Wu Chi put on no mourning, custom did not require it; and now that the woman had Passed Beyond he saw no necessity to honour her memory at the expense of his own domestic peace.  His wife donned her gayest robes and made a feast.  Weng alone stood apart, and in funereal sackcloth moved through the house like an accusing ghost.  Each day his father met him with a frown, the woman whom alone he must regard as his mother with a mocking smile, but he passed them without any word of dutiful and submissive greeting.  The period of all seemly mourning ended—­it touched that allotted to a legal parent; still Weng cast himself down and made no pretence to hide his grief.  His father’s frown became a scowl, his mother’s smile framed a biting word.  A wise and venerable friend who loved the youth took him aside one day and with many sympathetic words counselled restraint.

“For,” he said, “your conduct, though affectionate towards the dead, may be urged by the ill-disposed as disrespectful towards the living.  If you have a deeper end in view, strive towards it by a less open path.”

“You are subtle and esteemed in wisdom,” replied Weng, “but neither of those virtues can restore a broken jar.  The wayside fountain must one day dry up at its source, but until then not even a mountain placed upon its mouth can pen back its secret stores.  So is it with unfeigned grief.”

“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.”