The Black Mask (Vol. 4, No. 3 — December 1921)

I

Chu Kwong listened respectfully to the words of his father.

“My son,” the old man began, “it is written in the books of great wisdom that a son gains virtue who pays his father’s debts. Harken, then, to the story I shall tell you. Thus knowing your father’s debt, it may chance that you can pay it in the land of the white barbarians whither you go in the train of my most honorable and elder brother, Fong Su.”

The old man pulled gently at his pipe, watching the thin, spiral of smoke ascend toward the cloud-flecked sky. He was silent until recalled to the present by the discreet cough of Chu Kwong. He continued:

“It happened in the days before this disease called Democracy descended upon the Middle Kingdom, and the Daughter of Heaven still graced the golden throne.

“It was my task to administer justice in the city of T’sen Pi’en. One day there were led before me five evil men who had brought great pain to the honest citizens by their robberies and their murders. I listened to the stories against them, and because they seemed to be true stories I sentenced them to be flogged and then hung.

“But in the night they escaped from their jail and, coming to my house, sought revenge upon me for having passed just sentence. And they would have succeeded in their evil purpose had it not been for a certain white barbarian who was my guest. With the aid of his weapons, he fought against them, killing four and wounding the fifth.

“Strange are the ways of these white barbarians. This man who had saved my life would accept neither gold nor presents of any kind. Therefore I am in his debt, which is a burdensome state to an honest man.

“Before leaving my house, this man presented me with this card, which bears his likeness and his name written in a strange hand. Take it with you, so that should he cross your path you may know him and perchance befriend him as he befriended your father.”

Chu Kwong bowed low and prepared to withdraw. But his father stopped him, saying:

“One other thing, my son. In this land to which you go there is a dog of a Cantonese to whom I lent some hundreds of tales. He has not returned them. It is also written that a son gains virtue who collects all that is owing to his father. It may be that from this Li Sing there will be no money forthcoming. But a man can pay in other ways. Now you may retire.”

II

When he was just past forty, Gregory Westlake came into his inheritance. He returned to London after a career of hardship and adventure pursued in many lands. He settled down in his father’s house and prepared to enjoy himself.

And for a season he did enjoy himself. The renewal of old friendships, the making of new ones, the going about to this house and that, the solid comfort of English life plus an income that was more than sufficient for his needs — all these were as balm to his hitherto lonely and harassed spirit. Then he married Lady Miriam Stonewald and began a sojourn in a garden of sorrow.

Who ever solved the riddle that was Miriam Stonewald? No one, I’ll wager, unless it was a man or woman who could solve the mysteries of the sea. For, like the sea beside which she was born, she was unfathomable, often unexpectedly kind, often senselessly cruel, and always inconstant as a summer breeze.

She was beautiful and she had wealth and a pretty taste in clothes. But, besides, she had charm and no one who ever came under its influence ever forgot her, ever quite ceased to be her slave.

It is a mystery why she married Gregory Westlake. Certainly she did not love him. Nor was it his income that attracted her, since it totalled less than a fifth of her own. Perhaps it was as Lady Cooper put it, “Oh, Westlake just chanced to be around when the whim to marry seized dear Miriam.”

Stored up in Westlake’s heart was all the love and affection accumulated by a man who has lived a lonely life in strange lands. All of it he lavished on his wife. He gave her himself wholly and for eternity. And the greater tragedy was not that she refused his gift, but that she seemed unaware that it had been offered. A week after they were married she went her usual way — a ceaseless round of receptions, dinners, dances — and her husband had become simply another of those possessions one has but doesn’t think about.

It was shortly after her return from the Glencairn shooting that she met an undersecretary at the Chinese Embassy, a certain Chu Kwong, who was greatly the rage because he could sing exotic love-songs to strange Chinese music.

“Oh, do bring the dear child over and present him,” she said to her host at the Spanish Ambassador’s reception.

Don Ruy Diaz laughed and sent one of his aides to fetch the good-looking young Chinaman.

When Chu Kwong heard Lady Miriam’s name he smiled pleasantly into her eyes.

“Your father — perhaps he is Mr. Gregory Westlake?” he asked in his so-ft, almost feminine, voice.

“That is my husband’s name,” Lady Miriam replied.

Chu Kwong clasped his hands together and bowed very low.

“Then we should be friends, madam, since already I am your husband’s friend.”

“You know my husband?”

“Alas, no, madam,” Chu Kwong answered. “Nevertheless I am his friend.”

And bowing again, he moved slowly away.

Intrigued by his perfect self-possession, his quaint manner, Lady Miriam determined to add Chu Kwong to the host of her admirers.

It was not a difficult task. Chu Kwong was at the age of idealism when any pretty woman who will listen to a young man’s hopes and aspirations is an angel in disguise. And Lady Miriam had the knack of listening.

She let him come to tea and over the cups draw her a picture of a new China with himself in the foreground holding a very important position indeed. She let him bring her little presents — queer fans of sandalwood and ornaments of apple-green jade. It was her whim to captivate him and she gratified it.

Chu Kwong’s attitude toward Westlake was odd. Gifted with the Oriental’s ability to penetrate to another’s moods, he saw clearly beneath Westlake’s mask of nonchalance. He saw that the man was unhappy — unspeakably so. And not knowing that the cause was Lady Miriam’s indifference and neglect, he was possessed with a measure of contempt for his father’s friend.

To a Chinaman, possession of a desirable woman is more than nine points of the law. It is the law complete. How, then, could a man married to Lady Miriam, living in the same house with her, privileged to enjoy the thousand and one intimacies of such living, dare to be anything but overwhelmingly joyous? Did it not augur a lack of taste and appreciation for so enviable a being to be unhappy?

Nevertheless Chu Kwong, bound by filial devotion, never lost sight of the fact that it was to this Englishman that his father owed his life. And always his eyes were open, seeking here, seeking the opportunity to pay his father’s debt.

And it came about that one afternoon he called at the Westlake house to escort Lady Miriam to a sale at Christies. The servant put him in the little drawing-room behind which was Westlake’s library.

For a little Chu Kwong sat beside the window looking out into the quiet street. Then growing restless, he rose and began pacing up and down the length of the room. As he neared the folding door leading to the library he heard voices.

Matters of morals and good taste vary greatly. A Chinaman can listen behind a closed door without forfeiting his self-respect. So Chu Kwong stood very still and listened.

A man’s voice that Chu Kwong had never heard before was speaking.

“... and from there we’ll take native boats to the river’s source. The shooting is bound to be good. Will you come, Gregory?”

And Westlake replied:

“Sorry, old chap. Like to and all that. But I–I can’t.”

There was silence for a minute. Then the strange voice broke out, its tones impatient:

“I know what it is. I think that you are hugging your misery to your heart. Forgive me for speaking like this, Gregory, but — well, damn it all, I hate to see a good chap come a cropper because a petticoat can’t see he’s the finest man on two continents.”

There was the sound of a chair being pushed back, followed by an exclamation from Westlake:

“Gad, man, it isn’t pretty, is it — to see your pal making all kinds of an ass of himself!”

He laughed. Then his voice became serious.

“But truly you don’t understand. No man could who hadn’t been in the same boat. Miriam is in my blood — like that damnable African fever. And you can’t get rid of it and you can’t forget it — ever. I know I’m not wanted here: wouldn’t even be missed if I trekked anywhere, but — well, I can’t go.”

“See here,” he went on after a short pause, “to no other man on earth would I tell these things. Do you know that sometimes I am almost ready to pray for Miriam’s death, so that once irrevocably separated from her I can pull myself together and be my own man again.”

Then someone entered the library and the conversation ceased.

That evening Chu Kwong sat long and motionless, absorbed in his thoughts. Knowledge, ideas, suggestions that had come to him from hearing Westlake talking to his friend crowded his brain and bewildered him. One by one he sorted them and weighed them and placed them in their proper relationship. And it seemed to him when he was done that his duty was clear.

Then in his whole being there raged a battle between duty and desire. It lasted until the dawn had lighted up the chimney-pots and paled the stars. It left Chu Kwong exhausted, but around his lips there were lines of purpose and determination.

The next morning he visited Li Sing, importer of teas and spices and perhaps a little of the juice of the yellow poppy.

After he and his host had accomplished the necessary ceremonies of greeting, he came to the purpose of his call.

“Li Sing,” he said, “there is a debt of money that you owe my father.”

The other Chinaman moved his huge bulk uneasily. He coughed behind his hand, shaking his head sadly.

“That is true, O elder brother.”

“And you can pay?”

Li Sing grew still more embarrassed.

“My business is poor, son of an illustrious father, and I have no money.”

Chu Kwong’s eyes narrowed.

“Debts may be paid in other ways than with money,” he suggested.

Li Sing’s face brightened.

“What is it that you wish me to do?”

Chu Kwong leaned over him and whispered a sentence or two into his ear.

The other man sprang to his feet.

“No! No!” he cried. “That is impossible.”

“Why?”

Li Sing stretched forth his hands appealingly.

“But can you not see? There is the danger to my life.”

Chu Kwong, sitting as immovable as an idol, looked at him coldly.

“But there is the danger to your honor if you do not do as I have asked,” he said brutally. “Shall your ancestors lose face because you are a cheat and a coward?”

Then Li Sing fell upon his knees and pleaded. But to all his offers and protestations Chu Kwong turned a deaf ear. His eyes were veiled with the mist of incomprehension, as though he could not understand the other’s words.

At last Li Sing rose. He made a little gesture of defeat.

“I will do as you have ordered,” he said quietly.

“That is well,” Chu Kwong replied.

Then he, too, rose and departed.

III

Chu Kwong again stood humbly before his father.

“My father,” he said, “I have paid your debt to the white barbarian and also I have collected that which Li Sing owed you.”

The old man nodded his head gently.

“You have done well, my son. Tell me now the details.”

Chu Kwong cleared his throat.

“I found the white barbarian sick, O my father. And I removed from his person that which was gnawing at his heart. I permitted Li Sing to be my servant in the matter and for his services absolved him from his debt.”

He drew forth a clipping from a London newspaper, and translating slowly, read it to his father:

Chu Kwong folded the clipping and returned it to his pocket. Then he looked gravely at his father.

The old man removed the stem of his pipe from between his lips and spat contemplatively.

“I do not quite follow all the details of this matter, my son,” he said. “But undoubtedly you have done well.”

Chu Kwong half turned away.

“And if in paying your debt, O my father, I have paid it partly with my heart’s blood, have I acquired virtue?”

The old man nodded.

“You have acquired great virtue, my son.”

Chu Kwong bowed his head.

“Perhaps that is so,” he said softly.