Part 52

“Cage up the bird, when it was hers already, captive to her will to come or go.”

“A mere caprice, artist. One day she made a sudden exclamation of delight as though she had but just perceived the nightingale for the first time. ‘Oh, see the joyous, pretty bird!’ she said, ‘and hear it sing!’ It was at this time upon a camphor tree close by, and singing, in its own free way, a serenade no doubt to her. ‘Why,’ said the Countess Matsuka, ‘’tis your own nightingale, your Highness.’ ‘Mine!’ said she, and seemed to pause bewilderedly. Then suddenly she clapped her hands. ‘Oh, yes, for sure it is mine. Where is its cage?’ ‘Why, here,’ said Countess Matsuka, who at this time alone attended her. The princess put her hand upon the cage, then, leaning from her balcony, chirped and whistled for the bird in such an odd and unfamiliar fashion that the countess was amazed, and still more so seemed the bird, for, pausing in its song, it cocked its head, fluttered its wings in sudden agitation, and then it spread them wide and flew away. The princess was so disappointed she wept in childish anger, though Countess Matsuka assured her it would return at dark, and take its night perch in the cage. ‘And will it stay?’ asked Sado-ko. ‘Why, princess, just as ever.’ Then she said she would not trust the bird, and on that very night, waited in person for its coming. With her own royal hands she trapped it in the cage and closed the door, though it was said her maiden, Natsu-no, implored her on her knees to spare it. Since then the maiden scarcely speaks, and like the bird is said to droop.”

The artist smothered a deep groan.

“Do you not like the story?” asked the lady.

“I cannot believe it,” he replied.

“Then look upon the cage yourself.”

“It hurts my sight. I will not,” said the man, and then he added, deeply, “It is an evil omen.”

“Heed it, artist!” said the Lady Fuji-no.

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CHAPTER XXI

“YOU ARE NOT SADO-KO!”

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CHAPTER XXI

“YOU ARE NOT SADO-KO!”

IT was such another moonlight night as that on which the Princess Sado-ko kept her last tryst with the artist Junzo, but in the Nijo gardens no sight was reminiscent of the flowering gardens of Komatzu. No bamboo grove offered inviting lanes for loitering lovers, no stately camphor trees threw their flickering shadows of mystery upon the moonlit grass.

The lawns about the palace Nijo were quite bare of trees, and even by the wing of the Princess Sado-ko’s apartments the new and ruthless carpenters, not gardeners, had torn up the bright flowering trees and shrubs to put in their places painted boxes, filled with foreign ferns and flowers of priceless value,—gifts from diplomats to the flattered Japanese.

Junzo and Fuji-no kept within the shadow of the princess’s balcony, there being no trees or foliage at hand to screen them otherwise.

The new-laid path which led from the front of the palace to Sado-ko’s wing, was white in the moonlight, hence Junzo was quick to see a shadow fall upon it. He leaned so far forward to gaze along the path, that Lady Fuji drew him backward.

“The light is on your head. Be careful, artist, if you please. Pray have some patience. They are quite close at hand.”

Too close they seemed just then to Junzo, as they came along the broad, white path with slow and loitering steps. The tall soldier-prince bent to her who turned her face to his, like a flower to the sun.

When they had come quite close to Sado-ko’s veranda they paused a moment, seeking some new excuse for lingering.

She made a childish movement, naïve yet eloquent. An artful shudder slipped her wrap to the ground. Her shining shoulders, bare and white, were revealed in the moonlight. The prince stooped quickly to the ground, picked up the cloak, and, hesitating a moment, held it in his hand. She shivered purposely. Then with a sudden movement he wrapped the cloak around her, and somehow in the doing his arms stayed for a space about her. Her face was close to his. Softly her loosened hair brushed now against his lips. While still his lingering arm was drooping on her shoulder, she said, in a low, wooing voice:—

“Komatzu, pray you hold my garment on me for a space, for I would take these long and stupid gloves from my arms.”

“Let me do so,” he begged eagerly; and, taking one of her small hands in his, slowly drew the glove away, then still held the hand clasped in his own.

“It is my hand—all mine!” he whispered. Stooping, he kissed the soft, white flesh, in the emotional French way.

“All yours, Komatzu!” Junzo heard her sigh in answer. The artist did not move. Like a man turned suddenly to stone, he simply stared out at the scene, with fixed eyes. He heard as in a dream the voice of this proud prince whispering again to her, who but so lately clung to him, the lowly artist, with such piteous tears and prayers.

“To-morrow,” said the prince, “his Majesty will come to Tokyo. I will present myself before him and importune him to seal our betrothal. His ministers are all in favor of my suit, but the sanction of his Majesty is needed. That, I am sure, he intends to give, for I have heard that he made promise to our august grandmother, the Empress Dowager, that he would make sweet Sado-ko the highest princess in the land. Next to the Crown Prince of Japan, I am the highest prince.”

She smoothed with little restless hand the foreign fabric of his coat. Her voice was somewhat faint:—