On the third day after the wedding, all preparations having been made, the newly wedded couple started upon their bridal tour to the home of the bride’s parents. This was no small undertaking, and to any other than a bride it would have seemed decidedly unpleasant. The only means of transit was by chair, and, as she had just been borne over the same route and had in prospect a speedy return, Takara might well have complained of the three long journeys, if not of custom.

Upon coming to the wedding ceremony the bride had brought with her a large number of useful and costly presents, and, as might be expected, the family of the bridegroom had been exceedingly liberal in bestowing a return compliment. Maido had spared neither pains nor expense to laden Shibusawa’s train with tokens of his appreciation, and as squad after squad of carriers passed out at the front gate the gathering onlookers cheered with something like frenzy. It was, therefore, late in the morning before the last of the baggage had passed and the way was made clear for Shibusawa’s chair, and as he came forward there arose a mighty shout of “Long live the prince.” Early in the day the kaika (household treasurer), acting under Ikamon’s instructions, had begun distributing coins among the hangers-on, and now that the noble suite was passing a perfect shower of “cash” was thrown upon them. No other means could so readily call forth their hearty applause, and Ikamon was gratified and Maido perhaps pleased, if Shibusawa was entirely unconcerned.

As Shibusawa’s chair swung into the roadway he drew back the curtain and looked out at the excited throng. There was one who stood, amid all this noise, with a strained, eager expression. It was Kinsan; and Shibusawa, looking straight into her face, without offering to recognise her, closed the curtain and continued his way. Probably she knew as well as he that the least sign of recognition on his part might, if detected, bring horrible punishment, or even death to her. Possibly she believed him cruel. Whatever her thoughts may have been, she felt crushed and forlorn. She knew now that it was only too true; that her heart was broken and her life for ever shadowed.

Kinsan had gone there again to determine if possible the truth or falsity of her former conviction. Without any consciousness she had done her hair in the prettiest fashion and dressed in her very best kimono, and so anxious was she that before the sun had barely risen she began planning to go. The fresh air and the excitement brought the colour to her cheeks, and when Tetsutaisho chanced to pass her, on his way to wish Takara a safe journey and a speedy return, he stopped and spoke to her and chided her for being so far from home. She made no answer, but his kindly attention lingered on her mind, and possibly she may have contrasted this with Shibusawa’s greeting.

However, Kinsan was not so ready to heed the one or condemn the other, and with a determination stronger than ever she proceeded on her way home. She had not gone far, though, before she was overtaken by Tetsutaisho, who hastened to her and said:

“Which way are you going now, my pretty young lady?”

Kinsan started at the sound of his voice, and when she turned about and saw who it was, she blushed deeply, then grew pale. She made no immediate answer, but stood debating in her own mind what she had best do; and as she made no offer to move he became emboldened, and, coming closer, began to talk in a confidential manner:

“Come, my sweet little girl, come with me and sit in the shade over there, where it is quiet and out of reach of the curious.”

“I thank you, honourable sir, I am on the way to my house and I wish not to delay, for that would be improper. Please, sir, excuse me—my mother has said nothing about this proposal.”

“But,” said he, “I will pay the mother. I will double and treble the price. Come with me now. My bungalow is large and you shall share the privileged mat. I am rich and my station is high. I will free your father and mother from all their debts and make them comfortable and happy. Come, now; what more can be done? Is not all this worth the while?”

Kinsan listened to all he said. She measured well his proposals and thought of the ease and comfort it would bring to her parents.

She also remembered that look of Shibusawa’s and how her heart had failed her; and then her love for him began to reassert itself, and she turned upon her enticer and scorned him, and without saying another word walked rapidly away.

After Shibusawa had so coldly turned from Kinsan, while passing through the gate and into the roadway, he sank back in his chair, stunned and fearful. The shock had overcome him, and he did not recover until he had gone far beyond her reach. It was only a glance, yet he now appreciated the force with which that must have stricken Kinsan. While, as he well knew, there could have been no escaping the consequences of an overt act, nevertheless, had he done no more he might in some way have sought Kinsan and explained to her the true circumstances of his situation. And now that he had not done so, and fully realised the sad mistake, it was only with much self-control that he held himself from attempting to return to her.

Nothing further marked his progress, and the visit at Kyoto was a great success in spite of Shibusawa’s preoccupied state of mind. His reserve gave him an air of dignity and charm of manner that surprised and pleased the too much coddled mikado, who could not help admiring the young man’s strong, athletic build and evenly balanced temperament. Here at last was one who frowned upon frivolity and seemed to exemplify real manhood; who aimed at something above sordid pleasure.

Takara, too, was proud of her husband, and had already begun to look up to him and to feel the force of his character. Yet something she had hoped and longed for was missing. All her maiden life she had dreamed of this one sweet satisfying thing, and it was still an unrealised thought.

They did not remain at Kyoto longer than etiquette required, though in that time Shibusawa saw something of the life and manners at the royal abode. He came in contact with not only the immediate members of the family but some of the mikado’s most intimate advisers and a multitude of his well-paid admirers, and therefrom formed some notion of the prodigality if not unwisdom of such a duplicity of government. Returning they went by way of Kanazawa, where Takara was very much impressed with the magnificence of her father-in-law’s estates, the prospective seat of her husband’s future empire.

“Oh, what a beautiful place, and such a grand scene!” said she, with rapture, as they approached the family mansion at the summit of the hill. “And the lovely breeze, and the stately pines, and all the beautiful things which Kami has given us—here you will be my lover, and I, oh, how I shall love you! Yes, I will love you, love you, oh, so much!”

Shibusawa did not answer, but for the first time recognised her full nature, and presaged the consequence of his failure. Nor did he venture to speak and in some measure unfold the true state of his feelings until the day before their final departure for Tokyo. She had waited for him and longed for him, and now somewhat of despair if not disgust had taken hold of her. They were sitting side by side on the matted floor, and from the open side could see afar over the wind-tossed deep or out at the timbered hills looming in the background.

“Takara,” said he, after a long silence, “you are a patient, noble woman. You deserve a better appreciation than I can give you. Our connection is the result of a false tradition, a perverted truth. Ambition is the sponsor and necessity the maker of this cruel situation, and in order that we may not suffer therefrom let us be wise.”

With the first sound of Shibusawa’s voice Takara brightened with encouragement, but as he proceeded her ardour cooled; and when she came to measure him in the light of a starved sensibility there dawned upon her a full appreciation of their true relation, though she did not hasten to answer nor did she shrink in the least from him. She only sat toying with a loose obi (sash); finally it occurred to her to speak, and she said with a sigh:

“Shibusawa, you just now made me happy, when for the first time you spoke my name. Though only a short happiness, it momentarily filled me with the pride that comes not of unchaste wedlock. It would have satisfied me to feel that you knew this if nothing more. It is a little thing, yet a priceless jewel in the crown of perfect womanhood. This privilege is denied me and a more convenient one granted. Sorrow is my reward; wisdom could have served me no worse.”

Nothing further was said to mar the pleasure of their visit at Kanazawa or the remainder of the journey, and when they had safely arrived at Tokyo they found themselves in a mood to enjoy a brief interval of rest before the giving of the grand final entertainment. This sumptuous affair was supposed to be given under the immediate auspices of the contracting parties themselves, but in this case it had been made the special business of the redoubtable Ikamon. And so well did he manage that Maido indulged a lavish generosity, and even the shogun expressed a sincere appreciation. Invitations had been issued to all of the shogun’s court and the royal court, and to such of the nobility as were in sympathy or could in any manner be accounted influential or desirable. An effort was made to bring together all the dignitaries and supporters of state as well as the beauty and fashion of the land; to inaugurate a better understanding between the two parties and bring as far as possible the malcontented literati under the influence of the shogun; and, of course, incidentally, to advance Ikamon and his friends wherever and whenever convenient.

The night of July 7th had been set for the festivities, and when that evening came the grounds were resplendent with lighted lanterns and the banquet halls were festooned with vine and blossom. The beautiful foliage, the brilliant lights, the fragrant flowers, the lacquered walls, the spotless floors, the embroidered screens, the simple ornaments, all combined to make a scene of beauty and inspire a hearty good will.

The feast had employed the highest art and the ransacking of every market for rare foods and choice viands. The delicate cooking and exquisite flavouring proclaimed the finest culinary art, while the mild tea and rich liquor evinced an exactness of curing and perfection of brewing that might well rank Maido’s workers and artisans in the highest class of perfection. The dinner in its almost endless round of courses represented the very acme of human endeavour, tastes, and desires covering an unbroken period of over a thousand years of polite and civil life, and might well be the joy of a people who in the nicety of its conception and the beauty of its creation stands for all time as a model to the world.

A thousand dancing girls, with embroidered gowns, reeled hither and thither over the noiseless floor, tripping time to strangely harmonious and sweet-sounding instruments, while the guests mingled and the feast progressed. The hour was neither early nor late. The night was warm. Not a leaf stirred. No sound rose from without. Then suddenly there came the cannon’s roar, a blinding flash. The startled throng sprang up and stared blankly.

“It is Hoti, god of good will, brandishing his heavenly sword and beating the mighty drum, Sekegakara,” they cried in one accord, as they recovered, and ran from one to another, talking and laughing the event away. “How silly to take fright! Let us be merry! Now and for ever!” rang out, sounding anew the dash of pomp, the march of joy.

Then again and again the threatening voice broke upon the still air, telling them that a new agency, the force of a friendly foe, was at their door, bidding them hearken. With each discharge their fears grew, until bitterness and hate burst forth in determinate unison:

“Foreign devil!”

It was all they could say; it was enough. Yet in all that excitement there were two who more than others controlled their emotions, and set about calmly to dissuade hasty and ill-advised action. From the firing of Commodore Perry’s first shot Ikamon divined its certain meaning; and before the old Susquehanna had ceased sounding her notes of warning he had begun to evolve a plan for his own aggrandisement. Therefore, while others fell upon one another in loud appeals to the gods, he moved quietly among them, foretelling the true character of the strange visitation. It was quite different, however, with Tetsutaisho, for at the first sound of firing he fell upon his knees in the midst of a coterie of admirers, and between gesticulating with his arms and beating his head upon the floor prayed first to one god, then another, to drive away the unforeseen and save them from an untimely end. Whether it be earthquake or “foreign devil” mattered not to him so long as their women be spared and their honour maintained, though when understanding finally dawned he suddenly changed face and began strutting around in a boastful manner, vowing the enemy all sorts of speedy overthrowings and fatal exterminations.

Between Ikamon’s expounding and Tetsutaisho’s boasting there was left little place for speculation, yet there was one, young as he was, who gave himself over to calm reason. Shibusawa not only judged, but observed as well. Before the conclusion of the first salute from the little squadron in the harbour he had realised that the spirit of the entertainment was broken; and before the last began, saw that the guests were departing, some politely though all in haste. The few who had the right were hastening to the citadel, while others sought elsewhere the most advantageous points of observation; therefore Shibusawa embraced the earliest opportunity to withdraw, and retired directly to his own rooms.

From the lower side of his chamber he could see out across the harbour to where the strange vessels were being placed at anchor. The grey hulls of the little squadron lay broadside to the city, and their long rows of mysterious lights shone brightly against the dark background. Rumour had pictured these castles of the deep, though few in this sacred land had known or seen them in reality. The sight was an inspiring one, and when the final salute began Shibusawa’s spirit rose, and as volley after volley rang out against the still, cool air of night his patriotism stirred him to grand, uplifting thoughts. Here at last was a force unknown to them; a power beyond their comprehension; a god to be reckoned with.

He did not stand there long, but in that time fully resolved what he himself should do. It was a moment for serious thought, and in it there came to him a world of possibilities. There was no need for him in the council chamber; he had not yet assumed the responsibilities of state. His place in the family was that of a makeshift, and his true voice unheeded. Why not go out into the world and there gain that knowledge which would satisfy his thirst and possibly in some measure enable him to preserve the happiness of his own people? Yes; here was an opportunity; he must go, he would go, come what might.

And then he thought of Kinsan. Would she understand him? He must see her, and explain. He would reassure her, and gain her consent. Then, and not until then, there would be no obstacle in the way of his highest ambition. But how could he reach her? and would she hear him?

“Ah,” said he, to himself, “I have it. She will be at the cave;—she is there now;—it is her only lookout, and she too may have seen this beautiful sight. The whole place is roused, and by this time on the move. If my ears serve me right, even the shogun is trying to make his way to the citadel! I shall have no trouble about entering at the gate, and will find her. I must go.”

His mind once made up he lost no time, but made ready and hurried away. Outside the castle grounds he found everything in confusion; a few lingered in front, others tramped up and down, some going, some coming, and all were in a state of feverish anxiety. At times almost an uncontrollable impulse to join in with the rest took hold of him, yet he did not yield but kept steadfastly to his purpose.

Shibusawa soon arrived at the cave, but to his dismay found it unoccupied. He sat down, and pondered. Presently he looked out over the vast expanse of tiled and thatched roof, and as his eyes lingered he comprehended the full measure of its content. There was at their door a force which proclaimed a greater, a grander civilisation, and could he but reach the seat of its activities he might know and determine its character. But was such a thing possible? He knew of no means; not even whence they came or what were their necessities. Yet those monsters of the deep must hail from somewhere, and could he but put himself on board without detection he would be carried thither. Whether they possessed a like means of subsistence he did not know; tradition did not tell him that, but he did know that the sea and the air contained food such as he required, and so long as they did not go beyond these he felt reasonably sure of being able to provide for himself. His very finger tips tingled with expectation—but Kinsan arose in his mind and he half whispered:

“No, I cannot, must not go without first seeing her. It is my duty, her right.”

Presently he started off and, not knowing just where to go, unconsciously turned toward Kinsan’s house, opposite to whence he came. A flight of less than a half dozen steps led down a small declivity, and when he had nearly reached the bottom he almost stumbled upon Kinsan, who lay, with her hands folded, crouching upon the lower step. He stooped quietly over her and whispered, “Kinsan,” but she did not answer him.

“She is sleeping,” thought he, “and I will sit here at her side until she has awakened. The pause will give me time to choose the words, and her presence the courage to speak.”

The warm breeze fanned and soothed, and the still, clear night inspired him. His mind ran on and out until transported into boundless fancy. The earth, the sun, the moon, and the stars were not of his world. All were in the great abyss beyond. He spoke, saying:

“Where?”

A voice answered:

“At my side.”

He said:

“At the side of whom?”

The voice said:

“Love.”

He looked. The darkness disappeared, and a flood of light streamed around them and away into limitless space. He said:

“I have found the Light.”

And she whispered:

“You are my god.”

Kinsan had arisen, and together they walked into the cave, and there sat and looked and talked and reasoned for a long time.

Not so very long before Shibusawa’s arrival at the cave a mysterious voice had called Kinsan, and she had gone there, kneeling at the stone steps as she had knelt and prayed since their last meeting. From that time she had not entered the enclosure, but held it as a place sacred even to her. It was the throne upon which sat her love, her life, her god. There she could not enter, but at his feet she was wont to kneel and pray that he be saved, that the light return, and that he proclaim her his own, his goddess love.

It was long after midnight when Shibusawa and Kinsan fully understood each other and again pledged their faith and vowed their never-ending love: when the stars witnessed their seal, and they parted and went according to their destined way.