IN the Shiro Matsuhaira the Tojin sat alone. They had taken away the
untasted meal upon the trays; his pipe lay unlit upon the hibachi; upon
a table hard by his American mail and papers lay untouched, unopened. He
sat staring at something he held in his hands. It was no larger than his
hand, worn, ragged, and soiled—a little sandal of straw! This was all he
had left of her. She had passed out of his life as completely as the
mist vanishes into the clouds.
What were her thoughts now, he wondered dully—now that she knew! He had
seen her but once, after the operation. She had come like a shadowy
little spirit into his chamber; and she had said nothing at all; had
merely looked at him out of her wide, hungry eyes. As silently as she
had come, so she had gone! Passively, obediently she had gone with the
Be-koku-jin. This was what he had wished, had required of her. Then why
this aching, harrowing sense of anguish?
He closed his eyes, and gave himself up to the last luxury left him—the
casting of his mind adrift upon a sea of memories, wherein he might
recall her as she had been, see her again pressed against his side,
breathe the dear fragrance of her hair, hear the music of her voice.
Outside the wind was whistling and moaning through the leafless gardens,
and a rain began to fall, pelting against his shutters, dripping in
melancholy splashes from the eaves. How barren, how God-forsaken seemed
this Yashiki of feudal days! He recalled his first night in this same
chamber. How cold it had been, how penetratingly desolate!
Now the winter was coming again. Soon the white snow would wrap its icy
shroud about the Palace Matsuhaira, and there would be a silence—a
silence less bearable than the grave—out there on those mountains of
snow.
But the people of Fukui would come to him daily with their problems,
their ambitions, and questions; and they would look to him as a guide
and supporter along the new glittering road they wished to tread; for
the fever of the New Japan was animating the entire nation, and Fukui
had caught the epidemic. And they would bestow honors and favors upon
the Tojin-san, fame and riches, too; for at the period of the rebirth of
a nation its teachers become its prophets—its leaders! Yes, there was
such a career to his hand as he could never have attained in that other
land, whither they were taking the fox-woman now. It was this, had said
the Be-koku-jin, which must be his solace, his comfort.
He stood up unsteadily, his hand resting upon the table. Some one had
knocked upon his door. He smiled, in the old grim, bitter way.
He could not be tricked by his imagination again. She was very far away
by now, miles from Fukui, for it was past midnight, and her cortège
would take an unbroken course toward the great highway which eventually
would lead them to the metropolis.
But the knocking was repeated, softly, gently, a sound such as a little
timid bird in the wet night might have made in beating its wings upon
the wall.
He heard the soft moving of the doors, and still he did not stir.
Now she stood between them, her eyes fully upon him, drawing, compelling
his gaze. Upon her vivid, passionate little face there was, at last,
that look of peace and rest that comes to one upon a journey’s end.
The water dripped from her haori, and clung in glittering drops upon her
hair, her lashes.
He could not even speak her name. He could only gaze at her entranced,
as at that other time when he had come to consciousness within the
woods, and had found her face hovering like a spirit’s above his own.
She said as if answering the question he could not speak:
“Yaes—it is I—To-o-jin-san!”
With a motion, inexpressibly sweet, she put out her little hands, just
as she had done ere she could see, and a beseeching, quivering little
smile was on her lips.
“In the honorable wet dark—all those way—I have come bag to you, kind
Tojin-san!”
His voice shook so that he did not recognize it as his own.
“You found your way—”
“Wiz these my eyes closed,” she said, “ad udder end those whole
worl’—tha’s same thing Tojin-san—I find way bag unto you!”
“Why?” he demanded with a rough passion that yet tore and intoxicated
him.
She reached out her arms to him yearningly, pleadingly.
“Tek me ad you arms again!” she said. “Toach me on my lips wiz yours. I
will tell you—then!”
His last reserve was gone; he had no wish to hold it. Subtly,
irresistibly, she had drawn him to her; now he had taken her back into
his arms!
He felt her little fingers, as of old, passing across his face until
they found his lips, and there she placed her own.
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● Transcriber’s note:
○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.
○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.
○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only
when a predominant form was found in this book.