Part 42

“And so,” continued their host, “we thought it wisdom not to broach the subject of our council. When morning came Junzo was still pale and constrained. His mother spoke in delicate terms of the council planned, and he mildly acquiesced in all she said. At noon he barely touched his meal. He appeared so listless, that no member of the family had the heart to break upon his meditations. Hence, when he walked in seeming moodiness about the gardens, then suddenly turned and wandered toward the hills, I simply bade my son Okido follow him at respectful distance. To be more brief, good friends, it seems that Junzo followed a straight course along the hills, and, coming to the palace walls of Aoyama, ventured beyond the gates. Okido, being an obedient and filial son, hastened home to acquaint his father with the facts. Since then my son has not returned.”

“He ventured beyond the palace gates!” exclaimed Yamada Kwacho. “Had he a pass, Kamura?”

“I do not know,” said the old man, simply. “You have already heard my son has fame at court. I have accounted for his absent state of mind by the fact that, being young and new to favor, his mind is filled with thought of his art and work.”

“And he has not returned?” queried sharply an uncle.

“Not yet,” said Kamura, bowing courteously.

“I trust he has not come to harm,” said another relative, with concern. “It is said the palace once again is opened, and that the noble Princess Sado-ko is there in maiden retirement.”

“There is time for his return,” declared Kamura, with dignity. “I trust you all will stay with me. What say you, my good friend Kwacho?”

“Assuredly, I will stay,” assented the gruff and honest Kwacho.

“And I.”

“And I.”

Thus from all the guests.

They sat late into the afternoon, beguiled by saké, tea, and the dreamy day. The mellow light of the sun was softly dulled by the white haze which crept up to the sky from out the river. The white mist deepened, turning softly gray, then darkened imperceptibly. A breeze sprang up from the west, sweeping with briskness through the opened story of the Kamura house.

Yamada Kwacho contracted his brows, as he looked uneasily at the darkened sky. As though he read his thoughts, the patient voice of his host said simply:—

“It is but the hour of four.”

“Yet see how strangely, weirdly dark,” said a young cousin, pointing out toward the river. “There seems a cloud upon the Hayama, Cousin Kamura.”

“A habit of this country hereabouts,” said Kwacho, answering for his host. “Sometimes the mists arise while it is yet noon, and, creeping across the skies, darken and thicken in a fog so dense that even a tailless cat might lose its way.”

The young Kamura cousin shuddered, and looked with apprehension at the ever clouding sky.

Yet time slipped quickly by for these easeful, somewhat indolent Japanese, who lounged, smoked, and sipped their saké, unmindful of the mist.

“The fog is spreading,” said the youth Okido. “Shall we not close the shoji walls and bring andons for our honored guests?”

“My son has not returned,” said the gentle voice of the father; “yet—” He glanced about uneasily, in the deepening shadow, scarcely able to distinguish one guest from another. He arose, and shook the skirt of his hakama. In a moment he recalled that, father though he was, yet he was still a host. He clapped his hands, and bade the answering servant close the shoji walls, and bring lights.

It was not five o’clock in the afternoon, yet the gray world without told of close creeping night.

At six the ladies of the house came to the upper story. Madame Kamura was pale; her daughter, a young girl of seventeen, showed a somewhat frightened countenance, while Ohano alone was placid, and seemingly contented of mind.

The fog grew thicker every moment, Madame Kamura told her husband, and as she feared it was not possible their guests could leave the house that night, she had ordered dinner served, and would prepare the sleeping chambers. She spoke only of the comfort of her guests. Although Junzo had not returned, no words escaped her careful lips of that which wrenched her mother-heart.

Her husband thanked her for her thoughtfulness, and said that they would be ready for the honorable meal, but begged her not to speak of rest. They would keep the council until the midnight hour.

And so the evening meal was served. The night was spent in quiet saké sipping, and dreamy introspection by the guests, while the heart of the genial host was heavy.

In a chamber of the lower story Ohano snored in healthy forgetfulness of all the little ills of life. The maiden Haru-no drowsed by the shoji of the Ozashiki; and by her side, immovable and silent, but with wide, wakeful eyes, the mother of Kamura Junzo kept the night watch.

“It is the fate of the humble female,” she had protested, when the young Haru-no had begged her to sleep. “Bear this precept, daughter, always in your mind: The mother, wife, the sister, daughter, must ever watch and wait upon the comfort of the male. It is the law; it is our duty; it is our fate. We bow to it with submissive philosophy.”

At twelve there was a stir upon the upper floor. Madame Kamura heard the shuffling movement of the breaking of the council. By the drowsy footfalls she knew the guests were anxious for their beds. She bade a servant attend the guests. Then she returned to her station. She did not turn her head when the sound of footsteps passed along the hall. Her husband quietly took his place by her side, without speaking. Thus all night long these two kept watch for Junzo.