“The analogy may be exact,” replied the aged friend, shaking his head, “but it is no less truly said: ‘The wise tortoise keeps his pain inside.’ Rest assured, on the disinterested advice of one who has no great experience of mountains and hidden springs, but a life-long knowledge of Wu Chi and of his amiable wife, that if you mourn too much you will have reason to mourn more.”
His words were pointed to a sharp edge. At that moment Wu Chi was being confronted by his wife, who stood before him in his inner chamber. “Who am I?” she exclaimed vehemently, “that my authority should be denied before my very eyes? Am I indeed Che of the house of Meng, whose ancestors wore the Yellow Scabbard, or am I some nameless one? Or does my lord sleep, or has he fallen blind upon the side by which Weng approaches?”
“His heart is bad and his instincts perverted,” replied Wu Chi dully. “He ignores the rites, custom, and the Emperor’s example, and sets at defiance all the principles of domestic government. Do not fear that I shall not shortly call him to account with a very heavy call.”
“Do so, my lord,” said his wife darkly, “or many valiant champions of the House of Meng may press forward to make a cast of that same account. To those of our ancient line it would not seem a trivial thing that their daughter should share her rights with a purchased slave.”
“Peace, cockatrice! the woman was well enough,” exclaimed Wu Chi, with slow resentment. “But the matter of this obstinacy touches the dignity of my own authority, and before to-day has passed Weng shall bring up his footsteps suddenly before a solid wall.”
Accordingly, when Weng returned at his usual hour he found his father awaiting him with curbed impatience. That Wu Chi should summon him into his presence in the great hall was of itself an omen that the matter was one of moment, but the profusion of lights before the Ancestral Tablets and the various symbols arranged upon the table showed that the occasion was to be regarded as one involving irrevocable issues.
“Weng Cho,” said his father dispassionately, from his seat at the head of the table, “draw near, and first pledge the Ancient Ones whose spirits hover above their Tablets in a vessel of wine.”
“I am drinking affliction and move under the compact of a solemn vow,” replied Weng fixedly, “therefore I cannot do this; nor, as signs are given me to declare, will the forerunners of our line, who from their high places look down deep into the mind and measure the heart with an impartial rod, deem this an action of disrespect to their illustrious shades.”
“It is well to be a sharer of their councils,” said Wu Chi, with pointed insincerity. “But,” he continued, in the same tone, “for whom can Weng Cho of the House of Wu mourn? His father is before him in his wonted health; in the inner chamber his mother plies an unfaltering needle; while from the Dragon Throne the supreme Emperor still rules the world. Haply, however, a thorn has pierced his little finger, or does he perchance bewail the loss of a favourite bird?”
“That thorn has sunk deeply into his existence, and the memory of that loss still dims his eyes with bitterness,” replied Weng. “Bid the rain cease to fall when the clouds are heavy.”