Chapter IX: Part 9

* * * * *

And so Diâne was wed, not before the altar, no, not there, for the stranger was not of the faith, but without the church door, just where the gaze of Our Lady, high up in her niche near the roof, seemed to rest with benign love and pity.

Then, hand in hand, as Diâne and her lover had come down the mountain side, so they went down the valley, away from St. Gregoire to where her happiness seemed beckoning her. They paused away down where the valley turns sharp behind the last of the hills; the church could just be seen, a little white speck in the distance.

“Oh, if I might know that day by day the good father will feel that I think of him always. There will be no one now to talk to him by the firelight, no one to tell him the words of the hills.” Diâne’s tone was not one of regretful longing, but rather a great wish that the priest might not feel that she had left him alone.

“If there were something which you might give him, something which would always speak for you,” the stranger had answered, feeling that he had indeed taken the sunshine and the song from the old man’s life. “Can you think of something, Diâne, that will please him much?”

“There is something,” she said, “but I cannot give him that.”

“But tell me; perhaps you may.”

“It is a bell; we have never had one. It takes very much money to buy a bell; the people have flax and grain, but, oh, so little money. Père Dufresne said _le bon Dieu_ might send us one some time if we were not forgetful.”

“A bell it shall be that you shall give him,” the stranger promised, but Diâne only smiled wistfully and turned away.

And so they passed beyond the turn in the valley, and the hills shut them away from St. Gregoire.

Soon the snows of winter fell upon all the hills, and more than ever was St. Gregoire lost to the great world outside. In the long evenings Père Dufresne sat by his fire alone, conjuring up the face of his little maid in the moving shadows, and dreaming, till he almost heard her voice as he used to hear it--“_Mais oui, mon père_, that is what the bird in the cedars said to me as I came by the swamp at sunset.” It was thus that he thought of her, and always with a great foreboding and self-condemnation. Day after day dragged slowly by until at last the winter was gone, but neither the spring nor the summer brought assurance to the old priest or eased his loneliness. One thing there came to arouse the parish, even as the engineers had with their suggestion of a railroad. In the early summer a letter had come from over the sea saying their bell would be ready in the autumn. From whom it was to come they knew not; _le bon Dieu_ had indeed remembered them.

* * * * *

Then, as the days grew chill again, that which the priest expected and dreaded happened--Diâne came back--Diâne and her baby. Her husband had sailed away to England, to his mother who was dying; as for herself, she could not bear the town alone, she must come back to the old familiar river and her hills to wait for him. That was the simple story she had to tell; to her it was sufficient, but she read anger and grief on the priest’s face.

“This is the happiness you sought, the thing I let you wander out into the world to find, and I knew, I knew.”

As he bowed his head in sorrow, Diâne knelt and pleaded as she had once before.

“Ah, _mon père_, it is not that you should grieve, for I found my happiness. I am happy now, a little lonely, perhaps, till he shall come for me, but he will come. I tell you he will come,” she repeated in eager defense as she noted the pained look of doubt. “He is gone as I told you, but I chose to stay. Besides, I am not alone; here is my child, father. The days may be long, but he will come. As I came here I heard the people talking of a bell. It is not yet hung, but when it rings for the first time I shall know he will not be far away.”

The prophecy came to her as an inspiration, and her tone of loneliness changed to one of trust and surety.

A tiny log house on the river bank she took for her home. The curé found that his old housekeeper needed strong, young arms to lift the burden of her work, and so Diâne settled into a quiet nook, more silent than of old, and if her longing and weary waiting found words, they were whispered to baby ears by the fireside in the little cabin by the river.

And the bell? There was something strange about it. Autumn passed and winter came, but no tidings of the bell. In the spring came a letter from England saying that the ship bringing the bell had foundered in the Gulf and her cargo was lost. Another bell would come by the next autumn perhaps. Poor Diâne! It seemed an answer to her unwitting prophecy.

The snow disappeared and the birds and flowers came with a rush, as they always come to the Northland. When her work was done, Diâne would take her boy in her arms and wander away to the forests on the hillsides. She could seek sympathy nowhere else. The old familiar groves and hollows and peaks made her feel a strange calmness and resignation after stormy nights of despair and dying hope. Up here it seemed that her husband must be dead, or he would have come; down there by the river the torturing thought of desertion and lost love nearly drove her mad. Up here under the trees she told over and over again to her baby what his father had said when she walked here with him; what he would say if he ever came back; and if he did not come back they must know he was dead.

Thus the summer passed and autumn came again. How she dreaded the winter with its long evenings and the snow-bound world, when there would be naught but the whistling wind, the driving snow, the faint murmur of the river under the ice, and her thoughts.

* * * * *

Then one sabbath Père Dufresne told them that the bell would be there in a week. How Diâne’s heart leaped with a vague, new hope! No one knew it was her bell, and that it was so near seemed proof that he was alive and had not forgotten her.

At last it came. All the parish crowded around as it was being lifted from the cart. Diâne looked on from the outer edge of the circle, pale and disturbed, holding her baby so close that he whimpered with pain.

Suddenly an exclamation of anger and disappointment burst from the people. A clumsy handler had let his burden slip and the bell had struck with a jarring ring--its last note. An ugly crack from bottom to top had silenced its voice before it could speak for St. Gregoire.

Diâne sank to her knees with a sob. It was all over; her last faint hope was gone. Now she was certain he must be dead. No one noticed her, for all were listening to the curé who was reading aloud an inscription on the broken bell.

“What? Whose gift? Read it again, father.”

Diâne had paid no heed to the curé’s words, but the deep silence roused her to find them all regarding her with surprised awe.

“My daughter,” said the curé as he came to her side, “the Blessed Virgin has sent her gift in your name; she has looked on her handmaiden with love and favor.”

She arose bewildered and he led her to the bell, but she turned away calm and tearless.

“No, no, father. It means he is dead and will not come. Let me go home.”

Silently they stood aside and watched her go down the hill. In her sorrow Diâne had touched their hearts. The curè’s eyes were dim, and his voice faltered as he blessed them and sent them away.

And now Père Dufresne bethought him that the Bishop might help them, and the bell was sent back to Quebec.

* * * * *

By return messenger came the word that it would be recast, that the parish should have its bell. This Diâne did not know, as the curé thought to calm her grief the sooner if she had no false hope.

After a little she went about her task as before. Her winter evenings were spent now in braiding straw hats. At times, when the straw broke in her weary fingers, she would lay it aside, and kneeling by the rude cradle, would pour out the sorrows of her broken heart in wailing murmurs.

“Ah, why must I suffer so when I know he is dead? My heart aches for one day with him, even for one moment. Why do I start when the wind shakes the door? Why do I listen for footsteps in the whistling of the gale? Why cannot I feel that he is dead when I know he must be? Why do I wake in the night feeling his kiss on my lips? Why does the sound of his voice still fall on my ear, and the light of his eyes meet mine in the twilight? Oh, Mother of Christ, give me peace and strength, or the silence of death for my child and me.”

In the last days of the winter word came again concerning the bell, and a few days later came the bell itself. Great care was taken this time. The people were ready to look upon it as a thing bewitched, and even doubted the wisdom of attempting to hang it; but the curé exorcised their superstition. It was blest, and the day came when it would hang in the steeple before all St. Gregoire.

Diâne had felt only pain when she heard that the bell had come. She cared nothing for ceremonies and she had no curiosity, so through it all she kept steadily at her work, not even glancing toward the church on her way home.

* * * * *

Fate was kinder now, and at last the bell was in place, but the first ringing was to be for mass on the sabbath; and so it waited.

The winter had been a terrible one. Snow storm followed snow storm till the drifts piled higher than ever before. People along the river prayed for a gentle spring, with only south wind and sunshine. Heavy rains meant disaster, perhaps destruction to their all.

Before the sabbath dawned, that which they dreaded came; it rained, a steady downpour for many hours, then a deluge. The ice on the river had had no time to melt, and the floods from the slopes above poured over it without breaking it up. Helplessly the people watched the torrent swell and spread. Nearly every one had moved what he could to higher land, each one striving for himself. Night came on, dark and dreadful. There was no sleep even on the hillsides. The sound of the waters had been deep and threatening, but suddenly in the darkness they burst forth in a roaring crash. Something had happened in the lake above. Thank God, every one had had time to escape danger. Now thoughts turned to fellow creatures and their safety. Yes, all seemed to be safe. But where was Diâne and the child? In the curé’s house, of course. No? God in heaven! Was she down there by the river?

“Men to the rescue!” shouted the curé.

In a moment he had hurried to the bell rope, and for the first time the Bell of St. Gregoire rang out clear and strong, even before the roar of the storm and the battle of the waters.

At dusk Diâne had looked at the river almost touching her threshold; but the high land lay back of her; she would not be cut off without warning. She dressed the child warmly before he went to sleep, placed their outer garments in readiness, piled the logs on the hearth and sat down to wait.

Suddenly the house shook and the water poured in at every opening. She sprang to the bed, and in an instant they were ready. But, oh, the awful darkness! The house seemed to be moving from its place. The water was rising quickly. She stood dazed. What should she do? The loft! Quickly she mounted the ladder and broke open the window. She leaned far out--nothing could be seen. She could feel the house moving away on the flood. What was that? The bell! She smiled and laid her face close to the child. Softly she whispered:

“Ah, baby, baby! Mother was right after all. Listen to the bell. I said that when it should ring for the first time he would not be far away, and in a moment we shall be with him. Don’t be afraid, dearie. He will be waiting for us, and, at last, after all this long, long time, we shall be together all the days, as he used to tell me, and we shall have you besides. Perhaps he can see us now coming nearer.”

* * * * *

She laughed a happy little laugh, the first since she had come back to St. Gregoire. The child was quiet, soothed by the gentle crooning as she murmured on.

“Diâne! Diâne! Shout! Call to me! I am here,” came faintly to her ears over the waters out of the darkness.

“Listen, listen, my little one. He is calling to us. Blessed Virgin, I thank thee.” Then loud and clear: “Here! Here am I, your Diâne.”

Again came the cry, louder and nearer.

“Call again, Diâne! Be brave!”

Again she called. “We are nearer, nearer,” she whispered. “Soon it will be light, the great, beautiful Dawn!”

Something else was whirling along the way with them--it loomed near her window. Again the cry, almost within reach.

“Courage a little longer, Diâne. Now! Hold closely to me!”

Our Lady had indeed looked with favor on her handmaiden, for who, think you, had brought the stranger over sea and land, through storm and peril, by snowshoe and sled track, even into the darkness, to answer to the call of the bell in Diâne’s great need? Who had made him listen to the song of his heart, even though the music of home had been loud in his ears, and brought him dreams such as he had dreamed by his campfire that summer, until he could hear Diâne’s voice--and his baby’s?

Israel Gagnon knows, and Victor Brassard knows and Grandmère Touchette knows and the little _habitant girl_ at her flax wheel knows. For as the vesper tones ebb and flow around the hills and along the valley I hear her murmur Diâne’s name and a little prayer to Our Lady, for our little maid, too, has a lover; and as I listen to the bell, now “so beeg it feel all de worl’, beeger den all de mountain’,” and now “so small an’ sof’ I can jus’ feel it inside me,” I, too, know who brought the stranger back to his wife and child.

_Pictorial_

THE EVENING RICE

BY

ACHMED ABDULLAH

THE EVENING RICE[10]

By ACHMED ABDULLAH

Up there in the gray North a great triple tomb thrusts its frowning
parapet obliquely into space. On its outer walls, to left and right
of the entrance, are bas-reliefs in sea-green majolica, representing
five-claw, imperial dragons.

It is the Fu-Ling, the Happy and August Tomb, where lies the T’ai
Tzu, the Nurhachi, the Iron-capped Prince, the founder of the Manchu
dynasty, who centuries ago swept out of the barren Central Asian
wastes at the head of his host of red-skinned, flat-nosed horsemen,
and turned placid China into a crimson shambles.

Last year the hereditary keeper of the sacred tomb, a Ch’i-jên, a
Manchu bannerman, sold it to a moon faced Chinese farmer for a lean
sack of clipped silver taels. Next year it will house the farmer’s
squealing, red-bristled pigs.

And still the Manchu has his sword and the strength of his sword-arm;
still the moon-faced coolie is a coward who shrinks at the swish and
crackle of naked steel.

Yet, next year, the pigs will dirty the tomb’s yellow imperial tiles.

And the pigs, too, are symbolic--and necessary.

For what is the evening rice without a few slivers of fried pork?

The last time Ng Ch’u had seen him had been nearly forty years earlier in the squat little Manchu-Chinese border town of Ninguta, in the hushed shelter of an enameled pagoda-roof that mirrored the sun-rays a thousandfold, like countless intersecting rainbows--endless zigzag flashings of electric blue and deep rose and keen, arrogant, glaucous-green, like the shooting of dragon-flies and purple-winged tropical moths. There had been murder in the other’s, the Manchu’s, eyes; murder in the hairy, brown fist that curled about broad, glistening steel.

But on that day he, the despised Chinese coolie, had had the whip-hand.

“A Manchu you are!” he had said; and his eyes had glistened triumphantly through meager almond slits. “A Manchu indeed! A Pao-i bannerman, an aristocrat--sloughing your will and your passions as snakes cast their skin, brooking no master but yourself and the black desert thunder! And I am only a mud-turtle from the land of Han.” He had sucked in his breath. “But--” he had continued; had slurred and stopped.

“But?”

“But--there is one thing, perhaps two, which the Huang T’ai Hou, the Empress, the Old Buddha, does not forgive--not even in a Manchu, an iron-capped prince!”--and a few more words, sibilant, staccato, and at once Yang Shen-hsiu had sheathed his dagger with a little dry, metallic click and had walked away, while Ng Ch’u had returned to his home.

There he had kowtowed deeply before an elderly peasant woman with bound feet, gnarled hands, and shriveled, berry-brown features.

“Mother,” he had said, “I am going away to-day. I am going away _now_. I--and the Moon-beam!”--pointing into the inner room at a lissom, blue-clad form that was bending over the cooking-pots.

“Why, son?”

“There is Yang Shen-hsiu, the Manchu!”

“But--I thought--”

“Yes. I know. But a Manchu never forgets. And some day--perhaps to-morrow--his passion and his hatred, since he is a fool, will vanquish his fear. On that day--by Buddha and by Buddha--I shall not be here. Nor shall the Moon-beam!”

Nearly forty years earlier--and now he saw him again.

For just the fraction of a second, the unexpected sight of those glittering, hooded eyes--for he was conscious of Yang Shen-hsiu’s eyes even before he saw the rest of the face: the thin nose beaking away bold and aquiline, the high cheekbones that seemed to give beneath the pressure of the leathery, ruddy-gold skin, the compressed, sardonic lips brushed by a drooping Mandarin mustache, and the flagging, combative chin--for just the fraction of a second, the unexpected sight of those sinister eyes, rising quickly like some evil dream from the human maelstrom that streaked down Forty-second Street, threw Ng Ch’u off his guard. It conquered in him the long habit of outward self-control which he had acquired in a lifetime of tight bargaining, of matching his algebraic Mongol cunning against the equal cunning of his countrymen.

He stopped still. His round, butter-yellow face was marked by a look of almost ludicrous alarm. His tiny, pinkish button of a nose crinkled and sniffled like that of a frightened rabbit. His pudgy, comfortable little hands opened and shut convulsively. His jaw felt swollen, out of joint. His tongue seemed heavy, clogging, like something which did not belong to him and which he must try to spit out. Little blue and crimson wheels gyrated madly in front of his bulging eyes.

* * * * *

Ng Ch’u was a coward. He knew it. Nor was he ashamed of it. To him a prosy, four-square, sublimely practical Chinese, reckless, unthinking courage seemed incomprehensible, and he was too honest a man to find fascination or worth in anything he could not understand.

Still it was one thing to be afraid, by which one lost no face to speak of, and another to appear afraid, by which one often lost a great deal of face _and_ of profit, and so he collected himself with an effort and greeted the Manchu with his usual, faintly ironic ease of manner.

“Ten thousand years, ten thousand years!”

“And yet another year!” came the courtly reply; and, after a short pause, “Ah--friend Ng Ch’u!” Showing that recognition had been mutual.

They looked at each other, smiling, tranquil, touching palm to palm. They were carefully, even meticulously, dressed: the Chinese in neat pin-stripe worsted, bowler hat, glossy cordovan brogues that showed an inch of brown-silk hose, and a sober shepherd’s-plaid necktie in which twinkled a diamond horseshoe pin; the Manchu in pontifical Prince Albert and shining high hat with the correct eight reflections. Both, at least sartorially, were a very epitome of the influence of West over East.

* * * * *

In that motley New York crowd, nobody could have guessed that here, in neat pin-stripe worsted and pontifical Prince Albert, stood tragedy incarnate: tragedy that had started, four decades earlier, in a Manchu-Chinese border town, with a girl’s soft song flung from a painted balcony; that had threatened to congeal into darkening blood, and that had faded out in a whispered, sardonic word about the Huang T’ai Hou, the Empress, the Old Buddha, and a coolie’s stupendous Odyssey from a mud-chinked Ninguta hut to a gleaming Fifth Avenue shop; tragedy that, by the same token, had started four centuries earlier when red-faced, flat-nosed Tatars, led by iron-capped Manchu chiefs, had poured out of Central Asia, to be met by submissiveness--the baffling submissiveness of placid, yellow China--the submissiveness of a rubber ball that jumps back into place the moment you remove the pressure of your hand--the submissiveness of a race that, being old and wise, prefers the evening meal of rice and fried pork to epic, clanking heroics.

For a moment Ng Ch’u wondered--and shivered slightly at the thought--if Yang Shen-hsiu’s perfectly tailored coat might hold the glimmer of steel. Then he reconsidered. This was New York, and the noon hour, and Forty-second Street, youthful, shrill, but filled with tame, warm conveniences, and safe--sublimely safe.

“I hope I see you well, honorable Manchu?” he asked casually, lighting an expensive, gold-tipped cigaret with fingers that were quite steady.

“Thank you,” replied Yang Shen-hsiu. “I am in excellent health. And yourself?”

“Nothing to complain of.”

“And--” purred the Manchu; and, beneath the gentle, gliding accents, the other could sense the hard, unfaltering resolve of hatred emerging from the dim, wiped-over crepuscule of forty years into new, brazen, arrogant freedom--“the--Moon-beam?”

“Is the Moon-beam no longer.”

“Her spirit has leaped the dragon gate--has rejoined the spirits of her worthy ancestors?”

“No, no.” Ng Ch’u gave a little, lopsided laugh. “But the Moon-beam--alas!--has become Madame Full Moon. She has grown exceedingly fat. As fat as a peasant’s round measure of butter. _Ahee! ahoo!_ Age fattens all--age softens all--and everything--” His voice trembled a little, and he repeated, “All and everything!”

* * * * *

Then, rather anxiously, his head to one side, with a patient and inquiring glance in his eyes,

“Does it not, Yang Shen-hsiu?”

The latter scratched his cheek delicately with a long, highly polished finger-nail.

“Yes,” he said unhurriedly. “Age softens all and everything--except belike--”

“So there are exceptions?” came the meek query.

“Yes, Ng Ch’u. Three.” A light eddied up in the glittering, hooded eyes. “A sword, a stone, and--ah--a Manchu.”

Ng Ch’u dropped his cigaret. He put his fingers together, nervously, tip against tip.

“You have recently arrived in America?” he asked after a short silence.

He spoke with a sort of bored, indifferent politeness, merely as if to make conversation. But the other looked up sharply. The ghost of a smile curled his thin lips.

“My friend,” he replied, “I, too, am familiar with the inexplicable laws of these foreign barbarians which put the yellow man even beneath the black in human worth and civic respect. I, too, know that we of the black-haired race are not permitted to enter this free land--unless we be students or great merchants or dignitaries of China or came here years ago--like you. I realize, furthermore, that babbling, leaky tongues can whisper cunning words to the immigration authorities--can spill the tea for many a worthy coolie who makes his living here on the strength of a forged passport. But--” smoothly, calmly, as Ng Ch’u tried to interrupt, “it so happened that the Old Buddha looked upon me with favor before she resigned her earthly dignities and ascended the dragon. I, the very undeserving one, have been showered with exquisite honors. Very recently I was sent to America in an official capacity. Thus--as to the Chinese exclusion law, also as to babbling, leaky tongues that whisper here and there--do not trouble, Ng Ch’u. Your tongue might catch cold--and would not that cause your honorable teeth to shrivel?”

He paused, stared at the other, then--and a tremor ran over his hawkish features, as a ripple is seen upon a stagnant pool even before the wind of storm strikes it--went on in a voice that was low and passionless, yet pregnant with stony, enormous resolve,

“Coolie! I have never forgotten the Moon-beam. I have never forgotten that once the thought of her played charming cadences on the lute of my youthful soul. I have never forgotten that once her image was the painted pleasure-boat that floated gently on the waters of my dream-ruffled sleep. I--ah--I have never forgotten that once the Moon-beam was a yellow, silken rose, and that a coolie brushed the bloom from her petals with his objectionable lips. No--I have never forgotten.”

“And--” asked Ng Ch’u, a little diffident, but quite matter-of-fact, like a bazar trader who is not yet sure of the size of his customer’s purse and must therefore bargain circumspectly--“is there no way to--make you forget?”

“Assuredly there is a way,” the Manchu laughed.

“Oh--?”

“What sayeth the Li-Ki--? ‘Do not try to fathom what has not yet arrived! Do not climb the tree if you wish to catch fish!’”

And Yang Shen-hsiu went on his way, while Ng Ch’u looked after him with a rather comical expression of devout concentration of his round face, clasping and unclasping his short, pudgy fingers, pursing his lips, and emitting a sort of melancholy whistle.

He was a coward, and very much afraid. He was only a coolie, tho the receiving teller of the Hudson National Bank purred civilly over his deposit-slips.

And the other? A Manchu. An aristocrat. A sharp hatchet of a man who cleaved his way through life. Why, even Yang Shen-hsiu’s back, beneath the prim and decorous folds of the Prince Albert, gave an impression of steely, ruthless efficiency--the efficiency of a hawk’s claw and a snake’s fang.

“Assuredly,” Ng Ch’u said to himself, as he turned east down Forty-second Street, “if I were a fool, I would now write to China and complete my funeral arrangements. I would order longevity boards of seasoned wood and cause the priests to pick out a charming retreat for my earthly remains. Too, if I were a fool, I might quote the Book of Ceremonies and Outer Observances to the tiger about to gore me. Ah--but I am not a fool-- I am only a coward-- I beg your pardon!” as his head sunk on his chest, he bumped into an indignant dowager who came from a department store, her plump arms crowded with bargains. “I beg your pardon--”

“Goodness! Can’t you see where you’re going--?”

A bundle dropped. Ng Ch’u bent to pick it up. So did the woman. Ng Ch’u straightened up again and, in the process, butted her chin with a round face that was still earnestly apologetic.

Another bundle dropped. People stopped, snickered, nudged each other. The woman suppressed unwomanly words. Ng Ch’u then decided to go away from there.

“_Haya! haya!_” he continued in his thoughts as he went on his way. “Blessed be the Excellent Lord Gautama who made me a coward! For--is there a keener foresight, a better protection, than fear?”

And, head erect, he walked along, toward his up-town shop that faced Fifth Avenue, beneath an enormous sign bearing his name in braggart, baroque, gilt letters, with a profusion of China’s and Japan’s choicest wares--dim, precious things--bronzes mellowed with the patina of the swinging centuries and embroideries and white and green and amber jade; kakemonos in sepia and gold and pigeon-gray, on which the brush of an artist long since dead had retraced the marvels of some capital of the Ashikaga dynasty; ancient koto harps with plectrums of carved ivory; satsuma bowls enameled with ho-ho birds; but mostly the porcelains of China--porcelains of all periods--Wen-tchang statuettes in aubergine and lambent yellow Kang-he ginger-jars painted with blue and white hawthorn sprays, Keen-lung egg-shell plates with backs of glowing ruby, Yung-ching peach-blow whose ruddy-brown shimmered with flecks of silver and green and pink like the first touch of Spring that is coaxing the colors from the shy sepal of the peach-blossom.

He loved porcelains. They represented to him more than money, more than success. He had attached himself to their study as an old Florentine attached himself to the study of theology, caring nothing for religion, but with a sort of icy-cold, impersonal, scientific passion. Somehow--for there _was_ his fabulous Odyssey, from a mud-chinked Ninguta hut to a gleaming Fifth Avenue shop--these porcelains were to him the apex of his life, the full, richly flavored sweetness of his achievement; and he often gently teased the Moon-beam, who had become Madame Full Moon, because, in their neat Pell Street flat, she preferred to eat her evening rice from heavy, white American stoneware with a border of improbable forget-me-nots.

* * * * *

“Good morning,” he smiled as he crossed the threshold of his shop.

“Good morning, sir,” came the answering chorus from the half dozen Chinese clerks, while his chief salesman, Wen Pao, stepped forward and told him that, an hour earlier, his good customer, Mrs. Peter Van Dissel, had come in and bargained about that pale-blue Suen-tih Ming bowl with the red fish molded as handles.

“Seven thousand I asked,” said Wen Pao. “Five thousand she offered--then five thousand five hundred--then six thousand. She will return to-morrow. Then she and I will talk business.” He smiled. “The eye of desire fattens the price,” he added.

“Ah--excellent!” replied Ng Ch’u. “Trade indeed revolves like a wheel. She can have the bowl for six thousand five hundred dollars. It is a noble piece, worthy of a coral-button Mandarin’s collection.”

He turned to look at the sheaf of letters that awaited his perusal on a teak-wood table at the back of the store.

Then, suddenly, he again addressed the clerk.

“Wen Pao,” he said. “I have reconsidered. The bowl is not for sale.”

“Oh--?” the other looked astonished.

“No,” repeated Ng Ch’u. “It is not for sale. Put it in the small safe in my private office. One of these days, when a certain necessary thing shall have been pleasantly accomplished, I shall use the bowl myself, to eat therefrom my evening rice. There is no porcelain in the world,” he went on rather academically, “like ancient Ming marked on the reverse side with the honorific seal of peace, longevity, and harmonious prosperity. It rings sweetly--like a lute made of glass--under the chop-sticks’ delicate touch.”

“Ho!” whispered Nag En Hin, the American-born son of Nag Hop Fat, the Pell Street soothsayer, who had recently graduated from high school. “In the estimation of some people the strings of their cotton drawers are equivalent to a Manchu’s silken breeches of state.”

Ng Ch’u had overheard.

“They _are_ equivalent, little, little paper tiger without teeth,” he purred--“in durability--”

He turned and bowed low before a customer who had entered the shop; and, for the next three hours, there was in his coward’s heart hardly a thought of his old enemy. Only dimly the figure of Yang Shen-hsiu jutted into the outer rim of his consciousness, like a trifling annoyance, which, presently, when the time was ripe, he would cause to pass out of his consciousness altogether.

* * * * *

Nor, except indirectly, did he speak of him to the Moon-beam that night, after he had returned to his Pell Street flat that, close to the corner of Mott, faced the gaudy, crimson-bedaubed joss temple--he rather liked its proximity. Not that he believed much in the ancient divinities--the Tsaou Kwo-kiu who sits on a log, the Han Seang-tse who rides upon a fan, the Chang-Ho-laou who stands on a frog, the Ho Seen-koo astride a willow-branch, or any of the other many idols, Buddhist or Taoist. For he was a Chinese, thus frankly, sneeringly irreligious. But he had rare, thaumaturgical moments when his bland-philosophical soul craved a few ounces of hygienic stimulant in the form of incense-powder sending up curling, aromatic smoke, a dully booming gong, a priest’s muttered incantations before the gilt shrine, or a meaningless prayer or two written on scarlet paper and then chewed and swallowed.

It was so to-night.

“Moon-beam,” he said to his little fat wife, who smiled at his entry as she had smiled at him every day these forty years, ever since she had married him, the earth-bound coolie, in preference to a Manchu who had courted her riotously, swaggeringly, extravagantly, willing to leap all barriers of caste, “I think that after the evening rice I shall go to the temple and burn a couple of Hunshuh incense-sticks before the three gods of happiness--the Fo, the Lo, and the Cho.” He smiled amusedly at the thought. “Perhaps the gods are powerless to help me,” he added with patronizing tolerance, “perhaps they are not. Still--” again he smiled and waved a pudgy hand.

The Moon-beam continued setting the table for dinner.

“You are in trouble, Great One?” she asked, quite casually, over her shoulder.

“Oh--the jackal howls in the distance,” he answered, metaphorically, easing his plump body into a comfortable American rocking-chair. “Yes--” He lit a cigaret. “The jackal howls. Loudly and arrogantly. And yet--will my old buffalo die therefore?”

She did not reply. Nor was she worried.

For she knew Ng Ch’u. For forty years she had lived in intimate daily alliance with him, physically and psychically. She knew that he was a one-idead man who always surrendered completely to the eventual aim and object of his slow, patient, persistent, slightly nagging decision; who never took the second step before he was sure of the first; who possessed, at the core of his meek, submissive soul, a tremendous, almost pagan capacity to resolve his mind in his desire, and his desire in the actual, practical deed. Yes--she knew him. And never since that day in the little Manchu-Chinese border town when she had become his bride, according to the sacred rites, with all the traditional ceremonies complete from _kuei-chü_ to _laoh-shin-fang_, had she doubted either his kindliness or his wisdom; never, tho often she walked abroad, in Pell Street, to swap the shifting, mazed gossip of Chinatown, had she envied the other women--whites and half-castes and American-born Chinese--their shrill, scolding, flaunting, naked freedom; always had she been satisfied to regulate her life according to the excellent Confucius’ three rules of wifely behaviour: not to have her marital relations known beyond the threshold of her apartment, either for good or for evil; to refrain from talkativeness and, outside of household matters where she reigned supreme, to take no step and to arrive at no conclusion on her own initiative.

Ng Ch’u was in trouble. He was the Great One. Presently he would conquer the trouble.

What, then, was there to worry about?

* * * * *

And so, dinner over, she busied her fat, clever little hands with strips of blue-and-blue embroidery, while he prepared for himself the first pipe of the evening--“the pipe of august beginning,” as he called it.

“Ah!” he sighed contentedly, as he kneaded the opium cube with agile fingers, stuck the needle into the lamp, the flame of which, veiled by butterflies and moths of green enamel, sparkled like an emerald, dropped the red-hot little pellet into a plain bamboo pipe without tassels or ornaments, and, both shoulders well back, inhaled the soothing fumes at one long whiff--“this black bamboo pipe was white once--white as my youth--and the kindly drug has colored it black with a thousand and ten thousand smokes. It is the best pipe in the world. No pipe of precious wood or ivory or tortoise-shell or jade or carved silver can ever come near that bamboo.”

He stopped; prepared a second pipe. The fizzing of the amber opium drops as they evaporated over the lamp accentuated the silence.

Presently he spoke again.

“Moon-beam!”

“Yes, Great One?”

She leaned forward, across the table. Her wrinkled, honey-colored old face, framed by great, smooth wings of jet-black hair, loomed up in the ring of light from the swinging kerosene lamp.

“An ancient pipe,” he repeated, “blackened with a thousand and ten thousand smokes. _Ahee_--” he slurred; then went on, “such as--”

Again he halted. Then he continued, just a little diffidently, a little self-consciously, as, Mongol to the core, he considered the voicing of intimate sentiments between husband and wife slightly indelicate--“such as our love, Moon-beam--burned deep and strong and black by a thousand and ten thousand days of mutual knowledge--”

She looked at him. She rose. She put her arms about him.

* * * * *

They were rather ludicrous, those two. Yellow, fat, crinkled, old, decidedly ugly. Standing there, holding each other close, in the center of the plain little room. With the garish lights of Pell Street winking through the well-washed window-curtains, the symphony of Pell Street skirling in with a belching, tawdry chorus; a street organ trailing a brassy, syncopated jazz; the hectic splutter and hiss of a popcorn-man’s cart; some thick, passionate words flung up from a shadow-blotched postern, then dropping into the gutter: “Gee, kid, I’m sure nuts about you!” “G’wan, yer big slob, tell it t’the marines--”

* * * * *

Yes. Ludicrous, that scene.

And ludicrous, perhaps, the Moon-beam’s words, in guttural, staccato Chinese,

“Great One! Truly, truly, all the real world is enclosed for me in your heart!”

He looked at her from beneath heavy, opium-reddened eyelids.

“Moon-beam,” he said, “once you could have been a Manchu’s bride.”

She gave a quaint, giggling, girlish, high-pitched little laugh.

“Once,” she replied, “the ass went seeking for horns--and lost its ears.” She patted his cheeks. “I am a coolie’s fat old woman, Great One! An old coolie’s fat, useless old woman--”

“Little Moon-beam,” he whispered, “little, little Moon-beam--”

It was the voice of forty years ago, stammering, passionate, tender. He held her very close.

Then, unhurriedly, he released her. Unhurriedly, he left the room, walked down the stairs and over to the joss temple.

There--his tongue in his cheek, his mind smiling at his soul--he went through a certain intricate ritual, with shreds of scarlet paper, and incense sticks, and pieces of peach-wood especially dreaded by ghosts.

Yu Ch’ang, the priest, watched him, and--since even holy men must eat and drink--suggested that, perhaps, the other might like sacerdotal intercession with the _Shang Ti_, the Supreme Ruler of Heaven.

Ng Ch’u laughed.

“I have always avoided middlemen,” he said. “That’s how I made my fortune. Shall I then offend the deity by talking through a priest’s greedy lips?”

And he left the joss temple, and walked out into the street.

It was late. Rain, that had started in fluttering, flickering rags, had driven both dwellers and sightseers to shelter. Black, silent, the night looked down. Across the road, from his flat, the lights sprang out warm and snug and friendly. But he remembered that there was some urgent business matter he had to talk over with Ching Shan, the retired merchant who was his silent partner, and that at this hour he would be most likely to find him sipping a cup of hot wine in the back room of Nag Hong Fah’s restaurant, which, for yellow men exclusively, was known euphoniously as the Honorable Pavilion of Tranquil Longevity.

So he turned toward Mott Street. But he kept to the middle of the street, and he stepped slowly, warily, heels well down, arms carefully balanced, head jerked slightly forward, his whole body poised for instant shift or flight, all his senses primed to give quick warning of anything unusual or minatory.

For again, now that he was alone, fear of Yang Shen-hsiu had rushed upon him full-armed; and here--with the sodden, pitchy blanket of night painting the shadows with deeper shadows, and the rain-whipped streets deserted by everybody--was the very place where murder might happen, had happened in the past, in Tong war and private feud--the corner saloons with their lurking side entrances, where a man might slip in and out like a rabbit through the tunnels of its warren; the inky, prurient, slimy halls and areaways; the sudden, mysterious alleys cutting edgewise into mazes of buildings; the steep cellars that yawned like saturnine, toothless maws; the squat, moldy, turgid tenements, with the reckless invitations of their fire escapes.

Ng Ch’u shivered. Should he turn back, make a run for his home?

And--what then?

To-morrow was another day. To-morrow the sun would shine golden and clear. True. But to-morrow the Manchu would still be the Manchu; and Ng Ch’u was sure of two things: that Yang Shen-hsiu would plot his speedy death, and that, even supposing he broke the unwritten law of Pell Street, it would be quite useless to go to the police of the red-haired devils and ask them for protection.

For could he, the merchant, accuse the other, the great Chinese dignitary sent to America on a diplomatic mission? And of what? What could he say?

Could he make these foreigners believe in this tale of China, of forty years ago? Could he tell them that he and the other had been in love with the same girl, that she had preferred the coolie to the aristocrat, and that the latter had sworn revenge? Could he tell them that those had been the days directly after China’s war of eighteen hundred and sixty against France and England, when the imperial court had been compelled to leave Pekin and flee to Jehol, when the Summer Palace had been taken and sacked by the barbarians, when a shameful treaty had been forced on the Middle Kingdom, and when the Huang T’ai Hou, the Empress, the Old Buddha, had issued an edict that, until a “more propitious time” the lives of foreigners should be sacred in the land of Han? Could he tell them how he had found out that the Manchu, in a fit of rage, had murdered, and quietly buried, a British missionary; how thus, by threatening exposure to the Pekin authorities, he had held the whip-hand; how, discretion being the better part of valor, he and the Moon-beam had emigrated to America; and how now, to-day, forty years later, he had met the Manchu here, in New York--still the same Manchu--hawkish, steely, ruthless--?

Ng Ch’u shook his head.

He could imagine what Bill Devoy, detective of Second Branch and Pell Street specialist, would say,

“Cut it out! Ye’ve been hittin’ the old pipe too hard. What? Manchu? Dowager Empress? Moon-beam? Missionary? Revenge? Say--ye’ve blown in too many dimes on them--now--seven-reelers! Keep away from the movies, Chinkie--see?”

* * * * *

Ng Ch’u shivered. He jumped sidewise rapidly as he heard a rustling noise. Then he smiled apologetically--it had just been a dim stir of torn bits of paper whirled about by a vagabond wind--and turned, at a sudden right angle, toward Nag Hong Fah’s Great Chop Suey Restaurant where it slashed the purple, trailing night with a square of yellow light.

A minute later, his heart beating like a trip-hammer, he was up the stairs. Two minutes later, outwardly composed, he bowed, his hands clasped over his chest, to the company of merchants who were gathered in the Honorable Pavilion of Tranquil Longevity, some quietly smoking or sipping tea, others gossiping, still others playing at _hsiang ch’i_ chess and _ta ma_.

The soft, gliding hum of voices, the sizzling of the opium lamps, the sucking of boiling-hot tea drunk by compressed lips, the clicks of the copper and ivory counters--it was all tremendously peaceful and reassuring; and Ng Ch’u sighed contentedly as he dropped into a chair by the side of Ching Shan, his silent partner, and began talking to him in an undertone about a shipment of Sheba pottery which could be picked up at a bargain in San Francisco.

Presently, business over, he asked a question.

“Brother very old and very wise,” he said, “what are the protections of the day and the night against an evil man?”

Ching Shan was known throughout Pell Street for his stout wisdom--a reputation which he upheld by quoting esoterically and didactically from some hoary tome of learning, whenever asked a question, and then reinforcing his opinion by a yet lengthier quotation from another book.

“Ng Ch’u,” he replied, “it has been reported in the Shu King that the sage Wu once spoke as follows: ‘I have heard that the good man, doing good, finds the day insufficient, and the night, and that the evil man, doing evil, also finds the day insufficient, and the night.’” He paused, looked around him, made sure that not only Ng Ch’u but also the rest of the company were listening to him attentively, and continued: “Yet, as to the evil man, and the good, has it not furthermore been said that the correct doctrine of the good man is to be true to the principles of his nature and the benevolent exercise of these principles when dealing with others?”

“Even when dealing with evil men?” asked Ng Ch’u.

“Decidedly, little brother.”

“Ah--” smiled Ng Ch’u, “and the principle of my nature has always been to see that I have pork with my evening rice--to bargain close and tight--to know the worth of money--”

“Money,” said Nag Hong Fah, the restaurant proprietor, “which is the greatest truth in the world--”

“Money,” chimed in Yung Long, the wealthy wholesale grocer, “which is mastery and power and sway and shining achievement--”

“Money,” said Ching Shan rather severely, since he had retired from active business affairs and was not worried by financial troubles, “which is good only when used by a purified desire and a righteous aim--”

“What aim more righteous,” rejoined Ng Ch’u, “than peace and happiness and the evening rice--”

And then, quite suddenly, a hush fell over the Honorable Pavilion of Tranquil Longevity. Tea cups were held tremblingly in mid-air. Pipes dropped. Voices were stilled.

For there, framed in the doorway, stood three figures, lean, tall, threatening; faces masked by black neckerchiefs; pistols held steadily in yellow hands.

* * * * *

“Oh--Buddha!” screamed Nag Hong Fah. “The hatchetmen--the hatchetmen--”

“Silence, obese grandfather of a skillet!” said the tallest of the three. “Silence--or--” His voice was terse and metallic; his pistol described a significant half-circle and drew a bead on the restaurant proprietor’s stout chest. He took a step nearer into the room, while his two colleagues kept the company covered. “My friends,” he said, “I have not come here to harm anybody--except--”

His eyes searched the smoke-laden room, and, as if drawn by a magnet, Ng Ch’u rose and waddled up to him.

“Except to kill me?” he suggested meekly.

“Rightly guessed, older brother,” smiled the other. “I regret--but what is life--eh?--and what is death? A slashing of throats! A cutting of necks! A jolly ripping of jugular veins!” He laughed behind his mask and drew Ng Ch’u toward him with a strong, clawlike hand.

The latter trembled like a leaf.

“Honorable killer,” he asked, “there is, I take it, no personal rancor against me in your heart?”

“Not a breath--not an atom--not a sliver! It is a mere matter of business!”

“You have been sent by somebody else to kill me--perhaps by--?”

“Let us name no names. I have indeed been sent by--somebody.”

Ng Ch’u looked over his shoulder at Ching Shan who sat there, very quiet, very disinterested.

“Ching Shan,” he said, “did you not say that the correct doctrine of the good man is to be true to his principles and the benevolent exercise of these principles?”

“Indeed!” wonderingly.

“Ah--” gently breathed Ng Ch’u, and again he addressed the hatchetman. “Honorable killer,” he said, “the nameless party--who sent you here--how much did he promise you for causing my spirit to join the spirits of my ancestors?”

“But--”

“Tell me. How much?”

“Five hundred dollars!”

Ng Ch’u smiled.

“Five hundred dollars--eh?--for killing me?” he repeated.

“Yes, yes!” exclaimed the astonished hatchetman.

“Five hundred dollars--eh?--for killing me?” he re-broke into gurgling laughter. “Correct doctrine to be true to one’s own principles! Principles of barter and trade--my principles--the coolie’s principles--_Ahee!--ahoo!--ahai!_ Here, hatchetman!” His voice was now quite steady. Steady was the hand with which he drew a thick roll of bills from his pocket. “Here are five hundred dollars--and yet another hundred! Go! Go and kill _him_--him who sent you!”

* * * * *

And, late that night, back in his neat little flat, Ng Ch’u turned casually to his wife.

“Moon-beam,” he said, “the little trouble has been satisfactorily settled.” He paused, smiled. “To-morrow,” he added, “I shall eat my evening rice from a pale-blue Suen-tih Ming bowl with red fish molded as handles.”

“Yes, Great One,” came the Moon-beam’s calm, incurious reply.

_Short Stories_

THE TAKING OF BILLY RAND

BY

GORDON YOUNG

THE TAKING OF BILLY RAND[11]

By GORDON YOUNG

For reasons that might be called confidential, since they were known only to Billy Rand himself and to the police, he took the tip of a friend wise in geography and made for a speck on the map called Ponape--a bit of an island that sticks out inconspicuously in the South Seas.

He landed on a beach where there were some natives that he mistook for “niggers” and a lot of Germans.

Said Billy Rand to a German trader:

“I’m travelin’ for my health and lookin’ for a quiet spot. I need rest. This here Langar is too thrivin’ a metropolis. It reminds me of New York.”

He looked out of the doorway to where a half dozen little trading schooners were anchored, and at the corrugated iron warehouse; but most particularly he looked at the two wireless masts. Those were what reminded him of New York.

“_Ja_,” said the trader, and tipped the empty beer bottle significantly.

Billy took the hint. More beer came. Then the trader warmed up slightly and talked.

Billy didn’t know exactly what was being said. No fortune teller had ever warned him that he ought to study German.

The trader pointed here and there, and Billy twisted his head about to see. Then he began to realize that the German was talking of directions. Which way did Billy want to travel?

Billy took a chance and poked his finger in the same direction that his nose happened to be.

The trader agreed that it was a desirable choice and put out his hand, palm up. The sign language had never seemed so eloquent to Billy before.

That was how Billy came to be landed on the beach some two hundred miles from Langar. The bay was pretty and the trader had given him to understand that a missionary lived there.

But alone on the beach Billy couldn’t see anything but niggers. They swarmed about him, grinned, looked him over curiously, fingered his clothes, felt of him, and chattered. He wished heartily that he was back in New York explaining to the judge just how it happened. The trader was already standing out to sea.

The natives half carried, half dragged the squatty little man with the dapper manner, alias Billy Rand, up the beach and through the bushes until they came to a cleared space where there were grass houses and women cooking.

“Just in time for dinner!” he said to himself, and nearly fainted.

Then a man came to the door of one of the grass houses. He was a comparatively young man, fine looking--Billy thought--and not at all like the beachcombers, missionaries and Germans with which Billy had already become acquainted. And Billy could not imagine that any one other than those people--beachcombers, missionaries and Germans--would hide themselves away in such outlandish places unless for “confidential” reasons.

“Who are you?” the man asked. It seemed to Billy that there was something pryingly suspicious in the question.

Rapidly he hastened to assure this stranger:

“It’s all right. I came along for quiet and rest too. I know just how you feel when a stranger comes along your trail. Now I’ve--”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said the other, looking puzzled. Billy noticed that he had brown eyes that looked almost sad.

“I’m in the same fix as you,” Billy explained vaguely.

“A missionary?” the man asked.

“Me a what!”