The House of the Misty Star Part 21

Usually it takes endless time in j.a.pan to unwind the huge ball of red tape that is wrapped about the smallest official act. That morning, when Page and I presented ourselves at the Government office, the end of the tape seemed to have a pin stuck in it, so easily and swiftly was it found. Promptly announced, we were ushered without delay into a small inner office.

The walls of this room were lined with numberless shelves filled with files and papers. Any remaining s.p.a.ce was covered by pictures of famous persons, people wanted or wanting, and a geisha girl or two.

I noticed two other things in the room. Adorning the center of the table, before which we were seated, was a large cuspidor. The fresh flowers inside matched the painted ones outside. To j.a.panese eyes the only possible use for such an ornament was to hold blossoms. It was neither beautiful nor artistic, but being foreign was the very thing with which to welcome American guests. Anxious as I was I felt myself smiling, if rather palely, at the many ways in which Kishimoto's prophecy was being fulfilled.

The other thing was not amusing, only significant. Page sat opposite me and I faced a heavily curtained recess, and some one was behind the drapery. I had seen the folds move. I had no way of warning the boy. Had we been alone, I doubt if I would have made the effort. Concealment for Page, unendurable suspense for those who loved him, must end. I spoke only when necessary to interpret an unusual word.

A small official with a big manner began by eulogizing Mr. Hanaford's skill in teaching and his success in imparting English. He felt it a great rudeness of manner to the honorable teacher gentleman, but the law compelled applicant for the position of Professor of English in the Normal College to answer many personal questions. For a moment he dallied with a few preliminary statements; then, throwing aside all reserve, the man began his probe as a skilled surgeon might search a victim's body for hidden bullets.

Page, outwardly calm, answered steadily at first, but his knotted fingers and swelling veins showed the strain. Once his lips trembled. I had never seen a man's lips tremble before. It's no wonder mothers can die for sons.

Inquiries as to quant.i.ty and quality of ancestors, place of birth, age, calling now and formerly came with the precision of a marksman hunting the center of the target. "How long have you been in this country?"

"About a year."

"From where did you come to j.a.pan?"

Page hesitated, then stammered: "Don't remember."

The high-lifted brows of the official were eloquent, his voice increasingly sarcastic: "So! Your memory makes absence. Repeat your name once again."

"Page Hanaford."

"Hanaford? So! Now your other name?"

"I have no other name."

"Your other name!" was the sharp demand.

"My name is Page Hanaford, I tell you." He spoke with quick anger as he arose from the chair.

"Your other name!" sternly reiterated his inquisitor.

A wave of confusion seemed to cover the boy. Desperate and at bay, he rather feebly steadied himself for a last defense. "What do you mean?

Can't you hear me? I tell you for the last time my name is--"

"Ford Page Hamilton," supplied the voice of Kobu, cool, suave and sure as he came from behind the curtain. "I arrest you as fugitive. See what paper says? You take moneys from bank." He exposed a circular printed in large type. It read:

"$5,000 reward for information of one Ford Page Hamilton, dead or alive.

Last seen in Singapore, summer of 1912," followed by a detailed description and signed by a Chicago banking firm.

"It's a lie!" shouted Page as he read.

"No lie. See? Page Hanaford San, Ford Hamilton San all same." Kobu held close to the pitiful white face a photograph which undoubtedly could have been Page Hanaford in happier days.

The boy looked, then laid his shaking arm across his eyes. With a moan as if his soul had yielded to despair he hoa.r.s.ely whispered: "Oh, G.o.d! A thief! It's over!"

He sank to the floor.

XVIII

A VISITOR FROM AMERICA

In old Nippon the flower of kindness reaches full perfection when friend or foe suffers defeat. Page Hanaford might be a long-hunted prize in the police world, but to the group around him as he lay on the floor, his head upon my lap, he was a stranger far from home and very ill. Justice could wait while mercy served. Pity urged willing messengers to bring restoratives, to summon doctors who p.r.o.nounced the sick man in the clutches of fever. Hospitals in Hijiyama are built for the emergencies of war, and solicitude for Page's comfort was uppermost when, after a short consultation among the officials, permission was granted to remove him to my house with an officer in charge.

A policeman headed the little procession that moved slowly up the steps to The House of the Misty Star, and one followed to keep at a distance the sympathetic, but curious crowd. Four men carried a stretcher beside which I walked holding the limp hand of Page, who was still claimed by a merciful unconsciousness.

The news spread rapidly. As we reached the upper road I saw Zura at the entrance, waiting our coming, so rigid she seemed a part of the carving on the old lodge gates. Her face matched the snow beneath her feet.

"Is he dead?" she demanded, as we came closer.

"No. But he's desperately ill--and under arrest," I hurriedly added.

"Oh, but he's alive; nothing else matters. Come on; my room is ready."

Before I could protest, she had given orders to the men, and Zura's bedroom was soon converted from a girlish habitation into a dwelling place where life and death waged contest.

Later the two physicians asked for an audience with me and delivered their opinion: "Hanaford San's illness is the result of a severe mental shock, received before recovery from previous illness; cause unknown; outcome doubtful."

From the sick-room orders had been issued for absolute quiet. Every member of the house crept about, keenly aware of the grim foe that lurked in every corner. When night came down the darkness seemed to enter the house and wrap itself about us as well.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Oh, G.o.d! A thief! It's over!"]

As Red Cross nurse on battlefields in the aftermath, I had helped put together the remnants of splendid men and promising youth; in sorrowing homes I had seen hope die with the going-out of such as these. But for me, no past moment of life held gloom so impenetrable as that first night when Page Hanaford lay in my house, helpless. The dreaded thing had come. The boy who had walked into our hearts to stay was a fugitive with only a small chance to live that he might prove he was not a criminal.

The evening household dinner remained untouched. The servants hung about the doors, eager to be of service, refusing to believe the sick man was anything but a prince of whom the G.o.ds were jealous. Only old Ishi was happy. In festal robes he was stationed at the lodge gates with a small table before him ready to do the honors of the house in the ancient custom of receiving cards.

Up the steps came a long procession of students, officials and civilians, my friends and Page's, every caller in best kimono. From one hand dangled a lighted lantern with the caller's name and calling shining boldly out through the thin paper, in the other he held a calling-card which was laid upon the table in pa.s.sing. The long line testified to their liking and sympathy for the sick man. To each caller Ishi had a wonderful tale to tell. The marvel of it grew as his cups of sake increased. At a late hour I found him entertaining a crowd with the story of how the silly foreign girl had cut off the heads of his ancestors which were in the flowers. Now the G.o.ds were taking their vengeance upon the one she loved best. Of course only an American girl would be so brazen as to show her liking for any special man. I took him by the shoulder.

"Ishi, you are drunk. And at such a time."

"No, Jenkins San, I triumph for Hanaford San. He die to escape Zura San.

'T is special 'casion. All j.a.panese gentlemens drink special 'casions. I a.s.sist honorable G.o.ds celebrate downfall of 'Merca and women."

Having locked up the gates and Ishi, I went back to the living-room, where I found Jane and Zura. It was my first opportunity to tell them in detail what had happened at the Kencho--of Kobu's charge, the arrest and Page's collapse.

Zura was called from the room by some household duty. Jane and I were left alone. Though my companion looked tired and a little anxious, she seemed buoyed up by some mental vision to which she hopefully clung.

"Miss Jenkins, please tell me just what the poster said," asked Jane.

The printed words I had read that morning seemed burned into my brain. I repeated them exactly.

"Well, it didn't even give a hint that Page was that nice cashier gentleman from Chicago, did it?" she inquired.