Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

Six years had more than fulfilled the promise of her childhood for Kudo O-Mitsu. At eighteen she was the full-blown flower of which at twelve she had been only the bud. Such an one she was as would set the hearts of half a city a-throb by a single glance, even a city where men care not overmuch for maidens, and passion is rarely of the tender sort until years of association have coddled it into flame. Her face was a long, narrow oval, the stamp of her gentle birth, exquisitely curved from cheek to chin and rounded to the delicate point that emphasized her beauty and yet revealed her determination. Narrow at the top and broadening to the temples, her ivory-white forehead disclosed the outline of beloved Fujiyama, the sacred mountain of her race. The full lips of her little mouth were brilliant with the stain of luscious cherries. Above a great mass of shining, jetlike hair gleamed softly the green jade of the ornaments that betrayed her years.

She sat leaning a little forward, the slender fingers of one hand half supporting, half caressing her chin, and gazed dreamily out at the splendid pageant of sea and shore spread before her. But its beauty was not in her thought. The wonderful shimmer of the opalescent water, now heliotrope, now tan, now pearl, under the rapturous rays of the afternoon sun, the soft blue of the roofs rising here and there through the brilliant green of the verdured hills, had now no charm for her. The melancholy note of the wild dove, calling sweetly from the deep recesses of the pines, suited more her mood. For trouble had come to O-Mitsu, of a kind she did not know how to meet. Chukei, the _nakodo_, the professional matchmaker, had called to see her father.

To the old Samurai, hardly less than to the girl, his message had come with a shock. For as unconsciously as she had grown to womanhood, so unconsciously had he seen her grow, with never a thought of the demand for her that time was certain to bring. The son of whom he was so proud was gone to the army. That year he had received his commission and joined his regiment. The red cap-band of the Guards was a badge of honor for Jukichi, and he dwelt lovingly on the future of the young officer who had begun his career by winning appointment to the proudest service in the land. But the old man missed the boy, and honor could not entirely fill his place in the lonely house. It was the girl who brought sunshine into Jukichi’s daily routine. The classes and the lessons that had earned their humble subsistence still occupied part of his time, but the old man had lost his zest for them, and his urgent need had passed. Kokan’s pay was enough for them all considering their simple way of life, and Jukichi, feeling his years, was beginning to contemplate the time when he should resign his cares, and as _inkyo_, live out his days in rest and peace.

In all such dreams O-Mitsu had her share. Jukichi did not mean deliberately to keep her from the marriage to which every Japanese girl looks forward, but he put the thought of it from him as unpleasant, and Chukei had forced it on him against his will. He turned the _nakodo_ away with evasive answer and scant encouragement. Then for hours he sat thinking of the girl and her future. After supper, when she brought his pipe, he said:

“I have received a proposal of marriage for you.”

She put down his tobacco pouch and sat still, a sudden clutching about her heart as if of suffocation. For some time Jukichi said nothing more, then he added:

“Chukei-san, a _nakodo_, has been here to see me about it.”

“Ah,” she said, with a pitiful little effort to smile. Her father had given no hint yet of his own feeling, and she dreaded what was to come. She was not prepared for this. She had not thought of it. Kokan and her father had made up her world, and she did not know what to say. The old man sat looking at her fondly, and for a few moments neither spoke. Then he said slowly:

“Yamamoto-san, the silk merchant, makes proposal on behalf of his son.”

She smiled again, and with better will, for somehow she found relief in the words and manner of speaking. Besides, she did not know the young man who had honored her, and she began to feel that perhaps her father might not consent. She had no wish to marry, and she was not the girl to do so simply for the asking. At length, as her father said no more, she plucked up courage, and bowing deferentially to him, said:

“I do not wish to marry yet. It is better for me, if you will, to live here with you until perhaps Kokan shall bring you another daughter to keep the house.”

A smile of pleasure lighted the old man’s face.

“Ha,” he said, “it is as I wished you would feel.”

Then, if he had been an Occidental, he would have kissed his daughter, and heart to heart they would have talked until the matter was settled. But deep and true though affection may be among the Japanese, it finds small show in outward expression, and caresses are signs of weakness.

“I have made no answer,” he went on, after a little. “I had no will to have you marry if you were not ready.”

His hand moved a little as if to touch her arm, and his eyes glistened with unusual emotion.

“I will tell Chukei-san.”

That was all. The incident was ended; but the girl, wiser by instinct than her father, although without experience, marked it for the beginning. What was it that stirred her heart in protest so strangely and so strongly? She did not know. The ghost of some long dead experience, perhaps. The wood dove in the trees behind her called plaintively to its unseen mate. The sun slid down the western heaven and threw his long rays caressingly over her, face to face with a world-old perplexity. Why should she be sad at the prospect for which other girls longed? It was the pleasant homelife with her father, and the deep, quiet home love, she thought at last; life and love that knew no change. That was the way she wished to go on, and with a sudden blaze of anger she hated old Chukei for his unwelcome interference. Gradually her mind recovered its old poise, and she saw the course she would take. Her father’s attitude was her good fortune. As long as he continued in that mood the menace was shorn of its power, and after that—The huge red sun splashed into the flaming sea, and with its parting fire flashing back from her lambent eyes she rose and started down the winding path toward home.

VII

There was joy in the house in Azalea Street. Soichi had come home. His work at the university was finished, and despite his dislike for study he had taken high place in honor of the father who wished him to. Now he had returned to make a beginning in the career Kutami had planned for him. But for a time there was to be no work. Father and mother and son were to play a little together and give rein to the pleasure of the reunion. After that the new venture would take all the effort of both men.

Kutami intended to branch out. The old business was good enough for him, but the son was worthy of something better. He should be a banker, and already the Commoner had arranged with some of his wealthy business associates for the founding of the new institution which should give Soichi his opportunity. The friends who gathered at the comfortable house to celebrate the joyful return of the young man, discussed the new project with unflagging enthusiasm, and all predicted a proud success for Soichi. The sake cups were often exchanged and many cigarettes perfumed the air. There was no flaw anywhere.

It was the next afternoon that Kutami, trudging along through Timber Street on his way back from his office, and turning over in his mind his plans for his son, passed the house of Jukichi. A drizzling rain was falling, but the Commoner, secure under the wide shelter of his yellow, oiled-paper umbrella, cared nothing for that. As he passed the gate of the Samurai a gust of wind swirling through the street tilted the umbrella sharply back, and Kutami glanced up just in time to see old Chukei, the matchmaker, coming out.

“Oho!” he said, as he saw the middleman, “a wedding, eh? I wonder what lucky young fellow it can be who is to have Kudo-san’s daughter for his wife.”

He paused for a moment, looking after the _nakodo_ as he strode toward the city, then turned and went on. It was no affair of his after all, and before he had reached his own home he was back again in the absorbing subject of Soichi and the new bank, and had forgotten all about Jukichi’s daughter.

Shrewd old Chukei had met a puzzling rebuff. The circumstances were everything that to his mind foreshadowed a successful negotiation. But he had been sent away with almost no explanation. The _nakodo_ shook his head and plodded along, wondering what to do.

O-Mitsu was happy. Not soon again, she thought, would this particular middleman return to her father’s house with his annoying business. With unwonted lightness of heart she went about her work. Then when the rain ceased and the sun came out, she stepped out into the yard and on the tall _getas_ that guarded her dainty feet from the mud, took her way up the path toward her favorite spot among the pines by the old shrine. The world was greatly changed for her since last she looked out upon that familiar scene. The sails of the fishing-boats bellied out under the fresh breeze, the spray dashed over their bows, the trees swayed and nodded, everywhere was life and activity. The whole world sang and her heart with it.

She stood a long time gazing down at the spreading sea, quite unconscious that another had climbed the steep path, one who now found even a more entrancing picture before his eyes than the wonderful view below them. It was Soichi, come to visit the old shrine. All unprepared for the vision that came so suddenly before him as he turned to look down on the well-remembered shore, it was hard to stifle his admiration and surprise.

Leaning a little against a gnarled old pine, she stood motionless, her strong profile and the exquisite curve of her chin revealed unwittingly to him as he paused, half concealed by a clump of trees. Back over the years since he had seen her, the rush of memory took him to that day when she had told him that she knew his secret. He saw her again standing in the road and bidding him, with a smile, come on with her. And now that little girl was this beautiful woman! She had not changed, and yet she was all changed.

Slowly the tide of emotion swelled within him. He could not remember that he had ever thought she was a pretty girl, and in the years he had spent at the university he had scarcely thought of her at all. He had seen many pretty girls there, but never had one affected him like this. Now he saw at a glance that she was wonderfully beautiful, and the more he looked the more wonderful she became. It dawned on him that she was much the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and immediately he had an almost irresistible longing to go to her at once and tell her so.

An unhappy thought of himself restrained him. They were no longer schoolfellows. She was the daughter of a Samurai and he—Poor Soichi! Not even his university life had taken from his own consciousness all taint of the old disgrace. He did not know, because he had had no experience, that love is _heimin_ as well as _shizoku_, a Commoner as often as a Gentleman, and that there is never advantage in loving a girl unless you tell her so.

He moved a little, and a snapping twig told her that some one was near. She turned quickly and their eyes met. A long moment they stood so and neither spoke, yet in that moment the whole world changed for each of them. Under his steady gaze she felt the blush come tingling up her throat and spread across her cheeks. Like one grown fast to the ground on which he rested, he stood and only stared. His brain refused to act, his tongue to work. Then she moved, and the spell was broken.

“O-Mitsu-san!” he cried, and tone and glance told all he would have uttered.

With all her face rosy with warm blood she gazed fearlessly back into his eyes, and murmured softly a single word, yet one instinct with the feeling of a thousand.

“Thou,” she said, in the old familiar language of their childhood.

Even as eyes and look had spoken for him when voice and tongue were mute, so had she answered. His ugly doubts of himself fled at first sight of her smile and it was the old Soichi who sprang forward to her side. A thousand questions trembled on his lips and struggled in vain for utterance. His unruly tongue refused its function, and he stopped in confusion, even his bold eyes falling before her smiling glance. It was the girl, older than he in such matters by hundreds of years of heritage, who said lightly after a little pause:

“I did not know that you had come home.”

A dozen emotions fought together for expression, but all were crowded back, and he answered in commonplace:

“I have been here nearly a week.”

“So long?” she said, questioning.

He fancied he caught a note of reproach in her tone, so far had his self-esteem come back, and a pang of regret crossed him at the thought that he had lost those days.

“I am a fool,” he said irrelevantly, but with air so dejected that one far less clever than she would have followed his thought.

She laughed merrily, and the sound of her voice completed his undoing. He was back to elemental simplicity again, and the passion that was uppermost in his heart came bursting out with truthful bluntness.

“You are the most beautiful woman in all the world,” he said.

Again the blush swept across her face and the long lashes fell over the merry eyes. The flood-gate of his speech was lifted at last. The torrent of his emotion flowed forth with the rush of waters long pent up, telling her the ancient story he had known all his life, but which only that last quarter hour had revealed to him. And the girl, listening with fluttering heart, heard more than he said, for he was answering the question she had asked herself, and she understood now her hot protest at the message of the _nakodo_.

They sat down by the great rock on the far slope of the hill, where the thick pines screened them from the view of visitors to the shrine, and where the sea lay blue, strong, and peaceful below them. For an hour of which no power ever could rob them, heart was laid bare to heart. Innocently, simply, with the peace of the glorious day, they prattled of the wonder that was theirs, the discovery they alone of all the world had made, and never a thought cloud floated across their heaven to disturb the serenity of its sunshine.

VIII

It was a good thing for Soichi that he had received the proper Japanese training in emotional self-repression or he certainly would have betrayed his secret very soon after his return to the house in Azalea Street. It not only filled him to the overflowing point; it enveloped him roundabout. He was drowned in it. Only the strong force of habit saved him, and the preoccupation of his parents prevented them from noticing his sudden distraction and absent-mindedness. Four days went by, two so long that night seemed never to come, and two so short that he remembered of each nothing but the blissful hour when he had seen O-Mitsu. They had lived over again the past and drunk the joy of the present. Then came the specter. Boys and girls who fall in love in Japan, where the _nakodo_ does most of the wooing, have even less chance than Western lovers for the proverbially rare smooth course of affection. And when he is of such humble descent as Soichi and she the daughter of a Samurai, that little chance is very small indeed. But they were true Japanese and had no lack of courage. They looked their trouble squarely in the eyes and questioned only how to meet it.

“Do you remember the teacher who frightened me so that first day at school?” she asked, going back again to the beginning of all things. “When they told me first that I should not play with you I asked him if it were so. Do you know what he said?”

“Yes, I know,” he answered, a little sadly, for he saw how always the specter stood between them.

“He was a Samurai,” she went on, “and he knew. He said the Emperor had destroyed the old distinction and we were all alike.”

“Yes,” he replied, “before the law. But there are some things that not even the Emperor’s law can reach.”

“Treason!” she cried lightly. “The Emperor’s law reaches everywhere and touches everything.”

He looked at her with a smile. “Do you think,” he said, “that the Emperor wishes us two to be married?”

Her eyes dwelt fondly on his face, and she answered bravely:

“He wishes the old barriers to be utterly thrown down and all his people to be one.”

The picture of that day at his father’s school when he had asserted his manhood came back to him with a rush.

“Ah, yes,” he said soberly, “that is true. Perhaps it might have been, but I spoiled it.”

“Thou?” she said, using again that fond expression that sent the blood surging through him.

“I struck your brother,” he answered. “Perhaps but for that——”

“No, no!” she cried. “I know about that. It was right. There would have been no hope if you had not done it. You do not know Kokan, how proud and hard he is, how he despises fear. He thought you were afraid of him, and he hated you for it. If you had not shown him you were not, and—and this had come, he would have killed you.”

“Perhaps,” he said coolly.

His tone startled her. It was only a little, after all, that she knew of men, and there was a side of Soichi that she did not suspect, because of the difference in their training.

“Ah, but he would,” she declared earnestly. “You do not know how quick and hot his temper is.”

“Perhaps I should have killed him,” Soichi answered. “It would have been a fight, not a murder.”

The words surprised him almost as much as they did her, but for a different reason. That he had said them to her was the wonder to him; that he should have the feeling they disclosed was her amazement. It was the spirit of the Samurai, the spirit that all her training told her belonged only to them, and yet he revealed it as lightly as if it were a thing of supreme indifference, a commonplace, the matter-of-fact possession of every man. A new joy came to her with the unexpected knowledge, and instantly new hope sprang up, vague and undefined, but none the less profound. Somehow, some way this unimagined quality in him would throw down the hateful barrier of prejudice and set them free. There was a deepened tenderness in the eyes that answered his gaze.

“You said there would have been no hope if I had not done that,” he went on, after a little. “Did you think Kokan would ever forgive that blow?”

“He is brave and true,” she answered softly, “even if he is proud and scornful. Too brave himself not to admire bravery in another. He thought you were afraid, but now he knows and in time his anger will die away.”

“You do not know him so well, I am afraid,” he said. “To be struck by one he despised so much was an insult he will never forget or forgive. Hope, for us, must count on something else, yet we must not be without hope. You know the saying, ‘Even a calamity, if left alone three years, may turn into a fortune.’”

She was strangely happy again. It seemed quite natural now that they should face hopefully forward. She looked out over the shining sea and began to build dreams, queer dreams that left the Now by unknown paths and reached the Then by unmarked roads. But always they arrived there, and it was a country of unclouded happiness where she and he lived in perfect peace. A long time he sat silent, watching her with eyes that signaled his mood. At length she turned to him with a little sigh.

“I must go home,” she said. “My father will say I stay very long at the shrine and go very often.”

“So long a time and yet so short,” he said, and rose to his feet. An unpleasant thought crossed his mind and she saw its shadow.

“What is it?” she asked.

“To-morrow the work at the bank begins,” he replied, “and I must go there.”

“Well,” she said, “are you not glad of it? It is an honorable occupation.”

He gave her a puzzled, sorrowful look that brought a peal of merry laughter.

“Is it so bad as that?” she asked.

“When I go to the bank I cannot come here,” he said gravely. “Then when shall I see you?”

At once her own face fell. “You are here now,” she said, “and that was enough. I did not think of to-morrow.”

“Not merely to-morrow,” he rejoined, “but all the days after that.”

“Two,” she answered lightly; “there will be always two in seven. We can thank the new ways that have brought us Saturday and Sunday.”

“Yes, two in seven,” he responded, so gloomily that she laughed outright.

“Greedy!” she cried. “Know you not that the avaricious man prepares his own downfall? How much better are two days than none, as it has been so long?” She held up her slender fingers and made as if to count the years he had been away. “And for the other days,” she went on, “there are paper and ink and brushes, when one knows how to write.”

She was too happy at her new discovery of him to let so small a matter as this conjure up clouds. He caught the contagion and her smile chased away his frown.

“Good thought!” he said. “Now I know why that troublesome art was taught me.”

So, laughing and jesting, they started down the hill. They had almost reached the bottom when a new difficulty arose.

“If I send you a letter,” he said soberly, “will not Kudo-san know it?”

She had thought of that, too, only it did not disturb her.

“In the roof over the gate,” she said, “there is a split in the shingle. Underneath one could easily leave a letter that would never be seen unless someone should look for it.”

But he, more practical, at once objected. It would be tempting fate to leave their letters where any day her father might so easily find them. If he should chance to look over-closely at the gate, or perhaps to have it repaired when a letter was there, discovery would be certain.

“If you do not enter the tiger’s den,” she said, “you cannot catch her cub.”

“Oh, yes,” he answered; “if one is patient by and by the cub will come out. There is a better place. In the corner of the yard by the plum tree there is a big bamboo post in the angle of the fence. To-night, after dark, I will make a cap for it, and in the hollow beneath shall be our letter box.”

“Yes,” she said, “that is best.”

Satisfied of his skill and ingenuity she gave him her prettiest bow and a radiant smile, and moved down the path toward Timber Street. He watched until the far turn shut out from his view the dainty figure in its silver-gray kimono and iris-violet _obi_, and then thoughtfully took his own way homeward.

It was in the time of “Little Heat” when Soichi fitted the cap to the post. So cleverly he did his work that no one could tell, except by the closest examination, that there was a seam in the bamboo. On the inside he made a deep groove in the post and fastened a tongue to the cap so that it should fit tight always in the same place and never betray what had been done. Often, after that, he would watch his chance and when no one was in sight slip up to the post and stealthily lift the cap to take out or put in a letter.

The days passed swiftly, in spite of his inability to see O-Mitsu, for the work at the bank was new and hard, and as the business prospered there was much for him to do. So _Handon_ and _Donkatu_ (half Sunday and Sunday), as the country people still call them, came around more quickly than he had thought, and nearly always they had contrived to arrange a meeting. Oftenest it was at their favorite big rock back of the pines, where there was seldom a straggling sight-seer to interrupt them. But sometimes, on holidays and festivals, it would be at the big Buddhist temple; and that they liked less, for the crowd interfered, and it was difficult to find a secluded place or to have more than a few words together without observation.

The weeks ran on into months, and the period of the “Cold Dew” came all too quickly, with its short afternoons and early descending sun, that cut down their brief hour together and sent them home to write more letters. For the conversation of lovers is as never-ending in the Mikado’s realm as in the less fettered courtships of happier lands, and there was always so very much between them that had to be said and answered.

And now a new, dread subject was looming up. All over the land traveled the same sinister whisper, and men said the Dragon was rousing himself, and talked of the terrible rustling of his great scales. The winds of war were beginning to blow lightly from the north, and far and near the people waited anxiously to see if they could not be diverted. As time went on, and stronger and stronger came the hostile currents, more and more soberly Soichi and O-Mitsu discussed the darkening future. Much it meant to them, for Soichi would be a soldier. His last birthday had brought him to the age for conscription service, and although his university course would give him some exemption, he was not one to claim it, if the Emperor were engaged in deadly strife; nor indeed would O-Mitsu have him. As autumn dipped into winter the wrath of the people toward their great antagonist grew and deepened, and anxiety lest there should be war gave place to desire for it.

They were sitting again by their great rock one late fall afternoon when the grass was brown and dead, and through the bare branches that waved above the housetops the wind blew bleak and cold from off a sullen sea. They had talked of war and what it might bring to them. Each felt it would be the end of all their dreams, for a soldier’s duty is to die for the Emperor, and Soichi would not come back when once he had been called to the front.

“It will be a very great honor for me,” he said at length, turning from a long, silent look at the wide-stretching water.

She glanced up at him questioningly.

“It is the first time a Kutami has had the privilege of serving the Empire as a soldier,” he went on, “and I shall be very proud to go. It has done a great deal for us.”

She made no answer, but sat with her slender hands folded across her lap.

“Will you pray to Kwannon when I am gone?” he asked gravely.

“Yes, and to Shaka,” she said softly.

“Ah, to him also,” he returned; “yes, to him, too. We commit it all to Shaka.”

The low-hanging sun warned them that their all-too-short hour was ended, and they started down the familiar path in silence. At the turn, where they separated, he paused, and she looked up into his eyes.

“To Shaka, too,” he said, and strode on.

IX

There was plenty of work at the new bank, and Kutami divided his time between it and his old affairs. In the street one morning as he was going to the bank he came upon Chukei, the _nakodo_, of whom he had not a thought since that day he saw him at Kudo-san’s gate.

“Good morning, Chukei-san,” he said; “what young people are you trying to make happy now?”

“Not your son, surely,” answered the middleman, instantly scenting the possibility of a fortunate stroke, and bowing very low to make a good impression.

“Ho, ho!” cried Chobei, with a hearty laugh. “You are quite right. Surely not my son. He has no thought of marrying yet.”

“Be not oversure,” replied the _nakodo_. “One never can tell what is in the minds of these likely young fellows.”

“That is so,” returned the banker; “but I think I know my son quite well enough. I saw you coming from Kudo-san’s house a while ago. That must have been a proposal for his pretty daughter?” He chucked at his shrewdness in guessing.

Chukei was not much inclined to discuss his clients’ affairs, but he was tempted by the hope of gaining a new one, and besides, he loved a bit of gossip.

“Yes,” he answered grinning sheepishly, “and a very good proposal it was, too.”

“Indeed,” said Chobei, with neighborly interest. “I had not heard of the wedding.”

“No, and you will not,” replied the matchmaker, a little sourly, for it always angered him to think of the good business he had lost because of O-Mitsu’s refusal. “My proposal was not accepted.”

“Dear me!” exclaimed Kutami; “that is very strange. Who was the man?”

“Yamamoto-san, the silk merchant,” responded the _nakodo_. “His son is one of the finest young men in the city.”

“Yes, indeed,” said the banker, “I should think any man would be glad to have his daughter make such a fortunate marriage. What did Kudo-san say?”

“That was the greatest surprise,” answered old Chukei. “He said his daughter did not wish to marry.”

“Well, well!” cried the banker. “Who ever heard of a girl refusing to marry when her father wished her too? Things have changed very much in Japan when that can happen.”

“They have indeed,” replied the _nakodo_. “Least of all would one have thought it of Kudo-san, but it is quite true. I have been there three times since summer, each time with a very excellent marriage to offer, and always it has been the same answer.”

“I wonder what the reason can be,” said the banker thoughtfully. “It is certainly very strange. Good morning, Chukei-san,” and Chobei went on to the bank, leaving the middleman quite uncertain whether he had made a good investment of his gossip or not.

Jukichi’s neighbors had not missed the visits of the _nakodo_ to his house, and as he had only one daughter and there was no wedding, it was quite evident that several proposals for O-Mitsu had been rejected. It was whispered about, in Lower Timber Street, that it was the girl herself who had made the refusals. But if Jukichi had any regrets, they never appeared. He loved the spirited girl and her gentle ways about the house, and it mattered nothing to him if the neighborhood gossips talked of the scandal of a girl who dared disclose a preference of her own contrary to the wish of her father. Such a wonder might not be heard of again in all Japan. He did not care. He enjoyed his home and his ease, and she was the great factor in both.

Perhaps if he had been less fond, he might have been more suspicious. Yet it had not occurred to the simple Samurai that there could be reasons for his daughter’s hot distemper with the hopeful authors of Chukei’s vicarious proposals other than her own demonstrative desire to remain in the old home with him. The clever girl was shrewder than he guessed. But who shall follow the blind trail of Love and pick out his footprints with the certainty which may say, “There he stepped,” or “Here he stopped,” or “See where he ran!”

There was lively interest in the house in Azalea Street that evening when Chobei recounted his conversation with the _nakodo_. O-Koyo listened with the kindly sympathy that ever kindles the matchmaking maternal heart. As for Soichi, he heard with a growing feeling of impending disaster that made it difficult for him to conceal his emotion. O-Mitsu had never told him anything of this, and if she had been rejoiced at the discovery of qualities in him which she had not anticipated, it was his turn to be surprised at her ability to keep to herself a subject which she knew would be so disquieting to him. He got out his little writing-box and began a letter to her. O-Koyo sighed fondly as she glanced at the corner where he sat with his ink and brush, busily covering a long roll of paper with she knew not what words.

“Ah,” she said, “if only one of the proposals had been for Soichi perhaps she would not have refused.”

“Hut!” cried her husband sharply. “Our son marry the daughter of Kudo-san! What can you be thinking of?”

“Why not?” she replied quickly, undaunted by his scornful look. “Strange things happen nowadays. Stranger than that have happened already, why not again? We are rich and they are very poor.”

“Ah, yes,” returned Chobei soberly. “That is true. But money is not so much yet, in Japan, and many more very strange things must come to pass before it is. Besides, we are Eta and they Samurai.”

“No, no!” cried his wife, with unaccustomed daring; “we were Eta and they were Samurai. Now all that is ended, and you have the best cause to know it who were yourself associated so closely with this Kudo-san in the school. To be sure we are only Commoners yet, but who knows what may not come? If there should be war, what opportunities for advancement may it not bring? One who can do for himself what you have done may do a great deal more. Why should not you, or Soichi himself, win the promotion that would make old Kudo-san glad to consent?”

She paused, excited and trembling, surprised at herself for making so much argument against her husband. Chobei sat looking at her in astonishment. Never before had she shown such feeling.

“Whatever is the world coming to,” he exclaimed at length, “when foolish women can talk like that!”

He filled his little pipe and exhausted the pellet of tobacco almost at one puff. But Soichi said nothing at all, and went on making his brush fly like a dragon over the paper as if he had heard not a word of their talk. O-Koyo said no more, and her husband smoked furiously, rapping his pipe on the _hibachi_ to knock out the ashes, as if he meant to smash it to pieces. At length Soichi rolled up his yards of affectionate ideographs and slipped them deftly inside the long, narrow envelope, with sprays of delicate pink cherry blossoms trailing over it. Then he went out into the night and stole down to the corner of Kudo-san’s fence. Only the plum-tree saw him slip the cap of the bamboo post and lay his love letter carefully inside. Then he strode off toward the path up the hill. His heart was in a tumult. Straight up to the old shrine he went, paused a moment before it, and hurried on to their trysting-place at the big rock. There he sat down, and a long time pondered the strange, exciting news he had heard that evening. When he returned he found his father still silently smoking rapid pipefuls and O-Koyo sitting beside him with never a word, her hands busy with sewing. As he entered Chobei looked up and asked:

“Where have you been?”

“I went out to walk,” answered Soichi, “and climbed up to the shrine on the hill-top.”

Perhaps it was his talk with the _nakodo_, perhaps it was the suggestion of his wife that had set Chobei to thinking definitely about the future of his son. Theretofore there had been only a vague recognition of the fact that sometime Soichi would marry. Now suddenly it came to him that the boy was grown to man’s estate, that the condition he half dreaded, half expected, was already come. With the realization came back the mental picture of old Chukei. It was time to look about them, he thought, to consider the possibility of finding a suitable mate for his promising son, and, perhaps, to employ the middleman. After a time Chobei put aside his pipe and began to speak of what he had been thinking. Soichi listened like the dutiful son he was, and O-Koyo heard gladly, for even if it were not to be the beautiful daughter of the Samurai, she would be happy to see the son of whom she was so proud well married, and the daughter in the house would make her cares much lighter. When at length there came a pause in which Soichi could speak, it was with an air of quiet unconcern that he said:

“But first I must do my service in the army. If war does come, perhaps there will be no need for Chukei-san.”

Then, because they were alone in their own privacy, where no outside eye or ear might see or hear, and it was not necessary to conceal their genuine emotions, they gave full rein to the expression of their sober feelings, and the mother, who would be proudly scornful of tears or outward show of grief if the time should come to send her boy to the hardships and hazards of camps and battlefields, gave the hot, protesting drops unheeded flow. But Soichi showed the mettle that was in him, saying calmly:

“But if the Emperor wishes it!”

Reverently the Commoner and his wife bowed at the mention of that name and the suggestion of his possible desire. There was no more loyal family in all his realm than they, and if he needed the sacrifice of all they had, and life itself, they had only to know his need to make the offering. The proudest opportunity life held was to die for him, and it was with heartfelt acquiescence that they heard their son add:

“Then I should be sorry that I had only one life to give him.”

X

“Three times, he told my father, he had made offer of marriage for you, and each time it was refused.”

Soichi looked down upon her where she sat by the big rock, and his black eyes shone with a great tenderness. She did not look up, but gazed away toward the sea and made no reply. All the time since she had read his letter she had wondered what to say to him. For she had wished earnestly that he might not know. There was trouble enough already for them, and it could do no good to tell him. It could only add to his disquiet, and as it was they seldom met without some shadow of their specter falling over them. So she meant to bear this alone, and if by and by the barriers were destroyed, then it would add to their joy. But now it had come, through the foolish gabble of old Chukei. She looked up at him standing there, so strong and manly, and the sadness she saw smote her heart.

“Three times,” he repeated.

The old roguish smile came into her eyes. “But none of them was from a banker,” she said softly.

As always, she had only to seem merry to drive away his sober mood, and now the light-hearted answer brought its quick smile in return.

“But why did you not tell me?” he demanded.

“Thou art dull, Big One,” she answered, “to ask me such questions. Surely thou must have guessed.”

“I am not quick with riddles,” he said.

Manlike he had but one way. He must know it all and she must tell. The intuition that would have conjured up the whole scene for her was utterly lacking in him, and as she watched him, she saw the shadow settle on his brow that warned her of his shifting mood.

“For one,” she said quickly, “how could I tell when you were not here, and thought so little of me you had not even told me where you were?”

He did not understand, and she laughed at his puzzled look. Then he saw.

“So long ago,” he said, “before I came home?”

“Is it so very long?” she asked. “I do not remember. It seemed but yesterday I saw you here. How many years is it, man to whom it has been so long?”

He gazed at her bewildered. He was no match for her at such fencing of wits. He flung himself down beside her and said shortly:

“Have the kindness to explain, if you please. Do you not see how I am tortured?”

“No, no!” she cried, “not that! Were they not all refused? For what are you tortured? Ah, if you had been a woman you would have been taught in childhood how foolish it is to admit jealous thoughts. Well, then, since you insist so much, the first one was refused—I did not know why. My father gave me my wish and I said No. Then one day I went to visit an old shrine I love very much, and I found out why. After that, with the others—there was no other reason. Now is the torture ended?”

He turned to her and the smile in his eyes was complete reward. “I am very glad,” he said.

“And very foolish,” she added softly.

“I wished very much to know,” he said after a pause. “To-morrow I am summoned to the temple for examination.”

“To-morrow!” she cried. She knew it was to come but had not thought it was so near. “To-morrow!” she repeated, whispering, as if to herself. “Are you glad to go? Perhaps you will not be taken.”

“Nay,” he said, “if there is war I shall be glad and proud, and if there is no war the time will soon be ended.”

“Very soon,” she said demurely, and made as if counting on her fingers. “When a few months may seem so many years how long will three years be?”

“Long enough for more refusals,” he answered, and she laughed at the retort.

“But it is by lot that they are chosen,” she said, “and it may not fall on you.”

He smiled fondly at her eagerness and innocence. “Yes, by lot,” he answered. “But your Samurai policemen know well where to make the lots fall.”

She knew what he meant. Young men as tall and sturdy as he did not escape, even though the selection was by chance. There was a keen-eyed, patriotic, military intelligence that supervised the casting of the lots, and the girl, who gloried in his strength, foresaw the certainty that he would be chosen. Nor was he, in truth, unwilling to go. If it should happen that the wheel of the lottery left him free to stay at home, as it did some quite as fit as he for service, he would accept the result with a clean conscience. For brief and infrequent as were his opportunities for seeing O-Mitsu, even they would be lost if he were in the army. Thus far his loyalty and sense of duty to the empire let him go. Before the lots were drawn he could hope that they would miss him. When the decision was made, if he were taken he would set his heart to his work with a will and devotion no tie of home, no merely personal consideration, would ever cause to waver for an instant. And of all who knew and loved him none would urge him on more eagerly than the girl. She was looking at him proudly as he sat before her, and it came to her that he was of the build and stature sought for throughout the empire for the distinguished regiments which had the honor of bearing the imperial name.

“You will go to the Guards,” she said.

“Oh, no,” he answered quickly; “I could not hope for such an honor.”

“Honor!” she said with a smile. “It will be an honor to the Guards to have such a soldier.”

That was too much and he laughed at the joke. “But I am not a soldier,” he protested.

“You will be,” she answered confidently. “There are some things about you, Big One, which you do not know yourself, but I know. Come, it is time to go. You must drink no sake to-night, and sleep well, to be ready for the examination.”

There was plenty of company for Soichi at the temple the next morning. All the young men of his age in the district had been summoned, and there was a clatter of eager talk among them as they awaited their turns with the examiners. But Soichi had little to say. He heard with amusement the boastful words of some who knew themselves to be at the threshold of distinction and honor, and he had a strange sympathy for some who hoped to escape. For himself, a night of agitated reflection, sleepless in spite of O-Mitsu’s parting injunction, had brought him a day of calm indifference. He was ready for whatever might come. The businesslike surgeon, working rapidly but carefully, pronounced his verdict with prompt decision, and one after another was set free or sent on to the recruiting captain. At length it was Soichi’s turn. The brusque doctor’s eyes glistened as he saw the rippling muscles of the broad shoulders, and an exclamation of professional pleasure broke from his lips as he caught the rhythmic note of the deep breathing.

“Lungs like a bellows,” he cried to his assistant.

Weight, height, and measurements were quickly taken, and with an enthusiasm he had not displayed in many a day the surgeon called to the recording sergeant:

“_Ichiban_” (first-class).

Already Soichi knew his fate. His university degree would take the place of the recruiting captain’s mental examination, and after that there would be only the certainty of the lots. It did not take the captain long to repeat the surgeon’s “_Ichiban_,” and as Soichi turned away from giving his record at the desk, he heard the recruiting officer say to the inspector major, who had just come in:

“There is one for the Guards. Just look at him.”

O-Mitsu’s judgment was confirmed, and he went home to await the notice of his selection, and to write perhaps his last letter to her. For he would not dare to write to her home when he was away, and they had no friend whom they would trust with their secret. It was a sober letter. There seemed little chance now that war would be avoided. Already men said that the throat of the Dragon had been touched, and throughout the Empire preparations were going on rapidly for the time when he should strike.

With simple directness Soichi told his news, and spoke proudly of the intimation he had had that he should go to the Guards. There would be a few weeks of drill and preliminary work, he supposed, in the barracks at division headquarters in the near-by city, and it might be that once or twice more he should have the opportunity of seeing her before he went to Tokyo to join his regiment. After that would come the war and the battlefield. She would know he did not say it to boast, but he meant to do a soldier’s duty. It would have been sweet, it there had been no war (he spoke of it as if it were already begun), to live on there with her, for in some way it would have worked out for them. But that was impossible now; a dream to be forgotten. The dearest wish of his heart was to die for the Emperor, and he prayed only that Shaka would permit him to meet his fate gloriously and with honor.

That was all. Not a word to her of the love that filled his heart. Not a message of hope or farewell, not a hint of constancy or patience. All that was behind him. His duty lay to the future and to the grim chance of war.

It was a raw, cold night, with a bitter wind searching through the bare branches of the plum tree, and Soichi shivered as he lifted the cap of the bamboo post and thrust in his letter. Then he patted the cap back into place and turned away, nor noticed that a telltale corner of the envelope projected through the joint he had not closed tightly. And of all the evenings in the year, that was the one Jukichi chose to visit the plum tree.

Next day the notification came. Soichi had been selected for immediate service and was to go to the Guards. His record in the military work at school was such that the preliminary training at adjacent division headquarters would be waived and he would report directly to his regiment. He would start the following day.

He went to the bank and finished up his work there in preparation for indefinite absence. Then he wrote a little note to O-Mitsu, telling her the orders he had received, and started home. The early winter evening had fallen before he reached the house in Timber Street, and he stopped at the bamboo post to leave his note and perhaps to find a letter from her. He lifted the cap with excited eagerness and felt in the hollow. There, sure enough, was a letter. He took it out with thumping heart and dropped in his own; then hurried around the corner home, impatient for light to read her words.

The first glance at the envelope sent a queer sensation of coldness through his heart, as if he had suddenly been struck chill. The writing was strange. The delicate characters of O-Mitsu, beautiful as the work of a famous artist, were replaced by the strong, heavy, brush strokes of an angry man. For an instant he stared at them with mind a blank. Then he knew. Someone had found them out. He stood as if paralyzed by shock, nerveless, inert, expecting some dire calamity. Then he tore open the envelope.

A single glance was sufficient to tell the story. The signature was the first thing his eye caught, and after that he could hardly see the other words. Those two dominated everything—“Kudo Jukichi”—her father! The new-clothed dignity of the law that made him a Commoner slipped from him like a kimono unfastened; the honor of his new service, the pride of his regimental assignment faded away, and he was again the Eta of the old days, outcast, despised, a very pollution. All that he had done, all that his father had done, the position they had won in the community, the consideration of their fellows were made as nothing by the simple apparition of those two words.