Making full use of his name for probity and keeping to himself the fact that he thought the Second Princess very interesting, Yūgiri let it seem to the world that he was only being faithful to an old friendship. He paid many a solemn visit, and came to feel more and more as the weeks and months went by that the situation was a little ridiculous. The princess s mother thought him the kindest of gentlemen. He provided the only relief from the loneliness and monotony of her life. He had given no hint of romantic intentions, and it would not do to proclaim himself a suitor. He must go on being kind, and the time would come, perhaps, when the princess would invite overtures. He took careful note, whenever an occasion presented itself, of her manners and tastes.

He was still awaiting his chance when her mother, falling into the clutches of an evil and very stubborn possession, moved to her villa at Ono. A saintly priest who had long guided her devotions and who had won renown as a healer had gone into seclusion on Mount Hiei and vowed never to return to the city. He would, however, come down to the foot of the mountain, and it was for that reason that she had moved to Ono. Yūgiri provided the carriage and escort for the move. Kashiwagi’s brothers were too busy with their own affairs to pay much attention. Kōbai, the oldest of them, had taken an interest in the princess, but the bewilderment with which she had greeted evidence that it might be more than brotherly had made him feel unwelcome. Yūgiri had been cleverer, it would seem, keeping his intentions to himself. When there were religious services he would see to the vestments and offerings and all the other details. The old lady was too ill to thank him.

The women insisted that, given his stern devotion to the proprieties, he would not be pleased with a note from a secretary. The princess herself must answer. And so she did presently get off an answer. The hand was good, and the single line of poetry was quietly graceful. The rest of the letter was gentle and amiable and convinced him more than ever that he must see her. He wrote frequently thereafter. But Kumoinokari was suspicious and raising difficulties, and it was by no means easy for him to visit Ono.

The Eighth Month was almost over. At Ono the autumn hills would be at their best.

“That priest of hers, what is his name,” he said nonchalantly, “has come down from the mountains. There is something I absolutely must talk to him about, and it is a rare opportunity. He comes so seldom. And her mother has not been at all well, and I have been neglecting her.”

He had with him five or six favored guardsmen, all in travel dress. Though the road led only through the nearer hills, the autumn colors were good, especially at Matsugasaki, in gently rolling country.

The Ono villa had an air of refinement and good taste that would have distinguished the proudest mansion in the city. The least conspicuous of the wattled fences was done with a flair which showed that a temporary dwelling need not be crude or common. A detached room at the east front of what seemed to be the main building had been fitted out as a chapel. The mother’s room faced north and the princess had rooms to the west.

These evil spirits are greedy and promiscuous, the mother had said, begging the princess to stay behind in the city. But the princess had insisted upon coming. How could she bear to be so far from her mother? She was forbidden access to the sickroom, however.

Since they were not prepared to receive guests, Yūgiri was shown to a place at the princess’s veranda, whence messages were taken to her mother.

“You are very kind indeed to have come such a distance. You make me feel that I must live on — how else can I thank you for the extraordinary kindness?”

“I had hoped that I myself might be your escort, but my father had things for me to do. My own trivial affairs have occupied me since, and so I have neglected you. I should be very sorry indeed if at any time it might have seemed to you that I did not care.”

Behind her curtains, the princess listened in silence. He was aware of her presence, for the blinds were flimsy and makeshift. An elegant rustling of silk told him what part of the room to be interested in. He used the considerable intervals between messages from the old lady to remonstrate with Koshōshō and the others.

“It has been some years now since I began visiting you and trying to be of service. This seems like a very chilly reception after such a record. I am kept outside and allowed only the diluted conversation that is possible through messengers. It is not the sort of thing my experience has prepared me for. Though of course it may be my lack of experience that is responsible. If I had been a trifling sort in my younger years I might possibly have learned to avoid making myself look silly. There can be few people my age who are so stupidly, awkwardly honest.”

Yes, some of the women were whispering. He had every right to complain, and he was not the sort of underling one treated so brusquely.

“It will be embarrassing, my lady, if you try to put him off. You will seem obtuse and insensitive.”

“I am very sorry indeed that she seems too ill to answer your kind inquiry in the way that it deserves,” the princess finally sent out. “I shall try to answer for her. Whatever spirit it is that has taken possession of her, it seems to be of an unusually baneful sort, and so I have come from the city to be her nurse. I almost feel that I am no longer among the living myself. I fear you will think this no answer at all.”

“These are her own words?” he said, bringing himself to attention. “I have felt, all through this sad illness, as if I myself were the victim. And do you know why that has been? It may seem rude and impertinent of me to say so, but until she has fully and happily recovered, the most important thing to all of us is that you yourself remain healthy and in good spirits. It is you I have been thinking of. If you have been telling yourself that my only concern is for your mother, then you have failed to sense the depth and complexity of my feelings.”

True, perfectly true, said the women.

Soon it would be sunset. Mists were rising, and the mountain fastnesses seemed already to be receding into night. The air was heavy with the songs of the evening cicadas. Wild carnations at the hedge and an array of autumn flowers in near the veranda caught the evening light. The murmur of waters was cool. A brisk wind came down from the mountain with a sighing of deep pine forests. As bells announced that a new relay of priests had come on duty, the solemnity of the services was redoubled, new voices joined to the old. Every detail strengthened the spell that was falling over him. He wanted to stay on and on. The voice of the priest who had come down from the mountain was grander and more solemn than the rest.

Someone came to inform them that the princess’s mother was suddenly in great pain. Women rushed to her side, and so the princess, who had brought few women with her in any event, was almost alone. She said nothing. The time for an avowal seemed to have arrived.

A bank of mist came rolling up to the very eaves.

“What shall I do?” he said. “The road home is blocked off.

“An evening mist — how shall I find my way? —

Makes sadder yet a lonely mountain vi11age.”

“The mists which enshroud this rustic mountain fence

Concern him only who is loathe to go.”

He found these soft words somewhat encouraging and was inclined to forget the lateness of the hour.

“What a foolish predicament. I cannot see my way back, and you will not permit me to wait out the mists here at Ono. Only a very na?ve man would have permitted it to happen.”

Thus he hinted at feelings too strong to control. She had pretended to be unaware of them and was greatly discommoded to have them stated so clearly. Though of course he was not happy with her silence, he was determined to seize the opportunity. Let her think him frivolous and rude. She must be informed of the feelings he had kept to himself for so long. He quietly summoned one of his attendants, a junior guards officer who had not long before received the cap of the Fifth Rank.

“I absolutely must speak to His Reverence, the one who has come down from the mountain. He has been wearing himself out praying for her, and I imagine he will soon be taking a rest. The best thing would be to stay the night and try to see him when the evening services are over.”

He gave instructions that the guard go to his Kurusuno villa, not far away, and see to feeding the horses.

“I don’t want a lot of noise. It will do no good to have people know we are here.”

Sensing hidden meanings, the man bowed and withdrew.

“I would doubtless lose my way if I tried to go home,” Yūgiri continued unconcernedly. “Perhaps there are rooms for me somewhere here-abouts? This one here by your curtains — may I ask you to let me have the use of it? I must see His Reverence. He should be finishing his prayers very shortly.”

She was most upset. This insistent playfulness was not like him. She did not want to offend him, however, by withdrawing pointedly to the sickroom. He continued his efforts to coax her from her silence, and when a woman went in with a message he followed after.

It was still daylight, but the mists were heavy and the inner rooms were dark. The woman was horrified at having thus become his guide. The princess, sensing danger, sought to make her escape through the north door, to which, with sure instinct, he made his way. She had gone on into the next room, but her skirts trailed behind, making it impossible for her to bar the door. Drenched in perspiration, she sat trembling in the half-open door. Her women could not think what to do. It would not have been impossible to bar the door from the near side, but that would have meant dragging him away by main force, and one did not lay hands upon such a man.

“Sir, sir. We would not have dreamed that you could even think of such a thing.”

“Is it so dreadful that I am here beside her? I may not be the most desirable man in the world — indeed I am as aware as anyone that I am far from it.” He spoke slowly and with quiet emphasis. “But after all this time she can scarcely call me a stranger.”

She was not prepared to listen. He had taken advantage of her, and there was nothing she wished to say.

“You are behaving like a selfish child. My crime has been to have feelings which I have kept to myself but which I cannot control. I promise you that I will do nothing without your permission. You have shattered my heart, and am I to believe that you do not know it? I am here because you have kept me at a distance and maintained this impossible pretense of ignorance — because I have had no alternative. I have risked being thought a boorish upstart because my sorrows would mean nothing if you did not know of them. Your coldness could make me angry, but I respect your position too much to speak of it.

It would have been easy to force the door open, but that would have destroyed the impression of solemn sincerity which he had been at such pains to create.

“How touching,” he said, laughing. “This thin little line between us seems to mean so much to you.”

She was a sweet, gentle lady, in spite of everything. Perhaps it was her worries that made her seem so tiny and fragile. Her sleeves, pleasantly soft and rumpled — for she had not been expecting guests — gave off a friendly sort of perfume, and indeed everything about her was gently, quietly pleasing.

In upon a sighing wind came the sounds of the mountain night, a humming of insects, the call of a stag, the rushing of a waterfall. It was a scene that would have made the most sluggish and insensitive person postpone his rest. As the moon came over the mountain ridge he was almost in tears.

“If you wish your silence to suggest unplumbed depths you may be assured that it is having the opposite effect. You do not seem to know that I am utterly harmless, and so without pretense that I am easily made a victim of. People who feel free to deal in rumors laugh mightily at me. Are you one of them? If so, I really must beg your leave to be angry. You cannot pretend not to know about these things.”

She was wretched, hating especially the hints that her experience should direct her towards easy acceptance. She had been very unlucky, and she wished she might simply vanish away.

“I am sure I have been guilty of errors in judgment, but nothing has prepared me for this.” Her voice, very soft, seemed on the edge of tears.

“Weeping and weeping, paraded before the world,

The one and only model of haplessness?”

She spoke hesitantly, as if to herself. He repeated the poem in a whisper. She wished she had kept it to herself.

“I am sorry. I should not have said it.

“Had I not come inspiring all these tears,

The world would not have noticed your misfortunes?

“Come, now.” She sensed that he was smiling. “A show of resolve is what is called for.”

He tried to coax her out into the moonlight, but she held stubbornly back. He had no trouble taking her in his arms.

“Cannot this evidence of my feeling persuade you to be a little more companionable? But you may be assured that I shall do nothing without your permission.”

Dawn was approaching. The mists had lifted and moonlight flooded the room, finding the shallow eaves of the west veranda scarcely a hindrance at all. She tried to hide her face and he thought her charming. He spoke briefly of Kashiwagi. Quietly, politely, he reproved her for holding him so much the inferior of his dead friend.

She was as a matter of fact comparing them. Although Kashiwagi had still been a minor and rather obscure official, everyone had seemed in favor of the marriage and she too had come to accept it; and once they were married he had shown that astonishing indifference. Now came scandalous insinuations on the part of a man who was as good as one of the family. How would they appear to her father-in-law — and to the world in general — and to her own royal father? It was too awful. She might fight him off with her last ounce of strength, but the world was not likely to give her much credit. And to keep her mother in ignorance seemed a very grave delinquency indeed. What a dunce her mother would think her when presently she learned of it all!

“Do please leave before daylight.” She had nothing more to say to him.

“This is very odd. You know the interpretation which the dews are likely to put upon a departure at this hour. You shall have your way all the same; but please remember this: I have let you see what a fool I am, and if you gloat over what you have done I shall not hold myself responsible for the extremes I may be driven to.”

He was feeling very inadequate to the situation and would have liked to persist further; but for all his inexperience he knew that he would regret having forced himself upon her. For her sake and for his own he made his way out under the cover of the morning mists.

“Wet by dew-laden reeds beneath your eaves,

I now push forth into the eightfold mists?

“And do you think that your own sleeves will be dry? You must pay for your arbitrary ways.”

Though she could do little about rumors, she was determined not to face the reproaches of her own conscience.

“I think I have not heard the likes of it,” she replied, more icily than before.

“Because these dewy grasses wet your sleeves

I too shall have wet sleeves — is that your meaning?”

She was delightful. He felt sorry for her and ashamed of himself, that having so distinguished himself in her service and her mother’s he should suddenly take advantage of her and propose a rather different sort of relationship. Yet he would look very silly if he were to bow and withdraw.

He left in great uncertainty. The weed-choked path to the city resembled his thoughts. These nocturnal wanderings were novel and exciting, but they were very disturbing too. His damp sleeves would doubtless be matter for speculation if he returned to Sanjō, and so he went instead to the northeast quarter at Rokujō. Morning mists lay heavy over the garden — and how much heavier must they be at Ono!

The women were whispering. It was not the sort of thing they expected of him. The lady of the orange blossoms always had a change of clothing ready, fresh and elegant and in keeping with the season. When he had had breakfast he went to see his father.

He got off a note to the princess, but she refused to look at it. She was very upset at this sudden aggressiveness. She did not want to tell her mother, but it would be even worse if her mother were to have vague suspicions or to hear the story from one of the women. It was a world which refused to keep secrets. Perhaps, after all, the best thing — it would upset her mother of course, but that could not be helped — would be to have her women transmit the whole story, complete and without distortion. They were close even for mother and daughter, and there had not been the smallest secret between them. The romancers tell us of daughters who keep secrets from their parents even when the whole world knows, but the possibility did not occur to the princess.

“There is not the slightest indication,” said one of the women, “that her mother knows anything. It is much too soon for the poor girl to begin worrying.”

They were beside themselves with curiosity about the unopened letter.

“It will seem very odd, my lady, if you do not answer. Odd and, I should say, rather childish.” And they opened it for her.

“It was entirely my fault,” said the princess. “I was not as careful as I should have been and so he caught a glimpse of me. Yet I do think it inconsiderate of him, shockingly so. Tell him, please, that I could not bring myself to read it.” Desperately lonely, she turned away from them.

The letter was warm but inoffensive, so much of it as they were able to see.

“My heart is there in the sleeve of an unkind lady,

Quite without my guidance. I am helpless.

“That is nothing unique, I tell myself. We all know what happens when a heart is left to its own devices. I do think all the same that it has been very badly misled.”

It was a long letter, but this was all the women were able to read. They were puzzled. It did not sound like a nuptial letter, and yet — they were sad for their lady, so visibly upset, and they were troubled and curious too. He had been so very kind, and if she were to let him have his way he might be disappointed in her. The future seemed far from secure.

The sick lady knew nothing of all this. The evil spirit continued to torment her, though there were intervals when she was more herself.

The noontide services were over and she had only her favorite priest beside her.

“Unless the blessed Vairocana is deceiving us,” he said, overjoyed to see that she was resting comfortably, “I have every reason to believe that my humble efforts are succeeding. These spirits can be very stubborn, but they are lost souls, no more, doing penance for sins in other lives.” He had a gruff voice and an abrupt manner. He added, apropos of nothing: “General Yūgiri — how long has he been keeping company with our princess?”

“Company? You are suggesting — but there has been nothing of the sort. He and my late son-in-law were the closest of friends, and he has been very kind, most astonishingly kind, and that is all. He has come to inquire after me and I am very grateful.”

“Now this is strange. I am a humble man from whom you need not hide the truth. As I was going in for the early services I saw a very stylish gentleman come out through the door there at the west corner. The mists were heavy and I was not able to make out his features, but some of my colleagues were saying that it was definitely the general. He sent his carriage away yesterday evening, they said, and stayed the night. I did catch a very remarkable scent. It almost made me dizzy. Yes, said I, it had to be the general. He does have such a scent about him always. My own feeling is that you should not be exactly overjoyed. He knows a great deal, there is no doubt about that. His grandmother was kind enough to have me read scriptures for him when he was a boy, and whenever it has been within my humble power I have continued to be of service to him since. I do not think that there are advantages in the match for your royal daughter. His lady has an iron will and very great influence, and her family is at the height of its power. She has seven or eight children. I think it most doubtful that your daughter has much chance of supplanting her. Women are weak creatures, born with sinful inclinations, and just such missteps as this leave them wandering in darkness all the long night through. If she angers the other lady she will have much to do penance for. No, my lady, no. I cannot be held responsible.” Not one to mince words, he concluded with an emphatic shake of the head.

“It is, as you say, strange. There has been no indication, not the slightest, of anything of the sort. The women said that he was upset to find me so ill, and that after he had rested a little he would try to see me. Don’t you suppose that is why he stayed the night? He is the most proper and honest of gentlemen.”

She pretended to disagree, but his observations made sense. There had from time to time been signs of an uncommon interest. But Yūgiri was such an earnest, scholarly sort, so very attentive to the proprieties, so concerned to avoid scandal. She had felt sure that nothing would happen without her daughter’s permission. Had he taken advantage of the fact that she was so inadequately attended?

She summoned Koshōshō when the priest had taken his leave. “What did in fact happen?” she asked, describing his view of the case. “Why didn’t she tell me? But it can’t really be so bad.”

Though sorry for the princess, Koshōshō described everything she knew in very great detail. She told of the impression made by the letter that morning, of what she had seen and the princess had hinted at.

“Don’t you suppose he made a clean breast of his feelings? That and no more? He showed the most extraordinary caution and left before the sun was up. What have the others told you?”

She did not suspect Who the real informer was. The old lady was silent, tears streaming over her face. Koshōshō wished she had not been so frank. She feared the effect of so highly charged a revelation on a lady already dangerously ill.

“But the door was barred,” she said, trying to repair the damage a little.

“Maybe it was. But she let him see her, nothing alters that horrid fact. She may be blameless otherwise, but if the priests and the wretched urchins they brought with them have had something to say, can you imagine that they will have no more? Can you expect outsiders to make apologies for her and to protect and defend her?” And she added: “We have such a collection of incompetents around us.”

Poor, poor lady, Koshōshō was thinking — in torment already, and now this shocking news. She had wanted for her daughter the elegant and courtly seclusion that becomes a princess, and just think what the world would be saying about her!

“Please tell her,” said the old lady, drying her tears, “that I am feeling somewhat better and would like to see her. She will understand, I am sure, why I cannot call on her, as I know I should. It seems such a very long time.”

Koshōshō went for the princess, saying only that her mother wanted to see her. The princess brushed her hair, wet from weeping, and changed to fresh clothes. Still she hesitated. What would these women be thinking? And her mother — her mother could know nothing as yet, and would be hurt if hints were to come from someone else.

“I am feeling dreadful,” she said, lying down again. “It would be better for everyone if I were not to recover. Something seems to be attacking my legs.”

She had one of the women massage it away, a force, probably, that had taken advantage of the confusion to mount through the extremities.

“Someone has been telling your good mother stories,” said Koshōshō. “She asked me about last night and I told her everything. I insisted on your innocence by making the door seem a little firmer than it was. If she should ask you, please try to make your story match mine.” She did not say how upset the old lady had been.

So it was true. Utterly miserable, the princess wept in silence. Then and now — she had had two suitors, both of them unwelcome. Both had caused her poor mother pain. As for the princess herself, she seemed to face a future of limitless trials. There would be further overtures. She had resisted, and that was some small comfort; but for a princess to have exposed herself as she had was inexcusably careless.

Presently it was evening.

“Do please come,” said her mother.

She made her way in through a closet. The old lady sat up, ill though she was, and omitted none of the amenities. “I must look a fright. Do please excuse me. It has only been a few days and it seems like an eternity. We cannot know that we will meet in another world, and we cannot be sure that we will recognize each other if we meet again in this one. Perhaps it was a mistake to become so fond of each other. Such a very short time together and we must say goodbye.” She was weeping.

The princess could only gaze at her in silence. Always a quiet, reserved girl, she knew nothing of the comforts of confession. The mother could not bring herself to ask questions. She ordered lights and had dinner brought for the two of them. Having heard from Koshōshō that the princess was not eating, she arranged the meal in the way the princess liked best, but to no avail. The princess was pleased all the same to see her mother so improved.

A letter came from Yūgiri. A woman who knew nothing of what had happened took it. “From the general,” she said, “for Koshōshō.”

How unfortunate, thought Koshōshō. Very deferentially, the mother asked what might be in it. Resentment was giving way to anticipation and a hope that Yūgiri might again come visiting. Indeed, the possibility that he might not was emerging as her chief worry.

“You really must answer him,” she said to the princess. “You may proclaim to the world that you are clean and pure, but how many will believe you? Let him have a good-natured answer and let things go on very much as they are. That will be the best thing. You will not want him to think you an ill-mannered flirt.”

Reluctantly Koshōshō gave up the letter.

“You may be sure that evidence of your unconscionable hostility will have the effect of arousing me further.

“Shallow it is, for all these efforts to dam it.

You cannot dam and conceal so famous a flow.”

It was a long letter, but the old lady read no more. It seemed to her the worst sort of sophistry, and the implied reason for his failure to visit seemed pompous and wholly unacceptable. Kashiwagi had not been the best of husbands, but he had behaved correctly and never made the princess feel threatened or insecure. The old lady had not been happy with him — and Yūgiri’s behavior was far worse. What would Tō no Chūjō and his family be thinking, what would they be saying?

But she must try to learn more of Yūgiri’s intentions. Drying her tears and struggling to quiet her thoughts, she set about composing a letter. The hand was like the strange tracks of a bird.

“When she came inquiring about my health, which is in a sorry state, I urged that she reply to your letter. I could see that she was not at all well herself, and I felt that some sort of reply was required of someone.

“You stay a single night. It means no more,

This field of sadly fading maiden flowers?”

It was a much shorter note than she would have wished. She folded it formally and lay down, suddenly worse. Her women were greatly alarmed. The evil spirit had lulled her into a moment of inattention and taken advantage of it. The more famous healers were put to work again and the house echoed with their prayers and incantations. The princess must return at once to her rooms, insisted the women. She refused absolutely. If her mother was to die she wished to die also.

Yūgiri returned to his Sanjō mansion at about noon. He knew what almost no one else did, that nothing had happened, and he would have felt rather foolish running off to Ono again in the evening. This victory for restraint, however, increased his longing a thousand times over. Kumoinokari had sensed in a general way what was happening and was of course not pleased, but with so many children to look after she had no trouble feigning ignorance. She was resting in her parlor.

It was dark when the old lady’s letter arrived. In that strange hand, like the tracks of a bird, it was next to illegible. He brought it close to a lamp.

Kumoinokari came lurching through her curtains and snatched it from over his shoulder.

“And why did you do that? It is a note from the lady at Rokujō. She was coming down with a cold this morning and feeling wretched. I meant to look in on her when I left Father, but something came up, and so I got off a note instead. Read it, if you are so curious. Does it look like a love letter? It seems rather common of you to want to. You treat me more like a child the longer we are together. Have you thought of the effect it may have on me?”

He did not try to recover the note, nor could she quite bring herself to read it.

“It is your own conduct,” she said, “which makes you feel that I do not do sufficient honor to your maturity.”

Though she found his self-possession somewhat daunting, she answered with a brisk youthfulness that was not at all unconvincing.

“You may be right. But there is one matter of which you seem to be unaware, that this sort of thing happens all the time. What is unique, I suspect, is the case of a man who reaches a certain station in life and continues to be unwaveringly faithful to one lady. You have heard of henpecking, perhaps? People always seem to find it very funny. And I should point out that the wife of so stodgy a man tends not to seem very exciting herself. Think how her reputation rises, how the wrinkles go away, how interesting and amusing life is, when she is first among a multitude of ladies. What fun is it and what satisfaction does it give to be like the old dotard, what’s his name, hanging on to his Lady Something-or-other?”

It seemed to be his purpose, while pretending that the letter was nothing, to get it back.

She smiled a bright and pretty smile. “But you are so young all of a sudden that you make me very much aware of my wrinkles. And the novelty will take some getting used to. I have............