CHARLES WILLIAM DOYLE (1852–1903) was born in Landour, India, and studied at Calcutta University before moving to Great Britain to study medicine in London and Edinburgh, finally receiving his medical degree from the University of Aberdeen in 1875. He practiced in England until 1888, then emigrated to the United States to live in Santa Cruz, California, where he became a close friend of Ambrose Bierce.
His first book, The Taming of the Jungle (1899), was a series of sketches about the simple lives of the primitive Indian people who lived in Terai, the huge jungle that skirts the foothills of the Himalayas, depicting their superstitions and their love of the beauty of their surroundings. The book was (inevitably) compared with the works of Rudyard Kipling and more than one newspaper (Boston’s Saturday Evening Gazette, Brooklyn’s Daily Eagle, and The Press) rated his book a worthy rival.
Doyle wrote only one other book, The Shadow of Quong Lung, which appears to have been written mainly to show the inhumane condition of the slave girls of San Francisco’s Chinatown. The five connected stories feature the evil Quong Lung who, unlike most “Oriental” villains of the time, was not intent on world conquest. He was merely a rich and powerful gangster with a band of thugs who would stop at nothing to guarantee his ongoing rule of the region, including his control of prostitution, slavery, kidnapping, and murder. Two of the stories won prominent prizes: “The Wings of Lee Toy” (San Francisco Examiner, December 19, 1897) for a Christmas story and “The Seats of Judgment” (Argonaut) for a short story written in 1898.
“The Shadow of Quong Lung” was originally published in The Shadow of Quong Lung (Philadelphia, J. B. Lippincott, 1900).
“THOU ART CHIN LEE, SCRIVENER?” asked a handsome young Chinaman of the professional letter-writer whose table, with his implements of writing, was set close to the wall at one of the crossings on Clay Street, San Francisco.
“Chin Lee, scrivener, am I; and thou art in good hap this fair morning to have come my way, instead of stopping at the station of Ah Moy (may the sea have his corpse!), who catcheth the unwary lower down the street.”
“I am Ho Chung, and I am late come from Pekin, leaving behind me Moy Yen, my wife, who hath gone back to her kin, who are of the northern hills and speak not as we do. I am fain to send her a letter that can be read of her people, whereby they shall know that I am an honorable man, and that I am making preparation for her journey to this land. Thou art learned in the tongue of the hill people?”
“All the tongues of our great country have yielded me their secrets,” said Chin Lee with the gravity becoming the lie that he uttered daily. (He had an agent in Chinatown who spoke the Manchu dialect, and translated the communications brought to him by Chin Lee.) “Thou art in great luck this propitious morning,” he went on, “for Ah Moy is descended from striped swine.”
“They say he hath a more tender pen, but that thou art more honest.”
“They—mine enemies, doubtless!—tell the truth concerning my honesty, but they lie when they depreciate my qualities as a tender writer. Tenderness and Affection are of my household, and sup with me nightly. But how didst thou talk with Moy Yen, seeing that thy speech differs from hers?”
“I taught her a few words of my tongue, and she taught me a few of hers; and so——”
“Ay, ay!” interrupted Chin Lee; “love hath its own language, and is not in much need of mere words in any tongue. But what is your wish?”
“I would have you tell the young woman—Moy Yen, my wife—that when the man-child Ho Sung—or Moy Yep, if it be a girl (which the Gods forbid!)—hath arrived, I will send her moneys to bring her and the little one to San Francisco. And, Chin Lee,” he hesitated a moment, “didst ever love a woman?”
“I have loved them in every province of our Flowery Land—and in many tongues, Ho Chung.”
“But hast thou knowledge of a sam-yen played under a balcony in a Lane of Death, where nothing is asked?”
“Behold the proof!” replied Chin Lee, rolling up his sleeve and displaying a scar on his arm.
“And did a little child come to thee thereafter?”
“Yea; and the songs I wrote to it are sung in the streets of Shanghai to this day—for I was overpowered with the marvel of its littleness. See, I will add one of those songs to the letter I shall write for thee for the consideration of a ping-long (betel leaf).”
They crossed the street to the reduced gentleman who sold the toothsome delicacy, which the Hindoos understand so much better. And as they discussed the spicy morsels they walked to and fro on the sunny side of Union Square, which is a sequestered retreat, as it were, in the teeming traffic of Chinatown.
“I will write thee two letters,” began Chin Lee; “one to fit the case of a man-child, and the other if thy babe should be a girl. The price for two letters shall be the same as for one—and, my friend, where didst thou say Moy Yen, thy wife, lived?”
“In the lane Pin-yang, of the city Moukden, which is in the Manchu province Shing-king in the hill country. But, belike, thy letter will not reach her, for the lane is one of many small ones in a great city.”
“His stubborn apprehension is clearly due to his much affection,” thought Chin Lee; then he said aloud, “Never fear! Moy Yen, with a smiling babe at her breast, shall receive a letter that shall delight her greatly: my aged father, who looks after my affairs in China (Heaven soften his taking off!), hath an agent in Moukden, and will see to it that the letter doth not miscarry.”
“But Moy Yen is——”
“She is very beautiful?” interrupted Chin Lee, guessing his thought with the aid of much practice.
“She is more beautiful than I can tell, and——”
“So it was in my case,” again interrupted Chin Lee. “The woman that caused me the hurt I showed you—it was a dangerous hurt (he was talking in a confidential and friendly strain by this time—an old trick of his)—but the woman was worthy, by reason of her beauty and her tenderness, of the sudden taking off of even Chin Lee, who is the slave of a wakeful conscience, and the possessor of much experience in affairs of the heart; and it is an ointment to the hurt, which still twingeth shrewdly when the air nips, to clothe my so great experiences in the garments of my rhetoric for the benefit of my honorable patrons.”
“Would it help thy rhetoric to see a presentment of Moy Yen?” asked Ho Chung, drawing an enamelled case from his pocket, and displaying a miniature of a young Chinese woman painted by a Chinese artist.
“The sight of Youth and Beauty are as spurs to the halting poet, or as the sun that waketh a sleeping valley whose charms are enhanced by his ardent rays”; and Chin Lee held the miniature at various distances from his bespectacled eyes, and examined it critically.
“To have looked on this once,” he went on unctuously, “were sufficient inspiration to lay the foundation of a letter that should serve as a model for all lovers from Pekin to Yun-nan;—but to look at it in favored intervals till this hour tomorrow would result in the erection of such turrets and pinnacles of rhetoric as were never before built in our language.”
He paused awhile in meditation, regarding the miniature with head aslant. “Wilt thou leave this with me till tomorrow at this hour, so that I may write that which befits thy affection, and is due to Moy Yen’s beauty and worth?” Then, noticing Ho Chung’s hesitation, he went on: “The picture hath no value to any one save thee—but who may appraise what is dear to the heart? Nevertheless, I will give thee twenty dollars to hold until the picture is restored to thee.”
“It is my comfort in a strange land,” said Ho Chung, eyeing it hungrily.
“And it is worthy of the rhetoric of Chin Lee,” responded the other, loftily.
That settled it. The exchange of money and picture having been made, Ho Chung gave the scrivener many and full particulars to be transmitted to Moy Yen:—details of his own life and work in San Francisco; and hopes for her own welfare and that of the babe that had, doubtless, arrived.
“Write my heart into the letter, Chin Lee,” he ended.
“I will enclose it in the amber of my rhetoric, and transmute the youth, and hope, and the wonders of this land of sunshine into words that shall ripple as pleasantly as the wavelets on the beach at Santa Cruz when the full moon lays its benediction on the sleeping sea and the winds are hushed!”
“Thou hast come, doubtless, to discharge thy debt to me, Chin Lee,” said the stout, arrogant man behind the counter who had Destiny in his looks.
“Ay, Quong Lung,” replied Chin Lee, with a newly acquired confidence. “I have that with me that shall not only free me from my indebtedness to thee, but which will put money in thy purse. But my words are privy, and to be spoken only in thy inner chamber.”
Quong Lung bolted and locked his front door from within, and further fortified the passage with a fatefully contrived barricade;—for the wars of the tongs never cease, and there had been a standing reward for his life for many days. But the contending hatchetmen and highbinders agreed that Quong Lung had a charmed life, and that his enemies were short-lived.
And Chin Lee, professional letter-writer and past-master in the art of lying—and owing Quong Lung money, and a bitter debt of service!—stretched himself with easy negligence on the smoking mat in Quong Lung’s inner apartment, whilst the latter took his place on the other side of the mat.
After they had smoked three or four pipes in silence, Chin Lee drew Moy Yen’s miniature from his blouse and handed it to Quong Lung.
“Would she be worth while,” he asked simply, for rhetoric was out of the question with this man.
“She would, if she were available.”
“All things are available to the mighty. But the price I ask is a great one, Quong Lung, and the strong are ever merciful and generous, and it will not strain thy mercy and generosity to pay my dues.”
“Name them.”
“The remittance in full—to be given in writing—of the money I owe thee; and——” He paused a moment, and then went on in a trembling voice: “See, Quong Lung, the knowledge thou hast of that little happening in Ross Alley ten years ago, when a man was found dead with a certain writing in his hand, hath sat like lead on my soul, and frozen—time and again—the flow of words whereby I live.”
“Yes?”
“Return the writing to me, and I will do thy bidding at all times.”
“Thou shalt do my bidding at all times, in any case,” said Quong Lung, carelessly. “See to it that the young woman is made ‘available’ without loss of time.”
“Death hath no such bitterness as thy supremacy, Quong Lung!”
“Only fools kill themselves, Chin Lee; and ’twere pity,” he went on, with a sneer, “ ’twere pity to put an end to the flow of thy ‘rhetoric.’ ”
He turned his head slowly and looked insolently at the trembling Chin Lee, who had ceased smoking and was kneeling suppliantly before him with clasped hands. As a cat plays with a mouse only to enliven the little game of catching it again, he appeared to relent as he said, “Thy debt in money shall be remitted when the young woman is ‘available’—to use thy phrase. But thy debt in service shall continue with growing interest: I have need of thy ‘rhetoric.’ Now, tell me about the young woman.”
“Her name, Inexorable, is Moy Yen, and she is the wife of Ho Chung, who is a skilled goldsmith, and earneth high wage in the service of Quen Loy of Dupont Street.”
“She is here?”
“Nay, Far Reacher; she is in Moukden, of the province of Shing-king, where the people use other speech than ours, as thou knowest. And Ho Chung, her husband, is saving money for her journey to this land with her babe, after it is born.”
“Her babe?” asked Quong Lung, with a frown.
“Yes, Most Merciful.”
“And what should I do with a babe? My shadow hath fallen on it. See to it that it withers.”
“The lightning shall strike it, Most Worshipful!”
“Have a photograph made of this portrait: it will be needful to Moy Yen’s admission to this land as a ‘Native Daughter.’ ”
“And if she should be as beautiful as her picture shows her to be, wilt thou remit the greater debt?”
“Perhaps,” said Quong Lung, eyeing him for a moment with disdain. “Now go!”
“Here is thy picture, Ho Chung,” said Chin Lee when they met at the appointed hour.
“I could not sleep last night for thinking of it,” responded Ho Chung, returning his money to the letter-writer, and concealing the precious miniature in his blouse.
“Sweetly shalt thou sleep tonight, young man, lulled by the consciousness that never fair woman received letter like this that thou shalt send to Moy Yen. But it is not fitting that such rhetoric as mine should be wasted in a roaring street. Come with me to the square below where, at least, there is grass with pleasant shadows thereon.”
When they had reached Union Square, Chin Lee unrolled the papers in his hand, and read the following letter which he had indited:
“Moy Yen—Cherry Blossom!—to think that these my silly words shall take thine eyes!”
“Excellent!” interrupted Ho Chung; “I perceive thou hast suffered as I do.”
Chin Lee acknowledged the compliment with a smile, and went on with his reading:
“—But to begin rightly: It hath been my good hap to meet with a Master of Rhetoric, one Chin Lee, who is not too old to have forgotten the thrill of the tender passion, and who hath suffered grievously in the cultivation of the affections. He hath much skill in the lofty art of the scrivener, for he hath labored all his life, and at all hours of the day and night, in the stony fields of poesy and expression. His skill is only less than my devotion, which he has herein transmuted into tender phrase and loving passage befitting thy surpassing excellence. What manner of man he is is hereunder told: His learning is only equalled by his benevolence, which is the talk of all people in this great and wondrous city of San Francisco, so that when any one hath good luck all men say, ‘Herein is the hand of Chin Lee!’ ”
“But this is naught to Moy Yen, who would fain hear of me,” broke in Ho Chung.
“The young are ever impatient,” said Chin Lee, looking reprovingly over the top of his spectacles. “Patience is always rewarded.” He then proceeded with his letter:
“What I would, first and last, impress upon thee, Dew of the Morning, is the superexcellence of my Honorable Friend, Chin Lee, who hath toiled in the tea gardens of learning, where only the ‘Orange Pekoe’ of speech, so to speak, is cultivated.”
“ ’Tis a fair sentence,” said Chin Lee, looking up at Ho Chung; “ ‘the Orange Pekoe of speech’ is a fair phrase, and smacks rightly.”
“Proceed,” replied Ho Chung, kicking aside a pebble on the path.
Chin Lee, adjusting his spectacles, went on:
“But, whatsoever happens, always remember that Chin Lee is an Honorable Man—and my best friend.”
“But this doth not touch me,” said Ho Chung, with some irritation.
“Shall I, an uncredited man, act as a go-between for my honorable patrons and their correspondents who live where our speech is not spoken?” asked Chin Lee, with some heat.
“Perhaps thou art right—but I would dictate the rest of the letter. See, I will propitiate thee with favorable mention of thee to Moy Yen.”
“Now nay, Ho Chung; bethink thee: shall one who is acquainted with the ‘Four Books’ and the ‘Five Classics’ yield to a mere goldsmith in matters pertaining to rhetoric? Shall I permit my perfect knowledge of the Confucian Analects to be trampled under foot even by a lover? Thy lack of learning should stand suppliantly in the presence of an understanding that comprehends the encyclopædia ‘Wan heen tung kaou,’ compiled by the learned Ma Twan-lin.” He finished with a lofty emphasis.
“Nevertheless, Chin Lee,” replied Ho Chung, with a look of impatience on his face, “if I may not speak from my heart to Moy Yen’s, I shall be compelled to employ the pen of Ah Moy who, they say, writeth as he is bidden.”
“Ah Moy is a pig, and his father is a stray dog! He knoweth naught of the ‘Ta-heo’ (the Book of Great Learning), and he inditeth letters for coolies only to their filthy trulls—but thou art a sing-song (a gentleman), and hast done wisely to come to the only sing-song in my profession in San Francisco.”
“Thy time is precious, Chin Lee; and I, too, must be about my day’s work,” said Ho Chung, turning his back on the letter-writer.
“Tchch, tchch!” clucked the latter, impatiently. “Pronounce, then, the words I must write, without regard to the lofty art of rhetoric, from thy untutored heart to Moy Yen’s. I am but thy pen. Proceed. But fail not to speak favorably of me, as thou didst promise.”
“The words thou hast written so far shall stand, Chin Lee,” said the other, to conciliate the Master of Rhetoric, with whom rested the ultimate writing of the letter to Moy Yen—a letter not to be misconstrued for obvious reasons.
When the scrivener was ready, Ho Chung dictated his message to the distant Moy Yen in the following terms:
“Beloved!—Soul of my Soul!—Bearing two hearts within thee! thou art blessed and decorated beyond the power of mere speech! But, ere I reach forth into the realms of words to dress thee with the praises that belong to thee, I am fain, first, to extol the good qualities of my Honorable Friend, Chin Lee——”
“Of 7793 Clay Street,” interrupted the scrivener; “and I would add: ‘He can speak thy language, and is famed for his modesty and benevolence.’ ”
“So be it set forth, but interrupt not again,” said Ho Chung, with evident irritation, as he once more resumed his dictation. “Write now only what I shall say,” and Chin Lee, reading Ho Chung’s face aright, was henceforth silent, and wrote as follows:
“Our child?—hath it come, Cherry Blossom? Oh, the weary days until I see it, and hold it in my arms! But the thought that it is part thine and part mine, and that it rests on thy tender bosom, lies on my heart like the dew-pearls on the petals of a new-blown rose. Is it well—oh, it must be well with thee, and Ours! Tell me all that my heart is hungry for, Dawn of Love.
“As for me, I am still in the service of Quen Loy, and my work is in much demand, and holdeth me from early morn till early night;—Quen Loy will not suffer me to work longer lest harm befall mine eyes. My wage is more than passing fair—and even the lottery hath befriended me, so that I am able to send thee, herewith, twenty taels. Two months hence, if my fortune change not, I shall send thee sufficient money to bring thee, and little Thine-and-Mine, to this fair country, where the sun shines more days in the year than elsewhere.
“As for the people of this country, they are not the White Devils as set forth by the ignorant of our kind. The worst that can be said of them is that they obtrude themselves into the houses of our people, and have no reverence for our Gods or our shrines. I am told, too, that their women bare their bosoms and shoulders for the lewd to gaze upon, and that they dance in unseemly fashion in the embrace of men other than their husbands. This I have not seen, for mine eyes are for thy beauty alone, thou Spray of Jessamine!
“But, ah! the thought of thee, and of thy beauty, and of the Blossom—the babe, Thine-and-Mine!—are ever with me. It sustains me in my hours of work,—and then I have thy picture to look at! But it is at night, when the stimulus of work is over, that I feel most keenly that I am a stranger in a far country. Beloved, I awoke trembling last night: methought I was in Pekin with thee, and that I could hear thy gentle breathing; and then I stretched forth my hand; but, alas! thy place beside me was vacant, and I wept amain till the dawn came. Oh, cruel, cruel is the distance between us! and so is the vast wandering sea that separates us, and knows naught of our love, and careth less, and is indifferent to us. But if money can bring thee to me, I will faithfully work for it.
“Farewell, Orange Blossom. I breathe my benediction into the space in which this world spins, knowing that thou art somewhere in it, and that it will find thee.
“These from thy Husband,
“Ho Chung.”
To Ho Chung, two months after the despatch of the above letter, came the following reply from Moy Yen, which was thus translated to Ho Chung the next day, after the crafty Chin Lee had conferred with his Manchu agent:
“Best Beloved: Thy babe hath come!—and it is a Man-Child!
“Oh! my Lord, I have walked on a path that is hedged with death on both sides. Pain held my right hand, and Fear my left. The night was dark and clouded, and full of whisperings of mischance. And oft I should have failed and died, but the thought of Ours, and of my husband in a far and strange land toiling for me, sustained me. And then the babe Ho Sung was born, and the light returned.
“But the ever-fresh wonder of thy Man-Child! How may I tell it! Oh! Ho Chung, his hands are like the petals of a rose, and a cunning woman from Hindostan hath taught me how to stain his nails with henna.
“But the greater wonder of his feet, my Might! He kicked himself naked with them last night—and I can hold them both in one palm!
“He is so beautiful that I do not even fear to put him to the breast that is stabbed with a thousand knives when he suckles.
“He hath speech, also, and it is in terms of two simple cries that convey impressions of pleasure and pain: his laughter is like a tiny, happy waterfall; and his wailings are melodious, too, save that they pierce my heart. And he groweth amain—I can scarce sustain him, though my breasts are never empty.
“Beloved, the twenty taels thou didst send me have arrived. It is a thousand years till I get the rest of the moneys that shall take me to thee, and enable me to put Thine-and-Mine, as thou callest him, in thy arms.
“From thine own,
“Moy Yen.”
“Ho Chung was overcome to the point of death when I read this to him,” said Chin Lee, extending a letter to Quong Lung. “You see, he had knowledge through a previous letter that a notable babe had been born to him; and then came this letter, which, in his grief, he left with me.”
Quong Lung took the paper, and read as follows:
“Best Beloved! Sharer of my joys and sorrows!—A great sorrow hath befallen us.
“But the babe—our babe, Thine-and-Mine!—was ever such a babe!
“How may I tell it!
“Yesterday some miscreant stole it from us. At first my heart filled with hope, because of the milk that flowed into my breasts, for, methought, that was a sign that our little one was still alive, and that I should, surely, suckle it again. But now my heart is full of pain, and my breasts are empty of milk!
“Strength of my Strength! call thy utmost strength to thy aid: thy man-child Ho Sung was stolen from my side as I slept, and to-day his body was found in the canal, and my milk, oh! my Lord, lay on his frozen lips.”
“Thy honorable and aged parent in the Flowery Land is an ‘artist,’ ” said Quong Lung, extending a cigar to Chin Lee.
“But we are ever more favored than our sires, for we reap the harvests sown by them. In fact, Chin Sen, my father, but followed out my directions,” answered Chin Lee, eagerly.
Quong Lung proceeded to read as follows:
“Oh, my Lord, my babe being dead, and thou in a far land, my life droops. Oh, let me come to thee soon, soon, soon!
“From thy grief-stricken wife,
“Moy Yen.”
“See to it that she comes soon,” said Quong Lung, putting five double eagles on the table. “Her beauty will fade if she sorrow too long. Ah! I have it,” he exclaimed. “My agent at Shanghai, Fan Wong, will despatch his next consignment of slave girls to me two months hence under charge of my wife, Suey See, who doth such errands for me. Moy Yen shall return as thy Californian daughter, Chin Lee, in fulfilment of the requirements of the Chinese Exclusion Act. Thy daughter shall have honorable escort.”
“Thou art in merry mood this morning, Compeller. But greater honor would accrue to Moy Yen if she were to come as thy daughter—and no questions would be asked by the authorities on this side.”
“No questions shall be asked in any case,” said Quong Lung.
“Even the White Devils fear thee, Far Reacher! But the man Ho Chung is young and strong—and he might get knowledge of this matter—and my life is still precious to me. ’Twould place me on a dangerous path bordered by death, Most Merciful.”
“Therefore do I order it,” said Quong Lung, slowly, regarding Chin Lee with half-closed eyes. “But thou hast done well so far, Chin Lee; passing well. How much dost thou owe me?”
“One hundred and thirty-eight dollars, Fair Dealer;—and the rack of a scrap of paper that fell into thy hands. Consider: I have caused thy shadow to fall on a flower that hindered—and the flower hath withered. Thou wilt let that weigh with thee, Most Merciful.”
“ ’Twas well done; very well done! ’Twas worth not less than the fifty dollars I herewith remit of thy debt to me in money,” and Quong Lung wrote, and gave Chin Lee a receipt for that amount.
“But thou art not appraising the removal of the babe at fair value, Quong Lung.”
“Fair enough, fair enough, when one considers that which was found ten years ago in Ross Alley in the hand of a dead man.”
“Quong Lung, ’twere easier to confess all, than to live under the stress of thy shadow. Yes; to confess all—all!—some of thy misdeeds, too.”
There was a battery connected with the chair on which Chin Lee sat, and, as he clasped its arms in the act of rising, Quong Lung switched on the current by an unperceived movement of his foot.
“The raising of thy voice, Chin Lee, would summon instant death. No man may threaten me, and live.”
He held up a menacing finger, as his victim writhed in the toils of the Demon that Bestows Cramps.
“Call off thy Devil, Quong Lung; call him off! I am forever thy slave,” whined Chin Lee.
“No man may threaten me, and live,” repeated Quong Lung, impressively. “Yet see, I will be magnanimous to thee, for only the hem of my shadow hath fallen on thee this time—and I am mindful, too, of the bud that withered.”
He shut off the current, whilst Chin Lee, almost dead with fear, sank into his chair and wiped the great drops from his forehead.
“Great is Quong Lung, and great are his spells!” he gasped. “I am his slave henceforth.”
“Well spoken, Chin Lee. Now drink, for thou hast received the lesser discipline that I mete out to ingrates, and art in need of the assistance of sam shu,” and Quong Lung set cups and a teapot filled with Chinese gin on the table that was between them.
“Nay, fear not, Chin Lee; the liquor is not poisoned. See,” and Quong Lung filled a cup for himself, and drank its contents. Then, as his guest drank with a shaking hand, Quong Lung went on:
“Thou wert nearer a heavier discipline than that, Chin Lee. Stand a pace to the right of thy chair, and thou shalt see.”
Chin Lee had scarcely complied with his command, when an arrow whizzed past him, and transfixed the chair from which he had just risen.
“Other means have I for subduing the recalcitrant. Never forget that thou art in my hands. And now some more sam shu; and resume thy seat,” said Quong Lung, withdrawing the arrow from the chair.
“Thou wilt write to Moy Yen, in the name of Ho Chung, and direct her to the keeping of my wife Suey See who, also, will seek her with credentials purporting to come from Ho Chung.”
“Thy wishes shall be obeyed, Subduer,” returned the other, meekly. Then, with an air of sycophancy, he went on: “And when Moy Yen sends word of her coming, I will alter the date of her arrival here in the translation of the letter to Ho Chung, so that we may not be interrupted in any way in the taking of our pretty partridge to her cage. Ho, ho!”
“Thou art a worthy son of that worthy artist, thy honorable and aged father; and thy rhetoric shall yet advance thee. Drink once more.”
“The brightness of the day is reflected in thy looks, my young friend,” said Chin Lee with his best professional smile as he unfolded the letter Ho Chung had given him the day before—the third he was to translate and embellish with the flowers of his rhetoric for the young goldsmith.
“Ah, ha!” he went on, as he smoothed out the letter on his table; “I am, indeed, thy Luck. See what it is to have employed a man versed in languages, and who can summon happy words at his will. It is well known that I can pack more meaning into a sentence than Ah Moy, the hungry, can convey in a column. Not for nothing have I culled the flowers that abound in the She king of Confucius,” and he shook his head with a nod of self-approval.
“Great, indeed, O Chin Lee, is the wonder of thy learning——”
“It is spoken of even among the barbarians who live on the borders of Thibet,” interrupted the scrivener. “Even the Mandarins who sway the destinies of our great empire are fain to ease their so great and important functions with recitation of the odes I used to throw off in my idle moments. And when it was told to the Emperor that one Chin Lee, scrivener, prosodian, and rhetorician——”
“But this is barren talk,” interrupted Ho Chung, looking hungrily at the letter in Chin Lee’s hand.
“How headlong is youth!” exclaimed Chin Lee, in a tone of deprecation. “What a glowing sentence didst thou cool with the breath of thy impatience! The beauty of the young day, the expectant love beaming in thy youthful countenance, the news herein contained——”
“Oh, man of many words, is it good news?” once more interrupted Ho Chung, eagerly.
But the other held up his hand in remonstrance, and went on: “And the thought of the great task that the mightiest of Emperors had it in mind once to impose upon me, the task of compiling an encyclopædia that should rival that of Ma Twan-lin—all these had roused me to a height of poetic fervor that would have ended in a climax of rhetoric that should have thundered down the ages! Hast no love for literature? and do not the claims of posterity appeal to thee?”
“I have a passing strong love for Moy Yen, Chin Lee, and my heart knocketh for news of her. Give me the letter and I will go to Ah Moy, and leave thee to nourish thy ‘poetic fervor,’ ” and Ho Chung extended an impatient hand.
“The heedlessness of youth passeth the comprehension of the wise! Well, if thou must obstruct the flow of rhythmic prose of which I feel capable even now, in spite of thy interruptions, I will translate the letter of thy Moy Yen. Sit down beside me, my headlong friend, while I improve the crude sentences wherewith the letter-writer of Moukden hath expressed the love of the beautiful Moy Yen for thee.”
He wiped his spectacles deliberately, and proceeded to read as follows, interpolating and altering as suited the exigencies of the plot in which he was concerned:
“Ho Chung, Deliverer! oh, my hope is fulfilled! Yesterday came twenty other taels from thee! And a kinsman, but lately found—who is an opium merchant, and hath been bereft of children, too—gave me other twenty for the journey, and yet another twenty to put into thy hand. See: before the moon is full again, they tell me I shall look once more upon my Beautiful Lord. The great vessel of iron moved by fire and steam, in which I shall cross the seas that separate us, will leave a month hence (Chin Lee substituted a ‘month’ for ‘two weeks’), and I shall be with my sweet Lord ere the cherry blossoms show. I herewith send thee a paper that tells the name and date of departure of the vessel that shall bring me to thee.
“But, oh, my Lord! how may I leave Thine-and-Mine behind me! Oh, the tender lips that I made, and the miracles of hands and feet; and the soft mouth that clung to me! Oh, Ho Chung, Ho Chung, how may I leave Thine-and-Mine behind me! Thou canst not understand it, my Lord, but the love of a woman for her babe—dead or alive—is beyond the comprehension of men….And, too, a thousand deaths beset me in giving him birth—and then to lose him!
“Hasten, days and nights! Be propitious, seas and stars!—so shall I soon clasp my beloved Lord once more.
“Oh, Ho Chung, I love thee, I love thee!
“From thy wife,
“Moy Yen.”
As Ho Chung sat in rapt meditation over his impending happiness, Chin Lee spoke. “Never speaks heart to heart so sweetly,” he began, “as in a first tender passion; and no one is so fit to interpret its soft utterances as a man of feeling and experience—and that am I. The bald sentences herein contained had bereft the day of sunlight for thee, but they glowed when they had been passed through the crucible of my fancy, my young goldsmith. Hadst thou followed thy foolish impulse to take the letter to Ah Moy—but why should I defile my mouth by further mention of him: he is a mere peddler of common speech; a coolie in literature! And see, my fond lover, it were better that the memory of my glowing translation should abide with thee than that somebody should expose to thee, in all its naked hideousness, the crude work of the scrivener who wrote this letter for Moy Yen. Let it have burial by fire”; and, before Ho Chung could guess his intention, Chin Lee had thrust the letter, that had to be destroyed, into the brazier at his feet.
“What hast thou done?” said Ho Chung, angrily. “Chin Lee, thou hast exceeded thy functions, and for small excuse I would chastise thee. Moy Yen’s letters are my only comfort in a strange land.”
“Stay thy hand, and repress thy wrath,” said a stout Chinese merchant, regarding Ho Chung over the top of his spectacles. He had arrived in time to witness the burning of the letter by Chin Lee, and to hear Ho Chung’s outbreak. It was Quong Lung, who maintained his evil supremacy by venturing abroad even when the Wars of the Tongs were at their height, although there was a reward on his head. But the See Yups are numerous, and he was practically surrounded by a body-guard of desperate hatchetmen sworn to his service. In the crowd of softly-shod Orientals who surrounded him, and who appeared to be but a part of the shifting crowd that ebbed and flowed along the street, were men ready to slay any one who made a movement that menaced Quong Lung. The house whence came a bullet that passed through his sleeve the preceding week was burnt the same night; and Chinatown laughed at the temerity of the tong whose hired assassin had fired the shot.
“Chin Lee,” he went on, “thy rhetoric must be at fault to have roused the wrath of this worthy sing-song.”
“Dominator,” replied Chin Lee, “I had it in mind to favor my young friend, Ho Chung, with the memories of a perfervid translation of a certain letter that lacked rhetorical merit. But Ho Chung hath no love for literature and rounded periods, and resented the destruction of the crude message translated by me.”
“Young man,” said Quong Lung, as he made a vivid mental note of Ho Chung, “it will comfort thee to know that Chin Lee, master of many words, doeth me much favor in the translation of certain letters that come from districts where they use speech unlike ours.”
“And who art thou?” asked Ho Chung, with some heat.
“I am that Quong Lung known of all men in Chinatown.”
“I have heard of thee—heard much ill of thee; and I like thee not,” returned Ho Chung with warmth.
“Did they tell, too, that Chin Lee is my friend?” asked Quong Lung, apparently ignoring Ho Chung’s exhibition of temper. “Nay? Well, hear it then from my lips; and, further, let me tell thee that those who honor him honor me. Of course, thou hast excuse for thy temper—and I will not notice it.” Then, turning to the scrivener, he went on: “But, Chin Lee, see to it that whilst the letter thou hast destroyed is fresh in thy mind thou dost set it forth in thy loftiest terms in writing that shall serve as an ointment to this worthy sing-song’s hurt.” And Quong Lung proceeded slowly along the street, apparently unaware of the fact that all men looked at him.
“Thou art, indeed, in luck this day, my rash young friend,” said Chin Lee, getting his writing implements ready. “It is not given to many men to express dislike of Quong Lung to his face, and be excused thereafter for so doing. But beware lest his Shadow fall upon thee: it is the Mantle of Death.”
Suey See had so schooled Moy Yen during the long voyage concerning the difficulty of landing in San Francisco except as Chin Lee’s daughter, born in California, that the young woman made no demur when she was told that Ho Chung’s absence from the wharf was absolutely necessary.
“Thy love for the beautiful goldsmith, thy husband, will betray thee in the presence of the officers of the law, and then they will send thee back across the cruel sea.”
“Heaven be praised for having sent me such kind friends in my need; for consider, Suey See, I have been bereft of my babe, and I could not lose my lord, too.”
Then, too, Quong Lung’s influence with those who are concerned with the administration of the Chinese Exclusion Act had made Moy Yen’s landing an easy matter.
In the hack in which she was taken to one of Quong Lung’s “establishments” she was plied with sam shu so cunningly sophisticated that she was scarcely conscious as they thrust her into the padded room in which Suey See had said Ho Chung awaited her.
That same evening Chin Lee, partaking of “black smoke” on the mat in Quong Lung’s inner chamber, addressed the latter thus: “Quong Lung, the destruction of an important writing witnessed by thee merits some reward, Fair Dealer. Its capture would have made trouble.”
“Trouble for thee, doubtless, thou mere son of a great artist.”
“Nay, Quong Lung, the aged and infirm Chin Sen, my honorable parent, had failed in his part had I not instructed him so carefully that he could not make a mistake. And, surely, he had nothing to do with the burning of Moy Yen’s letter.”
“ ’Twas a worthy burning, Chin Lee,” said Quong Lung, somewhat thickly. He had been partaking unusually freely of whiskey since he had assisted at the formalities connected with the landing of his “covey of partridges,” as he styled them; and the beauty of Moy Yen (who was now his property by process of the law that winks at such transactions) appealed strongly to him. “ ’Twas a worthy burning. What dost thou owe me now in money?”
“Eighty-eight dollars, O Soul of Generosity,” answered Chin Lee.
“Write me a receipt for the amount, my Plotter, and I will sign it.”
When Chin Lee had bestowed the receipt in his pocket-book, he said with all the nonchalance he could summon to his aid: “And Moy Yen, my daughter—she is comely?”
“She is most beautiful, Chin Lee. It is beyond the power of even thy rhetoric to compass her praises,” returned Quong Lung with swelling nostrils, as he licked his lips.
“Doubtless, she is worth the scrap of paper that was found untowardly in Ross Alley ten years ago,” said Chin Lee, tentatively, trying to repress any evidence of the anxiety that racked him.
Quong Lung laid down his pipe, and sat up on the mat. After looking among the papers in his pocket-book, he drew forth and handed one that was yellow with age to Chin Lee.
“Moy Yen is so beautiful, Chin Lee, and thou hast managed so well and faithfully in this matter, that I herewith release thee from all further service for placing her in my cage,” and he lay down on the mat once more, and prepared some more opium for smoking.
As Chin Lee set fire to the fateful writing at the oil lamp on the tray beside him, and as he watched it burning till it was completely consumed, it seemed to him that the shadow of Quong Lung had fallen from his soul, and that he had at last laid the grim ghost that had haunted him for ten years at the bidding of the tyrant beside him. He should at last walk with greater confidence among his fellows, and the day should be brighter for him, he thought. If, under the stress of the paper that he had just destroyed, he had striven in the service of rhetoric, his fancy—now released from Bondage—should soar on freer pinions and in loftier flight. He should at last accomplish something that all men should talk about, and that should become a classic even in the few years that remained to him.
He had reached thus far in the pleasant reverie that was reflected in his face, when Quong Lung, noticing his rapt air and intuitively getting at the thought in his mind, spoke once more after he had finished his pipe:
“But always thou wilt remember, Chin Lee,” he began, in deeper and more deliberate tones than he had yet used; “always thou wilt remember—whatever may happen—that thou art the father of Moy Yen, and will not fail in such paternal services as she may require from thee.”
And the Shadow of Quong Lung, that had been lifted from the soul of Chin Lee for a moment, fell once more upon him with its gloomy oppression.
Chin Lee slept but little that night. The waning fear of detection that was connected with the crime of ten years ago had been replaced by a greater dread of the very possible finding of Moy Yen by Ho Chung. And Ho Chung was young and strong. He was brave, too; for he had looked, without flinching, into the eyes of the mighty Quong Lung, and even spoken scornfully to him. And he was very much in love.
Better death than the tyranny of the fateful Quong Lung, who only lifted a lesser fear to impose a greater.
Was Quong Lung then invincible? Was he, indeed, Supreme Master in the art of plotting? Had not Chin Lee himself shown Quong Lung that he could plan and carry out a deep-laid scheme to the Master’s satisfaction? Had not Quong Lung complimented him with the title of “plotter”?
When the dim morning light straggled into Chin Lee’s room through the chinks between the shutters and barricades, it showed him gray and haggard, but with an unmistakable look of fixed resolve on his face; for he had thrown the die, although his life might be the forfeit of the game he was about to play.
One thing was in his favor: he would have the advantage of striking the first blow, and at a time of his own choosing. And, further, he would strike with a hatchet of his own sharpening!
When the day dawned that should bring the ship which carried Moy Yen to San Francisco, as Ho Chung fondly imagined, the young goldsmith sought Chin Lee. “Come with me,” he began with a beaming countenance; “come with me, Chin Lee, and help me to welcome my wife, Moy Yen. I shall need the aid of thy rhetoric.”
“That would necessitate the closing of my scrivener’s stall for the day, thou worthy goldsmith;—and the scrivener’s art is falling into decay by reason of the upspringing of coolie letter-writers who know naught of the encyclopædias which even the White Devils read and admire.”
“And what is the price for the closing of thy stall for a day, Chin Lee?”
“The price, my affluent young friend, is hard to be appraised in terms of mere money: posterity will have to suffer if I accompany thee, for I am laboring and urgent this morning to bring forth sentences of exceeding merit, and one may not weigh pearls that perish against winged words possessing immortal youth and that shall enrich generations to come.”
“Will five dollars suffice thee?” asked Ho Chung.
“Five dollars would scarcely recompense my conscience for withdrawing my accomplishments from the realm of letters for an entire day—the Gods expect service for the gifts they bestow. But in thy case—and seeing that thou hast discriminated between an artist and a coolie—I will waive the dues that are properly mine, and go with thee to meet thy Moy Yen.”
After he had pocketed his fee, and placed his writing-table in the store of a friend, Chin Lee accompanied Ho Chung to the wharf, which they reached whilst the day was at noon.
There was hardly any one on the wharf, for the signallers at Point Lobos had seen no signs of the approach of the City of Peking.
To and fro walked Ho Chung and the scrivener, the latter trying to enliven the dragging hours with flowing sentences that fell on unheeding ears, for Ho Chung was more occupied in watching the point round which the steamer would come than in attending to Chin Lee.
“My stomach knocketh shrewdly,” said Chin Lee in the middle of the afternoon. “ ’Twere well, my patron, to assist nature to bear up against the strain of this our waiting. Besides, thou, too, art worn; and it were no compliment to Moy Yen to greet her with a face of famine. How should I produce pearls of rhetoric when Hunger lays his hand on my mouth?” So Ho Chung unwillingly accompanied the famished and weary scrivener to a place of refreshment on Market Street, where even a Chinaman’s money will procure food and drink.
Seeing that Ho Chung scarcely touched the food placed in front of him, Chin Lee pressed him: “Eat, my young friend. Thou mayst need all thy strength before the day is out.”
“What dost thou mean?” asked Ho Chung, eyeing the other askance for a moment.
“We who have studied philosophy have gained mental strength and quietude which even disappointment may not disturb. But thou art young, and headlong, and impatient, and must brace thyself with food and drink lest disappointment come to thee and thy strength fail.”
“Disappointment? What disappointment?” asked Ho Chung.
“Nay; how should I know? I spoke of disappointment in general terms. Thou wast disappointed this morning, for instance, because the ship did not arrive at the time set for it, and thy disappointment hath worn thee. Eat, therefore.”
After they had finished their meal they returned to the wharf, and in deference to Chin Lee’s weary feet they sat on an empty box at the end of the wharf and waited.
Presently the scene on the wharf became livelier, and, as the steamer hove into sight, the officials, who look after the landing of Chinese, came to the wharf, and Ho Chung joined them as he had been instructed to, Chin Lee accompanying him.
And now the happy moment had come when Ho Chung should once more have sight of his wife, Moy Yen. He was taken into the cabin set apart for Chinese women. “Moy Yen, Beloved,” he called softly, with outstretched hands, as he entered the cabin. But no one responded. He eagerly scanned the dull, impassive faces of the women before him.
“She is, doubtless, in some other apartment,” he said, addressing the interpreter. “Send for her.”
“Moy Yen’s name does not appear on the list of passengers. You must have made some mistake. Am I not right, sir?” asked the interpreter of the ship’s officer who accompanied them.
“We did not carry any one of that name,” was the answer.
A great fear came upon Ho Chung, and he trembled so that he was forced to clutch Chin Lee’s arm as they left the vessel.
“Courage, my dear young friend! Call philosophy to thy aid,” urged Chin Lee. But the only response he got was, “Oh! Moy Yen, Moy Yen! Where art thou, Beloved?”
Chin Lee led him to the seat they had occupied that morning at the end of the wharf. Here all was quiet and dark, save for the twinkling of the stars overhead.
“Courage, my poor young Friend! Thou shalt yet find Moy Yen,” began Chin Lee.
Orion’s glittering belt, and glorious Sirius shining in the wonderful blue-black of the sky of a Californian night swept by a north wind, made no impression on Ho Chung, who moaned at intervals: “Oh, Moy Yen, Moy Yen! Where art thou?”
“Listen, Ho Chung; I will tell thee.”
“What! thou canst tell me where Moy Yen is, and thou didst not tell me before!” said Ho Chung, clutching the other’s arm. “Explain thyself, scrivener—and in few words; otherwise thou art treading the path that leads to death.”
“I will tell thee a plain tale,” replied Chin Lee, who had prepared himself for the occasion. “And if I appear to lie to thee, let this be the instrument of my destruction,” and he drew a formidable knife from his mysterious blouse and handed it to Ho Chung.
“Ten years ago,” he resumed, “I, too, had a mistress——”
“But Moy Yen is my wife!” interrupted Ho Chung.
“But a mistress is ever dearer than a wife, my inexperienced friend! Yes, Yu Moy was fairer even than my words can tell; and Shan Toy stole her from me. And, thereafter, he was found dead in Ross Alley, with a writing in his hand that would have given me to the rope of the white hangman; and the writing fell into the hands of Quong Lung—who hath done thee much wrong. For ten years Quong Lung hath——”
“But this relateth not to Moy Yen,” said Ho Chung, impatiently.
“It lies closer to her than her garments,” said Chin Lee. “Listen: With proof in his hand that would hang me, Quong Lung (than whom a more cruel and cunning fiend does not exist in hell!) has made me the slave of his iniquities. He hath stricken me dumb with the terror of his ever present shadow.” He ceased for a moment while Ho Chung, never relaxing his grasp on Chin Lee’s arm, took a deep breath with distended nostrils.
“Proceed.”
“Oh, my Brother in Affliction!” resumed Chin Lee; “he hath wrought thee much wrong. But why waste words: thou didst flout him openly the first time thou sawest him, and it was told in Chinatown; and, so, the shadow of Quong Lung hath fallen upon thee, too.”
“But Moy Yen—tell me of Moy Yen!”
“Quong Lung hath stricken thee through her.”
“Is she dead?” demanded Ho Chung fiercely, increasing the pressure on the other’s arm.
“No; there are things worse than death, and Moy Yen, by the laws of the White Devils, is now slave to Quong Lung, and penned up in his house of ill-fame on Waverley Place—nay, friend, the clutch of thy hand is too shrewd—and I am an old man—and my flesh is tender.”
“And thou hadst knowledge of all this, and didst not tell me!” said Ho Chung, without heeding Chin Lee’s last remark.
“It would not have availed thee, Ho Chung: Quong Lung hath many tools; and, besides, to have told thee would have involved thy taking off.”
“That would have been merciful, at any rate. Proceed.”
“See, Ho Chung, I am old enough to be thy father, and, therefore, wiser and more experienced. If thou wilt let me guide thee in this matter we will rid the world of a monster, and thou shalt have thy Moy Yen again.”
“Have Moy Yen again!—Moy Yen dishonored! Ha, ha, ha!” and Ho Chung, who was ordinarily undemonstrative, after the manner of his race, went off into a shriek of hysterical laughter. “I loved Moy Yen—ho, ho, ho, ho!—and she was abducted from me—with thy knowledge—ha, ha, ha!—and I am to rid the world of Quong Lung to serve thy ends, and, as reward, receive Moy Yen, whose honor hath been soiled—oh, ye Gods! this is just cause for exceeding mirth—ha, ha, ha, ha——!”
At the first peal of wild laughter Chin Lee’s heart beat fast, and a chill fear struck him. “Madness hath seized upon him,” he thought. As Ho Chung proceeded, the scrivener’s terror increased. With a sudden effort he wrenched himself free, and made a dash to escape.
“The shadow of Quong Lung hath covered thee tonight,” shouted Ho Chung, as he overtook Chin Lee, and buried the knife to the hilt between his shoulders.
He tossed the dying man into the bay, and, after cleansing his hands and his weapon at a faucet on the wharf from which he had drunk that afternoon, he turned his steps towards Waverley Place—and Moy Yen.
The house in which Moy Yen was at present confined consisted of a long passage, into which rooms but little larger than cells opened. Each room had a window with heavy iron bars, through which those who were in the passage could see the girls within.
Round each window, as Ho Chung entered, was a polyglot crowd, whose size was in proportion to the beauty of the occupant of the room. So thick was the press round one window that Ho Chung—though insistent and impatient, besides being heavier and taller than those present—could not force his way to the front, but had to wait his turn.
One glance over the heads of those in front of him showed him Moy Yen sitting on the side of a bed. She was dressed in black velvet, and her head gear was loaded with jewellery. In the lobes of her ears were heavy rings that hung almost to her shoulders; and on her wrists were massive jade bracelets. Ready to her hand, on the bed, lay a wicked-looking knife which her father had given her when he bade her good-by at Hong Kong. (“Let it guard thy honor, Little One, if need be,” he had said.)
She had an expression of intense sadness on her face; and she appeared to look through and beyond the crowd gazing upon her.
“They say that she hath been but two weeks in San Francisco,” said a young Chinese “blood” in the crowd to his pampered friend. “If these coolies would but remove themselves, we might at least look upon her beauty, which is much spoken of.”
Ho Chung, who stood immediately behind the speaker, had it in mind to slay him there and then, but that would have interfered with far more important matters.
“She hath a sorrow that adds to her beauty, methinks,” remarked the well-fed friend, who was in a better position to see Moy Yen. He put his head to one side critically, and smacked his lips as he regarded her.
“I overheard one say at the restaurant, last night, that Quong Lung gave Chin Lee the scrivener, whose daughter she is alleged to be, three thousand dollars for her,” remarked the young Chinese man-about-town. (Ho Chung smiled grimly at this, and the thought of what had but just happened on the wharf shot one ray of comfort into the sorrow at his heart.)
“Quong Lung never made a better investment, Lee Yung, and he is no mean appraiser of flesh,” returned the man who fulfilled the Psalmist’s description of the ungodly, “whose eyes swell with fatness, and they do even what they lust.”
“I am told, too, that she will admit no one into her room; not even a woman. Quey Lem, the old hag who looks after the girls here, told me last night that Quong had her put into this cell three days ago as a punishment, because she discouraged his advances with a knife——”
“It is on the bed beside her,” interrupted the stout man, catching sight of the knife.
“It is a great telling, Nu Fong,” went on the man of fashion, and the crowd, whom he elegantly ignored, listened to his “telling.” “I am in favor with Quey Lem for very good reasons,” began Lee Yung: “I give her a trifle occasionally for taking thought of me”; and he looked round arrogantly at Ho Chung, who had trodden on his heel as he advanced an inch in the forward movement to the window.
“She was like a wild-cat newly caged, Quey Lem told me,” resumed Lee Yung; “and she would have died of inanition—for she refused to eat or drink.”
“What made her give so much trouble, Lee Yung?”
“Oh, she hath a lover, or a husband—some such obstacle—whom she expected to meet in San Francisco; and Quong Lung diverted her from him.”
“Ho, ho, ho!” laughed Nu Fong. “Diverted is good! But why did she not die of starvation?”
“Thy academic career, Nu Fong, hath been sadly neglected. If you were a ‘Native Son,’ as I am, you would know that these White Devils can steal one’s senses by poisoning the air one breathes; and that when one is in that condition they can feed him through tubes let into the stomach through the mouth.”
“That is a joyless way of taking one’s sustenance, Lee Yung; and an insult to the palate that hath its inalienable rights.”
By this time they had advanced close enough to the window to give Lee Yung a full view of Moy Yen, who now sat listlessly with downcast eyes.
“By the Grave of my Father!” exclaimed Lee Yung; “rumor hath not lied for once. From the crown of her head to her little feet she is formed for the uses and offices of love.” More he was not permitted to say, for Ho Chung, taking firm hold of the young men’s queues, knocked their heads together.
“Have ye no respect for beauty in distress, ye pampered dogs?” he asked, angrily. “Nay; make no motion, lest ye die suddenly.”
He thrust them to one side, and stepped to the window. The sound of his angry voice had attracted the other crowds in the passage, and, as they surged towards him, he warned them back with an imperious gesture.
“The young woman within is Moy Yen, my wife, who hath been stolen from me. I would have speech with her, and I would not be overheard. Let this argument persuade ye to keep back,” and he drew a knife from his sleeve.
When Moy Yen heard Ho Chung’s voice she raised her head and ran to the window; and when the crowd had fallen back at Ho Chung’s bidding, he turned to Moy Yen, and clasped the hands she had extended through the bars.
“Oh! Moy Yen, Moy Yen, the Gods that were sworn to protect thee are false—and there are no Gods, but only devils of greater or lesser degree. Oh! Little One, how camest thou here?”
“My Beautiful Lord,” she replied; “Suey See, the wife of one Quong Lung, showed me and my father letters in Hong Kong written for thee by Chin Lee, thy so great friend, and they said I was to put myself in charge of Suey See, who would give me honorable escort to San Francisco. And so I came.”
“But this was to be the day of thy arrival.”
“Thy letters, My Lord, said I was to start two weeks earlier than the time agreed upon, and I but obeyed thee. But now you will take me hence, my Lord and Master.”
“Yes; thou shalt certainly escape hence, my Best Beloved; but the time for thy escape is short, and I have much to ask thee. Where wast thou taken on the day of thy arrival?”
“To the house of Quong Lung. But why dost thou ask, Ho Chung?” and she raised pleading eyes to his face.
“Tell me all, my Heart; and make haste, oh, make haste!—the time is short.”
“Of anything that happened I am entirely innocent, my Husband; for they led me to a chamber where they said I should find thee—but thou wast not there; and soon after, and whilst I wept, the drugged food and drink they had given me after I left the ship bereft me of my senses, and I fell into a deep sleep.”
She stopped to weep awhile, until Ho Chung bade her proceed.
“When I woke, dear Master, a light burned in the room; and one, whom I now know to be Quong Lung, stood beside me with hungry eyes. And he spoke to me—such things as only lovers say to one another. But, when he laid a desecrating hand on my shoulder, I leapt from the bed and made at him with the knife that was concealed in my sleeve, and which I have so far managed to hide from my foes. So Quong Lung fled, and the door closed behind him with a snap; and I could not beat it down, nor wrench away the bars from the window. I was as a bird in a cage, and, therefore, I could but cry for help—but none came. Every night a strange heaviness comes upon me, and the air of my room becomes impregnated with a sweet heavy odor; and thereafter, in a half-swoon, I either see or dream that strange men and an old woman are about me; and when I wake I neither care to eat nor drink. And, because I persisted in repelling Quong Lung, I was brought here by means unknown to me; and here men, with hideous passions and evil looks, come and stare at me in my helpless captivity, and say abominable things to me. And I am to stay here till I yield myself to Quong Lung—but I would sooner die, Ho Chung, my Husband, as thou must know in thy heart. And now take me hence.”
“Thou Brave, and Beautiful, and Faithful!—but, oh, Moy Yen, thou art, indeed, like a bird in a cage, and I am powerless to free thee—except in one way. Yes, indeed, thou must escape hence, for this is the abode of Dishonor, and better death than dishonor! Courage! the road to freedom is not so hard to travel. See, Little One, come nearer, for fear any one in the crowd should hear our speech and report to Quong Lung. So; press thy bosom to the bars, so that I may feel the beating of thy faithful heart. Now close thine eyes, for beautiful as they are thy face hath another beauty when thine eyes are closed—as I have often seen when thou hast slept.”
Therefore Moy Yen closed her eyes, and pressed her bosom against the bars of the window.
“My husband,” she murmured, “now thou art come, I am happy once more.”
Ho Chung placed his hand where he could feel the beating of her heart.
“ ’Twas here Thine-and-Mine used to repose, Cherry Blossom!” As he spoke, he steadied the point of the knife with the hand he had laid on her breast, and, before any one in the crowd could guess his intention, he drove it through her heart with a swift blow from the other hand.
The crowd broke and fled in wild disorder, as Ho Chung turned from the window. With Moy Yen’s dying scream ringing in his ears, he strode rapidly towards Quong Lung’s abode, whither he had been preceded—during his interview with Moy Yen—by Wau Shun, who acted as “bully” at the establishment on Waverley Place. He was one of the most dangerous highbinders in Chinatown, for he was backed by the full weight of Quong Lung’s power; moreover, no man knew what he intended, or where he was looking, because of his atrocious squint. At present he was undergoing a severe castigation of words from Quong Lung, and writhing under the lash of his master’s scorn.
“So; thou art not ashamed to take the wages of a man, and to run like a woman, Wau Shun! Doubtless, thy constant association with the women thou hast in keeping has turned thy blood to milk. Ho Chung is but a boy beside thee in years.”
“Nay, Compeller, I am here in thy best interests, for Ho Chung will arrive presently, and I am come to protect thee.”
“Protect me! Does the jackal protect the lion?”
“Nay, Most Powerful; but there is a killing forward, and thy honorable hands must not be soiled with blood.”
“Oh! And why didst thou not do thy office at thy post, my considerate jackal? Thou hadst thy fangs with thee.”
“I could not use powder and lead, Great Master, for fear of killing Moy Yen.”
“Were thy knife and hatchet blunt, then?”
“Ho Chung’s wrath was terrible to behold, Quong Lung; even the crowd fell back before it—for he is tall and strong, and he appeared to be demented.”
“It is plainly to be seen that thy courage is no better than that of the women in thy charge. And to talk to me of blood!—and killing! As though a Master of Accidents hath any need to imbrue his hands in vulgar things! But stay in the room, and keep thy arguments of powder and lead in readiness lest they should be needed.”
He walked down the passage, and bolted the barricade across it; it was a flimsy affair of latticed slats, and would readily yield to the pressure of a man’s shoulder—but there was a thread stretched across the passage a foot in front of the barricade, which Quong Lung facetiously named “The Thread of Destiny.”
Returning to the room, which was brilliantly illuminated, he threw the door open, so that he should be plainly seen by any one entering the passage; and leaning carelessly against the door-post, he smoked awhile in silence. Presently, he opened the door leading into the street by pressing on a spring, and calmly awaited events.
He had scarcely completed these details, when Ho Chung flung himself into the passage, brandishing a knife in his hands.
“Thou villain, Quong Lung!” he shouted, “thank the Gods, I have found thee!”
As Ho Chung put his weight against the barricade, he broke the thread in front of it, and a hundred-weight of iron descended on his head from a trap in the ceiling of the passage, and killed him instantly.