Part 16

In the morning, when the superintendent reached Sather, he found Wah Lee on guard. The old Chinese substitute was stretched upon an army cot by the dove-cotes, the white-and-brown pug beside him. Yee Wing’s little home was locked. Bingham shaded his eyes and looked in--upon the kitchen, dining and sleeping room in one. Cups and bowls littered the table. Clothing was tossed here and there upon the benches and floor. Each drawer of a high case against the farthest wall had been jerked out and not replaced.

“Something’s up,” muttered the superintendent. “Well, I knew there’d be trouble when that pretty little wife came. Wah Lee, what’s the matter with Yee Wing?”

“No sabe,” declared the old man, and to every suggestion returned the same reply.

That day, and the six that followed, found Yee Wing in San Francisco, where he walked Chinatown continuously,--watching, watching, watching. And as he travelled, he kept his right hand tucked in his wide left sleeve, his left hand tucked in the right one.

His way led him always through squalid alleys; narrow, dark alleys, where there were no shops, and no coolies going by with heavy baskets swinging from their carrying-poles; but where, from tiny, barred windows, the faces of young Chinese girls looked out--ivory-yellow faces, wondering, wistful.

Before them, passing and repassing, his own face upturned, went Yee Wing.

The slave women gazed down at him with little interest, their dull eyes, their sullen mouths, bespeaking the spirit that is broken but still resentful. He could not call to them, could not question, for among them was surely a spy. He could only pass and repass. Then, to another dark alley, with the same barred windows, the same wistful faces. Enter one of these places, he dared not, if he hoped to live to save her. The Sam Sings guarding the slave trade--those quick-working knife-men who are as quick to get away from the “foreign devils,” police--had her under guard. He must find out where they were keeping her--then match their cunning with his own.

When the little money he had was exhausted, he visited a relative--visited him secretly, toward dawn of a morning thick with fog. For anyone who helped him, if it were known, would suffer swift and certain punishment. Here he replenished his pocket. Then, off again. He ate seldom and sparingly, he slept only in snatches, hidden away under steps or in a big, empty dry-goods box down in the wholesale section.

The end of that week saw him rattling through Burlingame and Palo Alto on his way to San José. There, in the “Garden City,” three days were spent in walking and watching. Then, on to Sacramento, where, half-starved, he stumbled out of the great, roofed station, and made toward the Chinese quarter. Finally, he proceeded north to Portland.

One cold night, a fortnight after Yee Chu’s disappearance, he reached San Francisco once more. It had rained in the north, and his cloth sandals were pulpy, his wadded, cotton coat was soaked. His head was unshaven, too, his queue unkempt from long neglect. He was sallow and green-hued.

But there was no surrender in the blood-shot eyes. He began again to haunt the streets of Chinatown. And, late one night, in Waverly Place, under a blowing street-lamp, he met one of the two he sought; he came face to face with the Collector of Monies.

Yee Wing’s right hand was tucked in his left sleeve, his left hand in the right one. The Collector of Monies had reached to a hind pocket of the blue broadcloth trousers. But across the grimy court, in the light of a second lamp, a uniformed figure was idling and swinging a heavy club to and fro on a thong. His eye was upon them.

They stopped short, each alert. The face of the Collector of Monies was placid, though he marked the bulging sleeves of the Powder-man. Yee Wing was, outwardly, calm too. But his thin upper lip, upon which grew a few straggling hairs, twitched uncontrollably.

“Where is she hidden?” he demanded.

The other snorted. “She is worth little,” he said by way of answer. “She weeps too much.”

The bulge within the sleeves moved. Yee Wing would have slain then,--but what help could he give her from a cell of the city prison? He kept himself in control.

“The Supreme Lord of Heaven,” he said, “pities even the mothers of thieves and harlots. He will pity her, though she be defiled. But you--you--vile scurf of lepers--shall die by a thousand cuts.”

The uniformed figure stepped toward them. At this, the Collector of Monies took his leave, backing away from Yee Wing with such ceremony that his face was still presented when a corner was passed.

Blind with rage and grief, the Powder-man all unconsciously made his way to Commercial street. There, in front of a poultry store, he dropped down to a seat on the curb’s edge. She was in San Francisco! And he was so contemptibly weak that the slave society--the despised _hoey_--did not even take the pains to deny it to him; even mocked him with her weeping! His Jasmine Blossom!

His ear was caught by the sound of a petulant squealing. Across the street was a Chinese, writhing against the iron door of a well-lighted building. For all the distance, Yee Wing could see that his face was ghastly. With a twist of the body, the Powder-man struggled up. Here, to his hand, was a key with which he could unlock the way!

He hurried over and, as the squirming, loose-jointed figure lurched violently to one side, righted it firmly. Then, supporting the stranger, directed their course from that thoroughfare to another.

Presently, the pair entered a shop. It was one of the manufacturing variety, being filled with sewing-machines before which--though the night was far advanced--sat their busy operators, at work upon loose, lacey garments of silk and muslin. Yee Wing and his charge passed through this outer room and into a small, darkened one behind.

After a short stay, they came forth again, the Powder-man leading. An incredible change had come over the strange Chinese. His eyes were wide and lustrous, he stepped alertly. The two, going single file, after the manner of the Oriental, left the shop and walked rapidly to a near-by square. There, in the shadow of the shaft of the Golden Ship, they sat down, side by side.

“This is my desire,” began Yee Wing, “--you shall find for me a certain woman.” And here, with the indifference, apparently, of a dealer in flesh, he described Yee Chu. “You cannot mistake her,” he declared. “When your work is finished, leave word for me with the garment-maker that the wooden candle-stick is mended. Meanwhile, he will serve your needs.”

Three days, and the message of the mended candle-stick was left. That night, in the shadow of the monument, the opium fiend disclosed to Yee Wing the prison place of his wife.

The Powder-man took his hands from his wide sleeves. Then, on swift foot, he made off to the great, stone _yamen_ of the police.

“Plenty piecee bad man hab got my wife,” he told the head man.

“Chinks?” asked the “foreign devil.”

“Yessee.”

“Then w’y doan yez jerk out their pigtails?” the other demanded,--but not unkindly, for the thin face and the strained eyes made him conscious of something like pity.

Yee Wing told his story, in the best pidgin-English he could command.

That same night, a gong-wagon came rattling its way into Chinatown. The Sam Sings who lounged at corners here and there watched its progress with unconcern. The wagon was an hourly visitor, since here, hutched with the careless Oriental, and out of the sight of the clean, was the city’s scum--criminal and unfortunate together.

But all of a sudden there was the sound of sandalled feet on the run, for the out-post men were scattering to cover. The patrol had turned into a certain squalid alley, had stopped before a certain door, above which--black Chinese characters on a scarlet ground--was pasted the legend:

+---------------------------------+ | THE MOONLIGHT RESTS IN WHITE | | | | PURITY UPON THE GARDEN OF ROSES | +---------------------------------+

And out of the patrol, axe and pistol in hand, had tumbled a half-dozen stalwart officers,--after them, Yee Wing.

There were shrill, warning cries from the street. Shriller cries--the cries of panic-stricken women--answered from the tiny, barred windows above the entrance door. Then, interspersed with lusty Celtic commands, sounded the ring of the axe.

One, two, three minutes--and the bluecoats burst their way through the bolted doors and into the main room of the den. Under them, over them, on either hand, they caught the noise of hurried flight, a frightened rat-like scurrying. Before them was a room dim-lit and heavy with the odour of opium and incense. Dirty cushions were thrown about. Stools and tables were overturned. To one side lay a three-stringed banjo. The occupants had fled.

Not all. Past the cluster of white men sprang Yee Wing, across the dark room, to a little huddled heap on the floor beyond. It was she, still wearing the loose, purple trousers and the cherry-hued jacket. Upon the jacket, circling a bony handle thrust upright, was a growing stain--deeper than cherry hue.

The officers rushed on, doubly eager to track, now that there had been a murder. One stayed a moment and would have drawn the weapon from Yee Chu’s breast, but Yee Wing would not let him. With it would go out the last spark of life.

Alone together, the Powder-man did not sink beside his wife. His face did not show either grief or anger. He only looked at her, his hands hanging loosely at his sides.

Her eyes opened, she saw him, and smiled faintly. “Esteemed,” she whispered, “Esteemed, it is the time of the tea-harvest!”

He knew that she was thinking of the hills of Hupeh. “Ah, Jasmine Blossom,” he answered, “graceful as a leaf and as sweetly scented.”

She smiled again. “Possessor of All the Virtues,”--her voice was so low he could scarcely hear--“but I am heavily sick. Forgive me that I cannot live to be the mother of your first-born.” And, with that, her eyelids drooped.

They came back into the room then, empty-handed. Quietly, sadly, they gathered about the two.

Yee Wing looked around the circle. He spoke no word, but there was a terrible light in his blood-shot eyes. Then, he turned about and went down the stairway. Again, his right hand was in his wide left sleeve, his left hand in the right one.

* * * * *

The Collector of Monies, making leisurely toward his favourite barber-shop, was conscious of a figure--almost a shadow, so uncertain was it--that appeared and disappeared behind him. He stopped every few feet to look over his shoulder. But, through the ever moving procession of the pavement, he could see no one that seemed to be following.

At the barber-shop, he took a stool lazily. First, a square napkin dipped in hot water freshened face and palms; next, a few hairs were pulled from his jowl, and the ear-spoon was wielded. Then he composed himself for a head-shave. The razoring begun, he watched a group of gaudily dressed children, shouting and gamboling before the door, and as he watched he fingered a long-stemmed pipe, caressing its ivory mouthpiece with his lips.

Of a sudden, through the group of children, to the great brass bowl at the shop entrance, came a figure. Its dress was ragged and dirty, its queue unkempt. Its right hand was thrust in a wide left sleeve, the left hand in the right one.

As Chow Loo looked, the right hand was drawn from the sleeve and extended toward him. Between two blood-shot eyes was the black bore of a revolver.

Careless of the razor, he sprang up, the keen blade taking him in the scalp. But even as he leaped came the bullet--straight to the mark.

A hue and cry arose, there was a great running, and gathering, a medley of questions, a medley of answers, the jostling and the commands of uniformed “foreign devils.” Chow Loo tottered forward, and dropped beside the great brass bowl. And there, gazing fixedly up at a lantern that was swinging gently to and fro above the door, the life of the Collector of Monies went out of him.

* * * * *

When Yee Wing arrived at Sather, he found Wah Lee lying in a strip of shade behind the dove-cotes. The old man got up at once, relinquished a key, folded a few belongings into a handkerchief and departed down the road to Fruitvale.

The Powder-man looked dumbly about him, at the little home, the black-walled magazine, the grassy level surrounding. Upon the green, the dark-red peonies were nodding; across it fared the butterflies.

For a long time, he stood. Then, slowly, he went apart and sat down in a place where he could command every approach. Here, hour by hour, he stayed--waiting. Twilight came on. He arose, approached the door of his little home, unlocked it, and entered. A silken garment lay close to the sill. He took it up, smoothing it with a gentle hand. At last, he laid it down. His eye rested upon a photograph that lay among the cups and bowls on the table. He lifted it tenderly, carried it to the chest of drawers and set it upon end. Before it, in a bronze cup of ashes, he put a lighted incense stick.

He leaned against the drawer chest, his forehead upon a hand. “Mother of the unborn that were to worship my bones!” he faltered.

By now, the twilight had deepened into night. Down the highway leading to Fruitvale, he heard the barking of a dog. He stole to the window and sat down, a revolver upon his knee.

The dog quieted. A quarter of an hour passed. Then, from the other side, toward Haywards, a second barking. He stepped outside, keeping close to the house. Behind it, among the dove-cotes, he halted, peering to every side.

A space of time went by. Then, across the level from the railway, three shadows!

Yee Wing sank down and crept noiselessly to the door of the magazine, opened it, and stood just within the black entrance.

The three shadows were nearer now, but motionless.

Yee Wing called out: “Come, honourable brothers, come. Why wait you yonder?”

The shadows moved, but there was no answer. They separated. One came forward under cover of the house; one turned to the right; one to the left.

“Come, brothers, come,” called Yee Wing, again. His voice was light and mocking. “The spoil is large. You shall take all my possessions with you--this time.”

The three stopped short. Then, as one, they turned, fleeing.

Too late! Yee Wing stepped back into the magazine--a match sputtered up----

The night was split by a great burst of thunder. It went resounding across the salt flats to Alameda, across the bay to the City beside the Gate, it was beaten back by the brown Piedmont hills. And with it, as the earth quaked to the sound, the souls of three Sam Sings, and of Yee Wing, Powder-man, went forth to join the souls of their ancestors.

THE SEARCH FOR THE SPRING

“Mr. Edward Heaton, sir.”

Austin Knowles, sitting alone over his coffee and paper, put down his cup and leaned back, an expression of pleased surprise lighting his grave face. “Oh,--ask Mr. Heaton to come in here,” he said.

A moment, and the servant ushered in a young man whose manner, frank and boyishly eager at the threshold, at once became, on catching sight of the other, more subdued, even somewhat solicitous.

The elder looked up. “Well,” was his kindly greeting, “you’re abroad early. Take a chair. Everything all right at the building, I hope.”

“Yes, sir,--not a vacancy since McGinn & McGinn, the attorneys, leased. That was two months ago.” There was a touch of pride in Heaton’s answer.

“You’re the best superintendent I’ve ever had, Ned. I’m more than satisfied with you. And as long as your good judgment about tenants seems to have simplified your work at the building, you may feel you can branch out a little. You know Sparling is leaving me the first of the month.”

“The Montgomery street property!” Heaton’s face crimsoned with pleasure. “Oh, thank you,--I’d like to try that.”

“Well, we’ll see.” The elder man went back to his coffee, the habitual look of gravity again settling upon his face.

Heaton was a full minute collecting himself. “What I came for this morning,” he began at last, “was a personal matter.”

“Yes?”

“I stayed up Arroyo way over Sunday. Mrs. George Thorburn spoke of you, and asked me to bring you a letter and--and back it up.” He took an envelope from a pocket, rose and handed it across the table. “Really, I _hope_ you’ll go.” His voice was deep with earnestness. He honoured Austin Knowles,--and pitied him; for he knew how rare had been the other’s devotion to the wife now seven years dead, how sincere was his mourning for her, and how lonely was his life in that big stone house on the avenue.

“I’m going up again for the rest of my vacation,” Heaton continued. “And I’ll look for you.” He held out his hand.

The elder man took it. “Perhaps,” he said absent-mindedly. And Heaton passed out.

It was a crested letter, perfumed, and written in a large, modishly angular hand.

Mrs. Thorburn’s invitation was cordial, even pressing. She wrote that the hills were simply lovely now, and that she just knew her dear Mr. Knowles was awfully fagged. So she wanted above all things that he should have a fortnight’s vacation at High Court. “Dorothy will be home,” she went on to say, “and some charming people are visiting me. You will find your stay restful, I am sure, for you shall do as you choose--except at dinner-time--and read or ride or ramble the days away. Dear Mr. Knowles, do come.”

“Restful”--his thoughts dwelt upon that word. He leaned back, covering his eyes. These seven years he had given himself no time for anything save work--hard, persistent work that had kept him from despair. But it had worn him down. His face had thinned, his hair grown grey at the temples, his shoulders rounded, his step become less elastic. Rest--he needed it. And “to read or ride or ramble” held a promise of pleasure and recuperation.

He lifted his head presently and touched a bell. It was answered by the man-servant, young and soft of foot, who approached, as Heaton had, with an air at once respectful and anxiously inquiring.

“Did you ring, sir?”

“Yes, Thomas. I’m going out of town for a couple of weeks. Pack what I’ll need--right off.” A moment ago, he had wavered over deciding. Now, of a sudden, and almost unaccountably, as though roused by a sense of coming freedom, Austin was all eagerness to get away from the lonely house, the wearing office, the noisy town.

“Will you want me to go with you, sir?”

“No,--no, I think not. You may have two weeks for yourself. Send this wire.” He scribbled a few words hastily, then rose.

“Mr. Knowles,--please.” Thomas, having received the telegram, was halted irresolutely at the door. “If I may ask, sir, if--if you’d object----”

“What, Thomas?” Austin turned, smiling encouragement.

“I’d--I’d--like to get married, sir, while you’re gone. I’d be settled and ready for my duties when you came back. It’s a young lady I’ve known a good while, sir, and we could rent that little cottage just back of here--the one with the nasturtiums over the porch. Maybe you recall it, sir.”

The smile warmed into kindness. “Marry? Why, of course,” Austin said heartily. “And, I congratulate you.”

Thomas bowed, fumbling for the knob. “Thank you, sir,” he said.

* * * * *

A next morning’s train carried Austin Knowles out of the city and toward the line of brown-grey California foothills midway of which was the Thorburn country-place. He watched the towns, fields, gulches and roadways slip swiftly by. The towns grew smaller and farther apart as the metropolis receded, the roadways roughened, the fields contracted, the gulches deepened, and the line of foothills took on a browner tinge. He raised a window, and a breeze swept him, tugging at his hair and bringing to his nostrils the scent of curing grass. He took a deep breath. He had not had a good smell of the country in, yes, in over seven years. The last time, he and Barbara----

The old pain gripped him, stinging his eyes and paining his throat. His hand slipped into a vest pocket and drew forth a small, round, closed locket, on one side of which, chased delicately, was a lily, upheld between two leaves; on the opposite, an A and a B, intertwined. He opened it, held it close in a palm, and looked tenderly upon the pictured face.

“Ar-_roy_-o!”

The trainman’s cry brought him to his feet. He put the locket away, took up a hand-satchel and hurried out and down. A trap was waiting, in charge of a man in a smart covert livery. He handed satchel and checks to a second man, who came forward from the little depot, climbed to a seat in the trap and was whirled away.

When the trap pulled up, only Mrs. Thorburn greeted him. “The others are at the tennis-court,” she explained, “Dorothy and Hal, Miss Scott--you remember her--the Lamberts, babies and all----”

“Good!” exclaimed Austin.

“And Ned Heaton.” Mrs. Thorburn rather snapped this out.

“Oh, yes,--Ned,” said Austin, wondering at her asperity.

“Hal’s fond of him,” she added in a tone which informed her hearer that she was not.

He met the house-party at luncheon. Miss Scott sat next him and was more pert than usual, owing to the roguish attentions of young Hal, who held the end of the table opposite his mother. Across from Austin, seated between the Lamberts (an ostentatiously happy married couple), was Dorothy.

“How these children grow up!” thought Austin, remembering the romping girl he had seen last in short frocks--the girl, curiously enough, that he had somehow expected to meet again. But here she was a grown woman, slender, pretty, undeniably attractive. He noticed with a feeling of regret that she strove to ape her mother’s haughtiness, but succeeded in being merely petulant. Her eyes were pronouncedly eloquent. Were they not too eloquent to be honest?

But these were Austin’s first impressions. Little by little, as the meal progressed, he altered them considerably. Miss Scott’s pertness became intensified, and Dorothy’s reserve was thrown into pleasant contrast. The Lamberts proved to be extremely entertaining, and, with Hal, kept the table alive with good-natured fun. Even Mrs. Thorburn unbent to a degree that was almost kittenish. Presently, Austin responded to the infectious merriment--and found himself laughing.

Luncheon was long over, tea-time was nearly at hand, and Austin, with the young ladies looking gleefully on, was busily trying to worst Hal at billiards. Suddenly he remembered that Ned Heaton had not appeared either at luncheon or afterward.

“Oh, he’s staying at the Hamilton ranch, just back of Arroyo,” Hal explained. “Rides over every morning to help Dorothy lick us at tennis.” This with a sly smile at Miss Scott.

That smile broke up the game. Miss Scott claimed Hal’s undivided attention, demanding instruction in the handling of a cue; and Dorothy and Austin were driven forth to the lawn.