IT was a happy day in the Kamura household when the cheerful and rapid-moving foreign doctor pronounced the patient strong enough to leave his room to sit a little while upon the balcony. His brothers were eager to assist the weak and emaciated Junzo to the soft seat they had prepared for him. He protested that he was able to walk alone, but finally admitted that the light, guiding hand of his fiancée was a sufficient support.
So leading him with careful step, the young girl aided her lover, while all his brothers, and his young sister Haru-no, watched the pretty picture with moistened eyes. The gentle mother slipped from the room to weep alone at what she called “the goodness of the gods.”
Once upon the balcony, the modest maiden quickly bent her head over her embroidery frame, feigning ignorance of the eyes upon her. While the convalescent absently answered the questions of his brothers, concerning his comfort, his eyes scarcely left the face of the quiet girl so close at hand.
A certain wistful wonder seemed to lurk within the eyes of Junzo in these days. Yet a sense of rest and quiet pervaded his whole being. His lately racked heart and mind seemed to have found a strange, sustaining balm.
Now on this lovely day in early September, with the odor of the gardens permeating the atmosphere, and the sweet breath of the country about, Junzo’s mind went vaguely over the late events of his life, while his eyes rested in wondering content upon the drooped face of his fiancée.
The artist, in his illness, had been attended by one he called “Sado-ko.” When fever left him and partial sense and reason crept back to his weakened brain, growing daily with the strength of his physical body, he marvelled over that exquisite face that bent above him.
And then one day his sister, Haru-no, had called her by name—Masago! A light broke through the dazzled brain of Junzo. She who nursed him with tender care was not a princess, but a simple maiden of his own class, and, most marvellous, she was his own betrothed, the virtuous maid Masago! Reason was restored, and physical strength increased daily.
Through the many days when he was forced to obey the will of the insistent foreign doctor, Junzo did not fret at his enforced confinement. Such an existence was fraught with dreamful possibilities of happiness. As Junzo’s thoughts became clear, this was his solution of what he termed his recent madness: He had loved Masago from the first, he told himself. The very gods had planned their union. Before he had known fully the heart of his betrothed, she was sent away to school. By chance this Princess Sado-ko crossed his path, the image of the maid Masago. It was because of this he had thought he loved her, while it was the other he loved. This was proved by the fact that with a lover’s adoration he was now drawn to Masago.
These were the thoughts of Junzo. Still more curious was his way of comparing the princess and the maiden, with a weight of favor for the latter. In her constant presence Junzo thought darkly of the falsity of Sado-ko, and with ecstasy of the charming simplicity of this girl of lowly birth.
As she sat with her pretty head dropped over her work, he thought her lovelier than ever he had dreamed the Princess Sado-ko.
Once during the afternoon his relatives left the two alone. Then the girl softly raised her eyes, to glance in his direction. At the ardent glance she met, her eyes dropped immediately. So much did he wish to see again those dark and lovely eyes that he complained of a discomfort.
He desired another quilt (though it was very warm), and also a high futon for his head. She brought them to him, without speaking. When she put the pillow underneath his head, he tried to speak her name with all the ardor of his love.
“Sado—” He stopped aghast. His lips had framed that other name. The kneeling maiden’s eyes met his. Her voice was soft:—
“Who is Sado-ko?” she asked.
Flushing in shame and mortification, he could not meet her eyes. When she repeated her quiet question, the strangest smile dimpled her lips at the frown upon his averted face.
“Who is Sado-ko?”
“It is a name,” he said, “just a name.”
“It has a pretty sound,” she said.
Though he moved his head restlessly, she pursued the subject.
“Do you not think so, Junzo?”
“It is an evil name,” he said with sudden vehemence. Although he did not see the little movement of dismay she made, he knew that she was leaning toward him. He could not look at her.
“You do not like the name of Sado-ko?” she said. “Why, that is strange!”
At last he looked at her, then wondered why she swiftly blushed, averting her eyes.
“Why strange?” he asked, his eyes lingering upon her flushing face.
“Because it was a name you called unceasingly throughout your illness,” she said.
“I called on you.” He took her hand to hold it closely within his own.
She stammered over her words, thrilling at his touch upon her hands.
“But is my—my name, then—Sado-ko?” she asked.
His troubled eyes were on her face, a wistful wonder in their glance.
“I thought you so,” he whispered softly.
She let her hand remain in his, for it was sweet to feel his touch, yet, with the strangest stubbornness, she urged the question:—
“Why did you think me Sado-ko?”
“I will tell you why some other day,” he answered in a low voice.
“But am I not Masago?” she persisted.
“Yes,” said he, “Masago is your name, and it is sweeter, simpler, lovelier far than—”
She drew her hands from his with passionate petulance. Her eyes were hurt.
“You like Masago better, then, than Sado-ko?” was her astonishing question.
“The name? Why, yes. It has a sweeter sound—Masago! ’Tis the loveliest of flowers,—modest, simple, and fair.”
She caught her breath. When she raised her eyes to his, they were full of deep reproach. Moving away she turned her back, and would not turn or listen to his calling of her name:—
“Masago, Masago!” Then, after a short silence, “Have I offended you, Masago?”
She answered without turning her head:—
“You have offended Sado-ko.”
He could not answer that strange, inexplicable remark, so kept silent for a space. Then:
“Masago, pray you turn your pretty head this way.”
She moved it petulantly.
He raised himself upon his elbow.
“Masago!”
She did not answer.
“Well, then, if you will treat me so, and will not come to me like a most dutiful affianced wife, why I, though ill, shall come to you.” He made a threatening stir. At that she started toward him, anxiety for his health stronger than her childish petulance.
“No, no, do not move,” she said. “I—I will come to you if—if you desire it.”
She took her place again by his side. Immediately he possessed himself of both her slim hands.
“Now look at me,” he said.
She met his eyes, then flushed and trembled at the love she must have seen reflected in his face.
“Masago,” he said, “when Junzo once again regains his normal strength, he has a tale to tell his little wife,—a foolish tale of youth’s brief madness in a summer, of heart-burning and heart-breaking, tears of weakness, filial disobedience, falsity, and then—despair. Afterward—the light!”
“The light?” she said in a strange, breathless voice.
“A face,” he said,—“the soothing face of my Masago.”
“Oh, do not call me so,” she cried almost piteously; “I cannot bear to hear it.”
“Why—”
“Call me not Masago. I do not like the name.”
“But—”
“No, no. It is quite well that others—say my honorable parents and brothers—should call me so, but it sounds unkindly from your lips, dear Junzo. Indeed, I—I hardly can express my feelings. I—I—”
She broke off at the expression of bewilderment upon his face. Nervously she entangled her fingers.
“Call me what you will. Let it be Masago, if the name pleases you. There! my foolish mood is past. I am your gentle girl once more.”
“I will not call you by your name,” he said, smiling whimsically, “since you do not like it. In a little while I’ll have another, sweeter name for you—wife!”
