Meanwhile affairs at Tsu were not prospering. Sampei, tossed like a shuttlecock, formed, as usual, a dozen resolutions daily, and broke them all. At one moment he was for the flight of O'Tei from the doomed castle--become now a hell of untramelled debauchery--and her installation with his mother at the temple. There she would be in sanctuary, whence even her husband durst not wrest her. But then what a triumph for O'Kikú! He felt that O'Tei would never consent to a step which would be a tacit admission of defeat, for she was a Nara of pure blood, with all the pride of her race. No. She must stop where she was, and await the unrolling of events; and yet what a life was hers, compelled to remain much in her bower, lest she should be insulted by O'Kikú or the braves. As Nara hoped, the evil germ was working inwardly. A regret rose within the mind of Sampei which scorched and blackened it. Is a faithful clansman and an honest man ever justified in turning on his chief? Before there was no question of it: now he was in more than doubt. May a brother ever be pardoned for taking his brother's life? Cases of fratricide were common enough, as Nara had hinted--there were precedents galore--but then the ruling feature of Sampei's character had always been loyal honesty. The gods in their wisdom had set over him certain superiors. What would be said to him when the end came, and accounts were totted up upon the abacus, if he had rebelled? Buddha, frowning, would demand to know how he dared move out of his place, arrogantly assuming to be the wiser.
His first duty was to the head of his house: surely there should be no doubt whatever about that. But what if another urgent duty had been imposed by his heart--an imperative duty, clashing with the first? There lay the rub, a problem beyond the solving of the simple General. And since the shocking suggestion had been spread by the wily geisha that there were unholy bonds 'twixt him and her whom it was only too plain he loved, the situation had become so strained as to fill him with foreboding and dismay. To save her fair fame ought he indeed to go? To leave her a helpless waif on this whirlpool of black wickedness was out of the question. And yet how was she benefited by his staying, since he dared not approach without compromising her? So miserable did the poor man feel, racked and torn by a difficulty with which he was incapable of coping, that the light was dark to him, his heart stone cold. He knew himself as weak as she, a ball at the foot of Fate; and so he wandered aimless and disconsolate, hearing and seeing nothing, caring not what befell, waiting--as the rudderless do--to see what would happen next.
Oh, heart of man, centre of suffering! When one is said to be heartless, 'tis looked upon as a reproach, instead of a matter for gratulation! The heart of man! 'Tis barely enough for a kite's dinner, yet the whole world is not sufficiently large to satisfy its lust, its greed, its ambition--and how it suffers!
When he sailed so blythely for Corea with his enthusiastic army, how halcyon was the world to Sampei; what wonders he was going to perform; what a career of ambition was before him. And now, ambition was dead. Life had become Endurance. His candid spirit was warped by suspicion. He, once so open and trustful, saw in everything a hidden meaning; in every event an occult snare.
In due course the betto brought him the letter of his chief, and he smiled with pitying derision. Was he to be taken in so easily? Had he not seen the betto ride off with the missive of O'Kikú? Had he not heard the woman herself urging the servant to speed? A puerile trick. The letter had counselled the infatuated Daimio to remove his brother from her path, that O'Tei, left unprotected and alone, might lie at her mercy. What other reason could there be for so sudden a summons to Kiŷoto? With disdain he tore the letter up, resolved more firmly than ever to stick to his post, to carry out his mission to the end. When my lord should return, there would be time enough for explanations. They were burning to be rid of O'Tei--the guilty couple. From this crowning sin, at least, Sampei would save his brother.
It required no little resolution unblenchingly to follow the straight but rugged path. O'Kikú smarted more than ever under his cold and implacable disdain. All her arts were useless. Maddened, she strove to pique him by excesses of abandonment under his very nose, and was convulsed by fits of corroding acrimony to discover how futile were her efforts. Against all her attacks he was armedcap-à-pié. If my lord would but return, that she might wreak envenomed spite upon these two, whom now with her whole soul she hated! Meanwhile the only result produced by her reckless behaviour was that the samurai, for the most part, disapproved of her more and more; while Sampei, to shun the sight of one so odious, devoted himself to excursions and the chase.
Away upon the hill, with its temple and solemn arcades of greenery, as in the hum of the houses below, the cloud of anxiety was thickening.
The still dim shrine no longer lulled to devout prayer the soul of Masago. In the midst of supplication her mind turned worldwards. She yearned over her son and the tottering family. She grieved so for O'Tei, when the chatelaine arrived for prayers, that her hard face grew wondrous soft, and she marvelled at the stoniness of destiny. Seeing now with clearer ken than in the past, when she had admired the warlike Tomoyé, adored her rude lord, had almost persuaded herself to believe that all that he did was good, she began to have a denned perception of his crimes, mingled with a startled regret. He had been guilty of much that was deplorable. No-Kami had been brought up in his father's school, had from the first gone lengths that were much more regrettable, to end in deeds which she preferred not to contemplate. He deserved to be accursed, and was accursed. Our sins, like sable ravens, return to roost. Ever since the culminating crime, events had moved so directly towards a visible goal that the finger of fate was plain. But why Sampei? Why the fair and good O'Tei, a symbol of all that was pure? These questions, so bewildering, would rise persistently to the surface. Why should these two, mixed up in this horror, without overt act of theirs, be marched as victims to the sacrifice?
She had heard from Sampei that my lord had rallied suddenly before he went to Kiŷoto, and this started a fresh train of thought. O'Kikú, the baleful geisha, was at the bottom of all the trouble. She had suddenly appeared, emissary of devils, on the fatal day, and ever since had been a scourge. Thanks to an inspiration from above, the Abbess had been the means of separating my lord from his concubine. Oh, what if, Heaven relenting, the separation might become final--No-Kami himself reformed? The soul of Masago gave a great leap. Yes, she saw light at last--the light for which she had besought so fervently.Shewas to be the humble means of unravelling the tangle, of saving the family honour.
But how was this to be accomplished? With trepidation she remembered that she was in her sixty-first year, which, as all the world knows, is the last of the yaku doshi, or evil years, after which a woman may be at peace. During her thirty-third and forty-second (the other yaku-doshi--happily passed) she had been very careful lest, tempted by Ratatzu, she should be capable of something dreadful, that would ruin her and hers. And now it was terrible to think that in this last year of ordeal--the one of a long life which was most beset with brambles--she was called upon to act with decision, to stand forth for the succour of the innocent, for the shriving and salvation of the guilty. This state of things would call for much vigil, much putting off of earth-trammels, and adoration of the sun-god at his rising, that her old eyes might clearly see.
The more she pondered--a slow, tall figure pacing among the moss-grown tombs, under the stately criptomerias--the more plain her duty seemed. Thanks to the benign deities, her prayers for light were answered, and she saw. It was by Heaven's decree that the geisha had travelled hitherward, an agent for the fulfilling of a purpose pre-ordained. Buddha, with omniscient vision, had caused her to come to Tsu for the accomplishment of the curse of the martyr. But now, through the prayers and entreaties of his humble handmaid, he had relented,--been turned from his intent. What a scaffold was the Abbess raising. When No-Kami should come back, his evil genius would be gone. This favour granted, Buddha would vouchsafe another. By force of supplication Masago would obtain that the temper of the Hojo might be changed. He would repent him of his evil ways, and atone in the future for the past. Then it should be her proud privilege to bring together again the husband and the wife. O'Tei must be taught to forgive, to break down the barrier of ice behind which her better nature had been shrouded. Warming in the radiance of a new happiness her frozen petals would unfold, give forth their sweetness, and No-Kami would come to know the treasure that he had ignorantly tossed aside. The wan cheek of the old Abbess was flushed, her dimmed eyes sparkled, as she revolved these things, devoutly giving thanks to Heaven. Is it not the greatest joy that may be tasted by mortals--the permission to intervene in the house of discord, and bring to it peace and happiness? The end was plain to the prophetic vision of Masago, but the way to it was long. The gentle O'Tei would be brought with little trouble to play her part.
The difficulty lay with the geisha. The Abbess, mindful of yaku doshi, resolved to be prudent and cautious--not precipitate; and yet, whatever had to be done must be done before the return of No-Kami to the castle. There was not time then for protracted cogitation. She would appeal in person to the siren,--speak words inspired from on high which should touch her flinty heart. Seizing her staff, the gaunt figure in its flowing draperies of crape descended the long flight of stairs, passed under the torii at the bottom, and strode, buoyed by celestial fervour, along the winding street which led to the castle gate. O'Kikú was in a boat upon the river---O'Tei's own favourite shallop, which she had robbed her of, as of other things--and marvelled greatly to behold the Abbess of the temple beckoning to her from the shore.
Approaching, she reclined idly at the bottom of the boat, toying with some winter blossoms she had plucked; dipping, in saucy contempt of cold, the fingers of the other hand into the running water. She was muffled in a robe of furs, her head swathed in a kerchief of thick silk; and Masago remarked that she looked worn,--had lost that freshness which had been her most piquant charm. Earnestly the Abbess spoke; pleaded for the family honour on the verge of wreck; discoursed with proud eloquence of the illustrious house of which she was a lowly member; reminded her hearer that she, O'Kikú, also now was one of the house, in precisely the same position as she, the speaker, had been. There were two ways open to her. Lest she should bring upon herself the reproach of having brought a great family to ruin, she must turn over a new leaf, and eschew in future the vices for which she was notorious; or, if waywardness was in her blood, she must depart, and by self-sacrifice atone for the past, and save the family. Amused with the thought that the Abbess must be mad, the geisha lay listening, a sly smile playing about her lips, until the unlucky pleader began to talk about her son. Then starting, as if bitten by an adder, uprose the concubine, and, taking up the pole, leisurely pushed off from the bank.
"Sampei, forsooth! A ridiculous old lunatic!" she scoffed, with a superb head-toss. "You must be very insane. What! You'd have me go hence and prison myself for the behoof of the pale idiot yonder? Even if I were myself mad enough to consent, my lord would never love her. The contemptible creature is barren; whereas I, the second wife--" and with a trail of mocking merriment, and an attempt to raise a blush, she smiled at the astounded Abbess, and propelled her bark into the stream.
Masago remained standing, her tall figure mirrored in the water, her shrunken hands crossed upon her breast, amazed and troubled. What was this new factor in the embroglio? She was with child--the interloper. There would soon be a new bond, a fresh silver link to unite more closely the pair whom she was bound to separate. The woman's influence over my lord would be greater than ever; and, all for evil as of yore. The breach between No-Kami and O'Tei would grow wider. As in a dream--with slow gait and corrugated brow--the Abbess passed back towards the grove, heedless of the salutations of the peasants,--of the brown urchins that plucked at her skirts. A child--a son, perhaps--that woman's son! Swiftly there passed through her brain a sense of the results that would accrue. The wife, ambitious and unscrupulous, who was a mother, would become all-powerful. Fresh insults would day by day be heaped on the one who was not thus blessed among women. In her mind's eye Masago beheld a long train of disasters and calamities, O'Kikú the active agent. Crouched down before the altar, her chin supported by her palms, she gazed at the bronze symbol that sat so calm and still and upright, with mouth shut and eyelids closed.
"Oh, if you would vouchsafe to speak," she murmured imploringly, "one little word of guidance. One other ray of light; one little, little ray! During years of unflinching devotion has my life been given to your service. I know that I have earned nothing save, perhaps, one touch of pity!"
With sore and heavy heart the Abbess sighed, for the bronzed lips remained tight shut, the eyelids closed. He was asleep and deaf. There was no sound of comfort or of counsel.
Presently she distinguished the patter of clogs upon the outer stairs, and, after a while a man, pushing aside the curtain, stood framed in the doorway.
"Sampei!" Her boy! Was this the reply of Buddha? Ashy pale, trembling like a leaf, the old woman bent to the stones with moving lips; while the General, reverently doffing his geta, and beating his hands together, approached and knelt. She took his warm broad hand between her cold ones, and earnestly scrutinised his face. Her thoughts were in such a turmoil that, though she heard his words, they seemed to reach her ears from a distance, through a tunnel. Riding listlessly, as was his wont, with no settled purpose, he had been astonished to see the geisha in conference with his mother. What could those two have had to say to each other? Greatly marvelling, he had watched, and then turned his horse towards the temple. What ailed his mother, that her features were grey-green? Was she ill? She looked so scared and strange and terrified. Was it some ghost she saw that caused that look of awe?
Without taking her eyes from her son's, the Abbess rose, and like one in a trance led him behind the altar, down the open corridor, into her own quiet chamber. Nothing could be more simple than its furnishing. The woodwork was unadorned, but scrupulously clean, so were the mats and screens. A plain fire-box of iron stood in the centre. Above the low dais in the tokonoma, or place of honour, there hung a single and very ancient kakemono, representing Kwannon, the thousand-handed; and under it, upon the dais, stood in a lacquered sword-rack, a dirk in its silken case.
Floating before Sampei she lifted the weapon, pressed it to her bosom, then slowly unfastening the case, drew forth the dirk, which, with a cry, he recognised. It was a precious blade, forged by Miochin himself, adorned with a hilt minutely worked with gold--a dirk which in childhood he had been wont to play with.
"My father's!" he murmured, and pressed it to his lips and forehead.
"Your father's!" echoed the Abbess, in a whisper, drawing herself to the full height of her commanding stature, and placing on the bent head of her son a trembling hand. "Your father, andhis, wore yonder blade in many a fray, and it was never sullied with dishonour. To you, my dear son, do I surrender it. The gods have spoken. She must die!"
As pale as his mother, who looked on him now with a rapt and solemn smile, Sampei heaved a sigh of relief.She. His nerves tingled to his finger ends, for he had thought that the deed must be done which had so often crossed his mind, and which he had always put away from him with dread. It was not his brother--thanks to the gods for that--but the wicked concubine, whose blood was required in atonement.
Then the two sat down, and the inspired priestess spoke.
"The honour of the family was to be saved by him--Sampei. Buddha himself had deigned to settle it. He must bide his time, and wait and watch, and when occasion offered he must, with his father's dirk, slay the baleful sorceress. With his own hand must the deed be done--not be trusted to a hireling, even to a samurai. It might be some time before the fitting opportunity presented itself, for the braves, whom she still debauched, would defend her doubtless with their lives. There must not be too long delay, lest my lord No-Kami should come home. The avenging hand must be sure and steady; the result not a mere wound, but--death."
Nodding, Sampei placed the weapon in his obi, and, embracing his mother, departed with proud step. It was to be his privilege--by Buddha's own decree--to save the honour of the house,--to rescue his infatuated brother,--to bestow upon the dear O'Tei a measure of future happiness.
Masago, calm now, returned to the temple, and spent the night in vigil. Blessed be Buddha; for his mercy thrice-blessed! He had spoken through the silent lips. The course and conscience of his handmaid were clear as crystal now.
Now it came to pass that after the mental torture she had endured, the soul-racking perplexities, the days of prayer and nights of vigil, the strong frame of the Abbess gave way under her burthen. She was deeply thankful for the god's decision,--that her prayers had been heard and answered. But her body was worn out--the lamp was burning low, and she was compelled to remain in her chamber, wrapped in many quilts, with Miné, hapless victim of unrequited love, in anxious attendance on her. That unfortunate maiden had never recovered the effect of the dreadful day,--the massacre of her dear ones,--her parents' departure, unforgiving. She moved about her sacred duties like a phantom, with remorse gnawing at her vitals. No need now to keep watch over her lest she should again fling herself into the reluctant arms of the too fascinating young General. He was no more to her seared heart than any other man, for it had lost all sense of feeling. It was scorched out of life on the day of the massacre, and she bore only its ashes in her breast.
Masago had sunk into that deep sleep which is the greatest boon to unhappy mortality, and Miné, bending over the hibachi, was stirring the charcoal with a rod, immersed in sad reflection, when there entered a certain bonze who enjoyed reputation as a doctor. He was a learned and a holy man, who dwelt in a monastery on the mountain,--was wise of counsel, and learned in the use of simples.
Hearing by chance that the venerated Abbess of Tsu was lying sick, he took his bundle, his lacquered medicine-box, and his staff; put on his tall clogs, and great mushroom priestly hat, and hied towards the convent. Sleep, he observed, after a brief survey, was a better anodyne than simples, and he would therefore await the waking. Warming his fingers: over the glow he chatted with Miné in undertones, exchanged the gossip of Tsu for the last reports from Kiŷoto, inquired of what new atrocity my lord the Daimio had been guilty. Oh, yes; he was aware that my lord was away,--summoned to the capital; and added, with mysterious head-shakings, that a surprise was preparing for his return. "Youshould be pleased to hear of it," went on the good garrulous old gentleman, "after all that your family have suffered at his hands--'tis only fitting retribution;" and then, chattering in whispers, he proceeded to tell of soldiers' shadowy cohorts, who by night had marched past the monastery. "They are massing troops in all the defiles," he whispered. "Your father's anathema has taken effect. The race of the Hojos is run."
The bonze was so intent upon his tale, and so long-winded in the telling of it, that he, as well as his listener, forgot all about the patient. Though deep wrapt in slumber, she moved now and again uneasily, tossing from off a surcharged bosom the multitude of futons that covered it. Then gradually the sleep-goddess relaxed her embrace, folded her arms less closely, and she of dreams spread forth the shadow of her pinions. The Abbess dreamed a dreadful dream, offspring of trouble and of fever. She thought that her own lord was alive again,--that, covered with crimson stains streaming from many a wound, he stood over dead Tomoyé. Why was Tomoyé dead? In sober truth of history past and gone, it was she who had stood over him. There he stood, however, reeling from loss of blood, his favourite katana hacked and notched from the battle. Then there appeared the boy No-Kami, also gashed and wounded. To her, the sleeper, turned her revered lord, stretching forth imploring hands. "Savehim," he hoarsely gasped. "My time and hers is come, and it is well; but he is on the threshold of his life!" She, the dreamer, could not save him, for she was bound herself with cords, the which perceiving, her lord looked down reproachfully, and died; and then from out a crystal brook there rose a silver form that clasped the boy, and his wounds closed,--a slim shimmering form, daughter of the moon, which, shaping itself out of argent vapour, became O'Tei the chatelaine.
Bedewed with sweat the old woman awoke, and for a space lay panting. What awful vision was this? All good Buddhists know that when we are asleep the soul goes forth upon its errands. If we waken a person too suddenly he will die, because the wanderer cannot return with needful quickness to his tenement. When the soul is merely out at play the dream is of no importance, and its pictures are rapidly effaced; but when the truant is on serious duty bent, the vision remains distinct, and it behoves us to accept its lesson. Waking, the portrayal of O'Tei closing No-Kami's wounds was as distinct as if the two were standing there before her; also the reproachful gaze of her dear lord ere he gave up his spirit. The gods were indeed good to speak so plainly to their handmaid. It was the honour of her dear lord's name that she desired saved at any cost, wishing for his son no ill. The geisha was to die, No-Kami to repent, and O'Tei was somehow to dissect the tangle. Masago found herself to-day more weak than usual, and much unhinged. Perchance her time was near. It behoved her to see the chatelaine, to reason with her while yet her voice was strong, her brain still clear. Then there rose upon her dimmed senses a sound of whispering, and she distinctly heard some one say, "The race of the Hojos is run."
The long moan which burst from her breast recalled the attention of the watchers. The bonze was full of solicitude,--grieved to perceive how fluttering was the patient's pulse,--vastly busy in the preparation of remedies. He could have bitten his tongue through for his imprudence. How could he have been such a fool as to forget that the patient was herself a Hojo, and that fevered sleep is treacherous? He chattered and chirruped to and fro, shot forth his most brilliant sallies, showed his teeth as he twanged bolts of merry satire at that unreceptive target Miné. The eyes of the old woman--smileless now--knit in intense inquiry, never left his face, while with feeble persistence she repeated the question,--"How are the Hojos doomed?"
Having committed one egregious error, he was not going to be guilty of another. Regardless of the severe course of penance which followed lying, he boldly averred that he had never mentioned Hojo at all, or the race,--that he was talking about the Daimio of Osaka, who was hovering on the verge of the grave,--that under no circumstances whatever would he have breathed a syllable about the Hojos in the presence of the late lord's wife. And twittering thus, he at length retired, with good wishes for the patient's recovery, glad that by wonderful presence of mind he had lulled the Abbess's suspicions.
But Masago knew better than to be hoodwinked by the plausible gabble of a blundering bonze. Out of delicacy she would refrain from cross-questioning Miné. Well, the warning was twofold. The Hojo was in imminent peril of some kind, from which apparently he was to be rescued by his wife.
For many hours she lay staring upwards in deep thought. The wintry light was quickly waning. Who might tell how near the peril was? Her own strength was ebbing rapidly. She must see the chatelaine at once.
The brief twilight of Japan was darkening over the bleak landscape like a sable veil, when a breathless messenger arrived at the drawbridge of the fortress, demanding an interview with the lady.
"With the lady!" jeered the soldier, who had been so long upon his watch as to be glad to chat with any one. "She has other things to do just now, our lady, than listen to beggars from the town. Was ever such a lady--so restless, so domineering, so devoted to pleasure--always seeking new excitement in the dreary absence of my lord? The moon rises late, and will be full to-night, and what must she do, dost think, heedless of her delicate situation, but go to the tea-house by the river, to gaze at the light upon the snow? 'Tis a lovely sight, no doubt, dear to the eyes of our people, be they high or low,--the green glimmer on the water, the black banks of reeds, and white expanse beyond; but plaguey cold. Of course there will be supper when she returns, and singing and wassail and jollity, warming to the cockles of the heart. Ah, well! if such as I were admitted to the junketings, I'd not mind this weary watch."
"'Tis with the lady O'Tei that I must speak, and quickly," said the messenger.
The sentinel, leaning over the parapet, discerned by the conical shape of the speaker's hat that he was a priest.
"Oh!" he grumbled, "some wretched coolie sick? Such vermin as these don't come after the lady O'Kikú. You may come in and seek her, an you will. She's likely in her bower--we've not seen her this many a day."
As the priest sped with clattering clogs across the paved courtyards, he perceived that there was feasting toward. The interior of the great hall, brilliantly illumined, threw gay streaks of yellow out across the white. Servants moved to and fro, bearers of viands; the saké cup was already passing freely. By the principal entrance loomed the unwieldy mass of my lady's kago, gay with banners and streamers, and looped curtains and lacquered poles--the same gaudy equipage belonging to O'Tei which, on her arrival, the geisha in her insolence had appropriated to herself. Hard by, in groups, stamping and clapping hands for warmth, were the two sets of bearers--sturdy coolies selected for speed and staying power--each with his head muffled in blue cotton under his hat, his grass rain-coat bound round his waist, the handle of his sword carefully protected by oiled paper, strong sandals of straw upon his feet. Some were bringing wraps and cushions; some trimming paper lanterns; all shouting with the shrill distractive hubbub so dear to low-class Japan. The geisha he could see as he went by, was surrounded by her maidens and an outer circle of braves, armed ready to attend her. Muffled to the eyes in a thick mantle of deep maroon, she stood waiting till all was ready, a saké-cup in hand. Past this noisy assemblage to the remote corner of the tower which faced the river trotted the messenger. In vivid contrast to the hall, with its warm reek of heated wine, dark and silent was the bower of the chatelaine. Was she asleep already, the sad recluse?
Not so. There was a twinkling tiny light above, and like the hum of an insect there reached his ear the tinkle of a distant samisen. He knocked, and the sound ceased; a paper window was pushed aside; a maiden's head peeped forth.
"Who dares at this hour," she inquired angrily, "to intrude upon my lady's privacy? A pretty pass! Was not the castle large enough for its debauched inmates that this retired eyrie might not be treated with respect?"
"I come from Masago," the messenger said. "She is very sick, and has somewhat of grave import to say to the chatelaine."
Admitted, the priest followed the maiden to the upper floor, where, surrounded by books and embroidery, and choice blossoms and graceful nicknacks, sat, in a soft mellow light, she for whom the peasants sorrowed. Since last we looked on her, she was much changed--improved--for there was something celestial now---refined and dreamy, as if reflected from some other world--about her loveliness. Her manner had that still, self-contained, dignity which is only to be acquired through much trouble. With grieved concern in her dark eyes, she hearkened to the messenger. Masago on the verge of death! Was she, O'Tei, to be left friendless? Of course she would go to her at once. Ah, if she might change places with the holy Abbess, and depart out of a sphere where no one wanted her! But it is always those who have no wish to stay who are kept loitering here. Was Masago so ill, and she not told of it? This was wrong, for at any hour of the day or night she would have gladly sought her friend. Not a moment was to be lost. Quick, quick! Her litter. Her bearers, where were they? Wandering in the town, possibly, chattering in some tea-house, their daily duty over.
"There is a litter below," suggested the priest timidly. "The one that in old times my lady used to use. Its bearers are standing ready with lanterns lit. Perhaps my lady O'Kikú--"
A look of unusual sternness passed over the features of O'Tei, and a shadow veiled her eyes.
"O'Kikú!" she muttered, "O'Kikú! My state litter is ready, you say? Then I will use it; come!"
And to the amazement of the maidens, the chatelaine took from a screen a mantle of costly furs, and bidding her attendants follow with a candle, moved rapidly away down a dark corridor which led to the centre of the castle.
The geisha was so astonished at the apparition which suddenly presented itself before her that the saké-cup dropped from her fingers. She turned red and white, and tried, with but poor success, to laugh off her confusion. With heaving breast and dark brows knit, O'Tei looked down on her with disdain ineffable.
"You have ordered my kago. Thank you," she said shortly, "for I want it. Tell the bearers I am ready; and you, priest, proceed before. I go but to the temple, so shall not want the soldiers."
With that she moved with stately step to where, in a stream of light, the kago stood.
The braves were breathless, for they beheld the heiress of proud Nara now, no longer the recluse; and there was an easy air about her of natural command, which they knew how to admire and appreciate. Not one had a word to say against the firmly-expressed resolution of their liege-lady, but stood by sheepishly. O'Tei was the real chatelaine, and, in absence of her lord, supreme mistress of castle and of warriors. The bewitching O'Kikú, as if by magic, shrank down into her natural insignificance. No doubt about it; she was the concubine, low of birth and common of breeding--the crow by the side of the falcon. The geisha tingled with exasperated shame, for her quick instinct could read at a glance the open faces of the braves. Had she toiled and schemed and wormed and manœuvred for this?--to be swept with a hand-wave like a beetle from the path by the rival she had so undervalued! Oh, when my lord returned, an effort must be made to save the situation! Clearing her husky throat, she said sourly,--
"I was about to view the snows by moonlight, but if yours is an urgent errand, I will gladly give up my litter. The weather is clear, but for a few sailing clouds; the moon will serve to-morrow."
Her foot upon the step, the chatelaine turned.
"I take my own, and crave of you no favour," she remarked haughtily. "To the temple, by way of the river bank. I myself will see the snows."
The scene had passed so swiftly that 'twas over as soon as begun. There was naught to tell the tale of the geisha's discomfiture but the shattered saké-cup. Yes, there was the absent kago, the marks of many feet where it had stood; the sheepish faces of the warriors. There was the group, too, of O'Tei's maidens huddled behind, where they chattered in high glee. The ambitious and presumptuous geisha had been put down into her place at last, firmly and quietly by her superior. That was the plain truth which there was no denying. It was written on the visages of the maidens as well as on those of the samurai. Accustomed to reign unchallenged, the blow was hard to bear. Bursting into a torrent of tears, brackish with impotent mortification, O'Kikú sank upon a cushion, and was as racked by sobs as if she had possessed a heart.
The road by way of the stream was a longer one than that by the street, for the river wound with many a turn and twist, as if loth to reach the sea. It was no more than a path, stony in some places and muddy in others--rough throughout; and there were spots where the unwieldy vehicle was in danger of overturning. The Japanese are so innately poetic that even the least educated find pleasure in gazing upon nature in its sweetest moods. On Lake Biwa, not far from Kiŷoto, there is, while I write, a tea-house on a hill, which, at certain seasons, does a thriving trade, because from that particular spot an entrancing view may be obtained of moon and foliage and water. And it is not the cultured class alone that enjoys this refined amusement. The common horny-handed field coolie may be seen smoking his pipe, beaming with satisfaction, upon the mat, surrounded by wife and children, all equally enchanted by the spectacle.
On the river-bank, built out over the stream, not far from Tsu, there was just such another tea-house, from which a view was obtained of land-locked bay and rocks and feathery bamboo--the self-same picture which O'Tei used to enjoy from her own garden near the temple, seen from another point. It was to this tea-house that O'Kikú had proposed to conduct the rollicking samurai, to sit there a while with quip and jest, and thence return to supper. Preparations had been made on a grand scale; coolies had been sent to repair the path in rotten places with bundles of rushes, to clear away stones; and therefore the expedition was a matter of talk for several days before among those who dwelt in the castle. It was in obedience to a whim--in order more completely to crush her rival--that O'Tei had elected to choose this route. A vision of her favourite landscape had appeared before her. It was so long since she had seen it that she yearned to look on it again. As the procession moved swiftly and silently over the snow, she became lost in reverie. She had been happy once in her garden in a negative sort of way. How long ago it seemed! And since those early days (sure a century since) what a catalogue of suffering and crime! Yes, it must be a century, not a few years only. She was an old, old woman, seared and world-worn, longing for the mysterious change. Her ordeal on this planet would soon be over. How gladly would she move elsewhere.
The cold was intense. She drew over her head a purple kerchief, for the beauty of the scene must not be blocked out by curtains. The well-skilled bearers marched with a steady, gentle sway, picking their steps with cat-like caution. Their straw shoes made no sound on the soft snow. The regular rhythm of their breathing lulled to repose. Leaning back her weary head upon the cushions, O'Tei fell fast asleep.
At the last turn of the river, before reaching the spot whereon stood the tea-house, it sweeps in a wide bend, leaving a large flat space--a dangerous pitfall; for, firm though it appears to the unwary, between the pools it is a quagmire, a bog of thick ooze which forms a kind of quicksand. The bearers knew this right well, for skirting the water close they hugged a narrow causeway of masonry, the group that bore the pole walking one before the other, keeping time with monotonous chant, the rest of the party falling back, following in single file. It was necessary to move slowly now, for a false step would precipitate the top-heavy vehicle into the water. Two bettos pioneered in front, stepping deftly backwards, holding their lanterns aloft above their heads. "Steady, lads, steady!" one of them exhorted cheerily. Forty yards farther on the path would widen again, and the rest of the journey was plain-sailing.
Whirr! The bettos turned round startled. What was that? nothing; a stream of awakened wild-fowl scudding across the flat. The night was so solemnly silent that their wings rent the stillness with a loud sharp tearing as of linen.
* * * * *
For hours past, from out a brake of sedge and reeds two bright eyes had been intently watching. Heedless of cold and wet a man had been lying concealed with face turned towards the castle. From this point the fortress loomed out of the river in a dense mass against the sky, in full sombre majesty of battlement and ponderous roof and storied tower, with fish of gold upon its summit; for it was on this side that the stream laved its foundation wall of Cyclopean stones as it brawled towards the sea.
From where he lay, wrapped in a coolie's rain-coat, the man could mark the procession from afar, a line of swart insects on the white, glow-worms with twinkling lights. As they approached, winding with the river's windings, he counted the number of men who bore the litter, and observed with surprised exultation that the guards had been left behind. There was no panoply of spear and streaming banner and glancing lance-head, no clatter of armed horsemen such as usually attends the progress of a noble's kago.
"My task will be the easier," he muttered, unfastening the thongs of his rain-coat, and taking in the corners of his mouth the ends of the cloth about his head. The man's attire was strange and incongruous, for though his garb was that of a peasant, the cloth from out of which his sharp eyes peered was of silk broidered with silver. He rose stealthily upon his knees, felt for a dirk in his obi, drew forth the blade and ran a finger along the edge, then laid the scabbard in the water.
"How slow they are," he murmured.
Nearer--nearer still. The bearers were intent upon their task, for there had been a frost last night, and the stones were slippery. Clouds had been rising in banks, masses of cumuli that passed fitfully across the moon. Snowflakes began to fall.
Hist! what was that, another batch of waterfowl? No; a cry as of frighted animals. A commotion--a rush--a panic. Robbers! a gang--a multitude.
Stabbed in the back, the two bettos dropped without a struggle. For an instant the attendants strove to free themselves from cumbrous grass-coats, to disengage their swords from oiled paper coverings, in vain; for it must be at least a dozen nimble blades, wielded by unseen hands, that were swirling through the air with such deadly purpose. Who could have foreseen that on this quiet track assassins were in ambush? With a howl and a cry of treachery the cohort of poltroons abandoned the litter, which fell heavily on its side, and fled over the quicksand, where they buffeted, to lie engulfed. The man, for there was but one--or was it not the god of thunder?--dashed at the fallen kago, tore back with one hand its half-closed curtains, from whose folds there emerged a woman. A sway of two tussling figures, as the clouds swept over the moon, and the snow fell thickly. A tossing of white arms and clutching fingers clasped in a grip of death. A gurgle, a long wild shriek--so terrible a cry of anguish, as a soul was forcibly rent from out its tenement, that boors within their huts crept close together and prayed for protection against goblins. Even the austere figure of the avenger remained for a second spellbound, as, standing erect to wipe his dirk, his ear followed that last piteous wail of agony that faded in the music of the stream.
His task was successfully accomplished: to the gods all gratitude. He peered anxiously around, while he bound up something in a purple kerchief, then, drawing the pick from his katana's sheath, thrust it through the silk for easier carrying. He was alone with slumbering nature, and with it. The relay had fled to give alarm. There was nought to be seen of the others save distant circles on the watery quagmire, with here and there a hand whose groping soon was stilled. At his feet lay the two dead bettos and a heap of sumptuous furs, from out of which there trickled a thick stream that meandered slow over the stones.
Looking upward at the moon, which now unveiled again, the man, smiling softly, pressed to his lips the dirk. "Old friend," he murmured, "beloved of my father, thou hast saved his honour and ours, an evil life the ransom. With speed to my mother now, that she may know the atonement is complete."
He sought for a moment leisurely among the reeds, and seeing the scabbard gleam, replaced it with the dirk within his belt. Then swinging his burthen in his hand, he strode quickly away towards the temple.
His mind was relieved of a great anxiety, and he felt happier than for many a day. All had gone well. In the scurry not one had seen his face, swathed as it was by a cloth. There was nothing to betray whose arm had been that which had struck the ghastly blow. There would be turmoil and uproar among the samurai, a hot pursuit of the assassins; then, search proving vain, silence, and oblivion. The family honour was safe. The concubine would be speedily forgotten, and it would be as if the shadow of the wicked geisha had never crossed their path.
Under the torii, up the long straight flight of stairs, through the temple where Miné and the nuns were praying audibly, to the corridor beyond, off which was the chamber of the Abbess.
A light was flickering. She was awake, anxious for the arrival of the chatelaine. Her ascetic visage was wrapped in holy calm, as with closed eyes she told her beads. The sound of her son's dear footfall, as he strode across the floor, aroused her, and she looked on him with fond inquiry.
"My mother, it is done," he whispered, out of breath. "Here have I brought the proof that your instructions have been obeyed."
Masago, raising herself with difficulty, stretched forth eager hands to claim the bundle, and, her fingers trembling with exultation, hasted to untie its knots. Then from her breast was wrung a wail, racked with the ring of unavailing grief, echo of that shriek along the water.
Out of her grasp, upon the mat, there rolled a woman's head, bloody and waxen. Its delicate features were warped, convulsed in the life battle. Stretched wide in terror were its glassy eyes, its parted lips distorted.
Stunned and dazed, crowned with the brain-ache of a hopeless sorrow, the icy grip about his heart of a despair that might never be assuaged, Sampei sank slowly on his knees.
For the eyes that stared upon him now in mute imploring were those he loved best on earth.
The face was the face of O'Tei, the fair, and gentle, and unfortunate.