MEANWHILE, in the house, Mr. Kurukawa was inquiring urgently for Gozo.
Where was he? Why was he not the first to greet his parents? The
grandparents would not respond to his inquiries, but remained silent,
looking very dejected and miserable. Their aspect alarmed Mr. Kurukawa,
who now clapped his hands loudly. Several servants came running into the
room in answer to his summons. Immediately the master questioned them:
“Where is my son Gozo?”
But all the response he received from the servants was a profound
silence, broken by that hissing, sighing sound peculiar to the Japanese
when moved, a drawing in of the breath through the teeth. Mr. Kurukawa
recognized a boy who had been his own body-servant, and to him he
strode, seizing the latter by the shoulder of his kimono. But the boy
slipped from his hand to the ground and put his head at his master’s
feet. There, with his face hidden, he answered the questions put to him.
“Speak, my boy, where is Gozo?”
“O Excellency, young master—sir—” he broke off and began to cry, beating
his head as he did so on the floor. Mr. Kurukawa raised him forcibly to
his feet.
“What is it, Ido? Has anything happened to our Gozo?”
He could hardly bring the words out. The bare thought that misfortune
had befallen his eldest son horrified him.
Ido dried his face on his sleeve, and from his new hiding-place spoke:
“Young master, sir, gone away, O Excellency!”
Mr. Kurukawa’s grasp on the boy’s shoulder relaxed. He stepped back and
stood a moment silent, his hand against his forehead.
“What is it, Kiyo? What is it?” asked his wife, going to him and
throwing an arm about him.
The color came back into her husband’s face. He laughed a bit weakly.
“I thought it possible that my boy was—”
She held his hand tightly, her eyes full of tears.
“Oh, I understand. I do,” she said. “But where is he?”
Her husband stepped back to the spot where Ido had been. Then he saw
that in almost complete silence the servants, including Ido, had slipped
from the room.
He fancied he heard the slight movement of their feet on the padded
floor beyond the shoji. Impetuously and insistently he clapped his hands
again, and silently they answered his summons. Nearly all the servants
of the Kurukawa family had been in their service for years, some of them
having served the grandparents. Their averted faces alarmed Mr.
Kurukawa. This time he did not question them.
“Send Plum Blossom-san to me at once,” he said.
The little girl was brought in. With her Iris and the consoled Juji
came.
The father took the eldest girl by the hand; kneeling, he spoke to her
almost pleadingly.
“Tell father all about Gozo,” he said.
Plum Blossom grew very red and looked towards Mrs. Kurukawa. Then she
spoke low in Japanese, her hand half pointing in the direction of her
step-mother.
“She—she—send away our Gozo,” she said.
At the mention of Gozo’s name Juji paused in his eating of a juicy
persimmon to give signs of a renewal of his late tear-storm. Little Iris
drew him comfortingly into her arms, soothing him in this wise:
“There, there, Juji, don’t cry! Gozo is coming back some day. Oh, you
should laugh, Juji, because our Gozo is so brave and fine. Think of it!
He is a soldier of the beloved Ten-shi-sama!”
“Soldier!” cried Mr. Kurukawa, and leaped to his feet. “My boy a
soldier!” he cried, almost staggering forward.
“Yes, father,” said Plum Blossom. “Gozo is a _g-great_ soldier now!”
Mr. Kurukawa went towards the grandparents.
“What does this mean? He was left in your charge. He is only a child—a
mere boy of eighteen. How could he enlist at such an age?”
“He passed for older,” said the grandmother, slowly. “We did everything
to prevent his going—but he has gone.”
“Ah, I see—I understand,” said Mr. Kurukawa. For a moment his face was
lighted as a look of pride swept across it. “The boy was inspired. He
could not wait to come of age. He wanted to give his young life for his
country, his Emperor. I am proud of him. Where is he now?”
“The last time we heard from him he was at Port Arthur. That was—two
months ago.”
“Ah-h! Condescend to give me his letter—”
The grandmother slowly and reluctantly took it from her sleeve and
handed it to the father. Mr. Kurukawa’s eager fingers shook as he
unfolded the letter, a long, narrow sheet, covered with the bold and
characteristic writing up and down the pages of his son Gozo. As he
perused it his face grew darkly red. The sheet rustled in his hands.
When he had finished he crushed it, and stood for a moment in silence,
anger and sorrow combating within him.
“So,” he finally spoke, “it was not honorable loyalty to the Mikado
which inspired him, but a mean emotion—hatred of one he does not even
know. I expected better of my son.”
He let the crumpled letter fall from his hand. Stooping, the grandmother
picked it up, to place it tenderly in her sleeve. She spoke with a touch
of reproach in her voice:
“Kurukawa Kiyskichi,” she said, “never before have I heard your lips
speak bitterly of your eldest son. Be not inspired to feel anger towards
him.” She glanced at Mrs. Kurukawa as though she were the one at fault.
“Gozo is a good boy, has always been so. It was not hatred, as you say,
which prompted him to leave his own. Call it rather a boy’s feeling of
resentment, that the place of the one he had loved dearly—his
mother—should so soon be filled—and by a bar—”
She did not finish the word. Her son-in-law stopped her with a stern
gesture.
“Say no more, honorable mother-in-law. It is enough that my son has,
without so much as referring to me in the matter, left my house. In his
letter he speaks slanderously of one who is good, who was ready to love
him as her very son. She is my wife just as much as Gozo’s mother was.
She is not an intruder in her husband’s house, and my son has no right
to question her place here. Of his own free will he has left his
father’s house. Very well, he shall never return to—”
“What does it all mean?” broke in his wife with agitation. “Tell me what
you are saying, Kiyo. Where is Gozo?”
“_I_ will tell unto you,” spoke the grandmother, going towards her.
“Better, madame, that you should know. I say not English well, but—”
“I understand you.”
“Gozo—our boy—go way—mek soldier—fight Lussians. He angry account
_you_—therefore he be soldier—”
“Account—_me_! Why, I don’t understand—that is—Yes—I think I do
understand. He was opposed to his father’s marriage?”
“He love his _mother_,” said the old woman, and then began to tremble,
for Mrs. Kurukawa had hidden her face in her hands. The grandmother
spoke uncertainly.
“Pray egscuse—I sawry—ve’y sawry. Gozo—Gozo—_bad_.” She brought the word
out as if it hurt her to admit this much of her best-loved grandchild.
“No, no,” said Mrs. Kurukawa, softly. “He is not bad. I understand him.
Why, it was only natural.” She moved appealingly towards her husband.
“Don’t you remember, Kiyo, I feared this—that the children might not
_want_ me.”
“And I told you,” said he, quickly, “that it was not my children you
were marrying, but myself.”
“You are angry with that boy,” she cried.
“Angry! I will never forgive him!”
“Oh, you don’t mean that.”
“We will not talk of it any longer,” said her husband, turning away.
The boy had written:
“The barbarian female who has taken my mother’s place is a
witch—a fox-woman—a devil! Otherwise how could she have worked
upon my father’s mind so soon to forget our mother? I could not
remain at home and face such a woman. Better that I should go.
Here, at least, my bitter thoughts can do no injury. How I long
to be exposed to great danger! Maybe, if I die, my father will
be sorry!”
Such unfilial, rebellious words were unheard of from a Japanese son.
Left to the care of his doting old grandparents, Mr. Kurukawa saw
clearly how much Gozo had needed the guiding hand of a father.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
V
MARION sat on a gigantic moss-grown rock, looking with somewhat wistful
eyes at the children in the family pond. She envied them their intense
enjoyment. The family pond, it should be explained, was also the family
bath-tub. It was a great pool of water, set in the heart of the garden,
a beautiful and alluring spot for the children. All about it the
blossoming trees bent their heads as if to look at their own reflected
images in the mirror of the water. The Kurukawas had added to its
natural beauty by placing along its banks huge rocks of strange
formation, very charming to look at, and comfortable to sit upon.
[Illustration:
“MARION SAT ON A GIGANTIC MOSS-GROWN ROCK, LOOKING ... AT THE CHILDREN
IN THE FAMILY POND”
]
Out over the water a sort of pleasure-booth was built, over which the
wistaria vines clambered and bloomed in wild profusion. This was the
dolls’ house of the little Japanese girls. In the water were two
diminutive sampans and also a raft, the property of Taro, inherited from
Gozo.
The pond was a natural one. It might have been termed a small lake, but
the family had always referred to it as “the pond,” and even had called
it the “bath,” for that was its chief use. The little Kurukawas dipped
into it sometimes three times a day in the summer. They had almost
literally spent their lives in it. Even three-year-old Juji would throw
his fat little hands over his head, and dive into the water, swimming as
naturally as a wild duck.
Now as Marion watched the shining brown bodies of her step-brothers and
sisters her eyes unconsciously filled with tears. Why could not she
throw aside her white starched clothes and join them in their pleasures?
It was not that her mother would not permit her; but Marion’s sensitive
soul had been deeply wounded by the manner of her step-sisters when
first she had put on a kimono, and had gone, with innocent friendliness,
to join them. At first the little girls had regarded her with amazement.
Summer, who happened to be with them, hid her face behind her fan, where
she giggled and tittered in the most provoking way imaginable. Plum
Blossom asked, bluntly:
“Wha’s thad? Dress?”
“My kimono,” faltered Marion.
“Where you git?”
“Mother bought it at a Japanese store in Chicago.”
Plum Blossom shook her head disapprovingly, while Iris, in imitation of
Summer, began to titter also.
“Thas nod Japanese,” said Plum Blossom, severely.
Marion had moved proudly and silently away.
“Mother,” she cried, running into her room, with crimson cheeks and
flashing eyes, “give me back my own clothes. Oh, I never, never, never
want to wear these horrid things again,” she sobbed in her mother’s lap.
And now, a week later, Marion still wore her white starched gown of
piqué, and sat there on the rock, quite alone; for Billy was one of the
happy bathers in the shining spring-pond. It was against him she felt
most bitter. He was her own, own brother; yet there he was quite at home
with the enemy, even sometimes pushing the boat which held that “nasty
Miss Summer,” who was at the root of all her trouble. She felt sure she
could have been happy with Plum Blossom and Iris had not Summer, in some
way, influenced them against her. And as for dear, little, fat Juji,
why, she just loved him!—even if he did scream every time she came near
him and ran from her as fast as his little, fat, frightened legs could
carry him. Summer had told him Marion was a fox-girl, who would bite him
if she caught him. At first Juji had regarded this announcement with
doubt. Full of confidence because of the winning, smiling face of
Marion, he had even timorously gone into her arms. Lo and behold, she
had indeed attempted to “bite” him, for such the kiss had seemed to
Juji, who had never been kissed in all his life. After that, Juji had
kept his distance from the “yellow-haired fox-girl.”
There was a sudden squeal of delight from the pond. Something flashed in
the sun a moment. Then over went the sampan in which the three little
Japanese girls were seated. Billy had tipped it over, immersing the
three girls, who came up shaking their little black heads, and swam
towards the raft, upon which they clambered.
Leading from the booth to the shore was a little arched bridge, part,
indeed, of the pleasure-booth. Suspended between a pole on shore and
another half-way out in the water, was a long, delightful bamboo rest.
The gymnastic Taro would climb out on this pole as easily as a kitten;
he would twist and twirl about, and end with his head hanging over the
water and his feet clinging to the pole. Each time he performed these
tricks Billy was filled with an intense ambition to transport his
step-brother to America, to exhibit him to his old school-mates.
Now the rock on which Marion sat was close to the shore end of the
bamboo pole, and near to the little arbor. As she sat there in sad
dejection, Taro softly clambered up from the water end of the bamboo
pole and crawled along the ridge until he stood over the head of the
unconscious girl. His body swayed, until he rested in his favorite
position and hung by his feet from the pole. One quick, sharp push, and
the next moment the little girl on the rock was plunged head-foremost
into the water below. Taro had revenged the upsetting of his sisters
from the boat by Billy. The latter went suddenly white to his lips and
began swimming frantically in the direction of his sister.
One fleeting glimpse of the boy’s horrified face Taro had; then he
understood. Marion could not swim!
On the instant he threw up his arms and dived. Never had Billy seen
anything so quick as that lightning dive and swift return of Taro. He
supported his step-sister while he swam with her to the shore. She had
been hardly a minute in the water; but she was frightened. Her little
hands and face were blue, her teeth were chattering, and she was
shivering and crying hysterically, although it was sultry and warm. The
first words she spoke were:
“Billy—I—I’m all right. Pl-please don’t fight Taro about it,” for Billy
was pugnaciously regarding his step-brother.
The other children were now all about her, Plum Blossom’s motherly
little face looking very concerned. The water was dripping from the
kimonos of the three Japanese girls. As they looked at the drenched
Marion a kindred feeling must have possessed them simultaneously, for
suddenly they all laughed outright in unison, Marion joining with them.
She was almost glad of the adventure now, as she said:
“If I had on a kimono—I’d—I’d go into the water with you.”
“You want keemono?” inquired Taro, eagerly.
“Yes,” she nodded.
He brought her his own.
She laughed with delight, and Iris and Plum Blossom clapped their hands.
What fun to see the yellow-haired one arrayed in a boy’s kimono! But
Marion had disappeared with the garment. A few minutes later she
returned clad in it, to the uproarious delight of every one.
Taro himself wore with great pride one of Billy’s bathing-suits.
As the sampan moved down the surface of the tiny lake, Marion confided
to Plum Blossom, who held one of her hands, while Iris held the other:
“I wanted so much to go into the water, but—I thought you didn’t want
me. Oh, dear, I feel so _comfy_ in this dear old loose thing,” she
added.
“Tha’s nize,” said Plum Blossom.
“Vaery nize,” agreed Iris.
Summer, sitting in the stern of the boat, opened her paper parasol. The
sight of it sent the little girls into another peal of laughter. When
Billy upset the boat the parasol had shared the fate of its owner as it
was thrust into her obi in front. The effect of its bath was ludicrously
apparent. Being of paper, it split in several places as she opened it.
Now as she held it loftily above her head, water of several shades of
color rolled from it to splash upon its haughty owner, for just at this
moment Summer was endeavoring to make an impression upon the sisters.
She had succeeded beyond her expectations. The boat rocked with the wild
gale of their mirth.
------------------------------------------------------------------------