“I do not know the law as to that,” said Aoi. “Oh, if the old, good excellency were but still alive to enlighten and advise us.”
“Mother,” said Hyacinth, looking up with questioning, wistful eyes at Aoi, “I have never asked a question of you concerning my own mother. You were always enough for me. I needed no other parent, dear, dear one. Yet now I would ask, can you tell me aught concerning my people?”
“No, little one. The sick one gave to me no information of her people. The good excellency made effort to find them, but failed.”
“My mother was a stranger to Sendai?”
“Yes, a stranger.”
“And she left nothing—nothing for—me?”
Aoi hesitated a moment, then, crossing the room, slipped her hand deftly along the wall and pushed aside a small panel. Hyacinth arose slowly. Her eyes were apprehensive, her lips apart. She had grown white with expectation.
“Here, in your own chamber, little one, is all that the august one left. I would have given you them on your wedding-day.”
Fearfully the girl touched the things in the little cupboard. How long had they lain there untouched? There were a woman’s strange dress, white underwear, a queer, basket-shaped thing with dark feathers upon it, a pair of black Suède gloves, small shoes, and then, in a little heap, three rings—a plain gold band, one with a large diamond, another with a ruby set between two smaller diamonds. Also a little chamois-skin bag containing a little roll of green bills and some strange coin.
Upon her knees Hyacinth fell beside the little shelf, and she stretched her arms out over it, burying her face in her sleeves.