‘I trust you, honourable sir, to speak further if you so desire.’

Copyright, 1906

by

I. WILLIAM ADAMS

The Knickerbocker Press

PREFACE

TO hope to understand in a few short years or even in a lifetime the development of the humane, refined, and notably progressive people of Japan would be presumptuous; yet, if I can in these pages contribute in some degree toward that end, I shall feel amply rewarded.

I am indebted to those who have preceded me in this field for much of my detail. I shall, moreover, always hold that to my Japanese friends and others, who so cheerfully rendered me assistance in obtaining original matter, should be attributed any merit which this tale of old Japan may possess. Without them it could not have been, and for its shortcomings I alone am responsible.

Note.—The superior figures throughout the text refer to the notes in the appendix.

CONTENTS

Chapter "Page"

Introductory [vii]

• The Christening [1]
• Early Life [12]
• Meeting with Kinsan [21]
• Course Determined [29]
• The Hidden Cave [35]
• The Pledge [47]
• An Unexpected Command [51]
• The Marriage Ceremony [59]
• The Wedding Feast [65]
• The Stowaways [78]
• Cast Adrift [81]
• A Woman’s Privilege [89]
• Danger in Shibusawa’s Absence [97]
• The “No” Dance [104]
• Home Abandoned [111]
• A Great Sorrow [118]
• The Child [122]
• The Vow of Vengeance [129]
• The Poet’s Banishment [132]
• The Forty-Seven Ronin [136]
• The Home-Coming [142]
• A Meeting in the Garden [147]
• An Unexpected Call [153]
• The Geisha Party [160]
• The Unhappy Meeting [167]
• Daimyo’s Procession [175]
• Shibusawa Reclaimed [182]
• The Daimyo’s Arrest [188]
• Maido’s Penalty [199]
• The Earthquake [208]
• The Child’s Fate [212]
• Ronin Raids [218]
• The Rise of Shibusawa [223]
• Nehachibana’s Revenge [232]
• Mobilizing the Samurai [241]
• Battle of Fushima [248]
• The Triumphal Arch [255]
• Saving the Armada [258]
• The Bivouac [265]
• Siege of Tokyo [267]
• The Restoration [278]

Appendix [281]

ILLUSTRATIONS

"PAGE"

“I Trust you, Honourable Sir, to Speak further if you so Desire” [Frontispiece]

The Two-Lipped Cup was Offered ... Takara Moistened her Lips therefrom, then Passed it to the Bridegroom. [62]

Kinsan Sat in Deep Thought ... with the Child Fondled in her Lap [172]

Their Steels Rang with the Perfection of their Making [276]

INTRODUCTORY

That to the new the old must yield had ever been exemplified in Japan, as elsewhere, though until the time of this narrative she had not chosen earnestly to measure the test outside the confines of her own borders. The flowery kingdom of Nippon[[1]] did not know the world as others knew it, nor had she as yet cared to know it, for she was occupied and contented within her own sphere, hence satisfied and progressive without coming into contact with another civilisation.

In love as in law this kindly civil and quaintly constituted people had been moved and swayed, governed and ruled, by the one master spirit, ancestor worship, as marriage was contracted and government prosecuted in accordance with its divine precepts. Regardless of mutual love or natural affinity, the family in its official capacity chose for the husband a wife; and without its decree there was no release, though love was the basic element of their social existence.

For better or for worse this condition prevailed and would have controlled the destinies of Shibusawa, as it had those before him, had not a new spirit risen within and possessed him as well as others with whom he was to become related. At the birth of this young prince, which occurred in the month of April, A.D. 1834, Maido, his father, was the lord daimyo[[2]] of Kanazawa prefecture, comprising the then wealthy and prosperous provinces of Kaga, Echigen, Sado, Echigo, Wakasa, Etchu, and Noto, in the northwestern part of Japan. It was the largest and most powerful of the shogun’s[[3]] many prefectures, and Maido was the last in succession of one of the longest unbroken lines of royal daimyos: under the shogun, he was an undisputed ruler, and his people were among the most progressive and peaceful in the land.

Here, as elsewhere, the lord daimyo knew no law except of his own making; always subject, however, to the dictates of an inborn religion and the payment of just dues to his recognised superior, the shogun. Within the prefecture was the daimyo’s estate and the source of his material support, and though Tokyo, the shogun’s capital city, was decreed his legal residence, his prefectural land was the place of his birth and succession, his principal home, and the real seat of his power. Yet with all his wealth and influence and character, that he, too, as we shall see, must inevitably bow is the unalterable law of progress.

SHIBUSAWA

SHIBUSAWA

CHAPTER I
THE CHRISTENING

Maido, the lord daimyo, came strolling, late one May day, along a pebbled pathway in his castle grounds at Kanazawa, and while doing so he caught a last glimpse of the great red sun as it slowly sank toward the western horizon.

“What a glorious sunset!” said he to himself, as he halted and breathed deeply the sweetened air that floated by, lazily flagging the cherry and cypress trees standing here and there in the garden about him.

He paused only a moment, and then slowly approached the family mansion, where he cast his sandals upon the flagstone and bounded upon the polished veranda with a vigour that bespoke a well-preserved age at fifty or more. Once in the house he quietly proceeded to the great chamber and softly clapped his hands, whereupon a servant noiselessly approached, bowed low, and held for his convenience a silken kimono,[[4]] which he donned and folded in front. Having thus clad himself he turned his back upon Kimon (the Gate of Demons, or northwest comer of the room), crossed his toes under him, and squatted upon the soft, matted floor.

A second call brought another servant who placed on the floor in front of him a lacquered brazier filled with live coals, a tobacco tray with tobacco, and a little metal pipe with a long bamboo stem. Maido then sat there, quiet and alone, smoking and wondering, and looking out over the glistening waters at the beautiful sunset, until his eyes closed and his head nodded, and perchance he dreamed of the glories yet to befall the great and good house of Kanazawa.

Presently a sliding partition softly opened and there stole to his side a little butterfly whose fairy-like steps did not awaken him and whose presence was unheeded until she cautiously whispered:

“Heigh! my lord, my daimyo, am I welcome, that I come?”

“Heigh! my wife, my Kakezara, I trust it may not be other than welcome now that you have chanced to come without Maido’s permission.”

“Even so, my honourable master, I present you with a child, born erstwhile the seventh day.”

“Then have you no better words than these? You know well my wishes. Seven wives have I married and do now give shelter within this splendid castle. To you, the last, is well known my wish, my hope, my command. It is well that you bow low, for if the word be spoken falsely, and speak you shall, then will I unsheathe the sword of Amanosakohoko and bury the tempered steel deep in your heaving breast. No, I will not so degrade you, but will sentence you to harakiri[[5]]—a death and punishment more befitting your stupid self, for it is a great sin to disobey your lord and master. But speak the word, and truly, and I will raise up your blushing face and mete you the proudest and grandest within my gift. Speak as I command, Kakezara, and you shall be the choice of my heart, the queen of my household. All other wives shall be as servants and shall respond to your bidding. Of kimonos you shall have without number. Your chair shall be inlaid with mother-of-pearl and lacquered with pure gold from the mines of Sado. Sweets suited to your taste shall be made of the best and purest. Speak, O Kakezara, and you shall henceforth reign queen of Maido’s household.”

“My lord, my daimyo, then I would that it were not true, for I cannot undo that which is done even though I am to suffer the ills of an unhappy lot: position is a husband’s due, then a wife’s happiness. By the spirit of my ancestors and the grace of the gods your command has been obeyed—it is a son.”

“Ebisu! Ebisu! O Ebisu! god of good luck, how Maido is this day honoured and the gods pleased! for it is my command that he be named Shibusawa, and it is the will of Jimmu that he rise up to good and mighty deeds. Rise, Kakezara, my queen, and place the child in the arms of Okisan; and you, slave, take care that your charge receive due attention that he may grow up strong of body and mind, for so sure as he live he shall be tried by all the gods of hatred and woe. I charge you that no morsel be given him except by your hand, for should ill befall this my child then beware of the ancestral demons who dwell at the shrine of Jigoko.

“Kakezara, my lady, proceed to the inner chamber and there remain in strict seclusion until coolies have fetched water from the river Yamato in which to bathe; for as you live you have a secret, and until strengthened by the spiritual waters the temptation to divulge might overcome your desire to obey. I have imparted to you something of that which the gods have willed Shibusawa, that a mother’s love and solicitude may the better shield his tender years. Keep it sacred under pain of displeasing your husband and provoking the wrath of Oni, for as it has pleased me that you obeyed so let it please you to obey. Hence, my lady, my Kakezara.

“Yendo, ass that you are, pretending ancestral birth befitting to serve a lord daimyo so good and great as I, come hither and bow low before the father of Shibusawa. Go carry Maido’s command to the temple of Yeiheiji that seven times seven solemn strokes be sounded, calling upon the spirit of Amaterasu to awaken, that she may welcome the new born. Send swift running messengers to notify all the people that Maido, their lord and master, is the father of a son, christened Shibusawa, whom it has pleased the gods shall rule his ancestral heritage in obedience to the dictates of his own conscience and with honour to his majesty’s shogun. Cause to be hung above the entrance to every house red and yellow lanterns that all may take notice, for to those who remain ignorant shall appear spirits mounted upon dragons with eyes of fire and nostrils belching clouds of flame and smoke, as they charge down through the heavens toward Ema-O.

“Convey to the people my command that from the new to the old moon, following next, none shall eat more than half his allowance of rice or drink more than half his sake, bringing the remainder to their daimyo’s storehouse that a great feast may be indulged. They shall also bring of their silk one-half and of their potted flowers many, that Kakezara, the noble mother, may have kimonos without number and her gardens may be filled with beauty and fragrance. Those engaged in the making of sweets shall make such as will please her taste, and beware that none displease, for better that ten thousand times ten thousand slaves perish at their labour than Kakezara, queen of Maido’s household, be not served without the slightest displeasure. Let the most famed of workers in wood and lacquer be called together that they may counsel with one another about the making for Kakezara a chair; and, as I myself have taught them well in this art, let all beware that when the work is done there be none other so good; for I shall not be so base as to spare even one who shall in the least manner slight his labour or fail in his part.

“I command that the governor of each province select the fairest daughters from among his kinsmen, that there may assemble at the shibai (place of amusement), during the first moon of the iris and the lotus, not less than seven times seventy-seven virgins with rosy complexions and pleasing manners, for the goddess Benten has willed Maido the pleasures of at least three moons. Tell the household keeper to make ready chambers fronting on gardens filled with the perfume of flowers and the song of birds, and, when the hour has come, to assemble these fairies in the silken hall of love, that their lord daimyo, like Jimmu of old, may descend the fêted stair into a world of beauty and pleasure.

“And when all else has been done you will instruct him that henceforth Kakezara shall occupy the choicest pillow at the head of Maido’s lawful wives, and that of them her voice shall be first in authority: that her rank at bath shall be next to Shibusawa’s and first among her sex.”

The news of Shibusawa’s birth and christening soon spread, and the excitement wore heavily from the meanest coolie to Maido himself, though probably none was more worried than Yukesan, the oldest and meanest servant in the household. This faithful old slave had climbed daily, for seven successive days before the christening, to the top of Onnasaka, and each time as often bumped her head upon the cold hard stone at the base of Kishemogin’s tomb, praying for the goddess mother of fiends to come and claim the new born. For seven months prior thereto even, she had importuned this fiendish goddess to render Maido’s lawful wives incapable of bearing a male child, hoping that her own fatherless imp, Okyo,—now seven years of age, with slight form and stooped shoulders, his eyes small and his head peaked, whose hair stood out like bristles on a porcupine, while his nose looked owlish and his ears as a squirrel’s,—might naturally be adopted and thus become the inheritor of his master’s rank and place.

The rest of the household busied themselves with the day’s rounds or discussing the probable change at the castle, for little were they interested in outside affairs. They were not concerned with the possible new daimyo’s bearing upon the welfare at large, for they were destitute of power to aid, hence without any inclination to heed; where the only hope in life was to do the bidding of a master. Each courted his own content and permitted others likewise to suffer or adapt their own circumstances. They were an independent lot, hence their abject dependence.

When, therefore, the hour for feasting had arrived, and each little tray, hustled in and set upon the floor in front of the person served, was seen to contain a small satsuma bowl, filled with a rare delicacy—consisting of real live worms (a kind of salt water shrimp), wriggling and crawling, and served only upon extraordinary occasions—everybody accounted his master a noble of the royal blood. Eating, smoking, and drinking were interspersed with a lagging conversation until the last was stretched at length upon the spotless matting, his only place of sleeping. Maido, too, had gone to sleep at an early hour, and when he awakened the next morning he felt refreshed, and was well pleased with a recollection of preceding events. Without rising, he reclined on his elbow and looked out at the landscape around, for early in the morning servants had noiselessly removed the outer partitions so that their master could lounge on the floor and enjoy the open air at his pleasure. This morning the sun’s rays seemed to give a little more warmth than usual, and as they fell amongst the green foliage the large drops of dew reflected sparkling gems that lolled on the hollow leaflets, or trickled down the long and bended blades of grass.

“What a glorious world, and how sweet to live in!” thought he, as he lay there revelling in the beauties of art and nature.

Strong and vigorous of body, mind, and heart, as only those are who are at peace with the world, he arose and briskly crossed the room to the inner veranda. Then, casting off his night kimono, he lightly tripped down upon a marble slab, and running along the smooth footpath to an arbour, overhung with vine and flower, plunged into the bracing waters already prepared for his coming. After the bath, massage, and shave, attended by waiting servants, he donned walking apparel and sprang down along the winding walk among dwarfed trees, under artificial cliffs, and around miniature mountains; here he crossed a red-lacquered bridge and there passed a gorge or waterfall; coming, presently, to a crystal lake, he made an unsuccessful throw or two, then cast his rod aside and continued his tramp in the open or through the brush and bamboo to a distant corner of the garden. Here he slackened his gait and with reverence approached the solemn shrine wherein stood the tomb of Hajama, the illustrious founder of his august family; and there, in the quiet, and alone, at the base of this strangely carved monument, he knelt and clapped his hands and reverently bowed to the spirit of his immortal ancestor.

When his morning prayer was finished Maido quietly left the misty place and walked out again into the freshness of life and past the playground where groups of children romped on the green or chattered with childish glee. As he passed them by he paused only to look at them for a moment and then walked on toward the great gate in front. Now and then he stooped to pluck a leaflet, or stood listening to the tuneful zephyrs as they played among the branches; sometimes he stopped to watch the light and shadows chase each other across the grassy sward, or started at the sonorous, “Haugh! Haugh! Haugh!” wafted from high overhead.

“Truly he is the master bird,” sighed he, as he watched the black thing perching upon a lofty branch or soaring above, issuing his harrowing notes and stirring the nerves of superstitious Japan.

Presently, as usual upon such occasions, Okyo emerged from a cluster of bushes and came bowing and bumping and crawling—half confident, half fearful—after his master; who now stood admiring the huge wisteria which overhung the black-lacquered gate and bronze trimmings. Observing the boy’s presence, Maido said, kindly, and without turning around:

“Heigh! is that you, Okyo, my funny little slave? Pray tell me what brings you here so early in the day?”

“Heigh! I thought you might be lonely and I’d come and drive away the fox.”

“But, my lad, what have you been doing that your kimono is wet and covered with mud?”

“I’ve been down at the beach fishing for crabs. I wonder why Kami doesn’t make crabs grow on land?”

“My child, he has placed them in the waters of the deep sea so that none but the industrious and the brave may enjoy so choice a food.”

“Are daimyos industrious and brave?”

Maido made no answer to the boy’s inquiry but turned toward the fragrant vine, and stood admiring the bright foliage, possibly dreaming of the future of his son and heir, until Okyo once more began chattering.

“Heigh! great master, please why is the vine so large and beautiful?”

“Heigh! Okyo, it is because our ancestral gods have so created it.”

“But why do not the gods create vines so large and so beautiful for all men?”

“Because, my child, all men are not given to such beauty.”

“Are all daimyos inclined toward only that which is beautiful?”

“Yes. They are descended from the gods of goodness and love, and as the spirits of these gods dwell in the realms of heavenly beauty so do the minds of daimyos dwell upon things of earthly beauty.”

“If daimyos think and do only things which are beautiful, why do they cut men’s heads off?”

“That is done in obedience to the commands of our superiors; and, I assure you, there is nothing more beautiful than an act of obedience to our masters.”

“Will Shibusawa be a daimyo when he grows up?”

“Yes; if his head be spared so long and his father’s not.”

“Will I, too, be a daimyo when I am a man?”

“No, child. How came you to think of such a thing?”

“Because mother says I look like Shibusawa, and I don’t see why I shouldn’t be just like him.”

“You shall be Shibusawa’s friend and confidant.”

“Why shall I be his friend and confidant?”

“Because you will comfort and console him during moments of contemplation and despair, just as you have myself since you were first able to tread about my gardens on wooden stilts.”

“Why will I comfort and console him?”

“Because you are the son of—only a mother, who is of Kishemogin and possessed of less wit and more cunning than a fox. Now then, hie you away to your mother’s mat and feast well upon rice and fish so that you may grow strong in endurance, for you shall have many and severe trials in following this youth ere he has much passed your age.”

“Oh,” said Maido, to himself, “see him run away in obedience to my command! There is not yet a twig so crooked or a thing so small but it can be made of use. As the mould is shaped so will be the cast. He is of the right material. I shall see that he grows up after my liking, bend him to the task properly, and thus provide the instrument through which Shibusawa may acquit himself of the thankless duties imposed by Bishamon, god of provocation.”

CHAPTER II
EARLY LIFE

From the recording of Shibusawa’s birth in the Keidzu, the daimyo’s great book, until he had passed sixteen (the average age of discretion in Japan), there was but little in his life that is of interest so far as this story is concerned. Maido was always solicitous about the child’s care, and took every precaution to have him taught only such ideas as were in accord with his ancestors’ and the preconceived notions of the shogun’s government.

The son inherited from his father much of his stalwartness and determination, and from his mother something of those finer qualities, tenderness and forbearance, which combined at an early age to quicken in him a deeper sense and insure a broader scope of life. He evinced at an early age an untiring devotion to his studies and to a research for truth; and all the many castle buildings were soon even more familiar to him than to Maido, and he knew well the history, the uses, and the purposes of each. The castle ramparts were his playgrounds, and each swordsman and every archer was a slave indeed.

Either in company or alone he had traversed all the macadam roads, leading from village to village and province to province; and in palace or house, from city to country, he knew the people and they knew him, and as he grew older they learned to love and respect him as they did Maido himself. Nor was he content with what he saw and heard at home, but as he grew he began to thirst for a knowledge of the outer world; though in this he had been discreet as regards his father, for however ambitious his desires he had not once expressed a wish. Maido knew too well that there were more peace and contentment and less crime and misery at home than elsewhere, and very wisely wished his son to be kept from too close a discernment until he had arrived at maturer years.

Shibusawa’s desire to go, however, finally grew into a determination. Whereupon, as was usual in such matters, he took Okyo into his confidence, at least to the extent of consulting him how best to frustrate his father without disobeying him. Now Okyo reasoned that as Shibusawa had not asked the privilege of going he had never been admonished to stay; so, after consulting Fudo, god of enlightenment, thus easing his conscience, he advised that it was best to make ready and go, without endangering their chances by asking permission of anybody.

Shibusawa, though doubtful of its propriety, readily conceded the wisdom of Okyo’s reasoning, for above all other things he would not disobey: strategy, while not characteristic of him, he deemed the proper thing, as it was no more an inborn trait than a national virtue. Early that autumn, accordingly, he began to curtail his expenses as much as he could without arousing suspicion, and to save from his allowance a fund with which to defray the cost of their contemplated trip. The time of starting was a difficult thing to determine, as under ordinary circumstances Shibusawa was almost certain to be recognised while passing the gates, and unless a very good reason was apparent to the guards such a circumstance would have been immediately reported to the castle. Here Okyo again displayed his judgment by advising the day after Nobori-iche, boys’ festival (May 5th), it being the day upon which Maido would start upon his regular visit into the country. This trip generally lasted from two to four weeks, and ever since Shibusawa’s birth the starting had been put off until this particular date,—as often, when the boy had grown older, he was taken along; yet his going was never compulsory or even urged against his pleasure.

When the allotted time came Shibusawa again started off with his father and suite, but before they had gone far he suddenly changed his mind and pleaded to be allowed to return. Maido, though disappointed in the loss of his son’s company and not the least suspicious of a serious motive, readily granted permission, and Shibusawa lost no time in joining Okyo at a certain agreed place, where the former quickly changed his silken kimono and lacquered shoes for the regular dress of a pilgrim, while the latter with less trouble donned the same kind of garb. Thus disguised they passed through the city and escaped into the country, in a direction opposite to that taken by his father, and travelled along unmolested until they had gone entirely out of Maido’s domain and into the territory of a hostile neighbour.

Having thus placed himself beyond pursuit, Shibusawa despatched a message to his father explaining fully his intentions and assuring him of his safety. Maido was, thereupon, overwhelmed with anxiety, yet he made no attempt to follow. He realised that his only hope of seeing him again lay in the boy’s own discretion and voluntary return; pursuit would have been the means of disclosing his identity to a bitter and jealous rival, and thenceforth he must be in danger of death and possible torture.

The getting off without discovery had so occupied and stimulated Shibusawa that he had as yet given but little thought to the dangers and hardships which confronted him. True, he was acquainted with laws and customs at home, and was not altogether unfamiliar with those in force elsewhere, yet he quickly discovered that the spirit and regulations in a country continually at war are necessarily very different from those of one where quiet and industry prevail. However, he had set out for a definite purpose and he did not mean to lose courage, nor let any obstacle stand in the way of accomplishing what he had undertaken. He had chosen the one disguise that would make excuse and enable him to pass through the country, provided he travelled from temple to temple and shrine to shrine, the proper business of a pilgrim. And as Okyo had had at home some experience of this kind he at first relied upon him to lead the way and avoid any serious conflict with the numerous police, guards, and spies who infested the region which they were about to explore. He trusted to his father’s good judgment to make no attempt to follow; yet to be entirely safe he chose, for the moment, to avoid Kyoto, and the more noted shrines of that locality, and to keep to the westward and overland toward Shimonoseki and Nagasaki, in the extreme west and south.

Wandering about almost at will and without undue interference they visited all of the principal shrines and places, including, on the return trip, Kyoto, Nara, and Kamakura in the far east. It was now almost Kawabisaki, the Day of the Opening of the River (July twenty-fifth)—at Tokyo, the residence seat of the shogun—and as Shibusawa had never witnessed a celebration of the local autumn holiday he very much desired to join in the coming festivities. Hence by special effort and by hastily passing some of the minor places of interest they reached the capital city late on the second day preceding the gala ceremonies.

They were surprised upon their arrival, however, to find that they were none too soon, and that the rush of pilgrims and traders already made it difficult of obtaining quarters close to the main entrance at the palace grounds, the much coveted place of rendezvous. As their expenses had hitherto been even lighter than expected, Shibusawa was still provided with ready funds, and he now proposed to get as near the main approach as he could without seeming impertinent, and as a matter of convenience, as well as respect, to secure the best accommodations consistent with their apparent stations. Thus they finally established themselves at the Look-See tea house, a favourite hostelry for the better class of pilgrims, and were assigned quarters on the top floor plainly in view of the gates and directly on the line of march.

This noted caravansary did not differ much from the rest of the two-storied open-sided thatch-roofed houses resembling hay-stacks on stilts that lined both sides of the narrow streets which emerged closely from the outer entrance at the palace enclosure. Within the house, in the broad and airy tea rooms below, or on the soft matted floors above, these jolly transient and sometimes happy wits would sit or lounge discussing, over a cup of tea or a bowl of sake, the topics of the day or the gossip of their particular neighbourhood. Without, the brilliant lights, the gaily dressed, the sound of the koto,[[6]] the song of the geishas,[[7]] the clatter of shoes, the parley of tradesmen, the chatter of voices, the endless round of life from early morning till late at night, might well have turned the heads and emptied the pockets of the thirsty throngs who ever crowded the happy-go-lucky place. Much of all this could be distinctly seen and heard from Shibusawa’s apartments in the second story, fronting the plaza, nor did he lose an opportunity, for he was there to see and learn as well as to rest and enjoy himself.

Thus he remained quiet and observant, without venturing upon the street, until the evening of the second day after their arrival. In the meantime Okyo had been sent out to reconnoitre the principal places and the liveliest dancing girls, in which he was materially assisted by an Osaka merchant who occupied an adjoining room. Thereupon, after a sup at the restaurant and a quiet smoke on the floor, they all sauntered off in quest of such pleasures and excitement as the night might afford.

As this was the last night before the grand parade the streets were unusually crowded and the buying was brisk. Now more than at any other time the servants and retainers and their families were permitted to come outside the walled enclosure and into the streets in quest of trinkets and gewgaws with which to ornament and bedeck themselves on the following day; the chance to elbow these favoured ones, probably more than a desire to buy, brought there many of the city’s curiously inclined; the opportunity afforded the guests, emptied the numerous inns; and all together, when mingled under myriads of bright lanterns, amid the tinsel and the noise, it was a sight most glaring and intensely interesting.

Shibusawa and Okyo had edged their way along for some time and until they had passed through the main shopping districts and into the nokodos’ (marriage brokers’) quarters, with its barren little stalls, narrow doors, and large gaudy sign-poles projecting like charred remnants of a burned brush patch. Here there were girls in silks and girls in rags, all being dragged alike, one after another, in long rows, by mothers in need of ready cash, before the several nokodos, who were each and all haggling and quarrelling over the price of this or the qualities of that one; always closing the bargain if closed at all with some ejaculation expressing great sorrow at having paid too much or received too little for the “honourable unhandsome one.” Shibusawa looked on for a while not so much at the formality, for that was a common thing, but at the attitude of the parties, which impressed him deeply. He could understand the brokers’ motive, as there are always those who are designed to thrive on the weakness or misfortune of others—especially when the law makes such a business legitimate or possible. The mothers he divined to be mostly the victims of too generous self-indulgence; who were now hardened by necessity and excused by custom. But the daughters—why their complacency? Was it a decree of law or of love that caused these young maidens, some of them beautiful, attractive, or intelligent, to exercise the most stoical indifference while the mother was bargaining them off at the best price obtainable? As Shibusawa passed them by, or stood and looked, his heart throbbed and he almost said aloud:

“Can this be God’s will?”

Moving on with some difficulty they soon came to a place a trifle more pretentious than others, where they unconsciously entered and pushed their way close to the nokodo who sat on the floor at the opposite side of the room. After several offerings had been scanned and pinched and jostled, then bought or passed, a middle-aged woman of more than ordinary presence first hesitated, then advanced and bowed to the bejewelled broker, whose keen, sharp eyes squinted under a narrow, wrinkled brow. A rosy-cheeked, innocent young daughter of fourteen stood nestled at her mother’s side, blushing, though erect. Shibusawa stood contemplating not the persons but the act, and when the mother had made her best plea and was about to accept the price offered his strong frame shook, his face whitened, and he resolutely said in a clear voice:

“No; I will give you three hundred yens (dollars) besides an additional one hundred to bear the charge.”

The nokodo was more than pleased to get the lawful commission without assuming any risk, and in consequence drew up the proper bill of sale from Torimas, mother of Shiyoganai, to Shibusawa, a pilgrim.

It had been specified and provided that Shibusawa should be the lawful owner of Shiyoganai for a period of three years from that date, and that in consideration of the extra one hundred yens the child should remain the charge of her mother. When properly signed, sealed, and delivered Shibusawa paid over the money and carefully folded the document inside his girdle, while he and Okyo then went their way and the mother and daughter returned to their home.

CHAPTER III
MEETING WITH KINSAN

Shibusawa returned to his lodgings shortly after midnight, and soon lay down to sleep. He had seen more of the gay side of life than ever before, and though in a measure not averse to it he was deeply impressed with some of the incidents, which he thought unnecessary if not vicious. And now that the revelry was dying out and the night regaining its quietude he slept soundly until a late hour. When he arose he pushed back the sliding partition, and a warm burst of sunlight streamed into the room; the air was balmy, and the once deserted streets were again taking on renewed life; the brocaded hillside across the moat in front, with its samurai huts and maple trees, waved and sparkled with a thousand tints. It was a joyous morning, and Shibusawa ate and drank to his content as he sat and watched the oncoming of the day’s festivities.

He had not long to wait, though, for Iyeyoshi, twelfth Shogun, was more noted for his ceremonious punctuality than for his official dignity; there had been so little of importance to mark the shogunate for more than a century that each incumbent had become rather indifferent to everything except pomp and show. Therefore the procession began to move promptly at twelve o’clock, and in less than an hour the chair of state came up to the inner gate and halted—as did also each detachment, before crossing over into the profane world—so that his royal highness might bow and pray the gods for a happy going and safe return. Details of soldiery and squads of officials, interspersed with symbolic banners and huge floats, were aligned according to birth and rank, and as they moved along, strange incantations or lamentations arose above the din of discordant instruments and the loud shouts of excited men, who leaped in the air or threw themselves upon the earth in wild exultation.

Shibusawa sat and watched the long procession slacken and start with each recurring interruption, until a temporary pause brought to a standstill directly opposite to him a high float which was arranged like a pyramid and covered with flowers, shrubs, and vines. Amid the lotus blossoms in the centre there sat a young maiden not more than fifteen, who wore a crown of maple leaves and did her hair in a manner to indicate that she was yet unmarried. Her hair was black and abundant, and set beautifully a rosy face in which a pair of large dark eyes betokened tenderness, if a little serious. Her kimono was of soft but plain material and folded gracefully about her, and she quietly sat there the queen of the shogun’s garden, though only the daughter of its keeper. She did not turn this way or that as others did to attract attention, but modestly looked at the beautiful things around her, thinking only of the honours due to her kind and beneficent shogun, for whom she was then being privileged to do homage.

It was while her attention was thus directed that Shibusawa first saw Kinsan. She sat so high up among the flowers as to be almost on a level with his place of sitting, and she was so close that he could have spoken to her had he dared or deigned to do so. She did not observe his keen recognition nor was she conscious of his presence until the carriers began slowly to straighten up and make ready to go forward. Then as if by intuition she turned and looked toward him and as she did so his eyes fairly met hers. Shibusawa did not look away, but became more intent as her soft dark eyelashes drooped and a faint flush crept into her cheek. A something which he had never before experienced came upon him, and for the moment he felt bewildered and unable to move or speak, and when the float had gone and Kinsan was lost in the distance he made an effort as if to follow; then recovering himself he lapsed into serious thought.

He had little further interest in the parade and gave no heed to it until the high-raised chair and brilliant trappings of the shogun himself went past. He was conscious only that a new life had dawned: that something had taken hold of him which was new to his being; something which seemed to wield a more powerful influence over him than even the presence of the shogun—the one person other than his own kith and kin whom he had been taught to revere as supreme.

The stately train marched along, though Shibusawa had dismissed all but the one event; the circumstance that raised the most serious problem which as yet had confronted him.

“Is it possible after all that there is something higher and better than kings and ancestors?” thought he, as he grappled with the struggle which had already seized him. “And yet the instrument of that something but a woman? What thing is this that seems so contrary to all our philosophy, so different from our religion, yet keenly gnawing at my very inner self? I needs must find out and if possible confront the author; the one who has so impressed me, even though she be but a woman and I a transgressor.”

So saying he called Okyo and proposed that they, too, follow the line of march to the river’s bank, or so far as they might be permitted to go.

By this time great crowds of sight-seers had fallen in behind the procession, and Shibusawa was compelled to take his place with the rest and plod along as best he could. The route traversed was along an old roadway, which wound its course through a thickly inhabited part of the city, coming directly to the ancient bridge Ryozoku. As they wended their way past endless rows of deserted houses or closed shops, amidst streamers and bunting, Shibusawa became deeply impressed with the boundless patriotism and intense loyalty of the people. Everywhere they were doing homage and nowhere was heard the voice of discontent. He felt more than ever proud of his country, and realised as never before the importance of each individual’s place.

They reached the river, Sumida, long after the last of the courtiers had passed, and the long bridge was then so thronged as to be impossible of further access. Hence they abandoned that, the choicest vantage point, and remained on the bank of the river, from which they got only an indistinct view of the shogun and his suite as they sailed down the river in their gaily-decked house-boats, and passed under the bridge, the crowning feat of the day. Had they been closer Shibusawa might have recognised, in a boat close after the shogun’s, familiar faces—the same that escaped him earlier in the day, while he sat dreaming of Kinsan and the accidental meeting.

Now that the most exciting feature of the day had passed, Shibusawa’s thoughts reverted to the incident which had so deeply impressed him. Try as best he might he could not dismiss it, and after a while he became anxious, and wondered if it were possible to see her again; and if he should, would she recognise him? Then he said to himself:

“Why should she recognise me? And, what is more, why should I seek to see her?”

However, he did try to see her, and when it became certain that there was no chance of doing so at the river he grew impatient, though more determined. The daylight fireworks floating high in the air; the music, the songs, and the laughter wafted from the river; the dancing, the feasting, and the merry-making on shore, ceased to be of interest, and by the time they had finished a light luncheon at a convenient tea house Shibusawa became anxious to return to their own lodgings.

He had made up his mind that the most likely place to meet the young maiden a second time was at the very one where he first met her. There she should pass while returning from the fête, though under what circumstances he did not know. And would she look again, or had she not remembered him? These and many more were the questions which Shibusawa asked himself during the interval of returning and waiting; and as time passed he grew uneasy. Something burned within him, and he felt that he must see and know this beautiful woman. He sat quietly in his rooms thinking only of her coming. Presently a hurrying and gathering upon the street signified the returning of the royal party; whereupon Shibusawa sprang up and seated himself at the balcony’s edge, so that none could pass without his seeing him.

A number of detachments had passed in order, and then Kinsan came as before, except that she was accompanied by several girl friends whom she had been permitted to invite with her on the return trip. They were laughing and chatting about things which pleased them most, and Kinsan’s added charms appealed more than ever to Shibusawa. He leaned over the balcony, as if drawn toward her by an unseen hand, and prayed that in some way her attention might be drawn to him and that he might once more look into her eyes, if only for an instant.

Kinsan was so engaged with her companions that she seemed about to go by without even a chance look, and as she came closer his heart appeared almost to stand still; though he was soon to be transported, for when directly opposite, Kinsan gave him the long looked for opportunity. Nor was there any mistaking her intention for mere accident. Shibusawa read that she too had experienced some sort of feeling which this time prompted her to look, and to manifest an interest, if not desire. It was more than he could bear to let her go in silence; she would not stop again, and he had not a moment to lose; he felt that he must speak to her—his very life depended upon it—he knew not why, nor did he care. He must do what his heart told him to do.

Now had he realised his present position Shibusawa might not have done what he was about to do, but with his whole heart set upon one thing he for the moment forgot himself, and ran down the straight-set stairs and out at the front, wholly under the force of blind impulse. Under ordinary circumstances there would have been no breach in doing what he sought to do, for custom gave a gentleman the right to approach an inferior without the least formality.

When he reached the street he found it difficult to pass, and in consequence ran close to the moving column and toward Kinsan. Coming almost within reach of her he ran against an officer—who followed next after her—and before he could fully recover his balance the angered samurai whipped out his long sword and struck him a blow that felled him; and not being satisfied with this punishment he made a thrust at the prostrate man and ran him through to the ground.

Fortunately Okyo had followed close after, and upon reaching his helpless master he threw himself in front and personally suffered the tramping and jeering of the curious crowds—he was too grieved and thoughtless to offer any other relief, and lay there face downward, pulling at the soiled clothing and crying, “Shibusawa! Shibusawa!”

They had not remained in that situation long, however, till the lord daimyo of Kanazawa himself marched up—his carriers stumbling in an effort to pass the stricken Shibusawa and his faithful watch—when Okyo cried out as before the name of his master. Maido, only too accustomed to hearing this same distressing cry, would have gone by without heed had he not unmistakably distinguished the name of his son. He listened and heard it again, distinctly recognising Oyko’s voice. Without waiting to call a halt he swung open the door, and to the amazement of all leaped to the ground.

Divining the full situation the lord daimyo quickly threw himself at the side of his almost lifeless boy, and raising him in his arms called for water. After reviving him, and making a hasty examination of the wound, Maido ordered attendants to place Shibusawa in the chair and hasten with him to his own home.

CHAPTER IV
COURSE DETERMINED

Kinsan had fortunately turned toward her companions and did not see any of the cruelty of the officer who so hastily invoked his authority. Her sudden exchange of glances with Shibusawa was unobserved by the rest of the party, and as they resumed their going Kinsan continued in her former happy mood, betraying only now and then a slight flush, or an indifferent far-away look. Though she was deeply impressed she had not attached any particular significance to the strange meeting, and had no thought of its being even the second time other than accidental.

The returning procession broke line as each division passed the main palace door, the several detachments proceeding to their separate destinations as custom or convenience might require, and accordingly the flower float was carried directly to the home of its chosen goddess. The house occupied by Kinsan and her parents was a little red-lacquered cottage which, standing at the farther end of a small garden plot, under an overhanging cliff, and at the side of a small brook which trickled down through the moss-covered rocks, was almost hidden from view by flowers, tall bushes, and trailing vines. It was reached by means of a long, narrow path, which branched off from the main roadway just inside the last gate and below the citadel, winding its way around the hillside, through a bit of woodland, past rocky gorges, and over a high, lacquered bridge, terminating at the bamboo gate which stood in front. Here Fujimoto, her father, had been permitted to live with his family and work in the gardens all his life-time as had his father and grandfathers for many generations before him.

Kinsan had never before been favoured with any special privileges, and except for her rare beauty and sweet disposition she might not have been selected to represent Asama, goddess of flowers. Though from birth her playground had been under the shadow of the great shogun’s palace she had never before been permitted to approach him so closely, and if he had ever even by accident spoken to her she did not remember it. However, the proximity of her dwelling and the occupation of her father had given her entrance to all parts of the mysterious enclosure, and in consequence she not only was familiar with the buildings and grounds but knew something of the habits and customs of all the household. Her bright simplicity and pleasing manners had so impressed others that she was well known to all of the servants and to many of the attachés, and had become a favourite among them.

Of these there was one who more than any other took a fancy to Kinsan, and had repeatedly expressed other than a passing interest in her. He had watched her closely for more than two years and already several times approached her father, offering to buy the little maiden, as he called her, at a liberal price, to serve his convenience for the lawful period of three years. All these proposals had been stoutly refused, though in a measure favoured by the mother—thrifty woman—who was not only captivated by the position of the applicant but inclined to consider three hundred yens of more service to the family than a doubtful daughter, especially that there were three others growing up.

Although the daughter had no right to be and never was a party to any of these negotiations she had heard enough to convince her that however repulsive this fellow, Tetsutaisho, might be, there was a good prospect of her being compelled sometime to sacrifice her life to gratify his desires. She could see but one hope, and that was in her father’s love. Her mother, poisoned as she was, had even gone so far as to entertain the base proposal in the presence of Kinsan herself, whose innate sense of propriety had each time prompted her to run away, with a blush of indignation. She knew that he had been instrumental in procuring for her the honour of that day, and yet she could not thank him, for she well realised that it was probably by his own arrangement that he and his detachment was placed in line next after her; not that she might thus be honoured, but that he might gaze upon her there in her helpless situation; for now that she had grown older and knew his intentions she had come to regard him with something of horror, and tried as much as she could to avoid his presence.

Whether Tetsutaisho had observed the glance of recognition which passed between Shibusawa and Kinsan matters not, for his rank in the shogun’s army permitted him to strike down any one of the common people who dared so much as to brush against his garment. He was a broad, sunken-chested man, nearly six feet tall, and though less than thirty years of age wore the uniform of a taisho (minor general) and was in fact a favourite of the shogun’s. There were a few stiff, blue-black hairs on his face as an excuse for a beard, and a pair of small bullet eyes glanced furtively or hung sullenly from his coarse, brutal countenance.

When Tetsutaisho struck Shibusawa he did so intending to cut him down as an example of authority—and as a warning to others of his supposed class—and thinking he had killed him outright with only a stroke and a thrust he squared about and swaggered on with his chest distended and his head thrown back.

It was a fortunate circumstance that Okyo was near at hand when Shibusawa fell, for though the thrust was not a vital one, it was dangerously near the heart and occasioned considerable loss of blood and much weakness. The blow had so stunned him that he lay unconscious and not only in the way of those marching, but subject to the cuffs and kicks of his fellows, who were profuse in their cries of, “Shame be upon the etas![[8]] He insulted his honourable superior!” However, Okyo’s faithfulness and the father’s coming saved him, while proper treatment and a vigorous constitution soon effected his complete recovery.

Nor was it any the less luck that Maido was there, for only his intense patriotism caused the lord daimyo, in the uncertain absence of his son, to quit his comfortable Kanazawa place and repair thus early to the Tokyo castle. It was an unusual thing for him to take up his residence at the capital city before late in the autumn, though in point of elegance and diversion of thought the latter home far surpassed the former.

This, the largest and oldest of the several daimyos’ castles at Tokyo, stood inside the second and just outside the inner moat which surrounded the palace. The grounds were spacious, and lay to the left of the main driveway, going toward the palace, close up against the inner moat. Indeed, it was the choice of a gentle slope which fringed the hill, rising on the opposite side of the moat, within the sacred enclosure above. A high stone battlement, battered and overgrown, stood sentinel at the water’s edge, and all around giant cypress and strange foliage told of another day. Here, in this place, was builded the official seat of one man, a daimyo, now Maido, who was the most favoured and courted at a shogun’s court, and who commanded the wealth, the intellect, and the aspiration of a thousand years of unbroken, unknown, and unsatisfied progress. Its environment spoke for the present; its tombs, of the past.

To this place, with such circumstances, Shibusawa was carried, and for the first time in his life entered there; a coming hoped and looked for, an ambition cherished and nursed by his father until it had become his constant dream; and yet that coming was to be when the spark of life seemed all but dead. Maido hastened to the family shrine and there prayed the good god Dajiza to grant him power to ward off death’s evil hand.

Shibusawa’s rooms were at the upper side of the main court building (a rambling red-lacquered structure, with curled tile roof) overlooking the greensward and battlement, toward where Kinsan’s cottage nestled in the nearby woodland. Here he lay for a long time, battling against death, till science and care had overcome danger, then his vigorous constitution rapidly brought on a complete and permanent recovery. While convalescing he would often sit chatting with his father, or dreaming of things now fast crowding upon him: the poverty and the toil; the suffering and the patriotism; the dormant power and the helplessness of the people which he had everywhere seen; his own new-born love; the ruthless force of an officer—all these were weighing heavily upon his young conscience, which already flamed with ambition.

Shibusawa did not dwell upon these things, though, while conversing with his father; and he asked no questions. But never before did he understand so well the whole philosophy of his parent’s teachings, nor grasp so firmly the force of his logic and the meaning of all their institutions. And there, and alone, while the vigour of youth yet fired the contact of life, after the bloom of knowledge, the polish of intercourse, the inspiration of travel, he determined his course.

CHAPTER V
THE HIDDEN CAVE

Time began, after a while, to drag heavily and Shibusawa thirsted for a change. The day Chayo, moon festival (in the latter part of September), had already come, and while sitting in the evening with his favourite sister, Nehachibana, he half spoke, half meditated:

“Do you think I could go out to see the moon rise to-night? You know it is Chayo, and I want to wander off by myself and see the ‘grand three.’ It will enable me to start under a good omen. Pray come, don’t say ‘No,’ for I fear I shall have to go anyway.”

Nehachibana had been his almost constant companion since the night of his misfortune, and she felt nervous about his taking any undue risk now that he was recovering so nicely. She was tall and seriously earnest, and her counsel was invariably welcomed by her energetic brother, though not always acted upon. Therefore she spoke with uncertain confidence when she answered:

“It certainly is a shame to stay indoors at such a time and upon such a night as the day promises. You are now somewhat accustomed to the open air, and if you do not remain too long I can see no danger. I myself am going out upon the green there, below the house, and I should be glad to have you for company. Come join me, will you not?”

“No, thank you; I want to be alone, for once. I shall go inside the gate to find a good lookout there, on the hillside. It is a splendid chance—and there will not be so many sight-seers there. Few of those on the inside engage in so light a diversion, and from the outside—well, only those who can enter can stroll.”

“Oh, Shibusawa, how can you think of venturing in there! You know it is absolutely forbidden, and the guards may beat you down, should you try,” said she, her voice trembling with fright.

“Have no fear, Nehachibana; I am already on more than friendly terms with those fellows, and I assure you when once inside there is no danger of discovery. I want to go there, where I can see and think without molestation, and you know nothing less can rid me of my good fellow Okyo. And then, the adventure. That will be stimulating, and I shall tell you all about it to-morrow. There, now, let us not discuss it further. Good-night.”

Later in the evening Shibusawa, as planned, passed through the gate and entered the august enclosure, where lived the only earthly being whom he had been taught to revere above his own ancestry. True, the mikado[[9]] had received no less a consideration, but his was of a divine character. The one, the mikado, spiritual; the other, the shogun, material: both, rulers supreme and eternal.

Upon entering the sacred place a mist of uncertainty seemed to envelop him and, though there was no particular wrong in his doing so even in such a manner, he felt as if he were unprepared, and that his presence might profane the place. Contrary to any precedent, while entering he chatted freely with the guards on duty and did not hesitate to disclose his identity; nor did he in any manner attempt to deceive. His motives were pure and his means convincing; the guards had occasion to trust him, hence they passed him. No mention had been made of his noticeably injured condition, for the very good reason that no questions had been asked; and, beside his father, to whom Shibusawa had made a full explanation, the cause and manner of his wounding remained unknown to all, excepting himself, and possibly the man who did the striking. Before starting he had changed his customary dress for that of an ordinary attendant, so that had he been discovered in the grounds anywhere not forbidden he might have been taken for a regular attaché; especially inasmuch as he was again well tanned and somewhat rugged.

Keeping to the left as was the custom, Shibusawa strolled along the main roadway until he came to a path which chanced to be the one leading toward the gardener’s cottage. As he walked along in that silent mysterious dusk he had passed unnoticed several who were each on his way to the city outside either to keep an engagement or seek diversion from the monotony of court life. Now and then the rattling of a sword-hilt or the clanking of steel warned him of the rank and occupation of the passerby. A slight faintness came over him as the first sound of one had grated upon his ears, and then his understanding changed and he felt something of pity for the man whose only means of a livelihood seemed to be the striking of his fellow-men.

Taking the cottage roadway he gladly, and with more leisure, plodded along the hillside until he came to a bypath which led off to his right and seemingly rose over a cliff farther on. The desire for adventure as well as a better chance of being let alone prompted him to follow this path, and as he trod upon the soft, beaten mould his sandals made no sound save now and then an accidental rasping or the occasional rattling of a fallen leaf. Nothing but quickened thoughts disturbed him here, until presently he came to a rustic bridge which crossed a dancing brooklet that faintly moaned and cried on its way. Half doubtful he stepped upon the beaten plank, and the sound aroused from her reverie a young maiden who stood midway on the bridge, and whom he had not until then observed. She turned as he proceeded, and then he recognised her and cried out:

“My honourable maiden.”

Kinsan, too, had stolen away and gone there that she, also, might have the good luck to see the moon rise in her majestic form of three. She had been standing she knew not how long in the centre of the bridge, with her elbows resting on the side rail and her dimpled cheeks buried in her hands, watching and dreaming as only one of her age can, and already there was beginning to shadow from above that mysterious, awe inspiring grey blue which hovers between the last of twilight and the coming of moonrise. Perhaps she also was thinking of one who had risen in her life, yet of whom she could not hope to know. Thus startled she did not recognise Shibusawa, nor did she attempt to move, but stood there undecided, while he, blushing perceptibly, said in a reassuring tone:

“I pray your forgiveness, madam, for so disturbing you. My name is Shibusawa, and I beg of you the pleasure of knowing who you are and what brings you here to this lovely spot at this delightful hour?”

Seeing that she hesitated as if debating what to do he continued:

“I pray you to believe me worthy, and to trust my motive, my honourable madam.”

Though Kinsan did not yet recognise her strange visitor she was not alarmed; there was something about him that invited her confidence, and before she realised it she had raised her eyes to his and there in the glimmer of the starlight had experienced the same feeling which had held her bounden since the time of their first meeting. The suddenness of the recognition and the fulness of her soul caused her to blush, and to stand meekly with drooping eyes and head bowed. Then she said modestly:

“I am Kinsan, the gardener’s daughter. I came here to see the beautiful moon rise, should it be so kind and I so fortunate. I do not know who you are, but I trust and I believe you will permit me to pass without harm. I have parents who love me, and I know you are of our faith. I trust you, honourable sir, to speak further if you so desire.”

“I thank you,” said he, “for your frank expressions, and I swear by the sword, Amanosakohoko, that I shall endeavour to merit your confidence. May I not spread this robe so that we can sit, and further speak to each other while waiting the moon’s pleasure?”

“You may do so if you like, but I should tell you that it is unsafe unless you have permission from a better authority. There is one who sometimes passes here, and should he discover you I fear his cruelty might be no less severe than my interest is great. If you do not mind a short, steep climb I will lead the way to a secluded spot near by where we can get a still better view and also guard against being seen. I was just going there, and no one will miss me at home until the hour has gone. Shall I proceed?”

“I certainly shall be glad to trust myself to your guidance, and if it is not too hard for you to go there it ought not to be for me.”

“You see,” said Kinsan, as she led the way back across the bridge and began climbing the hill above, “there is no pathway to follow. That is because no one but myself ever goes there, and I take pains not to establish a road and thus provide the means to a discovery of my hidden place.”

After leaving the by-path they scrambled up with some difficulty over the embankment and through a brier patch into the woodland beyond. Hereafter their passage through the scattering trees was quite easy, except the long grass and sloping hill made it necessary for them to choose well their steps, and as they went they chatted with no concern or accident to mar their pleasures or stay the confidence that was so rapidly growing between them. The balmy air, the inviting scenery, the romantic occasion, all inspired those feelings of trust which come of more than understanding and which are never abused.

Once Kinsan slipped a little and threw out her arms to recover her balance. As if by instinct Shibusawa was at her side and caught her hand in his just in time to save a fall; the soft skin told him of her good breeding, and the warm blood of her perfect health. He held it gently, a little longer, perhaps, than necessary to stay her fall, and then he did not drop it nor did she take it away, but as if moved by an unseen power and with feelings sweeter than life itself started on, and Kinsan did not fall or lose her balance again that night.

“Oh, what a grand place it is!” said he, as she led him to a seat on one side looking out over a panorama of woodland and battlement and castle ground and city far away toward the rising moon.

The place to which Kinsan led captive was an old abandoned nook, which had centuries before been used as a sight-seeing retreat by no less a personage than the shogun himself. It lay far up on the hillside in a small level space that rounded out at the head of a miniature gulch, through which ran the rivulet spanned by the bridge where the lovers met. The site, now dry and hard, was once the source of a natural spring, which had long ago disappeared through a tunnel made farther down the declivity. It was an ideal place for a hidden cave, such as it really appeared to be and as Kinsan called it; and the shogun under whose direction it was improved had spared no expense to make it a place of beauty as well as seclusion.

A retaining wall at the back,—in which were constructed wide and comfortable stone seats,—rounded up at both corners and arched over in front, while trees and vines had been so planted here and there as to shade the sun or break the storm, without in any manner obstructing the view. Some of these giant trees still stood, marking the grandeur of a different age. Others had fallen and long ago disappeared, while vines and shrubs had grown and regrown into tangled gnarls of brush and brier. All trace of its once gravelled approach and smooth floor had vanished with age, and no other person now found his way there except by merest chance or a curious reverence.

Kinsan was the cave’s only regular visitor and, jealously, she took every precaution to avoid attracting any attention to it. Unlike her sisters and her girl friends she wanted some place to which she could go and be by herself, and there indulge in that freedom which made her so different from others as well as the envy of all who knew her. She had with her own hands cleared the place of briers and fallen debris, and had carried straw and mats there to cover and make more comfortable a seat. Why, she did not know, but she loved different things from those which pleased the people whom she knew, and at times she longed to breathe a different atmosphere and to think new thoughts and experience other feelings. And now that this queer little house of hers contained another—one in whom all her sentiments seemed to enliven and to crystallise—her heart filled and there rose within her a new being, whose love and innocence and purity and sweetness shone forth like a flood-light of truth.

Shibusawa, too, felt the irresistible oncoming of that new life which had taken hold of him the first time he saw Kinsan; nor did he try to dissuade it, for in it he saw and felt the force of nature, the power of Infinity.

They sat there and talked and thought of things that were sweet and dear to them. Only once were they disturbed, and that was shortly after they had gone there and while they were sitting and dreaming as only true lovers can. It was just when the light and dark seemed most uncertain and everything mysteriously told of a parting and welcomed an oncoming. A cloud lazily floated overhead, turning its golden fringe into a border of silver. Not a leaf rustled or a note sounded on the hollow air. Not even they seemed conscious of another living thing, when out of the stillness there came the unmistakable sound of a man walking rapidly in a silk kimono.

“Swish, swish, swish,” continued grating upon Shibusawa’s ear, each time more distinct, and he half rose to his feet as if ready to bound upon an enemy. Kinsan caught hold of his kimono and whispered:

“Do not be disturbed. I have heard it before, and I can tell from the sound just who it is and about where he is walking: he is now on the by-path not far from the bridge where we last met. If he turns this way I shall warn you in time so that we can hide in a secret place I have found out just above this. It is easy of access, and he never could find us there. It is grown over with an old wisteria and is out of reach of that one, I am sure.”

The man in the by-path continued to walk briskly along, keeping a close watch on either side. He seemed to be quite nervous and anxious, though he moved with determination and evinced a fixed purpose. His course led him around the gulch so far below, and they were so hidden behind the trees, that they were seldom exposed to his view, yet they themselves could see and distinguish even the features of any person well impressed upon the memory. The intruder did not pause until he had reached the footbridge, where only a short time before Shibusawa and Kinsan had met, and then he stopped and looked as if expecting to see someone. Once he stared momentarily straight toward the cave, and had he been aware of such a place he might have distinguished the two sitting there only partially shielded by the bushes. Shibusawa as it was had the advantage, and looked the stranger directly in the face. He trembled, then leaned forward and stared intently.

“Pray do not be alarmed,” said Kinsan, in a low voice, already divining his keen interest. “Even though he see us and should come this way we are yet safe. My hiding-place will not fail me.”

“If I mistake not,” answered Shibusawa, “we shall have no need for hiding—I have at least a more satisfactory thought.”

“Oh, no, honourable sir, we must not be seen by him!” said Kinsan, nervously. “He is such a terrible man; and very powerful and brave, they say. If he should discover me here, and at this hour, and in the company of a man—oh, how late it is getting! I think I must be going.”

“Then you know him, do you?” asked Shibusawa, quickly and interestedly, though speaking in an undertone.

“Oh, yes; I know him well,” said she, without any hesitancy.

“And he is seeking you here? and now? I shall meet him forthwith.”

“Yes, he often does, and I am so glad—”

“Aha, and I am so nicely trapped!” said he, meditatively.

She did not answer him, for the reason that she did not understand him, and without so doing there was no occasion for an answer. He said nothing, but sat for the moment alternating between rage and jealousy. He looked at the burly form on the bridge, then at Kinsan. He thought of his love, then of his wounding. He at first determined to accuse her and fly at his antagonist, but afterwards reasoned that there was nothing to be gained by haste, and also that possibly he might be misinformed, if not entirely wrong.

Their visitor soon turned around, his back toward them, and as if disappointed at the prospect hung himself upon the bridge rail and stared vacantly at the distant horizon. Presently he straightened up and slowly walked away; and not until he had entirely gone did either Shibusawa or Kinsan speak; nor would they yet have resumed talking had Shibusawa been the first to begin. He still pondered a doubt about the real circumstance, though his faith in Kinsan strengthened as he himself recovered.

“I am so glad he has gone away. Oh, if he would only not come back! Did he frighten you much?” said she, her voice betraying her anxiety.

“I cannot say that I was so much as frightened, though I feel better now that he has gone,” said he, evasively. “Why, Kinsan, you do look pleased, and I really believe you, too, are glad to be rid of him. It is unfortunate that he came just at this time—I wonder if my being here influenced his coming? Still, I hardly believe it could have done so, because I do not even know his name, much less does he know me.”

“Oh, no. That was Tetsutaisho, an officer in the shogun’s army,” said Kinsan, assuringly and without divining Shibusawa’s purpose, “and I am certain it was not because you were here that he came. And I am so glad that you are here! I am lonely when I sit here by myself, and now—you will come again, will you not?”

Shibusawa did not answer her at once, but turned and looked, and her soft true eyes looked into his, and he saw how cruel he had been to let suspicion enter his heart and how unworthy of her confidence he had been. Then all his manhood rose and his thoughts became pure and his feelings true, and his courage spoke as he said:

“Yes.”

The moon had risen, and—how could they have seen it other than as it was, a good omen? for they two and it made three.

CHAPTER VI
THE PLEDGE

Shibusawa and Kinsan sat in their place and gazed at the beautiful moon as it rose, now unfolding a deeper meaning, teaching a sweeter lesson. Chayo was no longer to them only a mystic rite, but a living, eternal symbol of life’s greatest joy, and when they had seen all and felt its power they arose and parted, true to themselves and pleased with their good fortune. Shibusawa, though, returned to his house fully aware of the responsibilities which he had assumed and deeply impressed with their probable consequences; yet he realised that the circumstances which had brought about this irresistible situation were conceived directly within his own heart, and that he could not and should not escape their natural and just conclusion. He loved Kinsan, and, whether right or wrong in that love, he must know a higher virtue before he could in justice to himself surrender what seemed to him purely a liberty of conscience.

Nor would his love be unrequited, for he saw in Kinsan the same unknown force which had moved him and held him its willing victim. She too was a slave to its inevitable decree, and now that they had witnessed in each other that repose of confidence necessary to a perfect understanding, he must not let love, a higher purpose, fail at the bidding of family or state, nor allow himself to halt in his proper pursuit at the voice of tradition or, said he:

“Even by the law’s decree; for after all, ‘Is law higher than our understanding?’”

Having decided not to swerve from his course Shibusawa began to plan the means whereby he could meet Kinsan and be with her as much as prudence would allow. He longed to be near her and to share with her his thoughts and gain her approval, but in doing so he must encounter many hardships and much danger. Both statute and custom bade him marry the woman selected only by his parents, and to woo any other and in such a manner was deemed a most serious breach, subject to a severe penalty. He needs must, therefore, employ strategy, for there was no other means of meeting Kinsan, and even that could never make her his wife. The laws of his country were rigid, and his parents, like others, inexorable on that subject; and Shibusawa was not unmindful of either, nor of his duty toward society; yet he was undaunted, and could see no wrong in his loving the woman of his choice, so long as that one brought neither disgrace to his family nor failure to himself; neither of which was probable from his way of thinking—and had he a right to think? That was one of the questions which had determined Shibusawa’s course, and it now became a burning factor in his life.

The hidden cave was their rendezvous, and Kinsan grew to live for the happiness its welcome shelter gave. There, the sweet voice of love whispered and rewhispered the new song that soothed and quickened and held her captive, for Shibusawa came faithfully and constantly, each recurring visit deepening his love, every serious obstacle strengthening his determination.

Time passed quickly and each returning season lent anew its never dying symbol, for to them autumn’s master flower, the chrysanthemum, meant in truth loyalty, sincerity, and earnestness. When these days had passed and winter come Shibusawa sang to her the song of the pine and its fidelity, the bamboo and its elasticity, the plum and its courage, vigour, and reputation. Then spring brought in its train the cherry, the peach, the pear, the primrose, the peony, the wisteria, each in turn adding its voice, for the cave stood in the midst of bloom, everywhere doing its part in the beautiful fulfilment of a divine promise.

Yes, spring had come and with it the budding and the joy of creation. It was now April, the day of the cherry blossom, and the sun had gone down behind the hills and the stars were twinkling their story. Two lovers sat close together—the one ambitious, courageous; the other obedient, loyal—both joyous, but earnest. Her hand rested in his and he bent over and whispered:

“Kinsan, I love you. I love you with a heart that is pure and true. I love you with all my life, my soul voices it. I think of you always—the one constant thought of my life—my hope, my happiness, my existence. Speak, Kinsan, speak and tell me that this is not a hopeless fancy. Tell me that you love me. Tell me that you will be my wife, my love, my sweetheart, my all.”

She leaned forward and laid her rosy cheek upon his bosom, and with her eyes softly upturned she whispered:

“Yes.”

He stooped down and kissed her, and in the warmth of those lips she saw a world of joys; he, the beginning of earnest life. The kiss was unknown to them, but it came as the spontaneous outpouring of a true affection, the token of a master passion; and in that embrace there dawned a new light, the opening of another world.

CHAPTER VII
AN UNEXPECTED COMMAND

While Shibusawa had been constant and true in his attentions he had never apprised Kinsan of his real position, nor of the difficulties which stood in the way of their marriage. That he was worthy there could be no doubt in her mind, and she only knew that she loved him—loved him as they were and with no thought of what might or would befall them. Instinct was enough to keep both from mentioning their affairs to any others, for such a thing as mutual regard was by right or practice unknown in the land; hence must have been deemed improper, especially by the parents, and there were no others to whom they could or should confide their secrets. Whether allowable or not, and without any real knowledge of the consequences, their love had grown and manifested itself in its own mysterious way, and they were destined as they were to meet an uncertain fate.

Very wisely Shibusawa had not in the meantime neglected any of his proper relations at home, but on the contrary entered into life with an earnestness that was not only to his father, but to others of the family and to his friends, a great source of joy. Whether at the Koyo-odori (maple dance for girls), or at the New Year’s feast, or at any of the many fêtes of the season, his interest was equally keen and his presence always sought. Nor did he neglect his personal improvement, for all of his time and energy not devoted to Kinsan and his social duties were expended in an orderly quest for knowledge; not of a theoretical nature, but of that practical, satisfying kind that, whether for good or for ill, moves the world.

Maido had observed with keen interest all these healthy activities of his son and was proud of his achievements and offered him every encouragement within his power. No particular attention had been paid to Shibusawa’s future other than properly to fit him for the place destined for him, and such a thing as the young prince’s marriage had never seriously entered his father’s mind. Since the birth of his rising successor Maido had always hoped to avoid the necessity of sometime being compelled to sacrifice his son’s or his own happiness to gratify the pleasure or convenience of the court, though he might at any time have been prompted to do as much by an extreme test of loyalty. As far as the lord daimyo’s own interests were concerned there had as yet appeared no need for matrimonial alliances of any kind, and not until political discontent began to arise in the south had he been called upon to concern himself particularly about outside affairs. He had personally held aloof from all entangling alliances, and aside from his duties at court devoted himself to the upbuilding and preservation of his own prefecture, which was now so strong and prosperous that it could reasonably be expected to stand of its own accord.

There was the best of feeling and good content everywhere at home, and when there Maido himself might at any time be seen among his workmen encouraging thrift and economy, while all of the new ideas were regularly taught by learned instructors. As a result his people had become the most skilled and industrious in the land, excelling in the production of rice, silk, lacquer rugs, matting, bronzes, pottery, steel, and implements of husbandry and articles for ornamentation.

Therefore Maido was one of the most powerful as he was resourceful of the shogun’s daimyos and had wisely looked askance at the petty quarrels and fierce rebellions that were constantly devastating other parts of the country and robbing them of their treasure. Still he did not neglect to cultivate a true martial spirit, nor to maintain an army in keeping with the country’s dignity; which, owing to the mountainous approaches at the east and south, and to the broad open sea and rocky shores of the west and north, was as against an invading foe easily defended. These natural barriers having been seized upon early after the beginning of the shogunate and from time to time fortified, Maido had but to keep them in repair and refrain from interfering with outside affairs in order to induce the powerful armies of the north and south, while marching against each other, to pass him by unmolested. In consequence his vassals—secure in their peace, in plenty, sure of kind and liberal treatment, their religion inviolate and their customs well established—were quite content to labour faithfully for the promotion of their daimyo’s comfort and power. He was at the same time the most respected and envied personage at court, and even the shogun himself found it both agreeable and advantageous to cultivate his friendship.

This pleasing situation, however, was not long to continue, for the outgrowth of Maido’s wisdom, and his abundance at home, made him the more coveted at Tokyo; and now that hostilities were assuming proportion in the south, the necessity for new expedients was fast crowding upon the northern party. To Iyeyoshi, the over-fed, easy-going shogun, these matters were rather irksome and in consequence were being more and more turned over to the newly appointed prime minister, the young and restless Ikamon. The shogun was satisfied; Ikamon, ambitious.

The latter had risen from the lower ranks by dint of his own exertions, and his career was as unbounded as it was unbridled. In presence he was pinched and bony, stoop shouldered, of peaked face, had eagle eyes, rather sparse, stiff black hair, and for strength of mind displayed a wonderful mixture of cunning and craft. He had already formed a personal alliance with Maido (which materially strengthened him at court and directly helped him into his present position) by taking in marriage Yasuko, the daimyo’s second daughter; and now ostensibly as a state measure, but in reality to further Ikamon’s personal schemes, Shibusawa was urgently brought forward as a likely match for Takara, a rising member of the royalty, and a daughter of the mikado himself.

When the proposal was first made, Maido paid but little heed to it, passing it by as one of his son-in-law’s many visionary schemes; in the majority of which he had not much confidence and as yet less concern. He had intended to govern himself in this matter, when the proper time came, as he had in all others, as best conserved his own interests and the happiness of his son. That any one dared to interfere with what he considered his and his family’s private affair had not seriously dawned upon his mind, and was this time looked upon as a piece of ill-advised impertinence.

In time, however, the over-confident daimyo discovered his mistake, for Ikamon persisted and before long had enlisted the support of a higher influence, one that presently assumed the shape of an urgent request, if not command. Such an alliance, once proposed, was not in times of stress to be overlooked even by the shogun, and Maido soon found himself entangled with a problem that was to bring his son face to face with the queenly and much coveted Takara.

Though only the daughter by a favourite concubine, this beautiful princess was much loved by Komei, the mikado, and it was conceded that whoever gained her hand would not only gain his royal highness’ favour, but strengthen his position at the Kyoto court. She was tall and slender, not yet twenty years of age, had bright, tender eyes, a soft, clear skin, and silken hair as dark as the raven. Her manner was that of grace and distinction, her speech calm and deliberate, while at court and among her friends she was regarded with almost reverence. Daikomitsu, a rising young prince and staunch supporter of the southern party, had already sought her hand in marriage, and withal, aside from any political considerations, she might have been thought eminently fitted to become the wife even of a Maido’s successor.

It was with different considerations, though, that Ikamon urged the suit. He knew of no demand except that of policy, and now that he was in a position effectively to reach both sides he hastened the business as much as he consistently could. The mikado was, notwithstanding the advice of his counsellors, still in favour of peace, and thus he lent a ready ear to any proposal that might be reasonably expected to calm the disturbance and ward off a final conflict. His daughter, having grown to womanhood within the palace and its traditional and superstitious atmosphere, knew nothing of the profane world and was possessed of a loyalty that carried her far over into the sweep of ancestral worship. She believed that her only province was to serve, and that of right she should be handed from father to husband, from the one family to the other. Her birth seemed but a necessity, her life a sacrifice, and her death only a natural consequence—why should she look or think or hope beyond? She offered no protest when told of her lot—that she must yield her all unto a stranger—but bowed in grateful submission at the command of an unquestioned fate. She promised her father, and he was pleased, and hastened to inform the shogun.

Maido as yet had said nothing to Shibusawa about his prospective marriage, though he himself had been fully convinced that there was no possible way for him to avoid its final consummation without as a last resort breaking faith with the shogun: a thing entirely beyond the pale of his moral rectitude. He had from time to time avoided the subject, trusting that some failure at Kyoto might save him the necessity, but now that the mikado had favourably responded and the shogun positively commanded, all hope was dissipated.

He therefore called his son to him and led him into the great chamber, where he bade him be seated at his side. It was in the evening, and Maido had just returned flushed and heated from an animated council, and he chose the open side of the room, where they sat facing each other and alone. A warm breeze floated in from the garden, and the air seemed to Shibusawa almost as sweet with cherry blossom as it had the day before while sitting with Kinsan at the hidden cave. He realised that some grave question disturbed his parent, but little thought that he himself was the victim of a prearranged plan that should augur so uncertain a future. He would have spoken, but his father beckoned him be silent; then himself spoke distinctly, telling him of what he was expected to do, and waited for an answer.

There was no mistaking the meaning, yet Shibusawa sat in silence; he was for the moment dazed and unable to make any answer. After the first flush he resolved upon throwing himself at his father’s feet and explaining all; to ask forgiveness for what he had done, and beg indulgence for what his life seemed pledged to do, but prudence bade him not. He knew only too well that such a thing was impossible. Maido’s anxiety doubled with each succeeding moment, until finally surprise, then fear, moved him and his voice trembled as he said:

“Shibusawa, my son, have you no ears?”

“I hear you, father, and I assure you it is my weakness and not the answer that makes me slow. I would frame you a better speech than the one I have in mind.”

“Hold, my boy! I know your answer. And, besides, I would rather you save your words for a higher purpose. This old self of mine is satisfied that you do the thing. That is it. Oshaka! Oshaka! good god of self, forbid that I hear, let me only feel a father’s blessing and a son’s forgiveness. Come, my good son, your liberal indulgence of me and your ready acceptance of her has removed from me the greatest concern of my life. A long one, and a happy one—hah! h-a-h! h—a—h!”

Maido’s eyes flashed dry and hot as he sat there swinging his powerful frame back and forth to the rhythm of his parched words. Shibusawa knelt quickly at his father’s side and steadied and soothed him. The long white locks parted and fell from his splendid brow, and in an instant the son’s whole soul went out to the one who had given him being and had showered upon him a constant devotion.

The lord daimyo went to sleep presently, and Shibusawa sat for a long time, debating the consequences of this new and unexpected situation. It was only yesterday that he had pledged himself to the one he loved, and now he was bound by every tradition and law to break that engagement and perform a duty. Had this sudden mandate come only a day sooner his honour, at least, might have been saved; but to sacrifice that was more than he could do. Filial affection—but was there not a higher purpose, and if so why not devote his life to its fulfilment? He pondered, then said to himself:

“Although I uphold the traditions of our religion, maintain the honour of my family, and obey the command of the shogun, I can and will be true to Kinsan.”

CHAPTER VIII
THE MARRIAGE CEREMONY

When Shibusawa arose the next morning, he set about with a heavy heart to plan some course of action. He had not slept much during the night, and with a clouded atmosphere the morning was dull, so he remained in the garden but a short time, returning to his now cold and dreary chamber.

At first he planned to hurry to Kinsan and tell her the truth and beg her forgiveness; then he realised the impossibility of doing so; the gates were closed to him, and his strategy would not avail him in the daytime. He rightly divined his father’s helplessness, and knew that an appeal to the court would fall upon deaf ears. The law was inexorable, and those in authority would use it, as they were using him, to further their own schemes. To fly was worse than hopeless, and to disclose the identity of his love would surely bring death if not torture to her. Such were some of the conditions confronting Shibusawa, and with which he must struggle.

Ikamon was fully advised of the rapidly rising influence of the literary, or southern party, at the mikado’s, or royal court, and he hastened that no time be lost in using this last measure to check its growth. The banns were accordingly that day published at Tokyo, and the marriage proclaimed to take place at the earliest possible day in May, the month following; while messengers were despatched to Kyoto with the intelligence, so that Takara might make ready and repair to her intended father-in-law’s seat at the shogun’s capital city.

During the interval of waiting the busy prime minister more than ever bestirred himself with making preparations for the ceremony. Maido was pushed to one side and his natural prerogatives usurped by his son-in-law, Ikamon, who, without much regard to rank, invited everybody whom he thought could in any way further his own political chances and incidentally those of his party. Thus Tetsutaisho was included among the selected guests, for in him more than any other Ikamon saw a future powerful weapon.

This young officer was rapidly advancing in favour, and Ikamon reasoned that his chances of being placed at the head of the shogun’s army, already good, would be effectually strengthened by an alliance with the powerful house of Maido. There was the good and handsome Nehachibana, Maido’s daughter and Shibusawa’s favourite—why not offer her to Tetsutaisho? With Tetsutaisho, his ready confidant, securely in command of the northern army, his alliance with the royal court established through Shibusawa’s marriage, he had designed a still more sweeping stroke, that of tricking the mikadate into a tacit coalition of the two armies, the north and the south, with Tetsutaisho as the recognised head of both. Ikamon believed that in such a situation he could effectually put down any local disaffection, gradually dissipate the mikadate, and eventually establish the shogunate as the sole, supreme authority in the land.

His plan was a vital one, and there seemed to be no real obstacle in the way of its final consummation. Tetsutaisho had already looked upon Nehachibana with a sordid eye; she was young and vivacious—that was enough for him. Shibusawa was now perceptibly occupied with his own troubles, and should readily fall a victim to the magic of a royal court. Maido was rapidly approaching a certain state of senility—possibly apparent to none but his covetous son-in-law—and could no longer offer any serious resistance. There was no further chance for a misalliance in the family, no moral gulf between the driver and the goal, so Ikamon devised and the wedding day found him easily prepared.

When that day had arrived and the guests were assembled, a dust-bedraggled train of carriers and attendants came filing up the roadway to the front of Maido’s castle, where they halted and demanded entrance in the name of Takara, daughter of Komei, the divine mikado. Upon the conclusion of this short ceremony the party was passed through the gate to the house door, where the bride was delivered into the care of Ikamon and Yasuko, his wife, who bade her welcome after the fashion of another polite ceremony. Takara wore a flowing kimono of soft white material, and now that she had entered the house of her future husband she forthwith retired and changed her dress for one provided by the bridegroom. Having thus completed her toilet she was escorted to the chamber of state by Yasuko, while Ikamon attended Shibusawa.

Takara meekly entered, and as she did so the sound of many voices and much merry-making greeted her; the guests were assembled in a room adjoining, waiting for the conclusion of the ceremony and the beginning of the feast. Shibusawa then came forward, betraying only a slight colour, and Takara humbly bowed recognition; he bowed and motioned her to a mat at his side. They had met, and for the first time looked into the mirror of each other’s life. The two-lipped cup was offered by Haraku, the bride’s maid-servant, and Takara moistened her lips therefrom, then passed it to the bridegroom, who in turn drank a draught, and passed it back to her. Thrice three times they did this, and the ceremony was complete.

The two-lipped cup was offered.... Takara moistened her lips therefrom, then passed it to the bridegroom.

Without any further ado the bride again retired and changed her light kimono for a coloured one of her own providing. In her absence the sliding partitions had been removed, and when she returned she found herself in the midst of the merry guests, who crowded about to offer their congratulations.

Shibusawa appeared to be deeply impressed with the formal part of the ceremony, but after that was concluded he showed an indifferent feeling, and had it not been for the state character of the doing, there might have seemed to be even less cordiality. Ikamon, of course, outdid himself, particularly in an effort to impress the bride with his own importance, and his squeaking voice and glancing eyes were everywhere in evidence. Tetsutaisho was also pleased and, at first sight of the bride, became so infatuated that she did not thereafter lack attention: an unadvised observer might even have taken him to be the bridegroom.

This gallant young officer naturally was charmed with Nehachibana upon his arrival and introduction early in the evening, and certainly would have continued his attentions had she been the last to come upon the scene. As it was, and as he was unable to divide his gallantry between two, Takara received his favours after their first meeting, which, strange to say, seemed mutually agreeable. On the other hand, Nehachibana had been not unfavourably impressed with Tetsutaisho, and were it not that Takara was now her sister-in-law she might have been a little jealous. Shibusawa, however, consoled her with more than his usual ardour, and he may not have neglected to express in some measure his opinion of the would-be seducer. At all events, he was under the circumstances perfectly willing that the latter should make haste with his wife rather than with his sister. Nor did he disclose the cause of his indifference about the one and his coldness toward the other, because he felt that he had best let events take their own course, especially that the position of both would save either from bringing disgrace into his family.

“I do not mind saying,” said he to his sister, as they sat quietly together, “that I am not at all pleased with Tetsutaisho’s appearance. More I do not care to venture.”

“But he is so large and so heroic,” answered Nehachibana. “Do not such men fight fiercely? And have they not warm hearts? And are they not chivalrous? But he does not seem to care for me. Only Takara has saved him from being bored.”

“Such men are neither bored nor saved. They are incapable of the one and beyond hope of the other,” replied Shibusawa, mindful of his own experience.

“I trust so,” mused she, thoughtfully.

“And I am—well, except for you, indifferent as to the whole affair,” said he, as he arose and went toward Takara.

Shibusawa soon returned to his sister, and bowing himself away from her retired from the company, going with the full consciousness of having acquitted himself as best he could under the circumstances. Perhaps, as he lingered on the veranda above, he did not think of Kinsan, more likely he did not notice particularly the group of sight-seers in the road at the front of the house, but if he had, he might have seen her there, and have observed that her eyes were filled with tears; that she trembled a little and that suspicion was trying hard to enter her heart. He did not distinguish her, however, but turned and went into his own chamber and was seen no more that night.

Kinsan, though, had recognised him, and when he had gone she too turned and stole away toward her house as silently as she had come, but with a heavy heart and uncertain step.

From the time Kinsan had first heard of the intended wedding, something told her that she must go there. True, she had no reason for believing that the Shibusawa to whom she had given her love was a prince, or that he could possibly be the suitor of Takara, the mikado’s daughter; yet a power not explained moved her to go, and opportunity enabled her to see only too much. She had seen him there, and in that she surmised an insurmountable gulf between them, and felt that he in such a station, however true, must be lost to her. She went home and with an aching heart prayed for future light and strength.

CHAPTER IX
THE WEDDING FEAST

On the third day after the wedding, all preparations having been made, the newly wedded couple started upon their bridal tour to the home of the bride’s parents. This was no small undertaking, and to any other than a bride it would have seemed decidedly unpleasant. The only means of transit was by chair, and, as she had just been borne over the same route and had in prospect a speedy return, Takara might well have complained of the three long journeys, if not of custom.

Upon coming to the wedding ceremony the bride had brought with her a large number of useful and costly presents, and, as might be expected, the family of the bridegroom had been exceedingly liberal in bestowing a return compliment. Maido had spared neither pains nor expense to laden Shibusawa’s train with tokens of his appreciation, and as squad after squad of carriers passed out at the front gate the gathering onlookers cheered with something like frenzy. It was, therefore, late in the morning before the last of the baggage had passed and the way was made clear for Shibusawa’s chair, and as he came forward there arose a mighty shout of “Long live the prince.” Early in the day the kaika (household treasurer), acting under Ikamon’s instructions, had begun distributing coins among the hangers-on, and now that the noble suite was passing a perfect shower of “cash” was thrown upon them. No other means could so readily call forth their hearty applause, and Ikamon was gratified and Maido perhaps pleased, if Shibusawa was entirely unconcerned.

As Shibusawa’s chair swung into the roadway he drew back the curtain and looked out at the excited throng. There was one who stood, amid all this noise, with a strained, eager expression. It was Kinsan; and Shibusawa, looking straight into her face, without offering to recognise her, closed the curtain and continued his way. Probably she knew as well as he that the least sign of recognition on his part might, if detected, bring horrible punishment, or even death to her. Possibly she believed him cruel. Whatever her thoughts may have been, she felt crushed and forlorn. She knew now that it was only too true; that her heart was broken and her life for ever shadowed.

Kinsan had gone there again to determine if possible the truth or falsity of her former conviction. Without any consciousness she had done her hair in the prettiest fashion and dressed in her very best kimono, and so anxious was she that before the sun had barely risen she began planning to go. The fresh air and the excitement brought the colour to her cheeks, and when Tetsutaisho chanced to pass her, on his way to wish Takara a safe journey and a speedy return, he stopped and spoke to her and chided her for being so far from home. She made no answer, but his kindly attention lingered on her mind, and possibly she may have contrasted this with Shibusawa’s greeting.

However, Kinsan was not so ready to heed the one or condemn the other, and with a determination stronger than ever she proceeded on her way home. She had not gone far, though, before she was overtaken by Tetsutaisho, who hastened to her and said:

“Which way are you going now, my pretty young lady?”

Kinsan started at the sound of his voice, and when she turned about and saw who it was, she blushed deeply, then grew pale. She made no immediate answer, but stood debating in her own mind what she had best do; and as she made no offer to move he became emboldened, and, coming closer, began to talk in a confidential manner:

“Come, my sweet little girl, come with me and sit in the shade over there, where it is quiet and out of reach of the curious.”

“I thank you, honourable sir, I am on the way to my house and I wish not to delay, for that would be improper. Please, sir, excuse me—my mother has said nothing about this proposal.”

“But,” said he, “I will pay the mother. I will double and treble the price. Come with me now. My bungalow is large and you shall share the privileged mat. I am rich and my station is high. I will free your father and mother from all their debts and make them comfortable and happy. Come, now; what more can be done? Is not all this worth the while?”

Kinsan listened to all he said. She measured well his proposals and thought of the ease and comfort it would bring to her parents.

She also remembered that look of Shibusawa’s and how her heart had failed her; and then her love for him began to reassert itself, and she turned upon her enticer and scorned him, and without saying another word walked rapidly away.

After Shibusawa had so coldly turned from Kinsan, while passing through the gate and into the roadway, he sank back in his chair, stunned and fearful. The shock had overcome him, and he did not recover until he had gone far beyond her reach. It was only a glance, yet he now appreciated the force with which that must have stricken Kinsan. While, as he well knew, there could have been no escaping the consequences of an overt act, nevertheless, had he done no more he might in some way have sought Kinsan and explained to her the true circumstances of his situation. And now that he had not done so, and fully realised the sad mistake, it was only with much self-control that he held himself from attempting to return to her.

Nothing further marked his progress, and the visit at Kyoto was a great success in spite of Shibusawa’s preoccupied state of mind. His reserve gave him an air of dignity and charm of manner that surprised and pleased the too much coddled mikado, who could not help admiring the young man’s strong, athletic build and evenly balanced temperament. Here at last was one who frowned upon frivolity and seemed to exemplify real manhood; who aimed at something above sordid pleasure.

Takara, too, was proud of her husband, and had already begun to look up to him and to feel the force of his character. Yet something she had hoped and longed for was missing. All her maiden life she had dreamed of this one sweet satisfying thing, and it was still an unrealised thought.

They did not remain at Kyoto longer than etiquette required, though in that time Shibusawa saw something of the life and manners at the royal abode. He came in contact with not only the immediate members of the family but some of the mikado’s most intimate advisers and a multitude of his well-paid admirers, and therefrom formed some notion of the prodigality if not unwisdom of such a duplicity of government. Returning they went by way of Kanazawa, where Takara was very much impressed with the magnificence of her father-in-law’s estates, the prospective seat of her husband’s future empire.

“Oh, what a beautiful place, and such a grand scene!” said she, with rapture, as they approached the family mansion at the summit of the hill. “And the lovely breeze, and the stately pines, and all the beautiful things which Kami has given us—here you will be my lover, and I, oh, how I shall love you! Yes, I will love you, love you, oh, so much!”

Shibusawa did not answer, but for the first time recognised her full nature, and presaged the consequence of his failure. Nor did he venture to speak and in some measure unfold the true state of his feelings until the day before their final departure for Tokyo. She had waited for him and longed for him, and now somewhat of despair if not disgust had taken hold of her. They were sitting side by side on the matted floor, and from the open side could see afar over the wind-tossed deep or out at the timbered hills looming in the background.

“Takara,” said he, after a long silence, “you are a patient, noble woman. You deserve a better appreciation than I can give you. Our connection is the result of a false tradition, a perverted truth. Ambition is the sponsor and necessity the maker of this cruel situation, and in order that we may not suffer therefrom let us be wise.”

With the first sound of Shibusawa’s voice Takara brightened with encouragement, but as he proceeded her ardour cooled; and when she came to measure him in the light of a starved sensibility there dawned upon her a full appreciation of their true relation, though she did not hasten to answer nor did she shrink in the least from him. She only sat toying with a loose obi (sash); finally it occurred to her to speak, and she said with a sigh:

“Shibusawa, you just now made me happy, when for the first time you spoke my name. Though only a short happiness, it momentarily filled me with the pride that comes not of unchaste wedlock. It would have satisfied me to feel that you knew this if nothing more. It is a little thing, yet a priceless jewel in the crown of perfect womanhood. This privilege is denied me and a more convenient one granted. Sorrow is my reward; wisdom could have served me no worse.”

Nothing further was said to mar the pleasure of their visit at Kanazawa or the remainder of the journey, and when they had safely arrived at Tokyo they found themselves in a mood to enjoy a brief interval of rest before the giving of the grand final entertainment. This sumptuous affair was supposed to be given under the immediate auspices of the contracting parties themselves, but in this case it had been made the special business of the redoubtable Ikamon. And so well did he manage that Maido indulged a lavish generosity, and even the shogun expressed a sincere appreciation. Invitations had been issued to all of the shogun’s court and the royal court, and to such of the nobility as were in sympathy or could in any manner be accounted influential or desirable. An effort was made to bring together all the dignitaries and supporters of state as well as the beauty and fashion of the land; to inaugurate a better understanding between the two parties and bring as far as possible the malcontented literati under the influence of the shogun; and, of course, incidentally, to advance Ikamon and his friends wherever and whenever convenient.

The night of July 7th had been set for the festivities, and when that evening came the grounds were resplendent with lighted lanterns and the banquet halls were festooned with vine and blossom. The beautiful foliage, the brilliant lights, the fragrant flowers, the lacquered walls, the spotless floors, the embroidered screens, the simple ornaments, all combined to make a scene of beauty and inspire a hearty good will.