After the departure of Perry and his fleet there was nothing of importance from the outside world to disturb the quaint little kingdom, so snugly hemmed in by the eastern waters. There was no immediate necessity for any material change at the newly made treaty ports, and in consequence the administration made known only so much of the terms of the compromise as it was thought would satisfy the opposition. The people were left in doubt as to its full purport, and thus they soon became reconciled to a belief that after all the danger might not be so great as at first supposed.

After the storm had passed there came a lull which might have lasted indefinitely had Ikamon been more sagacious in the treatment of local affairs. His sway at home was now supreme, and his rule so effective that he mistook complaisance for submission, and as a result overlooked the slow but positive disaffection in the south.

When the readjustment took place it was thought that Saigo’s reward and position would tend to allay the discontent in that locality, and that an economic policy would again restore the shogun to the full confidence of all sections of the country. This was true in a measure, but the patriots who worshipped at the mikado’s seat could not be effectively won over by personal favours bestowed upon their leaders. They were full of the soul of ancient times, and nothing short of a complete restoration of conditions could satisfy their rising spirits.

However, the shock of recent events had so checked their growth as to give Ikamon a chance to centralise his force and place Tetsutaisho at the head of a consolidated army. In all these doings the young general took no active part other than to hold himself in readiness to strike when called upon, but in the meantime gave himself up wholly to the delights of a love that was inevitable, if without the pale. Shibusawa continued to remain absent, and to all but his father had become as if forgotten, while Takara was now the favourite of the lord daimyo, and the castle offered her every privilege as she liked. Tetsutaisho was her slave, and she toyed with him as with a child, coming regularly and remaining at her will.

“Let us go down by the summer garden,” said she, on a sultry afternoon in July, as they finished their tea on the veranda. “There by the pond where the snow-white cranes stalk silently about or lazily tuck their sacred heads; under the rose-covered retreat that juts out over the iris-flagged waters. How I do love to sit there and be your idle-thought!”

“I am glad you proposed it. I will call the carriers and we will take the norimonos (chairs) down. It is too hot to walk this day,” answered he, glad of the chance.

Having in a little while arrived at the chosen retreat they lounged on the matted floor amidst the fragrance of the lotus and in view of the iris-studded waters in front. A cool breeze gently floated in, and now and then a golden crane crossed in the wake of his abode.

“I wish I were a bird,” said Takara, dreamily.

“Then I should be your mate,” answered Tetsutaisho, quickly.

“And this our nest,” whispered she.

“Our paradise,” said he.

“And if it were,” continued Takara, “we would live here for ever, and there would be no parting and no improprieties. I do hate a world where one must suffer to be happy! Kamie has given us all these beautiful things and has made us to love, and naughty man has tried to upset it all and make us creatures of his convenience. I, for one, propose to consult more my own pleasure.”

“Quite right you are, Takara; conventionality is a thing I do not like so very well myself. Yet we ought not to complain, for there is really nothing to prevent us from making this our heaven. Who could ask for a more lovely spot! And I assure you there is neither man nor law to stand between us.”

“Do you think so?”

“It is true. I know it.”

“Then I am content, for I have but a single thought.”

“Just as the beautiful lotus which you see standing here and there and all about. It is emblematic of purity, which springs from single-mindedness; and of virtue, because of its usefulness. You are just like they, and I love them and I am going to love you.”

“And you always will?”

“So long as Jurokin be a god.”

After a while they had said their say and, leaning back on the rustic moulding, contented themselves with looking out at the shadows falling across the mirrored lake from the tall cypress standing on the bank. Presently Takara broke the silence by saying:

“Let us call the geishas; the water is so still and the day suggestive. What do you say, Tetsutaisho?”

“A happy thought. And what shall it be?”

“I have but one choice.”

“The ancient dance?”

“Yes; ‘No.’”

Tetsutaisho called and despatched a servant to the shibai (house of entertainment) for Michizane, the “lover of the plum” and poet to Takara, who came forthwith and bowed, and then stood by, waiting to be directed. Tetsutaisho first spoke, saying:

“Michizane, your lady would have you provide some entertainment before the sun is set. She herself will suggest the kind.”

“Yes, Michizane,” said she. “Let it be ‘no,’ the dance of our fathers; then, if you like, a poem.”

Michizane bowed and departed, though not with a happy expression. Since her early childhood this old man had faithfully provided Takara with innocent amusement, which service, since his lady’s marriage to Shibusawa, consisted chiefly in reading to her poems of his own creation. She had brought him along from Kyoto as a necessary part of her household effects, all of which belonged to an age or a school not of the shogun’s. He was now a veteran of sixty years, and little calculated to compose in a vein suited to his fair lady’s taste, except it be not when Tetsutaisho was so near by.

Michizane was not long, however, in arranging in front of the “lovers’ nest” the covered float, upon which there balanced a dozen and six—one for each half decade from birth to ninety—of the fairest and loveliest of the geishas. These were arranged at the rear of the platform in the form of a crescent, beginning at the left with the youngest and ending at the right with the oldest—symbolic of the rising and the setting of the sun. All were clad in rich garments, fashioned according to their ages, and their hair was arranged in representation of the several stages of womanhood. They stood with bowed head and extended foot, ready to reel and swing at the first sound of the music.

At the centre of the crescent there sat facing the dancers three others of a different type and a more gaudy dress, with bright coloured ornaments in their hair and much tinsel about their waists. These were the koto players, who held their instruments in front waiting the signal for them to begin the dance.

In front of these, facing the dancers, sat Michizane, cross-toed and erect, with his withered hands folded in front of him. He wore a plain grey kimono, which folded under a long girdle, looped up at the side, and his long white hair fluffed out and hung far down over his stooped shoulders.

Everything was now silent, not even a leaf stirring. The sun blazed in the west, and the deep shadows told of its setting. The dancers grew animated, the players composed, and Michizane reverent, and there arose in the listeners mingled feelings of sorrow and delight. Their hearts beat, and the grey poet bowed low, and the dance began. The soft strains of music inspired them, and the lesson unfolded before them repeated the story of life for ever and evermore. One by one the maidens laid bare their part in the great drama that unfolds from the cradle to the grave, and no man there looked without a deeper sense of responsibility and a happier inspiration for the day. No vulgar thought disturbed them, for theirs was a purer and a nobler reality. Base desires arose from another source; the choosing, the sin. As the last dancer disrobed the strains lowered, and when the final shred was doffed the music ceased and the sun set: the drama was over and the world in darkness. There was no need for covering, no desire to live.

Thus those two passed the time, when it was agreeable for them to meet. At Koyo-odori (maple dance for girls) Takara gave a party on the lawn, to which all of her younger girl friends in the neighbourhood were invited. Tetsutaisho was there in his uniform, with full regalia, and of course was the idol of the fair young maidens, who looked upon him as being little less than a god. In mid-winter the Mukojima (snow-seeing trip) afforded an opportunity to get into the country, where they lingered and enjoyed themselves at will. The mountain Tsukuba, just back of Tokyo, was their favourite place for this event, whither the white-enrobed earth stretched away to the ocean in front. Whether winter or summer they were always happy when together and lonely when not.

Finally on a bright morning in March—it was March third, the day of Hinanosaku, festival for young girls—the sun rose and cast its red among the tall trees and the furrowed housetops of the castle ground. Maido struck his pipe against the brazier and then arose and slowly left his room. Presently he climbed the short lacquered stairs and entered a deserted room with panelled sash through which the sunlight streamed and warmed the cheerless place.

The squared ceiling revealed a rich setting of wood and grain, and the floor was spread over with soft, clean matting. A large vase of beautiful blue, in which grew a dwarfed orange, fragrant with bloom, stood upon a raised recess in the wall. Over this hung a long kakemono,[11] done by an old master, and in a corner stood a screen of rare embroidery. There was nothing more, and the room seemed bare and desolate. Takara was gone. The daimyo’s heart throbbed heavily, and he knelt behind the screen, and with his face turned away begged Kimon to give him freedom.

As he sat there an aged man, bent and sorrowful, stole in and across the room to the sacred recess in the wall, where he bowed, and said:

“Alas! It is well!”