Wou Sankwei stood behind his desk, busily entering figures in a long
yellow book. Now and then he would thrust the hair pencil with which he
worked behind his ears and manipulate with deft fingers a Chinese
counting machine. Wou Sankwei was the junior partner and bookkeeper of
the firm of Leung Tang Wou & Co. of San Francisco. He had been in
America seven years and had made good use of his time. Self-improvement
had been his object and ambition, even more than the acquirement of a
fortune, and who, looking at his fine, intelligent face and listening to
his careful English, could say that he had failed?
One of his partners called his name. Some ladies wished to speak to him.
Wou Sankwei hastened to the front of the store. One of his callers, a
motherly looking woman, was the friend who had taken him under her wing
shortly after his arrival in America. She had come to invite him to
spend the evening with her and her niece, the young girl who accompanied
her.
After his callers had left, Sankwei returned to his desk and worked
steadily until the hour for his evening meal, which he took in the
Chinese restaurant across the street from the bazaar. He hurried through
with this, as before going to his friend’s house, he had a somewhat
important letter to write and mail. His mother had died a year before,
and the uncle, to whom he was writing, had taken his wife and son into
his home until such time as his nephew could send for them. Now the time
had come.
Wou Sankwei’s memory of the woman who was his wife was very faint. How
could it be otherwise? She had come to him but three weeks before the
sailing of the vessel which had brought him to America, and until then
he had not seen her face. But she was his wife and the mother of his
son. Ever since he had worked in America he had sent money for her
support, and she had proved a good daughter to his mother.
As he sat down to write he decided that he would welcome her with a big
dinner to his countrymen.
“Yes,” he replied to Mrs. Dean, later on in the evening, “I have sent
for my wife.”
“I am so glad,” said the lady. “Mr. Wou”—turning to her niece—“has not
seen his wife for seven years.”
“Deary me!” exclaimed the young girl. “What a lot of letters you must
have written!”
“I have not written her one,” returned the young man somewhat stiffly.
Adah Charlton looked up in surprise. “Why—” she began.
“Mr. Wou used to be such a studious boy when I first knew him,”
interrupted Mrs. Dean, laying her hand affectionately upon the young
man’s shoulder. “Now, it is all business. But you won’t forget the
concert on Saturday evening.”
“No, I will not forget,” answered Wou Sankwei.
“He has never written to his wife,” explained Mrs. Dean when she and her
niece were alone, “because his wife can neither read nor write.”
“Oh, isn’t that sad!” murmured Adah Charlton, her own winsome face
becoming pensive.
“They don’t seem to think so. It is the Chinese custom to educate only
the boys. At least it has been so in the past. Sankwei himself is
unusually bright. Poor boy! He began life here as a laundryman, and you
may be sure that it must have been hard on him, for, as the son of a
petty Chinese Government official, he had not been accustomed to manual
labor. But Chinese character is wonderful; and now after seven years in
this country, he enjoys a reputation as a business man amongst his
countrymen, and is as up to date as any young American.”
“But, Auntie, isn’t it dreadful to think that a man should live away
from his wife for so many years without any communication between them
whatsoever except through others.”
“It is dreadful to our minds, but not to theirs. Everything with them is
a matter of duty. Sankwei married his wife as a matter of duty. He sends
for her as a matter of duty.”
“I wonder if it is all duty on her side,” mused the girl.
Mrs. Dean smiled. “You are too romantic, Adah,” said she. “I hope,
however, that when she does come, they will be happy together. I think
almost as much of Sankwei as I do of my own boy.”