Had Tian Shan been an American and China to him a forbidden country, his
daring exploits and thrilling adventures would have furnished
inspiration for many a newspaper and magazine article, novel, and short
story. As a hero, he would certainly have far outshone Dewey, Peary, or
Cook. Being, however, a Chinese, and the forbidden country America, he
was simply recorded by the American press as “a wily Oriental, who, ‘by
ways that are dark and tricks that are vain,’ is eluding the vigilance
of our brave customs officers.” As to his experiences, the only one who
took any particular interest in them was Fin Fan.
Fin Fan was Tian Shan’s kindred spirit. She was the daughter of a
Canadian Chinese storekeeper and the object of much concern to both
Protestant Mission ladies and good Catholic sisters.
“I like learn talk and dress like you,” she would respond to attempts to
bring her into the folds, “but I not want think like you. Too much
discuss.” And when it was urged upon her that her father was a
convert—the Mission ladies declaring, to the Protestant faith, and the
nuns, to the Catholic—she would calmly answer: “That so? Well, I not my
father. Beside I think my father just say he Catholic (or Protestant)
for sake of be amiable to you. He good-natured man and want to please
you.”
This independent and original stand led Fin Fan to live, as it were, in
an atmosphere of outlawry even amongst her own countrywomen, for all
proper Chinese females in Canada and America, unless their husbands are
men of influence in their own country, conform upon request to the
religion of the women of the white race.
* * * * *
Fin Fan sat on her father’s doorstep amusing herself with a ball of yarn
and a kitten. She was a pretty girl, with the delicate features, long
slanting eyes, and pouting mouth of the women of Soo Chow, to which
province her dead mother had belonged.
Tian Shan came along.
“Will you come for a walk around the mountain?” asked he.
“I don’t know,” answered Fin Fan.
“Do!” he urged.
The walk around the mountain is enjoyable at all seasons, but
particularly so in the fall of the year when the leaves on the trees are
turning all colors, making the mount itself look like one big posy.
The air was fresh, sweet, and piny. As Tian Shan and Fin Fan walked,
they chatted gaily—not so much of Tian Shan or Fin Fan as of the
brilliant landscape, the sun shining through a grove of black-trunked
trees with golden leaves, the squirrels that whisked past them, the
birds twittering and soliloquizing over their vanishing homes, and many
other objects of nature. Tian Shan’s roving life had made him quite a
woodsman, and Fin Fan—well, Fin Fan was his kindred spirit.
A large oak, looking like a smouldering pyre, invited them to a seat
under its boughs.
After happily munching half a dozen acorns, Fin Fan requested to be told
all about Tian Shan’s last adventure. Every time he crossed the border,
he was obliged to devise some new scheme by which to accomplish his
object, and as he usually succeeded, there was always a new story to
tell whenever he returned to Canada.
This time he had run across the river a mile above the Lachine Rapids in
an Indian war canoe, and landed in a cove surrounded by reefs, where
pursuit was impossible. It had been a perilous undertaking, for he had
had to make his way right through the swift current of the St. Lawrence,
the turbulent rapids so near that it seemed as if indeed he must yield
life to the raging cataract. But with indomitable courage he had forged
ahead, the canoe, with every plunge of his paddles, rising on the swells
and cutting through the whitecaps, until at last he reached the shore
for which he had risked so much.
Fin Fan was thoughtful for a few moments after listening to his
narration.
“Why,” she queried at last, “when you can make so much more money in the
States than in Canada, do you come so often to this side and endanger
your life as you do when returning?”
Tian Shan was puzzled himself. He was not accustomed to analyzing the
motives for his actions.
Seeing that he remained silent, Fin Fan went on:
“I think,” said she, “that it is very foolish of you to keep running
backwards and forwards from one country to another, wasting your time
and accomplishing nothing.”
Tian Shan dug up some soft, black earth with the heels of his boots.
“Perhaps it is,” he observed.
That night Tian Shan’s relish for his supper was less keen than usual,
and when he laid his head upon his pillow, instead of sleeping, he could
only think of Fin Fan. Fin Fan! Fin Fan! Her face was before him, her
voice in his ears. The clock ticked Fin Fan; the cat purred it; a little
mouse squeaked it; a night-bird sang it. He tossed about, striving to
think what ailed him. With the first glimmer of morning came knowledge
of his condition. He loved Fin Fan, even as the American man loves the
girl he would make his wife.
Now Tian Shan, unlike most Chinese, had never saved money and,
therefore, had no home to offer Fin Fan. He knew, also, that her father
had his eye upon a young merchant in Montreal, who would make a very
desirable son-in-law.
In the early light of the morning Tian Shan arose and wrote a letter. In
this letter, which was written with a pointed brush on long yellow
sheets of paper, he told Fin Fan that, as she thought it was foolish, he
was going to relinquish the pleasure of running backwards and forwards
across the border, for some time at least. He was possessed of a desire
to save money so that he could have a wife and a home. In a year,
perhaps, he would see her again.
* * * * *
Lee Ping could hardly believe that his daughter was seriously opposed to
becoming the wife of such a good-looking, prosperous young merchant as
Wong Ling. He tried to bring her to reason, but instead of yielding her
will to the parental, she declared that she would take a place as a
domestic to some Canadian lady with whom she had become acquainted at
the Mission sooner than wed the man her father had chosen.
“Is not Wong Ling a proper man?” inquired the amazed parent.
“Whether he is proper or improper makes no difference to me,” returned
Fin Fan. “I will not marry him, and the law in this country is so that
you cannot compel me to wed against my will.”
Lee Ping’s good-natured face became almost pitiful as he regarded his
daughter. Only a hen who has hatched a duckling and sees it take to the
water for the first time could have worn such an expression.
Fin Fan’s heart softened. She was as fond of her father as he of her.
Sidling up to him, she began stroking his sleeve in a coaxing fashion.
“For a little while longer I wish only to stay with you,” said she.
Lee Ping shook his head, but gave in.
“You must persuade her yourself,” said he to Wong Ling that evening. “We
are in a country where the sacred laws and customs of China are as
naught.”
So Wong Ling pressed his own suit. He was not a bad-looking fellow, and
knew well also how to honey his speech. Moreover, he believed in paving
his way with offerings of flowers, trinkets, sweetmeats.
Fin Fan looked, listened, and accepted. Every gift that could be kept
was carefully put by in a trunk which she hoped some day to take to New
York. “They will help to furnish Tian Shan’s home,” said she.
* * * * *
Twelve moons had gone by since Tian Shan had begun to think of saving
and once again he was writing to Fin Fan.
“I have made and I have saved,” wrote he. “Shall I come for you?”
And by return mail came an answer which was not “No.”
Of course, Fin Fan’s heart beat high with happiness when Tian Shan
walked into her father’s store; but to gratify some indescribable
feminine instinct she simply nodded coolly in his direction, and
continued what might be called a flirtation with Wong Ling, who had that
morning presented her with the first Chinese lily of the season and a
box of the best preserved ginger.
Tian Shan sat himself down on a box of dried mushrooms and glowered at
his would-be rival, who, unconscious of the fact that he was making a
third when there was needed but a two, chattered on like a running
stream. Thoughtlessly and kittenishly Fin Fan tossed a word, first to
this one, and next to that; and whilst loving with all her heart one
man, showed much more favor to the other.
Finally Tian Shan arose from the mushrooms and marched over to the
counter.
“These yours?” he inquired of Wong Ling, indicating the lily and the box
of ginger.
“Miss Fin Fan has done me the honor of accepting them,” blandly replied
Wong Ling.
“Very good,” commented Tian Shan. He picked up the gifts and hurled them
into the street.
A scene of wild disorder followed. In the midst of it the father of Fin
Fan, who had been downtown, appeared at the door.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.
“Oh, father, father, they are killing one another! Separate them, oh,
separate them!” pleaded Fin Fan.
But her father’s interference was not needed. Wong Ling swerved to one
side, and falling, struck the iron foot of the stove. Tian Shan, seeing
his rival unconscious, rushed out of the store.
* * * * *
The moon hung in the sky like a great yellow pearl and the night was
beautiful and serene. But Fin Fan, miserable and unhappy, could not
rest.
“All your fault! All your fault!” declared the voice of conscience.
“Fin Fan,” spake a voice near to her.
Could it be? Yes, it surely was Tian Shan.
She could not refrain from a little scream.
“Sh! Sh!” bade Tian Shan. “Is he dead?”
“No,” replied Fin Fan, “he is very sick, but he will recover.”
“I might have been a murderer,” mused Tian Shan. “As it is I am liable
to arrest and imprisonment for years.”
“I am the cause of all the trouble,” wept Fin Fan.
Tian Shan patted her shoulder in an attempt at consolation, but a sudden
footfall caused her to start away from him.
“They are hunting you!” she cried. “Go! Go!”
And Tian Shan, casting upon her one long farewell look, strode with
rapid steps away.
* * * * *
Poor Fin Fan! She had indeed lost every one, and added to that shame,
was the secret sorrow and remorse of her own heart. All the hopes and
the dreams which had filled the year that was gone were now as naught,
and he, around whom they had been woven, was, because of her, a fugitive
from justice, even in Canada.
One day she picked up an American newspaper which a customer had left on
the counter, and, more as a habit than for any other reason, began
spelling out the paragraphs.
A Chinese, who has been unlawfully breathing United States air for
several years, was captured last night crossing the border, a feat
which he is said to have successfully accomplished more than a dozen
times during the last few years. His name is Tian Shan, and there is
no doubt whatever that he will be deported to China as soon as the
necessary papers can be made out.
Fin Fan lifted her head. Fresh air and light had come into her soul. Her
eyes sparkled. In the closet behind her hung a suit of her father’s
clothes. Fin Fan was a tall and well-developed young woman.
* * * * *
“You are to have company,” said the guard, pausing in front of Tian
Shan’s cage. “A boy without certificate was caught this morning by two
of our men this side of Rouse’s Point. He has been unable to give an
account of himself, so we are putting him in here with you. You will
probably take the trip to China together.”
Tian Shan continued reading a Chinese paper which he had been allowed to
retain. He was not at all interested in the companion thrust upon him.
He would have preferred to be left alone. The face of the absent one is
so much easier conjured in silence and solitude. It was a foregone
conclusion with Tian Shan that he would never again behold Fin Fan, and
with true Chinese philosophy he had begun to reject realities and accept
dreams as the stuff upon which to live. Life itself was hard, bitter,
and disappointing. Only dreams are joyous and smiling.
One star after another had appeared until the heavens were patterned
with twinkling lights. Through his prison bars Tian Shan gazed solemnly
upon the firmament.
Some one touched his elbow. It was his fellow-prisoner.
So far the boy had not intruded himself, having curled himself up in a
corner of the cell and slept soundly apparently, ever since his advent.
“What do you want?” asked Tian Shan not unkindly.
“To go to China with you and to be your wife,” was the softly surprising
reply.
“Fin Fan!” exclaimed Tian Shan. “Fin Fan!”
The boy pulled off his cap.
“Aye,” said he. “’Tis Fin Fan!”