On his return from his arduous campaign of five years, he had been received with acclamation by the people, to whom glorious feats of arms were as the odour of the lily in the nostrils. They had knocked their foreheads in the dust, had pursued him with shouts in the streets, nearly tearing his garments from off his back; in their enthusiasm had well nigh forgotten that he came of the blood of Hojo; but the sweets of well-earned popularity were no little embittered by the proceedings of the head of his house. The tales he heard on his arrival filled him with shame and horror, and his honest soul was sore perplexed, torn as it was between the traditional blind obedience to the head of the clan, and indignant disapproval of his acts. He could not turn against his brother. Death would be better that disloyalty, and yet it was very terrible by silence to seem to acquiesce in his misdeeds. When fitting opportunity offered, he would remonstrate with No-Kami, – point out to him that his course must end in civil war, – that in his next life he would of a surety be a bear or pig, as a just and dire retribution for recklessly plunging his country in blood. It was his duty to remonstrate, and he would do so gently but firmly, come what might. Not that much good would come of it. He knew No-Kami to be as headstrong as he was fierce. There would be high words, and possible estrangement. Estrangement! no, for the sake of this girl, that must be avoided at all hazards. He must cultivate diplomacy-he, the simple Sampei. If it was only the pounding of an enemy, something bluff and straightforward, he would be in his element. But to smile when inclined to curse, to be compelled to bite your lip and swallow down the burning words of just anger, to Sampei would be very difficult. He must try though. His poor sweet sister. Her sobs were due on this occasion, happily, to joy and relief at his return, in that she, the lonely and forlorn, had a trusty champion by her side. Instinct told him this.
For her sake, then, he must not break with his brother, for, forbidden access to his sister-in-law, he would be of no service in extremity. In extremity! What prophetic foreboding was it that whispered to him of something terrible behind, wherein she would need all the help that his strong arm could give her? Ah! if he had spoken when he might, how different it would all have been. Too late-that chapter was closed. He was to be her knight-vigilant and true. With a deep sigh, he raised her tear-stained face, and kissed her lips, then put her gently from him.
Side by side, and hand in hand, as in the old days, they reclined upon the mat, and the frown deepened on his brow as she told her story, – the uncomely story of selfishness, and greed, and cruelty, and wrong, waxing with impunity daily worse, till even sleepy Buddha must needs wake soon, and be impelled to hurl his thunderbolts. She told of the starving multitudes, to whom the son of the horse-leech cried "Give"; of the petition, and his brutal treatment of the elders. "If only I could serve as sacrifice," she said, in conclusion, with a fresh burst of tears, "how gladly would I lay down my life. But my lord and I are strangers. I dwell here, and he at Kiŷoto. Does not that tell its tale? The wind might as well preach to him as I. At first he liked me a little, but that soon passed. Of late his presence-knowing of what he is capable-has filled me with a nameless terror, for I seem to detect something in his eye that suggests a brain distracted. He is blood-drunk; his very laugh conceals a sword. And yet 'tis an awful thing for me, his wife, to sit by, attempting nothing."
No doubt the chatelaine ought to do something-what? Like Philippa, at Calais, she should wring, by pleading, from her lord, the lives of the condemned. Yet if the pair were so estranged, would she not be laying herself open uselessly to some insult, some rebuff? She admitted that she was growing afraid of her husband. That was bad. The situation was too many-sided for the soldier's unpolished wits. He pondered, and held his peace, and looked up with a sense of relief when, a shadow darkening the light, he beheld his mother, Masago.
The ascetic Abbess gazed proudly and fondly on her son, but with a tinge of concern. She had followed him from the temple, seeing that he turned his horse towards the summer-house; for she loved O'Tei, and was aware of the early passages which had passed between girl and boy. Sampei had such a free way of making love to every woman, that she, elderly and sensible, saw keenly the danger to both, if the neglected wife and pitying brother-in-law were thrown too much together. Side by side, hand clasped in hand, exchanging confidences. An ominous beginning. It was well that she had come, for these young people must be protected against themselves.
While O'Tei, with a ghostly revival of coquetry, was arranging her tumbled hair by aid of a silver mirror, the Abbess drew her son aside, pleading urgent and important business.
"My boy," she said, as, out of earshot, the two paced slowly in the shade, "you are as brave and true as even I could desire, and gratefully I thank the gods for it; but you are guileless; your arm is stronger than your head, and your blood is overwarm."
Perceiving a ludicrous expression of bewilderment on the honest face of her son at this mysterious preamble, she gently smiled, and shook her head at him.
"The best friend a man has," she observed, "is his mother; for a mother's love, undervalued often, is tinged with no selfish taint. Child, child," she sighed, placing a fond hand on his broad shoulder, "take warning while there's time. Do not think me blind, or foolishly importunate. You love O'Tei, and, for sake of both, had better keep apart. Think what tragedy might follow if your brother had cause for jealousy."
Love O'Tei! Was it so patent, then? – he the last to know it? The General in silence walked up and down, while his mother gazed upon him wistfully. There was a deep sadness on his face that pained her. Perhaps in speaking out so plainly, she had been precipitate. Yet no; she had never been one to beat about a bush. Her stern creed admitted no half measures. Presently Sampei spoke.
"For once, most dear and wise of mothers, you are wrong," he said. "I love her; yes, I will not deny it-how much I did not know until ten minutes since. My love is so true and pure, that to save her a momentary grief I would fling myself off yonder rock. Be not afraid; no harm shall come to her through me."
"Noble and chivalrous in intent, just like my boy," nodded the sapient Abbess. "Maybe you are strong enough to carry out your resolve unflinchingly; but what of her? What if she, less prudent and more weak, were to bestow her heart on you? It would lead to general wretchedness, if not to her undoing."
Sampei had not considered it from that point, and ruefully rubbed his nose. It would no doubt be very awkward if O'Tei were to become enamoured of him. In that case, heroic leaps off rocks would be of little service. Then he burst into a loud shout of laughter.
"How like a mother!" he crowed. "Her own offspring being, of course, perfect-a full-plumaged phœnix-all must needs fall down and worship. Believe me, she is as pure as the dawn; her affection that of a sister."
"Now, perhaps, and I sincerely hope so," replied the Abbess quietly; "but you have no right to place her in temptation. So you deem me a silly old woman, too partial to her featherpated son? Well, then, I am forced to tell you, as a warning, that which I intended to conceal, to show that you are over-modest. I trow there are maids galore who wear the willow in secret for the most brilliant soldier in Japan. There is one luckless girl I wot of, who has flung her foolish heart at you-who weeps and languishes for love of you-swears she will have no other lord. Fie! She is a good and honest girl, who would never have thus bestowed herself without encouragement."
"Bestowed herself on me?" exclaimed Sampei, round-eyed, and feeling guilty.
"Her name is Miné."
"Miné!" ejaculated the careless scapegrace. "Tush! I know no Miné."
"For shame! Oh, light and fickle, it is as I guessed," returned the Abbess, with a head-shake that would have been solemn but for a sly flash of merriment in the usually stern eyes. "I have no excuse for the maid, since 'tis vastly reprehensible to throw your heart at one who does not want it; and yet, when her only child is so extremely fascinating, a mother must be indulgent." Sampei appearing quite mystified, Masago pursued more gravely, – "You used to single the poor thing out, bad boy, she says, at the rustic festivals here five years ago, and give her fans and hairpins.