Robbie and Hsi-chen were walking again outside, only now it was under a star-studded evening sky. A light breeze wafted over them from the river, relieving some of the stifling heat of the day.
“What can the fellow Wang want here?” asked Robbie, perplexed. “I heard his name mentioned by the pirates who sank my ship, as if he was even worse than that lot.”
“Wang is a very powerful man in this area,” replied Hsi-chen, “perhaps in all East China. But his power comes not by government sanction, although the very weakness of the central government makes it possible for men like Wang to wield their will over the land. They rule by force, instilling fear in the folk of the country. Because here we are closer to Hangchow, our villages have been relatively free from their terrible sway. Such bandits prefer to concentrate their activities in the outlands where they are not near the scrutiny of the legal authorities, such as they are. We had been free from them until several days before your arrival here.”
“I was afraid I might have somehow drawn them here.”
Hsi-chen sighed, then turned to face him. “No, Robbie, it is not you they seek.”
“Then who? What could they possibly want here?” Robbie’s eyes reflected the depth of concern that had begun to form in his heart for this tiny piece of the world, previously so unknown to him, where he found refuge in the midst of his soul’s turmoil.
“I am afraid you will hardly believe me when I tell you, for it is the last person you could imagine being drawn into such an evil drama.”
“I don’t understand,” replied Robbie, puzzled.
“They seek my mother.”
“Impossible!” exclaimed Robbie. “What for?”
“You once asked me how I came to Wukiang,” answered Hsi-chen. “I said it was a long story. But in the story is contained the answer to your question. That same day you also told me you loved stories. But this will not be a pleasant one to hear.”
“Don’t tell me what I shouldn’t know,” said Robbie. “But if there is any way I could help, I would like to know.”
As Hsi-chen began to speak, Robbie listened attentively. But as she had warned, the story was tragic, despite its seemingly happy ending. Hsi-chen’s voice often broke as she spoke, catching on the emotion which lay in her heart as she related the events that had befallen her mother, Shan-fei.
———
The story was of a girl, the daughter of an old and wealthy merchant family. The power of the House of Tien dated back nearly as far as the great Manchu dynasty itself. Tien Shan-fei lived as a princess, no matter that she had no royal blood in her delicate veins. Indulged and pampered in every way by her parents, by the age of fifteen—two or three years beyond what was considered the best age for such things—she had still not been promised in marriage. Other families might have begun to worry about their daughter making a good match at such a late age, but the parents of Shan-fei harbored no such concern. She was sought after by the best families, not only for her beauty, but for the promising family connections she would offer. Yet because marriage for a Chinese maiden meant separation from her family, sometimes forever, Shan-fei’s parents were loathe to encourage the inevitable. In poor peasant families, girls were a drain on the meager budget, and as they reached a certain age were usually married off by necessity. Such was not the case for the Tiens. Yet they could not keep their beloved daughter indefinitely.
As the girl turned sixteen, therefore, offers had to be considered. The most insistent came from the family of Wang—it was almost unseemly how persistent they could be. Wang was a relatively new name among Shanghai’s cultured families, though their wealth was real enough. Rumor had it, however, that the old man’s fortune had been gained in most disreputable enterprises. Moreover, the son, the marriage candidate, was reputed to be wild and unmanageable.
Shan-fei, however, chanced one day to see young K’ung-wu and was much taken with him, for he was handsome and manly. As contrary as it was for one in her position to meet a potential marriage candidate, much less have any say in the decision of her parents, Shan-fei had never been forced to submit to most of the expectations of culture. Thus, she used her favor in her parents’ eyes as an advantage to press for a match with Wang K’ung-wu. Her father wavered, unfortunately raising the hopes of the headstrong K’ung-wu. In the end, however, they stood firm against this family whose reputation they shunned, and a match was agreed upon instead with the family of Chu Tun-ru. Shan-fei’s desire for young Wang, springing as it did more from girlish fancy than true passion, waned, and she conceded to the choice of her father. And when she married a year later, she found her new husband to be a kind and considerate mate.
Her new mother-in-law, however, proved to be the fatal flaw in what might have been a good marriage. Discord between mother and daughter-in-law was not only culturally accepted, oftentimes a mother-in-law lost face if she treated the wife of her son too tenderly or with respect. Simply bred herself, old Mrs. Chu carried such a custom to the extreme, resenting the Tien clan. She was pleased enough for her son to have married into the wealthy family, but felt it was her duty to rectify the life of ease that the spoiled daughter of Tien had enjoyed throughout her young life—for the sake of her son, of course. She did not want to see him subjugated to this spoiled young girl.
Thus, an abrupt end came to Shan-fei’s idyllic lifestyle. The fortune of Chu had come upon hard times, and though they managed to maintain the appearance of wealth, the household itself was run very strictly. Shan-fei often received the brunt of the difficulties. She was given only cast-off clothing to wear and often served in place of slaves; only her bound feet kept her from the most rigorous labor. But it was not the physical hardships that troubled the young girl most, but rather the older woman’s biting tongue, accompanied by her constant attempts to sow discord between Shan-fei and her husband. Though he had to be careful not to offend his mother, had it not been for his diplomatic mediation, life would quickly have become intolerable for Shan-fei.
When after ten years of marriage Tun-ru died, Shan-fei thought she would die too. Returning to her parents was simply not possible; she was now owned by the family of her husband. Most Chinese widows do not remarry, and suicide is sometimes a solution to such a desperate situation. But the thought of leaving her young daughter to the heartless wiles of Mrs. Chu dispelled suicide as a possible escape for Shan-fei. Remarriage seemed the only way out.
Wang’s intercession, however, was no longer desirable to Shan-fei. His reputation through the years had followed his father’s in ruthlessness, and to one of Shan-fei’s delicate sensibilities, such a man had no appeal.
The Chu’s, however, did not see beyond his money. How could a troublesome daughter-in-law compare with the price Wang was offering? Especially a daughter-in-law who had born no sons!
Shan-fei’s father, old Tien, meanwhile, had gone the way of his ancestors, and Shan-fei did not want to burden her aged and ailing mother with her troubles. She was too proud to call upon her brothers, now holding the reins of family power. By rights, they might have demanded redress for her mistreatment by her in-laws, but such cases were usually too tragic and unpleasant even to consider. And the Chu name also belonged to her dead husband, and she had cared for and respected him and could not now bring dishonor to him.
Silent endurance of her fate seemed the only answer. Perhaps Wang would prove an acceptable husband despite his reputation in matters of business. Could not men hard in the marketplace be tender at home? It was a feeble hope, but Shan-fei clung desperately to it as the day of her wedding appointed by her father-in-law approached. By chance, however, she learned a terrifying fact that immediately crushed even the small thread of hope she had possessed.
Wang had carefully kept from sight his disdain of children. Sons of his own he might tolerate, but girls, either his or anyone else’s—they were useless. He kept this fact quiet for fear of losing Shan-fei, and would no doubt have shot on sight the person who divulged the information. Yet now it came to Shan-fei’s notice that Wang had already signed a marriage contract for her daughter, Hsi-chen, with one of his soldiers, and would no doubt rid himself of this excess baggage the moment she matured—perhaps even sooner. The marriage of Hsi-chen was to be expected one day; Shan-fei knew that well enough. But never to one of Wang’s ruthless bandits! For all she knew, the man could be one of his paid assassins!
Shan-fei then knew that she could submit neither herself nor her daughter to such men. She had but one option left—she must run away.
Taking into her confidence an old servant she had brought with her to the House of Chu, they together began to devise a plan for her to escape from the clutches of Wang.
“I must go someplace where they will never think of looking,” said Shan-fei. “Perhaps Peking. I can easily lose myself in such a large city.”
“You are known there,” said the old woman. “And even rags could not conceal your noble lineage.” Besides these words she spoke, the woman, who had been faithful to the House of Tien all her life, could not bear the thought of innocent Shan-fei and her precious daughter alone and helpless in the cruel city.
Then she rubbed her wrinkled old lips thoughtfully. “I must tell you a secret, dear Shan-fei,” she said at length, rather cryptically. “I meant not to deceive you. But I must be careful what I say. There are those who would take my life if they knew, and it was difficult for me to speak openly of this. But you see . . . I am a Christian.”
Shan-fei raised her eyebrows at this startling disclosure, shrinking back a moment from the tender old lady.
“Why do you tell me this now?” asked Shan-fei.
“There is a place where they would not think to seek you, and where you will be treated with kindness,” replied the old servant.
“A church?”
“Not in Shanghai. Even that would be too dangerous. But a missionary from a station some ninety miles from here comes to the church in Shanghai occasionally to visit. At his mission, I believe you would find refuge.”
“A mission?” mused Shan-fei, the uncertainty clear in her voice. “But I have heard things—”
“All lies!” exclaimed the woman, for a brief moment forgetting her station as a servant. “None of them are true. I have heard the stories, too. But you must believe me, you will find nothing but compassion and understanding there.”
Shan-fei argued no further. She trusted her servant. And the idea seemed assuredly the most promising they had had thus far. Alongside the thought of becoming Wang’s wife, even an unknown mission did not sound so fearsome.
Over the next several days, Shan-fei made as if to willingly submit to the discretion of Chu for her forthcoming wedding. When the night came for her escape, not a soul in the house suspected a thing. Travel in her crippled condition was difficult, but the servant had arranged everything with Christian friends. She accompanied her far enough to see her safely aboard the junk that would take mother and daughter the first half of the way. Then she hastened back, crept in the way they had left, did what she could to make the final ruse of apparent suicide believable, climbed back into her bed, where she slept the rest of the night through, praying even in her dreams for the safety of her beloved Shan-fei.
Thus, Shan-fei and her daughter came to Christ’s China Mission in the country village of Wukiang. There, indeed, they discovered the compassion her faithful servant had promised. There too they found a home and a new family, and a new life in the Christ for whom the mission was named.
And as the wise old woman had predicted, no one gave even a thought to searching for the missing daughter of Tien there. For thirteen years they lived in peace and anonymity. And best of all, they lived in a deep happiness that Shan-fei had feared she would never know again.
———
“But Wang has now found my mother,” said Hsi-chen, as she finished the story, her sad voice tinged with anxiety.
“She is married now,” said Robbie. “What can he do?”
“A man like Wang takes what he wants. But it may not be that he would take her at all. He may only be seeking . . . revenge.”
“After thirteen years?”
“It is difficult to imagine, I know,” replied Hsi-chen. “But when darkness rules a man’s inner being, evil thoughts and designs are given full freedom to grow and fester and blossom, and length of years only perpetuates the evil.”
Robbie slowly shook his head. It was odd that one such as Hsi-chen had more wisdom in such matters than he, worldly-wise man that he had always thought himself to be.
“What will you do?” he asked.
“My father already has tried to intimidate them by threatening to call in the British.”
Robbie raised an eyebrow, for he knew Wallace disdained the use of political or military power. Then Hsi-chen added, “It was only—how do you say it?—a bluff. But no matter; it only frightened them away for a while, and now Wang himself is coming.”
“Well,” insisted Robbie, “Dr. Wallace would be totally within his rights to call in the British Navy. He certainly doesn’t intend to sit by while this blackguard steals away his own wife! Turning the other cheek can only be carried so far!”
“He will not resort to violence, Robbie. You should know that by now. God will intercede for us.”
“God!” exclaimed Robbie with frustration. “Do you expect a thunderbolt from heaven or something? Believe me, Wang will laugh in your face if you start to beseech heavenly powers.”
“Do not scorn the power of God, Robbie.” For a moment Hsi-chen’s eyes flashed and her voice took on a tone very reminiscent of her father’s.
“I can’t believe in such miracles,” persisted Robbie, though he could not help being a bit stunned by this gentle girl’s change of demeanor. “A man has to fight his own battles,” he went on. “He has to protect those he loves and cares for. A coward waits for the intercession of another.”
“I will forgive you for your unbelieving words, Robbie,” she said tightly. “I know they come because you are concerned, and because you cannot understand my father or men like him who are willing to be seen as fools to demonstrate the greatest kind of courage of all—trusting in God. Bravery as the world defines it means nothing to him if it interferes with doing the will of God. I think you know by now that my father is no coward.”
Her voice had been so stern, so intense, her eyes so dark, that Robbie suddenly felt very much alone. Hsi-chen had begun to mean more to him than he dared imagine. Even to think of losing her friendship caused a painful void within him.
He stopped in their slow walk across the compound. Turning toward her, he grabbed her hands impulsively in his.
“Hsi-chen . . . I’m sorry! I don’t want you to be angry with me. Your friendship means so much to me.”
“Dear Robbie, I am not angry. But you must understand how hard it is to have a friend such as you have become, who cannot grasp the things that are the most important to me.” She paused and closed her eyes. Yes, she also dared not think what this man was coming to mean to her. But her reasons were far different than his.
“Please,” he said earnestly, “help me to understand.”
“How I want to, Robbie Taggart. But this understanding must come from your heart. And I cannot change your heart.” She glanced down at their hands, still clasped together as if both were desperately afraid to let go. “The very center of my life is not the center of yours. Yet how can I feel so close to you when we are so far apart?”
“I wish I could make myself change—make myself believe the way you do.”
“I would not want you to believe for my sake.”
“I suppose I could not,” answered Robbie dismally, “no matter how much I wanted to. Even I know that would be no belief at all.”
“I will pray for you,” said Hsi-chen.
Their hands fell apart. As sincerely as she had meant them, Hsi-chen felt an emptiness in her last words. She wanted them to represent a statement of her faith, but she could not help thinking they seemed but a hollow phrase to Robbie. But whatever they had sounded like, she would pray for him, and pray diligently. And the Lord would answer and would, in His time, give Robbie the understanding he sought.
They turned in silence and walked slowly back to the residence, each feeling more than they could put into words. Whatever lack of understanding existed, at the same time both deeply sensed something wonderful within, though they were reticent to give it its true and fearsome name. Robbie was afraid of the commitment love might require of him. Hsi-chen was afraid that, even if they were one day of kindred spirits, she had no right to ask love from anyone to whom she could not promise her life in return.