“My girl, Moy Ding Fong is ready if Fou Wang is not, and you must marry
this year. I have sworn you shall.”
Kien Lung walked out of the room with a determined step. He was an
Americanized Chinese and had little regard for what he derided as “the
antiquated customs of China,” save when it was to his interest to follow
them. He was also a widower desirous of marrying again, but undesirous
of having two women of like years, one his wife, the other his daughter,
under the same roof-tree.
Left alone, O’Yam’s thoughts became sorrowful, almost despairing. Six
moons had gone by since Ah So Nan had passed away, yet the son of Ah So
Nan had not once, during that time, spoken one word to his betrothed
wife. Occasionally she had passed him on the street; but always he had
gone by with uplifted countenance, and in his eyes the beauty of piety
and peace. At least, so it seemed to the girl, and the thought of
marriage with him had seemed almost sacrilegious. But now it had come to
this. If Fou Wang adhered to his resolve to mourn three years for his
mother, what would become of her? She thought of old Moy Ding Fong and
shuddered. It was bitter, bitter.
There was a rapping at the door. A young girl lifted the latch and
stepped in. It was Fin Fan, the sister of her betrothed.
“I have brought my embroidery work,” said she, “I thought we could have
a little talk before sundown when I must away to prepare the evening
meal.”
O’Yam, who was glad to see her visitor, brewed some fresh tea and
settled down for an exchange of confidences.
“I am not going to abide by it,” said Fin Fan at last. “Hom Hing is
obliged to return to China two weeks hence, and with or without Fou
Wang’s consent I go with the man to whom my mother betrothed me.”
“Without Fou Wang’s consent!” echoed O’Yam.
“Yes,” returned Fin Fan, snapping off a thread. “Without my honorable
brother’s consent.”
“And your mother gone but six moons!”
O’Yam’s face wore a shocked expression.
“Does the fallen leaf grieve because the green one remains on the tree?”
queried Fin Fan.
“You must love Hom Hing well,” murmured O’Yam—“more than Fou Wang loves
me.”
“Nay,” returned her companion, “Fou Wang’s love for you is as big as
mine for Hom Hing. It is my brother’s conscience alone that stands
between him and you. You know that.”
“He loves not me,” sighed O’Yam.
“If he does not love you,” returned Fin Fan, “why, when we heard that
you were unwell, did he sleeplessly pace his room night after night
until the news came that you were restored to health? Why does he
treasure a broken fan you have cast aside?”
“Ah, well!” smiled O’Yam.
Fin Fan laughed softly.
“Fou Wang is not as other men,” said she. “His conscience is an
inheritance from his great-great-grandfather.” Her face became pensive
as she added: “It is sad to go across the sea without an elder brother’s
blessing.”
She repeated this to Liuchi and Mai Gwi Far, the widow, whom she met on
her way home.
“Why should you,” inquired the latter, “when there is a way by which to
obtain it?”
“How?”
“Did Ah So Nan leave no garments behind her—such garments as would well
fit her three souls—and is it not always easy to delude the serious and
the wise?”
“Ah!”