THE letters brought the mother back to her home. She had altered
strangely in the two months she had been in the city. Always slim, she
seemed now a mere shadow of a woman—slight and frail as if a breath
would blow her away. But the thin face still retained its gentle
sweetness of expression and the eyes held that smile of hope.
The children were glad to see her. Laughing and crying they clung to
her.
“Why,” she said, as if she had only just realized it, “what a lot there
is to live for!”
“Seven of us, mother,” said Marion; “no, eight!—for there’s Gozo, too.”
She took no one into her confidence, but began, in secret, a
correspondence with the Minister of War. All of her inquiries were
answered. In Japan her husband had not been without high influence, and
his heroism had made his name revered by all Japanese. Hence the
requests of his widow were given the greatest attention. Soon they had
reached the highest authorities. Orders went straight to the field of
action. At last there came a day when she knew that a special search was
to be made for her husband—dead or alive.
The Russians would tell if he were with them. If not, then, at least,
his body must be found. Such were the orders issued from a high place.
She was like a flower opening to the sunshine and spring rain. The color
came back to her pale cheeks and lips. Back also came the light of
health to her eyes. She moved like a new person.
The assurance that no stone would be left unturned to learn her
husband’s fate, and her strange faith that he was still alive,
invigorated her. The change effected in her rapidly spread to the entire
household. Gloom slipped out of the door and sunshine ventured in with
summer. And this is as it should be in the house of children.
While the cherry blossoms were still flying like myriad pink-and-white
birds in the skies and all the mossy ground was white with the flowery
carpet blown from the trees, the family went out once again on a flower
picnic.
In the same little flowery gowns, the sleeve-wings weighted with petals,
they started gayly for the picnic grounds where “father” had taken them
only a year before. A gentle melancholy which pervaded even the youngest
of them, at the memory of that absent one, was dispersed with the
mother’s thought!
“Father would have you happy to-day, children. This is _his_ day,
darlings. So be happy.”
And so they were. They played the games popular in Japan, engaged in the
fascinating sport of kite-flying, listened with eager ears to the tales
of the grandfather, and then, sleepy, homeward bound in their
jinrikishas, lazily attacked passing festival-makers with the petals, to
be smothered in turn with the flowery shower.
When they reached home it was gloaming. Norah made the discovery that
most of the children were asleep.
“Shure,” said the girl, “they’re all babbies, mam, just look at the
darlints,” and she indicated the heads of the three little girls all
resting asleep on the back of the seat. Marion was in the middle with a
hand of each step-sister in her own. Mrs. Kurukawa stood silently
looking at them, then Norah interrupted her thoughts again.
“Did you think, ma’am, I’d have the heart to leave them?”
“I hoped not, Norah,” she answered, gently, “but I know it has been hard
for you, and you are a good girl.”
She helped the Irish girl lift the sleeping Juji from the carriage. As a
maid from the house came to the jinrikisha Mrs. Kurukawa turned to
direct her to assist Norah. Something in the girl’s face startled her.
The usual impassive expression was gone, and in the dim light of the
evening her mistress saw the silent tears rolling down her face.
“Why are you crying, Natsu?” she said. “Are you in trouble?”
The girl shook her head.
“What is it? You are unhappy about something.”
Suddenly the girl slipped to the ground and buried her face in the folds
of her mistress’s kimono. Madame Sano drew her almost roughly away.
“What is it?” she demanded, harshly, in Japanese. “It is unseemly to act
so in the okusama’s presence. Keep your troubles for your own chamber.”
“But I have no troubles,” said the girl, rising and wiping her eyes with
her sleeves. “I w-weep because I am happy.”
She brought the last word out with such hysterical vehemence that she
woke the older sleepers. They sat up, looking about them, startled from
their dreams. But Mrs. Kurukawa shook the girl by the arm. Her voice was
hoarse.
“What is it, Natsu? Tell me quickly!”
For answer the girl turned towards the house and pointed to the silent
figure standing there by the doorway. Even in the twilight the Japanese
children knew him. They jumped tumblingly from the jinrikishas and ran
towards him, calling his name aloud:
“Gozo! Gozo! Gozo!”
Mrs. Kurakawa turned and blindly followed the children.
He put the clinging children aside from him and advanced a step towards
her. Then suddenly he stopped short, standing uncertainly. She spoke
with a note of irresistible appeal in her voice.
“Oh, you bring me news of my husband—your father!” she said.
He made a sort of smothered sound; then, with a movement strangely
reminiscent of his father, he seized her hand suddenly in his own and
fell on his knees before her.
“Good news—for good woman!” he said.
“He is alive!” she cried.
“In Japan—the hospital at Saseho. I unworthily brought him home on—”
He noticed that her hand fell feebly from his. Then he caught her as she
reeled. She had fainted.
[Illustration:
“HE SEIZED HER HAND SUDDENLY IN HIS OWN AND FELL ON HIS KNEES BEFORE
HER”
]
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