Hyacinth did not slacken her pace until she was before her home. Then,
with trembling fingers, she undid the gate, sped up the little adobe
path, and burst breathlessly into the guest-chamber, where Aoi was
quietly and pensively arranging blossoms in a vase.
Aoi turned with mild surprise at the girl’s entry, but when she saw her
face the mother hastened towards her.
“Why, something has affrighted the little one. Aré moshi, moshi. Well,
she should not have followed the strangers. There, tell it all to the
mother.”
She drew the trembling girl to the soft-padded floor and placed her arm
reassuringly about her. But Hyacinth seized both her foster-mother’s
hands and held them in a spasmodic, almost fierce, clasp.
“They going to come for me! Oh yes, yes. They will take me away. Oh,
what can I do? What—They tell me—Oh-h—”
She broke down utterly, her throat choked with her sobs.
“Why, what does the little one mean?”
She could not respond. She clung to Aoi fearfully.
There were heavy, quick steps coming up the garden-path. Then a pause
before the door. The next moment loud raps.
The young girl’s trembling fear communicated itself to Aoi, and the two
now clung together fearfully, listening, with strained ears, to every
sound. They heard the shuffling sound of Mumè’s feet in the hall, then
the gruff, deep voices of the callers, and a few moments later the men
were ushered into the guest-chamber of Madame Aoi.
Their mission was soon explained. They understood that seventeen years
ago an American lady had died in her home, which was then in a village
on the shore of the bay. She, Madame Aoi, they understood, had adopted
the child, having failed to find the father. He, on his part, had only
just succeeded in tracing the child’s whereabouts. It was believed that
she, Madame Aoi, was still in possession of her.
Although Aoi made no denial, she made no admission. She looked at the
girl she had brought up as her own child with dry eyes and quivering
lips. The young girl looked back at her with piteous, imploring eyes.
Aoi closed her lips and refused even to answer the strangers. But after
a space the girl herself stepped towards them and, raising her face
defiantly, said:
“Foreigners, you make ridiculous mistake. Yet, supposing you do not make
mistake, what will you do?”
“Send immediately for the father.”
“And then?”
“He is your legal and natural guardian. You, of course, would have to go
with him.”
The lawyer did not hesitate to pronounce her the one for whom they had
sought.
“Leave—Japan?” she asked, her bosom heaving.
“You are not Japanese. You see, I take it for granted you are the girl
in question.”
“Yes,” she said, “I am that girl in question. My mother’s clothes—they
are Engleesh. Excellencies do not make mistake. I—I—foolish to deny
that. But—but what _he_—that father going to do—_if_ I will not go with
him?”
“You are under age,” said the lawyer. “He can force you.”
“Force me to leave my home?” she said, softly. “Force me to leave Japan?
No!”
“You belong to his home. It is some fatal and horrible miscarriage of
fate that has cast your destiny among this alien people.”
“Not alien!” she said, fiercely. “_My_ people—my—” She broke off, and
almost staggered towards Aoi, against whom she leaned, as if for
support.
“Go away, go!” she cried to them. “Excuse our rudeness, but—but, alas,
we are in sorrow.”
She sank to the ground, burying her face and sobbing piteously.
Aoi stepped falteringly towards them.
“Good-bye, excellencies. Pray you come to-morrow instead. We will be in
good health then. Good-bye.”
Silently the two men left the house. They were quite far down the street
before either spoke again. Then:
“Good Heavens! It is grotesque, impossible, horrible,” said the younger
man.
“She is more Japanese than anything else.”
“But her face—it—by George! I haven’t words to express myself. I thought
to render a splendid service to the little girl, yet now—well—I feel
like a—criminal.”
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[Illustration]
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