And Sênland was emptied when C’hi Yamei’s litter was carried through
the homestead’s great gate. The litter’s silken curtains were close
drawn but they stirred a little in the crisp September air as the white
mules that carried it plodded out towards the hill path that led to the
rushing river Wei. This they must ford or ferry before they reached the
directer route that led at last to the nunnery of An Mu-ti where C’hi
and C’hi Yamei were to tarry a time before they journeyed on to their
ancestral home in Shan-si.
Less than a moon later Sên Ruben took his leave of the Sêns, almost as
eager to be in England again as he had been to reach China; for C’hi Ng
Yelü and C’hi Yamei were going to London in March. He would see them
there; and Sên Ruben could not approach C’hi Ng Yelü uncredentialed by
his mother’s consent and approval.
She would give it, he knew; and he was not without hope that
broad-minded, easy-going C’hi Ng Yelü, nomad citizen of the world,
would forgive a colorless face and half-blood in a suitor in so many
other ways desirable.
It was a wrench to leave China while C’hi Yamei still was there. But
he had neither excuse nor hope to see her again in China, unless,
after acceptance by her father, the red day of flowers came when he
might lift her from her bride chair, carry her over his threshold, and
after they had worshiped his ancestors’ tablet, alone at last he might
lift the crimson bride-veil from her face. In England he could see her
freely--as freely as though she were an English girl; and he was going
to England to prepare their way of happiness, their path to bridal;
prepare his mother’s welcome of C’hi Yamei.
Sên Yamei!
Sên C’hi Yamei!
Two days only remained of his stay in Sênland.
It was quiet now in China. Even _talk_ of war was done.
He had made his last obeisance at the grave of Sên King-lo, the grave
in which Sên Ya Tin had placed an empty coffin when she had given her
grandson’s spirit the elaborate ceremonious funeral and burial to which
a great lord-one of the Sêns was entitled--or would have been entitled
had he not erred and strayed in barbaric sojourn and cross-racial
marriage. He had made his last obeisance at the grave of Sên Ya Tin.
Again he had kept vigil in the lovely painted temple that Sên Ya Tin
had builded in love and honor of Sên King-lo--the temple painted by the
yellow roses that clustered in its courtyard and overran its walls of
ivory and marbles here and there; by the purple wistaria that clambered
across its portal _pai-fang_ and flung its sumptuous tassels and its
leaves of jade across a jutting edge of its burnished roof; painted
by the many-colored dogs and lions and weird-shaped symbolic birds
that kept watch and ward on its twisted roofs’ long ledges; painted by
the yellow sun of China that poured its gold across its bronze, its
marbles and its ivories; painted by its brilliant lacquer floor, its
cloisonnés, its hanging lotus-shaped lamps, its inlayings of coral and
gold and its votive furnishings of flower-holders, incense burners, and
jeweled wine-cups on the long prayer-table of malachite.
Sên Ruben had said good-by to the graves, the _pai-fang_ and the
temple; good-by--“The gods of China be with you”--good-by until he came
again.
Now he was saying good-by to the lovely laughing orchards still
jeweled by the reckless profusion of China, although harvest-come was
almost done; saying good-by to a dozen rushing rivulets, a dozen tiny
bubbling brooks, the placid dozing woodland pools, the waterfall his
boy father had swum, the river Sên King-lo had fished; good-by to
withering clover and fading violets, to the acres of wild-rose vines of
tiny hips and haws, to forest trees and garden-paths; saying good-by
to the great day-star above--which would be but the everyday “sun” in
England--to the fragrant grass that perfumed his padded embroidered
shoes; good-by to the birds that whirred above him, hills, valleys
and gorges; saying good-by--till he came again--to all this gracious
homeland of his that had so welcomed and warmed him, and that he had
wandered in almost hand-in-hand with C’hi Yamei, no longer a painted
lady, but the maid of breathing flesh he longed to touch.
He sat a long time leaning against the bamboos that walled the path
where first he had seen her. He lay with his face on the searing ferns
her foot had pressed in their summertime of green. He dreamed--and his
dream was ecstasy; he prayed--and his prayer was hope and betrothal.
The water-clocks were dripping the Hour of the Dog when he came to
the house and passed through the long _t’ing-tzu-lang_ and across the
_ch’ih_ to the _kuei_ to say good-by to the ladies of his kinsmen’s
harem, the gentle Chinese Sên ladies who had been so Chinese-kind to
him, and good-by to their pretty host of dimpled babies.
A sound of sobbing checked him at the edge of the harem courtyard.
No Fee lay face down beside the flower-wall, and the women gathered
about her were weeping too.
Often he had seen Sên No Fee in a temper, assumed for ulterior purpose
usually, though jolly little Sên No Fee now and then flew, for anything
or for nothing, into rage as real as it was vixenish and memorable.
But this was grief--the grief of a child whose heart was breaking.
“Hush, pretty maid-one,” a serving-woman pleaded, whose own sobs
disfigured her words. “The lady Yamei went on-High from a holy place--”
The broken voice went on, but Sên Ruben heard no more it said.
Sên Ruben stiffened, and leaned against the courtyard wall; his ears
were shut. Sên Ruben’s spirit had swooned; his heart was cloistered in
pain.
But it passed, for his flesh was strong with the health of youth, and
his ears did again their office, and part they heard got through to the
wounded mind of Sên Ruben.
“The dear-one of all friendships,” No Fee wailed, “warmth of my heart,
twin of my soul! Try not to comfort me, So Sing! There is no comfort
for my thought of her passing--my pearl-one, flower of all the gardens.
Think of it! Picture it! Caught and torn in relentless bandit hands,
murdered for the jewels she wore, the gold in her girdle’s wallet. They
tore her ears aslit, tearing the circlets of gold away. They snapped
her tender fingers as they wrenched from her the rings! I see them do
it! See! See the blood of Yamei pouring down her face! See her hands
bleed! Hear her fingers crack!”
Sên Ruben heard no more.
When he heard again it was this: “May all the foul gods wrack the soul
of C’hi Ng Yelü, scorch his flesh to its bones, burn his eyes to their
sockets till his skull cracks! Foul, inconsiderate, unworthy, that
he prevented not that she went alone beyond the nunnery gate, went
unattended into the bandit-infested forest.”
Heavily, unsteadily, a stricken man turned and went. He could hear no
more!
Sên C’hian Fan, coming from the wax sheds, saw Sên Ruben dragging
himself drunkenly across the temple courtyard, watched Ruben’s
staggering gait as he went up the temple steps and passed into the
temple.
All the night hours Sên Ruben lay in the temple Sên Ya Tin had builded.
Night was chill in Ho-nan now. Sên Ruben felt not cold, nor felt the
hardness of the temple floor.
They of the household questioned, “Where is Sên Ruben that he comes
not to evening rice? Why keeps he him from his kindred to-night, when
to-morrow he goes from our gates, perchance forever?” But C’hian the
headman bade them, “Let be! He keeps again a vigil in the temple of his
father, worshiping alone at the tablet of Sên King-lo.”
And they ate their rice in silence, approving the filial devotion
of Sên Ruben. They ate but scantily and drank no wine, for all the
household of Sên C’hian Fan was stricken by what had befallen in the
forest beyond the nunnery to which C’hi Ng Yelü had taken from here but
now C’hi Yamei.
All night long the women wailed. But the men were mute.