So far as Tetsutaisho was concerned he had called at the daimyo’s castle only by accident, though there was much anxiety and probably no one’s fortune more at stake. Iyeyoshi had grown old and inert amidst strained conditions, and appreciated more fully than could Iyesada, his youthful successor, the necessity of advancing the bold, heedless young general. Nor was Tetsutaisho free from the danger of rival aspirants; yet there was no war at hand, and he knew of no better business than pleasing Ikamon and paying respect to the ladies at court.

Here he need not concern himself with rivalry, for the one guided with a jealous eye his rising place and the other enjoyed without interruption his pleasing address. He came and went at will, and had he not sooner possessed an unknown love he might have quicker formed an attachment. Takara responded naturally to the voice of inevitable will, but a yearning heart unconsciously bade him seek Kinsan.

Without neglecting the former, he pressed his suit for the latter, and now more than ever became a faithful caller at the modest cottage in the garden; and as he persisted Kinsan determined and withdrew patiently into the solitude of her unknown retreat, and there conjured feelings of love that ripened with each thought and strengthened in the face of every danger. Filial affection bound her and crowned her, yet she was possessed of a new force, moved by a deeper impulse. She battled with the inevitable and yielded her life to what seemed to be the impossible; no quarter was given, and fate tracked her even to her last place of hope.

It was on a warm afternoon in early spring, when the clouds overhung with threatening storm, that Tetsutaisho, hurrying toward his home, wended his way along the selfsame pathway, which led past Kinsan’s lonely spot on the hillside. As he came into sight a gust of wind swept down the gully and whipped his kimono close round his limbs. He paused and looked overhead, but none too soon, for large drops, falling straight and swift, warned him of the rapidly approaching downpour.

“If I mistake not,” said he, to himself, “I shall get a good drenching this time. I wonder what shelter is that in the distance? If I could get there without too much hobbling—it is my only chance. I shall venture.”

If he had but looked closer he might also have seen Kinsan, who had gone there earlier in the day to escape his presence at her house. However, she saw him, and when he left the path she had so often watched him tread her heart stood still and she trembled with fright. He was surely coming, and there was no possible means of escape. She appealed not to the gods, but grasped at intuition; her secret hiding-place offered an alternate, and quickly entering she covered her safety as best she could.

Tetsutaisho found his way there; and in time, for it had not yet begun to rain, though great clouds were massing and the sky was growing dark and hollow. He entered the scant shelter with no concern about its past or thought of its significance. It was a covering, and though dreary he faced about and looked out at the grand panorama of mingled peace and storm its outlook brought into view. He stood with folded arms, likening the elements to a marshalling of the samurai, in which he should sometime startle the land and bring glory to himself. And then he thought of Kinsan and of how she, too, were she there would under such a spell acknowledge his unalterable right. He straightened back and marvelled at his greatness, while the lowering clouds rumbled afar.

Then suddenly a submerged sneeze at his back frightened him, and he wheeled about and peered into the gloom at the dumb, bleak walls. He could see no one, and suddenly it grew dark, and clashing thunder broke overhead. Again he was startled by the same mysterious sound, and he fell down and cried:

“It is the ghost of Taira!”

Scarcely had he uttered the words when the rain began to pour, and the ghoulish sound once more started him to his feet, and he ran out into the driving storm and dashed down the hillside, toward his home, far beyond the second moat. Here, soaked and exhausted, he hid himself in his room and pondered deeply the voice at the cave. The rain pounded overhead, and in each corner there seemed lurking a spirit—he heard many sounds.

It was a warning, and the next day Tetsutaisho was at the council chamber, early and faithful. He heard Ikamon argue against change, and in favour of continuance; comprehended his meaning, that natural growth is the law of the gods; and agreed with his charge, that nothing short of revolution could overthrow a system that followed regular, active, inherent growth.

“What,” said the prime minister, with squeaking voice and expressionless face, “would you have us do? Change our course now that the storm drives at our front and the breakers rise behind us? Would you at mid-stream change this good old ship, that has weathered the storm of ages, for one that is new and untried? No; a thousand times no! and may such men as Maido, Saigo, Katsu, Tetsutaisho, and—if I may be permitted—Ikamon, live to helm her safely into port. Iyesada, brave captain that he is, cannot afford to man his ship with other than the skilled and experienced, and where else can he find them but at the post of duty? This is the plan which I propose, and I call upon every loyal citizen, every adherent of the august shogun, and every lover of the divine mikado, to rally to my support.”

They came; the victory was his; and the shogun more than ever in his power. Katsu was soon thereafter placed at the head of the navy, and Tetsutaisho advanced to the command of the army. It was the reward his friends had given him for his loyalty, and he took the advancement as a matter of course, not even deigning to return thanks or offer a promise. So far as he was concerned his friends were his fortune, and even the law of the land had no place as between him and them.

Under Ikamon’s domination Tetsutaisho was relieved of the necessity for any particular state activities, while his promotion had placed him socially at the head of the samurai, as had his marriage to Nehachibana raised him in esteem among the nobility and given him standing at court. The state furnished him with luxuriant quarters, where he domiciled his family, under the immediate sway of his fault-finding mother, with Nehachibana as her patient, industrious slave. Time passed leisurely, and as he had long ago forgotten his desperate resolve he was wont more than ever to make regular calls at his father-in-law’s house.

As these visits grew in frequency, the length of his stay became less guarded; and Takara, at first looking upon his coming as a pleasing incident, recurring now and then in her monotonous life, welcomed him, then looked for him, and now, that his had come to be her only true companionship, longed for his coming.

“You will come to-morrow, will you not, Tetsutaisho?” said she, with pleading, wistful eyes, as he was about to leave her on a warm, inviting night in June.

“Yes, Takara,” answered he, softly and earnestly. “I will come over, and together we will watch the second sailing of Perry’s fleet, the departure of the first man who ever dared profane our soil. I understand the arrant braggart has finally wrung from the shogun certain privileges that are not less dangerous than disgraceful. As he came, he will go out: booming his noisy guns. It will be a showy thing, and possibly worth our seeing. I shall certainly come, my lady, especially that it pleases you to have me. And now, good-night, and pleasant dreams.”

Upon the following day Tetsutaisho once more wandered over to the council and for a time hopelessly endeavoured to share in the tumult occasioned by the second appearance of the American fleet. He was deeply impressed with the importance of the proceedings, but diplomacy was not his business, nor was it in keeping with his ideas of national honour, much less official dignity or personal heroism. To him Ikamon’s subtle harangue had been quite as much a bore as was the commodore’s demand a bold and hollow bluff. Had he had his way he would have invited the meddlesome foreigner to come ashore and inspect the samurai before undertaking to establish in their midst any sort of commercial theft. But Tetsutaisho’s voice as yet had no weight in the chamber, and he knew it and was satisfied. Withdrawing presently, he returned homeward and prepared himself for a more pleasing diversion.

Toward evening the weather grew warm and inviting, and Tetsutaisho strolled over to Takara’s house early, where they loitered on the veranda and supped long at their tea. There was that stillness in the air that begets confidence, and the moon rose clear and bright. He sat smoking and dreaming, and she chatted away or toyed with the tiny cup in front. He had finished his pipe, then he said:

“Shall we stroll over to the arbour vine, Takara? The woods are inviting, and there we can get a glimpse of the ‘Yankee’ as he hurls our foam at his back. Come, my lady, shall I assist you to rise?”

Takara drooped her eyes and blushed, and he did not resist the temptation, but sat at her side and took her willing hand in his. She leaned forward, and looking into his upturned face revealed the answer. Nothing could stay or mar that pleasure. They sat there enrapt with the joy of all time: only the stars gave witness, and when they had awakened there was no need for a scene in the moonlight, for a crossing of the ways, for a going into the halo of life; they had sooner found their affinity, and all the glories of heaven and earth could not transport them more, and when they went out into the dawn it was to revel in thoughts sweeter than dreamland had ever revealed. A beautiful sunburst beamed from her heart, and her eyes shone with a love that welcomes the true; that fades and shuns at the false. The fleet had long passed out, the moon had risen high, and God had again proven the wisdom of all things when those two returned and parted for the night.

As Tetsutaisho hastened along the gravelled pathway toward his home his step was less firm and his purpose more uncertain than when he came. His course had led him over the firmer hold and into the boundless sea of uncertainty. What was once a passion was now fast becoming a desire, and he knew no such thought as halt. Whither he did not know, perhaps he did not care, for to him the world was but a reality: its pleasures were its eternity. And not until he approached his own house did he think of Nehachibana, and of how she had made his home worth the while; of her waiting and watching and praying for his return; of the boundless joy that filled her heart at the first sound of his footsteps, and then he said to himself:

“These wise old fathers of my country have fitted well the act and made certain their provision for such as she and I. The law makes marriage tolerable and it makes love enjoyable. A thousand dry draughts to you! May the laws live long, and love die never! O Jurokin; O Benten; hear me!”