The bestowal of the cash and the departure of Hing Fai had the effect of causing the despised Wang to cease his melancholy self-torture. He abandoned his stone, wiped the clotted blood from his head, and with the five cash proceeded to a cheap eating-house to regale himself on rice. Wang’s profession of beggar made him conversant with many of the affairs of his townsmen, so he was acquainted with the recent losses sustained by Hing Fai. Having eaten his fill of rice, he washed his head free of blood in the neighbouring stream and betook himself to the pleasant abode of Hing Fai, where he accosted the gate-keeper in suitable terms: “Most honourable keeper of the gate, this degraded and unspeakably insignificant person has matters of importance to reveal to the most exalted and charitable Hing Fai.”
The gate-keeper replied that the air of the immediate neighbourhood was already sufficiently tainted, but that the presence of the disgusting Wang rendered it almost unbearable. Wang replied that he was well aware that the unspeakable odours that emanated from his degraded self must necessarily be unpleasant to such an exalted and gently born person as the gate-keeper, but that should admission be refused him he would bring ten thousand more worse smelling beggars to the gate, and that they would remain there and clamour for admission for one hundred years. After a protracted conversation carried on in similar polite terms the truculent gate-keeper admitted the impecunious Wang to Hing Fai’s compound. Wang advanced towards the house, walking at the side of the path, and carefully avoiding any desecration of the honourable brick-laid pathway by his own low-born feet.
Arriving at the door of the house he did not presume to call one of the house-servants, but knelt on the pathway of narrow bricks and rhythmically beat his head on them, from time to time uttering almost inaudible groans. Two or three of Hing Fai’s servants idly observed these actions, and as the blood began to stream from the wretched Wang’s head one of the servants ventured to inform Hing Fai that there was a miserable person without who evidently begged an audience. Hing Fai had dined, he was now smoking a cigar and sipping sweet champagne, and felt more at peace with the world, so he signified his willingness to have speech with the beggar, for he argued that the man’s persistence in attracting attention might mean that he had something of importance to communicate. Wang’s obeisances having been deemed sufficiently servile, the honourable Hing Fai commanded him to speak, at the same time hinting that should the beggar’s communication be considered so unimportant as to not warrant his thrusting his objectionable presence on the honourable Hing Fai, one hundred blows on the bare feet would seem but a mild reproof. Wang humbly kneeling with his forehead on the floor spoke as follows:—
“It has come to the knowledge of this altogether insignificant person that recently certain severe pecuniary losses have happened to the honourable Hing Fai.” Any annoyance that Hing Fai may have felt at this speech he carefully concealed, and the beggar continued: “Has it never occurred to the far-seeing Hing Fai what may be the cause of this growing ill-luck? Is there in Fo Kien a more charming and beautiful residence than that the life-restoring air of which this entirely despicable person at present dares to breathe? Let the honourable Hing Fai look round, and his heaven-sent intellect will at once see wherein lies the secret of his misfortunes.”
Hing Fai was now really angry. Fixing a stern gaze on the loathsome Wang, he commanded him to speak more plainly, or—and Hing waved his arm suggestively.
Then Wang rose to his feet, pointed through the open door across the beautiful garden, and said—
“The foreign devil builds a high temple.”
Hing Fai remained for some minutes deep in thought and oblivious of the beggar; then he ordered his servants to take the man away and feed him. Wang’s appearance as he left the presence still bore the mark of abject humility, but inwardly he exulted: he had sown the seeds of distrust, which he hoped would eventually lead to the sacking of the Mission Station and a fair share of loot to himself. Hing Fai sank into a deep reverie after the departure of the beggar. He thought of the foreign devils and of the religion they preached, of which he had taken the trouble to make some inquiries. He knew that the foreign devils had a house near his compound, and that the meanest and worst characters occasionally attended their worship; but that these people could possibly menace his prosperity came to him as an astounding idea, and one scarcely to be credited.
Hing Fai and the Rev. Arthur Jones were both good men in their way—both honest, and both hardworking; but one was a Christian Welsh missionary and the other a Chinese Buddhist merchant. The Rev. Jones was small, near-sighted, and very hardworking, and his wife resembled him in these three particulars. For some two years they had conducted their mission and school near the house of Hing Fai, and once the foreign devils had become a familiar sight the heads of the wealthier Chinese concerned themselves little with the doings of the missionaries.
The Rev. Jones was now about to accomplish one of his pet ambitions, namely, to build a real church. So far, divine worship had been conducted in the school-house attached to the mission, but the pastor’s honest work had at last been recognised by the authorities at home, and a small corrugated iron chapel had been sent him in sections. This chapel was now in course of construction, and the devilish mind of Wang, the beggar, had seized on its building as a chance to better himself; and by him the first seeds of distrust had been sown in the mind of Hing Fai. All day Hing Fai remained deep in thought, and even the blandishments of the beautiful Mah Su, his wife, did little to rouse him from his state of mental depression.