Part 62

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CHAPTER XXV

THE EVE OF A WEDDING

IT was the month of Kikuzuki (Chrysanthemum). Summer was dying,—not dead,—and in her latter moments her beauty was ethereal, though passionate. The leaves were brown and red. The grass was warmer colored than at any other time of year. The glorious chrysanthemum, queen of all the flowers in Japan, lent golden color to the landscape. The skies were deeply blue. Sometimes, when the sinking sun was slow in fading, its ruddy tints upon the blue made of the heavens a purple canopy, enchanting to the sight. Yet with all its beauty November is the month of tears, for Death, however beautiful, must always wring the heart. So lovers are pensive and melancholy in their happiness at this sweet, sad season of the year.

It was the eve before the wedding of the artist and the maid Masago. Junzo’s artful insistence that he was not strong enough to do without the helpful nursing of his fiancée had kept her for many days a guest within his father’s house. Now it wanted but the passing of one night before the day when the wedding would take place at the house of Kwacho. Hence the lovers were on their way from the Kamura residence. It was twilight. The two loitered in their steps along the way, pausing on every excuse within the woods, the meadow fields, and even on the open highway. They spoke but little to each other, and then only at intervals. But when they had approached quite near the house, the girl said tremulously:—

“When we are married, Junzo, I want to make a little trip with you—alone.”

“Where, Masago?”

She stopped, looking toward the hills. Then, with one hand on his arm and the other lifted from her sleeve, she pointed:—

“Look, Junzo, how the royal sun lingers on the palace turrets. It seems to love Aoyama.”

Junzo surveyed the golden peaks of the palace, shining red in the sunset glow. His thoughts prevented speech. His mind dwelling on that one who had once made her home within the palace, he forced his eyes away to turn them on the dreamy face of his Masago.

“You spoke of a little trip, Masago. Where shall it be, then?”

“Yonder,” she said, still pointing toward the palace.

His face was troubled.

“I do not understand. You do not mean—”

Slowly she nodded her head.

“Yes, I mean to Aoyama, just up there on the hills, my Junzo. It would be a little journey, and I—I want just once again in my life to loiter in the gardens.”

“You have already been there, then?” he asked, with some astonishment.

She caught her breath, then simply bowed her head.

“I have been there in fancy, Junzo, or perhaps it was in dreams,” was her reply. “Will you not go with me sometime, in fact?”

He hesitated, and moved uncomfortably.

“I do not understand your fancy,” he said.

“Well, make the little journey with me, will you not?”

“The palace is not public property,” he answered.

As she did not respond at once, he seized the opportunity to continue their walk, thinking in this way to divert her. It was growing softly darker. In the twilight her face was so ethereal and perfect that the artist could not take his eyes from it. Suddenly she said quite simply:—

“You have fame at court, and so you could obtain a pass to enter the grounds.”

“Why, have you so strange a fancy, Masago?”

“Is it strange?” she asked, and stopped again. In the dusk of the woodland lane, her upturned face appeared timid, wistful.

“Yes, it is strange for a maiden of our class, Masago, to wish to enter royal gardens.”