Part 67

“Mother! Oh, my mother, mother!” she cried.

Ohano stood in stiff amazement, staring across Masago’s head at Sado-ko. The maid brought andons; the room was now well lighted.

“Why—what—” was all that Ohano could gasp, but she had not the heart to put the girl from her arms. Yamada Kwacho was more brusque, however. He drew the girl away from Ohano by her sleeves, but when he saw her face, he started in astonished bewilderment.

“I do not understand,” he said dazedly, “Junzo—Masago—” He turned to them for enlightenment.

Sado-ko spoke with perfect clearness. Her eyes were wide and steady, but there was no color in her face.

“The woman seems demented, father. She thinks that she is other than herself—your daughter. But look upon her garments. See the crest upon her sleeves! She evidently is some high lady. Her mind is wandering in delusion.”

With a savage cry Masago sprang toward her. She would have struck Sado-ko had not Kwacho held her.

“What! You—you speak thus in my own father’s house! Oh!” She turned piteously toward Ohano. “Mother, you will understand. You know your Masago!”

“You, Masago!” exclaimed Yamada Kwacho; “why, you are wild in ways. Our girl from babyhood has been docile, quiet, almost dull, while you—”

“Mother, speak to me. Say that you at least know your own child.”

Ohano burst into tears. Her mind was entangled and perplexed.

There were steps without the house, and the shrill calls of runners; then loud rappings on the doors. Kwacho pushed them open roughly to find a dozen men in livery upon his veranda. A tall man stepped forward. Sado-ko pulled her mother down with her upon the floor, thus concealing their faces in low obeisance. The artist did not move, but his eyes met those of the royal Prince Komatzu. The latter glared upon him fiercely.

“What means this rude intrusion?” demanded Kwacho. “We are simple citizens. Why are we disturbed?”

He was interrupted by the screaming of Masago. She rushed toward Komatzu, crying out:—

“You, you, you—He has sent you for me—oh-h—”

She swayed and fell even as she spoke.

Without a word of explanation the Prince Komatzu himself stooped to the floor. Lifting in his arms the senseless form of the maid Masago, he bore it to the royal norimon without the house.

After that those within the house heard the sounds of departure. Then silence in the night. Kwacho returned from the veranda.

“They have gone in the direction of the palace Aoyama—some demented princess, doubtless.” He turned to Junzo, “I trust you will pardon the interruption of your visit in my house.”

The artist returned his host’s bow mechanically, then looked with some stealthiness toward his fiancée. When he found her eyes fixed upon his face imploringly, he could not look at her.

“The night grows late,” he said heavily; “permit me to say good night.”

He bowed deeply to all, departing without another word to Sado-ko. She moved toward the doors. Turning in the path, he saw her standing there.

That night, when husband and wife lay side by side upon their mattresses, Kwacho, moving restlessly, said:—

“The woman had a countenance so strangely like our girl’s it disturbs my mind. Yet, Shaka! how different were their ways! How much more admirable the simple, unaffected manners of our country girl! I wonder why the woman came—”

“Listen, Kwacho,” said Ohano, sitting up, “I have heard, sometime, that the Princess Sado-ko once loved our Junzo. Yes, it is so! You need not move so angrily. Do you not recall that when he was ill he called upon her name repeatedly?”

“I tell you,” her husband answered angrily, “the boy is fairly sick with his affection for Masago. Only a woman’s foolish mind could imagine otherwise.”

Ohano lay down again.

“A woman’s wiser mind, Kwacho. I am convinced this princess came to take our Junzo from Masago.”