He closed his eyes, and gave himself up to the last luxury left him—the casting of his mind adrift upon a sea of memories, wherein he might recall her as she had been, see her again pressed against his side, breathe the dear fragrance of her hair, hear the music of her voice.
Outside the wind was whistling and moaning through the leafless gardens, and a rain began to fall, pelting against his shutters, dripping in melancholy splashes from the eaves. How barren, how God-forsaken seemed this Yashiki of feudal days! He recalled his first night in this same chamber. How cold it had been, how penetratingly desolate!
Now the winter was coming again. Soon the white snow would wrap its icy shroud about the Palace Matsuhaira, and there would be a silence—a silence less bearable than the grave—out there on those mountains of snow.
But the people of Fukui would come to him daily with their problems, their ambitions, and questions; and they would look to him as a guide and supporter along the new glittering road they wished to tread; for the fever of the New Japan was animating the entire nation, and Fukui had caught the epidemic. And they would bestow honors and favors upon the Tojin-san, fame and riches, too; for at the period of the rebirth of a nation its teachers become its prophets—its leaders! Yes, there was such a career to his hand as he could never have attained in that other land, whither they were taking the fox-woman now. It was this, had said the Be-koku-jin, which must be his solace, his comfort.
He stood up unsteadily, his hand resting upon the table. Some one had knocked upon his door. He smiled, in the old grim, bitter way.
He could not be tricked by his imagination again. She was very far away by now, miles from Fukui, for it was past midnight, and her cortège would take an unbroken course toward the great highway which eventually would lead them to the metropolis.
But the knocking was repeated, softly, gently, a sound such as a little timid bird in the wet night might have made in beating its wings upon the wall.
He heard the soft moving of the doors, and still he did not stir.
Now she stood between them, her eyes fully upon him, drawing, compelling his gaze. Upon her vivid, passionate little face there was, at last, that look of peace and rest that comes to one upon a journey’s end.
The water dripped from her haori, and clung in glittering drops upon her hair, her lashes.