The Wooing of Wistaria
9781465627162
118 pages
Library of Alexandria
Overview
When after a life that had never lacked variety the Lady Wistaria came to the years of tranquility, she was wont to say, with the philosophy that follows dangerous times: “No one, man or maid, ever really began to live before the time to which the first memory reverts.” The first recollection of the Lady Wistaria goes back to an earlier childhood than that of most mortals. This she ascribed to its terrible and awful import. She could scarcely do more than move with the uncertain direction of babyhood, when her father, always now in her memory as gaunt, lean, haggard, tall, had taken her upon a long journey. They had travelled partly by kurumaya, and, towards the end, on foot. That is, her father had walked, carrying her on high in his arms. When they halted at Yedo they stood amid a vast concourse of people, who remained silent and respectful against the background of the buildings, while in the centre of the road marched steadily and pompously a great glittering pageant. Wistaria had clapped her hands with glee and delight at the mass of color, the glimmer of shield and breastplate, the prancing, snorting horses. But her father suddenly had raised an enormous hand and in a moment had stopped her delight. Wistaria lapsed into an acute silence. Instantly she was awakened from her painful apathy by her father, who moved her higher in his arms, and turned her head slowly about with one hand, while with the other he pointed to a shining personage reclining in a palanquin borne high on the shoulders of ten stout-legged attendants. “My daughter,” said her father’s hollow voice in her ear, “yonder rides the man who killed your mother. It is through his crime that you are orphaned and have no mother to care for you and love you. Look at him well! Hush! Do not weep or shake with fear, but turn your eyes upon him. Look at him! Look! Look! Yonder rides your mother’s murderer. Do not forget his face as long as you live. It is your duty to remember it!” Whereupon Wistaria, who, in obedience to her father’s commands, had stared with wide eyes fixedly at the reclining noble, set up a most extraordinary cry. It was unlike that of a little child—a wild, wailing shriek, so weird and piteous that the by-standers started in horror and fear. The noble raised himself lazily on his elbow, staring across the heads of all, until his eyes rested upon the man with the child held on high. He fell back with an uneasy shrug of the shoulders. That was the Lady Wistaria’s oldest memory. There were others, but none so vivid as this, the first of all. Even later, when she had ceased to be a child, she had been unable to pierce the mystery of her father’s life, or indeed her own.
