THE FAN
“It is growing dark,” Wu said, as he put the sword down beside the gong.
Three other servants followed Ah Sing through the sliding door that he
had opened from the other side. Two were tea-bearers and the other a
servant of the lamps.
The tray of tea was laid on the table. The lamp-man moved about
the room, and a dozen dim lights broke out, like disks of radiant
alabaster, so dim, so beautiful, and so unexpectedly placed that their
shrouded brilliance made the wonderful room seem even eerier than
before.
The woman watched it all, inert and motionless. She felt, without
thinking about it--she was almost worn past thinking now--how more
than useless it would be to appeal to these wooden-faced Chinese, the
creatures and automatons of Wu Li Chang. And an instinct of dignity
that was very English held her from making to foreign servants a
prayer that would, she knew, be denied. She would make no exhibition
of a plight they would not pity or of an emotion that would not move
them--unless it moved them to mirth.
But when, their service done, the servants went out, soft-footed as
they had come, and after the door closed, bolts clanged, she realized
that she and Wu were again alone--the room locked--and she sprang up
and dashed to the door.
Wu watched her, smiling. “Come,” he said--almost as he might have
spoken to a restless child--“tea is served.”
And she turned, in obedience to his voice, and looked at him. “I
couldn’t, Mr. Wu,” she said with plaintive petulance, “I couldn’t
possibly.” The distress in her voice was more than the annoyance.
Wu ignored her words good-naturedly, and began pouring out the tea. “I
have sugar and cream, you see, quite in the Western way.”
“No--no, I couldn’t,” she reiterated impatiently, but coming back to
the table and watching the cups as he filled them. “Please tell me of
my son and let me go.”
For answer, the mandarin held out to her a cup of tea. “Pray take
this cup of tea, Mrs. Gregory,” he said with grave politeness. “Oh!
I understand,” he added with a slight, chill smile, when she paid no
attention to the cup he proffered her. He put it down. “You would
prefer to see me drink first.” With an inclination of his head to her,
he lifted his own cup and drained it at a draught. “So! perhaps that
will reassure you.” He put his cup down and refilled it. “Pray take the
tea,” he urged hospitably: “it will not only be refreshing--and your
lips look dry and parched--but it will also be a politeness to do so.”
She stood looking at him dully, and then sank slowly down on to a stool.
“Sugar--and--cream,” the mandarin said brightly. There was more of
Mayfair and of Oxford in tone and in manner than there was of Cathay.
And the anachronism was gruesome rather than droll, as he stood in his
mandarin’s robes fanning himself with his left hand (the sons of Han
are more nearly ambidextrous than they of any other race) and with his
right hand plying the silver sugar-tongs with slow dexterity. “So!” he
held out the perfected cup. “It is the choicest growth of the Empire,
Mrs. Gregory, sun-dried with the flowers of jasmine.”
She took the cup, and he took up his. Just as she was forcing herself
to drink--his own cup almost to his lip--he said with the same suave
manner, “Have you no curiosity, Mrs. Gregory, to learn the name”--a
poisonous change came in his voice--“of my daughter’s seducer?”
The Englishwoman put down her cup quickly, with a hand so unnerved and
trembling that it scarcely served to guide its small burden. She tried
to drop her eyes, but she couldn’t--he held them with his relentlessly.
“I don’t understand you,” she faltered. “Your--your manner is so
strange.”
Wu said nothing, but he smiled into her gaze coldly, and she rose with
a shudder. Wu smiled at her still, and with a sudden wild cry she
darted to the sliding doors and beat on them hysterically. But she
realized at once that they were locked and were strong. And she turned
around, at bay but hopeless, leaning her back against the door, and
faced Wu miserably, her smarting hands hanging limp at her sides.
Wu Li Chang unfolded his fan and began to churn the air towards his
face with it.
No European ever has understood what his fan means to a Chinese.
Probably no European ever will be able to understand that. With their
fans the Chinese hide emotion, express emotion, and, when it reaches
the danger point, give it vent. Often a Chinese man’s frail, tiny fan
is his safety valve. China’s greatest warriors have carried their
fans into battle. Criminals fan themselves on the execution ground.
Frightened Chinese girls, in the torment of first child-birth, fan
themselves. Wu was fanning himself in triumph. And he spoke to her
quickly, his voice ringing with triumph. “There are several ways into
this room, Mrs. Gregory, but only one way out.” The fan shut with an
ominous click--a rattle of ivory, a hiss and a rustle of silk. “It lies
by that door”--he pointed it with his fan--“which leads to _my own
inner chamber_.”
The woman smothered a scream, but she could not smother a groan.
Wu laughed. He took a step towards her. “Have you no desire to hear my
news of your son?” he asked softly. “Good news? I promised that you
should--I am here to keep my promise.” The terrible significance of his
words could not have been clearer, but he emphasized it hideously by
gliding still a little nearer to the stricken, appalled woman.
“Oh! don’t torture me,” she implored, moving away.
“He is well--comparatively. His hands have received a trifling
injury--quite trifling. But he is quite well”--nearing the woman
again--“and he is here.”
“Here?” she sobbed, “here?”
“Almost within sound of your voice”--still nearer.
“O my God! where?” she cried, looking about her frantically. The third
door caught her attention, and she ran to it weakly and beat against
it, crying, “Basil! Basil!”
“Do not be so impetuous, dear lady,” Wu said with insolent gentleness;
“I did not say he was there. And it is not good that he should hear
your voice, for the sound would only distress him.”
She looked at Wu questioningly, and he gave her the cruel explanation.
“You see, he is not at liberty to come until the right signal is given.
It lies with you whether that signal shall be given or not!” He was
very close to her now.
Wu Li Chang intended to use no physical force with this woman. He would
not grant her degradation even that poor loop-hole of excuse.
That she would yield, he had no doubt. And her own tortured soul knew
that it wavered now, and it was sick.
Wu laid his hand on her arm. And she scarcely shrank back, but drew
herself up, proud in her sorrow, and said slowly in his smiling face,
“You--you devil!”
“Harsh words will not help him, Mrs. Gregory,” the mandarin said. “Only
one thing can.” Face almost brushed face--they were so close.
She hid hers in her hands and sobbed in fear.
“I will leave you whilst you decide,” Wu said, and turned to the door
that was, he had told her, her only way “out.”
In a sudden frenzy and palsied with nausea, she dashed at the other
doors, sobbing, “Let me go!”--panting--“let me go, I tell you!”
Wu watched her a little before he said calmly, still smiling gravely,
“This door is the only door which remains unlocked. If you should
decide to enter it before I return, I should not be unresponsive to the
honor you will do me. If not, I shall return soon myself--to assist
you, if I may, to decide.”
“My husband knows that I have come here!” Mrs. Gregory cried defiantly.
“I told him!” (Wu smiled.) “He will be here at any moment, and
then----! Oh! I am not afraid of you!”
“Oh! I am glad of that!” Wu Li Chang said eagerly, “I desire only to
inspire trust--and confidence--and the tenderest sympathy! But I know
that your husband--that amiable, estimable Mr. Gregory--an odd, subtle
creature, but so lovable--does not know you are here. You have not the
remotest hope of seeing him--or you would not have told me! You would
have temporized--delayed--said nothing.”
“He _does_ know!” she stormed. “He may be here at any moment! And
if he is not admitted he will batter your gates and doors down!”
The mandarin laughed softly and shook his head at her indulgently.
“You scoundrel!” she told him, infuriated.
“Oh! I forgive your trying to deceive me, Mrs. Gregory,” Wu said
calmly; “it is only natural. Oh! that window,” he added, in answer to
an involuntary look toward it. “Yes, it leads out on to the courtyard
where your devoted servant is waiting; but the architect has placed it
so very high, and has made it so very small. Now”--he made her a little
bow--“I will leave you, but not for long.” And he passed through the
unlocked door and closed it behind him very gently.