Shibusawa’s being washed overboard left Okyo a helpless and penniless victim. For nearly two days he managed to escape being burned alive in the firebox, by the angry stoker, who was now determined to rid himself of the fruitless charge. Through fright and exposure and hunger he had become so nearly dumb that when discovered and questioned he could say nothing but “mum is the word.” Then he was taken on deck and offered food and water, and as a matter of safety placed in the guard house, where he remained until the ship landed at Shanghai.

Here he was detained until an opportunity came to return him to his native land, and when he had finally arrived in Tokyo, some two months later, he was still unable to make any explanation of his condition or experiences. Maido tried by every means to elicit some word from him that might throw light upon the whereabouts or safety of his son. All his efforts were of no avail, and the only thing possible for Okyo to say was:

“Mum is the word.”

Okyo’s hapless predicament—which led Maido to think it possible that his son had met a like fate, or even a worse one—wore heavily upon the already overburdened daimyo. Since the landing of Commodore Perry’s fleet, matters of state were becoming more and more strained. Every day brought new charges and counter charges of the one party against the other. Contrary to Ikamon’s promises the literati had not been quelled, but were again fast gaining strength throughout the south, and even the mikado himself was becoming not averse to listening to their bitter complaints, if not to their proposed radical changes. Though Maido was becoming sick at heart and weak of purpose he could not, much as he desired to do so, extricate himself from the tangled net that dragged at the home or in the state. Old tactics and new sorrows were little calculated to bring him that peace of mind and ease of heart to which he had all his life looked forward, and Shibusawa’s absence had come to be not only the source of deepest regret but the cause of nervous, restless anxiety.

Ikamon’s schemes, also, were weighing Maido down with uncertainty; forcing him into a retirement shorn of every consolation saving only Nehachibana. She soothed him and cheered him and he worshipped her, yet this last and only comfort was soon to be snatched away. Nehachibana, too, was suddenly to fall a victim to Ikamon’s base desires, to Tetsutaisho’s insatiate thirst. Maido’s consent was wrung out of him and his daughter torn from him, and when on a dark, dreary day early in September she was carried away the old man broke down and wept bitterly.

“You, too, Nehachibana,” were the only words, as the bridal train left, and wended its way toward Tetsutaisho’s father’s house, where the eager bridegroom waited this, the coming of his latest prey.

They were married, and Nehachibana was loved only till abandoned to the ill-usage of a tyrannical mother-in-law. The Tetsutaishos belonged to the samurai class and as such were permitted a small living within the outer moat. Tetsutaisho was next to the youngest of seven children—an elder brother and five sisters. The father had never risen in the ranks, but owing to dissipation and over-indulgence had reached a state of worthlessness which deprived him of all social standing and reduced his income to the barest necessities. The eldest son had grown up a useless appendage to an already declining family, and his time was frittered away at playing “go” or in hanging about at the wrestling matches. The girls had been at an early age regularly sold into their kind of slavery, and in such manner the family managed barely to subsist until Tetsutaisho’s fortunes began to rise.

In spite of this one’s coarse breeding and fallen rank there was something about him which appealed to his superiors. He was every inch a soldier, and few there were who could snap a bow or flash a steel as he. From childhood he took a fancy to everything military, and early in life had shown a disposition to redeem a lost heritage and restore his family to its proper rank and former prowess. However, such a thing as executive ability was unknown to him. His wants did not go beyond the hour, and the matter of provision never entered his head. He was hale and hearty, and a “good fellow well met.” There were but two things which concerned him—war and women; the one his occupation, the other his amusement.

Therefore, when Nehachibana came to his father’s home Tetsutaisho did not at all worry about the kind or quality of dowry which she brought. It was only her tender innocence that he coveted, and that only for his enjoyment. For her he had no sympathy, nothing to offer. She must take her place, as it was, and be contented. He had not even thought of an heir—that was a thing which as yet had not occurred to him, and thus it offered no encouragement to his wife.

There was, notwithstanding, one in the family, his mother, who had looked forward with a great deal of interest to the coming of the bride’s household effects, particularly the presents, and as they arrived and were unpacked she grumbled at each, no matter what the kind or cost. Nothing pleased her, and she said:

“They are fine enough, but lack in quality, I know. And this Maido, who is he, that my son, my Tetsutaisho, should so honour him as to take his daughter in marriage? Is this what I am to get? And that without a voice? Verily the hand of misfortune falls heavily. Beauty and treasure—rags and fiddlesticks! A joros[10] would have brought me good returns. And what is this I hear all the time? Goddess Benten?—Nehachibana! Hist! Better try your prayers on Kwannon. The goddess of mercy is more likely your need: the goddess of love, your wish.”

“O my most honourable mother-in-law, O my gracious Fukurokuju,” said Nehachibana, meekly. “Myself I most humbly give you, for the god Oshaka has willed it. May the god Daikaku smile fortune upon you! My Benzaiten, my wealth surrender. My Kaminaraba, my heart I gave. O Amida, I pray you bring me always hard suffering if I now or ever keep my mother-in-law in the least ignorance.”

“Well you may be proud to serve. Few wives have husbands who have mothers who are so exceedingly blessed by the sweet, beautiful god of good nature, Hoti,” answered the vain mother-in-law.

“I take my place with much appreciation, and I now consecrate my life to the happy service of my most lovely mother-in-law,” said Nehachibana, bowing low.

“Scissors,” said the other, while they both scowled away.

Nehachibana’s husband was at first exceedingly attentive to her, and while he did not concern himself about her troubles at home he rather felt that he had gained a prize by taking Ikamon’s advice and marrying the daimyo’s daughter. He soon discovered that he had not only served a friend, but improved his own chances; for, in these days when disastrous clouds were forming so rapidly, any connection which brooked a stronger alliance with a house like that of Maido’s meant certain favour to those concerned.

Tetsutaisho, however, was not always over-sagacious, and as time went on he began to exploit his fortunes in other directions than at home. Kinsan had managed to keep well out of his way and therefore, though not forgotten, out of his mind. Probably, also, he was somewhat lax in pressing his fondness there because of the demands made upon his attention by Takara, his rather ardent sister-in-law. In fact, it was at Nehachibana’s homegoing party that he had first begun to feel something more than a brotherly interest in the deep and unfathomable wife of Shibusawa. And as they sat together there, on the veranda, with now and then a falling leaf to remind them of the oncoming season, she looked unusually pretty, and her rather sad, far-away look did anything but lessen her attractiveness, as she looked up to him and said:

“Do you think me not enough composed for one so newly married, Tetsutaisho?”

“No, Takara,” answered he, meditatively. “I was just remarking to myself how well you wore the care. I’ll venture his reward vouchsafes the kindness.”

“I trust so.”

“He could only say as much.”

“Why?”

“I will tell you sometime; I must go now—Nehachibana is waiting for me. See her—she is actually coming toward us.”

“Why, Nehachibana,” continued he, speaking to his wife, “you really look a trifle jealous. How now, my beauty treasure?”

“Oh, no; she’s not jealous,” said Takara, quickly divining the situation; “only men have the right to be jealous, women the privilege.”

“Oh, Takara! How you do talk!” said Nehachibana, flushed and gladdened. “I should lose my tongue were I to scold like that. I know I should. No man would have the patience with me, much less would my husband.”

“Nehachibana is right,” said Tetsutaisho, consolingly. “A man regards, and a husband disregards. And why not? Come, my little wife, let us be off and away. There be times when even virtue has not its reward.”

Takara gracefully yielded to the unpleasant interruption, and for a week or more no further intercourse was had with Tetsutaisho. He became suddenly so enrapt with Nehachibana that for the time being he forgot all about Takara and the innocent flush which had come to her cheeks in speaking of marriage and its attendant influences. It was not so with Takara. She remembered well his words and how he brightened with interest at her every whim and fancy; then she thought of how happy Nehachibana must be.

“I am not jealous,” said she to herself, time and time again. “It is only Nehachibana. I do not know such a thing; only other women are jealous. I wonder why? Nor do I envy anybody. I only wish Shibusawa were like Tetsutaisho. How I would love him—love him, oh, love him!”

Often her feelings ran on and on until she fancied her own husband the hero of her life. No taint had ever entered her heart. She believed him the master of her destiny and the fulfilment of her fortunes. Then Tetsutaisho came again, toward the latter part of September, and she was not displeased with his courtesies. He had come at the instance of Ikamon to talk over the matter of the shogun’s successor—that Iyeyoshi was now ill and there seemed to be no hope of his recovery—but, presently he came, there arrived a message for Maido to appear forthwith at a council meeting (prefacing the expected), at which the grief-stricken daimyo hurried away, leaving the young and careless general there to entertain the ladies or idle away his time at will.

It was a quiet afternoon and Tetsutaisho and Takara wandered off beneath the falling leaves to a sheltered place on the lawn. Takara was lonely. She had had no friendships since Tetsutaisho’s last visit except only Maido’s, her father-in-law. To him she was already beginning to be a comfort, and in a measure to take the place of his lost daughter. But it was an old man’s friendship; and when the younger gallant left her that evening she may have bidden him welcome to return.