prove her gratitude, rather than to pry out any secret of his, “that
you do not belong here--that you are in more trouble than I am. For
what can a man of your rank have to do in a little town like this!”
He was not displeased with her. “The ancient sage,” he said slowly,
“mounted himself upon a black ox and disappeared into the western
wilderness of Thibet. Doubtless others, too, seek seclusion for much
thinking.”
“But you are not the hermit kind,” she declared boldly. “You belong to
those who stay and fight. Yet here you are, separated from your people
and your people’s graves--alone and sorrowful.”
“As for my living people, they are best without me; as for my people
dead, I neither worship their dust nor propitiate devils. The wise one
said: ‘Why talk forever on of men who are long gone?’”
“Yet----” she persisted.
He left the stove and came near her. “You are a woman, but you know
much. You are right. My heart is heavy for a thing I cannot do--for the
shattered dreams of the men of Hukwang.” He beat his palms together
noiselessly, and moved to and fro on soft sandals. “Those dreams were
of a young China that was to take the place of the old--but that died
unborn.”
She followed his words with growing interest. “I have heard of those
dreams,” she answered; “they were called ‘reform.’”
“Yes. And now all the dreamers are gone. They had voyaged to glean at
Harvard, Yale, Cornell, and in the halls of Oxford. There were ‘five
loyal and six learned,’ and they shed their blood at the Chen Chih
Gate. One there was who died the death that is meted a slave at the
court of the Son of Heaven. And one there was”--his face shrank up, as
if swiftly aging; his eyes became dark, upturning slits; as one who
fears pursuit he cast a look behind him--“and one there was who escaped
beyond the blood-bathed walls of the Hidden City and gained the Sumatra
Coast. Then, leaving Perak, in the Straits Settlements, he finally set
foot upon a shore where men, without terror, may reach toward higher
things.”
“And was he followed?” she whispered, comprehending.
“He fled quietly, quietly. For long are the claws of the she-panther
that is crouched on the throne of the Mings.”
Both fell silent. The Chinese went back to the stove, where the
fire was dying. The white woman, wide awake, and lost in the myriad
of scenes his tale had conjured, sat by the table, for once almost
forgetful of her charge.
The dragging hours of darkness past, Anthony Barrett found sane
consciousness. He was pale, yet strengthened by his long sleep, and he
was hungry. Relieved and overjoyed, Mrs. Barrett ministered to him.
When he had eaten and drunk, she helped him from the table to the
stool, and thence to his feet. Her arm about him, she led him to the
door. Fong Wu had felt his pulse and it had ticked back the desired
message, so he was going home.
“Each night you are to come,” Fong Wu said, as he bade them good-bye.
“And soon, very soon, you may go from here to the place from which you
came.”
Mrs. Barrett turned at the door. A plea for pardon in misjudging him,
thankfulness for his help, sympathy for his exile--all these shone from
her eyes. But words failed her. She held out her hand.
He seemed not to see it; he kept his arms at his sides. A “dog of a
Chinaman” had best not take a woman’s hand.
She went out, guiding her husband’s footsteps, and helped him climb
upon the mustang from the height of the narrow porch. Then, taking the
horse by the bridle, she moved away down the slope to the road.
Fong Wu did not follow, but closed the door gently and went back to the
ironing-table. A handkerchief lay beside it--a dainty linen square that
she had left. He picked it up and held it before him by two corners.
From it there wafted a faint, sweet breath.
Fong Wu let it flutter to the floor. “The perfume of a plum petal,” he
said softly, in English; “the perfume of a plum petal.”
YEE WING, POWDER-MAN
Yee Chu, wife of Yee Wing, sank low before her husband, resting her
clasped hands upon a knee. “Surely, Kwan-yin, the Merciful, has thought
me deserving,” she said, “for she has set me down in a place where soft
winds blow unceasingly.”
The Powder-man glanced out of the one window of their little home, past
the pot of ragged chrysanthemums and the white-and-brown pug that held
the sill. “I shall burn an offering to her,” he promised gravely.
“It is so sweetly warm,” she continued, rising and standing at his
side; “though the new year is almost upon us. See, I have put off the
band of velvet that I wear upon my head of a winter, and changed to
these flower-bouquets. Esteemed, will it always be spring-time here?”
Yee Wing’s face lost its expression of studied indifference. He let
his look rest upon her hair, blue-black, and held at each side by a
cluster of mock jewels; let it travel down to the young face,--a clear,
polished white except for deep-carmine touches on cheeks and eyelids
and on the lower lip of the pouting mouth--to the brown eyes, whose
charm was enhanced by a curious little wrinkle just above the darkened
brows, a petulant little wrinkle that changed with each passing
thought.
“Assuredly,” he answered. “In California, it is always spring-time,
Jasmine Blossom.”
Again she sank, bracelets clinking as her fingers met. “Just so it
is for a good while each year on the hills of Hupeh, where dwell my
illustrious pocket parents. From our hut, during the sunny days, we
looked across the tea fields upon groves of bamboo, feather-topped, and
rocking gently.”
She stumped to the open door, balancing herself with partly
outstretched arms. “Am I free to go forth to-day as yesterday?” she
inquired over a shoulder. “The green invites, and there be some
beautiful plants yonder, red as the face of the god of war. I can fill
the pottery jar.”
“Go,” he bade, “but not over far, lest you tire the two lilies of gold.”
She smiled back at him tenderly. “I spend my heart upon you,” she said
in farewell, and went balancing away.
Yee Wing watched her difficult progress across the grassy level
that divided the powder-house and his own habitation from Sather,
the solitary little railway station of the near-by line. “She has
brought tranquillity,” he murmured, “Where now are the five causes of
disquietude?” And he, too, smiled tenderly.
The week that followed, which was only the second of the girl-wife’s
residence in the new land, found the two supremely happy. They had no
visitors other than the superintendent from the works at Pinole, and
an expressman from Oakland, bearing an order for a keg of explosive.
Yee Wing enjoyed abundant leisure, and he spent it with his bride.
They puttered together about the dove-cotes behind the square, black
magazines; they shared the simple cares of their single room; in a
comradeship as strange to their kind as was the civilisation in which
they had come to live; they sallied forth like two children, gathering
the fragrant peony, pursuing the first butterflies.
But one morning there arrived a man of their own race. Yee Wing was
lolling upon a bench, playing with the white-and-brown pug. Yee Chu, in
purple trousers and cherry-hued jacket, was sitting upon a stool, the
gay, tinsel rosettes over each tiny ear bobbing merrily as she finished
a careful toilet. The white paste had been put on face and throat and
carefully smoothed. Now she was dyeing her long nails and rouging her
palms. Of a sudden, a shadow fell across the doorway. The two looked
up. Outside, staring in, was a Chinese, his round, black, highbinder
hat, silk blouse and dark-blue broadcloth breeches proclaiming him
above the coolie class.
“Stay within,” cautioned the Powder-man, in a low voice. He went out
hastily, and closed the door after him.
There passed between Yee Wing and his caller none of the elaborate
greetings that mark the meeting of two equals. The strange Chinese gave
the other a proud nod of the kind that is fit for a foreign devil, and,
with no evasiveness and something of the bluntness that characterises
the despised white, at once stated his errand.
“I come from the most worthy Bazar-man, to whom you stand in debt to
the measure of twenty-five dollars,” he began. “I have to remind you
that to-morrow is New Year’s day. And for you the sun does not rise
unless the sum be paid.”
Yee Wing drew a startled breath. True, to-morrow would be New Year’s
Day! How had it come so near without his knowing? It found him without
what was due. His very “face”--that precious thing, appearance--was
threatened!
“I am from the South of the Heavenly Empire,” he made haste to answer,
catching, as it were, at a saving device. “I am a son of Tang,
therefore. Now, with us, there is a custom----”
Without explaining further, he took hold of a wooden button upon his
cotton blouse and pulled it loose. Then, with profound courtesy, he
tendered it to the Collector of Monies.
The latter received it with a courtesy that was feigned, withdrawing
a covert glance from the partly screened window. “A son of Tang,” he
repeated. “There be rich men in the South. Now, perhaps your honoured
father--” He paused inquiringly.
Yee Wing understood. In the land of the Son of Heaven, a father is held
strictly responsible for the obligations of a son. But--the province of
Kwangtung was far.
“My poor but excellent father was only a dealer in salt,” he said
gravely. “His mound is upon a desolate stretch beside the Yang-tse.” To
save any questions concerning other male members of the family,--who
also might be held accountable--he added, “I alone survive to feed and
clothe his spirit continuously.”
A baleful light shone in the slant, searching eyes, but the words
of the Collector of Monies were gracious enough. “Filial piety,” he
observed, “has first place among the virtues.” Then, with pompous
deprecation, “My humble parent is but a _kouang-fou_ in the Customs
Service of Shanghai.”
Yee Wing lowered his own look in becoming deference. The son of a civil
officer carries power.
The stranger now gave a second nod and moved away,--not, however,
without again peering through the window; and soon, seated on the dummy
of an electric car, he was spinning out of sight in the direction of
Fruitvale.
Yee Wing watched him go, then hastily entered the house. Fireworks, for
the frightening away of evil spirits, might not be exploded near the
powder. So he sought for a tiny gong and beat it roundly.
“I like not that man’s countenance,” he told Yee Chu. “Did you note how
he spied upon the place? He is of the sort that would steal food like a
dog.”
Saying which, the Powder-man beat his gong more loudly than before, and
burned at the entrance to his home handful upon handful of propitiatory
paper.
* * * * *
Tau Lot, Bazar-man, sat behind a little counter of polished ebony.
His were the calm, unmoved--and fat--face and the quick, shifting eye
of the born speculator; his, the smooth, long-nailed hands that do
no labor, and that were now toying with one of the Nine Classics. On
his head rested a tasseled cap. His jacket was of Shang-tung silk,
dyed purple. His breeches were of dark crape, tied down upon socks
spotlessly white. The shoes that rested upon the middle rung of his
stool were of velvet and embroidered.
The Dupont street shop was small, but it held a bewildering mass of
merchandise. Silk rolls, matting, bronzes, porcelain, brass, carved
furniture, lacquered ware, Chinese fans made in Japan, imported purses
worked within a stone’s throw of the store, devil masks, dolls and
gowns--gowns of brocade; gowns of plain silk, quilted in finest lines
and herring-bone rays and bordered with figured-ribbon bands; gowns of
embroidered satin,--mulberry-red wrought with sprigs and circles of
flowers, green, with gold thread tracings, black, with silver cranes
winging across. Yet though the store was small, and choked to the
lantern-hung ceiling, the clerks were many. Some were ranged behind
the row of shining glass cases, others lounged in a group near the
rear room entrance. There were honourable younger brothers here, and
honourable cousins, but not one of a different blood. For Tau Lot
thought well of the ancient proverb: _When the fire is lighted, all the
family should be kept warm._
Outside the bazar was the tall, upright beckoning-board with its heavy
gold characters on a vermilion ground. A Chinese now halted beside it,
and glanced casually up and down the street. Then he came through the
door, examining a box of sandalwood just within the entrance, leaning
over some silk handkerchiefs at the counter-end. Presently he advanced
to the ebony counter.
“Your trifling servant salutes you, Illustrious,” he said.
The Bazar-man scowled. Two hours had he given up to business--two hours
of the three spent so daily. Soon he would return to the dreams and
sleep of the enslaving pipe. And what babble had Chow Loo to say?
“Welcome,” he returned. “Too long you have deprived me of your
instructive speech.”
“My speech is but a breath in my neighbour’s face. Will the Most Noble
not lighten the hour with his voice?”
A party of women tourists came crowding in at that moment, picking
at everything not under cover, pulling at the hanging gowns on the
wall, stretching to see what was behind the cases. Tau Lot looked them
over,--there were five--mentally tagging them with price-marks. The old
woman was not worth her keep, the next younger little more, the two
thin ones perhaps four hundred----.
“But the round one,” said Chow Loo, keen to see what the Bazar-man was
thinking.
“Eight hundred, truly,” and the tasselled cap was gravely wagged.
“So I think, though her feet be as big as the feet of a Tartar woman.”
They surveyed the attractive young lady with the judgment of merchants
both.
“It nears the time for my going,” said Tau Lot, his Oriental dislike
of coming to the point in business overweighed by the dread of wasting
time that belonged to the pipe. “So what of the collect to-day?”
Chow Loo ran a hand into the pocket of his blue broadcloth breeches.
“From Berkeley, where I led my contemptible way, eighteen dollars,--so
much owed the washer of clothes. From Oakland, six, and the vender of
vegetables sends his lowly greeting. But the Powder-man at Sather was
as naked of coin as a robber. See--here is only a button from his coat!”
“The debt is owed since the Ninth Moon.”
“So I said--Yes, the round one would be worth fully eight hundred.” The
attractive young lady had come closer, anxious for a near view of the
Bazar-man. A clerk accompanied her, advancing at the farther side of
the counter as she advanced, but taking no trouble to display his wares.
“So I said,” repeated the Collector of Monies. Then, with a meaning
glance at the Bazar-man, for an honourable younger brother was at
the latter’s elbow. “But though he is so miserably poor, he grows a
rose,--one more beautiful than a man of his rank should have. In your
crowded garden is there room for another such?”
Instantly, Tau Lot’s slant eyes narrowed in their slits, his ponderous
body lost its attitude of indolence. He stepped down from his stool
with alacrity. “You will have a taste of steamed rice,” he said,
“--rice savoured with salt fish--and a cup of hot samschu at my
despicable board.” And he led the way to the rear room.
The Collector of Monies followed, and the two seated themselves at a
table, where a servant brought food and rice-wine. And here, nose to
nose, they chattered low, gesticulated, haggled.
“How far is it to Sather?” asked the Bazar-man.
“Near to thirty _li_. One can reach there in an hour.” The Collector
of Monies proudly displayed a large, nickel-plated watch.
“But still--the price is too high.”
“O Magnificent One! for a little-foot woman? Her dowry was at the
lowest fifty taels. Doubtless, that was what beggared him. She is truly
a picked beauty, a very pearl.”
“It is settled then. The half will be paid when the rose is plucked,
the second half when the filthy foreign police accept a commission and
promise no interference.”
* * * * *
At sundown, a few days later, the superintendent at Pinole heard the
bell of his telephone summoning him. The receiver at his ear, he caught
the petulant “Well, wait a minnit, can’t y’?” of the operator and,
punctuating it, a weak gasping, as if some one in agony were at the
distant transmitter.
“What is it?” demanded the superintendent. “This is Bingham.”
The gasping ceased. A choking voice answered him: “Yee Wing, Mista
Bingham. Say, my hab got sick bludder--oh, velly sick. Must go San
Flancisco heap quick. S’pose you likee, my can tell olo Chinaman flom
Flootvale. He come all light.”
“Yes, old Wah Lee, you mean.” The superintendent knew it would be
useless to try to learn the real cause of Yee Wing’s sudden going or to
attempt to stop him.
“Olo Wah Lee,” returned the Powder-man, eagerly. “Say, Mista Bingham, I
come back plitty soon. Jessie now, I wanchee know, I no lose my job?”
“No, Wing, your job’s safe. You attend to that sick brother and get
back as soon as you can.”
“All light. Good-bye,” and the receiver was hung up.
In the morning, when the superintendent reached Sather, he found Wah
Lee on guard. The old Chinese substitute was stretched upon an army
cot by the dove-cotes, the white-and-brown pug beside him. Yee Wing’s
little home was locked. Bingham shaded his eyes and looked in--upon the
kitchen, dining and sleeping room in one. Cups and bowls littered the
table. Clothing was tossed here and there upon the benches and floor.
Each drawer of a high case against the farthest wall had been jerked
out and not replaced.
“Something’s up,” muttered the superintendent. “Well, I knew there’d be
trouble when that pretty little wife came. Wah Lee, what’s the matter
with Yee Wing?”
“No sabe,” declared the old man, and to every suggestion returned the
same reply.
That day, and the six that followed, found Yee Wing in San Francisco,
where he walked Chinatown continuously,--watching, watching, watching.
And as he travelled, he kept his right hand tucked in his wide left
sleeve, his left hand tucked in the right one.
His way led him always through squalid alleys; narrow, dark alleys,
where there were no shops, and no coolies going by with heavy baskets
swinging from their carrying-poles; but where, from tiny, barred
windows, the faces of young Chinese girls looked out--ivory-yellow
faces, wondering, wistful.
Before them, passing and repassing, his own face upturned, went Yee
Wing.
The slave women gazed down at him with little interest, their dull
eyes, their sullen mouths, bespeaking the spirit that is broken but
still resentful. He could not call to them, could not question, for
among them was surely a spy. He could only pass and repass. Then, to
another dark alley, with the same barred windows, the same wistful
faces. Enter one of these places, he dared not, if he hoped to live to
save her. The Sam Sings guarding the slave trade--those quick-working
knife-men who are as quick to get away from the “foreign devils,”
police--had her under guard. He must find out where they were keeping
her--then match their cunning with his own.
When the little money he had was exhausted, he visited a
relative--visited him secretly, toward dawn of a morning thick with
fog. For anyone who helped him, if it were known, would suffer swift
and certain punishment. Here he replenished his pocket. Then, off
again. He ate seldom and sparingly, he slept only in snatches, hidden
away under steps or in a big, empty dry-goods box down in the wholesale
section.
The end of that week saw him rattling through Burlingame and Palo
Alto on his way to San José. There, in the “Garden City,” three days
were spent in walking and watching. Then, on to Sacramento, where,
half-starved, he stumbled out of the great, roofed station, and made
toward the Chinese quarter. Finally, he proceeded north to Portland.
One cold night, a fortnight after Yee Chu’s disappearance, he reached
San Francisco once more. It had rained in the north, and his cloth
sandals were pulpy, his wadded, cotton coat was soaked. His head was
unshaven, too, his queue unkempt from long neglect. He was sallow and
green-hued.
But there was no surrender in the blood-shot eyes. He began again to
haunt the streets of Chinatown. And, late one night, in Waverly Place,
under a blowing street-lamp, he met one of the two he sought; he came
face to face with the Collector of Monies.
Yee Wing’s right hand was tucked in his left sleeve, his left hand in
the right one. The Collector of Monies had reached to a hind pocket of
the blue broadcloth trousers. But across the grimy court, in the light
of a second lamp, a uniformed figure was idling and swinging a heavy
club to and fro on a thong. His eye was upon them.
They stopped short, each alert. The face of the Collector of Monies was
placid, though he marked the bulging sleeves of the Powder-man. Yee
Wing was, outwardly, calm too. But his thin upper lip, upon which grew
a few straggling hairs, twitched uncontrollably.
“Where is she hidden?” he demanded.
The other snorted. “She is worth little,” he said by way of answer.
“She weeps too much.”
The bulge within the sleeves moved. Yee Wing would have slain
then,--but what help could he give her from a cell of the city prison?
He kept himself in control.
“The Supreme Lord of Heaven,” he said, “pities even the mothers of
thieves and harlots. He will pity her, though she be defiled. But
you--you--vile scurf of lepers--shall die by a thousand cuts.”
The uniformed figure stepped toward them. At this, the Collector of
Monies took his leave, backing away from Yee Wing with such ceremony
that his face was still presented when a corner was passed.
Blind with rage and grief, the Powder-man all unconsciously made his
way to Commercial street. There, in front of a poultry store, he
dropped down to a seat on the curb’s edge. She was in San Francisco!
And he was so contemptibly weak that the slave society--the despised
_hoey_--did not even take the pains to deny it to him; even mocked him
with her weeping! His Jasmine Blossom!
His ear was caught by the sound of a petulant squealing. Across the
street was a Chinese, writhing against the iron door of a well-lighted
building. For all the distance, Yee Wing could see that his face was
ghastly. With a twist of the body, the Powder-man struggled up. Here,
to his hand, was a key with which he could unlock the way!
He hurried over and, as the squirming, loose-jointed figure lurched
violently to one side, righted it firmly. Then, supporting the
stranger, directed their course from that thoroughfare to another.
Presently, the pair entered a shop. It was one of the manufacturing
variety, being filled with sewing-machines before which--though the
night was far advanced--sat their busy operators, at work upon loose,
lacey garments of silk and muslin. Yee Wing and his charge passed
through this outer room and into a small, darkened one behind.
After a short stay, they came forth again, the Powder-man leading. An
incredible change had come over the strange Chinese. His eyes were wide
and lustrous, he stepped alertly. The two, going single file, after the
manner of the Oriental, left the shop and walked rapidly to a near-by
square. There, in the shadow of the shaft of the Golden Ship, they sat
down, side by side.
“This is my desire,” began Yee Wing, “--you shall find for me a certain
woman.” And here, with the indifference, apparently, of a dealer in
flesh, he described Yee Chu. “You cannot mistake her,” he declared.
“When your work is finished, leave word for me with the garment-maker
that the wooden candle-stick is mended. Meanwhile, he will serve your
needs.”
Three days, and the message of the mended candle-stick was left. That
night, in the shadow of the monument, the opium fiend disclosed to Yee
Wing the prison place of his wife.
The Powder-man took his hands from his wide sleeves. Then, on swift
foot, he made off to the great, stone _yamen_ of the police.
“Plenty piecee bad man hab got my wife,” he told the head man.
“Chinks?” asked the “foreign devil.”
“Yessee.”
“Then w’y doan yez jerk out their pigtails?” the other demanded,--but
not unkindly, for the thin face and the strained eyes made him
conscious of something like pity.
Yee Wing told his story, in the best pidgin-English he could command.