The Sam Sings who lounged at corners here and there watched its
progress with unconcern. The wagon was an hourly visitor, since here,
hutched with the careless Oriental, and out of the sight of the clean,
was the city’s scum--criminal and unfortunate together.
But all of a sudden there was the sound of sandalled feet on the run,
for the out-post men were scattering to cover. The patrol had turned
into a certain squalid alley, had stopped before a certain door, above
which--black Chinese characters on a scarlet ground--was pasted the
legend:
+---------------------------------+
| THE MOONLIGHT RESTS IN WHITE |
| |
| PURITY UPON THE GARDEN OF ROSES |
+---------------------------------+
And out of the patrol, axe and pistol in hand, had tumbled a half-dozen
stalwart officers,--after them, Yee Wing.
There were shrill, warning cries from the street. Shriller cries--the
cries of panic-stricken women--answered from the tiny, barred windows
above the entrance door. Then, interspersed with lusty Celtic commands,
sounded the ring of the axe.
One, two, three minutes--and the bluecoats burst their way through the
bolted doors and into the main room of the den. Under them, over them,
on either hand, they caught the noise of hurried flight, a frightened
rat-like scurrying. Before them was a room dim-lit and heavy with the
odour of opium and incense. Dirty cushions were thrown about. Stools
and tables were overturned. To one side lay a three-stringed banjo. The
occupants had fled.
Not all. Past the cluster of white men sprang Yee Wing, across the
dark room, to a little huddled heap on the floor beyond. It was she,
still wearing the loose, purple trousers and the cherry-hued jacket.
Upon the jacket, circling a bony handle thrust upright, was a growing
stain--deeper than cherry hue.
The officers rushed on, doubly eager to track, now that there had been
a murder. One stayed a moment and would have drawn the weapon from Yee
Chu’s breast, but Yee Wing would not let him. With it would go out the
last spark of life.
Alone together, the Powder-man did not sink beside his wife. His face
did not show either grief or anger. He only looked at her, his hands
hanging loosely at his sides.
Her eyes opened, she saw him, and smiled faintly. “Esteemed,” she
whispered, “Esteemed, it is the time of the tea-harvest!”
He knew that she was thinking of the hills of Hupeh. “Ah, Jasmine
Blossom,” he answered, “graceful as a leaf and as sweetly scented.”
She smiled again. “Possessor of All the Virtues,”--her voice was so
low he could scarcely hear--“but I am heavily sick. Forgive me that I
cannot live to be the mother of your first-born.” And, with that, her
eyelids drooped.
They came back into the room then, empty-handed. Quietly, sadly, they
gathered about the two.
Yee Wing looked around the circle. He spoke no word, but there was a
terrible light in his blood-shot eyes. Then, he turned about and went
down the stairway. Again, his right hand was in his wide left sleeve,
his left hand in the right one.
* * * * *
The Collector of Monies, making leisurely toward his favourite
barber-shop, was conscious of a figure--almost a shadow, so uncertain
was it--that appeared and disappeared behind him. He stopped every few
feet to look over his shoulder. But, through the ever moving procession
of the pavement, he could see no one that seemed to be following.
At the barber-shop, he took a stool lazily. First, a square napkin
dipped in hot water freshened face and palms; next, a few hairs were
pulled from his jowl, and the ear-spoon was wielded. Then he composed
himself for a head-shave. The razoring begun, he watched a group of
gaudily dressed children, shouting and gamboling before the door, and
as he watched he fingered a long-stemmed pipe, caressing its ivory
mouthpiece with his lips.
Of a sudden, through the group of children, to the great brass bowl at
the shop entrance, came a figure. Its dress was ragged and dirty, its
queue unkempt. Its right hand was thrust in a wide left sleeve, the
left hand in the right one.
As Chow Loo looked, the right hand was drawn from the sleeve and
extended toward him. Between two blood-shot eyes was the black bore of
a revolver.
Careless of the razor, he sprang up, the keen blade taking him in the
scalp. But even as he leaped came the bullet--straight to the mark.
A hue and cry arose, there was a great running, and gathering, a medley
of questions, a medley of answers, the jostling and the commands of
uniformed “foreign devils.” Chow Loo tottered forward, and dropped
beside the great brass bowl. And there, gazing fixedly up at a lantern
that was swinging gently to and fro above the door, the life of the
Collector of Monies went out of him.
* * * * *
When Yee Wing arrived at Sather, he found Wah Lee lying in a strip of
shade behind the dove-cotes. The old man got up at once, relinquished a
key, folded a few belongings into a handkerchief and departed down the
road to Fruitvale.
The Powder-man looked dumbly about him, at the little home, the
black-walled magazine, the grassy level surrounding. Upon the green,
the dark-red peonies were nodding; across it fared the butterflies.
For a long time, he stood. Then, slowly, he went apart and sat down in
a place where he could command every approach. Here, hour by hour, he
stayed--waiting. Twilight came on. He arose, approached the door of his
little home, unlocked it, and entered. A silken garment lay close to
the sill. He took it up, smoothing it with a gentle hand. At last, he
laid it down. His eye rested upon a photograph that lay among the cups
and bowls on the table. He lifted it tenderly, carried it to the chest
of drawers and set it upon end. Before it, in a bronze cup of ashes, he
put a lighted incense stick.
He leaned against the drawer chest, his forehead upon a hand. “Mother
of the unborn that were to worship my bones!” he faltered.
By now, the twilight had deepened into night. Down the highway leading
to Fruitvale, he heard the barking of a dog. He stole to the window and
sat down, a revolver upon his knee.
The dog quieted. A quarter of an hour passed. Then, from the other
side, toward Haywards, a second barking. He stepped outside, keeping
close to the house. Behind it, among the dove-cotes, he halted, peering
to every side.
A space of time went by. Then, across the level from the railway, three
shadows!
Yee Wing sank down and crept noiselessly to the door of the magazine,
opened it, and stood just within the black entrance.
The three shadows were nearer now, but motionless.
Yee Wing called out: “Come, honourable brothers, come. Why wait you
yonder?”
The shadows moved, but there was no answer. They separated. One came
forward under cover of the house; one turned to the right; one to the
left.
“Come, brothers, come,” called Yee Wing, again. His voice was light and
mocking. “The spoil is large. You shall take all my possessions with
you--this time.”
The three stopped short. Then, as one, they turned, fleeing.
Too late! Yee Wing stepped back into the magazine--a match sputtered
up----
The night was split by a great burst of thunder. It went resounding
across the salt flats to Alameda, across the bay to the City beside the
Gate, it was beaten back by the brown Piedmont hills. And with it, as
the earth quaked to the sound, the souls of three Sam Sings, and of Yee
Wing, Powder-man, went forth to join the souls of their ancestors.
THE SEARCH FOR THE SPRING
“Mr. Edward Heaton, sir.”
Austin Knowles, sitting alone over his coffee and paper, put down his
cup and leaned back, an expression of pleased surprise lighting his
grave face. “Oh,--ask Mr. Heaton to come in here,” he said.
A moment, and the servant ushered in a young man whose manner, frank
and boyishly eager at the threshold, at once became, on catching sight
of the other, more subdued, even somewhat solicitous.
The elder looked up. “Well,” was his kindly greeting, “you’re abroad
early. Take a chair. Everything all right at the building, I hope.”
“Yes, sir,--not a vacancy since McGinn & McGinn, the attorneys, leased.
That was two months ago.” There was a touch of pride in Heaton’s answer.
“You’re the best superintendent I’ve ever had, Ned. I’m more than
satisfied with you. And as long as your good judgment about tenants
seems to have simplified your work at the building, you may feel you
can branch out a little. You know Sparling is leaving me the first of
the month.”
“The Montgomery street property!” Heaton’s face crimsoned with
pleasure. “Oh, thank you,--I’d like to try that.”
“Well, we’ll see.” The elder man went back to his coffee, the habitual
look of gravity again settling upon his face.
Heaton was a full minute collecting himself. “What I came for this
morning,” he began at last, “was a personal matter.”
“Yes?”
“I stayed up Arroyo way over Sunday. Mrs. George Thorburn spoke of you,
and asked me to bring you a letter and--and back it up.” He took an
envelope from a pocket, rose and handed it across the table. “Really,
I _hope_ you’ll go.” His voice was deep with earnestness. He honoured
Austin Knowles,--and pitied him; for he knew how rare had been the
other’s devotion to the wife now seven years dead, how sincere was his
mourning for her, and how lonely was his life in that big stone house
on the avenue.
“I’m going up again for the rest of my vacation,” Heaton continued.
“And I’ll look for you.” He held out his hand.
The elder man took it. “Perhaps,” he said absent-mindedly. And Heaton
passed out.
It was a crested letter, perfumed, and written in a large, modishly
angular hand.
Mrs. Thorburn’s invitation was cordial, even pressing. She wrote that
the hills were simply lovely now, and that she just knew her dear Mr.
Knowles was awfully fagged. So she wanted above all things that he
should have a fortnight’s vacation at High Court. “Dorothy will be
home,” she went on to say, “and some charming people are visiting me.
You will find your stay restful, I am sure, for you shall do as you
choose--except at dinner-time--and read or ride or ramble the days
away. Dear Mr. Knowles, do come.”
“Restful”--his thoughts dwelt upon that word. He leaned back, covering
his eyes. These seven years he had given himself no time for anything
save work--hard, persistent work that had kept him from despair. But
it had worn him down. His face had thinned, his hair grown grey at the
temples, his shoulders rounded, his step become less elastic. Rest--he
needed it. And “to read or ride or ramble” held a promise of pleasure
and recuperation.
He lifted his head presently and touched a bell. It was answered by the
man-servant, young and soft of foot, who approached, as Heaton had,
with an air at once respectful and anxiously inquiring.
“Did you ring, sir?”
“Yes, Thomas. I’m going out of town for a couple of weeks. Pack what
I’ll need--right off.” A moment ago, he had wavered over deciding. Now,
of a sudden, and almost unaccountably, as though roused by a sense of
coming freedom, Austin was all eagerness to get away from the lonely
house, the wearing office, the noisy town.
“Will you want me to go with you, sir?”
“No,--no, I think not. You may have two weeks for yourself. Send this
wire.” He scribbled a few words hastily, then rose.
“Mr. Knowles,--please.” Thomas, having received the telegram, was
halted irresolutely at the door. “If I may ask, sir, if--if you’d
object----”
“What, Thomas?” Austin turned, smiling encouragement.
“I’d--I’d--like to get married, sir, while you’re gone. I’d be settled
and ready for my duties when you came back. It’s a young lady I’ve
known a good while, sir, and we could rent that little cottage just
back of here--the one with the nasturtiums over the porch. Maybe you
recall it, sir.”
The smile warmed into kindness. “Marry? Why, of course,” Austin said
heartily. “And, I congratulate you.”
Thomas bowed, fumbling for the knob. “Thank you, sir,” he said.
* * * * *
A next morning’s train carried Austin Knowles out of the city and
toward the line of brown-grey California foothills midway of which was
the Thorburn country-place. He watched the towns, fields, gulches and
roadways slip swiftly by. The towns grew smaller and farther apart as
the metropolis receded, the roadways roughened, the fields contracted,
the gulches deepened, and the line of foothills took on a browner
tinge. He raised a window, and a breeze swept him, tugging at his hair
and bringing to his nostrils the scent of curing grass. He took a deep
breath. He had not had a good smell of the country in, yes, in over
seven years. The last time, he and Barbara----
The old pain gripped him, stinging his eyes and paining his throat.
His hand slipped into a vest pocket and drew forth a small, round,
closed locket, on one side of which, chased delicately, was a lily,
upheld between two leaves; on the opposite, an A and a B, intertwined.
He opened it, held it close in a palm, and looked tenderly upon the
pictured face.
“Ar-_roy_-o!”
The trainman’s cry brought him to his feet. He put the locket away,
took up a hand-satchel and hurried out and down. A trap was waiting, in
charge of a man in a smart covert livery. He handed satchel and checks
to a second man, who came forward from the little depot, climbed to a
seat in the trap and was whirled away.
When the trap pulled up, only Mrs. Thorburn greeted him. “The others
are at the tennis-court,” she explained, “Dorothy and Hal, Miss
Scott--you remember her--the Lamberts, babies and all----”
“Good!” exclaimed Austin.
“And Ned Heaton.” Mrs. Thorburn rather snapped this out.
“Oh, yes,--Ned,” said Austin, wondering at her asperity.
“Hal’s fond of him,” she added in a tone which informed her hearer that
she was not.
He met the house-party at luncheon. Miss Scott sat next him and was
more pert than usual, owing to the roguish attentions of young Hal,
who held the end of the table opposite his mother. Across from Austin,
seated between the Lamberts (an ostentatiously happy married couple),
was Dorothy.
“How these children grow up!” thought Austin, remembering the romping
girl he had seen last in short frocks--the girl, curiously enough, that
he had somehow expected to meet again. But here she was a grown woman,
slender, pretty, undeniably attractive. He noticed with a feeling of
regret that she strove to ape her mother’s haughtiness, but succeeded
in being merely petulant. Her eyes were pronouncedly eloquent. Were
they not too eloquent to be honest?
But these were Austin’s first impressions. Little by little, as the
meal progressed, he altered them considerably. Miss Scott’s pertness
became intensified, and Dorothy’s reserve was thrown into pleasant
contrast. The Lamberts proved to be extremely entertaining, and, with
Hal, kept the table alive with good-natured fun. Even Mrs. Thorburn
unbent to a degree that was almost kittenish. Presently, Austin
responded to the infectious merriment--and found himself laughing.
Luncheon was long over, tea-time was nearly at hand, and Austin, with
the young ladies looking gleefully on, was busily trying to worst Hal
at billiards. Suddenly he remembered that Ned Heaton had not appeared
either at luncheon or afterward.
“Oh, he’s staying at the Hamilton ranch, just back of Arroyo,” Hal
explained. “Rides over every morning to help Dorothy lick us at
tennis.” This with a sly smile at Miss Scott.
That smile broke up the game. Miss Scott claimed Hal’s undivided
attention, demanding instruction in the handling of a cue; and Dorothy
and Austin were driven forth to the lawn.
New guests were added at dinner, and this brought Miss Dorothy next
him. He spoke of a ride. She agreed to it enthusiastically; and for
an hour and a quarter held forth on horseback-riding and the growing
popularity of stride-saddles. When dinner ended, and the company
strolled out upon the lawn for coffee, she went with him.
It was not until Austin reached his room for the night that he
remembered that twelve hours had passed during which all business cares
had been forgotten! Yes, and even-- He reached for the locket, only to
find that he had not changed it from the vest of the suit he had worn
throughout the day. The discovery brought a twinge of conscience. It
was as if he had failed in loyalty to Her.
Dorothy and he had their ride in the morning, and came across Ned
Heaton just outside of Arroyo (Dorothy had chosen that direction). The
three cantered homeward together and breakfasted with the rest. Then
Hal and Austin went back to their billiards, while Ned and Dorothy,
with the Lamberts, sought the tennis-court.
It was the glimpse Austin got of the Lamberts as they went out that
started a new train of thought for him. The husband walked close to
the wife, smiling into her face and letting a round elbow rest in his
hand. The sight drove Austin to the woods beyond the stables when
the billiard-game came to an end. And, once in the woods, he walked
aimlessly. Wise Mrs. Thorburn, with her happy couple and their pretty
babies, had accomplished in twenty-four hours what seven years of grind
could not do.
Out among the oaks on the hillside, he sat down in the shade. Before
him lay a wooded slope that fell rapidly to the winding ribbon of the
lane. Beyond the lane, over the inch-wide railroad track and the rugged
little creek, rose other slopes, bare and smooth and round. Upon them,
glistening red-and-white specks against the wonderful velvety brown,
went cattle. And there was borne to him from across the valley the
faint, sweet tinkle of a bell.
“It’s like a Keith canvas,” he said, looking at the great, low-branched
oaks with their horny trunks and tufts of mistletoe. He lay back, his
head on his hat, his eyes shut. Here was rest indeed!
The _gobble, gobble, gobble_ of an angry turkey-cock disturbed the
quiet. He sat up, watching to the left, where, through a break in the
woods, could be seen the long, regular rows of a hillside vineyard.
Something was moving at its edge--a woman. He rose to his feet. Even
at that distance he could see that she was young and dark, and dressed
in something light and simple. She was swinging a hat by one hand; the
other held a leafy branch; and with hat and branch, she shooed forward
into the woods a small band of bronze-coloured turkeys.
The birds came straight toward him, and made a pretty sight as they
advanced, little and big together, now scattering in an eager search
through the grass, now rushing together over some loudly announced
find. Behind them, directing their way, walked the turkey-girl.
She approached so slowly that Austin sat down again. Presently, he
heard her singing, though he could not distinguish the words or the
tune. Through the song, punctuating it, sounded the piercing crescendo
of young turkeys, _cheep, cheep, cheep_. Then, song and words became
audible; but not understandable, for the approaching herder was singing
in Italian.
“The daughter of the farmer,” concluded Austin. Then, “Why, I declare!”
For she was close at hand now, a slender, pliant figure that took the
steep path lightly, and he marked, almost in bewilderment, the beauty
of the girl: her small head set upon a graceful brown throat; her black
hair, crisply curling at the temples; hazel eyes, heavy-lashed, that
suggested the yellow pansies he had seen sunning themselves along the
lane; a straight, delicate nose; and a sweet mouth, brilliantly touched
with scarlet.
The mother-birds saw him now and divided to pass, uttering startled
warnings. She, too, caught sight of him, and stopped short, covering
her surprise by giving a tardy gobbler an energetic brush with her hat.
Then she looked at him with unconcealed interest and curiosity.
He took off his hat, at which the turkeys gave way in renewed fear.
“Good-morning,” he said, pleasantly.
“Good-morning,” she answered, speaking without a trace of foreign
accent. Then, waving branch and hat, she passed on, replying to his
smile timidly.
He mentioned her at lunch. “Ah!” said Hal; “a-a-ah!” as if he had found
something especially delectable on his plate. “That’s Vincenza. And
I’ll bet she’s the prettiest girl in California.”
Everyone at the table promptly agreed. Austin felt something like
surprise over this singleness of opinion. Even Miss Scott and Dorothy
came out with no protesting “buts.” And Mrs. Thorburn--where was the
heated belittlement that might be expected of an adoring and excusably
ambitious mother? Did she not realise that here was an eligible and
very likeable young man, and, on the next ranch, an astonishing lovely
girl?
But the talk was of something else now, and Vincenza was forgotten.
That evening, as he was sitting beside Mrs. Thorburn in the music-room,
listening to Dorothy’s facile rendering of a Grieg number, the elder
woman turned to him suddenly and rested a hand on his arm.
“I think you’ve been happier than usual these two days,” she said.
“Don’t you keep too close to your work and your home, Mr. Knowles?”
“Work, yes,” answered Austin. “But I can scarcely say that I have a
home. It--it is empty.”
“You choose to have it so.” She was frankly reproving. “And yet you’re
comparatively young, have means in abundance, and are the kind of man
that sensible young women like.”
Austin was silent a moment. Then he said, “I’ve turned forty, and I’ve
never thought of filling my wife’s place. Perhaps it’s not gallant to
say it, but I’m afraid the place couldn’t be filled.”
“You’re wrong,” began Mrs. Thorburn, decisively. “There are many young
women who could make you happy, cheer you, look after you--oh, every
man needs looking after. And then, a son or a daughter would give you
new interests in life.”
“That’s true. Somehow, I’ve hardly even thought of it before, and never
spoken of it to anyone. But you are--are sympathy itself.”
“I lost my husband, and I know how it is with you. I didn’t marry
again--I had my dear children.”
Austin nodded. Across the room, still seated before the piano, and
coaxing something wonderfully pathetic from the long keyboard was
Dorothy, a dainty picture in her gown of flowing white.
Mrs. Thorburn saw the direction of his look. “Dorothy is never
interested in very young men,” she said. “I like to see her evident
pleasure in _your_ company. I hope she’ll help to make your stay a
very pleasant one. You know, after all, there’s no virtue in continued
mourning, in nursing one’s grief.” Then, quickly, seeing Austin breathe
deep, “Don’t misunderstand me. I don’t mean we should forget soon, or
forget at all. Only, we’re put on this earth for happiness--happiness
that doesn’t conflict with the happiness of others.”
“Yes,” said Austin; “yes, I’m sure that’s so.” When she got up to move
over to the Lamberts, chatting together in a corner, he stayed where
he was. For a second time he was thinking along new lines. This time,
however, his thoughts were decidedly definite.
“I wonder,” he said to himself, “I wonder how it would have been if _I_
had died and Barbara lived.” The thought of another man in his place
came up. “Well, I’d have wished it.” And, presently, when he went up to
bed, his mind was so engrossed that, for the first time since She had
gone, he forgot to take his nightly look at the picture in the round
locket.
The next morning he and Dorothy rode again. It proved a less
entertaining ride than the other. For she was unusually silent, even
distrait, and, Austin thought, rather sad. They went beyond Arroyo, as
before, and passed the ranch where Ned Heaton was staying. But they did
not see him, and as the sun had grown unpleasantly warm by that time,
they headed their horses back.
The wistfulness of Dorothy’s eyes, and the little droop at the corners
of her pretty mouth, touched Austin considerably. “We should have
started earlier,” he said, and, “I’m afraid you’ve overdone. Sha’n’t we
rest awhile at the creek?”
But she was hungry, she declared, and gave her horse a sharp cut with
her quirt to put him into a gallop. Austin kept alongside, feeling
somewhat contrite. When they reached the house, he helped her dismount
with marked care, and anxiously followed her to the veranda. There she
left him, and he did not see her again till dinner, which fact kept him
waiting about all day, not a little worried.