Upon Kinsan’s arrival at Tetsutaisho’s house she was treated with every consideration by her master, and in reality though not in fact given equal rank with the mistress. She was settled in that part of the house over which his mother was supposed to reign and his lawful wife, Nehachibana, had been the principal personage, and while not raised to the place of a concubine she was given all the privileges of one. Her position was supposed to be that of a servant, yet in turn she was given servants and no duties were, by Tetsutaisho, exacted of her. It was not because he did not intend her to be his full-fledged concubine, nor because he had any scruples about Nehachibana that he did not give Kinsan that position; but simply because he entertained grave doubts about Takara’s pleasure in the matter—something with which even he as yet hesitated to trifle.

He had gained Takara’s love, and her honest love, upon the strength of an affinity—a thing which, so long as it lasted, brooked no rival. He had, though, in taking her into his house assumed responsibilities far beyond personal ones; and recognising the superiority of her position realised that, should he incur her displeasure, she had but to call upon a power that might overthrow and discard him in spite of his usefulness. He sought, therefore, to deceive Takara as to his real purpose in bringing Kinsan into the house, and to let her discover by slow degrees that, without a proper encouragement, even affinity may wane and finally cease to hold the object of its affection.

Takara still loved him and was none the wiser; thus he continued without danger his complicated relations, though she felt a growing coldness and the oncoming of something, she knew not what. She was now deeply worried and much given to thinking, for there was approaching also a critical period; but when rumours came to her ears, and she chided him about Kinsan, he answered:

“Takara, you do me a great injustice. I am not only true, as you see, but I have anticipated the necessity of keeping at hand one upon whose shoulders may be placed the responsibilities for the care of our child.”

“But why not intrust that service to one whom we know to be best fitted?” asked Takara, anxiously. “There is Nannoto, whose mother carried in her arms your mother’s mother.”

“No, Takara; it is not the service I would trouble myself about. My lady should not so degrade herself.”

“Why degraded? You told me not.”

“It is not the fashion.”

“But if it is my choice?”

“You have no choice.”

“Would you take from a mother her child?”

“The law allows it.”

“Then the law is unjust, and there is a better way.”

“Fashion is inexorable, and the law must be upheld.”

“Whether the fashion or the law, it is wrong. A mother’s breast is a woman’s joy.”

“Obedience is a woman’s highest virtue.”

Takara understood fully the force as well as the law of her chosen lord’s argument, though she was none the less aware of her own recourse. While she felt the chagrin of defeat she realised the danger of appeal; therefore she concluded to bide her time and make the best use of her opportunities. Her love for him was not dead, but there was awakening within her a new light, a better purpose.

Nehachibana, though better informed, had been the more easily deceived. Not that she in the least misunderstood her husband’s motive in foisting upon her another and a still more unwelcome rival, but that she entirely mistook Kinsan’s position. Nehachibana loved Tetsutaisho—just why she had never stopped to inquire. If it was because she was his wife, her love was none the less intense; and because she was in love with him, she thought every other woman must be—at least all those who evinced the slightest interest, whether courted or courting. And if she was to share another portion, she found much consolation if not happiness in the thought that Takara, too, must lose in like proportion. It was a reiteration of the old adage that there can be no great loss without some small gain; a jealous reward and a revengeful satisfaction. She now pitied Takara and hated Kinsan (in virtue of a community of feeling)—the one because of her position, the other in consequence of hers.

The mother’s indifference proved to be as great a blessing to Kinsan as it was a curse to Nehachibana. What the one gained by being let alone the other lost in virtue of being served likewise, thus results struck a happy balance. But it was from another source that fear and anxiety came to both alike, to Nehachibana because of neglect and to Kinsan because of danger.

As the last sight of the latter’s childhood home had vanished from her view she bent down under the weight of her grief, but when she had arrived at Tetsutaisho’s place of sin and had been brought face to face with his mock glances she fell upon her knees, not in humble supplication, but in the full recognition of her weakness. It was then that she prayed as only one can pray who values life less than honour; and when the fiendish touch came she did not yield, but shrank from him and spoke her mind in a voice that is beyond the power of words. Sheer courage lost him his victim, determination saved her.

Stunned by the force of her great purity, he did not lessen his persistence, but delayed from time to time a more cowardly intention; finally there dawned within him the impulse of a purer love, which gradually overcame his weakness and made it possible to find a better way. He decided now to hold her in reality as a servant, and on the seventh day after the birth of the child, himself took it, and carrying it to Kinsan, placed it in her arms and told her that it should be her charge. It was a fine, large boy, the eyes and mould revealing its mother’s heritage, and as Tetsutaisho gave Kinsan the baby, he bade her call it Sodachinojoi, and say nothing more. Then he said to her:

“You have refused me; now you must serve mine. So long as you do that, and do it well, and as I bid, you shall know no penalty, though it is a grave sin to oppose your master’s will. And when you have done, I shall trust to gratitude for what you have so persistently withheld. Go now, and beware of the inquisitive.”

“My heart bids me do my part,” said she, in answer. “This burden is even more, it is a blessing. I pray for strength that I may serve well and please much. The reward is already mine.”

“Then you would mock me, heigh? Bring me the child—no; I shall send you both to the dungeon,” and he arose and stood meditating.

“I pray you, sir, send me, but save the child. It is innocent, and it has a mother. I am unworthy, yet I will pay the penalty. Pray, sir?”

He did not answer at once, but stood regarding her; he may have marvelled at her charity, possibly he was touched by her tenderness. At all events he moved closer, and whispered:

“Kinsan, I truly love you.”

She did not hear him. Her eyes rested on the child in her arms. She was thinking of a mother’s sorrow, possibly a child’s fate. He came close up and would have touched her had she not shrunk from him and cried:

“I do not comprehend. It is not his voice. It is not true.”

“Aha,” said Tetsutaisho to himself, as he leaned back in silence. “It is not I that she disdains, but it is another whom she loves.”

Then after a while he addressed her saying:

“Kinsan, I trust you will pardon my incivility. I did not mean to be rude, though I may deserve your censure. And now that it is done, I do not want you to feel that it is my heart that is wrong. Do me the honour to serve this child, and Tetsutaisho shall see to it that the reward be as you desire. I leave you free to say as much, if it is your pleasure.”

“The honour is mine to serve. The pleasure, yours to grant. And is there any higher?” asked she, confident and earnest.

Tetsutaisho soon after withdrew and left Kinsan to begin her new duties with a lighter heart and a better confidence. She felt with renewed hope that there was still a chance for the right. And now that her hands were no longer idle, she must drive away despair and set about with fresh courage to make much happiness out of the little that life offered.

She soon learned to love the child, and often took it from the nurse and held it in her own arms. At dusk of night she would sit for hours, singing lullabies or reciting favourite poems. Sometimes she peered dreamily, softly, into the far distance, and then her voice would rise to the sweet, lonely pitch of the nightingale or deepen into tenderest pathos. Once these sad, weird strains reached Tetsutaisho’s ears, and they touched him more deeply, strangely, than when he first heard her at the garden.

“It is her soul speaking its wonderful love,” said he to himself, as he lounged and listened from his own mat on a dark, still night, “and I would give all that is in this world were that love for me.”

Then he asked Ikamon to come to his house and listen in the cool of the evening to her songs and her poems. No mention was made to her of her intended audience, for Tetsutaisho had learned her true spirit and was now beginning to respect her. He would not so intrude as to ask her to sing; her heart only alone and undisturbed could invoke such melody; yet he could not resist inviting his friend to share the pleasure of her voice, though only by chance might they be so privileged. Ikamon came and he, too, was charmed.

“It is the grandest voice I ever heard,” said he, with enthusiasm, as he arose and thanked his host for the entertainment, preparatory to taking his leave.