In old Nippon the flower of kindness reaches full perfection when friend
or foe suffers defeat. Page Hanaford might be a long-hunted prize in the
police world, but to the group around him as he lay on the floor, his
head upon my lap, he was a stranger far from home and very ill. Justice
could wait while mercy served. Pity urged willing messengers to bring
restoratives, to summon doctors who pronounced the sick man in the
clutches of fever. Hospitals in Hijiyama are built for the emergencies
of war, and solicitude for Page's comfort was uppermost when, after a
short consultation among the officials, permission was granted to remove
him to my house with an officer in charge.
A policeman headed the little procession that moved slowly up the steps
to The House of the Misty Star, and one followed to keep at a distance
the sympathetic, but curious crowd. Four men carried a stretcher beside
which I walked holding the limp hand of Page, who was still claimed by a
merciful unconsciousness.
The news spread rapidly. As we reached the upper road I saw Zura at the
entrance, waiting our coming, so rigid she seemed a part of the carving
on the old lodge gates. Her face matched the snow beneath her feet.
"Is he dead?" she demanded, as we came closer.
"No. But he's desperately ill--and under arrest," I hurriedly added.
"Oh, but he's alive; nothing else matters. Come on; my room is ready."
Before I could protest, she had given orders to the men, and Zura's
bedroom was soon converted from a girlish habitation into a dwelling
place where life and death waged contest.
Later the two physicians asked for an audience with me and delivered
their opinion: "Hanaford San's illness is the result of a severe mental
shock, received before recovery from previous illness; cause unknown;
outcome doubtful."
From the sick-room orders had been issued for absolute quiet. Every
member of the house crept about, keenly aware of the grim foe that
lurked in every corner. When night came down the darkness seemed to
enter the house and wrap itself about us as well.
[Illustration: "Oh, God! A thief! It's over!"]
As Red Cross nurse on battlefields in the aftermath, I had helped put
together the remnants of splendid men and promising youth; in sorrowing
homes I had seen hope die with the going-out of such as these. But for
me, no past moment of life held gloom so impenetrable as that first
night when Page Hanaford lay in my house, helpless. The dreaded thing
had come. The boy who had walked into our hearts to stay was a fugitive
with only a small chance to live that he might prove he was not a
criminal.
The evening household dinner remained untouched. The servants hung about
the doors, eager to be of service, refusing to believe the sick man was
anything but a prince of whom the gods were jealous. Only old Ishi was
happy. In festal robes he was stationed at the lodge gates with a small
table before him ready to do the honors of the house in the ancient
custom of receiving cards.
Up the steps came a long procession of students, officials and
civilians, my friends and Page's, every caller in best kimono. From one
hand dangled a lighted lantern with the caller's name and calling
shining boldly out through the thin paper, in the other he held a
calling-card which was laid upon the table in passing. The long line
testified to their liking and sympathy for the sick man. To each caller
Ishi had a wonderful tale to tell. The marvel of it grew as his cups of
saké increased. At a late hour I found him entertaining a crowd with the
story of how the silly foreign girl had cut off the heads of his
ancestors which were in the flowers. Now the gods were taking their
vengeance upon the one she loved best. Of course only an American girl
would be so brazen as to show her liking for any special man. I took him
by the shoulder.
"Ishi, you are drunk. And at such a time."
"No, Jenkins San, I triumph for Hanaford San. He die to escape Zura San.
'T is special 'casion. All Japanese gentlemens drink special 'casions. I
assist honorable gods celebrate downfall of 'Merca and women."
Having locked up the gates and Ishi, I went back to the living-room,
where I found Jane and Zura. It was my first opportunity to tell them in
detail what had happened at the Kencho--of Kobu's charge, the arrest and
Page's collapse.
Zura was called from the room by some household duty. Jane and I were
left alone. Though my companion looked tired and a little anxious, she
seemed buoyed up by some mental vision to which she hopefully clung.
"Miss Jenkins, please tell me just what the poster said," asked Jane.
The printed words I had read that morning seemed burned into my brain. I
repeated them exactly.
"Well, it didn't even give a hint that Page was that nice cashier
gentleman from Chicago, did it?" she inquired.
"No, Jane, it didn't; only it was signed by the Chicago Bank. But Kobu
told me he was sure Page was the man. He has cabled the authorities to
come."
"He has cabled, has he? He knows, does he? Kobu has himself going to
another thought. Isn't that what Zura says? Page Hanaford is no more the
man wanted for borrowing that bank's money than I am a fashion plate
wanted in Paris." Her words were light, but very sure.
Her apparent levity irritated me. "How do you know? What are you saying,
Jane?" I asked sharply.
"Oh, I just have a feeling that way. Page is too good-looking," answered
my companion.
"For the love of heaven, Jane Gray, that's no reason. Good looks don't
keep a man from sin."
"Maybe not, but they help; and Page loves poetry too," she ended with
quiet stubbornness. Then after a pause: "That program did not say what
particular thing our boy was wanted for, did it?" Neither in joy nor
sorrow did Jane's talent desert her for misusing words.
"No, the circular did not state the details. But if you think there is
any mistake about the whole thing go to the room and look at that
policeman pacing up and down before the door. And if you think the boy's
not desperately ill, look inside and see those two doctors and that
speck of a trained nurse watching his every breath. You can read the
paper yourself, if you don't believe me."
"Miss Jenkins, don't pin your faith to a program; they tell awful fibs.
Once I wrote one myself for a meeting and I said, 'The audience will
remain standing while collection is taken,' and it made me say: 'The
remains of the audience will be collected while standing.'"
"How can you?" I asked. Hot tears stung my eyes.
Instantly Jane was by my side. "How can I? Because it's best never to
believe anything you hear and only half of what you see. I know the
dear boy is ill. But he's not guilty. The idea of that sweet boy, with
such a nice mouth and teeth, doing anything dishonorable! It's all a
mistake. I know guilt when I see it, and Page hasn't a feature of it."
Jane Gray exasperated me to the verge of hysteria, but her sure, simple
faith had built a hospital and changed the criminal record of a city.
The thought that she might be right, in spite of the circular and Kobu,
gave me so much comfort that the tears flowed unchecked.
My companion looked at me critically for a moment, then left the room.
She returned shortly bearing a heaped-up tray, which she arranged before
me. "Honey, you can't be hopeful when you are hungry. You told me so
yourself. I don't believe you've eaten since morning. Here's just a
little bite of turkey and mince pie and chicken salad. Eat it. There's
plenty more, for nobody's touched that big dinner we were going to
celebrate Page's new position with. Now turn around to the lamp so you
can see. What a funny fat shadow you make! But how sweet it is to know
if we keep our faces to the light the shadows are always behind us! Now
I must run and get a little sleep. Zura says I am to go on watch at
three."
I thought her gone, when the door opened again and I could see only her
gray head and bright, though tired face. "Miss Jenkins, please don't let
that layer cake fool you. It is not tough. I just forgot to take the
brown papers from the bottom of the layers when I iced them. Do as I
tell you, eat and sleep."
"What if to-morrow's care were here
Without its rest?
I'd rather He'd unlock the day
And, as the hours swing open, say,
'Thy will be best.'"
"Good-night, dear friend."
Then she was gone. The tables were turned in more ways than one. Jane
was counselor and I the counseled, she the comforter and I to be
comforted.
* * * * *
In the daughters of Japan lies a hidden quality ever dormant unless
aroused by a rough shake from the hand of necessity; it is the power to
respond calmly and skilfully to emergencies. In this, as never before,
Zura Wingate declared her Oriental heritage. On the tragic morning when
I had gone with Page to the Kencho I had left her a singing, joyous
girl, her feet touching the borderland of earth's paradise. I returned
and found her a woman, white lipped and tense, but full of quiet
command. The path to love's domain had been blocked by a sorrow which
threatened desolation to happiness and life. Not with tears and vain
rebellion did she protest against fate or circumstances, nor waste a
grain of energy in useless re-pinings. With the lofty bearing her lordly
forefathers wore when going forth to defeat or victory this girl stood
ready, and served so efficiently that both nurse and doctors bestowed
their highest praise when they told her she was truly a Japanese woman.
So frequent were the demands from household and sick-room that I feared
for her strength. I knew she suffered. Rigid face muscles and
dark-rimmed eyes so testified; but aside from these some tireless spirit
held her far above weariness. Alert to see and quick to perform, under
her hand, after a few days, the house settled down into a routine where
each member had a special duty. In turn we watched or waited while the
heavy, anxious days dragged themselves along until they numbered ten.
In the last half of each night Zura and I watched by Page and wrestled
with the cruel thing that held him captive. They were painful, but
revealing hours. I was very close to the great secrets of life, and the
eternal miracle of coming dawn was only matched in tender beauty by the
wonder of a woman's love. It was Zura's cool, soft hand that held the
burning lids and shut out the hideous specters Page's fevered eyes saw
closing down upon him. It was her voice that soothed him into slumber
after the frenzy of delirium.
"Ah," he'd pant, weary of the struggle with a fancied foe, "you've come,
my lovely princess. No! You're my goddess!" Then with tones piteous and
beseeching he would begin anew the prayer ever present on his lips since
his illness. "Beloved goddess, tell me--what did I do with them? You are
divine; you know. Help me to find them quick. Quick; they are shutting
the door; it has bars. I cannot see your face."
"I am here, Page," Zura would answer. "If the door shuts, I'll be right
by your side."
In love for the boy each member of the house was ready day or night for
instant service, but vain were our combined efforts to help the fevered
brain to lay hold of definite thought long enough for him to name the
thing that was breaking his heart. From pleading for time to search for
something, he would wander into scenes of his boyhood. Once he appealed
to me as his mother and asked me to sing him to sleep. Before I could
steady my lips he had drifted into talk of the sea and tried to sing a
sailor's song. Often he fancied himself on a pirate ship and begged not
to be put off on some lonely island. He fiercely resisted. But his
feebleness was no match for Zura's young strength, and as she held him
she would begin to sing:
"Before I slept I thought of thee;
Then fell asleep and sought for thee
And found thee:
Had I but known 'twas only seeming,
I had not waked, but lay forever dreaming."
"Dreaming, dreaming," the boy would repeat. "Sweetheart, you are my
dearest dream."
Inch by inch we fought and held at bay the enemy. We lost all contact
with the outside. To us the center of the world was the pink-and-white
room, and on the stricken boy that lay on the bed was staked all our
hope.
The long delayed crisis flashed upon us early one morning when the
doctors found in what we had feared was the end only a healing sleep
from which Page awakened and called Zura by name. Even then it was a
toss-up whether he could win out against despair. Uppermost in his mind
was ever the torturing thought of the thing that had made him a
fugitive.
An icy hand was laid upon our joy at the signs of returning health when
we remembered a certain ship that was right then cutting the blue waters
of the Pacific nearing the shores of Japan, bearing authority to make a
prisoner of Page if he lived. They were not happy days, and it was with
undefined emotions that I saw life and strength come slowly to the sick
man.
By daily visits Kobu kept himself advised of the patient's condition,
and kept us informed of the swift approach of the Vancouver steamer and
its dreaded passenger. One day, when Page was sleeping and our anxiety
as to what was coming had reached the breaking point, the detective
came. He announced that he had received information that the steamer had
docked at Yokohama that morning. In the afternoon the Chicago Bank
representative would arrive at Otsu, our nearest railroad station. Kobu
said he would bring the guest to our house at once and his kind wish
that Page San's "sicker would soon be healthy" did not wholly hide the
triumph of his professional pride.
He went his way to the station, leaving behind him thoughts sadder than
death can bring.
When I told Jane what we were to expect her pale eyes were almost
drowned. She looked frail and tired, but from somewhere a smile made
rainbows of her tears.
"Don't give up, Miss Jenkins. No use crying over cherry blossoms before
they wither. Kobu's human enough to be mistaken. Detectives aren't so
smart. Sometimes they tree a chipmunk and think it's a bear."
It was the nearest I'd ever heard Jane come to a criticism, and I knew
she felt deeply to go this far.
Zura listened quietly to what I had to tell. But her eyes darkened and
widened. "You mean they are coming to take Page away?"
"Yes; as soon as he is strong enough."
"Then I am going with him."
"Go with him? You, a young girl, go with a man who is in charge of an
officer? It's impossible. I pray God it's not true, but if the law can
prove that Page has sinned, he will have to pay the penalty in prison.
You can't go there."
"No, but I can wait outside, and be ready to stand by him when he is
released. No matter how guilty the law declares him, he is still the
same Page to me. He's mine. I belong to him. Did not my own mother think
home and country well lost for love? She knew her fate and smiled while
she blindly followed. I know mine, and there is no other path for me but
by the side of Page. Whatever comes I've known his love."
It was not the raving of a hysterical girl; it was the calm utterance of
a woman--one of the East, who in recognizing the call of her destiny
unshrinkingly accepts its decrees of sorrow as well as of joy. By
training, environment and inclination Zura Wingate might be of the West;
but her Occidental blood was diluted with that of the East, and wherever
is found even one small drop, though it sleep long, in the end it arises
and claims its own as surely as death claims life.
It was only a little while since Kobu had left us to go to the station
to bring the unwelcome visitor from America.
The hills had scarcely ceased the echo of the shrieking engine, it
seemed to me, when I heard the tap of the gong at the entrance. I
started at once for Page's room where Zura and Jane were on watch.
Kobu and his companion were ahead of me. The brilliant light of a sunny
afternoon softened as it sifted through the paper shoji, suffusing room
and occupants in a tender glow. Through it, as I reached the door, I saw
Zura half bending over the bed, shielding the face of the sick boy, Jane
at the foot with lifted, detaining hand, Kobu's face as he pointed to
the bed, saying, "There, sir, is the thief--I mean prisoner," and his
startled look as the tall, gray-headed stranger went swiftly to the bed
and gathered Page into his outstretched arms.
"A thief!" he cried. "Somebody's going to get hurt in a minute. He's my
son. Oh! boy, boy, I thought I'd lost you!"