Part 8

With one hand covering the poor wounded eye, the two women watched the cart until it was lost in a bend of the road, and the servant said, “My great lady, return to your home. Sad, indeed, is your fate, but the gods know all.” Together they went back to the city, and some weeks later the poor heart was comforted by the birth of her little son.

Years passed; Yü Yüch Ying’s parents died, after great reverses and reduced to poverty, all by their powerful enemy. The mother took in sewing and washing and most of all gave herself to the care of her son, and in this quiet manner twelve years came and went. No word had come from her husband and no word of their life-story did the mother tell her son. Their great enemy year by year grew richer, and more powerful, and more unscrupulous.

The year little Ting Lang was twelve the display of the Lantern Feast, the fifteenth of the first month, was most beautiful, and among all displays none exceeded Yen Sung’s. Hither little Ting Lang bent his steps, and as he was running along he pushed against a small boy who fell down, and at once began in great anger to revile Ting Lang’s father. Little Ting Lang did not understand what he said, as his mother always told him that his father was away on government business. He no longer cared to see the beautiful lanterns. Home he went as fast as he could, and rushing in, he prostrated himself before his mother, and implored her to tell him who his father was and why he didn’t come back.

The mother’s heart was centred in the boy. He was “the point of her heart,” as fond Chinese mothers say when the Western mother would say “my sweetheart.” Taking him by the hand she raised him up, and said, with all the mother-love shining in her eyes, “My son, you are too young yet to know all. Some day when you are a little older I will tell you the history of our sad lives. We have a great and powerful enemy and it is only by this quiet living that you and I have lived in peace. Wait a little longer, son, and you shall know all.”

The boy was quick and impetuous and said, “Mother, unless you tell me now I cannot live. I am no longer a child. I will to know now.”

“Not now, my son,” was the quiet but sad reply.

Hearing this, the boy rushed from the room and out into the back court where there was a well and, as he ran by, he kicked a brick into the well and dashed into a grape arbour.

The mother, rushing out after him, only able to see with one eye, and not seeing her boy, but only hearing the splash as the brick struck the water, concluded that he had jumped into the well. Sitting down by the well, she exclaimed:

“Ai, ja. What have I to live for now? My son is in the well, his father in banishment in Hsiang Yang, all is gone. I cannot keep my promise and send him to his father. Alas! alas! My fate is indeed bitter. I too will end my sorrows in the well. At least in death I can be with my boy. His shall also be my grave,” and rising, she gathered her skirt about her head preparatory to jumping in, when Ting Lang rushed out from his hiding-place and, grasping her, shouted:

“Mother, don’t. I am alive. I hid to frighten you. Why is my father in banishment? What promise did you make him about me? Tell me, or I truly will beat my brains out against the bricks.”

Seeing the desperate look in his eyes, she said, as she took him in her arms, “Little son, you were nearly the death of your mother, but never mind, you shall know all. I see, indeed, you are not a child,” and leading him into the house, she told him the sad, sad story from first to last, showed him the priceless keepsakes. As he looked at them and at the dear, patient, disfigured face, he said:

“Mother, I am going now to seek my father. You must not prevent me.”

Could she let him go, out into the great unknown world, her little boy, her baby; how could she? And yet her promise to his father; her vow that she had lived over every day of his precious little life. “Yes, the boy should go.” What mattered her sorrow at the parting? With breaking heart and bitter, sad tears she gave her consent, and pawned almost everything she had to give him money to use on the journey.

When the morning came for him to leave her, she got his breakfast, feeling as though the life was going out of her, and yet, with words of wisdom and many instructions, she clasped him to her, then allowed him to make his prostration, and the door closed.

As Ting Lang went down the steps he heard a fall and, going back, found the dear mother like unto one dead. He called to her and wept and plead, and at last the dear eye once more looked into his, and he said:

“You must not grieve thus. I must fulfil your promise to my father. I will tell you a plan; you buy a coffin and put it under your window. Put all my old clothes and shoes into it, and when you are lonely and miss me and must weep, you go to the coffin and say, ‘My son is dead. Here will I weep for him.’ Consider me as dead and here, and you will be comforted.”

The mother replied, “You are wise, my dear, beyond your years; I will do as you say, and weep for you there.”

“If I live, my mother, I will come back for you if I can find my father.”

The boy went by boat down the Grand Canal for Tientsin. On the boat were some wicked men who took his money and clothing, and when they reached Lui Ching, sold him to a theatre man.

This man was very unkind to him, and he was determined to make his escape; one day he was less carefully watched, and taking the open moment, he ran to the river bank just as some men were landing from a boat. The boy sought their protection, told his story, and before he was through, he was in the arms of one of the men, who proved to be the friend, Mr. Wang, who had taken his father to the place of banishment.

The theatre man came up and declared the boy was his; upon which Mr. Wang quarrelled with him, and in the fight that followed the man was killed. Mr. Wang was arrested, but managed first to get the boy out of the city and, giving him a little money, went back to stand his trial. After many long, weary days of travel, but without serious trouble, the hungry, footsore, and weary boy found his way to the city to which he had been directed.

Let us turn and follow the footsteps of the father during the twelve sad years. Mr. Kao was greatly depressed by his many sorrows, and when he parted from his wife, he felt he should never see her again, neither did he even then comprehend what a true and remarkable wife was his. After reaching the city of Hsiang Yang, to which he had been banished, he was obliged to walk about with chain and ball attached to his feet, carrying a gun on his shoulder. For food he was given permission to take a handful of grain from each bag of tribute rice that he saw on carts passing through the city. This he could cook and so keep from starving. This kind of life was very trying to him and he endured it for some months, and then, being a proud, spirited man, he determined that he would either die or change for the better in some way. He begged a few bits of money, bought a pen, ink, and some paper, and as he was a very beautiful writer, he employed his time in writing Chinese characters and selling them on the street. This was a wise change, and as he sat writing day by day by the roadside, his fame spread all over the city.

One day a very rich old gentleman, who had been observing him quietly for many days, drew near and entered into conversation. After passing the time of day, he remarked on the beauty of Mr. Kao’s writing and his evident familiarity with the Chinese Classics; “Neither do you look to me to be a man of the common people or one who should be in this prison dress.”

As he talked his kindly manner warmed the heart of Mr. Kao, who had come to feel that all the world, even the gods, were against him, and little by little he told the story of his father’s life and their deadly enemy, the great Yen Sung. He did not tell of his wife and the great sorrow of his family life, but said his father’s enemy had been the cause of his banishment for life.

The old gentleman said, “My name is Hu. I have been observing you for days though you did not know it, and I was certain that you could not be a guilty man. Have you any family in the north?”

“No,” said the unhappy Kao. “All is lost to me. I am alone in the world.” On hearing this the gentleman said, “I have a proposition to make to you; I am a rich man and have large estates, but I have no son to inherit them or care for me when I am old. I have a beautiful daughter; will you marry her, come and live with us, take my cares upon you; when I am old care for me? If so, when I am gone all shall be yours.”

The young man could hardly believe his ears, and looked in amazement, and at last said, “How can that be? I am a criminal, under sentence of the government, a man whose very name has been changed.”

“That is easy for me,” said Mr. Hu. “Did I not tell you I was rich; is there anything money will not do? I can buy your freedom at the magistrate’s here and if you are ready and willing we will receive you into our family. I ask you again only this: have you a family in the north?”

Again Mr. Kao replied, “No, I am alone.”

“All is well then,” replied Mr. Hu. “I will see to the rest,” and in a few days what seemed as a dream to Mr. Kao, or Mr. Tu, as he took back his old name, became a reality.

Mr. Tu was much overcome; the temptation to a life of luxury after his suffering had been too great, and after his marriage to the beautiful daughter of the “House of Hu” he did not dare to tell of the brave, true-hearted wife and mother in the city of Peking. He put it off from month to month, but it did not become any easier as time went by, and the riches, beautiful home, and family were driving all that dark past more and more from his mind. Their home was all the heart could desire, and later a little son came to share it with them, and then indeed were the bitter days of the past cast out of heart and mind as far as possible.

Thus, in comfort and joy, the twelve years passed away; Mr. Hu thanking the gods for giving him such a son, content that old age should come to him and his old wife under these most auspicious circumstances. How different a life was this from that of the wife and mother in the far north.

One day Mr. Tu went with some companions for a ride outside of the city. As they neared the gate they saw a lot of people gathered about a young lad of remarkably fine face and form, but in very poor clothing. He had in his hand a broken comb and, spread out before him, a part of a silk handkerchief and a broken mirror, and with tears in his eyes Mr. Tu waved the men aside and asked the boy who he was and where he came from.

The boy said, “I am Ting Lang and am come in search of my father, Tu Ching Ling, known by the name of Kao. He was banished to this city and I am in search of him. He came here twelve years ago. If any of you know him or where I can find him, will you please tell me.”

Not a word was spoken for a moment, then Mr. Tu said, pointing to the keepsakes, “What are those things? Do you call such stuff treasure?”

“Yes,” said Ting Lang. “My mother gave them to me, the other half of each my father has and he was to know me by these.”

A man standing near said, “This must be your son. You have not told us all the truth about yourself.”

Mr. Tu was angry then and also afraid, and striking the boy with his riding-whip, he said, as he threw him some silver, “Get you gone, you are an impostor; you are not my son, but because you are a poor boy I will help you a little and not put you in prison.” Saying this, he rode on, followed by his friends.

As the men rode away, the bystanders all said, “That is your father. He is Tu Ching Ling, also Kao Ching Chi. He was banished here twelve years ago.”

When the boy heard this, he gathered his treasures together, and went into a temple near, where he sat down to think. What had he to live for? His father had disowned him; had struck him.

“Alas!” said he. “There is for me no living road, I will end it here. I have failed in my promise to my mother.”

Taking his girdle, he was fastening it about a beam in the temple when an old priest came in and said, “Son, what would you do? I may be able to help you.”

The poor lad poured out his sad story, and at its close the priest said:

“Son, listen to me; I will help you find your father again, and a plan by which he must own you. You dry your tears and stay here with me a few days, and I promise you, you will yet be a happy boy.” Then he thought a while and at last disclosed his plan in part to the lad.

He taught the boy some songs and helped him put his own life-story into rhyme, and one day said, “I want you to sing for the ‘foundation beaters,’ who are preparing the ground for a beautiful pavilion in a flower garden belonging to a rich man. They are in need of a leading voice such as you have, and you can sing for them; you may also sing your own song at that place.”

Ting Lang went with him, and his beautiful voice and handsome face won the hearts of all the workmen, and they joined in the choruses with a will, throwing all their strength into the work.

For a day or two he caught no glimpse of the family, and his heart was sad and heavy; so also was the heart of the father, had he but known it. The sight of the boy had brought back the memory of his early life and the parting with the boy’s mother. The boy was in the city; people would know all and talk and it would come to his father-in-law’s ears, yet he could not bring himself to tell him first.

The third day Ting Lang was singing he caught sight of a lady sitting by the window listening. She was greatly interested in this child-singer as she had heard him leading the workmen, and what was her horror when she saw one of her servants go up and strike the child a sharp blow, knocking him from the bench on which he was standing. Seeing the child did not get up, she called to the servant and berated him soundly for his brutality.

“Why did you strike him?”

To which the servant answered, “He used the name of my master.”

“Fool,” said the lady, “you are more than stupid. Can there not be many by your master’s name in all these provinces? Go and bring the boy in here at once and revive him, and I will pardon you this cruelty.”

The servant obeyed her, and the boy was brought to the lady’s room. After he revived and was quite himself again, she asked him who he was and how old; why he had left his mother and come to another province, as she could tell by his voice that he was from the north. He told her he was twelve years old; had come from his home in the north to seek his father, and then he went on and told her how his mother fainted when he left her, and of his own sad and lonely journey.

“How old is your mother?” asked the lady.

“She is thirty-six,” was his reply.

“And your father, how old is he?”

“I remember hearing my mother say that he was older than she by two years, and so he should be thirty-eight.”

“What is your father’s name?” was her next question.

“Tu Ching Ling,” was the answer.

The room was quiet a moment, and then came the question, “How does your mother live?”

To this Ting Lang replied, “At first we were supported by my grandparents, but they are dead now; died poor, and my mother, for some time, has had to take in washing. She has only one eye, so she cannot see to do fine sewing. She is reduced almost to a beggar.”

“Have you any proof of your father?” was the next question.

“Yes, I have the three mementos. The half of each are in my father’s possession. These I have are the half my mother kept, and I was to present them when I found my father.”

“When she gave you these, did she tell you when she gave the other half to your father?”

Ting Lang said, “Yes.” Then he told of their parting as he had learned it from the lips of his mother. Then he went on and told how he came to start out in search of his father, the long, lonely road; how and why his father was banished. It was with many sobs and tears that the story was told, and before he was through the lady was weeping with him. As he closed she put her arm around him and said:

“I am your second mother.”

When the boy heard this he was frightened and said, “Alas! alas! what have I done!”

“Nothing,” was the reply; “rest your heart, you are indeed my son, for I also am your father’s wife.” Then she told him the story of his father’s coming to the city, her father’s interest in him, and her marriage. “He said he had no family when we asked him and I could not know of your mother. You have a younger brother, my little son, who is nine years old. His name is Kan Lang; that corresponds with the name your father left you, and I believe all your story. The mistake is all your father’s. You are indeed his son.”

Ting Lang knelt and knocked his head to his second mother.

As she raised him up she said, “You have indeed suffered; you are the best and bravest boy I ever heard of; you shall never leave us.”

This mother, Hu Yüch Ying, was also a very beautiful character, and her sweet, gentle manners won the heart of Ting Lang and he believed her word. She sent a servant to call her own little son, Kan Lang, and when he came he asked, “Did you call me, mother?”

“Yes,” she said. “This is your older brother. Greet him first.”

“But, mother, I never saw or heard of him before,” was the reply of Kan Lang.

“Greet him as I tell you, and afterward I will explain matters to you.” The boys then bent the knee to each other and then the mother told her son that she was a second wife; that the first wife was the mother of Ting Lang, and she was also his mother; that Ting Lang was also her son, and they were to care tenderly for each other. Then she sent a servant to find his master and invite him to come to her apartments.

When he came in she asked, “Do you know this lad?” Her husband replied, “I saw him outside the gate of the city. Who is he and what does he want here?” Then his wife said:

“You are an ungrateful man. You deserve the severest punishment Heaven can give. When I asked you if I had an ‘older sister’ you said no! My father and mother treated you as a piece of fine gold. You had nothing when you came to them. You should have told them the truth, and after marriage told me the truth. You dress in silk, satin, and broadcloth; you eat the best of the land, live in a great house, read, write, and have tens of servants to wait at your door. You go out; it is either on horse, in chair, or by cart, and ever with your outriders. You left my poor sister in sorrow and poverty for twelve long years, while you have lived in luxury and pleasures. Twelve years for her of bitterness and death, forgotten by the man she trusted and for whom she gave her beauty of person. You with your four seasons’ clothing, she almost a beggar. Look at this your son, and think of his twelve years; ah! they have made him a stronger man, though a boy yet, than his father. Think of the long, weary way he has come seeking you; ah! the heart of an iron or a stone man must have cried out at such sorrow as has been theirs. How can you call yourself a man? How can you see my parents? Above all, how will you ever be able to look in the face of my sister, the mother of Ting Lang?” Then turning to the latter she said:

“Son, your father is not worthy, but kneel to him and make your greeting and give him your mother’s message.”

Ting Lang knelt at his father’s feet, and when the father saw him there he felt as though a knife had entered his heart. He put out his hand and said:

“My virtuous and filial son, son of my suffering wife,” and then fell back in a swoon.

The boys and the mother sprang forward and caught him and placed him in a chair, a son standing at either side of the chair, the sweet mother at the back.

As he came to and opened his eyes and saw them thus, he took his wife’s hand and said:

“I have sinned against you and your house. I was afraid to tell you all the truth. Ah, you are a better woman than I am a man. You are a great daughter of a great house.”