PLAYING KARUTTA
Mrs. Davis sat down on the mat beside her, and after having kissed her very affectionately, asked why she had not been over for so long.
"I come visite you to-morrow," the girl answered, looking a trifle ashamed, as Mrs. Davis regarded her reproachfully. Then, as she started to make further apologies, the American lady said, very sweetly: "Never mind, dear; I understand;—you did not like what I told you the other night."
Numè did not answer. The other Japanese girl watched Mrs. Davis curiously. Mrs. Davis turned smilingly to her and started to say something, but stopped short, a look of puzzled recognition on her face.
"I am sure I have seen your friend somewhere before, but I can't tell where," she said to Numè.
"Perhaps you seeing her at the tea garden, because Koto was, one time, geisha girl."
"Why, of course! I remember now. She was the pretty little Japanese girl who waited on us that day and made Rose Cranston so angry by flirting with Tom."
The girl was smiling at Mrs. Davis. She too recognized her. Mrs. Davis turned to Numè:
"I don't understand, Numè, how—how a geisha girl can be a friend of yours," she said.
Numè looked very grave.
"Japanese lady always have frien' who is also maid. Koto is my maid; also my frien'."
"I understand," the American lady said thoughtfully.
Japanese ladies usually treat their maids more as sisters than as maids. In fact, one of the duties of a maid is to act as companion to her mistress. Hence, it is necessary that the maid be quite accomplished and entertaining. Often a geisha girl will prefer to leave the tea-house where she is employed, to take a position as companion and maid to some kind and rich lady of the Kazoku and Samourai class, and in this way she learns to be very gentle and polite in her manners by copying her little mistress; besides, she will have a good home. It is a peculiar fact that Japanese holding positions such as maid, or, for a man, perhaps as retainer or valet, or even servant, become extremely devoted to their masters and mistresses, remaining with them until they are married, and sometimes preferring to remain with them after they have married, rather than marry themselves. It is no uncommon thing for them to make sacrifices, sometimes almost heroic ones, for their masters or mistresses.
The next day Numè and Koto visited the American lady. Orito had gone up to Yokohama, Numè told her, and would not be back for several days.
"You will be very lonely then, dear."
Numè sat in her favorite position, on the floor at Mrs. Davis' knee. Koto trotted about the room, examining with extreme interest and curiosity the American furnishings and decorations.
"No; I nod be lonely," Numè said, "because I nod seen Orito many days—so I ged used."
"He must be a very bad boy to keep away from you so many days," Mrs. Davis said, playfully.
"Oh, no! Orito is vaery good boy." She sat still and thoughtful for a while, her feet drawn under her, her little hands clasped in her lap.
"Do the pretty Americazan ladies always luf when they marry?"
"Nearly always, Numè."
Numè nodded her head thoughtfully. "Japanese girls nod always luf," she said, wistfully. "Koto say only geisha girls marry for luf."
"That must be because they are thrown into contact with men and boys, while Japanese ladies are secluded. Is it not so, dear?"
"Ess. Mrs. Davees, do you lig' that I am goin' to marry Orito?"
"Yes, very much—I am sure you will be very happy with him. He is so good. No one has said anything to you about—about it, have they?" she added, anxiously, fearing perhaps the girl had heard of what Orito had told his father.
"No," she said. "No one talk of luf to Numè bud Mrs. Davees; thad is why Numè lig' to talk to you."
The American lady smiled.
"Suppose Japanese girl lig' instead some nize, pretty genleman, and she marry with some one she nod like?" She emphasized this question, and threw a charming glance at Mrs. Davis.
"Do you mean the case of a girl betrothed to one man and in love with another?"
"Ess."
"Why, I don't know what she could do then, Numè. What put such an idea into your head?"
Numè did not reply for a moment. Then she said, very shyly: "Numè not lig' the big, ugly Americazan genleman any more. I telling him so."
"Numè!"
"Ess, I tell Mr. Sinka I nod lig'—thad you telling me so."
"Well, Numè!" Mrs. Davis' voice betrayed her impatience. "What did you do that for?"
The girl half shrugged her little shoulders.
"Oa! I dunno."
"Numè, you must be careful how you speak to men. Don't tell them anything. If you like them, keep it to yourself; it's a good thing you told him you disliked him, this time, and did not leave him with the impression that you were in love with him. You know, dear, girls have to be very careful who they like."
"Bud, Mr. Sinka tell me nod to let any one choose for me—thad I lig'"—she paused a moment, and added vaguely, "thad I lig' who I lig'."
"Really, Numè, you might take my advice before Mr. Sinclair's," the older lady said, quite provoked.
The girls stayed to dinner with Mrs. Davis. Koto had never eaten an American dinner before, though Numè had grown quite used to it. Following the national custom, she ate all placed before her by her hostess, and Mrs. Davis, knowing of this little habit of hers, which was more an act of compliment to her hostess than of liking for the food, was always very careful not to serve her too much. She quite forgot that Koto would be altogether unused to the food. The two little Japanese women presented a very pretty contrast. Both were small and, in their way, pretty. Koto had a round-faced, bright-eyed, shy prettiness; while Numè's face was oval and pure in contour. She chatted very happily and confidently, now in Japanese to Koto, now in pretty broken English to Mr. and Mrs. Davis.
Koto ate her dinner in silence, her face strangely white and pitiful. Very bravely she ate the strange food, however, stopping at nothing. She looked with wonder at the butter (something the Japanese never use), puzzling for a moment what she was supposed to do with it, then picked the little round pat from the butter-plate, slipped it into her tea, and drank the tea.
Mr. Davis saw this act, and choked.
"What is the matter, Walter?"
"Er—er—hum—nothing, my dear! I—a—Oh, Lord!" This last ejaculation was provoked by another act of Koto's. On the table was a small plate of chowchow. The servant passed it to Koto, thinking perhaps she would like some with her meat. Instead of helping herself to some, the girl held the dish in her hand, hesitated a moment, and then very heroically ate the hot stuff all up with the small china spoon in the dish. Her eyes were full of tears when she had finished.
"What is it, Koto-san?" Numè asked, gently.
"It is the barbarian food," the girl answered, desperately, in Japanese. "I do not like it."
Numè translated this to the Americans, apologizing for the remark by saying:
"Koto always been geisha girl. Tha's why she is nod most careful in her speech. It was most rude that she spik' so of the kind Americazan's food, bud the geisha girl is only stylish, and nod understan' to spik' polite to foreigners."
This elaborate, rather mixed apology, the Americans took very good-naturedly, telling Numè to assure Koto that they bore her no malice whatever, and that, in fact, they owed her an apology for not having remembered that she was a stranger to their food. Besides, the Americans were just as foolish when they had eaten Japanese food.
After dinner Numè resumed her seat by Mrs. Davis, while her husband took Koto through the house, glad of an opportunity to air his limited knowledge of Japanese; for Numè seldom permitted them to address her save in English, pretending to make great fun of their Japanese in order to make them speak English to her. They, on the other hand, always praised her English extravagantly.
"I want you to promise me, Numè, that you will never tell any man you care for him again, unless it is Orito."
"Why shall I promise?" the girl asked.
"Because it is not the right thing to say to any one."
"But if I luf——"
"Nonsense; you are not going to love except as all good Japanese girls do—after your marriage."
"But you say one time thad is shame for me thad I only luf after I marry."
"Well, I have been thinking it over," the other answered, a trifle rattled—"and—and really, you are all so happy with things that way I wouldn't advise your changing the custom."
"Bud Japanese girl luf a liddle before they marry. After marriage big bit. Koto say geisha girl luf big bit before they marry. Koto luf vaery much Japanese boy in Tokyo——"
"That is good, and are they to be married?"
"Ah, no; because he worg vaery hard to mag' money, but Koto say mag' vaery liddle money, so she come worg' for me, and save—afterward they marry vaery habby."
Numè looked at the American lady with eyes full of wistful wondering: "I thing' I lig' vaery much thad I luf and be habby too. Numè nod know thad she luf Orito vaery much—Ess, she luf him vaery much, bud—sometimes I thing' I nod luf him too much; sometimes I thing' mebbe Orito nod luf me too much."
"Of course, you do love him, goosie. Now, don't begin thinking you don't, because one often convinces oneself of things that are not actually so."
"Bud I do nod thing' much of Orito," the girl contradicted; and added, shyly: "I thing', instead, of Mr. Sinka—but I not lig'—No! Numè nod lig' Mr. Sinka;" she shook her head violently.
Mrs. Davis called all the argument she could to her aid.
"You ought not to think of him, Numè; that is wicked, because he belongs to some one else."
The girl's face had lost its wistfulness. Now it was arch and complacent.
"Perhaps Numè is vaery wigged," she smiled. "Koto say all girls thad are habby are wigged."
"Koto is a bad girl if she told you that. Don't let her teach you about the geisha girls, dear—Er—every one knows they are not a good class, at all."
Numè tossed her head provokingly. "All the same, Numè still thing' of Mr. Sinka."
Her persistence astounded Mrs. Davis. She felt almost like shaking the girl; and yet there was something so sweet and innocent in her openly acknowledging that she thought of Sinclair.
She had not been out much, nor had she seen many people since the night of the party. Therefore, it was quite natural that, as Sinclair had made such an impression on her that night, she should think about him a great deal. Moreover, Koto, with a geisha girl's usual flippancy and love of anything savoring of romance, had perhaps fostered this feeling. The girls had discussed him.
Ever since he had told his father of his love for the American girl, Orito had been very kind to her, though sometimes Numè fancied he wished to tell her something. Her interest in Sinclair had not spoiled her loyalty to Orito, which she had felt and cultivated all these years. Koto had encouraged her in the idea of flirting with the American. That was all. She never for an instant thought of breaking off her betrothal with Orito. She had grown used to that, and, unlike Orito, she had not been in America, so that she still was Japanese enough to be obedient. Besides, she really did love Orito in a way that she herself did not comprehend. Because, although it pleased her very much to be with him, to chat and tell him all the news of the neighborhood in which they lived, ask his advice and opinion on different subjects, yet her mind kept constantly wandering from him, and she could call up no genuine warmth or enthusiasm in her affection for him. The truth was, her love for him was merely that of a young sister for a very dear brother, one from whom she had been parted for a long time.
Perhaps Orito recognized this fact, and for that reason seldom wearied her with over-attention. He was tenderness itself to her; he took great interest in all her studies; played games with her and Koto; and tried in every way possible to make things pleasant for her. In this way a very dear sympathy had sprung up between them. Although Orito had told her nothing directly of his plans, yet he had often tried to give her some inkling of the state of affairs. Thus, he would say: "I will be your friend and brother forever, Numè-san."
Numè had a peculiar temperament for a Japanese girl. Although apparently open and ingenuous and artless in all things, nevertheless where she chose to be she could keep her own counsel, and one might almost have accused her of being sly. But then the girl was far from being as childish, or as innocent and contented, as she seemed at times. On the contrary, her nature was self-willed almost to stubbornness. She either loved one with all her strength, or she was indifferent, or she hated one fiercely. There was nothing lukewarm about her. Perhaps when she should meet the one to whom she could give her heart, she would give it with a passion that would shake every fibre of her little body. This was the reason why she was restless in her betrothal to Orito.
She instinctively felt her capability for a deeper love. The Japanese are not, as a rule, a demonstrative people. It is said to be a weakness to love before marriage, though a great many do so, especially those who are thrown into contact with the opposite sex to any extent. Numè knew this, and strove bravely to live up to the popular idea. She did not, as yet, understand her own self, nor was she cognizant of the possibilities for feeling which were latent in her. She attributed her restlessness solely to the fact that she was so soon to be married. She had not analyzed the word "love." It had only existed in her vocabulary since she had known the Americans. She had tired Mrs. Davis out asking questions about it. "Was this luf good?" "Was it wrong to luf too many people?" "Why must she not tell when she lufed any one?" "Did the pretty Americazan ladies luf their husbands, and was that why they were always so proud and beautiful?" "She" (Numè) "would like to luf too."—"How would she know it?"
These almost unanswerable questions, and many others, she put to Mrs Davis, that lady answering them as sagely and wisely as possible, the natural love of romance prompting her to encourage the girl to talk so, but her desire to give only such advice as would keep her from thinking of Sinclair causing her to modify her answers so that they might suit the case. The worst of the matter was that although Numè would thank her very sweetly for any information on the subject, she had a lingering doubt that she ever wholly believed her, and that, in spite of her advice, the girl would willfully permit her thoughts to run riot. No! the Americazan lady could not prevent Numè from thinking of whom she chose.
This visit to Mrs. Davis' house broke the retirement Omi and Numè had planned for themselves. Besides, the girl was tired of the seclusion, and wanted to go out once more. And Omi had lost a good deal of the old interest in his daughter that he had had before Orito had told him of his love for the American girl. He was still very strict with her, at times; but soon he got into the habit of neglecting her, and would go over to the house of Sachi, where the two old men would sit mournfully together, neither of them alluding in any way to their children; so that Numè was left a great deal to herself, and allowed to do pretty much as she liked. She and Koto would start out in the mornings with their lunches in tiny baskets, and would spend the entire day on the hills, or the shores of the Hayama, wandering idly in the cool shade of the trees, or gathering pebbles and shells on the shore. Sometimes they would join parties of young Japanese girls and boys, who came up to the hills from a little village near there. They were the children of fishermen, and were plump and healthy and happy. Numè and Koto would play with them as joyously as if they, themselves, were children.
One day when Numè and Koto were in the woods alone together, and Numè had made Koto tell her over and over again of the gay life of the geisha girls in Tokyo, Numè said:
"Koto-san, let us some day go up to Tokyo alone. Lots of girls now travel alone, and we are so near the city. We would not let my father know, and as he is away with Takashima Sachi all day, he would never miss us. No one will recognize us in the city, or if they do they'll think we are there with some friends, but it is common for two girls to be together in the city, is it not, Koto?"
Koto said it was, but looked a trifle scared at this proposal. However, she was as eager as Numè to carry it out, for they had both grown very tired of the quietness of their life; especially Koto, who was used to the noisy city. She entered into the project at once.
"Let me go first to the city alone to-morrow," she said, "and I will tell your father that I have business to do there; then I will go and make arrangements at a jinrikisha stand to send a special vehicle to meet us each day—or every other day."
"And will we see Shiku?" Numè asked.
Koto's face beamed.
"If you say so, Numè-san—if you will permit."
"Why, of course I will," Numè said, excitedly. "Where will we see him?"
"I will tell him to meet us. He works for the American consul, and he is very good to Shiku."
Numè looked at her narrowly.
"Do you know, Koto-san, that the American consul is the Mr. Sinka I tell you of?"
"No; Shiku calls him only 'master sir,' and 'the consul.'"
Numè was silent a moment.
"And will we see the consul also, Koto?"
"Oh, no! because if we do not want any one to know we must be very careful not to be recognized."
So the two girls planned, and the next day Koto went up to the city and made every arrangement.
It was about two weeks later. Orito had not returned from Yokohama, neither had Cleo Ballard returned from Matsushima. She was enchanted with the beauty of the wonderful bay, and after the strain she had been under in Tokyo, it was a great relief for her to be away from the noise of the city in a spot that suggested only beauty and rest.
Sinclair had not accompanied them on the trip. He had been somewhat surprised at the haste in which it had been undertaken, and had told Cleo that unless he could travel leisurely he did not care to go at all; besides, he never enjoyed traveling with a large party of tourists, preferring to go alone with one congenial companion. However, he urged her to go, saying that he might run down himself and join them in a few days.
After the departure of the party he was left almost entirely to himself. He found time for looking about him. It was a relief for the time being to feel free once more, and to come and go as he chose; whereas, when the Ballards were in the city, he had always felt in duty bound to be with them constantly, and to place himself and his time entirely at their disposal. Sinclair was not looking well. He had grown thin and nervous, and there was a harassed look about his usually sunny face. Sinclair was by no means an extraordinary or brilliant man. He was easy-going in disposition, a trifle stern and harsh to those he disliked, but as a rule genial and easy to get on with. He was a favorite both with men and women. He was too good-natured to be a strong man, perhaps, and was easily swayed by his own likes and dislikes.
His engagement worried him more than he cared to admit. He told himself constantly that he ought to be happy, that nine men out of ten would have envied him Cleo. He recognized that she was good and generous, as well as beautiful; but yet all this seemed rather to paralyze his efforts to love her than otherwise. He knew her beauty and charms too well. When a man admits to himself that he has summed up all a woman's charms, then be sure affection begins to wane; for where there is love the lover is constantly discovering new charms, and, in fact, even those he has known are ever new to him.
Sinclair was weary. The prospect of his marriage appalled him. Even the beauty of the country, in which he had hitherto taken such great delight, ceased to interest him. It was replete with sadness now. The girl's departure was an unconscious respite and relief to him.
After they had left he threw himself into the actual joy of living, which life in Japan always suggests. He succumbed to the dolce far niente of the atmosphere, went out into the country, with his Japanese interpreter and office boy, and even on two or three occasions visited the tea-houses and frivolled away a few dreamy hours with the light-hearted geishas.
Often he and an English traveler named Taylor would find a quiet spot on the Hayama, where they would spend the entire day fishing, a favorite pastime of Sinclair's. Shiku would accompany them, carrying their rods and the Englishman's sketching apparatus, for in a quiet, unobtrusive fashion Taylor was quite a clever artist, though he painted almost entirely for his own pleasure. He would often desert the rod for the brush and leave Sinclair to fish alone, while he tried to reproduce parts of the exquisite, incomparable landscape; for, as some clever Japanese poet has described the scenery in Japan, it consists of "precious jewels in little caskets," and that within the vicinity of Fuji-Yama, from many points of which a distant view of the peerless mountain can be seen, is one of the most beautiful of all the lovely spots in Japan.
Taylor was of an uncommunicative, reticent nature,—strong and staunch. Between the two men an inexplicable friendship had sprung up, one that partook of no confidence betwixt them, but showed itself simply in the pleasure they took in being together.
One balmy day in June, when the woods were so still that scarce a leaf stirred on the branches of the trees that shaded a spot along the Hayama where the two friends were fishing and smoking together, they were aroused from a pleasing silence by voices on the road which ran curving along the river bank only a short distance from where they sat. They were women's voices, and they were raised in protest. The Englishman lazily puffed on at his pipe, saying laconically:
"Some damned jinrikisha man, I suppose. Got a nasty habit, some of them, of demanding extra fare of women when they get them well on the road, and then, if they don't pay, won't carry them any further."
The American turned to Shiku:
"Go and see what you can do, Shiku."
Shiku ran lithely through the small bush that separated them from the road. After a time he came back, his face flushed and indignant.
"The lady has forgot to bring more money than the fare, and now the runners will charge more."
Sinclair stopped watching the line at the end of his rod. He put his hand carelessly into his trousers pocket, pulling out a handful of small change. "How much is it, Shiku?"
"Fifteen sen."
"Here you are."
"Wait a moment," said the Englishman, slowly, pulling in his line. "I'll just step over with you, and punch his head for him."
Sinclair smiled to himself as he watched his tall, strong figure disappear among the trees. As he did not return for some time, Sinclair also drew in his line, and sauntered toward the road. Taylor was not bullying the runners. Instead, he was listening very attentively to the little Japanese women in the jinrikisha, who seemed tearful and excited. As Sinclair came nearer to them he caught what one of them was saying:
"An' I bring no more moaneys." The halting English struck him with a pleased ring of familiarity. He turned sharply to look at her face. It was Numè!
It did not take Sinclair long to learn the source of her trouble. It seems she and Koto had been making trips to Tokyo, and had made special arrangements with a jinrikisha man to take them for so much per week. Unfortunately, two new runners had been given to them that day. Like the rest of their class, they were unscrupulous and, consequently, as soon as they were in a portion of the road from which the girls could not attempt either to walk to the city or to their home, they had stopped to demand extra fare. This the girls could not pay them, having no more with them. Thereupon the runners had refused to carry them farther. It was in this pitiful plight the two men had found them.
Sinclair reprimanded the men very severely, threatening to report them to the police, as soon as he returned to Tokyo. He could not be too harsh, however, because at heart he was thanking them for giving him this happy chance to see Numè again.
How pretty she looked in the soft kimona! He had only seen her in conventional American evening dress. It had seemed to him, then, wonderfully lovely and suited to her; now he thought it incongruous when compared to the Japanese gown on her.
"You must have been awfully frightened," he said; "better stop a while until you are composed;" then, as the girls hesitated, "I'll fix it all right with the runners." He did so, and soon all were in good humor. As for Numè and Koto, they stepped daintily, almost fearfully, from the jinrikisha, and followed the two men to the pretty shaded spot, leaving the jinrikisha men with their vehicles to take care of themselves.
Sinclair noticed that the Englishman seemed to know Numè. He addressed her as Miss Watanabe, and inquired after Mrs. Davis.
"You have met before, I see," he remarked.
"Ess," the girl smiled; and Taylor repeated the incident of how he had spoken to her father of the girl's beauty.
"Did I offend you?" he asked the girl.
"Ess."
Both Sinclair and Taylor laughed heartily at her assent, and the two girls joined in, scarcely knowing what they were laughing at, but feeling strangely happy and free.
Numè called their attention to Koto, telling them she was her friend and maid. Sinclair recognized the girl almost immediately as she smiled at him.
"And so you have been making almost daily trips to Tokyo?" he said, wondering at the girl's skill in evading detection.
"Ess—we become so lonely."
"Well, it's a jolly shame to shut you up like they do the women here," Taylor said, with a vivid memory of how the girl had been kept under such rigid seclusion after his conversation with her father. Taylor began fumbling with his sketching tools.
"Will you let me paint you, Miss Numè?" he asked. "I'll make the sky a vivid blue behind you, and paint you like a bright tropic flower standing out against it."
The girl looked at Sinclair standing behind Taylor. He shook his head at her.
"No," she said, with exaggerated dignity, "Numè does not wish to be painted."
"Well, what about Koto?"
Koto nodded her head in undisguised pleasure at the prospect.
While Taylor sketched Koto, Sinclair and Numè wandered away from them, and finding a pretty shady spot sat down together. The girl was strangely shy, though she did not pretend to hide the artless pleasure she had in seeing him again.
"What have you been doing with yourself all these days, Numè?"
"Nosing."
"I thought you had been making sly trips to Tokyo?"
"I was so lonely," the girl said, sadly.
"You ought to be very happy now—now that your marriage is assured."
"Numè is nod always habby," she answered, wistfully. "Sometimes I tell Mrs. Davees I am nod vaery, VAERY habby, an' she laf at me, tell me I donno how habby I am."
"But why are you not always happy?"
"I don't to understand. I thing' thad I want to—" she looked Sinclair in the face with serious, wistful eyes—"I thing' I want to be luf," she said.
Sinclair felt the blood rush to his head in a torrent at this strange, ingenuous confession. The girl's sweet face fascinated him strangely. He had thought of her constantly ever since he had met her. With her strange, foreign, half-wild beauty, she awakened in him all the slumbering passion of his nature, and at the same time, because of her sweetness, innocence and purity of heart, a finer sense of chivalry than he had ever felt before—a wish to protect her.
"You do not need to wish to be loved, Numè—every one who knows you must love you."
"Koto luf me," she said, "tha's all. My fadder vaery proud of me sometimes, an' thad I marry with Orito; Orito luf me a liddle, liddle bit—Mrs. Davees—vaery good friend—you——" she paused, looking at him questioningly. Then she added, shyly:
"You are vaery good friend too, I thing'."
Sinclair had forgotten everything save the witching beauty of the girl at his side. She continued speaking to him:
"Are you habby, too?" she asked.
"Sometimes, Numè; not always."
"Mrs. Davees tell me thad you luf the pretty Americazan lady all with your heart, an' thad you marry with her soon, so Numè thing' you mus' be vaery habby."
Sinclair made a nervous gesture, but he did not answer Numè. After a while he said:
"Numè, one does not always love where one marries."
"No—in Japan naever; bud Mrs. Davees say nearly always always in America."
"Mrs. Davis is wrong this time, Numè."
About a half hour later he heard Taylor calling to them.
"Numè," he said, as he helped her rise to her feet, "I know a pretty spot on the river not far from your home. Won't you and Koto come there instead of going all the way to Tokyo?"
The girl nodded her head. As they started up the hill she said: "Mrs. Davees tell me not to say too much to you."
"Don't put any bar on your speech, Numè. There is nothing you may not say;" he paused, "but—er—perhaps you had better not say anything to her about our meeting."
He was strangely abstracted as he and Taylor trudged back to their hotel. The Englishman glanced at him sideways.
"Nice little girl, that—Numè-san."
Taylor stopped in the walk to knock the ash from his pipe against a huge oak tree.
"Hope she is not like the rest of them."
"What do you mean?"
"Ah—well, don't you know—lots of fire and all that—but as for heart—ever hear the old saying: 'A Japanese flower has no smell, and a Japanese woman no heart'?"
The perfume-laden blossoms and flowers about them stole their sweetness into his nostrils even as he spoke. Perhaps Sinclair recognized this.
"It is doubtless as untrue of the woman as the flower. Ah—pretty good smelling flowers those over there, eh?" He plucked a couple of wild flowers that resembled the pink.
"Well, I guess the poet—or—fool—who said that alluded only to the national flower—the chrysanthemum," Taylor said.
"Apparently—yes; he was a fool;—didn't know what he was talking about."
Summer in the woods—summer in Japan! Ah! the poet Hitomaru sang truly over a thousand years ago, when he said: "Japan is not a land where men need pray, for 'tis itself divine." It seemed as if the Creator had expended all the wealth of his passion and soul in the making of Nippon (Japan) the land of beauty. It pulsated with a warm, wild, luxuriant beauty; the sun seemed to shine more broadly over that fair island, kissed and bathed it in a perpetual glow until the skies and the waters, which in their clearness mirrored its glory, became as huge rainbows of ever-changing and brilliant colors. Color is surely contagious; for the wild birds, that sang deliriously, wore coats that dazzled the eye; the grass and flowers, the trees and blossoms were tinged with a beauty found nowhere else on earth; and even the human inhabitants caught the spirit of the Color Queen and fashioned their garments to harmonize with their surroundings. So, also, the artists of Japan painted pictures that had no shadows, and the people built their houses and colored them in accord with nature.
What spirit of romance and enchantment lurked in every woodland path, every rippling brook or stream! Sinclair was intoxicated with the beauty of the country. It is true he had lived there nearly three years now, but never had it struck him as being so gloriously lovely. Why was there an added charm and beauty to all things in life? Why was there music even in the drone of the crickets in the grass? Sinclair was in love! Love, the great beautifier, had crept into his heart, unseen. Numè knew it—knew that Sinclair loved her. From the first he had never even tried to battle against the growing love for Numè which was consuming him, so that he thought of nothing else, night or day. His letters to Cleo Ballard grew wandering and nervous, or he did not write at all to her. He would neglect official business to meet Numè on the banks of the Hayama, and spend whole days in her company, with no one by them save the wee things of nature, and within call of Koto and Shiku. Neither did Numè struggle against or make any resistance. With all the force of her intense nature she returned his love. And it was the awakening of this love in her that had taught her to be discreet. She had taken the lesson well to heart that Mrs. Davis had taught her—to tell no man she loved him even if she did love him.
"Orito is coming home neg's weeg," she told him one morning.
Sinclair drew his breath in sharply.
"It will mean, then, the end of our—our happy days in the woods."
Numè was feeling perverse. Why did not Mr. Sinka tell her he cared for her—did he love the beautiful American lady more than he did her?
"Oh, no—not the end, Mr. Sinka," she said; and added, cruelly, "Orito can come, too."
It was the first time she had ever seemed to trifle with him. Hitherto she had always been so gentle and lovable. He felt a pain at his heart, and his eyes were quite stern and contracted.
"Numè," he said, almost harshly, "you—you surely hold our meetings more sacred than that. You know they would lose their essence of happiness and freedom, with the intrusion of a third party."
The girl was filled with remorse, in an instant.
"Ess, Mr. Sinka," she said. "Please forgive bad Numè."
"Forgive you, Numè!" He turned his eyes reluctantly from the girl's flushed face. "Oh! little witch," he whispered, holding her hands with a passionate fierceness. "You tempt me so—tempt me to forget everything save that I am with you."
She let her hands rest in his a moment. Then she withdrew them and rose to her feet restlessly. Sinclair rose also, looking at her with yearning in his face.
"Why do you speag lig' thad, Mr. Sinka?" she asked.
"Numè, Numè, don't you understand—don't you know?"
"No! Numè does not onderstand Americazan. Mrs. Davees tell me thad the Americazan genleman mag' luf to poor liddle Japanese women, but he nod really luf—only laf at her."
A cold anger crept over Sinclair.
"So she has been telling you some more yarns?"
"No; she telling thad yarns long, long time ago."
He recovered himself with an effort.
"I won't make love to you, Numè," he said, bitterly. "You need not fear."
In his misery at his helplessness and inability to tell the girl how much he loved and wanted her, he was doubting her,—wondering whether it were indeed the truth that a Japanese woman had no heart. A feeling of utter misery came over him as he thought that perhaps Numè had been only playing with him, that her shy, seeming pleasure in being with him was all assumed. He looked down at the girl beside him. Perhaps she felt that look. She raised her little head and smiled at him, smiled confidently, almost lovingly. His doubts vanished.
"Numè—Numè!" was all he said; but he kissed her little hands at parting with a vehemence and passion he had never known.
"Koto," Numè said that night, as the maid brushed her hair till it shone bright and glossy as the shining jade-stone she placed before the huge Buddha when she visited the Kawnnon temple, "Mr. Sinka luf me."
"I know," the other said, quite complacently, and as though she had never had even the smallest doubt about it.
"Why, Koto," Numè turned around in surprise, "how do you know?"
"Shiku tell me first. He say always the august consul carry with him the flowers you give him, and he leave his big work for to come and see you."
Numè smiled happily.
"Do you think he will love me forever, Koto?"
"Ah, no!" Koto answered, elaborately; "because the august consul is to marry with the honorably august American woman in two months now, and of course he love only his wife then."
This answer displeased Numè. She spoke quite sharply to Koto. "But he tells me love never dies; that when he will love somebody he love her only forever."
Koto shrugged her shoulders.
"Americans are very funny. I do not understand them."
The next day Numè asked Sinclair whether he thought it possible for one who was married to love any one else besides his wife.
"Yes, Numè, it is possible," he said.
Then an idea struck him that she was thinking of her own case and her approaching marriage to Orito.
"I don't believe in such marriages," he said. "I would despise a woman who loved one man and married another." Numè smiled sadly.
"Ah, Mr. Sinka, that's vaery mos' sad thad you despising poor liddle womans. Will you despise also grade big mans who do same thing?"
Then Sinclair comprehended. His face was quite haggard.
"Oh, Numè, Numè-san," he almost groaned, "what can I do?" The girl was silent, waiting for his confidence.
"You understand, Numè, don't you—understand that I love you?"
The girl quivered with his passion, for a moment, then she stood still in the path, a quiet, questioning, almost accusing, little figure.
"But soon you will marry with the red-haired lady," she said.
"No! I cannot!" he burst out, passionately. "I won't give you up! Numè, I—I will try to free myself. It must not be, now. It would be wronging all of us. Sweetheart, I never cared for her. I never loved any one in the world but you, and I think I loved you even that first night. I will tell her all about it, Numè. She is a good woman, and will give me my freedom. Then she will go back to America, and we will be married and be together here—in this garden of Eden." He was holding her little hands in his now, and looking into her face hungrily.
"Think of it, Numè," he repeated; "only you and I together—always together—no more parting at the turn of the road—no more long, long nights alone. Oh! Numè! Numè!"
"But Orito?" she said, with pitiful pain. "Ah! my father would surely kill me. You dunno my people."
"Yes, I do, sweetheart. You must tell them—they will forgive in time—promise me, Numè—sweetheart."
He drew her towards him, but the girl still held back.
"Wait," she cried, almost in terror. "We mus' be sure firs' thad my father, thad Orito will not killing me."
"Kill you!" the man scoffed at the idea.
"Bud Numè is afraid," she persisted, and pulled her little hands desperately from his. She ran a little way from him, a sudden feeling of shyness and terror possessing her.
"Koto!" she called.
At the bend of the road where they were wont to part Sinclair helped her into the waiting jinrikisha. Her little hand rested against his sleeve for a moment. She was not afraid now—now that Koto was with her, and the runners were watching them. She was not afraid to let him read her little heart now. Such a look of tenderness and love and passion was in her small flower face as filled Sinclair with a wild elation.
"My little passion flower," he whispered, and bending kissed her little hand fervently.
When the girls reached their home that afternoon they found Mrs. Davis waiting for them. Numè, who thrilled with a joy she herself could not comprehend, ran to her, and putting her arms about her neck, clung with a sudden passion to her.
"Oh, Numè is so habby," she said.
Mrs. Davis undid the clinging arms, and looked the girl in the face. Then Numè noticed for the first time that the American lady was unusually silent, and seemed almost offended about something. Numè tried to shake off the loving mood that still lingered with her, for where one is in love there is a desire to caress and shower blessings everywhere, and on all living creatures. So it was with Numè.
"I want to have a talk with you, Numè dear," Mrs. Davis, said, gravely; and then turning coldly to Koto she added, "No, not even Koto must stay." The little maid left them together.
"Numè, how could you be so sly?"
"Sly!" the girl was startled.
"Yes—to think that all these weeks when you have been pretending to be alone with Koto in the woods, you have been meeting Mr. Sinclair."
The girl turned on her defiantly.
"I nod telling you account tha's nod business for you."
"Well, Numè!"
"I getting vaery lonely, and meeting only by accident with Mr. Sinka."
"Does your father know?" the other asked, relentlessly.
The girl approached her with terror. "No! Oh, Mrs. Davees, don't tell yet." After a time she asked her: "How did you know?"
"I learned it by accident through a clerk at the consulate. How he knows—and how many others know of it, I cannot say." She almost wrung her hands in her distress. She saw it was no use being angry with Numè, and that she might do more by being patient with her. She had learned merely the fact of Sinclair's being in the woods each day with a Japanese girl. This had set her to thinking; Koto's and Numè's long absences in the country each day—a few questions and a handful of sen to the runners who had been loitering in her vicinity for some days now with their vehicles, and she soon knew the truth.
Just how far things had gone between Sinclair and Numè she must find out from the girl herself, though she was not prepared to trust her completely when she realized how Numè had deceived her all these weeks. She was determined to help Cleo, and felt almost guilty when she remembered that she had urged the girl to make the trip which might result in so much disaster to her, for Jenny Davis knew Cleo Ballard well enough to know that it would break her heart to give Sinclair up now, after all the years she had waited for him.
"Numè," she said, quite sadly, "don't look at me so resentfully. I want only to do my duty by you and my friend. Let me be your friend. Oh! Numè, if you had confided in me we could have avoided all this."
Numè had a tender spot in her heart for Mrs. Davis, who had always been so good to her.
"Forgive Numè," she said, impulsively, and for a moment the two women clung together, the American woman almost forgetting, for the moment, everything save the girl's sweet spontaneity and impulsiveness. Then she pulled herself together, remembering Cleo.
"Numè, tell me just what—just how—all about the—the meetings with Mr. Sinclair."
The girl shook her head, flushed and rebellious.
"Me? I nod tell. Mr. Sinka tell me—all too saked."
Mrs. Davis caught her breath.
"He told you—told you the—the—meetings were sacred?"
Numè nodded:
"Ess."
"Then he is not an honorable man, Numè, because he is betrothed to another woman."
"Bud he writing her to breag'," the girl said, triumphantly.
"He write to—Numè, what are you talking about? Are you conscienceless? When did he write—what?"
"He say he writing soon, and I telling Orito, too."
The girl's complacency cut Mrs. Davis to the quick. She forgot all about Cleo's flirtations. She remembered only that Cleo was her dearest friend—that this strange Japanese girl might cause her immeasurable trouble and pain, and that she must do something to prevent it.
"Numè, you can't really care for—for Sinclair."
"Ess—I luf," the girl interrupted, softly.
"Come and sit at my knee, Numè, like—like you used to do. So! now I will tell you a little story. How hot your little head is—you are tired? No? Oh, Numè, Numè, you have been a very foolish—very cruel little girl." Nevertheless, she bent and kissed the wistful upturned face.
"Once there was a young girl," Mrs. Davis began, "who was born in a beautiful city away across the seas. She was just as beautiful and good—as—as you are, Numè. But, although the city was very beautiful in which she lived, she had very little in her life to make her happy. She lived all alone in a house so big that the halls and stairways were as long as—as the pagodas. She seldom saw her father because he was always away traveling, and, besides, he did not love children much. Her mother was always sick, and when the little girl came near her she would fret and worry, and say that the little girl made her nervous. So she grew up very, very hungry for some one to love her. After a time, when she became a beautiful young lady, many men thought they loved her; but she had grown so used to not loving, and to not being loved by any one, that she never could care for any of them. At last there came one man who seemed different to her from all the others. And, Numè, he fell in love with her—and she loved him. Oh! you don't know how much they loved each other. They were with each other constantly, and, and,—are you tired?" she interrupted herself to ask the girl, who had moved restlessly.
"No."
"Well, Numè, then her lover, that she loved so much you would have cried to have seen her, went far, far away from her to take a fine position, and he promised her faithfully that he would love only her, and would send for her soon. So the girl waited. But he did not send for her soon, Numè. He kept putting off and putting off—till three long years had passed; and all this time she had been true to him—waiting for him only to say the word to come. Then, at last, he wrote to her, asking her to come to him all the way across the seas—thousands and thousands of miles, and she left her beautiful home, and came with her sick mother to join him."
Numè's eyes were fastened on her face with a look of intense interest.
"Ess?" she said, as the American lady paused.
"When she reached him she found he had changed—though she had not. He was cold, and always bored; kind to her at times, and indifferent at others. Still, she loved him so much she forgave him, and was so sweet and gentle to him that even he began to melt and began to be kinder to her, and all, Numè, would have turned out happily, and he would have loved her as he used to, only—only——" she paused in her story. She had exaggerated and drawn on her imagination strongly in order to make an impression on Numè; for she knew the girl's weakness lay in her tender heart.
"Only whad, Mrs. Davees?"
"Numè—the girl was Miss Ballard—the man Mr. Sinclair. Oh, Numè, you don't want to separate them now after all these years. Think how cruel it would be. It would kill her, and——"
Numè had risen to her feet. She looked out at the burning blaze of the oriental landscape, the endless blue of the fields—at the misty mountains in the distance. She was trying to reason. The first real trouble of her life had come to her. She thought of all to whom she would bring sorrow should she yield to Sinclair; of the two old fathers, for she knew nothing as yet of what Orito had told them. She thought of the beautiful American girl, and remembered the look on her face that night of the ball. She wondered how she would have felt in her place. Her voice was quite subdued and hushed as she turned to Mrs. Davis.
"Numè will marry only Orito," she said. "Numè will tell Mr. Sinka so."
The other woman put her arms around the girl and attempted to draw her to her with the old affection; but Numè shrank strangely from her, and perhaps half the pleasure at her success was lost as Mrs. Davis saw the look of mute suffering in the girl's face.
It was with a heart full of yearning and love that Sinclair waited for Numè the next day. She was late; or was it that that last look of hers had turned his head so that he had come earlier than usual to the spot, unable to wait the appointed time?
He found himself planning their future together. How he would love her—his bright tropic flower, his pure shining star—his singing bird. Every leaf that stirred startled him. He tried to absorb himself in the beauty of the country, but his restlessness at her failure to come caused him to go constantly to the road and see if there were any signs of her.
At last he heard the faint, unmistakable beat, beat, beat of sandaled runners. They started his blood throbbing wildly through his veins. She was coming—the woman he loved, the dear little woman who had told him she loved him—not in words—but with that last parting, sweet look; and oh! Numè was too sweet, too genuine, too pure, to deceive.
As he helped her from the jinrikisha and looked at her with all his pent-up longing and eagerness, she turned her head aside with a constrained look. Koto stayed close by her, and refused to take any suggestion from Sinclair to leave them alone together.
Numè began to talk hastily, and as though she could not wait.
"We have had lots of fon, Mr. Sinka?"
"Fun!—why, Numè!"
She opened her little fan and shaded her face a moment.
"Ess—Numè and all Japanese girl luf to have fon."
"Numè—I don't like that word. It is inapplicable in our case."
He tried to take her hand in his, but it clung persistently to her fan, while the other remained hidden in the folds of her robe.
"My little girl is quite cross," he said, thinking she was trying to tease him.
"No! Numè nod mos' vaery cross;" after a moment she added, in a hard voice: "Numè does nod want to have any more fon." She clung to that word persistently.
"You do not want any more fun, Numè!" he repeated, slowly; "I don't understand you."
"Ess—it is all fon," she said. "All fon thad we pretending to luf."
"All fun?" he echoed, stupidly. "What is all fun, Numè? Why, what is the matter, sweetheart—why so contrary to-day?"
"Nosing is madder 'cept that Numè does nod wand any more fon with you—she tired vaery much of Mr. Sinka."
A silence, tragic in its feeling, passed between them.
"What do you mean, Numè?" He was still stupid.
"That I only have fon to pretend that I luf you—I am very tired now."
A gray pallor had stolen over the man's face.
"You—you are trying to jest with me, Numè," he said unsteadily.
The truth began to dawn on him gradually. He remembered his doubts of the former day. He had been deceived in her after all! Oh! fool that he was to have trusted her—and now—now he had not thought himself capable of such fierce love—yet he loved her in spite of her deceit, her falsity.
He got up and stood back a little way from her, leaning against a tree and looking down at her where she sat. A sudden wild sense of loss swept over him. Then his voice returned—it was muffled and unfamiliar even to his own ears.
"Numè!" was all he said; but he stretched his arms toward her with such yearning and pain that the girl rose suddenly and ran blindly from him, Koto following. On, and on, to where the jinrikisha was waiting. Koto helped, almost lifted her bodily in, and as the runner started down the road, Numè put her head back against Koto and quietly fainted away.
When she came to herself she was in a high fever. She called pitifully for Sinclair, begging Koto to take her to him—to go to him and tell him that she did not mean what she had said; that she was trying to help Mrs. Davis; that she loved only him, and a thousand other pitiful messages. But Mrs. Davis had her carried to her house and stood at her bedside, invincible as Fate.
Sinclair remained where she had left him for some time, the same dazed expression on his face. When the girl had darted from the fallen tree on which they had sat, she had dropped something in her flight. Mechanically he stooped and picked it up. It was a Japanese-American primer. Numè and he had studied out of it together. He ground his teeth with wild pain, but he threw the book from him as if it had been poison. He ran his hand through his hair, tried to think a moment, and then sat down on the fallen tree, his face in his hands.
There Taylor and Shiku came across him, sitting alone, looking out at the smooth, scintillating waters of the Hayama.
"Had a sunstroke, old man?" Taylor asked.
"No;" he rose abruptly to his feet. "I—I was just thinking, Taylor—just thinking—thinking of—of what you had told me a month or so ago. Do you remember—it was about Japanese women?"
"Er—yes, about them having no heart. Remember we decided the poet—or fool, we called him—was wrong."
"He was wrong only about the flower, Taylor."