by Otto Penzler
“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.”
VIII
Le Roi Est Mort, Vive le Roi
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.
IX
The Sharpening of a Hatchet
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 ups
pringing 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.
X
That Laughter Is Not Always Pleasant
“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 cau
se 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.
XI
As Overheard in a Crowd
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.”