But no! – the warriors were right-she unfitted for her station. Her burthen-the sooner the better-might crush and kill her. She quailed at the thought of ever seeing again the tyrant in whom there were no bowels of compassion, and who seemed to take delight in augmenting the calamities of his fellows.
Herself as grey as a corpse, she bent down and kissed the writhing woman, and without a word (how could she console her?), with parched lips and catching breath, swung away to her garden on the mountain. What was she to do? What could she do? If, by giving over her own tender body to the pincers of the torturers, she could assuage the growing trouble of the people, how gladly would she bare her breast. But no-she was condemned to sit and watch, with idle hands and dread forebodings, a horror-stricken spectator of her husband's deepening sin, and the lingering anguish of his victims.
What was she to do? What could she do? If madness might be wooed, it would bring oblivion and relief. Who would have thought that a delicate and tender girl, so little used to suffering, could bear such pain and live? As she lay upon the mat, she revolved that unanswerable question which worries a good many of us. What could she have done in a previous phase of existence to make the present one so exceedingly painful? To lie thus in dumb pain was intolerable: action of some kind was imperative. She would go to the temple and pray, and ask the advice of Masago.
Turning towards the other hill, she was astonished to see on the top of the long flight of steps a man-by his dress apparently a noble-who slowly descended, and mounting a horse, trotted in the direction of the summer-house. Her heart gave a great bound, then seemed to stand still. Could it be? Yes! it was Sampei-returned home at last-and he was coming here!
Yes, it was the victorious Sampei, who, having duly visited his mother, was coming to see his sister. For she was really his sister now; and he had heard from the Abbess an account of the condition of things, which, though guarded, pleased him little. When far away, he had received the news of the marriage, he had been amazed, and laughed; annoyed somewhat, he scarcely knew why. To think that the destined husband should be his own brother! And then he had felt grave doubts as to the success of the union; and then, light and débonnaire, and occupied with much cheerful splitting of skulls, he had put the subject from him. He was no marrying man-not he. His sword was his true love; to others he had not the smallest intention of being true. To cull the most fragrant flowers while the sun was shining-as many and as various as possible-and get others when they were faded, was his soldierly but scarcely moral code of ethics. And yet, while gaily slaughtering the Coreans, he had time now and then to hope that all was right at home, and that his white fawn was happy; and it was gruesome now on his return to discover that she was wretched instead of happy, – his half-suspected previsions justified.
He flung his bridle to his betto, and striding with the firm and springy step of buoyant youth through the plantation of cherries and maples, stood still to take in the scene. And a pretty picture it was that his vision lighted on. An awning of fine blue linen, broidered with deer, in memory of beloved Nara, cast a shadow upon the mats of the summer-house, which were further shaded by a natural cascade of wisteria. Around the raised platform were tall camellias in full blow, scarlet and white; and within, the carved but unvarnished woodwork showed its grain like the pattern on watered silk. A low gilt screen, painted with chrysanthemums, divided the floor in two, in the front part of which was a firebox in finest bronze, representing a dragon coiled round a blossom of the lotus. A long flat koto, with thirteen strings, encrusted with gold and ebony, stood close by; and on the yellow matting, half raised expectantly, reclined the young mistress of the hermitage. The eyes of Sampei moistened with unaccustomed tears, and a knot rose in his throat as he contemplated his old ally. She was matured-fairer than of yore, paler and thinner, and more delicately beautiful; but there was that about her that seemed too ethereal, stamped with predestined misfortune. He seemed to be aware of a something, reflected in light from the glow of another world. The roundness of youth was gone. The arch wayward tricks of irresponsible maidenhood had given place to a reserved and haughty dignity that was unnaturally still. The eyes were unduly large, and, surrounded with bistre circles, glistened with feverish lustre. Sampei's affectionate gaze could mark all this, though the winsome face was brightened now with the radiance of a glad surprise.
Sampei, bluff and careless though he generally was, could not but trace with sinking of the heart the line of precocious sorrow ploughed large and deep upon it. The coils of massive hair appeared heavier and more sombre by contrast with the ivory whiteness of the skin, slightly relieved as they were by a bunch of fresh red blossoms, which the loving hand of a tirewoman had tucked under the comb.
In accordance with the exigencies of her rank, she wore four under-robes of silk, the edges of which, in stripes of varied colour, showed at throat and open sleeves, while the ample folds of the heavy and voluminous outer robe, broidered in a design of fans, were held together by a magnificent obi-pale brown, bedizened with black butterflies.
Never had Sampei, whom a wide experience had made an expert in such matters, looked on a more complete embodiment of patrician womanhood. Strange! He, so well versed in female charms, so used to the spectacle of beauty in all ranks and phases, felt his heart throb in quite unaccustomed fashion, and yearn unaccountably towards his sister.
CHAPTER IV.
THE ABBESS GIVES ADVICE
With a great sob O'Tei sprang up, and, clinging closely to Sampei, burst into tears, while he, embarrassed and somewhat shy, stood waiting. Why this display of trouble so deep that it racked her frame? Had his mother concealed aught? She had not led him to suppose that it was as bad as this. Could No-Kami, careless of the treasure he possessed, have done her some grievous wrong? At the thought, the young General's dark face grew darker, and as a flood of wrath surged over him, he looked a genuine Hojo. And with it came a sense of something new and astonishing, which was to himself a riddle. Careless and light of heart, accustomed to look at things from their best point, and to delve no lower than was needful, he never dreamed of his old playfellow in her new sphere as wan and wasted and miserable, and with the feeling of indignation against his brother there was mixed a whimsical regretful longing. Had he not been wrong, when he might have taken the maid himself, to leave her for another?
Worldly-wise Sanjo had warned him that so dainty a dish was not for a soldier of fortune, and he had seen the prudence of the warning. But cold prudence is a mistake sometimes, as who should know better than a soldier? He felt sure that if, when playfully talking in the sylvan glades, he had led her to a pool, and, showing her the two faces reflected there, had pictured himself as the future lucky one, his playfellow would have returned his hand-clasp, and submitted to a lover's embrace. And when a maiden and a youth are of one mind, and the latter is energetic and determined, nine chances are in his favour, despite opposition of parents. It was diffidence that had undone him, and her. Although a rough soldier, he would, at home, have softened his roughness for her sweet sake, and if careful striving could have done it, have made her life a pleasant one. And now, fool that he had been, it was too late! Some such surprising thoughts as these-dark regretful visions of possibilities vanished-flitted across the mind of the young man as, her breast against his in perilous proximity, he kissed her perfumed hair. Scales seem to fall from his eyes as he questioned his own heart. In his brief career he had adored many a damsel, and had sworn to each to worship none but her; but with O'Tei it was quite different. With thought of her was mingled a respect he had never felt for other women. Once his very own, he could and would have been true to her, – have made it the joy of life to give her every pleasure, to watch and guard and shelter her from the blustering winds of the world-and it was too late! She was the wife of his own brother, – of him to whom, independent of natural affection, he owed allegiance