Mrs. Spring Fragrance
watermelon seeds were scattered around galore. Strains of music
enlivened the dark alleys, and “flowers” or fireworks delighted both old
and young. The Literary and Benevolent Societies brought forth those of
their number whose imaginations and experiences gave them the power to
portray the achievements of heroes, the despair of lovers, the blessings
which fall to the lot of the filial son, and the terrible fate of the
undutiful, and while the sun went down and long after it had set, groups
of fascinated youths sat listening to tales of magic and enchantment.
In the midst of it all Little Me wandered around in his white-soled
shoes, and thought of that other story—the story of the Babe.
On the second day of the Chinese New Year, Miss McLeod, her twine bag
full to overflowing with little red parcels of joy, stopped before the
door of the Chee house. As there was no response to her knock, she
lifted the latch and entered a darkened room. By a couch in the furthest
corner of the room a woman knelt, moaning and tearful. It was Chee A
Tae, Little Me’s mother. Little Me’s proper name was Chee Ping. Miss
McLeod touched her shoulder sympathetically. The woman shuddered and the
low moans became heartrending cries and sobs. Did the teacher know that
her baby was stolen? Some evil spirit had witched him away. Her husband,
with some friends, was searching for the child; but she felt sure they
would find him—never. She had burnt incense to “Mother” and besought the
aid of the goddess of children; but her prayers would not avail, because
her husband had neglected that month to send his parents cash for
ginseng and broth. He had tried his luck with the Gambling Cash Tiger
and failed. Had he been fortunate, his parents would have received twice
their usual portion, but as it was, he had lost. And now the baby, the
younger brother of Little Me, was lost too.
“How did it happen?” inquired Miss McLeod.
“We were alone—the babe and I,” replied the mother. “My man was visiting
and Little Me was playing in the alley. I stepped over with a bowl of
boiled rice and a pot of tea for old Sien Tau. We have not much for our
own mouths, but it is well to begin the New Year by being kind to those
who may not see another. The babe was sleeping when I last beheld him.
When I returned, whether he was asleep, awake, in the land of the living
or in the spirit world, was withheld from me. A wolf—a tiger heart—alone
knew.”
This was truly a case needing sympathy. Miss McLeod did her best, and
after a while Chee A Tae sat up and listened with some hope for her
husband’s footsteps. He came at last, a tired, gaunt-looking man,
wearing in the face of the holiday, the blue cotton blouse and
pantaloons of a working Chinaman, and a very dilapidated American slouch
hat, around which he had wound his queue. He was followed into the room
by several of his countrymen who cast suspicious glances at the white
woman present; but, upon recognition came forward, each in turn, and
saluted her in American fashion. There were several points of difference
between Miss McLeod and the other white teachers of Chinatown which had
won for her the special favor of her pupil’s parents. One was that
though it was plain to all that she loved her work and taught the
children committed to her charge with the utmost patience and care, she
was not a child-cuddling and caressing woman. Another, that she had
taken pains to learn the Chinese language before attempting to teach her
own. Thirdly, she lived in Chinatown, and made herself at home amongst
its denizens.
Chee A Tae was bitterly disappointed at seeing her husband without the
babe. She arose from her couch, and pulling open the door, which the men
had closed behind them, pointed them out again, crying: “Go, find my
son! Go, find my son!”
Chee Ping the First turned upon her resentfully. “Woman,” he cried,
“that he is lost is your fault. I have searched with my eyes, ears,
tongue, and limbs; but one might as well look for a pin at the bottom of
the ocean.”
The mother began to weep pitifully. “’Tis the Gambling Cash Tiger,” she
sobbed. “’Twas he who caused you to forget your parents and ill fortune
has followed therefor. A-ya, A-ya, A-ya. My heart is as heavy as the
blackest heavens!”
“What nonsense!” exclaimed Miss McLeod, thinking it time to interfere.
“The child cannot be far away. Let us all hunt and see who will find him
first.”
A crowd of men, women, and children had gathered outside the door, most
of them in gay holiday attire. At these words of the teacher there was
an assenting babel of voices, followed by a darting into passages, up
stairways, and behind doors. Lanterns were lit for the exploration of
underground cellars, stores, closets, stairways, balconies. Not a hole
in the vicinity of the Chee dwelling but was penetrated by keen eyes.
Rich and poor alike joined in the search, a yellow-robed priest from the
joss house and one of the Chiefs of the Six Companies being
conspicuously interested.
The mother, following in the footsteps of Miss McLeod, kept up a
plaintive wailing. “A-Ya, my young bud, my jade jewel, my peach bloom.
Little hands, veined like young leaves; voice like the breath of a
zephyr. Alas, the fates are against me! You are lost to your poor mother
who is without resource and bound with fetters. Death would be sweet
indeed; but that boon is denied.”
The day wore on and evening gradually stole upon them, followed by
night. The wind blew in gusts, but the moon had risen and was shining
bright so that there was a kind of moonlight even in the dark alleys.
The main portion of Chinatown had been thoroughly scoured, and most
attention was now being given to the hills which crept up to Powell
Street. It was in a top story of a half-way hill tenement that Miss
McLeod’s room was located; a cozy little place, for all its apparently
comfortless environment. When the wind began to blow bleak from the Bay,
her thoughts drifted longingly to her easy chair and cheery grate fire;
but only for a moment. Until the baby was found she could know no rest.
The distress of these Chinese people was hers; their troubles also. Had
she not adopted them as her own when kinfolk had failed her? Their
grateful appreciation of the smallest service; their undemonstrative but
faithful affection had been as balm to a heart wounded by the
indifference and bruised by the ingratitude of those to whom she had
devoted her youth, her strength, and her abilities.
Suddenly a cry was heard. Wang Hom Hing, a merchant Chinaman, who had
taken command of the search party detailed to explore the upper part of
Chinatown, appeared at the door of a rickety tenement—the one in which
Miss McLeod had built her nest—and waved, under the lanterns, a Chinese
flag, signal that the child was found.
Pell-mell the Chinese rushed towards their country’s emblem. With the
exception of Miss McLeod, not a single white person, not even a
policeman, had been impressed into the search.
Leading the rushing crowd was Chee Ping the First; in the midst panted A
Tae and her white woman friend, and in the wake of all calmly and
quietly pattered Little Me. Though usually the chief object of his
parents’ attention, this day, or rather night, he seemed altogether
forgotten.
Up several flights of stairs streamed the searchers, while from every
door on the landings, men, women, and children peered out, inquiring
what it all meant. Hemmed in by numbers, the teacher found herself at
last blocked outside her own room.
Someone was talking loudly and excitedly. It was Wang Hom Hing, the
father of her pupil of that name, and the uncle of another pupil, Lee
Chu. What was he saying? The teacher strained her ears to catch his
words. Gracious Heavens! He was declaring that she had stolen the child;
that it lay in her room, hidden under the coverlets of her bed—positive
evidence that she who, under the guise of friendship, had ingratiated
herself into their hearts and homes, was in reality a secret enemy.
“Trust her no more—this McLeod, Jean,” he cried. “Though her smile is as
sweet as honey, her heart is like a razor.”
There was an ominous silence after this speech.
Wang Hom Hing was a pompous man whose conceit had been inflated by the
flattery of wily white people, who, unlike the undiplomatic Scotch
woman, did discriminate between the gifts of the rich and poor.
Nevertheless, as President of the Water Lily Club and Secretary of the
Society of Celestial Reason, he was a man of influence in Chinatown, and
this was painfully impressed upon the teacher when Chee A Tae cast upon
her a shuddering glance and fell swooning into the arms of a stout
countrywoman behind her.
Now, the blood of Scottish chieftains throbbed in Miss McLeod’s veins;
and it was this brave blood which, when all the ships in which she had
stored her early hopes and dreams had one by one been lost, had borne up
her soul above the stormy flood, and helped her to launch another ship
in a sea both wild and strange. That ship had weathered many a gale.
Should she, after steering it safely into port, allow it to founder—in
harbor? Never! That ship was the safe-deposit bank for all her womanly
affection and energy. It carried her Chinese work—the work in which she
had found consolation, peace, and happiness. Hom Hing should not wreck
it without some effort on her part to save.
The intrepid woman, nerved by these thoughts, pushed through the human
wall before her and reached the speaker’s side. Sleeping in the midst of
the tumult lay the babe, its little hand under its cheek. So pretty a
picture that even in her stress and excitement she paused for a moment
to wonder and admire.
Then she faced the big Chinaman in his gorgeous holiday robes, her
small, slight form drawn to its fullest height, her light blue eyes
ablaze.
“Wang Hom Hing,” she cried. “You know you are trying to make my friends
believe what you do not believe yourself! I know no more than its mother
does about how the dear baby came here.”
The Chinese merchant shrugged his shoulders insolently, and addressing
the people again, asked them to judge for themselves. The child had been
stolen. The teacher had pretended to aid in a search, yet it had been he
and not she who had led the way to her room where it had been found.
Low mutterings were heard throughout the place; but after they had
subsided, the white woman, looking around for a friendly face, was
surprised and cheered to find many. Her spirits rose.
“How was I to know the child lay in my room?” she indignantly inquired.
“I left the place in the early morning. It has been brought there since
by someone unknown to me.”
Wang Hom Hing laughed scornfully as he moved away, his revenge, as he
thought, complete.
The father of the babe raised his son in his arms and passed him on to
the mother who stood with arms outstretched. Clutching the child
convulsively, she gazed with horror-struck eyes at the teacher.
“Friends,” cried the white woman, raising her voice in a last effort,
“will you allow that man to turn from me your hearts? Have you not known
me long enough to believe that though I cannot explain to you how the
baby came to be in my room, yet I am innocent of having brought it
there. A Tae”—addressing the mother—“can you believe that I would harm
one hair of your baby’s head?”
A Tae hesitated, her eyes full of tears. She had loved the teacher, but
Wang Hom Hing had sown a poisonous seed in her superstitious mind. Miss
McLeod noted her hesitation with a sinking of the heart that was almost
despair.
Up hobbled a very old and very tiny woman.
“McLeod, Jean,” she cried, “your gracious and noble qualities of mind
and soul merit a happier New Year’s Day than this. Wang Hom Hing’s words
cannot deceive old Sien Tau.”