Side by side, and hand in hand, as in the old days, they reclined upon the mat, and the frown deepened on his brow as she told her story,--the uncomely story of selfishness, and greed, and cruelty, and wrong, waxing with impunity daily worse, till even sleepy Buddha must needs wake soon, and be impelled to hurl his thunderbolts. She told of the starving multitudes, to whom the son of the horse-leech cried "Give"; of the petition, and his brutal treatment of the elders. "If only I could serve as sacrifice," she said, in conclusion, with a fresh burst of tears, "how gladly would I lay down my life. But my lord and I are strangers. I dwell here, and he at Kiŷoto. Does not that tell its tale? The wind might as well preach to him as I. At first he liked me a little, but that soon passed. Of late his presence--knowing of what he is capable--has filled me with a nameless terror, for I seem to detect something in his eye that suggests a brain distracted. He is blood-drunk; his very laugh conceals a sword. And yet 'tis an awful thing for me, his wife, to sit by, attempting nothing."
No doubt the chatelaine ought to do something--what? Like Philippa, at Calais, she should wring, by pleading, from her lord, the lives of the condemned. Yet if the pair were so estranged, would she not be laying herself open uselessly to some insult, some rebuff? She admitted that she was growing afraid of her husband. That was bad. The situation was too many-sided for the soldier's unpolished wits. He pondered, and held his peace, and looked up with a sense of relief when, a shadow darkening the light, he beheld his mother, Masago.
The ascetic Abbess gazed proudly and fondly on her son, but with a tinge of concern. She had followed him from the temple, seeing that he turned his horse towards the summer-house; for she loved O'Tei, and was aware of the early passages which had passed between girl and boy. Sampei had such a free way of making love to every woman, that she, elderly and sensible, saw keenly the danger to both, if the neglected wife and pitying brother-in-law were thrown too much together. Side by side, hand clasped in hand, exchanging confidences. An ominous beginning. It was well that she had come, for these young people must be protected against themselves.
While O'Tei, with a ghostly revival of coquetry, was arranging her tumbled hair by aid of a silver mirror, the Abbess drew her son aside, pleading urgent and important business.
"My boy," she said, as, out of earshot, the two paced slowly in the shade, "you are as brave and true as even I could desire, and gratefully I thank the gods for it; but you are guileless; your arm is stronger than your head, and your blood is overwarm."
Perceiving a ludicrous expression of bewilderment on the honest face of her son at this mysterious preamble, she gently smiled, and shook her head at him.
"The best friend a man has," she observed, "is his mother; for a mother's love, undervalued often, is tinged with no selfish taint. Child, child," she sighed, placing a fond hand on his broad shoulder, "take warning while there's time. Do not think me blind, or foolishly importunate. You love O'Tei, and, for sake of both, had better keep apart. Think what tragedy might follow if your brother had cause for jealousy."
Love O'Tei! Was it so patent, then?--he the last to know it? The General in silence walked up and down, while his mother gazed upon him wistfully. There was a deep sadness on his face that pained her. Perhaps in speaking out so plainly, she had been precipitate. Yet no; she had never been one to beat about a bush. Her stern creed admitted no half measures. Presently Sampei spoke.
"For once, most dear and wise of mothers, you are wrong," he said. "I love her; yes, I will not deny it--how much I did not know until ten minutes since. My love is so true and pure, that to save her a momentary grief I would fling myself off yonder rock. Be not afraid; no harm shall come to her through me."
"Noble and chivalrous in intent, just like my boy," nodded the sapient Abbess. "Maybe you are strong enough to carry out your resolve unflinchingly; but what of her? What if she, less prudent and more weak, were to bestow her heart on you? It would lead to general wretchedness, if not to her undoing."