“Was the child not dead?” the innkeeper asked. The guests were well-to-do, and he was courteous in what he said.
“She was not dead but cast away by my grandmother, who had a fierce temper and was angry because my mother gave birth to three girls one after the other,” the man replied.
“How came you here in that year?” the innkeeper asked.
“It was an evil year in our region near the northern capital,” the man said. “The harvests failed, and we moved to these parts where food was plentiful. On the way, which was here, my mother gave birth.”
The innkeeper mused over this. “It must have been in this very inn then,” he said, “because it is the only one in our town and I have been here for my lifetime and my father before me.”
“It was in this inn, my mother says, and that is why we have lingered. My two sisters are dead, and my mother still yearns over the lost child.”
“I will go and tell this to our gentry,” the innkeeper said. “If anyone knows, Madame Wu knows it.”
So the innkeeper put on his best clothes, and one evening after the guests had all been served he sent word to Madame Wu that he had a question to ask her if she would receive him.
She replied that she would, for the innkeeper’s family had been old servants of the Wu family. An hour later he stood before her in the main hall, and this time she did not ask Mr. Wu to come to hear the man, for it was at a time inconvenient to him. Mr. Wu did not like to be disturbed after his night meal, and yet it was the only time when the innkeeper could come, so great was the rush of his guests now in wartime.
When he stood before Madame Wu he told his tale. She listened, piecing all she knew together. She did not tell this man her thoughts. Instead she said, “Let the mother come to visit me and tell me everything.”
“The very best thing, Our Lady,” the innkeeper declared and went back with his message.
The next day the son brought his mother. Madame Wu received the mother in her court, and the son waited outside in the main hall.
Now, Madame Wu could not know what sort of woman her visitor would be. She had expected a woman of common origin, but as her visitor came in, leaning upon a maidservant’s arm, she saw this was no common woman, but a lady, though no longer young.
She gave greeting and asked the lady to be seated in the place of honor, which the lady refused until she was pressed. But at last both ladies were seated, tea poured, and everything prepared for talk, and Ying and the maid were at a distance too great to hear but not to be called.
After all courteous extra words had been said what the lady had to tell was this:
“We have come at some distance out of our way westward. Certainly safety lies very far from here, and we have come some two hundred miles farther than we need to come. But I have my reasons.”
She wiped her eyes, one after the other, on a silk handkerchief.
“Tell me what you wish to tell me,” Madame Wu said kindly.
Thus encouraged, the lady went on and told of the casting away of her child. “I know my child did not die. She was so healthy — more healthy than any of my others. And the child’s father was not willing to have her killed, even at his mother’s demand. He was a good man with an evil mother. Alas, he died before she did, and he feared to tell me anything against his mother’s will.”
She paused to weep again. “How we were punished! One child after another died, girl and boy alike, until only my youngest son is left. Now I seek the child I lost, and that is why I have come so far.”
“You know the child was not killed?” Madame Wu asked.
“I know that,” the lady answered, “for even while I lay in bed after the birth I heard the son pleading with the mother, and she agreed at last that the child should not be killed, but only cast away over the city wall.”
“Was the child wrapped in a red silk coat?” Madame Wu asked.
The lady stared at her. “In my old red coat,” she gasped. “I thought if she were wrapped in it, she might be seen by someone.”
Madame Wu rose and went to the chest. There folded among her own garments was the one Ch’iuming had long ago given her to keep. “Here is the coat,” she said.
The lady’s face turned the color of lead. “It is the coat!” she whispered. She clutched it in her hands. “But the child?”
“Living,” Madame Wu said.
And then she told the story of Ch’iuming and how the girl had come into this house, and the lady listened, weeping and impatient and yet fearful. It was hard to tell that Ch’iuming had not pleased Mr. Wu and hard to tell how Madame Wu had allowed her to go to the village to live, though she valued her. The lady was grateful and yet reproachful, too, and at last Madame Wu said, “Let us go to the village to see for ourselves and you will see that your child has been well cared for.”
So without more delay she called for sedans, and the two ladies went at once to the village.
Now, Madame Wu had long been saying she must visit the village and see for herself what Fengmo was doing, but what with cold winter, hot summer and a slight ague she had, and her own love of being alone with her books, she had not gone. What she saw today amazed her. The village was clean and prosperous as it had never been, and the people looked healthier than ever they had. Children had clean noses and brushed hair, and the villagers pointed proudly at a new earthen building as the school. Fengmo had told her much and she had listened and said, “Yes, yes, my son,” but she had not comprehended all he had done.
Beside the school was his own house, and since a messenger had run ahead to tell of their coming, there all was ready for them. Linyi was with child, and this had been told to Madame Wu, but she was not prepared for Linyi’s healthy looks. Her cheeks were red, her lips red without paint, and she had put on flesh as well as motherhood. The curled ends of her hair she had cut off, and this pleased Madame Wu as much as anything. But more perhaps she was pleased by the change in Linyi’s manners. The girl was respectful and prompt, and her lazy ways were gone.
So they went into Fengmo’s house and sat down, and Fengmo was sent for, and when he was come the whole story was told again, and Ch’iuming and her child were sent for and Rulan came with her.
The moment that Ch’iuming came in mother and daughter looked at each other and knew who they were. No two could have faces so alike who were not made one of the other. All who watched burst into laughter at so magic an ending to a strange story, and if Madame Wu was the most silent, yet she was the most pleased.
“My mother!” Ch’iuming cried.
“This is my child,” the lady said.
The two must weep, and the lady must embrace her grandchild, who by this time was big enough to be bold, and the child cried and kicked and Ch’iuming slapped her and the lady protested, and soon all was easy again. Of course the lady must have Ch’iuming and the child go back with her and join her own family. For this Ch’iuming must ask permission of Madame Wu.
“May I go, Elder Sister?” she asked timidly.
Now, Madame Wu saw very clearly that Ch’iuming did not look well. In spite of the clean village air and the country food, Ch’iuming was pale and her eyes were hollow as though she were sleepless, and Madame Wu saw that she kept her eyes away from Linyi. It would be well for Ch’iuming to leave the house of Wu. She gave her permission.
“If it were any other than your mother,” she said, “I could not let you go, but Heaven has brought mother and daughter together, and how dare I keep you apart? You shall go, but not before I have new clothes made for you and the child and such things provided as you will need on your journey. You must not go empty from our house.”
The lady protested that this was not needful, but Madame Wu insisted. Then Ch’iuming and her child, after many thanks, returned with her mother to the inn, and from that time on they were parted no more.