A man pointed out Yo Chai's private dwelling behind the gaming house, and in front of it, across the street, he stood for a long time purposeless, helpless, meaningless. And still the problem surged through his brain, maddening him. The relation between Yo Chai and Clung — what could it be? What was the one word — the "Open Sesame!"
Yet he could not be absolutely sure that Winifred was in his house. Certainly Kirk said that he had seen her come out of the house on one night, but that was not a sufficient proof to his aching heart. He decided to sit down on a rickety box nearby and wait for a time to see if Winifred would come out of the house. Yes, and if he confronted her suddenly was there not a possibility that she would tell him everything — all the reasons which made her come to the house of Yo Chai — whether or not Clung was actually concealed there?
The thought made John Sampson almost happy. He sat down on the box and composed himself for a long wait, for hours, if necessary.
Yet to his mind, busied as it was every moment by the problem, it was not a very long time before the door of the house opened. At the entrance stood a tall, bulky
Chinese with his hands stuffed in the alternate sleeves. He looked slowly up and down the street, and then, as if satisfied that there was no one else in plain sight, he stepped back through the door.
Almost at once a woman slipped out upon the steps, and turned back towards the door. Her face was away from him, and the light which fell upon her was very dim, but he knew with strange certainty that this was Winifred who stood there, poised on the steps of the Chinaman's house. He started up from the box and made a step across the street when another form appeared in the door and he stopped his progress.
It was Yo Chai. The light at the entrance fell plainly across his face, showing with distinctness even the sparse black moustaches of the Oriental. And he stood with his head tilting back, smiling down upon the girl. She waved her hand. A hand, thin to frailty, appeared from the loose sleeve of Yo Chai and waved adieu in response. Winifred turned and passed down the street; the door closed upon Yo Chai.
Yet Sampson made no effort to turn down the street and intercept his daughter. His mind was filled with an image which had started out suddenly upon it, of Yo Chai, pushing back his chair in the gaming house on that now distant night, and smiling. The clue to the problem was upon him with a rush. It was the smile of Yo Chai and the smile of Clung. One smile and one man. Clung and Yo Chai — they were one and the same. And Sampson shook his clenched fist above his head and then started almost at a run for the door of Yo Chai.
Chapter 38
The door was opened to him by the bulky Chinaman he had first seen there, and in his excitement he would have pushed past the fellow had not a vast arm shot out and blocked the way as effectively as a stanchion of wood.
"Go tell Cl— go tell Yo Chai that John Sampson will speak with him — at once,” commanded the financier.
The big Oriental turned his head leisurely and spoke in a tremendous guttural, changing to a whine of question ridiculously thin and high at the end. From the interior of the house a soft voice, which Sampson could barely hear, made answer, and then the bulky arm was withdrawn and he stepped into the little box-like hall of Yo Chai. The servant pointed to a screened doorway at one side of the hall and, stepping past this, Sampson found himself in front of Yo Chai, who sat among a heap of cushions reading from a large book of Chinese characters. Sampson found himself at once perfectly at ease. It was rare, indeed, that he was embarrassed in an interview. It was his stock-in-trade. He measured the lean face of the other with a critical eye.
"I suppose," he said with a half smile, "that you won't pretend that you don't know me?"
"No," said the other, rising, "Yo Chai remembers when you sat at his table and played a little game."
And he bowed very low to John Sampson.
"Just now," said the business man, "I don't give a damn what Yo Chai remembers. I'm more interested in what Clung has to say."
The bow of Clung was still under way, and he remained a moment with partially bent head. When he raised his face it was expressionless.
"When I look into your face," said Sampson, with some admiration, "I'm almost puzzled again to know you, and I've seen through the riddle, my friend, and it can never puzzle me again."
Clung was silent. He pointed to the low divan.
"Thanks," said Sampson, and he seated himself with a sigh of comfort.
Manifestly he was complete master of the situation.
"I was perfectly certain,” he went on, smiling upon Clung, "that the age of disguises was past. But I see that you've resurrected it again. And very well done, Clung, very well done indeed."
Clung bowed as profoundly as before, and remained standing, his eyes going past Sampson and apparently focussing on the screen behind him, as if at that moment another person were entering the room.
"To put you entirely at your ease," went on Sampson, "I'll tell you that it's unnecessary to be quite so Oriental before me. I know you're a white man, Clung."
And still the eyes of Clung remained immovably fixed upon the wall behind his visitor. Sampson shifted in his chair a bit uneasily and flashed a glance behind him. There was only the barren wall. However, the bullets in Sampson's armory were almost inexhaustible. He was confident that at his will he could break through the calm of Clung.
"There is a certain advantage in method," he began again, "so we may as well start by admitting that there is a disadvantage in your present position, my friend. The disadvantage is that if the crowd of Kirby Creek knew that you were Clung they would promptly send a posse to nab you."
Clung smiled gently upon John Sampson.
"See,” he said, and he waved his hand to the four corners of the room. "There are many doors, and there are many roads from Kirby Creek."
"Cool devil, aren't you," said Sampson, "but you'll admit that it might be rather a close call, even for an artist like yourself?"
"Only a pig," said Clung, clinging to his picturesque metaphors, "loves safety — and a sty!"
"Good again," grunted John Sampson, "but granting that you'd like to have the boys give you a run after a while, it would be rather inconvenient to leave all your coin behind you."
"What is money?" said Clung contemptuously. "It is lead around the neck. It sinks the man who swims. Clung will not sink."
"You'd cut and leave all your loot behind?" queried John Sampson with wide eyes. "Gad, boy, I almost believe you would!"
"Not all," said Clung, with another of his gentle smiles, and from one of his loose sleeves he produced at once a little box no larger than the palm of his hand, and square. It opened with a snap, and John Sampson glimpsed a flare of colorful jewels before the box was closed and restored to the sleeve.
"Guarded on all sides, eh?" he remarked scowling a little now, "and I see that you have the true gambler's spirit, Clung. Perhaps you're not in such a good position as you claim; however, I've not come here to do you any injury or to make any threats — unless I'm forced to it. And I won't be forced. You must be a man of some reason, Clung, or you wouldn't have lived as long as you have and done the things you have done. They still talk of the way you slipped away from under the nose of Marshal Clauson."
He chuckled, and so doing he failed to see the little flush which showed through even the yellow stain on Clung's face, nor the lowering of the other's eyes.
"We'll get down to business at once," said Sampson. "I've come for this reason: I want to know why my daughter — Winifred —" he choked a little over the name — "has been coming to see you so often in the night."
For the first time the equanimity of Clung was disturbed ever so slightly. His eyebrows rose a trifle.
"No," explained Sampson quickly. "Don't trouble yourself on that score. But I've been missing her, and tonight I saw her come out of your house. Clung, why has she been coming?"
He barked out the last words and leaned forward with jutting lower jaw. He was like a bulldog in more
ways than one. Many a Wall Street power would have shuddered to see that expression on the face of John Sampson; but Clung merely smiled and a glint of study came in his eyes.
"Clung has heard," he said, "that in the old days when books were rare, they were often chained to the walls in libraries. And students came and read the books in the libraries and could not take them home to read them when and where they pleased. Your daughter — Winifred —" he paused before and after the name, so that it stood musically by itself — "has found Clung a book which she could not take from the wall and carry home to read when and where she pleased. So she has come to Clung's house, and there she opens the book whenever she pleases and reads it, and closes the book, and goes home, and forgets Clung."
There was a long pause.
"Well," said Sampson slowly, drawing out every word, "damn my eternal eyes!"
"That would be a great sorrow," said Clung.
"Are you mocking me?" barked the financier.
Clung waved a slim, deprecatory hand.
"Don't put me aside with any asinine trivialities like this. I haven't come to listen to poetry. I want some hard facts. Clung, why does the girl come here?"
And like the hard facts which Sampson commanded, the face of Clung grew stern and expressionless.
"Listen to me,” said the older man with a sudden change of tactics. "I am her father, Clung. Haven't I the right to know?"
It was like the melting of ice in Spring — so swift was the change of Clung's eyes. He bowed once more, and then stood erect, his eyes at the feet of Sampson.
"Clung had forgotten," he said softly, "but now he will make himself open. You can read in me."
Chapter 39
"Lad," answered Sampson more gently, "I see you are white — in more ways than one. Now tell me frankly. Why does my girl come to you?"
"To talk to Clung."
"Come, come! What do you mean by that one word?"
"To talk to Clung," said the other, with a certain contemptuous emphasis, "Clung, a dog of a Chinaman!"
The eyes of Sampson widened marvelously.
"You mean to say that you haven't told her that you are white?"
"If she knew that Clung was white/' he answered, with a touch of sadness, "she would come no longer."
The mind of Sampson whirled; and there was an infinite relief which struck him like a cool breeze on a very hot day.
"I think I understand, but make it clearer. I must know exactly what you mean to her."
Clung waited, searching for the clue.
"A horse you know," he said at last, "you have no pleasure in riding. He is yours. He will run straight. He will not buck or shy or balk. There is no pleasure in riding him. Is it not true?"
"Ah! I begin to see. Go on!"
"A man you know, he may be your friend, but you will not go a great distance to see him or to hear him talk. But a man you do not know; you may not like him, you may hate him, you may be afraid of him, but you will go a great way to see him and to hear him talk. Is it not true?"
"Exactly!"
"Your daughter — Winifred — she finds me a strange book — because I am written in Chinese! But if she knew Clung to be a white man she would shrug her shoulders so! — and never come again."
"I wonder,” said the other, thoughtfully, and then he shook his head. "Clung, I’m afraid that you're not altogether right."
He smiled with a sharp interest at the younger man.
"I wish I could believe it, but I can't — altogether. I'm afraid there may be — something else."
"What?" asked Clung, with a ring in his voice.
But Sampson shrugged his shoulders.
"I am going to ask you to stop her from coming here, Clung."
The other straightened, his lips drawing to a thin line.
"Give her up?" he repeated in a dull voice that alarmed Sampson. "Suppose a woman has one child — would you ask her to give the child up? Suppose a painter has one great picture — would you ask him to give it up? Could you borrow or beg or buy the picture from him?"
"If it was for the betterment of the child," said the other anxiously, "the woman would give up the child."
The pause came again.
"It is true," said Clung in a faint voice.
Then his eyes rose and met the gaze of Sampson with such intensity that it was like the shock of a physical force.
"Why must Clung give up seeing her?”
"Because it is bad for her.”
"Is there poison in this air? Is Clung a dog who bites? Answer!” and the ring in his voice, though it was not loud, shook Sampson tremendously.
"For the oldest reason in the world,” he answered, "and for one which you have already named yourself. Her way of life is not your way of life. How would people speak of her if they knew she stole out by night to visit — a Chinaman!”
He brought out the word with brutal force.
"Then I shall no longer be a Chinaman. I shall be Clung, a white man!”
"Clung, a hunted outlaw, reputed a half-breed. Her friends would turn her from their doors.”
There was that solemn pause again, and then the bitter voice of Clung: "It is true, and the opinions of other people are very loud in the ears of women. My father, Li Clung, has said it.”
"Then — ?” queried Sampson, with something of pity softening his voice.
"I shall tell her tonight that I am white,” said Clung simply.
"No, no, no!" cried Sampson. "Not that, Clung, in the name of heaven!"
"And why?"
"For many reasons."
He stopped, stammering. It was hard and shameful for him to speak the fear which was in him.
"Speak quickly," said Clung, "and tell Clung what he must do. Every minute is like a whip on a raw place; Clung is very tired!" I will be as brief as I may," said the other, and I expect you to keep on meeting me half way, as you've done so far. In the first place, she has been very often to see you, has she not? : It is true. And she is glad to be with you?
The head of Clung tilted — the familiar musing smile touched his lips.
"She seems very glad," he murmured.
"Gad," said Sampson, half to himself, "what a rotten mess it all is — for all of us."
He said aloud, gruffly: "Pm going to ask you to have a woman in here with you the next time Winifred comes. And when Winifred sees you with a woman I'll guarantee that she'll never come back."
"A woman?" said Clung blankly, and then he started: "A concubine?"
"Not a bit, not a bit!" said the other, reddening furiously, "but only a girl — a Chinese girl (there are plenty of them around the town) who will seem to be — er — familiar with you. You get my point, Clung?"
"It would be a lie," said Clung hoarsely.
"Sometimes a lie is excusable. Besides, my dear boy, you've certainly told little lies before."
"I have never told a lie," said Clung quietly, "except to say once that my name was John Ring, and once again that my name was Yo Chai."
It was so naive that Sampson had to bite his lip to keep from smiling.
"Is it the only way to drive her away?" said Clung.
"It is the only sure way," answered Sampson.
Clung stiffened, and his hands straightened at his sides; he stood like a soldier at attention.
"If it drives her away," he said, "it will mean that she thinks of me now — as a white woman might think of a white man!"
"I don't mean that she thinks of you in that way," answered Sampson with a hurried anxiety. "God forbid! I'm merely telling you the sure way of sending her back to me and away from you. And you admit that that is a good thing."
"It is true,” said Clung, panting, after another of those deadly pauses.
And he added: "But it will prove — if she goes when she sees the Chinese girl — that she has thought of me — as a white girl thinks of a white man!"
"I'm not denying that!"
"And at the very time when I know it," whispered Clun
g, "I shall kill that thought in her!"
"I suppose so," admitted Sampson miserably, "and yet not altogether. Mere disgust would send her away."
"And her thoughts of Clung afterwards would be ugly thoughts — pah! — unclean thoughts, like a disease!"
Sampson could not speak.
"Then to the house of what white man would you let her go?" asked Clung in the same faint voice.
"To one of her equals — a man who moves in her own social circles," said Sampson carefully. "Well, to a man like William Kirk, for instance."
He was sorry he had used that illustration, for a fire came in the eyes of Clung.
"Is Kirk a clean man in your eyes?" he asked scornfully.
"I admit," said Sampson hastily, "that he did one rather rotten thing — with you. It was a slip such as anyone in Winifred's circle would understand. She, herself, has forgiven him for it."
"Is it true?"
"It is true,” answered Sampson, falling into Clung's own manner of speech.
"And if Clung were a man like William Kirk?" asked the younger man.
"Then," said Sampson, "I assure you I would not have a word to say. She could come to see you every day — and at night also."
He smiled genially on Clung.
“Clung does not understand," said Clung. “He will not try to understand; he is sick and cold inside."
"And the girl?" asked Sampson, as gently as he could.
"I know no woman," said Clung.
Sampson stared.
"You can hire her to come in and stay about your house for one evening, surely."
"There is no other way?"
"If there were, Pd accept it with open arms, upon my word of honor."
"Then Clung will do it."
It was said with such simplicity that Sampson could hardly believe what he heard.
"Then, by God, Clung, you're a gentleman, and as such I’d like to have the privilege of shaking your hand before I go!
Brand, Max - 1924 Page 17