided that it would be more seemly if
she first said something about the accident. The lad had not long to
wait, for as they turned about Sydney left them and he found himself
alone with the girl.
“You were splendid this afternoon,” she said enthusiastically. “I was
so glad to see Mr. Impey taken to task for his reckless driving.”
“I had no idea you were in the machine,” Phil returned, highly pleased
at her friendliness. “I hope you weren’t annoyed at being held there
before such a crowd. I saw it happen and my anger got the better of me.
I really didn’t intend to be theatrical,” he added, blushing fiercely.
“You weren’t a bit,” Helen hastened to assure him, “but I was so
incensed at Mr. Impey’s retort to the anxious sailor, who was only
giving him some well-meant advice, that I have refused to ride back
with the Kingsleys in his car.”
“The sailor was not hurt,” Phil said thoughtfully, “and I hope I
haven’t made one of your friends my enemy. He is here, I suppose?” he
asked, his pulse beating quicker as he remembered the similarity in
voice to the man on the train.
“Yes, we shall see him before long,” she replied. “He goes everywhere,
and knows every one in Tokyo worth knowing.”
They had come to a crossway in the path; the conversation had died out
from lack of a topic. Phil contemplated the regular profile of the girl
beside him.
“We will turn here,” she said, indicating the path to the left, “and go
to the refreshment tent. That’s where we shall find all our friends.”
“I am in no hurry to return,” he exclaimed, stopping suddenly.
“You don’t know how anxious you are to return until you meet all the
dainty little Japanese maidens waiting to serve you with all sorts of
nice things to eat and drink,” she said smiling. “Besides,” she added
archly, “I haven’t met all our officers from the ‘Alaska.’ I know, of
course, that Mr. Philip Perry is a host in himself, but----”
“I am sorry you think me so selfish and self-centred,” he interrupted,
much confused. “You are so different from what I expected,” he blurted
out. “I thought you were only a little girl. Won’t you forgive me for
sending you all those senseless messages in my letters to your father?”
Helen bit her lips. “Oh, it was very nice of you to send them,” she
said.
“Would you mind introducing me to Mr. Impey?” Phil asked, bravely
changing the subject and speaking the wish uppermost in his mind.
“I’d like to apologize for my rudeness to him. I did not know, until
Lieutenant Winston told me, that ladies were in the machine.”
While talking they had approached the refreshment tent, and Helen was
at once surrounded by Phil’s messmates from the “Alaska,” all anxious
for an introduction.
The two midshipmen soon found themselves on the outskirts of the crowd.
Helen had promised the introduction to Mr. Impey if Phil would only
locate him, so the two companions drifted along on the lookout for him.
“I have an idea, Syd,” Phil whispered, “that this Mr. Impey of the
automobile is the conspirator I overheard on the train. Here’s a chance
for some nice work to run him to earth if he is. A voice is a dangerous
identification to pin much faith upon, but people have been betrayed by
that means in lots of criminal cases.”
“Don’t put too much confidence in such an airy clue,” Sydney replied;
“but it’s worth investigation, at all events.”
Leaving Sydney with Captain Rodgers, Phil strolled slowly away on
his quest for the owner of the automobile. The crowd about him was
dense, and he soon saw the hopelessness of locating even a familiar
face in such a throng. Dazed by the crowd and still speculating upon
Impey’s identity, his eyes were on the gravel path. Suddenly a Japanese
lieutenant barred his way. The lad politely stepped aside for him to
pass.
Then he was aware that this naval man had prodded him in the ribs. A
flush of annoyance came into his face. It was not pleasant to have
one’s thoughts so rudely interrupted. He raised his eyes and gazed
blankly at a Japanese officer standing directly in his path and
laughing heartily up at him. Phil was conscious of even white teeth and
a deep black moustache. No spark of recognition came to him as he once
more stepped aside, murmuring an apology for his awkwardness. But the
obstacle still was in front of him.
“Perry! how are you, Perry!” The naval officer’s English, with scarce
an accent, opened the flood-gates of memory.
“Well, of all the luck,” Phil exclaimed heartily, the annoyance of a
moment since dying in his face as he seized the outstretched hand of
his former classmate at the Naval Academy at Annapolis.
“Taki, you young heathen,” he cried, hugging the young Japanese
boyishly.
Mutakito Takishima was laughing joyously, and in turn wringing Phil’s
hand and slapping him over the shoulder.
“I am so glad to see you, Perry,” Takishima cried again, renewing his
demonstrations of affection.
This meeting of two old friends and their evident joy at seeing each
other again caused the curious ones to stop, and the little Japanese
saw that very soon the walk would become crowded.
“Will you come with me, Perry?” he asked, and Phil, accepting readily,
marched away arm in arm with his classmate.
They made their way to one of the many tents spread on the velvety
grass of the garden. Phil gazed in admiration at the wonderful
construction of these frail out-of-door houses. The material was of
many delicate tints, and all bedecked with flags. The floors were
covered with costly rugs, while polished tables and upholstered
chairs were strewn about in profusion, the tables well covered with
refreshments.
As they entered several dainty little Japanese girls came running up
with their quaint shuffling gait, and bowed low, uttering polite words
of welcome in their own language.
Takishima clicked his heels together and bowed almost to the ground
before these sparkling-eyed little ladies, dressed in exquisitely
embroidered silk and satin kimonos.
“Miss Kamikura and my sister, Hama-san,” Takishima said, smiling with
keen enjoyment at Phil’s evident pleasure. Phil bowed and shook hands
in American fashion with the two bright-faced Japanese girls. He
recognized the name of one to be the same as an illustrious admiral.
“My chief’s daughter,” Takishima added, in a low tone to Phil, while
the young ladies with their own hands brought refreshments from the
heaping tables. “They are ladies of the household, assisting our
Empress at the garden fête.”
Phil gazed with renewed interest at these doll-like beauties, wishing
to speak, yet believing that surely neither could understood English.
“How old are they?” he thought--“surely not beyond sixteen years.”
Takishima had been talking to the young ladies in his own soft
language, while Phil studied their enthusiastic faces. He knew that
he was the subject of the conversation, and felt very conscious until
Hama-san changed this feeling to one of delighted surprise.
“Then you are one of my brother’s schoolmates,” Takishima’s sister,
Hama-san, exclaimed, again bowing gracefully to Phil. The midshipman
was startled to hear one of these delicate dolls speak his own
difficult language, and the surprise in his face caused all three of
his companions to laugh gayly.
“You speak English!” he gasped, and then joined in the laugh on
himself. “How stupid of me,” he added hastily. “O Hama-san was at
Vassar while Taki was at Annapolis.
“Do you speak English too?” he asked of Miss Kamikura.
Cho Kamikura, or O Chio-san, as she was called by her friends, shook
her head, smiling nevertheless into the lad’s face.
Phil almost dropped the plate from which he was eating, as he suddenly
saw his sought for Mr. Impey enter the tent and come directly toward
his party. Takishima grasped his hand cordially, while his woman
companion stopped to speak with Phil’s new-found girl friends. Then,
his pulse beating fast, he felt Takishima’s hand on his arm, and he
turned about to encounter the not too friendly eyes of Impey.
“Perry, let me introduce you to Mr. Impey. He is a great friend of
His Excellency, the American ambassador,” and then the ceremonious
Japanese officer introduced Phil to Mrs. Kingsley and then to Mr.
Kingsley, who had lagged behind his wife.
This was the automobile party with whom Helen Tillotson had come to the
garden fête, and who on their way had run down the sailor’s rikisha.
Phil glanced covertly at Impey as he bowed over the hands of the two
Japanese young ladies. “A friend of his ambassador and, of course,
of Helen,” he thought; “then he could hardly be the same man who had
insisted in the railway coach that America was intentionally misleading
Japan, and would eventually force a war upon her to wrest from her the
fruits of her victory over Russia.”
“By Jove, Mr. Perry,” Mr. Impey exclaimed loudly as he returned to
Phil’s side, “it was very stupid of me to run down one of your sailors.
I was most awfully glad to find he was unhurt.”
Phil thanked him quietly, but without enthusiasm. He felt that his
sympathy was not genuine.
“You championed him beautifully,” Impey added, smiling patronizingly.
“The ladies with me were much impressed, and showed me their
displeasure.”
Phil blushed deeply. The apology that he had determined upon stuck
in his throat. He decided now it was unnecessary. There was a vague,
intangible something in the man’s voice which made Phil suspicious that
Impey was not what he would like to appear. What it was Phil was at a
loss to describe, but he resolved that he would give his best efforts
to discovering it, and hoped that his judgment had not misled him. He
now believed that Impey and the man in the next compartment on the
train were one and the same person.