It was late in December, the time of Great Snow. Komazawa was still in
Sendai, and Hyacinth had been taken from the school. She was now twelve
years of age, still undeveloped in body and childish in mind.
Hyacinth, like most impressionable children, had quickly succumbed to
the influence of the school-teacher. In his hands she had yielded like
plaster to the sculptor. Out of crude, almost wild, material had been
developed what seemed on the surface an admirable example of a Japanese
child.
Komazawa, fresh from four years of training at an English school and
intimate association with English students and professors, now set about
the task of undermining all that the sensei had taught Hyacinth.
This was no light task. Hyacinth could not unlearn in a few months that
which had practically become ingrained. Quite useless it was, therefore,
for Komazawa to seek to turn the child’s mind to a new and alien point
of view, when, too, this view-point was, in a measure, an acquired thing
with Koma himself. Yet he was patient, and labored unceasingly.
No; the people in the West were not all savages and barbarians.
“Did they not look like the Reverend Blount?” would inquire his small
pupil.
“Yes, somewhat like him.”
“Ah, then, they perhaps were not savages, but they certainly were
monsters.”
“No; they are very fine people—high, great.”
“But only monsters and evil spirits have hair growing from the chin and
awful, blue-glass eyes,” protested Hyacinth.
Whereupon Koma quietly brought a small mirror from his room, held it
before her face, and bade her look within.
She stared curiously and somewhat timorously.
“What do you see?” he inquired, quietly.
“Little girl,” she said, in a faint voice.
“Yes, and what color are her eyes?”
The eyes within the glass became enlarged with excitement. The lips
parted. Hyacinth put her face close to the glass.
“They are blue, also,” she said, shrinking.
“Very well, then. You, also, have blue eyes, Hyacinth.”
“Me!” She stared up at him, aghast.
“Certainly. Is not the little girl in the glass you?”
“No!” Her dilated eyes strained at the glass, then looked behind it and
about her. She could see no other little girl in the room. There was
only that face in the shining glass, with its blue, shiny eyes. With
spasmodic working of features, she regarded it.
“This is you—certainly,” repeated Koma, pointing to the reflection.
An uncanny fear took possession of the little girl. Suddenly she raised
her hand, knocking the glass from that of Koma.
“That’s not me. No! That’s lie. I am here—here! That’s not me.”
She burst into a passion of tears.
Raising the glass, Koma put it aside. He sought his mother immediately,
and, with concern and perplexity in his face, told her of the incident
of the mirror.
“Hyacinth was frightened—yes, actually afraid of the mirror. What can be
the matter?”
“That is only natural,” said Aoi. “And I am much distressed that you
should have frightened her with the glass.”
“But why should it affright her?”
“Because she has never seen one before.”
“Never seen a mirror before?”
“No. It is only of late years that they have come to Sendai, my son.”
“Why, the mirror is as old as the nation.”
“Oh, son, but not for general use. Until recent years they were regarded
as things of mystery, and were very precious and priceless.”
“Yet as a child I had often seen my father’s mirror. Our house contains
one, does it not?”
“True; but it is locked away in our secret panel.”
“But why?”
Aoi hesitated.
“It was, perhaps, a useless custom, my son. But in my younger days
maidens were not permitted to see their own faces. The mirror was for
the married woman only. Thus, a maiden was saved from being vain of her
beauty.”
Koma frowned impatiently.
“A useless and foolish custom, truly. And now, here in these enlightened
times, you put it into practice with Hyacinth. Why, you are prolonging
the customs of the ancients here in this house, which should be an
example of the new and enlightened age.”
Meekly Aoi bowed her head.
“You are honorably right, my son; yet there was another reason why the
mirror was kept from the sight of the little one.”
“Yes?”
“How could I blast the little one’s life by letting her know of—of her
peculiar physical misfortunes?”
“Physical misfortunes! What do you mean?”
“Why, the hair, eyes, skin—how strange, how unnatural!”
Koma threw back his head and laughed with an angry note.
“Oh, my mother, you are growing backward. You are seeing all things from
a narrowing point of view. Because Hyacinth is not like other Japanese
children, she is not ugly. Why, the little one is beautiful, quite so,
in her own way.”
Aoi appeared troubled.
“You did not consider my father ugly, did you?”
“Ah no.”
“Well, but was he not fair of face?”
“It is true,” she admitted; then, sighing, added, “But I fear the little
one would not agree with us in the matter. It might terrify her to see
her own face—so different from that of her play-mates. In heart and
nature she is all Japanese.”
“Nay; her natural parts have had no opportunities. She, like you, has
seen only one side of life and the world. Now, is it not time to educate
her real self?”
With an unconscious motion of distress, Aoi wrung her hands.
“The task is beyond me, my son. How can I effect it? Alas! as you say, I
am in the same condition, for am I not all Japanese? My lord is gone
these many years. I cannot keep step with the passage of time. Yes, son,
I slip backward into the old mode of life and thought. When you were by
my side, you were the prop that kept me awake, alive. But you were gone
so long. Ah! it seemed as if time would never end.”
“Oh, my mother,” he cried, “I will never leave you again. It is I who am
all wrong, wrong—I who am the renegade. But we will remain here
together, and you, dear mother, will teach me all over again the
precepts of my childhood. For these four years I have been studying,
acquiring a new method of thought and life, yet I fell into it
naturally. My father’s blood was strong in me. Yet, dear mother, now I
feel I have been wrong in leaving you, and I will not return.”
“Oh, son,” she said, with trembling lips, “you are all Engleesh—all your
father. And it is right. Do not speak of remaining here with us. A
mother’s eyes can see deep beyond the shallows into her child’s soul. I
know your restless heart cries for the other world. It is there, indeed,
you belong. And you must return to this England and the college.”
“But I shall not remain,” he said, throwing his arm about her shoulder.
“No; I shall come back when I am through college, for you and Hyacinth.”
Aoi did not speak. Her poor little hands trembled against his arms.
Fluttering to the door came Hyacinth. The tear-stains were gone from her
face. In her hand she carried the small English mirror. Evidently she
had overcome her repugnance and fear of it, and now regarded it as some
strange and active possession.
Aoi looked up at her son with questioning eyes.
“The little one’s new education must commence at once,” he said, slowly.
He went to the child and took the mirror from her hand and again held it
before her face.
“This is the beginning,” he said. “Let her become acquainted with
herself as she is. This will force a new trend of thought.”
Then to the child:
“Who is this within?” he asked.
“It is I,” she said, simply.
She had discovered the secret of the mirror, and somehow it had lost all
terror for her—nay, it held her with a strange delight and fascination.
“Little one,” said Komazawa, kneeling beside her, “look very often into
the honorable mirror—every day. There you will see your own image. You
will not be ignorant of yourself. You will learn much which the sensei
cannot teach you. Also, go each day to the mission-house. No; do not
shake your head so. But every day you must go to the school class. Then
very soon, maybe in three years, I will return and complete the
teaching.”
Hyacinth looked timidly up into his earnest face a moment. Then she
suddenly smiled and dimpled.
“Very well,” she said, in English, in a tone whose note expressed as
words could not her perplexed emotion.
A smile overspread Koma’s face.
“Ah,” he said, with a glance back at his mother, “the little one has not
forgotten.”
“Yet,” said Aoi, “she has not spoken it, son, since you left Sendai five
years ago.”
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X
The Reverend Mr. Blount knocked sharply at the door of Madame Aoi’s
house. There was no response at first to his summons, beyond a slight
stir and bustle at the rear. After a pause the sliding-doors were pushed
aside and the fat face of Mumè appeared for a moment, to disappear the
next. She was heard chattering, in a grumbling voice, to some one
within.
The visitor, grown impatient, rapped hard upon the panelling. A moment
later there was the light patter of feet along the hall and Aoi
appeared. She hastened towards the visitor with an apologetic
expression.
Would the honorable one pardon her great discourtesy? She had been
taking her noonday siesta and had not heard the visitor’s knock. She
would immediately reprove her insignificantly rude and ignorant servant
for not having shown the illustrious one welcome and hospitality.
“I want to see Hyacinth,” said the caller, entering the guest-room and
slowly removing his kid gloves.
Hyacinth, Aoi informed her visitor, was also taking her noon sleep.
Would the honorable one deign to excuse her, or should she disturb the
little one?
“Asleep?” he repeated, disapprovingly. “How can that be, madame, since I
only just saw her at the window?”
“She must have awakened, then,” said Aoi, simply.
The other nodded curtly. “No doubt,” he said. He seated himself stiffly
in the only chair in the room, and when Aoi had quietly seated herself
on a mat some distance from him, he clasped his hands together and
leaned forward towards her.
“Madame Aoi,” he said, “I have just heard the most improbable,
ridiculous tale about Hyacinth.”
Madame Aoi elevated her eyes in gentle question.
“That she is, in fact—er—engaged——that is, affianced—you know what I
mean.”
Aoi smiled beamingly. Yes, she admitted, her daughter was, indeed,
betrothed to Yamashiro Yoshida, “son of our most illustrious and
respected and honorable friend in Sendai, Yamashiro Shawtaro.”
“But,” said the visitor, after a moment of speechless surprise, “this is
the most preposterous, impossible of things. Why this—this Yamashiro
Shawtaro, the father of the boy, is one of the most rabid Buddhists,
and, besides, it is barbaric, an unheard-of thing, to think of marrying
a girl of her age to any one.”
“The betrothal,” said Aoi, with a slight smile, “was all arranged by the
Yamashiro family. The boy is the father’s salt of life. He cast eyes of
desire upon the little one, and as he is the richest, noblest, and
proudest youth in Sendai, we have accepted him. All the town envies us,
excellency.”
“Does her brother know about this?” demanded Mr. Blount, severely.
“Oh yes, surely.”
“And what does he say? He is English enough to perceive the utter
impossibility of such a marriage.”
“We have not heard from my son yet in the matter,” said Aoi, simply.
“Well,” said the other, “I can assure you that when he knows the truth
he will refuse to countenance it.”
“But, illustrious master, how can he do so? He has not that right.”
“He has not the right! Why, even your Japanese law makes him her
rightful guardian. He is still a citizen of Japan. A brother, in Japan,
is his sister’s legal guardian. I know this to be a fact.”
“Ah, but, honored sir, you do not know everything.”
Mr. Blount looked over his gold-rimmed spectacles sharply, endeavoring
to pierce beneath the softness of her tone. Japanese women were all
guile was his inner comment.
“Well, now, suppose you explain to me why your son is not his sister’s
guardian?”
“Because, august minister, he is not the little one’s actual brother.”
Mr. Blount started so that he actually bounded from his seat.
“What do you mean?” he jerked out to Aoi.
“The little one is only my adopted child,” said Aoi, smiling serenely.
The minister could scarcely believe he heard aright. The Japanese woman
continued to smile in a manner whose guileless, impenetrable innocence
of expression had the effect of irritating him excessively.
“If Hyacinth is not your child, Madame Aoi, who are her parents?”
“The gods forsaken little Hyacinth. She has no true parents.”
In his acute interest in the matter, the minister actually overlooked
the slip of Aoi when she alluded to the “gods.” What he said, with his
eyes fixed very sternly upon her face, was:
“You are deceiving me, Madame Aoi. You are hiding the truth from me.”
The slightest frown passed over Aoi’s face. Her color deepened, then
faded, leaving her inscrutable and impassive once more.
The honorable one was augustly mistaken, for the humble one had nothing
to hide. Since the affairs of her adopted child concerned only her
foster-parent, it was impossible to deceive the honorable minister.
It was the visitor’s turn to flush, and he did so angrily. Plainly this
Japanese woman was attempting to conceal, with the prevarication and
guile of her people, some mystery concerning Hyacinth. If the girl was
not the daughter of Aoi by her English husband, who then was she? She
certainly was not pure Japanese. Could it be that she was not even in
part Japanese? The possibility staggered the missionary.
“Madame Aoi, you are taking a most unusual attitude towards me to-day.”
Aoi inclined her head in a motion that might have meant either assent or
negation.
“Hitherto,” continued the other, “you have not hesitated to accept my
advice—”
“In matters concerning that religion, yes,” interposed Aoi, softly.
“Which surely concerns all other matters connected with your welfare and
that of Hyacinth. No one knows better than you do that the lives of our
parishioners, our children, are our particular care and charge. I take
the interest of a parent in our little band. So you would not withhold
your confidence from a parent?”
“What is it the honorable sir would know?”
“The history of Hyacinth—who she is, how you came by her, her people’s
name—all information about her.”
“There is nothing to confide,” said Aoi, slowly, as though she chose her
words carefully before replying. “The old excellency knew the history of
the child. It was under his advice that the humble one adopted the
little one.”
“Under Mr. Radcliffe’s advice!”
“Yes.”
“What did he know of Hyacinth?”
“The excellency deigned to make effort to discover the little one’s
parents.”
“But you don’t mean to tell me that you did not know her parents?”
“Only the mother, and she lived but a day after the coming of the
child.”
“Did Mr. Radcliffe fail to find her father?”
Nervously Aoi clasped her hands together. She did not answer.
“Did he find her father?” repeated Mr. Blount.
Aoi looked at him with a gleam of stubbornness in her glance.
“If the excellency did not make confidant of you before he died, why
should I do so, also?”
“It is your duty, madame.”
She shook her head slowly.
“Certainly, it is your duty. It is perfectly plain that Hyacinth is a
white—that she’s not pure Japanese, at all events.”
Aoi moved uneasily. Then she looked up very earnestly at her
interlocutor.
“The little one knows nothing of her parentage, save that she is an
orphan confided to my care. It would distress her to be told that—that
she is not Japanese.”
“Then you admit that?”
“No; I do not so admit. I but begged the honorable one to put no such
notion into her mind, so sorely would it distress her.”
“I wouldn’t think of keeping her in ignorance,” exclaimed the other,
with some indignation. “She ought to have been told the truth long ago.
I shall certainly tell her.”
“What can you tell her?”
Aoi had risen and was regarding the missionary with a strange
expression.
“That I suspect she is not Japanese—not all Japanese.”
“She would not believe you,” said Aoi, thoughtfully.
“I will see her at once, if you will allow me,” said Mr. Blount, also
rising. He was somewhat startled at the attitude and the reply of Aoi.
She had placed herself before the door, as if to prevent the passage of
any one desiring to enter.
“My daughter will not see visitors to-day,” she said. “You will excuse
her.”
The next moment she had clapped her hands loudly. In answer to her
summons, Mumè came shuffling into the room, hastily wiping her hands
upon her sleeves, and looking inquiringly towards her mistress.
“The illustrious one,” said Aoi, with intense sweetness, “wishes to
return home. Pray, conduct him to the street.”
She bowed with profound grace to the missionary, and stepped aside to
permit him to pass.
He hesitated a moment, and then said, slowly and succinctly:
“Madame Aoi, I have only this to say. I shall immediately take it upon
myself to unravel this mystery. I will communicate with the nearest open
port at once, and find out whether my predecessor had correspondence
with any one on this subject. Good-day.” He bowed stiffly.
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