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

  There was enough sweetness in Zura's voice to woo a man to Heaven or lure him to the other place. Page listened till the last note, then softly closed the door and walked beside me. The look on his face held me speechless. It was a glorious something he had gained, yet never to be his; a glimpse into paradise, then the falling of the shadows between; but the vision was his reward.

  Usually it takes endless time in Japan to unwind the huge ball of red tape that is wrapped about the smallest official act. That morning, when Page and I presented ourselves at the Government office, the end of the tape seemed to have a pin stuck in it, so easily and swiftly was it found. Promptly announced, we were ushered without delay into a small inner office.

  The walls of this room were lined with numberless shelves filled with files and papers. Any remaining space was covered by pictures of famous persons, people wanted or wanting, and a geisha girl or two.

  I noticed two other things in the room. Adorning the center of the table, before which we were seated, was a large cuspidor. The fresh flowers inside matched the painted ones outside. To Japanese eyes the only possible use for such an ornament was to hold blossoms. It was neither beautiful nor artistic, but being foreign was the very thing with which to welcome American guests. Anxious as I was I felt myself smiling, if rather palely, at the many ways in which Kishimoto's prophecy was being fulfilled.

  The other thing was not amusing, only significant. Page sat opposite me and I faced a heavily curtained recess, and some one was behind the drapery. I had seen the folds move. I had no way of warning the boy. Had we been alone, I doubt if I would have made the effort. Concealment for Page, unendurable suspense for those who loved him, must end. I spoke only when necessary to interpret an unusual word.

  A small official with a big manner began by eulogizing Mr. Hanaford's skill in teaching and his success in imparting English. He felt it a great rudeness of manner to the honorable teacher gentleman, but the law compelled applicant for the position of Professor of English in the Normal College to answer many personal questions. For a moment he dallied with a few preliminary statements; then, throwing aside all reserve, the man began his probe as a skilled surgeon might search a victim's body for hidden bullets.

  Page, outwardly calm, answered steadily at first, but his knotted fingers and swelling veins showed the strain. Once his lips trembled. I had never seen a man's lips tremble before. It's no wonder mothers can die for sons.

  Inquiries as to quantity and quality of ancestors, place of birth, age, calling now and formerly came with the precision of a marksman hunting the center of the target. "How long have you been in this country?"

  "About a year."

  "From where did you come to Japan?"

  Page hesitated, then stammered: "Don't remember."

  The high-lifted brows of the official were eloquent, his voice increasingly sarcastic: "So! Your memory makes absence. Repeat your name once again."

  "Page Hanaford."

  "Hanaford? So! Now your other name?"

  "I have no other name."

  "Your other name!" was the sharp demand.

  "My name is Page Hanaford, I tell you." He spoke with quick anger as he arose from the chair.

  "Your other name!" sternly reiterated his inquisitor.

  A wave of confusion seemed to cover the boy. Desperate and at bay, he rather feebly steadied himself for a last defense. "What do you mean? Can't you hear me? I tell you for the last time my name is—"

  "Ford Page Hamilton," supplied the voice of Kobu, cool, suave and sure as he came from behind the curtain. "I arrest you as fugitive. See what paper says? You take moneys from bank." He exposed a circular printed in large type. It read:

  "$5,000 reward for information of one Ford Page Hamilton, dead or alive. Last seen in Singapore, summer of 1912," followed by a detailed description and signed by a Chicago banking firm.

  "It's a lie!" shouted Page as he read.

  "No lie. See? Page Hanaford San, Ford Hamilton San all same." Kobu held close to the pitiful white face a photograph which undoubtedly could have been Page Hanaford in happier days.

  The boy looked, then laid his shaking arm across his eyes. With a moan as if his soul had yielded to despair he hoarsely whispered: "Oh, God! A thief! It's over!"

  He sank to the floor.

  In old Nippon the flower of kindness reaches full perfection when friend or foe suffers defeat. Page Hanaford might be a long-hunted prize in the police world, but to the group around him as he lay on the floor, his head upon my lap, he was a stranger far from home and very ill. Justice could wait while mercy served. Pity urged willing messengers to bring restoratives, to summon doctors who pronounced the sick man in the clutches of fever. Hospitals in Hijiyama are built for the emergencies of war, and solicitude for Page's comfort was uppermost when, after a short consultation among the officials, permission was granted to remove him to my house with an officer in charge.

  A policeman headed the little procession that moved slowly up the steps to The House of the Misty Star, and one followed to keep at a distance the sympathetic, but curious crowd. Four men carried a stretcher beside which I walked holding the limp hand of Page, who was still claimed by a merciful unconsciousness.

  The news spread rapidly. As we reached the upper road I saw Zura at the entrance, waiting our coming, so rigid she seemed a part of the carving on the old lodge gates. Her face matched the snow beneath her feet.

  "Is he dead?" she demanded, as we came closer.

  "No. But he's desperately ill—and under arrest," I hurriedly added.

  "Oh, but he's alive; nothing else matters. Come on; my room is ready."

  Before I could protest, she had given orders to the men, and Zura's bedroom was soon converted from a girlish habitation into a dwelling place where life and death waged contest.

  Later the two physicians asked for an audience with me and delivered their opinion: "Hanaford San's illness is the result of a severe mental shock, received before recovery from previous illness; cause unknown; outcome doubtful."