through the day, now that the reaction had come was shivering and
trembling, and, when he approached her with a pitying exclamation, she
went to him straightway and cried in his arms like a little, tired
child. He comforted her with broken words, though his own tears were
falling on her little, bowed head. And he tried to tell her, in terribly
bad pidgin Japanese--something Yuki had taught him--how it would be his
care to protect and guard her in the future just as if she were indeed
his mother; that he was not worthy, but he would try to fill the place
of the beautiful boy who was sleeping his last sleep. And he told of the
promise he had given to Taro, how his life would be devoted to but one
end and purpose, to find his wife. Would she accompany him?
She entreated him to take her with him. But in the end, after all, she
could not accompany him. Her health, which had never been robust, gave
way to her grief, and Jack took her back to her parents, for it was
necessary that he should spare no time from his search, and, moreover,
she was too delicate to travel. Before leaving her he saw to it that she
and her parents should have every comfort possible.
* * * * *
The old palace, grim, gray, and haggard in the winter landscape, was now
completely deserted. The townspeople looked askance at it, as at a
haunted house, knowing somewhat of the tragedy that hid within its
closed portals.
Jack was the last to leave the place. Omatsu had begged him to see to
the closing up, and the paying-off of all the old servants. When he had
finally come out he was shocked at the curious crowd of neighbors who
had gathered about the gates and were whispering and gossiping about him
and waiting for him. But they were quite respectful and silent as he
passed them. He was an object of curiosity, this tall foreigner who had
married among them, and they watched him with round, wondering eyes,
following him all the way to the station, a little, pygmy procession,
very much as children follow a circus. Once or twice he half turned as
though to tell them to leave him, but stopped himself in time,
remembering how strange he must really seem to them.
At the station he bowed to them gravely, and his bow was solemnly and
politely returned by those in front. And it was in this strangely
pathetic though grotesque manner that the tall, fair-haired barbarian
left the town.
Less than a year before he had been a light-hearted, joyous boy. He was
now a man, with a burden on his soul and a sacred task to perform.
Moreover, there was an awful abyss in his life that must be bridged.
Never again would life have for him the same rosy bow of promise, not
until he had found that other part of his soul--his Sun-goddess.
XVI
A PILGRIM OF LOVE
Jack Bigelow went up to Yokohama, where the Tokyo detectives thought
they had a clew to the girl's whereabouts. A new and very beautiful
geisha had appeared among the dancing-girls, and as no one seemed to
know anything about her history it was thought that she might be the
missing Yuki. But she had disappeared only the day before his arrival
there.
Jack spent a month in the big metropolis, shadowing the tea-gardens, and
watching, with the assistance of men he had hired, every geisha house
and garden; but though many girls apparently answering to the
description of Yuki were brought before him, none of them proved to be
the missing girl, and the disgust the young man experienced at their
total unlikeness to his wife was only equalled by his bitter
disappointment.
A telegram from police headquarters brought him back to Tokyo. Here he
was told that the detectives had traced the missing girl to Nagasaki, a
seaport on the western coast of Kiushu. This was the city where Yuki's
father had first lived in Japan. He had been the son of a rich silk
merchant, and had come to Japan in order to extend his knowledge of the
silk trade and expand his father's business. But Stephen Burton had
become infatuated with the country, had married a Japanese wife,
assimilated the ways of her people, and in time had even become a
naturalized citizen. He never returned alive to his native England,
though strange, cold, red-bearded men had taken his body from the wife,
and had crossed the seas with it.
Old Sir Stephen Burton had never forgiven what he considered the
_mésalliance_ of his son, and hence Taro and Yuki had never seen or
known any of their father's people, and he himself had died while they
were yet children.
Some feeling of sentiment might have brought Yuki to this place.
Moreover, there were many public tea-houses there, where she could
quickly find employment. The police were positive in their statements
that they were not mistaken in the identity of the girl they claimed to
be Yuki.
Travelling by slow and tedious trains, with no sleeping accommodations
and but few of the modern luxuries that are necessities on American
trains; travelling by kurumma, with the flying heels of his runners
scattering the dust of the highway in his eyes, when the landscape
before, behind, and around him seemed a maze of dazzling blue;
travelling on foot, when he was too restless to do otherwise than tramp,
he was weary and ill when he finally, reached Nagasaki. Here an amazing
horde of nakodas pestered him with their offerings of matrimonial
happiness. He had no heart for them. They stifled him with memories that
were better sleeping.
The tea-house to which he had been directed was owned and run by an
elderly geisha, who, in her day, had been noted for her own beauty and
cleverness. She was all affectation and grace now. She met Jack with
exaggerated expressions of welcome, and in a sweet, sibilant voice
pressed upon him the comforts and entertainments of her "poor place."
He did not pause to exchange compliments with her.
Was there not in her house a girl, very beautiful and very young, who
sang and danced?
Madam Pine-leaf (that was her name) allowed her face to betray surprised
amusement at the question. Why, her place was famous for the beauty of
her maidens, and every one of them danced and sang more bewitchingly
than the fairies themselves. But she only said, very humbly:
"My maidens are all unworthily fair, and all of them indulge in the
honorable dance and song. It is part of the accomplishment of every
geisha."
"Yes, but you could not mistake this girl. She is distinct from all
others. She--her eyes are blue. She is only half Japanese!"
"Ah-h!--a half-caste." Madam Pine-leaf's lips formed in a _moue_. She
was very polite, however. She pretended to consult her mind. Then she
begged that he would remain, at all events, and see for himself all her
girls.
Impatiently he waited, a terrible nervousness taking possession of him
at the mere possibility that Yuki might be near him. But though he
scanned with almost seeming rudeness the faces of the inmates of the
place, none of them was like unto her whom he sought.
When he paid his hostess, who, recognizing in him a generous patron, had
been careful to stay close by him the entire evening, his face betrayed
his exceeding disappointment.
The woman glanced at the big fee in her hand, and a feeling of pity and
gratitude called up all her native prevarication.
Now that she had spent the whole evening turning the matter over in her
mind, she recalled the fact that only a few days before a girl answering
exactly to his description of his wife had worked for her for a short
period, but unfortunately she had left her and gone to Osaka.
Madam Pine-leaf's face was guileless, her words convincing. There was
gentle compassion in her eyes, which added to the comfort of her words.
Jack wrung her slim hands gratefully till they ached.
Osaka? How far away was that? Did Madam Pine-leaf believe he had time to
get there before she would leave? What was the exact address?
Yes, she believed he would be in time, and she drew out a dainty tablet
and wrote an address upon it, and with deep and graceful obeisances she
prayed that the gods would accompany and guide him.
* * * * *
He reached Osaka at night, when its many strange canals and narrow
rivers were reflecting the lights of the city, like glittering
spear-heads, on their dark, shining surface. The hotel was miles from
the station, but the streets were deserted, and there was no traffic to
hinder the flying feet of his runner. At night the city seemed strangely
romantic and peaceful, a spot that would have attracted one of Yuki's
temperament. But daylight revealed it as it was--a bustling commercial
centre, where everybody seemed hurrying as though bent on accomplishing
some important mission.
Jack stayed but a few days in Osaka. She was not there. The proprietor
of the Osaka gardens, hearing his story, humbly apologized for the fact
that while such a girl had honored for a short season his unworthy
gardens, she had left him now some days ago. Whither had she gone? To
Kyoto.
And in Kyoto, the most fascinating and beautiful city in all Japan, he
was sent from one tea-house to another, each proprietor acknowledging
that one answering to the description had been in his employ, but
declaring that she had left only a short time previous. She was only a
visiting geisha, who moved from place to place.
Finally he traced her back to Tokyo, the place whence he had started on
his weary pilgrimage. She was the chief geisha, so he was told, of the
Sanzaeyemon gardens. With his brain swimming, his lips almost refusing
him speech, he went straightway to this place. The proprietor received
him with magnificent humility, and, listening to his disjointed
questions, answered that all was well. She was even then within his
honorably miserable tea-house. For the privilege of seeing her he would
be obliged to make an honorably insignificant charge, and, if he (the
august barbarian) desired to take her away with him, a further fee must
be forthcoming.
Waiving these questions aside, by putting down so much coin that the
little proprietor's eyes matched its glisten, he followed him up the
stairway to the private quarters of the more important geishas. Into one
of the rooms he was unceremoniously ushered.
A girl who sat on a mat put forward her two hands, and her bowed head on
top of them. Jack watched her with bated breath. He could not see her
face, and the room was badly lighted. But when he could bear no longer
her perpetual bowing and had lifted her, with hands that shook, to her
feet, he saw her face. It was that of a stranger!
A slight illness now hindered the progress of his search, but he would
not allow himself the rest he needed; and still ill, haggard, and a
shadow of his former self, the young man once more drifted to the
metropolitan police station.
They had exhausted all their clews, but they were kind-hearted little
men, these Japanese policemen. The chief of police invented a story that
would have done credit to one of Japan's poets.
Yuki was somewhere in the vicinity of Matsushima Bay, on the
northeastern coast of Japan, near the city of Sendai, where the waters
flow into the Pacific. This was a spot favored by unhappy lovers, and
the chief of police had positive evidence that a girl answering to her
description had been seen wandering daily in that part of the country.
He even produced a telegraph blank, with an indecipherable message in
Japanese characters written on it, purporting to give this information.
His advice to the young man was to go to this honorable place and stay
there for some time. The country was large thereabouts. He might not
find her at once, but soon or late surely she would turn up there.
Jack was impressed with his glib recital, and then, moreover, he
remembered that Yuki had told him much about this place, which they had
planned to visit together some day. He started straightway for it,
buoyed up with a hope he had not known in months.
And the chief of police snapped his fingers and bobbed his head and
clinked the big fee he had received.
"These foreign devils are naïve," he said to an assistant.
The cringing assistant agreed. "They believe any august lie," he
replied.
His superior frowned. "It was for his good, after all," he returned,
tartly.
In the city of Sendai Jack put up at a small Japanese hostelry, and from
there each day he would start out and wander down to the beach of the
wonderful bay. It was all as Yuki had pictured it, with her vivid,
passionate imagery. There were the countless rocks of all sizes and
forms scattered in it, with strange, shapely pine-trees growing up from
them, and the one bare rock called "Hadakajima," or "Naked Island," and
all the beautiful romances, impossible and dreamy as the fairy tales of
a classic Oriental poet, that she had woven about and around this place,
came back to his mind now, haunting him like a beautiful dream, until
the memory of her, and the influence of the beauty of the place, seemed
to cast a mystic spell about him.
For, oh! the scenes that enwrapped the bay! The slopes and hillocks and
the great mountains beyond were garbed in vestal white, pure and
glistening. The snowflakes had tipped the branches of the pine, and
there they hung, like glistening pearl-drops, sometimes dropping with
little bounds on the rocks, there to freeze or melt into the bay.
And some vague fancy, baffling in its hopelessness, nevertheless, clung
to him that possibly she might have come hither to this peaceful spot,
far from the scenes where they had loved and suffered so deeply, for,
with unerring insight, Jack knew that she had loved him. Bit by bit he
traced backward in his mind every proof she had given him of this, and
now, when the sorrow of her loss seemed more than he could bear, the
knowledge of this upheld and cheered him always.
But the beauty of Matsushima could give him no peace of mind or soul,
for he was alone! The stillness and silence of the very atmosphere, the
tall pine-trees, bending gracefully in the swaying, swinging breezes,
seemed to mock him with their calm content. The bay was enchanted--yes,
but haunted too--haunted by the imagination of the little feet that had
perhaps wandered along its shore.
In a little village only a short distance from the beach, inhabited by a
few simple, honest fisher-folk, Jack tried to ascertain whether they had
seen aught of her he sought. But they babbled fairy stories back at him.
There had been many, many witch-maids who had haunted the shores of
Matsushima; many young girls, who had lost their minds through
unfortunate love affairs, had wandered thither. They were the ghosts of
these unfortunate lovers, who had sought in death the bliss of love
denied them in life, which now haunted the shore of the bay.
That the strange, fair man who had lost his bride would meet the same
untimely though poetic fate the simple people never doubted.
And so, like one who has lost his soul, he wandered hither and thither
throughout the islands of Japan in search of it.
Sunshine had been the dominant element in Jack Bigelow's character, and
in a less degree impulsiveness and generosity. No one had ever given him
credit for intensity of feeling or greatness of purpose. But sometimes
tribulation will bring out such qualities, which have lain hidden
beneath an apparently superficial exterior.
A deep, abiding love for his summer bride had sprung into eternal life
in his heart. She was never absent from his mind. There were moments
when for a time he would forget his immeasurable loss, and would drift
into memory, and in fancy re-live with her that dream summer. She had
become the soul of him. She would remain in his heart until it ceased to
beat.
XVII
YUKI'S WANDERINGS
Had Jack followed Yuki on the night she went out of his house and life,
he would have known that she was not to be found in all Japan. She had
hurried from his and Taro's presence with but one object--to take
herself forever from the sight of the brother whom she had loved but who
had repulsed her, whom she had dishonored in trying to assist. She took
the road for Tokyo, and, head downward, sobbing like a little child who
has lost its way in the dark, stumbled blindly along until she had come
within its limits.
She had no idea whither she was going now, what she would do; her mind
could only contain her grief. But as she wandered aimlessly about,
weeping silently, an address slipped itself into her consciousness--the
address written on the card handed her by the American theatrical man
months before, when he had followed her from the tea-house. She had
studied the card curiously at the time, and now, though the name had
escaped her--she had really never been able to make it out--her mind
still held the address.
She turned in the direction in which she knew the American's house lay,
and at length found it, wearied both by the anguish of her mind and by
her long walk. Yes, the American gentleman was in, said the garrulous
Japanese servant who answered her timid summons. He had returned from
lands far south less than a week ago, and now in two more days he would
be off again. Did she want to meet him? Perhaps he slept.
Yuki said she would speak with him but a minute, and the servant
vanished. Almost immediately the manager appeared before her, frowning
heavily. But at sight of her his face brightened wonderfully.
"Why, if it ain't the girl I heard sing at the tea-garden!" he cried.
"Come right inside."
And he eagerly drew her, unresisting, within.
* * * * *
Two days later, on board the _Yokohama Maru_, Yuki left her native
Japan.
As the ship weighed anchor, she closed her eyes and faintly clung to the
guard-rail. All about her she could hear the passengers talking and
laughing, a few were cheering and waving flags and handkerchiefs to
friends on shore. And long after the wharf was only a dim, shadowy
outline she still clung there to the rail, her hands cold and tense.
Some one put an arm about her, and she started as though she had been
struck.
"You are not ill already, you poor little thing?" said a woman's clear,
pleasing voice.
Yuki regarded her piteously. She dimly recognized in her the wife of her
employer, and she struggled to regain her scattered wits, but vainly.
She was only able to look up into the sympathetic face of the other with
eyes which could not conceal the turbulent tragedy of her soul.
"Why, you are shivering all over, and are as cold as--Jimmy, come over
here," she turned and called peremptorily to her husband, who hastened
forward, throwing his cigar overboard.
"Look here; she's sick already. Better send one of those ayah women, or
whatever you call 'em, over, and have her put to bed right away."
They undressed her, submissive as a little child, and put her into the
berth of a little stateroom, which seemed to Yuki, who had never in her
life before been on board a vessel of any sort, save the tiny craft
about the rivers at her home, like a tiny cage or vault, wherein she,
exhausted and weary, had been put to die.
She lay there with the surging bustle of the ship's noises overhead and
the tremulous growl of the waters beneath the ship droning in her ears
like the melancholy ringing of a dying curfew-bell at twilight.
The ayah reported to the manager's wife, an ex-comic-opera prima donna,
that she was resting and sleeping; but when that impetuous, big-hearted
woman peeped in on her, she found Yuki's eyes wide open. She whirled
into the small stateroom, almost filling it with her large person, and
sat down beside the poor little weary girl and looked at her with
friendly and approving eyes.
"You are like a pretty picture on a fan," she said; "the prettiest
Japanese girl I've seen. I think we'll be fine friends, don't you?"
Yuki could only assent with a weary little nod of her head. She closed
her eyes.
"You are not so dreadfully sick, are you?" said the American. "I thought
maybe we could have a nice little gossip together. You see, my husband's
the boss of this whole outfit that we've got along with us, and I don't
know that there's one of the whole lot I've ever cared to associate with
before. You're different. Now, ain't I good to speak out just what's on
my mind, eh?"
"I _ought_ to thang you," said Yuki, feebly, "but I am too weary to be
perlite."
"Then you shall be left alone, you child, you," said the other; then she
kissed Yuki lightly, and went out of the door.
But after she had gone Yuki's passivity left her. She sat up quivering,
and then with nervous quickness she began to dress herself. She could
not open the door of the stateroom. She was unused to strange doors that
required the pushing of springs and bolts. She had lived in a land where
bolts and locks were almost unknown, where a shoji fell apart at a touch
of a hand. Now she pushed hard against the door, but, as she had not
turned the handle, it refused to move. A terror possessed her that they
had locked her in this tiny, awful cell, to which penetrated no light
save that which filtered through a small porthole against which the
waters beat and beat.
She flung herself desperately against the door, battering it with her
tiny hands; she felt herself growing dizzy and blind as the ship rocked
and swayed beneath her feet. She tried to pace the tiny length of the
stateroom, her sense of terrible loneliness and homesickness deepening
with every moment. The moving of the ship horrified her, and the
knowledge that it was taking her farther and farther from her home
across the immense bottomless sea filled her with a terror akin to
nothing She had ever known in her life before.
In the sickening, wearying dazzle of the few days previous to their
sailing, the girl's mind had held but one thought--to go far away from
the scenes of her pain; now perhaps the reaction had come, and her
terror at the step she had taken appalled her. Memory, which had been
thrust out of sight by the ever-present nagging pain that had blinded
her to all else, now asserted its power, merciless and invincible. She
pressed her hands to her head, as though to blot out forever from her
mind the pitiless ghosts that haunted her.
Like the wraiths that come and vanish in a nightmare, the events of her
life came to her one by one--the happy childhood with her brother, their
passionate devotion to each other, her grief at his departure for
America, the months of struggle that had followed, sacrifices made for
him, her attempts to make a living sufficient for his maintenance in
America, and then--her marriage! After that, memory held no other
thought but the immeasurable craving and longing that was almost madness
for the voice, the touch, the sight of the man she had loved and left.
It was three days before her illness ended. Then, having begged the
consent of the woman who attended her, she crept up the companion-way
and out on deck, where the passengers were disporting and enjoying
themselves.
She had looked forward to the time when she would regain sufficient
strength to leave her prison-cell, for such she regarded her stateroom.
In the strange medley of ideas which had curiously woven themselves into
a maze in her mind, she had imagined that once in the open on deck she
would see once more the shores of her home, Fujiyama's lofty peak
smiling against its celestial background, and hanging like a mirage in
mid-air.
But there was no sight visible to her, as, with her hand shading her
eyes, she looked out before her, save a vast, cold, pitiless waste of
surging waters, jumping up to meet the sky, which smiled or glowered
with its moods.
* * * * *
In the months that followed, Yuki met with nothing but kindness from the
American theatrical manager and his wife. With them she went to China,
India, the Philippines, and finally to Australia. From all these
different points the American theatrical scout drew together a motley
troupe of jugglers, fancy dancers, wizards, fencers, and performers of
one sort and another, with which he hoped to make a larger fortune in
America. He had combined business with this long pleasure trip, for he
was on his bridal tour at the time.
By some remarkable intuition peculiar sometimes to the gayest and most
frivolous hearted of women of the world, the wife of the theatrical
manager had gained some insight into the cause of the pitiful
sensitiveness and shrinking shyness of the queer little Japanese girl
with the blue eyes, to whom she had taken an extravagant fancy.