O’Yam climbed the stairs to the joss house. The desire for solitude
brought her there; but when she had closed the door upon herself, she
found that she was not alone. Fou Wang was there. Before the images of
the Three Wise Ones he stood, silent, motionless.
“He is communing with his mother’s spirit,” thought O’Yam. She beheld
him through a mist of tears. Love filled her whole being. She dared not
move, because she was afraid he would turn and see her, and then, of
course, he would go away. She would stay near him for a few moments and
then retire.
The dim light of the place, the quietness in the midst of noise, the
fragrance of some burning incense, soothed and calmed her. It was as if
all the sorrow and despair that had overwhelmed her when her father had
told her to prepare for her wedding with Moy Ding Fong had passed away.
After a few moments she stepped back softly towards the door. But she
was too late. Fou Wang turned and beheld her.
She fluttered like a bird until she saw that, surprised by her presence,
he had forgotten death and thought only of life—of life and love. A
glad, eager light shone in his eyes. He made a swift step towards her.
Then—he covered his face with his hands.
“Fou Wang!” cried O’Yam, love at last overcoming superstition, “must I
become the wife of Moy Ding Fong?”
“No, ah no!” he moaned.
“Then,” said the girl in desperation, “take me to yourself.”
Fou Wang’s hands fell to his side. For a moment he looked into that
pleading face—and wavered.
A little bird flew in through an open window, and perching itself upon
an altar, began twittering.
Fou Wang started back, the expression on his face changing.
“A warning from the dead,” he muttered, “a warning from the dead!”
An iron hand gripped O’Yam’s heart. Life itself seemed to have closed
upon her.