A YELLOW MAN AND A WHITE
BY
ELEANOR GATES
Reprinted from _Scribner's Magazine_ of June, 1905 by permission
FONG WU sat on the porch of his little square-fronted house, chantinginto the twilight. Across his padded blouse of purple silk lay his_sam-yen_ banjo. And as, from time to time, his hymn to the Three PureOnes was prolonged in high, fine quavers, like the uneven, squeaky notesof a woman's voice, he ran his left hand up the slender neck of theinstrument, rested a long nail of his right on its taut, snake's-skinhead, and lightly touched the strings; then, in quick, thin tones, theyfollowed the song to Sang-Ching.
The warm shadows of a California summer night were settling down overthe wooded hills and rocky gulches about Fong Wu's, and there was littlebut his music to break the silence. Long since, the chickens hadsleepily sought perches in the hen yard, with its high wall of rootystumps and shakes, and on the branches of the Digger pine that toweredbeside it. Up the dry creek bed, a mile away, twinkled the lights ofWhiskeytown; but no sounds from the homes of the white people came downto the lonely Chinese. If his clear treble was interrupted, it was bythe cracking of a dry branch as a cottontail sped past on its way to astagnant pool, or it was by a dark-emboldened coyote, howling,dog-like, at the moon which, white as the snow that eternally coifs theSierras, was just rising above their distant, cobalt line.
One year before, Fong Wu, heavily laden with his effects, had slippedout of the stage from Redding and found his way to a forsaken,ramshackle building below Whiskeytown. His coming had proved of smallinterest. When the news finally got about that "a monkey" was living in"Sam Kennedy's old place," it was thought, for a while, that laundering,thereafter, would be cheaply done. This hope, however, was soondispelled. For, shortly after his arrival, as Fong Wu asked at thegrocery store for mail, he met Radigan's inquiry of "You do my washee,John?" with a grave shake of the head. Similar questions from otherswere met, later, in a similar way. Soon it became generally known thatthe "monkey at Sam Kennedy's" did not do washing; so he was troubled nofurther.
Yet if Fong Wu did not work for the people of Whiskeytown, he was not,therefore, idle. Many a sunrise found him wandering through thechaparral thickets back of his house, digging here and there in the redsoil for roots and herbs. These he took home, washed, tasted, and,perhaps, dried. His mornings were mainly spent in cooking for hisabundantly supplied table, in tending his fowls and house, and in makingspotless and ironing smooth various undergarments--generous of sleeveand leg.
But of an afternoon, all petty duties were laid aside, and he sortedcarefully into place upon his shelves numerous little bunches and boxesof dried herbs and numerous tiny phials of pungent liquid that had cometo him by post; he filled wide sheets of foolscap with vertical lines ofqueer characters and consigned them to big, plainly addressed,well-stamped envelopes; he scanned closely the last newspapers from SanFrancisco, and read from volumes in divers tongues, and he poured overthe treasured Taoist book, "The Road to Virtue."
Sunday was his one break in the week's routine. Then, the coolies whopanned or cradled for gold in tailings of near-by abandoned mines,gathered at Fong Wu's. On such occasions, there was endless, livelychatter, a steady exchange of barbering--one man scraping another clean,to be, in turn, made hairless in a broad band about the poll and oncheek and chin--and much consuming of tasty chicken, dried fish, pork,rice, and melon seeds. To supplement all this, Fong Wu recounted thenews: the arrival of a consul in San Francisco, the raid on a slave--orgambling-den, the progress of a tong war under the very noses of thebaffled police, and the growth of Coast feeling against the continued,quiet immigration of Chinese. But of the social or political affairs ofthe Flowery Kingdom--of his own land beyond the sea--Fong Wu wasconsistently silent.
Added to his Sunday responsibilities as host and purveyor of news, FongWu had others. An ailing countryman, whether seized with malaria orsuffering from an injury, found ready and efficient attention. The barkof dogwood, properly cooked, gave a liquid that killed the ague; and oilfrom a diminutive bottle, or a red powder whetted upon the skin with asilver piece, brought out the soreness of a bruise.
Thus, keeping his house, herb-hunting, writing, studying, entertaining,doctoring, Fong Wu lived on at Whiskeytown.
Each evening, daintily manipulating ivory chopsticks, he ate his supperof rice out of a dragon-bordered bowl. Then, when he had poured tea froma pot all gold-encrusted--a cluster of blossoms nodding in a vase at hisshoulder the while--he went out upon the porch of the square-frontedhouse.
And there, as now, a scarlet-buttoned cap on his head, his black eyessoft with dreaming, his richly wrought sandals tapping the floor intime, his long queue--a smooth, shining serpent--in thick coils abouthis tawny neck, Fong Wu thrummed gently upon the three-stringed banjo,and, in peace, chanted into the twilight.
* * * * *
Flying hoofs scattered the gravel on the strip of road before Fong Wu's.He looked through the gloom and saw a horse flash past, carrying askirted rider toward Whiskeytown. His song died out. He let his banjoslip down until its round head rested between his feet. Then he turnedhis face up the gulch.
Despite the dusk, he knew the traveler: Mrs. Anthony Barrett, who, withher husband, had recently come to live in a house near Stillwater. Everyevening, when the heat was over, she went by, bound for the day's mailat the post-office. Every evening, in the cool, Fong Wu saw her go, andsometimes she gave him a friendly nod.
Her mount was a spirited, mouse-dun mustang, with crop-ears, a roachedmane, and the back markings of a mule. She always rode at a run,sitting with easy erectness. A wide army hat rested snugly on her fairhair, and shaded a white forehead and level-looking eyes. Butnotwithstanding the sheltering brim, on her girlish face were set theglowing, scarlet seals of wind and sun.
As he peered townward after her, Fong Wu heard the hurrying hoof-beatsgrow gradually fainter and fainter--and cease. Presently the moon toppedthe pines on the foot-hills behind him, bathing the gulch in light. Theroad down which she would come sprang into view. He watched its farthestopen point. In a few moments the hoof-beats began again. Soon the glintof a light waist showed through the trees. Next, horse and rider roundeda curve at hand. Fong Wu leaned far forward.
And then, just as the mustang gained the strip of road before thesquare-fronted house, it gave a sudden, unlooked-for, outward leap,reared with a wild snort, and, whirling, dashed past theporch--riderless.
With an exclamation, Fong Wu flung his banjo aside and ran to the road.There under a manzanita bush, huddled and still, lay a figure. He caughtit up, bore it to the porch, and put it gently down.
A brief examination, made with the deftness practise gives, showed himthat no bones were broken. Squatting beside the unconscious woman, henext played slowly with his long-nailed fingers upon her pulse. Its beatreassured him. He lighted a lamp and held it above her. The scarlet ofher cheeks was returning.
The sight of her, who was so strong and active, stretched weak andfainting, compelled Fong Wu into spoken comment. "The petal of a plumblossom," he said compassionately, in his own tongue.
She stirred a little. He moved back. As, reviving, she opened her eyes,they fell upon him. But he was half turned away, his face as blank andlifeless as a mask.
She gave a startled cry and sat up. "Me hurtee?" she asked him, adoptingpidgin-English "Me fallee off?"
Fong Wu rose. "You were thrown," he answered gravely.
She colored in confusion. "Pardon me," she said, "for speaking to you asif you were a coolie." Then, as she got feebly to her feet--"I believemy right arm is broken."
"I have some knowledge of healing," he declared; "let me look at it."Before she could answer, he had ripped the sleeve away. "It is only asprain," he said. "Wait." He went inside for an amber liquid andbandages. When he had laved the injured muscles, he bound them round.
"How did it happen?" she asked, as he worked. He was so courteous andprofessional that her alarm
was gone.
"Your horse was frightened by a rattler in the road. I heard it whir."
She shuddered. "I ought to be thankful that I didn't come my cropper onit," she said, laughing nervously.
He went inside again, this time to prepare a cupful of herbs. When heoffered her the draught, she screwed up her face over its nauseatingfumes.
"If that acts as strongly as it tastes," she said, after she had drunkit, "I'll be well soon."
"It is to keep away inflammation."
"Oh! Can I go now?"
"Yes. But tomorrow return, and I will look at the arm." He took the lampaway and replaced his red-buttoned cap with a black felt hat. Then hesilently preceded her down the steps to the road. Only when the light ofher home shone plainly ahead of them, did he leave her.
They had not spoken on the way. But as he bowed a good night, sheaddressed him. "I thank you," she said. "And may I ask your name?"
"Kwa"--he began, and stopped. Emotion for an instant softened hisimpassive countenance. He turned away. "Fong Wu," he added, and wasgone.
The following afternoon the crunch of cart wheels before thesquare-fronted house announced her coming. Fong Wu closed "The Book ofVirtue," and stepped out upon the porch.
A white man was seated beside her in the vehicle. As she sprang from it,light-footed and smiling, and mounted the steps, she indicated himpolitely to the Chinese.
"This is my husband," she said. "I have told him how kind you were to melast night."
Fong Wu nodded.
Barrett hastened to voice his gratitude. "I certainly am very muchobliged to you," he said. "My wife might have been bitten by therattler, or she might have lain all night in pain if you hadn't foundher. And I want to say that your treatment was splendid. Why, her armhasn't swollen or hurt her. I'll be hanged if I can see--you're such agood doctor--why you stay in this----"
Fong Wu interrupted him. "I will wet the bandage with medicine," hesaid, and entered the house.
They watched him with some curiosity as he treated the sprain andstudied the pulse. When he brought out her second cup of steaming herbs,Mrs. Barrett looked up at him brightly.
"You know we're up here for Mr. Barrett's health," she said. "A year orso after we were married, he was hurt in a railway collision. Sincethen, though his wounds healed nicely, he has never been quite well. Dr.Lord, our family physician, prescribed plenty of rough work, and a quietplace, far from the excitement of a town or city. Now, all this morning,when I realized how wonderful it was that my arm wasn't aching, I'vebeen urging my husband--what do you suppose?--to come and be examined byyou!"
Fong Wu, for the first time, looked fully at the white man, marking thesallow, clayey face, with its dry, lined skin, its lusterless eyes anddrooping lids.
Barrett scowled at his wife. "Nonsense, dear," he said crossly; "youknow very well that Lord would never forgive me."
"But Fong Wu might help you," she declared.
Fong Wu's black eyes were still fixed searchingly upon the white man.Before their scrutiny, soul-deep, the other's faltered and fell.
"You might help him, mightn't you, Fong Wu?" Mrs. Barrett repeated.
An expression, curious, keen, and full of meaning, was the answer. Then,"I might if he----" Fong Wu said, and paused.
Past Mrs. Barrett, whose back was toward her husband, the latter hadshot a warning glance. "Come, come, Edith," he cried irritably; "let'sget home."
Mrs. Barrett emptied her cup bravely. "When shall we call again?" sheasked.
"You need not come again," Fong Wu replied. "Each day you have only todampen the bandages from these." He handed her a green-flowered boxcontaining twelve tiny compartments; in each was a phial.
"And I sha'n't have to take any more of this--this awful stuff?" shedemanded gaily, giving back the cup.
"No."
"Ah! And now, I want to thank you again, with all my heart. Here,"--shereached into the pocket of her walking-skirt,--"here is something foryour trouble." Two double-eagles lay on her open palm.
Fong Wu frowned at them. "I take no money," he said, a trifle gruffly.And as she got into the cart, he closed the door of his home behind him.
It was a week before Mrs. Barrett again took up her rides for the mail.When she did, Fong Wu did not fail to be on his porch as she passed. Foreach evening, as she cantered up the road, spurring the mustang to itsbest paces, she reined to speak to him. And he met her greetings withunaccustomed good humor.
Then she went by one morning before sunrise, riding like the wind. Alittle later she repassed, whipping her horse at every gallop. Fong Wu,called to his door by the clatter, saw that her face was white anddrawn. At noon, going up to the post-office, he heard a bit of gossipthat seemed to bear upon her unwonted trip. Radigan was rehearsing itexcitedly to his wife, and the Chinese busied himself with his mail andlistened--apparently unconcerned.
"I c'n tell you she ain't afraid of anythin', that Mrs. Barrett," thepost-master was saying; "neither th' cayuse she rides or a critter ontwo legs. An' that fancy little drug-clerk from 'Frisco got it straightfrom th' shoulder."
"S-s-sh!" admonished his wife, from the back of the office. "Isn't theresome one outside?"
"Naw, just th' chink from Kennedy's. Well, as I remarked, she did jus'light into that dude. 'It was criminal!' she says, an' her eyes snappedlike a whip; 'it was criminal! an' if I find out for sure that you areguilty, I'll put you where you'll never do it again.' Th' young gentsmirked at her an' squirmed like a worm. 'You're wrong, Mrs. Barrett,'he says, lookin' like th' meek puppy he is, 'an' you'll have t' looksome place else for th' person that done it.' But she wouldn't talk nolonger--jus' walked out, as mad as a hornet."
"Well, well," mused Mrs. Radigan. "I wonder what 'twas all about.'Criminal,' she said, eh? That's funny!" She walked to the front of theoffice and peeked through the wicket. But no one was loitering nearexcept Fong Wu, and his face was the picture of dull indifference.
That night, long after the hour for Mrs. Barrett's regular trip, andlong past the time for his supper-song, Fong Wu heard slow, shufflingsteps approach the house. A moment afterward, the knob of his door wasrattled. He put out his light and slipped a knife into his loose sleeve.
After some fumbling and moving about on the porch, a man called out tohim. He recognized the voice.
"Fong Wu! Fong Wu!" it begged. "Let me in. I want to see you; I want toask you for help--for something I need. Let me in; let me in."
Fong Wu, without answering, relit his lamp, and, with the air of one whois at the same time both relieved and a witness of the expected, flungthe door wide.
Then into the room, writhing as if in fearful agony, his hands palsied,his face a-drip and, except for dark blotches about the mouth,green-hued, his eyes wild and sunken, fell, rather than tottered,Anthony Barrett.
"Fong Wu," he pleaded, from the floor at the other's feet, "you helpedmy wife when she was sick, now help me. I'm dying! I'm dying! Give it tome, for God's sake! give it to me." He caught at the skirt of Fong Wu'sblouse.
The Chinese retreated a little, scowling. "What do you want?" he asked.
A paroxysm of pain seized Barrett. He half rose and stumbled forward."You know," he panted, "you know. And if I don't have some, I'll die. Ican't get it anywhere else. She's found me out, and scared thedrug-clerk. Oh, just a little, old man, just a little!" He sank to thefloor again.
"I can give you nothing," said Fong Wu bluntly. "I do not keep--what youwant."
With a curse, Barrett was up again. "Oh, you don't," he screamed,leering frenziedly. "You yellow devil! You almond-eyed pigtail! But Iknow you do! And I must have it. Quick! quick!" He hung, clutching, onthe edge of Fong Wu's wide ironing-table, an ashen wreck.
Fong Wu shook his head.
With a cry, Barrett came at him and seized his lean throat. "You damnedhighbinder!" he gasped. "You saddle-nosed monkey! You'll get me what Iwant or I'll give you away. Don't I know why you're up here in thesewoods, with your pretty clothes and your English talk? A_-h
a_! You bet Ido! You're hiding, and you're wanted,"--he dropped his voice to awhisper,--"the tongs would pay head-money for you. If you don't give itto me, I'll put every fiend in 'Frisco on your trail."
Fong Wu had caught Barrett's wrists. Now he cast him to one side."Tongs!" he said with a shrug, as if they were beneath his notice. And"Fiends!" he repeated contemptuously, a taunt in his voice.
The white man had fallen prone and was grovelling weakly. "Oh, I won'ttell on you," he wailed imploringly. "I won't, I won't, Fong Wu; I swearit on my honor."
Fong Wu grunted and reached to a handy shelf. "I will make a bargainwith you," he said craftily; "first, you are to drink what I wish."
"Anything! anything!" Barrett cried.
From a box of dry herbs, long untouched, the Chinese drew out a handful.There was no time for brewing. Outraged nature demanded instant relief.He dropped them into a bowl, covered them with water, and stirredswiftly. When the stems and leaves were broken up and well mixed, hestrained brown liquid from them and put it to the other's lips.
"Drink," he commanded, steadying the shaking head.
Barrett drank, unquestioningly.
Instantly the potion worked. Calmed as if by a miracle, made drowsy to apoint where speech was impossible, the white man, tortured but a momentbefore, tipped sleepily into Fong Wu's arms. The Chinese waited until afull effect was secured, when he lifted his limp patient to theblanket-covered ironing-table. Then he went out for fuel, built a fire,and, humming softly--with no fear of waking the other--sat down to watchthe steeping of more herbs.
* * * * *
What happened next at the square-fronted house was the unexpected. Againthere was a sound of approaching footsteps, again some one gained theporch. But this time there was no pausing to ask for admission, therewere no weak requests for aid. A swift hand felt for the knob and foundit; a strong arm pushed at the unlocked door. And through it,bare-headed, with burning eyes and blanched cheeks, her heavyriding-whip dangling by a thong from her wrist, came the wife of AnthonyBarrett.
Just across the sill she halted and swept the dim room. A moment, andthe burning eyes fell upon the freighted ironing-table. She gave apiercing cry.
Fong Wu neither spoke nor moved.
After the first outburst, she was quiet--the quiet that is deliberative,threatening. Then she slowly closed her fingers about the whip butt.Fixing her gaze in passionate anger upon him, she advanced a few steps.
_"So it was you,"_ she said, and her voice was hollow.
To that he made no sign, and even his colorless face told nothing.
She came forward a little farther, and sucked in a long, deep breath."You _dog_ of a Chinaman!" she said at last, and struck herriding-skirt.
Fong Wu answered silently. With an imperative gesture, he pointed outthe figure on the ironing-table.
She sprang to her husband's side and bent over him. Presently she beganto murmur to herself. When, finally, she turned, there were tears on herlashes, she was trembling visibly, and she spoke in whispers.
"Was I wrong?" she demanded brokenly. "I _must_ have been. He's not hadit; I can tell by his quick, easy breathing. And his ear has a faintcolor. You are trying to help him! I know! I know!"
A gleaming white line showed between the yellow of Fong Wu's lips. Hepicked up a rude stool and set it by the table. She sank weakly upon it,letting the whip fall.
"Thank God! thank God!" she sobbed prayerfully, and buried her face inher arms.
"THE PETAL OF A PLUM BLOSSOM."FROM A PAINTING BY ALBERTINE RANDALL, WHEELAN.]
Throughout the long hours that followed, Fong Wu, from the room'sshadowy rear, sat watching. He knew sleep did not come to her. For nowand then he saw her shake from head to heel convulsively, as he had seenmen in his own country quiverbeneath the scourge of bamboos. Now and then, too, he heard her give astifled moan, like the protest of a dumb creature. But in no other waysdid she bare her suffering. Quietly, lest she wake her husband, shefought out the night.
Only once did Fong Wu look away from her. Then, in anger and disgust hiseyes shifted to the figure on the table. "The petal of a plumblossom"--he muttered in Chinese--"the petal of a plum blossom beneaththe hoofs of a pig!" And again his eyes dwelt upon the grief-bowed wife.
But when the dawn came stealing up from behind the purple Sierras, andMrs. Barrett raised her wan face, he was studiously reviewing his rowsof bottles, outwardly unaware of her presence.
"Fong Wu," she said, in a low voice, "when will he wake?"
"When he is rested; at sunrise, maybe, or at noon."
"And then?"
"He will be feeble. I shall give him more medicine, and he will sleepagain."
He rose and busied himself at the fire. Soon he approached her, bringingthe gold-encrusted teapot and a small, handleless cup.
She drank thirstily, filling and emptying the cup many times. When shewas done, she made as if to go. "I shall see that everything is allright at home," she told him. "After that, I shall come back." Shestooped and kissed her husband tenderly.
Fong Wu opened the door for her, and she passed out. In the road,unhitched, but waiting, stood the mustang. She mounted and rode away.
When she returned, not long afterward, she was a new woman. She hadbathed her face and donned a fresh waist. Her eyes were alight, and thescarlet was again flaming in her cheeks. Almost cheerfully, andaltogether hopefully, she resumed her post at the ironing-table.
It was late in the afternoon before Barrett woke. But he made no attemptto get up, and would not eat. Fong Wu administered another dose ofherbs, and without heeding his patient's expostulations. The latter,after seeking his wife's hand, once more sank into sleep.
Just before sunset, Fong Wu, who scorned to rest, prepared supper.Gratefully Mrs. Barrett partook of some tender chicken and rice cakes.When darkness shut down, they took up their second long vigil.
But it was not the vigil of the previous night. She was able to think ofother things than her husband's condition and the doom that, of asudden, had menaced her happiness. Her spirits having risen, she wascorrespondingly impatient of a protracted, oppressive stillness, andlooked about for an interruption, and for diversion. Across from her, acelestial patrician in his blouse of purple silk and his red-buttonedcap, sat Fong Wu. Consumed with curiosity--now that she had time toobserve him closely--she longed to lift the yellow, expressionless maskfrom his face--a face which might have patterned that of an orientalsphinx. At midnight, when he approached the table to satisfy himself ofBarrett's progress, and to assure her of it, she essayed a conversation.
Glancing up at his laden shelves, she said, "I have been noticing yourmedicines, and how many kinds there seem to be."
"For each ailment that is visited upon man, earth offers a cure," heanswered. "Life would be a mock could Death, unchallenged, take it."
"True. Have you found in the earth, then, the cure for each ailment ofman?"
"For most, yes. They seek yet, where I learned the art of healing, anantidote for the cobra's bite. I know of no other they lack."
"Where you were taught they must know more than we of this countryknow."
Fong Wu gave his shoulders a characteristic shrug.
"But," she continued, "you speak English so perfectly. Perhaps you weretaught that in this country."
"No--in England. But the other, I was not."
"In England! Well!"
"I went there as a young man."
"But these herbs, these medicines you have--they did not come fromEngland, did they?"
He smiled. "Some came from the hills at our back." Then, crossing to hisshelves and reaching up, "This"--he touched a silk-covered package--"isfrom Sumbawa in the Indian Sea; and this"--his finger was upon the corkof a phial--"is from Feng-shan, Formosa; and other roots are taken inwinter from the lake of Ting-ting-hu, which is then dry; and stillothers come from the far mountains of Chamur."
"Do you know," Mrs. Barrett said tentatively, "I have always heard thatC
hinese doctors give horrid things for medicine--sharks' teeth, frogs'feet, lizards' tails, and--and all sorts of dreadful things."
Fong Wu proffered no enlightenment.
"I am glad," she went on, "that I have learned better."
After a while she began again: "Doubtless there is other wonderfulknowledge, besides that about doctoring, which Chinese gentlemenpossess."
Fong Wu gave her a swift glance. "The followers of Laou-Tsze know manythings," he replied, and moved into the shadows as if to close theirtalk.
Toward morning, when he again gave her some tea, she spoke of somethingthat she had been turning over in her mind for hours.
"You would not take money for helping me when I was hurt," she said,"and I presume you will refuse to take it for what you are doing now.But I should like you to know that Mr. Barrett and I will always, alwaysbe your friends. If"--she looked across at him, no more a part of hisrude surroundings than was she--"if ever there comes a time when wecould be of use to you, you have only to tell us. Please remember that."
"I will remember."
"I cannot help but feel," she went on, and with a sincere desire toprove her gratitude, rather than to pry out any secret of his, "that youdo not belong here--that you are in more trouble than I am. For what cana man of your rank have to do in a little town like this!"
He was not displeased with her. "The ancient sage," he said slowly,"mounted himself upon a black ox and disappeared into the westernwilderness of Thibet. Doubtless others, too, seek seclusion for muchthinking."
"But you are not the hermit kind," she declared boldly. "You belong tothose who stay and fight. Yet here you are, separated from your peopleand your people's graves--alone and sorrowful."
"As for my living people, they are best without me; as for my peopledead, I neither worship their dust nor propitiate devils. The wise onesaid, 'Why talk forever on of men who are long gone?'"
"Yet----" she persisted.
He left the stove and came near her. "You are a woman, but you knowmuch. You are right. My heart is heavy for a thing I cannot do--for theshattered dreams of the men of Hukwang." He beat his palms togethernoiselessly, and moved to and fro on soft sandals. "Those dreams were ofa young China that was to take the place of the old--but that diedunborn."
She followed his words with growing interest. "I have heard of thosedreams," she answered; "they were called 'reform.'"
"Yes. And now all the dreamers are gone. They had voyaged to glean atHarvard, Yale, Cornell, and in the halls of Oxford. There were 'fiveloyal and six learned,' and they shed their blood at the Chen Chih Gate.One there was who died the death that is meted a slave at the court ofthe Son of Heaven. And one there was"--his face shrank up, as if swiftlyaging; his eyes became dark, upturning slits; as one who fears pursuit,he cast a look behind him--"and one there was who escaped beyond theblood-bathed walls of the Hidden City and gained the Sumatra Coast.Then, leaving Perak, in the Straits Settlements, he finally set footupon a shore where men, without terror, may reach toward higher things."
"And was he followed?" she whispered, comprehending.
"He fled quietly. For long are the claws of the she-panther crouched onthe throne of the Mings."
Both fell silent. The Chinese went back to the stove, where the fire wasdying. The white woman, wide awake, and lost in the myriad of scenes histale had conjured, sat by the table, for once almost forgetful of hercharge.
The dragging hours of darkness past, Anthony Barrett found saneconsciousness. He was pale, yet strengthened by his long sleep, and hewas hungry. Relieved and overjoyed, Mrs. Barrett ministered to him. Whenhe had eaten and drunk, she helped him from the table to the stool, andthence to his feet. Her arm about him, she led him to the door. Fong Wuhad felt his pulse and it had ticked back the desired message, so he wasgoing home.
"Each night you are to come," Fong Wu said, as he bade them good-by."And soon, very soon, you may go from here to the place from which youcame."
Mrs. Barrett turned at the door. A plea for pardon in misjudging him,thankfulness for his help, sympathy for his exile--all these shone fromher eyes. But words failed her. She held out her hand.
He seemed not to see it; he kept his arms at his sides. A "dog of aChinaman" had best not take a woman's hand.
She went out, guiding her husband's footsteps, and helped him climb uponthe mustang from the height of the narrow porch. Then, taking the horseby the bridle, she moved away down the slope to the road.
Fong Wu did not follow, but closed the door gently and went back to theironing-table. A handkerchief lay beside it--a dainty linen square thatshe had left. He picked it up and held it before him by two corners.From it there wafted a faint, sweet breath.
Fong Wu let it flutter to the floor. "The perfume of a plum petal," hesaid softly, in English; "the perfume of a plum petal."