The House of the Misty Star by Frances Little (read books for money .TXT) 📖

On the mossy banks they romped and indulged in feasts of tea and crackers. Ishi would stand near and invoke the vengeance of eighty thousand deities to descend and annihilate this forward girl from a land of barbarians. Finding his deities failed to respond, he threatened to cast his unworthy body upon the point of a sword, if Zura cut another bud. But I knew, if Ishi's love of flowers failed to prevent so tragic an end, his love of sake would do so.

  For years the garden had been his undisturbed kingdom, and now that it should be invaded and the flowers cut without his permission and frequently without his knowledge enraged him to the bursting point. His habits were as set as the wart on his nose and he proposed to change neither one nor the other. "Most very bad," he wailed to me. "All blossoms soul have got. Bad girl cut off head of same; peaceful makes absence from their hearts. Their weep strikes my ear."

  So on the day we were to celebrate Thanksgiving and Jane's happiness, and Zura had declared her intention of decorating every spot in the house, I was not surprised to hear coming from the garden sounds of an overheated argument. "Ishi, if it weren't for hurting the feelings of the august pig I would say you were it. Stand aside and let me cut those roses. There's a thousand of them, if there's one."

  The protest came high and shrill. "Decapitate heads! You sha'n't not! All of ones convey soul of great ancestors."

  "Do they?"—in high glee—"all right, I'll make the souls of your blessed ancestors serve as a decoration for America's glorious festival day."

  The outraged Ishi fairly shrieked. "Ishi's ancestors! America! You have blasphemeness. I perish to recover!"

  Hostilities were suspended for a minute.

  Then Zura's fresh young voice called out from below my window: "Ursula, please instruct this bow-legged image of an honorable monkey to let me cut the roses. Hurry, else my hand may get loose and 'swat' him."

  What the child meant by "swat" I had no idea; neither did I care. She had called me "Ursula!" Since childhood I had not heard the name. Coming from her lips it went through me like a sharp, sweet pain. Had she beheaded every rose and old Ishi in the bargain I would have smiled, for something in me was being satisfied.

  I gave orders to Ishi, to which Zura added, "You are to take your dishonorable old body to the furthermost shrine, and repent of your rudeness to your young mistress." As he turned his angry back upon her, she inquired in honeyed tones, "Mercy, Ishi! How did you ever teach your face to look that way? Take it to a circus! It will make a fortune!"

  Very soon after she came into the room so laden with roses that I could just see her face. "Aren't they darlings?" she exclaimed. "Poor old Ishi, I can't blame him much!" Then to me, "Say, beautifulest, tell you what: I'll arrange these flowers and I promise, if I find a sign of an ancestor, I'll go at once and apologize to his mighty madness—if you will write a note to Mr. Hanaford and bid him to the Thanksgiving feast."

  I agreed, and she went her busy way. In addressing the note to Page, I was reminded that a few days before his servant had called for a package of his master's clothing which Jane and I kept in repair. To my surprise the servant said that Hanaford San had gone away on business.

  Possibly my look of astonishment at the news invited confidence. After glancing around to make sure we were alone, he approached and in mixed Japanese and broken English told me how his heart was weighed "with anxious" for his employer. He said his master was very kind. Therefore, Master's trouble was his. Sometimes the young man was happy and sang tunes through whistle of lips; but one day he walked the floor all night. Lately he sat by the windows long hours and look fast into picture scenery. He feared illness for master. Often he forget to sing, whistle, and eat foods; just sit with hand on head. "One time I say 'Master, have got painful in brain spot? Or have fox spirit got brain?' He give big laugh; then myself makes many fools to see happy stay with master."

  He wished Hanaford San had some people, but in his room was not one picture of ancestor. He never had a happy time with many guests, and samisens and feast drinks, like other young American Dana Sans in Yokohama. When not teaching he sat alone with only his pipe and heart for company, sometimes a book.

  It was not polite for him to speak of Master's affairs but he hoped the foreign Sensies could advise him how to make Hanaford San have more happy thoughts all of time.

  I told the boy that Mr. Hanaford had lost his money and all his people, and probably it was thoughts of these losses that caused his sad hours; he would be all right in time.

  "Time," murmured the unsatisfied man, "time very long for troubled heart of young."

  Then, as if trying to forget that he was powerless to help, he began to recite the events of a recent visit to the city of a group of Tokio's famous detectives. They were searching for special fugitives and making the rounds of all suspicious quarters. It was most exciting and because of master's absence he had been able to see much. Though he wished Page had been at home. It might have entertained him. With many thanks for my "listening ear" the servant left.

  Everywhere I looked I seemed to see this question written: Was Page Hanaford's absence at the time of the detectives' visit accidental or planned? Try as I would to put the hateful thought away from me, it came back again and again.

  The boy's slow return to health had troubled me more than I could well say. It was so unnatural. Jane and I did everything that sincere affection could suggest to ward off the hours of strange dejection, and he never failed in appreciation; yet we made no headway to a permanent sunny spot in his life, where he could be always happy and healthy, as was the right of youth. I gave him every opportunity to tell me what caused his moods. I showed him by my interest and sympathy that I wanted to believe in him and would stand by him at any cost. There were times when he seemed on the verge of making a confidant of me, but his lips refused to utter the words.

  Usually he responded eagerly to Zura's gay coaxings to friendship and gladly shared her blithesome fun; but sometimes there was a look in his eyes such as a youthful prisoner might have when he knew that for life he is barred from blue skies. As time went on less often appeared the playful curve of his lips, the crinkly smile in the corners of his eyes.

  Once in the moonlight I saw him stretch out his hand as if to touch Zura's glistening hair. Some memory smote him. He drew back sharply.

  At times I was sure that he was purposely avoiding her. Yet the thought seemed foolish. If ever there was a goodly sight for eyes glad or sad it was the incarnation of joyous girlhood whose name was Zura Wingate.

  Unable to solve the puzzle, I could only give my unstinted attention to the boy and girl. If only our armor of love could shield the beloved!

  I sent the invitation for the Thanksgiving celebration, and was much relieved by the answer that Mr. Hanaford would join us that evening.

  The dinner was a great success. For all of us it was full of good cheer. Jane in her happiness looked years younger. She was in high glee.

  "Do you know, my friends in the Quarters are so happy over the hospital," she exclaimed. "I was obliged to ask the Sake Ya to sell only one little bottle of wine to each man. He promised and said he would dilute it at that. Wasn't it good of him to do it? Oh! it's beautiful how big difficulties are melting away—just like fax in the wire!" She joined in the laugh at her expense.

  Zura urged, "Lady Jinny, please get you a pair of crutches for that limp in your tongue."

  "Better than that, child. First operation in the hospital will be to take the kinks out of my foolish, twisted words."

  Afterwards in the sitting-room Zura went through her pretty little ceremony of making after-dinner coffee and serving it in some rare old Kutani cups. The wonderful decoration of the frail china led her to talk of the many phases of Japan and its life that appealed to the artist. Of the lights and shadows on land and sea the effects of the mists and the combination of color that defied mere paint.

  I'd never heard Zura talk so well nor so enthusiastically on a sensible subject. For a moment I had a hope that her love for the beauty of the country would overcome her antagonism to her mother's people. I was quickly undeceived.

  Then, as if fearful that praise for the glories of old Nippon might make her seem forgetful of the festal day of her own land, she flashed out, "But please don't anybody forget that I am an American to the marrow-bone." She turned to Page. "Did you come direct from America to Japan?"

  The usual miserable flush of confusion covered the boy's face. "Well—you see, I never keep track of dates; guess I'm too—maybe I've traveled a bit too much to count days—"

  Either ignoring Page's evasion or not seeing it, Zura continued, "But you love the blessed old country, don't you?"

  "With all my heart," he answered fervently.

  "Then why do you stay out here? A man can go where he pleases."

  "I have my work on hand and riches in mind. You know the old saw about a rolling stone?"

  "Indeed I do. It gathers no moss. Neither does it collect burrs in gray whiskers and hayseed in long hair. I tell you," she half-whispered, leaning towards him confidentially, "Let's you and I kidnap Jane and Ursula and emigrate to 'Dixie Land, the land of cotton, where fun and life are easily gotten.' Are you with me?" she audaciously challenged.

  Page's face matched the white flowers near him. With a lightness, all assumed, he answered, "All right; but wait till I make a fortune—teaching." He arose, saying he would go out on the balcony for a smoke.

  Soon after that Jane left, saying she must write many letters of thanks.

  I was alone with Zura. The night being mild for the time of year, she proposed that we stroll in the garden. To her this lovely spot was something new and beautiful. To me it was something old and tender, but the charm, the spell it wove around us both was the same. It lay in perfect peace, kissed to silence and tender mystery by the splendor of the great, red, autumn moon. More beautiful now, the legend said, because the gods gathered all the brilliant coloring from the dying foliage and gave it to the pale moon lady for safe keeping.

  "And look," exclaimed Zura, as we walked beside the waters which gave back the unclouded glory, "if the shining dame isn't using our lake for a looking-glass. You know, Ursula, this is the only night in the year the moon wears a hat. It's made from the scent of the flowers. Doesn't that halo around her look like a chapeau?"

  We strolled along, and to Zura's pleadings I answered with ghost legends and myths from a