VII
Twilight falls slowly and tenderly in Matsushima. The trees, which spread out their arms over the waters, seem but to deepen their shadows and gradually become part of the creeping silver shadow of night. For night is scarcely dark here in the summer. The noon-rays are perpetual. The stars shine with an unusual lustre. Earth reflects the light of the moon and the stars upon its shimmering waters, its deep blue fields, its blossom-decked trees. The pebbles on the shore become whiter, and the whiteness of the sands deepens the green of the pines. Night is but one long twilight, slumberous and peaceful in fair Matsushima.
When the numerous candles are lighted in the temples on the hills, slanting out their glimmer upon the bewildered waters, one might almost wonder whether the stars have changed their place and descended like spirits to render more fairy-like this Princess of Bays.
An oddly assorted group of five people occupied a secluded spot on the shore. The influence of the night was upon them as they gazed out with seeing eyes that reflected the beauty of the scene and the emotions that tore at their hearts. A mother and two children—one, whose boy soul had only begun to open into a graver manhood, the other a child of seven. But seven years old was Hyacinth, yet in the child’s little face shone the restless, passionate nature of one old enough to feel an infinity of suffering. She it was who helplessly sobbed as they stood there by the bay—sobbed with an effort at strangulation, and who gazed not alone at the magic of the scene, but upward into the face of Komazawa.
One of the ministers broke the painful silence. An eager, odd, and somewhat nervous young man he appeared.
“Dear friend,” he said, addressing the boy Koma, “it will be much for the best. Our good friend here agrees with me in believing that it is your duty to follow the wishes of your father.”
Koma did not reply, but little Hyacinth raised a face of turbulent scorn towards the speaker. She did not speak, but contented herself with clasping the hand of Koma the tighter, pressing her face close against it.
“Possibly it might be as well to put off for a year—” began the elder missionary, hesitatingly. Aoi interrupted:
“Nay, excellency, the humble one agrees with the illustrious one. My lord’s son has come to manhood. It is time now that he should leave us,” her voice faltered—“for a season,” she added, softly.