“Who was Wellington Brown?” she asked in a strained voice.
“Lady,” said Yeh Ling gently, “he is dead: it was better that he died
so than in the way you feared.”
She passed her hand before her eyes and nodded.
“We Chinese forgive our fathers much,” said Yeh Ling, and left her to
her grief.
From the house he took his guests to the terrace gardens, and then down
the broad yellow avenue to the two massive grey pillars that stood
guard at the entrance of his domain.
“You had a lot of trouble with these, I am sure,” said Stott, casting a
professional eye upward.
“With only one,” said Yeh Ling, and his fan moved to and fro languidly.
“With the Pillar of Grateful Memories there was a hitch. Somebody came
into the ground one night whilst it was raining and let cement into
the mould, cut off the hauling rope and did other trivial damage. My
builder thought that the pillar would not set, but it has.”
He looked up at the smooth face of the concrete and his eyes rested
some dozen feet above the ground.
“I have dedicated this to all who have helped me, to the old man Shi
Soh, to you, Miss Ardfern--to all gods western and eastern, to all who
love and are loved.”
When his guests had gone, Yeh Ling, in his blue and gold satin dress of
ceremony, came back to the pillar, and there was a little book in his
hand. His finger was inserted midway.
The servant who accompained him he dismissed.
“I believe,” said Yeh Ling, “I shall be happier--” He stood facing the
pillar, bowed, then opening the book, he began to read in his deep rich
voice. He was reading the service for the burial of the dead.
When he had finished he lit three joss sticks which stood in the blue
vase the servant had carried, and placed them before the pillar,
kow-towing deeply. Then from his capacious sleeve he produced some
strips of gold paper suitably inscribed, and these he burnt.
“I think those are all the gods I know,” said Yeh Ling, dusting his
fingers daintily.