Part 15

Throughout the long hours that followed, Fong Wu, from the room’s shadowy rear, sat watching. He knew sleep did not come to her. For now and then he saw her shake from head to heel convulsively; as he had seen men in his own country quiver beneath the scourge of bamboos. Now and then, too, he heard her give a stifled moan, like the protest of a dumb creature. But in no other ways did she bare her suffering. Quietly, lest she wake her husband, she fought out the night.

Only once did Fong Wu look away from her. Then, in anger and disgust his eyes shifted to the figure on the table. “The petal of a plum blossom”--he muttered in Chinese--“the petal of a plum blossom beneath the hoofs of a pig!” And again his eyes dwelt upon the grief-bowed wife.

But when the dawn came stealing up from behind the purple Sierras, and Mrs. Barrett raised her wan face, he was studiously reviewing his rows of bottles, outwardly unaware of her presence.

“Fong Wu,” she said, in a low voice, “when will he wake?”

“When he is rested; at sunrise, maybe, or at noon.”

“And then?”

“He will be feeble. I shall give him more medicine, and he will sleep again.”

He rose and busied himself at the fire. Soon he approached her, bringing the gold-incrusted teapot and a small, handleless cup.

She drank thirstily, filling and emptying the cup many times. When she was done, she made as if to go. “I shall see that everything is all right at home,” she told him. “After that, I shall come back.” She stooped and kissed her husband tenderly.

Fong Wu opened the door for her, and she passed out. In the road, unhitched, but waiting, stood the mustang. She mounted and rode away.

When she returned, not long afterward, she was a new woman. She had bathed her face and donned a fresh waist. Her eyes were alight, and the scarlet was again flaming in her cheeks. Almost cheerfully, and altogether hopefully, she resumed her post at the ironing-table.

It was late in the afternoon before Barrett woke. But he made no attempt to get up, and would not eat. Fong Wu administered another dose of herbs, and without heeding his patient’s expostulations. The latter, after seeking his wife’s hand, once more sank into sleep.

Just before sunset, Fong Wu, who scorned to rest, prepared supper. Gratefully Mrs. Barrett partook of some tender chicken and rice cakes. When darkness shut down, they took up their second long vigil.

But it was not the vigil of the previous night. She was able to think of other things than her husband’s condition and the doom that, of a sudden, had menaced her happiness. Her spirits having risen, she was correspondingly impatient of a protracted, oppressive stillness, and looked about for an interruption, and for diversion. Across from her, a Celestial patrician in his blouse of purple silk and his red-buttoned cap, sat Fong Wu. Consumed with curiosity--now that she had time to observe him closely--she longed to lift the yellow, expressionless mask from his face--a face which might have patterned that of an Oriental sphinx. At midnight, when he approached the table to satisfy himself of Barrett’s progress, and to assure her of it, she essayed a conversation.

Glancing up at his laden shelves, she said, “I have been noticing your medicines, and how many kinds there seem to be.”

“For each ailment that is visited upon man, earth offers a cure,” he answered. “Life would be a mock could Death, unchallenged, take it.”

“True. Have you found in the earth, then, the cure for each ailment of man?”

“For most, yes. They seek yet, where I learned the art of healing, an antidote for the cobra’s bite. I know of no other they lack.”

“Where you were taught they must know more than we of this country know.”

Fong Wu gave his shoulders a characteristic shrug.

“But,” she continued, “you speak English so perfectly. Perhaps you were taught that in this country.”

“No--in England. But the other, I was not.”

“In England! Well!”

“I went there as a young man.”

“But these herbs, these medicines you have--they did not come from England, did they?”

He smiled. “Some came from the hills at our back.” Then, crossing to his shelves and reaching up, “This”--he touched a silk-covered package--“is from Sumbawa in the Indian Sea; and this”--his finger was upon the cork of a phial--“is from Feng-shan, Formosa; and other roots are taken in winter from the lake of Ting-Ting-hu, which is then dry; and still others come from the far mountains of Chamur.”

“Do you know,” Mrs. Barrett said tentatively, “I have always heard that Chinese doctors give horrid things for medicine--sharks’ teeth, frogs’ feet, lizards’ tails, and--and all sorts of dreadful things.”

Fong Wu proffered no enlightenment.

“I am glad,” she went on, “that I have learned better.”

After a while she began again: “Doubtless there is other wonderful knowledge, besides that about doctoring, which Chinese gentlemen possess.”

Fong Wu gave her a swift glance. “The followers of Laou-Tsze know many things,” he replied, and moved into the shadows as if to close their talk.

Toward morning, when he again gave her some tea, she spoke of something that she had been turning over in her mind for hours.

“You would not take money for helping me when I was hurt,” she said, “and I presume you will refuse to take it for what you are doing now. But I should like you to know that Mr. Barrett and I will always, always be your friends. If”--she looked across at him, no more a part of his rude surroundings, than was she--“if ever there comes a time when we could be of use to you, you have only to tell us. Please remember that.”

“I will remember.”

“I cannot help but feel,” she went on, and with a sincere desire to prove her gratitude, rather than to pry out any secret of his, “that you do not belong here--that you are in more trouble than I am. For what can a man of your rank have to do in a little town like this!”

He was not displeased with her. “The ancient sage,” he said slowly, “mounted himself upon a black ox and disappeared into the western wilderness of Thibet. Doubtless others, too, seek seclusion for much thinking.”

“But you are not the hermit kind,” she declared boldly. “You belong to those who stay and fight. Yet here you are, separated from your people and your people’s graves--alone and sorrowful.”

“As for my living people, they are best without me; as for my people dead, I neither worship their dust nor propitiate devils. The wise one said: ‘Why talk forever on of men who are long gone?’”

“Yet----” she persisted.

He left the stove and came near her. “You are a woman, but you know much. You are right. My heart is heavy for a thing I cannot do--for the shattered dreams of the men of Hukwang.” He beat his palms together noiselessly, and moved to and fro on soft sandals. “Those dreams were of a young China that was to take the place of the old--but that died unborn.”

She followed his words with growing interest. “I have heard of those dreams,” she answered; “they were called ‘reform.’”

“Yes. And now all the dreamers are gone. They had voyaged to glean at Harvard, Yale, Cornell, and in the halls of Oxford. There were ‘five loyal and six learned,’ and they shed their blood at the Chen Chih Gate. One there was who died the death that is meted a slave at the court of the Son of Heaven. And one there was”--his face shrank up, as if swiftly aging; his eyes became dark, upturning slits; as one who fears pursuit he cast a look behind him--“and one there was who escaped beyond the blood-bathed walls of the Hidden City and gained the Sumatra Coast. Then, leaving Perak, in the Straits Settlements, he finally set foot upon a shore where men, without terror, may reach toward higher things.”

“And was he followed?” she whispered, comprehending.

“He fled quietly, quietly. For long are the claws of the she-panther that is crouched on the throne of the Mings.”

Both fell silent. The Chinese went back to the stove, where the fire was dying. The white woman, wide awake, and lost in the myriad of scenes his tale had conjured, sat by the table, for once almost forgetful of her charge.

The dragging hours of darkness past, Anthony Barrett found sane consciousness. He was pale, yet strengthened by his long sleep, and he was hungry. Relieved and overjoyed, Mrs. Barrett ministered to him. When he had eaten and drunk, she helped him from the table to the stool, and thence to his feet. Her arm about him, she led him to the door. Fong Wu had felt his pulse and it had ticked back the desired message, so he was going home.

“Each night you are to come,” Fong Wu said, as he bade them good-bye. “And soon, very soon, you may go from here to the place from which you came.”

Mrs. Barrett turned at the door. A plea for pardon in misjudging him, thankfulness for his help, sympathy for his exile--all these shone from her eyes. But words failed her. She held out her hand.

He seemed not to see it; he kept his arms at his sides. A “dog of a Chinaman” had best not take a woman’s hand.

She went out, guiding her husband’s footsteps, and helped him climb upon the mustang from the height of the narrow porch. Then, taking the horse by the bridle, she moved away down the slope to the road.

Fong Wu did not follow, but closed the door gently and went back to the ironing-table. A handkerchief lay beside it--a dainty linen square that she had left. He picked it up and held it before him by two corners. From it there wafted a faint, sweet breath.

Fong Wu let it flutter to the floor. “The perfume of a plum petal,” he said softly, in English; “the perfume of a plum petal.”

YEE WING, POWDER-MAN

Yee Chu, wife of Yee Wing, sank low before her husband, resting her clasped hands upon a knee. “Surely, Kwan-yin, the Merciful, has thought me deserving,” she said, “for she has set me down in a place where soft winds blow unceasingly.”

The Powder-man glanced out of the one window of their little home, past the pot of ragged chrysanthemums and the white-and-brown pug that held the sill. “I shall burn an offering to her,” he promised gravely.

“It is so sweetly warm,” she continued, rising and standing at his side; “though the new year is almost upon us. See, I have put off the band of velvet that I wear upon my head of a winter, and changed to these flower-bouquets. Esteemed, will it always be spring-time here?”

Yee Wing’s face lost its expression of studied indifference. He let his look rest upon her hair, blue-black, and held at each side by a cluster of mock jewels; let it travel down to the young face,--a clear, polished white except for deep-carmine touches on cheeks and eyelids and on the lower lip of the pouting mouth--to the brown eyes, whose charm was enhanced by a curious little wrinkle just above the darkened brows, a petulant little wrinkle that changed with each passing thought.

“Assuredly,” he answered. “In California, it is always spring-time, Jasmine Blossom.”

Again she sank, bracelets clinking as her fingers met. “Just so it is for a good while each year on the hills of Hupeh, where dwell my illustrious pocket parents. From our hut, during the sunny days, we looked across the tea fields upon groves of bamboo, feather-topped, and rocking gently.”

She stumped to the open door, balancing herself with partly outstretched arms. “Am I free to go forth to-day as yesterday?” she inquired over a shoulder. “The green invites, and there be some beautiful plants yonder, red as the face of the god of war. I can fill the pottery jar.”

“Go,” he bade, “but not over far, lest you tire the two lilies of gold.”

She smiled back at him tenderly. “I spend my heart upon you,” she said in farewell, and went balancing away.

Yee Wing watched her difficult progress across the grassy level that divided the powder-house and his own habitation from Sather, the solitary little railway station of the near-by line. “She has brought tranquillity,” he murmured, “Where now are the five causes of disquietude?” And he, too, smiled tenderly.

The week that followed, which was only the second of the girl-wife’s residence in the new land, found the two supremely happy. They had no visitors other than the superintendent from the works at Pinole, and an expressman from Oakland, bearing an order for a keg of explosive. Yee Wing enjoyed abundant leisure, and he spent it with his bride. They puttered together about the dove-cotes behind the square, black magazines; they shared the simple cares of their single room; in a comradeship as strange to their kind as was the civilisation in which they had come to live; they sallied forth like two children, gathering the fragrant peony, pursuing the first butterflies.

But one morning there arrived a man of their own race. Yee Wing was lolling upon a bench, playing with the white-and-brown pug. Yee Chu, in purple trousers and cherry-hued jacket, was sitting upon a stool, the gay, tinsel rosettes over each tiny ear bobbing merrily as she finished a careful toilet. The white paste had been put on face and throat and carefully smoothed. Now she was dyeing her long nails and rouging her palms. Of a sudden, a shadow fell across the doorway. The two looked up. Outside, staring in, was a Chinese, his round, black, highbinder hat, silk blouse and dark-blue broadcloth breeches proclaiming him above the coolie class.

“Stay within,” cautioned the Powder-man, in a low voice. He went out hastily, and closed the door after him.

There passed between Yee Wing and his caller none of the elaborate greetings that mark the meeting of two equals. The strange Chinese gave the other a proud nod of the kind that is fit for a foreign devil, and, with no evasiveness and something of the bluntness that characterises the despised white, at once stated his errand.

“I come from the most worthy Bazar-man, to whom you stand in debt to the measure of twenty-five dollars,” he began. “I have to remind you that to-morrow is New Year’s day. And for you the sun does not rise unless the sum be paid.”

Yee Wing drew a startled breath. True, to-morrow would be New Year’s Day! How had it come so near without his knowing? It found him without what was due. His very “face”--that precious thing, appearance--was threatened!

“I am from the South of the Heavenly Empire,” he made haste to answer, catching, as it were, at a saving device. “I am a son of Tang, therefore. Now, with us, there is a custom----”

Without explaining further, he took hold of a wooden button upon his cotton blouse and pulled it loose. Then, with profound courtesy, he tendered it to the Collector of Monies.

The latter received it with a courtesy that was feigned, withdrawing a covert glance from the partly screened window. “A son of Tang,” he repeated. “There be rich men in the South. Now, perhaps your honoured father--” He paused inquiringly.

Yee Wing understood. In the land of the Son of Heaven, a father is held strictly responsible for the obligations of a son. But--the province of Kwangtung was far.

“My poor but excellent father was only a dealer in salt,” he said gravely. “His mound is upon a desolate stretch beside the Yang-tse.” To save any questions concerning other male members of the family,--who also might be held accountable--he added, “I alone survive to feed and clothe his spirit continuously.”

A baleful light shone in the slant, searching eyes, but the words of the Collector of Monies were gracious enough. “Filial piety,” he observed, “has first place among the virtues.” Then, with pompous deprecation, “My humble parent is but a _kouang-fou_ in the Customs Service of Shanghai.”

Yee Wing lowered his own look in becoming deference. The son of a civil officer carries power.

The stranger now gave a second nod and moved away,--not, however, without again peering through the window; and soon, seated on the dummy of an electric car, he was spinning out of sight in the direction of Fruitvale.

Yee Wing watched him go, then hastily entered the house. Fireworks, for the frightening away of evil spirits, might not be exploded near the powder. So he sought for a tiny gong and beat it roundly.

“I like not that man’s countenance,” he told Yee Chu. “Did you note how he spied upon the place? He is of the sort that would steal food like a dog.”

Saying which, the Powder-man beat his gong more loudly than before, and burned at the entrance to his home handful upon handful of propitiatory paper.

* * * * *

Tau Lot, Bazar-man, sat behind a little counter of polished ebony. His were the calm, unmoved--and fat--face and the quick, shifting eye of the born speculator; his, the smooth, long-nailed hands that do no labor, and that were now toying with one of the Nine Classics. On his head rested a tasseled cap. His jacket was of Shang-tung silk, dyed purple. His breeches were of dark crape, tied down upon socks spotlessly white. The shoes that rested upon the middle rung of his stool were of velvet and embroidered.

The Dupont street shop was small, but it held a bewildering mass of merchandise. Silk rolls, matting, bronzes, porcelain, brass, carved furniture, lacquered ware, Chinese fans made in Japan, imported purses worked within a stone’s throw of the store, devil masks, dolls and gowns--gowns of brocade; gowns of plain silk, quilted in finest lines and herring-bone rays and bordered with figured-ribbon bands; gowns of embroidered satin,--mulberry-red wrought with sprigs and circles of flowers, green, with gold thread tracings, black, with silver cranes winging across. Yet though the store was small, and choked to the lantern-hung ceiling, the clerks were many. Some were ranged behind the row of shining glass cases, others lounged in a group near the rear room entrance. There were honourable younger brothers here, and honourable cousins, but not one of a different blood. For Tau Lot thought well of the ancient proverb: _When the fire is lighted, all the family should be kept warm._

Outside the bazar was the tall, upright beckoning-board with its heavy gold characters on a vermilion ground. A Chinese now halted beside it, and glanced casually up and down the street. Then he came through the door, examining a box of sandalwood just within the entrance, leaning over some silk handkerchiefs at the counter-end. Presently he advanced to the ebony counter.

“Your trifling servant salutes you, Illustrious,” he said.

The Bazar-man scowled. Two hours had he given up to business--two hours of the three spent so daily. Soon he would return to the dreams and sleep of the enslaving pipe. And what babble had Chow Loo to say?

“Welcome,” he returned. “Too long you have deprived me of your instructive speech.”

“My speech is but a breath in my neighbour’s face. Will the Most Noble not lighten the hour with his voice?”

A party of women tourists came crowding in at that moment, picking at everything not under cover, pulling at the hanging gowns on the wall, stretching to see what was behind the cases. Tau Lot looked them over,--there were five--mentally tagging them with price-marks. The old woman was not worth her keep, the next younger little more, the two thin ones perhaps four hundred----.

“But the round one,” said Chow Loo, keen to see what the Bazar-man was thinking.

“Eight hundred, truly,” and the tasselled cap was gravely wagged.

“So I think, though her feet be as big as the feet of a Tartar woman.” They surveyed the attractive young lady with the judgment of merchants both.

“It nears the time for my going,” said Tau Lot, his Oriental dislike of coming to the point in business overweighed by the dread of wasting time that belonged to the pipe. “So what of the collect to-day?”

Chow Loo ran a hand into the pocket of his blue broadcloth breeches. “From Berkeley, where I led my contemptible way, eighteen dollars,--so much owed the washer of clothes. From Oakland, six, and the vender of vegetables sends his lowly greeting. But the Powder-man at Sather was as naked of coin as a robber. See--here is only a button from his coat!”

“The debt is owed since the Ninth Moon.”

“So I said--Yes, the round one would be worth fully eight hundred.” The attractive young lady had come closer, anxious for a near view of the Bazar-man. A clerk accompanied her, advancing at the farther side of the counter as she advanced, but taking no trouble to display his wares.

“So I said,” repeated the Collector of Monies. Then, with a meaning glance at the Bazar-man, for an honourable younger brother was at the latter’s elbow. “But though he is so miserably poor, he grows a rose,--one more beautiful than a man of his rank should have. In your crowded garden is there room for another such?”

Instantly, Tau Lot’s slant eyes narrowed in their slits, his ponderous body lost its attitude of indolence. He stepped down from his stool with alacrity. “You will have a taste of steamed rice,” he said, “--rice savoured with salt fish--and a cup of hot samschu at my despicable board.” And he led the way to the rear room.

The Collector of Monies followed, and the two seated themselves at a table, where a servant brought food and rice-wine. And here, nose to nose, they chattered low, gesticulated, haggled.

“How far is it to Sather?” asked the Bazar-man.

“Near to thirty _li_. One can reach there in an hour.” The Collector of Monies proudly displayed a large, nickel-plated watch.

“But still--the price is too high.”

“O Magnificent One! for a little-foot woman? Her dowry was at the lowest fifty taels. Doubtless, that was what beggared him. She is truly a picked beauty, a very pearl.”

“It is settled then. The half will be paid when the rose is plucked, the second half when the filthy foreign police accept a commission and promise no interference.”

* * * * *

At sundown, a few days later, the superintendent at Pinole heard the bell of his telephone summoning him. The receiver at his ear, he caught the petulant “Well, wait a minnit, can’t y’?” of the operator and, punctuating it, a weak gasping, as if some one in agony were at the distant transmitter.

“What is it?” demanded the superintendent. “This is Bingham.”

The gasping ceased. A choking voice answered him: “Yee Wing, Mista Bingham. Say, my hab got sick bludder--oh, velly sick. Must go San Flancisco heap quick. S’pose you likee, my can tell olo Chinaman flom Flootvale. He come all light.”

“Yes, old Wah Lee, you mean.” The superintendent knew it would be useless to try to learn the real cause of Yee Wing’s sudden going or to attempt to stop him.

“Olo Wah Lee,” returned the Powder-man, eagerly. “Say, Mista Bingham, I come back plitty soon. Jessie now, I wanchee know, I no lose my job?”

“No, Wing, your job’s safe. You attend to that sick brother and get back as soon as you can.”

“All light. Good-bye,” and the receiver was hung up.