A gentle breeze played against the sail of the old junk, pushing it steadily along the Chai-chiang.
A man who looked to be about forty was hitching the yard a few degrees astern to gain the best of the wind, but the eastward current of the stream itself was so strong now in May that he hardly needed the aid of the spring breezes. He seemed to be enjoying himself, however—the sort of man who would be fiddling with the sails even if the air was completely void of movement. A Westerner by the look of him, and oddly out of place on the traditional Chinese craft, the man’s dark windblown hair was streaked with the beginnings of gray, and a lively smile of pure delight illuminated a face still boyishly handsome. He was clearly at home on the water, though the junk did not appear to be a vessel worthy of his skill.
As he looked over the starboard rail he noted they were drifting out of the current.
“A bit more to port,” he called astern.
The child at the tiller had the whole of her small body pressed against the wooden mechanism, but the boat seemed reluctant to respond. An Oriental by the look of her face, the slant of her eyes, and her dark black straight hair, the girl yet contained characteristics of physique and manner that only Western blood would explain—of mixed parentage, no doubt; an uncommon thing in this region of China.
“I can’t get her back, Papa,” she answered in perfect English, notable not only for its lack of Chinese accent but also for the hint of Scottish brogue. The girl was indeed a puzzling mix.
The sailor smiled proudly at his daughter. She is quite a helmswoman even at nine, he thought, even if she hasn’t the strength to fight against this deceptively strongly currented river.
With the rapid movement of skilled fingers, he deftly tied off the rope he had been working on, using only his right hand, then strode to the poop, where he added his strong arm to the process of steering the boat, and together they maneuvered the junk back into the center of the current.
“It was my fault,” he said. “I didn’t get the yard adjusted soon enough. You must be tired,” he added. “I’ll take the tiller for a while.”
He sat down on the thwarts between his daughter and the mechanism, and placing his right hand on the tiller, he put his left arm around her. She snuggled up closer to him, giving not the least notice to the maimed arm that held her. She had grown up accustomed to it from birth, and for all she knew in her first years perhaps all men had but one hand. When several years later she learned how he had lost his left hand, it only raised her loving and devoted estimation of her brave father.
“How far are we from home, Papa?” asked Ruth, with just a touch of disappointment in her voice. A whole day alone with her father was wonderful, and though, not rare, it was still an experience she was not anxious to have end.
“Not far; perhaps a mile or two,” answered Robbie. “As soon as we get around that next bend, you’ll be able to see the mission off in the distance.”
“Will Grandfather be pleased that we handed out all the tracts?”
“I’m sure he will be, and he will be especially pleased to hear what a diligent worker you are, my little missionary!”
They laughed together, and Robbie marveled again, as he had so many times in the past, at how Ruth’s laughter reminded him of the girl’s mother’s—so musical and merry, yet deeply sincere. If there was any difference between them when they laughed, it was that it occurred more often in the girl, for Ruth was a lively child, energetic and ebullient, high-spirited like her father.
Robbie saw Hsi-chen so clearly in his daughter, particularly at moments like this, as her merriment quieted and she sat pensively gazing out upon the rippling water. Her silky black hair shone in the sunlight of the afternoon, her delicate Oriental features and her fluid grace clearly visible even at such a young age. The girl possessed an unusual capacity for quietude and reflection, often displaying a maturity beyond her years—noteworthy, perhaps, because of how smoothly this contemplative side of her nature intermingled with the vivacious side she had inherited from her father. Yet as seemingly opposite as the distinctive sets of attributes were at first glance, in this particular youngster they blended into a harmony as pleasantly as did the mixed heritage of her Scottish and Chinese blood. She had already committed her life to Christ. It still could bring tears of quiet fulfillment and joy to Robbie’s eyes when he recalled that day a year and a half earlier when she had come to him.
“Papa,” she had said, “I love the Lord and want to live my life for Him.”
“Do you know that means your whole life, dear?” he had said.
“Yes, Papa. It doesn’t seem like so very much when I think of all He has done for me,” she answered.
Yes, she had inherited her mother’s depth and spiritual sensitivities. Sometimes, Robbie thought, she had a deeper sense of what it meant to serve God than most adults. She’s further along the true road of life at nine than I was at twenty-nine!
Yet despite all this, there were times when the differences from her mother seemed more pronounced than the likenesses. On the physical level, her Western heritage would have been especially evident to any discriminating Chinese. Her eyes were paler and rounder than Hsi-chen’s, and she would undoubtedly grow to be taller than most of her Oriental ancestors; already she was nearly as tall as her grandmother Shan-fei, and her graceful figure was more willowy and agile. She was more apt to climb a tree than any village girl in Wukiang, and she often scandalized the sedate Chinese neighbors with her tomboyish behavior. Like father, like daughter! Robbie had said to himself more than once, and he could not have wished it otherwise. The balance of Shan-fei’s faithful training in proper decorum for a Chinese girl, along with the occasional ring of Scots that rolled off her tongue, brought about such an enchanting interweaving of her diverse character traits that even the Chinese matrons smiled when the girl passed by. She was so delightful, despite all the cultural idiosyncrasies that clung to her, that they could not help following her growth with the keenest of interest.
As thankful as Robbie was for every reminder of Hsi-chen, he had not cared to artificially try to create a duplicate of his wife in his daughter. Therefore, he was in no way disappointed as these differences gradually revealed themselves. On the contrary, he relished them, praising God that she was a unique individual all her own, praying constantly for the wisdom to keep her so.
He had required a double portion of that wisdom in those early years, and still did for that matter. The grace of God and the love of his mission family had enabled him to bear his grief over the loss of Hsi-chen victoriously. His sorrow was no less painful but infinitely more endurable in that it was a grief shared universally by all. Occasionally self-pity had displaced the victory of his still-young walk of faith when a crying infant, who should have had her mother, felt like an awful burden for him to bear. Many times in the middle of changing a soiled diaper or during an all-night vigil walking a sick baby, he’d think fleetingly of the men who had wives to do such things.
Yet his had been the privilege to participate in joys that other fathers miss; he could not feel sorry for himself for long. That first smile had been showered all upon him, and when she took that first wobbly step, it had been into his arms that she had tumbled, giggling. Papa kissed the childish wounds, read the bedtime books, made her eat her vegetables, and told her stories about ships, about Scotland, about Jesus, and about her mother.
He had known more joy with Ruth than he had ever imagined possible on that black day when Hsi-chen had died. So many times since he had vividly recalled what she had once said to him: “I pray the day will come to you when the joy in staying surpasses any other joys you have known along the way.”
It had surely happened. For even aboard one of those magnificent ships he so loved, he had never felt such a fulfillment and satisfaction that fatherhood brought him.
This trip up the river with his now-nine-year-old daughter had proved one of his greatest thrills, both as a father and as a missionary. It was the first time he had taken her such a long way from home. While she was young, he himself had not traveled much outside the close environs of the mission district. For short jaunts he was often seen in the neighborhood toting her on his back in a pack his friend Kuo-hwa had fashioned for her. But by the age of five or six, her presence began to become gradually disturbing to the villagers. Part of the cause may have been due to her mixed heritage, but a far more likely cause was the simple fact that she was a girl.
By this time Robbie had grown accustomed to Chinese ways sufficiently to take no offense at them, nor to think it his duty to change them. But he still found them insufferable at times, especially when the men of the village began to seem uncomfortable in his presence, and when the women looked with chagrin upon the daughter he loved. He knew that a Chinese child is treated not much more different in its early years than children the rest of the world over. But he still found it hard to accept the change that came, especially in the case of Chinese girls, at about age five. With the beginning of the process of foot binding, a whole new era of life began, founded in a strict enforcement of segregation between the sexes. The once-free child was taught utter submissiveness and reserve, was kept close to home, and was rigidly disciplined in the customs and practices of an ancient culture that had scarcely changed in a thousand years.
Ruth was an obvious incongruity and Robbie would have it no other way. Out of respect for the villagers, he began to take her along with him less frequently. But he refused to keep her housebound, which would have been like trying to keep a captured butterfly healthy in a box. So, though he and Shan-fei and Miss Trumbull all had a hand in the girl’s education, during the remainder of the time she was allowed to run and roam and explore about the mission compound, and even along the near banks of the river. And by and by the local folk began to grow accustomed to the missionary’s daughter, even gradually permitting a different standard for her, probably in much the same way the older villagers had years previously with Hsi-chen, whose somewhat different status allowed her more latitude in their cautious eyes.
This latest overnight trip to several new villages had shown Robbie that acceptance at home did not necessarily mean a like reception abroad. Yet despite the difficulties and awkwardness, it had been grand to share even a small portion of his ministry with her. He had sensed a vibrant potential growing within her and hoped that his instincts were true which told him that she had much to offer the work of God. There was no compunction in his mind about her being a woman, even in China, for he had already seen how effectively women such as Miss Trumbull and other female missionaries he had met since could contribute to the overall evangelizing effort. It remained to be seen whether Ruth’s Oriental heritage would be an asset or a liability for her in her own land; overcoming deeply conservative Chinese attitudes toward women was difficult in any sphere, especially when it came to mission work where teaching and speaking were often involved. It was not unusual for activities accepted from a Western woman (they were barbarians, after all) to be looked upon with outrage from an Oriental.
The difficulties inherent in their peculiar position were never far from Robbie’s mind, yet they were not burdensome or oppressive. God’s purpose was evident in every aspect of their being here. If anything, Robbie was excited in the anticipation of seeing how that purpose would work itself out.
Suddenly Ruth jumped up from where she sat in the crook of her father’s arm. “Look!” she exclaimed, pointing eastward, “there’s the bend.”
“Aye,” replied Robbie. “We’ll be home just in time for dinner.”
Ruth leaned against the gunwale of the boat, and folding her arms in front of her, took on a pensive expression. When she finally spoke her words were earnest and well-considered.
“Thank you for letting me come with you, Papa,” she said.
“It was a pleasure to have your company, dear. I’m only sorry for the bit of trouble we encountered.”
“Will it mean I won’t be able to go with you again?”
“I don’t know,” answered Robbie thoughtfully. “I’ll discuss it with your grandfather. I want you to join me as often as possible, you do know that, don’t you?”
“Oh yes, I do,” she said.
“But your grandfather is still head of the mission and we must trust his wisdom.”
“Papa, why do some people become so upset when they hear about Jesus?”
“There are many reasons, little Chi-Yueh. I did myself when I was trying so hard to hang on to my old life. I could not realize what glorious things God had ready for me. I was even a little afraid. Most people are afraid of new things, Ruth. Even when they are better than the old ways.”
Robbie paused, then smiled as a pleasant memory came to him. “I stopped being afraid when the love of Jesus became a reality to me. Your mother helped me to see that—she had such a capacity to love and care for others.”
“And Mother helped you to give your life to the Lord, didn’t she?”
“Aye, she most certainly did!”
“I’m glad, Papa, for I don’t think I should like it much if I couldn’t talk to you about God.”
Robbie said nothing for a moment, touching his chin in thought as he considered his daughter’s statement. He had never thought of it in quite that way before. He continually acknowledged the gift Hsi-chen had left him in their daughter, but only now did he see that she had left Ruth a gift too—that of having a Christian father who could share the faith with her.
“I’m glad too, dear,” he replied. He held out his hand to her. She came to him and he hugged her lovingly.