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.

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.

The feast had employed the highest art and the ransacking of every market for rare foods and choice viands. The delicate cooking and exquisite flavouring proclaimed the finest culinary art, while the mild tea and rich liquor evinced an exactness of curing and perfection of brewing that might well rank Maido’s workers and artisans in the highest class of perfection. The dinner in its almost endless round of courses represented the very acme of human endeavour, tastes, and desires covering an unbroken period of over a thousand years of polite and civil life, and might well be the joy of a people who in the nicety of its conception and the beauty of its creation stands for all time as a model to the world.

A thousand dancing girls, with embroidered gowns, reeled hither and thither over the noiseless floor, tripping time to strangely harmonious and sweet-sounding instruments, while the guests mingled and the feast progressed. The hour was neither early nor late. The night was warm. Not a leaf stirred. No sound rose from without. Then suddenly there came the cannon’s roar, a blinding flash. The startled throng sprang up and stared blankly.

“It is Hoti, god of good will, brandishing his heavenly sword and beating the mighty drum, Sekegakara,” they cried in one accord, as they recovered, and ran from one to another, talking and laughing the event away. “How silly to take fright! Let us be merry! Now and for ever!” rang out, sounding anew the dash of pomp, the march of joy.

Then again and again the threatening voice broke upon the still air, telling them that a new agency, the force of a friendly foe, was at their door, bidding them hearken. With each discharge their fears grew, until bitterness and hate burst forth in determinate unison:

“Foreign devil!”

It was all they could say; it was enough. Yet in all that excitement there were two who more than others controlled their emotions, and set about calmly to dissuade hasty and ill-advised action. From the firing of Commodore Perry’s first shot Ikamon divined its certain meaning; and before the old Susquehanna had ceased sounding her notes of warning he had begun to evolve a plan for his own aggrandisement. Therefore, while others fell upon one another in loud appeals to the gods, he moved quietly among them, foretelling the true character of the strange visitation. It was quite different, however, with Tetsutaisho, for at the first sound of firing he fell upon his knees in the midst of a coterie of admirers, and between gesticulating with his arms and beating his head upon the floor prayed first to one god, then another, to drive away the unforeseen and save them from an untimely end. Whether it be earthquake or “foreign devil” mattered not to him so long as their women be spared and their honour maintained, though when understanding finally dawned he suddenly changed face and began strutting around in a boastful manner, vowing the enemy all sorts of speedy overthrowings and fatal exterminations.

Between Ikamon’s expounding and Tetsutaisho’s boasting there was left little place for speculation, yet there was one, young as he was, who gave himself over to calm reason. Shibusawa not only judged, but observed as well. Before the conclusion of the first salute from the little squadron in the harbour he had realised that the spirit of the entertainment was broken; and before the last began, saw that the guests were departing, some politely though all in haste. The few who had the right were hastening to the citadel, while others sought elsewhere the most advantageous points of observation; therefore Shibusawa embraced the earliest opportunity to withdraw, and retired directly to his own rooms.

From the lower side of his chamber he could see out across the harbour to where the strange vessels were being placed at anchor. The grey hulls of the little squadron lay broadside to the city, and their long rows of mysterious lights shone brightly against the dark background. Rumour had pictured these castles of the deep, though few in this sacred land had known or seen them in reality. The sight was an inspiring one, and when the final salute began Shibusawa’s spirit rose, and as volley after volley rang out against the still, cool air of night his patriotism stirred him to grand, uplifting thoughts. Here at last was a force unknown to them; a power beyond their comprehension; a god to be reckoned with.

He did not stand there long, but in that time fully resolved what he himself should do. It was a moment for serious thought, and in it there came to him a world of possibilities. There was no need for him in the council chamber; he had not yet assumed the responsibilities of state. His place in the family was that of a makeshift, and his true voice unheeded. Why not go out into the world and there gain that knowledge which would satisfy his thirst and possibly in some measure enable him to preserve the happiness of his own people? Yes; here was an opportunity; he must go, he would go, come what might.

And then he thought of Kinsan. Would she understand him? He must see her, and explain. He would reassure her, and gain her consent. Then, and not until then, there would be no obstacle in the way of his highest ambition. But how could he reach her? and would she hear him?

“Ah,” said he, to himself, “I have it. She will be at the cave;—she is there now;—it is her only lookout, and she too may have seen this beautiful sight. The whole place is roused, and by this time on the move. If my ears serve me right, even the shogun is trying to make his way to the citadel! I shall have no trouble about entering at the gate, and will find her. I must go.”

His mind once made up he lost no time, but made ready and hurried away. Outside the castle grounds he found everything in confusion; a few lingered in front, others tramped up and down, some going, some coming, and all were in a state of feverish anxiety. At times almost an uncontrollable impulse to join in with the rest took hold of him, yet he did not yield but kept steadfastly to his purpose.

Shibusawa soon arrived at the cave, but to his dismay found it unoccupied. He sat down, and pondered. Presently he looked out over the vast expanse of tiled and thatched roof, and as his eyes lingered he comprehended the full measure of its content. There was at their door a force which proclaimed a greater, a grander civilisation, and could he but reach the seat of its activities he might know and determine its character. But was such a thing possible? He knew of no means; not even whence they came or what were their necessities. Yet those monsters of the deep must hail from somewhere, and could he but put himself on board without detection he would be carried thither. Whether they possessed a like means of subsistence he did not know; tradition did not tell him that, but he did know that the sea and the air contained food such as he required, and so long as they did not go beyond these he felt reasonably sure of being able to provide for himself. His very finger tips tingled with expectation—but Kinsan arose in his mind and he half whispered:

“No, I cannot, must not go without first seeing her. It is my duty, her right.”

Presently he started off and, not knowing just where to go, unconsciously turned toward Kinsan’s house, opposite to whence he came. A flight of less than a half dozen steps led down a small declivity, and when he had nearly reached the bottom he almost stumbled upon Kinsan, who lay, with her hands folded, crouching upon the lower step. He stooped quietly over her and whispered, “Kinsan,” but she did not answer him.

“She is sleeping,” thought he, “and I will sit here at her side until she has awakened. The pause will give me time to choose the words, and her presence the courage to speak.”

The warm breeze fanned and soothed, and the still, clear night inspired him. His mind ran on and out until transported into boundless fancy. The earth, the sun, the moon, and the stars were not of his world. All were in the great abyss beyond. He spoke, saying:

“Where?”

A voice answered:

“At my side.”

He said:

“At the side of whom?”

The voice said:

“Love.”

He looked. The darkness disappeared, and a flood of light streamed around them and away into limitless space. He said:

“I have found the Light.”

And she whispered:

“You are my god.”

Kinsan had arisen, and together they walked into the cave, and there sat and looked and talked and reasoned for a long time.

Not so very long before Shibusawa’s arrival at the cave a mysterious voice had called Kinsan, and she had gone there, kneeling at the stone steps as she had knelt and prayed since their last meeting. From that time she had not entered the enclosure, but held it as a place sacred even to her. It was the throne upon which sat her love, her life, her god. There she could not enter, but at his feet she was wont to kneel and pray that he be saved, that the light return, and that he proclaim her his own, his goddess love.

It was long after midnight when Shibusawa and Kinsan fully understood each other and again pledged their faith and vowed their never-ending love: when the stars witnessed their seal, and they parted and went according to their destined way.