IV

That a man should take to himself two wives, or even three, if he

thought proper, seemed natural and right in the eyes of Wou Pau Lin. She

herself had come from a home where there were two broods of children and

where her mother and her father’s other wife had eaten their meals

together as sisters. In that home there had not always been peace; but

each woman, at least, had the satisfaction of knowing that her man did

not regard or treat the other woman as her superior. To each had fallen

the common lot—to bear children to the man, and the man was master of

all.

But, oh! the humiliation and shame of bearing children to a man who

looked up to another woman—and a woman of another race—as a being above

the common uses of women. There is a jealousy of the mind more poignant

than any mere animal jealousy.

When Wou Sankwei’s second child was two weeks old, Adah Charlton and her

aunt called to see the little one, and the young girl chatted brightly

with the father and played merrily with Yen, who was growing strong and

merry. The American women could not, of course, converse with the

Chinese; but Adah placed beside her a bunch of beautiful flowers,

pressed her hand, and looked down upon her with radiant eyes. Secure in

the difference of race, in the love of many friends, and in the

happiness of her chosen work, no suspicion whatever crossed her mind

that the woman whose husband was her aunt’s protégé tasted everything

bitter because of her.

After the visitors had gone, Pau Lin, who had been watching her

husband’s face while the young artist was in the room, said to him:

“She can be happy who takes all and gives nothing.”

“Takes all and gives nothing,” echoed her husband. “What do you mean?”

“She has taken all your heart,” answered Pau Lin, “but she has not given

you a son. It is I who have had that task.”

“You are my wife,” answered Wou Sankwei. “And she—oh! how can you speak

of her so? She, who is as a pure water-flower—a lily!”

He went out of the room, carrying with him a little painting of their

boy, which Adah Charlton had given to him as she bade him goodbye and

which he had intended showing with pride to the mother.

It was on the day that the baby died that Pau Lin first saw the little

picture. It had fallen out of her husband’s coat pocket when he lifted

the tiny form in his arms and declared it lifeless. Even in that first

moment of loss Pau Lin, stooping to pick up the portrait, had shrunk

back in horror, crying: “She would cast a spell! She would cast a

spell!”

She set her heel upon the face of the picture and destroyed it beyond

restoration.

“You know not what you say and do,” sternly rebuked Sankwei. He would

have added more, but the mystery of the dead child’s look forbade him.

“The loss of a son is as the loss of a limb,” said he to his childless

partner, as under the red glare of the lanterns they sat discussing the

sad event.

“But you are not without consolation,” returned Leung Tsao. “Your

firstborn grows in strength and beauty.”

“True,” assented Wou Sankwei, his heavy thoughts becoming lighter.

And Pau Lin, in her curtained balcony overhead, drew closer her child

and passionately cried:

“Sooner would I, O heart of my heart, that the light of thine eyes were

also quenched, than that thou shouldst be contaminated with the wisdom

of the new.”

V

The Chinese women friends of Wou Pau Lin gossiped among themselves, and

their gossip reached the ears of the American woman friend of Pau Lin’s

husband. Since the days of her widowhood Mrs. Dean had devoted herself

earnestly and whole-heartedly to the betterment of the condition and the

uplifting of the young workingmen of Chinese race who came to America.

Their appeal and need, as she had told her niece, was for closer

acquaintance with the knowledge of the Western people, and _that_ she

had undertaken to give them, as far as she was able. The rewards and

satisfactions of her work had been rich in some cases. Witness Wou

Sankwei.

But the gossip had reached and much perturbed her. What was it that they

said Wou Sankwei’s wife had declared—that her little son should not go

to an American school nor learn the American learning. Such bigotry and

narrow-mindedness! How sad to think of! Here was a man who had benefited

and profited by living in America, anxious to have his son receive the

benefits of a Western education—and here was this man’s wife opposing

him with her ignorance and hampering him with her unreasonable jealousy.

Yes, she had heard that too. That Wou Sankwei’s wife was

jealous—jealous—and her husband the most moral of men, the kindest and

the most generous.

“Of what is she jealous?” she questioned Adah Charlton. “Other Chinese

men’s wives, I have known, have had cause to be jealous, for it is true

some of them are dreadfully immoral and openly support two or more

wives. But not Wou Sankwei. And this little Pau Lin. She has everything

that a Chinese woman could wish for.”

A sudden flash of intuition came to the girl, rendering her for a moment

speechless. When she did find words, she said:

“Everything that a Chinese woman could wish for, you say. Auntie, I do

not believe there is any real difference between the feelings of a

Chinese wife and an American wife. Sankwei is treating Pau Lin as he

would treat her were he living in China. Yet it cannot be the same to

her as if she were in their own country, where he would not come in

contact with American women. A woman is a woman with intuitions and

perceptions, whether Chinese or American, whether educated or

uneducated, and Sankwei’s wife must have noticed, even on the day of her

arrival, her husband’s manner towards us, and contrasted it with his

manner towards her. I did not realize this before you told me that she

was jealous. I only wish I had. Now, for all her ignorance, I can see

that the poor little thing became more of an American in that one half

hour on the steamer than Wou Sankwei, for all your pride in him, has

become in seven years.”

Mrs. Dean rested her head on her hand. She was evidently much perplexed.

“What you say may be, Adah,” she replied after a while; “but even so, it

is Sankwei whom I have known so long, who has my sympathies. He has much

to put up with. They have drifted seven years of life apart. There is no

bond of interest or sympathy between them, save the boy. Yet never the

slightest hint of trouble has come to me from his own lips. Before the

coming of Pau Lin, he would confide in me every little thing that

worried him, as if he were my own son. Now he maintains absolute silence

as to his private affairs.”

“Chinese principles,” observed Adah, resuming her work. “Yes, I admit

Sankwei has some puzzles to solve. Naturally, when he tries to live two

lives—that of a Chinese and that of an American.”

“He is compelled to that,” retorted Mrs. Dean. “Is it not what we teach

these Chinese boys—to become Americans? And yet, they are Chinese, and

must, in a sense, remain so.”

Adah did not answer.

Mrs. Dean sighed. “Poor, dear children, both of them,” mused she. “I

feel very low-spirited over the matter. I suppose you wouldn’t care to

come down town with me. I should like to have another chat with Mrs.

Wing Sing.”

“I shall be glad of the change,” replied Adah, laying down her brushes.

Rows of lanterns suspended from many balconies shed a mellow, moonshiny

radiance. On the walls and doors were splashes of red paper inscribed

with hieroglyphics. In the narrow streets, booths decorated with

flowers, and banners and screens painted with immense figures of josses

diverted the eye; while bands of musicians in gaudy silks, shrilled and

banged, piped and fluted.

Everybody seemed to be out of doors—men, women, and children—and nearly

all were in holiday attire. A couple of priests, in vivid scarlet and

yellow robes, were kotowing before an altar covered with a rich cloth,

embroidered in white and silver. Some Chinese students from the

University of California stood looking on with comprehending,

half-scornful interest; three girls lavishly dressed in colored silks,

with their black hair plastered back from their faces and heavily

bejewelled behind, chirped and chattered in a gilded balcony above them

like birds in a cage. Little children, their hands full of

half-moon-shaped cakes, were pattering about, with eyes, for all the

hour, as bright as stars.

Chinatown was celebrating the Harvest Moon Festival, and Adah Charlton

was glad that she had an opportunity to see something of the celebration

before she returned East. Mrs. Dean, familiar with the Chinese people

and the mazes of Chinatown, led her around fearlessly, pointing out this

and that object of interest and explaining to her its meaning. Seeing

that it was a gala night, she had abandoned her idea of calling upon the

Chinese friend.

Just as they turned a corner leading up to the street where Wou

Sankwei’s place of business and residence was situated, a pair of little

hands grasped Mrs. Dean’s skirt and a delighted little voice piped: “See

me! See me!” It was little Yen, resplendent in mauve-colored pantaloons

and embroidered vest and cap. Behind him was a tall man whom both women

recognized.

“How do you happen to have Yen with you?” Adah asked.

“His father handed him over to me as a sort of guide, counsellor, and

friend. The little fellow is very amusing.”

“See over here,” interrupted Yen. He hopped over the alley to where the

priests stood by the altar. The grown people followed him.

“What is that man chanting?” asked Adah. One of the priests had mounted

a table, and with arms outstretched towards the moon sailing high in the

heavens, seemed to be making some sort of an invocation.

Her friend listened for some moments before replying:

“It is a sort of apotheosis of the moon. I have heard it on a like

occasion in Hankow, and the Chinese _bonze_ who officiated gave me a

translation. I almost know it by heart. May I repeat it to you?”

Mrs. Dean and Yen were examining the screen with the big josses.

“Yes, I should like to hear it,” said Adah.

“Then fix your eyes upon Diana.”

“Dear and lovely moon, as I watch thee pursuing thy solitary course o’er

the silent heavens, heart-easing thoughts steal o’er me and calm my

passionate soul. Thou art so sweet, so serious, so serene, that thou

causest me to forget the stormy emotions which crash like jarring

discords across the harmony of life, and bringest to my memory a voice

scarce ever heard amidst the warring of the world—love’s low voice.

“Thou art so peaceful and so pure that it seemeth as if naught false or

ignoble could dwell beneath thy gentle radiance, and that

earnestness—even the earnestness of genius—must glow within the bosom of

him on whose head thy beams fall like blessings.

“The magic of thy sympathy disburtheneth me of many sorrows, and

thoughts, which, like the songs of the sweetest sylvan singer, are too

dear and sacred for the careless ears of day, gush forth with

unconscious eloquence when thou art the only listener.

“Dear and lovely moon, there are some who say that those who dwell in

the sunlit fields of reason should fear to wander through the moonlit

valleys of imagination; but I, who have ever been a pilgrim and a

stranger in the realm of the wise, offer to thee the homage of a heart

which appreciates that thou graciously shinest—even on the fool.”

“Is that really Chinese?” queried Adah.

“No doubt about it—in the main. Of course, I cannot swear to it word for

word.”

“I should think that there would be some reference to the fruits of the

earth—the harvest. I always understood that the Chinese religion was so

practical.”

“Confucianism is. But the Chinese mind requires two religions. Even the

most commonplace Chinese has yearnings for something above everyday

life. Therefore, he combines with his Confucianism, Buddhism—or, in this

country, Christianity.”

“Thank you for the information. It has given me a key to the mind of a

certain Chinese in whom Auntie and I are interested.”

“And who is this particular Chinese in whom you are interested.”

“The father of the little boy who is with us tonight.”

“Wou Sankwei! Why, here he comes with Lee Tong Hay. Are you acquainted

with Lee Tong Hay?”

“No, but I believe Aunt is. Plays and sings in vaudeville, doesn’t he?”

“Yes; he can turn himself into a German, a Scotchman, an Irishman, or an

American, with the greatest ease, and is as natural in each character as

he is as a Chinaman. Hello, Lee Tong Hay.”

“Hello, Mr. Stimson.”

While her friend was talking to the lively young Chinese who had

answered his greeting, Adah went over to where Wou Sankwei stood

speaking to Mrs. Dean.

“Yen begins school next week,” said her aunt, drawing her arm within her

own. It was time to go home.

Adah made no reply. She was settling her mind to do something quite out

of the ordinary. Her aunt often called her romantic and impractical.

Perhaps she was.