A Japanese wife would have shared in his confidence at this time, would have understood his feelings and suffered with him. More, she would have been the first to urge him, command him to leave her.
Mr. Kurukawa thought he understood completely the character of the American woman who was his wife. Hence he hid from her his feelings.
But his wife was more sensitive than he knew. Her husband’s evident depression began to be noticed by her. She sought the cause, and attributed it to the absence of Gozo. She, too, suffered because she was the innocent cause of his exile. One night there was a moon festival in the little town. The people gathered in the river booths and drank their sake and tea in the moonlight. She remarked to her husband that more than three-quarters of the festival-makers were women. He had turned about with a sudden movement; then answered in an almost hoarse voice:
“That is as it should be.”
So silent and taciturn was he during the rest of the evening that for her the festival was spoiled; but even the moon gave not enough light to show her tears. Restless that night, she could not sleep, or slept so lightly that she waked at intervals. It must have been almost morning, when, waking from a restless sleep, she saw the dim light of an andon shining through the paper shoji that divided their chamber from an adjoining room; clearly outlined by the light on the shoji was the silhouette of her husband. His bed was empty. She went to him quickly and pushed the shoji apart. Then she saw the papers about him on all sides. He had not time to hide them. His startled face betrayed him.
She sank down on the floor beside him, terror in her eyes.
“Kiyo!” she cried. “Oh, Kiyo! I understand—everything. Why did you not tell me before?”
He spoke with difficulty. His hands trembled as he folded up the papers.
“It is all right. I read the news—of the victories. What Japanese could help himself?”
“Oh, but you read it in secret; you hide your feelings from me. Why do you not confide in me?”