heart to see what pain it cost him to discuss the subject with her. ‘There, there,’ she said kindly. ‘Be careful for the future that is all I ask,’ and she turned the conversation on to other matters.
Since in the last month he had done little more than exchange notes with his sweetheart, Yūgiri supposed that even this was considered improper and was very depressed. Supper was served, but he would not eat, and presently it seemed that he had fallen asleep. But in truth he was very wide awake indeed, listening with all his ears till the last sounds of people retiring and settling down for the night had everywhere ceased. Then he stole softly to the door of Lady Kumoi’s room, which was usually fastened on a latch, but not bolted or barred. To-night it would not yield an inch. No sound was audible within. With beating heart he leant close up against the door. Despite his care, he had made a certain amount of noise, and this woke her. But now, as she lay listening, she could hear no other sound save that of the wind rustling among the bamboos, and very faint and far away, the mournful cry of wild-geese overhead. Perhaps because, young though she was, the events of the last few weeks had left her far more unhappy than her elders knew, there now came into her head the lines: ‘The wild-geese that with sorrowful cry…,’[1] and thinking that no one could hear her, she repeated the poem to herself aloud, causing Yūgiri’s heart to beat yet more wildly than before. By what stratagem could he prevail upon her to open the door? ‘I am Kojijū,’ he said in a feigned childish voice. ‘Do let me in!’ This Kojijū was the child of Kumoi’s old wet-nurse; so desperate was he that any ruse seemed justifiable if he could but bring her to the door. But now all was silent, for
- ↑ ‘Some such sorrow as mine they too must know, the wild-geese that with sorrowful cry trail through the country of the clouds.’
