Meanwhile Hyacinth lay stretched upon the matted floor of her chamber,
her chin in one hand, the other holding an ancient oval mirror. She was
studying her face closely, critically, and also wistfully.
The head was quaintly Japanese, yet the face was oddly at variance. For
the hair was dressed in the prevailing mode of the Japanese maid of
beauty and fashion in Sendai. It was a very elaborate coiffure, spread
out on either side in the shape of the wings of a butterfly. Upon both
sides of the little mountain at top projected long, dagger-like pins;
gold they were and jewelled—the gift of Yoshida.
Hyacinth no longer fretted under the hands of a hair-dresser, since it
was her pride and delight to have her hair dressed in this becoming and
striking mode. If the hair-dresser, who came once a fortnight, puckered
her face and shook her head when the beautiful, soft, brown locks
twisted about her fingers, and did not follow the usual plastic methods
used upon the hair of most Japanese maids, Hyacinth cared little. When
the operation was completed, her hair, dark, shining, and smooth,
appeared little different from that of other girls in the village.
It was the face beneath the coiffure that distressed the girl. The eyes
were undoubtedly gray-blue. They were large, too, and wore an expression
of wistful questioning which had only come there, perhaps, since the
girl had begun to look into the mirror and to discover the secret of
those strange, unnatural eyes.
The whiteness of her skin pleased her. What girl of her acquaintance
would not be glad of such a complexion? She had small use for the
powder-pot, into which her friends must dip so freely. Her mouth was
rosy, the teeth within white and sparkling. Her chin was dimpled at the
side and tipped with the same rose that dwelt in her rounded cheeks. The
little nose was thin and delicate, piquant in shape and expression.
Why should such a face have distressed her? She would not admit to
herself that she was homely. Perfume, Dewdrop, Spring—what did their
judgment amount to? They were rude, uncouth even to have hinted at her
“deformities.” They were one-eyed, seeing but one type of beauty. There
must be another kind, for she was surely, surely beautiful. Then she
fell into a reverie in which she speculated upon the possible existence
of another people whose maidens’ hair and eyes were not like the night,
but reflected the day.
Yet Yoshida, the son of Yamashiro Shawtaro, had actually suggested to
her once, with a shamefaced expression, that if she stood in the
sun-rays the goddess might darken her skin and eyes! Also, he had
brought her, all the way from Tokyo, a little box of oil with which to
shade her hair!
The oil had disappeared in the bay, though the pretty box in which it
had come had been placed with the other gifts of Yoshida. As for the
sun-goddess—those at the mission-house had insisted that there was no
such being. Great and wise were the mission-house people, since they had
come from the land of Komazawa.
Komazawa represented to her all that was fine and great and good. He was
the beloved of Aoi, and the good God had given him to her for a brother
and a hero. He wrote to her every week from the other end of the world,
never forgetting. His letters were the sun and light of Aoi’s life, and
Hyacinth shared with her something of the joy of receiving them. These
two talked of him always. They watched for his letters, and devoured
them with eager little outcries to each other when they arrived.
He was in London. College was done for the year. He was going to
Cheshire, though apprehensive of the welcome he would receive from his
father’s people. But the lawsuit had been won, with scarcely any
struggle. His claim, his papers, withstood the closest of legal
scrutiny. Yes; he was now an Englishman, almost entirely. Yet, ah, how
he longed for home—for his mother and for little Hyacinth. The estate
was very large, his lawyers told him, so large that he could not live
there alone. Soon he was coming to take back with him the little mother
and sister. Yes; it would be strange at first, but they would soon
become accustomed to it. It was a cold country, and the milk of human
kindness ran not freely, but it satisfied the desires of an ambitious
one.
So ran his last letter.
Hyacinth wondered, vaguely, what he would say when he returned to Japan
and found that she could not accompany him. By that time she would be
married—married to Yamashiro Yoshida, who was rich and owned large
stores in Tokyo, and who sometimes wore an English hat, the envy and
marvel of all the gilded youth of Sendai.
Upon her cogitations came Aoi, trembling and anxious. She hovered a
moment over the girl, hesitation and worry depicted in her countenance.
In surprise, Hyacinth looked up at her, then, carefully slipping the
mirror into her sleeve, raised herself erect.
“What is troubling you, mother? Why, your hands tremble. I will hold
them. You have news from Koma? What is it?”
“No, little one; it is not of Koma I speak.”
“Of whom, then?”
“Of you.”
“Then smile instantly. I am an insignificant subject for mirth, not
tears.”
“Little one, if the right of freedom were given you, would you leave the
humble one?”
“No; not in ten million years. What sort of freedom would that be?”
“Yet the learned ones at the mission-house will surely persuade you to
take some such step.”
Hyacinth laughed scornfully.
“One cannot persuade a hummingbird to come to one’s hand. No; nor can
these ones of the mission-house persuade me to do aught against my
will.”
“But they of the mission-house—Mr. Blount—insinuated that we have not
the right to possess you.”
“He is foolish. He has blue eyes,” said she of the blue eyes,
disdainfully.
“Yet it is true that we have no legal right to you,” said Aoi, sadly.
“No? And why have you not?”
“Because I am not your real mother, and the time may come when others
may claim you.”
“Since my own mother is gone, has not my foster-mother all right over
me?”
“I do not know the law as to that,” said Aoi. “Oh, if the old, good
excellency were but still alive to enlighten and advise us.”
“Mother,” said Hyacinth, looking up with questioning, wistful eyes at
Aoi, “I have never asked a question of you concerning my own mother. You
were always enough for me. I needed no other parent, dear, dear one. Yet
now I would ask, can you tell me aught concerning my people?”
“No, little one. The sick one gave to me no information of her people.
The good excellency made effort to find them, but failed.”
“My mother was a stranger to Sendai?”
“Yes, a stranger.”
“And she left nothing—nothing for—me?”
Aoi hesitated a moment, then, crossing the room, slipped her hand deftly
along the wall and pushed aside a small panel. Hyacinth arose slowly.
Her eyes were apprehensive, her lips apart. She had grown white with
expectation.
“Here, in your own chamber, little one, is all that the august one left.
I would have given you them on your wedding-day.”
Fearfully the girl touched the things in the little cupboard. How long
had they lain there untouched? There were a woman’s strange dress, white
underwear, a queer, basket-shaped thing with dark feathers upon it, a
pair of black Suède gloves, small shoes, and then, in a little heap,
three rings—a plain gold band, one with a large diamond, another with a
ruby set between two smaller diamonds. Also a little chamois-skin bag
containing a little roll of green bills and some strange coin.
Upon her knees Hyacinth fell beside the little shelf, and she stretched
her arms out over it, burying her face in her sleeves.
For a long time neither of the two uttered a word. When the girl raised
her face, after a long interval, it was very white, and tears streamed
down her cheeks. She put out a little, groping hand to Aoi.
“Oh, you were good to her, were you not—were you not?” she whisperingly
cried.
Aoi could not speak.
After a time the girl arose and reverently pushed the panel into place.
“The things are Engleesh,” she said, slowly. “Is it not strange?”
“Yes,” said Aoi, brokenly.
Yet even then she did not tell the girl the truth. Why she had hidden
this fact always from Hyacinth she could hardly have explained even to
herself. She thought she had but waited for the girl to come to years of
understanding. Afterwards, when the proud Yamashiro family condescended
to seek alliance with her, Aoi, faintheartedly fearful lest they should
refuse to permit the marriage if they knew the truth, had carefully
guarded the secret even from the girl. She knew that only a few people
in the little village of Matsushima had heard of the history of the
girl. It was only recently that they had moved to the City of Sendai.
This match with the Yamashiro family was a thing so splendid as to be
regarded with awe by Aoi. It could not be possible that such a chance
would ever come again to her adopted daughter.
Now she said to the girl, placing both her hands upon her shoulders:
“Promise me, then, that you will refuse to discuss this subject with the
mission-house people.”
“I will not even see them,” said the girl, stooping to kiss the anxious
face.
“For if you should do so,” said Aoi, sadly, “they might persuade you to
abandon us.”
“Ah, no; never, mother. No one could ever do so.”
“Save Yamashiro Yoshida,” said Aoi, quickly.
A cloud stole for an instant over the girl’s face. She sighed as she
repeated, half under her breath:
“Save Yoshida—perhaps.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration]
------------------------------------------------------------------------