“They have indeed,” replied the nakodo. “Least of all would one have thought it of Kudo-san, but it is quite true. I have been there three times since summer, each time with a very excellent marriage to offer, and always it has been the same answer.”
“I wonder what the reason can be,” said the banker thoughtfully. “It is certainly very strange. Good morning, Chukei-san,” and Chobei went on to the bank, leaving the middleman quite uncertain whether he had made a good investment of his gossip or not.
Jukichi’s neighbors had not missed the visits of the nakodo to his house, and as he had only one daughter and there was no wedding, it was quite evident that several proposals for O-Mitsu had been rejected. It was whispered about, in Lower Timber Street, that it was the girl herself who had made the refusals. But if Jukichi had any regrets, they never appeared. He loved the spirited girl and her gentle ways about the house, and it mattered nothing to him if the neighborhood gossips talked of the scandal of a girl who dared disclose a preference of her own contrary to the wish of her father. Such a wonder might not be heard of again in all Japan. He did not care. He enjoyed his home and his ease, and she was the great factor in both.
Perhaps if he had been less fond, he might have been more suspicious. Yet it had not occurred to the simple Samurai that there could be reasons for his daughter’s hot distemper with the hopeful authors of Chukei’s vicarious proposals other than her own demonstrative desire to remain in the old home with him. The clever girl was shrewder than he guessed. But who shall follow the blind trail of Love and pick out his footprints with the certainty which may say, “There he stepped,” or “Here he stopped,” or “See where he ran!”
There was lively interest in the house in Azalea Street that evening when Chobei recounted his conversation with the nakodo. O-Koyo listened with the kindly sympathy that ever kindles the matchmaking maternal heart. As for Soichi, he heard with a growing feeling of impending disaster that made it difficult for him to conceal his emotion. O-Mitsu had never told him anything of this, and if she had been rejoiced at the discovery of qualities in him which she had not anticipated, it was his turn to be surprised at her ability to keep to herself a subject which she knew would be so disquieting to him. He got out his little writing-box and began a letter to her. O-Koyo sighed fondly as she glanced at the corner where he sat with his ink and brush, busily covering a long roll of paper with she knew not what words.
“Ah,” she said, “if only one of the proposals had been for Soichi perhaps she would not have refused.”
“Hut!” cried her husband sharply. “Our son marry the daughter of Kudo-san! What can you be thinking of?”
“Why not?” she replied quickly, undaunted by his scornful look. “Strange things happen nowadays. Stranger than that have happened already, why not again? We are rich and they are very poor.”
“Ah, yes,” returned Chobei soberly. “That is true. But money is not so much yet, in Japan, and many more very strange things must come to pass before it is. Besides, we are Eta and they Samurai.”
“No, no!” cried his wife, with unaccustomed daring; “we were Eta and they were Samurai. Now all that is ended, and you have the best cause to know it who were yourself associated so closely with this Kudo-san in the school. To be sure we are only Commoners yet, but who knows what may not come? If there should be war, what opportunities for advancement may it not bring? One who can do for himself what you have done may do a great deal more. Why should not you, or Soichi himself, win the promotion that would make old Kudo-san glad to consent?”