Mrs. Spring Fragrance
speaks an American word, and I will take her for a trip to China, so
that our son may be born in the country that Heaven loves.”
“You cannot make too much amends for all she has suffered. As to
Americanizing Pau Tsu—that will come in time. I am quite sure that were
I transferred to your country and commanded to turn myself into a
Chinese woman in the space of two or three months I would prove a sorry
disappointment to whomever built their hopes upon me.”
Many hours elapsed before any trace could be found of the missing one.
All the known friends and acquaintances of little Pau Tsu were called
upon and questioned; but if they had knowledge of the young wife’s
hiding place they refused to divulge it. Though Lin Fo’s face was grave
with an unexpressed fear, their sympathies were certainly not with him.
The seekers were about giving up the search in despair when a little
boy, dangling in his hands a string of blue beads, arrested the
attention of the young husband. He knew the necklace to be a gift from
Pau Tsu to the maid, A-Toy. He had bought it himself. Stopping and
questioning the little fellow he learned to his great joy that his wife
and her maid were at the boy’s home, under the care of his grandmother,
who was a woman learned in herb lore.
Adah Raymond smiled in sympathy with her companion’s evident great
relief.
“Everything will now be all right,” said she, following Lin Fo as he
proceeded to the house pointed out by the lad. Arrived there, she
suggested that the husband enter first and alone. She would wait a few
moments.
“Miss Adah,” said Lin Fo, “ten thousand times I beg your pardon, but
perhaps you will come to see my wife some other time—not today?”
He hesitated, embarrassed and humiliated.
In one silent moment Adah Raymond grasped the meaning of all the
morning’s trouble—of all Pau Tsu’s sadness.
“Lord, what fools we mortals be!” she soliloquized as she walked home
alone. “I ought to have known. What else could Pau Tsu have
thought?—coming from a land where women have no men friends save their
husbands. How she must have suffered under her smiles! Poor, brave
little soul!”
IN THE LAND OF THE FREE
I
“See, Little One—the hills in the morning sun. There is thy home for
years to come. It is very beautiful and thou wilt be very happy there.”
The Little One looked up into his mother’s face in perfect faith. He was
engaged in the pleasant occupation of sucking a sweetmeat; but that did
not prevent him from gurgling responsively.
“Yes, my olive bud; there is where thy father is making a fortune for
thee. Thy father! Oh, wilt thou not be glad to behold his dear face.
’Twas for thee I left him.”
The Little One ducked his chin sympathetically against his mother’s
knee. She lifted him on to her lap. He was two years old, a round,
dimple-cheeked boy with bright brown eyes and a sturdy little frame.
“Ah! Ah! Ah! Ooh! Ooh! Ooh!” puffed he, mocking a tugboat steaming by.
San Francisco’s waterfront was lined with ships and steamers, while
other craft, large and small, including a couple of white transports
from the Philippines, lay at anchor here and there off shore. It was
some time before the _Eastern Queen_ could get docked, and even after
that was accomplished, a lone Chinaman who had been waiting on the wharf
for an hour was detained that much longer by men with the initials U. S.
C. on their caps, before he could board the steamer and welcome his wife
and child.
“This is thy son,” announced the happy Lae Choo.
Hom Hing lifted the child, felt of his little body and limbs, gazed into
his face with proud and joyous eyes; then turned inquiringly to a
customs officer at his elbow.
“That’s a fine boy you have there,” said the man. “Where was he born?”
“In China,” answered Hom Hing, swinging the Little One on his right
shoulder, preparatory to leading his wife off the steamer.
“Ever been to America before?”
“No, not he,” answered the father with a happy laugh.
The customs officer beckoned to another.
“This little fellow,” said he, “is visiting America for the first time.”
The other customs officer stroked his chin reflectively.
“Good day,” said Hom Hing.
“Wait!” commanded one of the officers. “You cannot go just yet.”
“What more now?” asked Hom Hing.
“I’m afraid,” said the first customs officer, “that we cannot allow the
boy to go ashore. There is nothing in the papers that you have shown
us—your wife’s papers and your own—having any bearing upon the child.”
“There was no child when the papers were made out,” returned Hom Hing.
He spoke calmly; but there was apprehension in his eyes and in his
tightening grip on his son.
“What is it? What is it?” quavered Lae Choo, who understood a little
English.
The second customs officer regarded her pityingly.
“I don’t like this part of the business,” he muttered.
The first officer turned to Hom Hing and in an official tone of voice,
said:
“Seeing that the boy has no certificate entitling him to admission to
this country you will have to leave him with us.”
“Leave my boy!” exclaimed Hom Hing.
“Yes; he will be well taken care of, and just as soon as we can hear
from Washington he will be handed over to you.”
“But,” protested Hom Hing, “he is my son.”
“We have no proof,” answered the man with a shrug of his shoulders; “and
even if so we cannot let him pass without orders from the Government.”
“He is my son,” reiterated Hom Hing, slowly and solemnly. “I am a
Chinese merchant and have been in business in San Francisco for many
years. When my wife told to me one morning that she dreamed of a green
tree with spreading branches and one beautiful red flower growing
thereon, I answered her that I wished my son to be born in our country,
and for her to prepare to go to China. My wife complied with my wish.
After my son was born my mother fell sick and my wife nursed and cared
for her; then my father, too, fell sick, and my wife also nursed and
cared for him. For twenty moons my wife care for and nurse the old
people, and when they die they bless her and my son, and I send for her
to return to me. I had no fear of trouble. I was a Chinese merchant and
my son was my son.”
“Very good, Hom Hing,” replied the first officer. “Nevertheless, we take
your son.”
“No, you not take him; he my son too.”
It was Lae Choo. Snatching the child from his father’s arms she held and
covered him with her own.
The officers conferred together for a few moments; then one drew Hom
Hing aside and spoke in his ear.
Resignedly Hom Hing bowed his head, then approached his wife. “’Tis the
law,” said he, speaking in Chinese, “and ’twill be but for a little
while—until tomorrow’s sun arises.”
“You, too,” reproached Lae Choo in a voice eloquent with pain. But
accustomed to obedience she yielded the boy to her husband, who in turn
delivered him to the first officer. The Little One protested lustily
against the transfer; but his mother covered her face with her sleeve
and his father silently led her away. Thus was the law of the land
complied with.
II
Day was breaking. Lae Choo, who had been awake all night, dressed
herself, then awoke her husband.
“’Tis the morn,” she cried. “Go, bring our son.”
The man rubbed his eyes and arose upon his elbow so that he could see
out of the window. A pale star was visible in the sky. The petals of a
lily in a bowl on the window-sill were unfurled.
“’Tis not yet time,” said he, laying his head down again.
“Not yet time. Ah, all the time that I lived before yesterday is not so
much as the time that has been since my little one was taken from me.”
The mother threw herself down beside the bed and covered her face.
Hom Hing turned on the light, and touching his wife’s bowed head with a
sympathetic hand inquired if she had slept.
“Slept!” she echoed, weepingly. “Ah, how could I close my eyes with my
arms empty of the little body that has filled them every night for more
than twenty moons! You do not know—man—what it is to miss the feel of
the little fingers and the little toes and the soft round limbs of your
little one. Even in the darkness his darling eyes used to shine up to
mine, and often have I fallen into slumber with his pretty babble at my
ear. And now, I see him not; I touch him not; I hear him not. My baby,
my little fat one!”
“Now! Now! Now!” consoled Hom Hing, patting his wife’s shoulder
reassuringly; “there is no need to grieve so; he will soon gladden you
again. There cannot be any law that would keep a child from its mother!”
Lae Choo dried her tears.
“You are right, my husband,” she meekly murmured. She arose and stepped
about the apartment, setting things to rights. The box of presents she
had brought for her California friends had been opened the evening
before; and silks, embroideries, carved ivories, ornamental
lacquer-ware, brasses, camphorwood boxes, fans, and chinaware were
scattered around in confused heaps. In the midst of unpacking the
thought of her child in the hands of strangers had overpowered her, and
she had left everything to crawl into bed and weep.
Having arranged her gifts in order she stepped out on to the deep
balcony.
The star had faded from view and there were bright streaks in the
western sky. Lae Choo looked down the street and around. Beneath the
flat occupied by her and her husband were quarters for a number of
bachelor Chinamen, and she could hear them from where she stood, taking
their early morning breakfast. Below their dining-room was her husband’s
grocery store. Across the way was a large restaurant. Last night it had
been resplendent with gay colored lanterns and the sound of music. The
rejoicings over “the completion of the moon,” by Quong Sum’s firstborn,
had been long and loud, and had caused her to tie a handkerchief over
her ears. She, a bereaved mother, had it not in her heart to rejoice
with other parents. This morning the place was more in accord with her
mood. It was still and quiet. The revellers had dispersed or were
asleep.
A roly-poly woman in black sateen, with long pendant earrings in her
ears, looked up from the street below and waved her a smiling greeting.
It was her old neighbor, Kuie Hoe, the wife of the gold embosser, Mark
Sing. With her was a little boy in yellow jacket and lavender
pantaloons. Lae Choo remembered him as a baby. She used to like to play
with him in those days when she had no child of her own. What a long
time ago that seemed! She caught her breath in a sigh, and laughed
instead.
“Why are you so merry?” called her husband from within.
“Because my Little One is coming home,” answered Lae Choo. “I am a happy
mother—a happy mother.”
She pattered into the room with a smile on her face.
* * * * *
The noon hour had arrived. The rice was steaming in the bowls and a
fragrant dish of chicken and bamboo shoots was awaiting Hom Hing. Not
for one moment had Lae Choo paused to rest during the morning hours; her
activity had been ceaseless. Every now and again, however, she had
raised her eyes to the gilded clock on the curiously carved mantelpiece.
Once, she had exclaimed:
“Why so long, oh! why so long?” Then apostrophizing herself: “Lae Choo,
be happy. The Little One is coming! The Little One is coming!” Several
times she burst into tears and several times she laughed aloud.
Hom Hing entered the room; his arms hung down by his side.
“The Little One!” shrieked Lae Choo.
“They bid me call tomorrow.”
With a moan the mother sank to the floor.
The noon hour passed. The dinner remained on the table.
III