Song Yuzhang: Chapter 87 - To Hold a Funeral
Chapter 87: To Hold a Funeral
Meng Huanzhang died in the early hours of the morning, but it wasn’t discovered until later that day.
Last night, it was the ninth concubine’s turn to keep vigil. She was just eighteen, originally a singing girl in a teahouse. Old Master Meng hadn’t even finished his tea before his eyes had settled on her round, plump backside, and he paid three hundred dollars to bring her in as his ninth concubine. She had grown up an orphan, and after entering the Meng household, she suddenly gained several “sisters”—other concubines and young ladies all mixed together—and picked up a new hobby: playing mahjong.
The night before she was to keep vigil, she had stayed up all night playing mahjong with some of the other concubines. So when her turn came to stay by Meng Huanzhang’s bedside, she kept nodding off. The maid with her had also played mahjong all night, and the two eighteen-year-old girls kept dozing off, not even realizing when Meng Huanzhang had passed.
Although Meng Huanzhang had been bedridden for a long time, he'd often fallen ill before. Over the past two years alone, he’d had several serious illnesses, but each time he recovered, he still had the energy to take on new concubines. So the entire Meng household believed he would eventually recover again and return to being the lecherous old man they were used to. Perhaps he’d even marry a tenth concubine.
But Meng Huanzhang died suddenly, without warning. When he passed, he wet himself and the bedding reeked. The ninth concubine had been napping in the outer room and hadn’t noticed a thing.
Seven or eight servants came in to clean up the room. No one cried. No one even looked sad. When the ninth concubine realized he was dead, she informed the servants and then calmly returned to her courtyard with her maid to catch up on sleep.
Meng Sushan arrived.
Only then did crying begin in the room, and with it, the proper atmosphere of mourning.
“Where’s Tingjing...?”
“We’ve already sent someone to the docks to get him.”
Meng Tingjing had spent the entire night at the docks.
He was born and raised here. When he was seven, the old patriarch of the Meng family brought him to the docks, pointed out at the endless sea, and told him: One day, all of this will be yours.
The autumn sea breeze had grown sharp, whipping his hair around and coloring the sunrise with fire.
Meng Tingjing’s face was expressionless, and inwardly, he felt hollow. Only the wind, only the morning glow.
The sunlight spread over the sea, where gentle waves rolled in. They were soft and light, bringing a strange peace to the soul.
Through all the storms of life, Meng Tingjing realized he had always been pushing against the current.
When the time came to take over the family business, he had resisted. He ran off to study in England for a few years, got his degree, and impressed his classmates. Upon returning, when the family business resisted his authority, he dealt with them swiftly and ruthlessly, securing full control. He had faced many challenges, but he believed no matter how hard the road, he could weather any storm. He was unstoppable.
But in truth, no one is unstoppable.
Meng Tingjing bent one leg, resting his arm on it, gazing out at the turbulent sea. What was Song Yuzhang, really? Just more beautiful, more clever, more cunning, more gentle, and interesting than others…
Meng Tingjing lowered his gaze and realized he still wanted Song Yuzhang.
Even now, despite the drama, despite how ugly it had gotten—he still wanted him.
He knew he had already invested far too much time and emotion in that person. It wasn’t normal. It was practically a mistake.
Is this what it means to love someone?
Meng Tingjing interrogated himself with a blank expression.
For a long time, he still had no answer.
Because even now, he didn’t really understand what “love” truly meant.
His thoughts were interrupted by a car that skidded loudly to a stop by the docks. Meng Tingjing turned with displeasure to see one of the old family servants step out, sobbing hysterically, “Young Master, the old master has passed—”
Meng Tingjing rushed home.
The house was now shrouded in gloom.
The shock of Meng Huanzhang’s death finally descended upon the household. Though not many were genuinely sad, they all had to put on a show of mourning. One person started crying, then another, until they were all crying about their own sorrows, comparing grief like it was a contest.
The ninth concubine, after waking from her nap, realized her negligence the night before might bring consequences. She hurried back to the old master’s room, wailing and calling “Old Master” at the top of her lungs. The other concubines and young ladies soon followed, crying one after another as if trying to outdo each other.
When Meng Tingjing walked in, all he heard was a cacophony of sobs.
Meng Sushan was no longer crying aloud in Song Jincheng’s arms, just silently weeping. When she saw Meng Tingjing return, she immediately rushed forward and clung to him. Meng Tingjing supported her arm and heard her whisper, “Tingjing, Father’s gone.” She hugged him tightly, sobbing. Song Jincheng came forward as well, patting her back and saying to his red-eyed brother-in-law, “Tingjing, the old master passed peacefully. Take care of yourself.”
Meng Tingjing showed no reaction. None at all. The words “Meng Huanzhang is dead” passed through his mind like running water, leaving no ripple. It felt as if he had heard about a stranger’s death. Perhaps even that would have stirred more curiosity. But this—this meant nothing.
He patted his sister’s back and said faintly, “It’s okay.” Then he turned to the crying concubines and sisters and said, “Quiet.”
They all knew who really held power in the Meng family. Immediately, they lowered their handkerchiefs and backed away without another word.
He patted Meng Sushan’s back again, gently pushing her toward Song Jincheng. Then he stepped forward to examine the body.
Meng Huanzhang’s face had already turned bluish. He was well and truly dead.
Meng Tingjing summoned the servants. “Change his clothes. Prepare for the funeral.”
“Yes, sir.”
He turned again to the women in the room. “Go back to your courtyards.”
Some of them had played mahjong all night and were still yawning even while crying. Upon hearing this, they left joyfully, trying to suppress their smiles.
Once the "unnecessary people" were gone, Meng Tingjing walked back over to Meng Sushan. Her eyes were swollen, leaning against her husband, clutching a handkerchief over her heart, face full of grief.
“Brother-in-law, take my sister back to her courtyard to rest. I’ll handle things here.”
Song Jincheng looked at Meng Tingjing. He knew well enough that none of them had much real affection for the old man. He put his arm around his wife’s shoulders and said, “Come on, let’s go. Let Tingjing deal with it.”
Meng Sushan looked back at him reluctantly, glancing over her shoulder again and again as she was led out of the room.
She turned her head once more and choked on a sob.
“Don’t be too upset. The old master passed without much pain. Life and death, sickness and age—they’re beyond our control…”
Song Jincheng’s attempt at comfort had no effect on Meng Sushan. She simply shook her head slowly and said, “I’m worried about Tingjing.”
“Tingjing?” Song Jincheng smiled, thinking his wife was worrying unnecessarily. “Don’t worry. What can’t Tingjing handle? As his big sister, you still treat him like a child.”
News of the Meng family patriarch’s death quickly spread through the upper circles of Haizhou.
“Got it. You may leave.”
After hearing Nie Xueping’s instruction, the messenger withdrew.
Song Yuzhang was slightly surprised—just the normal kind of surprise at unexpected news. As he sat dazed, a steaming pan-fried bun was placed on the plate before him. “Careful, it’s hot.”
Song Yuzhang snapped back to his senses. His chopsticks gently touched the bun. He turned to Nie Xueping and saw that his expression was calm and composed. That little ripple of surprise in his heart quickly faded—after all, the Meng family patriarch had nothing to do with Nie Xueping.
This time, Song Yuzhang staying out all night didn’t stir any reaction from Song Mingzhao. He simply asked, “Have you had breakfast?”
Song Yuzhang said he had, and Song Mingzhao didn’t say anything else. After a while, he added, “The Meng family patriarch passed. They sent someone to notify us.”
“I know.”
Song Yuzhang took off his coat, his whole body relaxed and a little sluggish—likely from last night’s exertion—but also completely satisfied. The fire in his heart had burned out, leaving behind a rare peace. Right now, he had both love and a career in hand. There was nothing more he wanted. He reached out to touch Song Mingzhao’s face and smiled. “Fourth Brother, it’s all behind us. I won’t let you worry anymore.”
Song Mingzhao smiled faintly. “I’m not afraid of anything. No matter what happens, it’s not like it has anything to do with me.”
Song Yuzhang picked up on the note of bitterness, of quiet resignation, in his voice. But he didn’t have the energy or inclination to coax him—he was full now, and had no appetite for idleness.
So he only smiled, gently squeezed Song Mingzhao’s hand hanging by his side, and said, “I’m heading upstairs.”
Song Mingzhao’s fingertips were briefly pinched—so quickly there wasn’t even time to feel the warmth before it was gone. He stood alone on the staircase like an abandoned orphan, rubbing his fingers and letting out a self-mocking smile.
The entire Meng household had become busy.
As an old family with longstanding traditions, funerals were especially elaborate. The whole household was draped in mourning decorations. White flowers were pinned to plaques, white cloth hung from the walls. It was already an old residence—now it looked even more eerie and ghostly.
Meng Huanzhang’s coffin lay in the main hall. According to family tradition, the body had to be kept for a day and watched over through the night before the formal funeral could begin.
All the concubines and daughters of the family wore black robes with white flowers and kept vigil in the main hall.
Meng Sushan sat at the front, carefully watching the incense to see if it had burned out.
After a while, Meng Tingjing came in from outside, dressed in black with a white mourning armband. He bowed before the coffin, burned incense, then lifted his robe and rose, instructing the servants to serve the night meal.
Soon, the servants brought out tangyuan filled with red bean paste and dried tangerine peel.
Some concubines didn’t like the tangerine flavor, so the servants brought out shredded chicken noodle soup instead. Some of the Meng daughters wanted neither and asked for cream bread.
Before long, the hall was filled with the smell of food. The concubines sat together, eating quietly and chatting in low voices—about mahjong, qipaos, and their freshly styled hair.
Meng Tingjing sat beside Meng Sushan. Song Jincheng, being an outsider, couldn’t keep vigil and had already returned home.
“Eat a little. We still have to stay up until dawn,” Meng Tingjing said.
Meng Sushan shook her head. “I have no appetite.”
“You should eat even if you don’t feel like it. Wan Lan, go ask the kitchen to steam some lily bulbs.”
“Yes, sir.”
Meng Sushan rubbed her temples and said softly, “Don’t trouble the kitchen. I really can’t eat. I don’t want anything right now… What about you? Have you eaten?”
Meng Tingjing was silent for a moment, then said, “I have.”
Meng Sushan hummed softly. “That’s good. As long as you’ve eaten. I’m not tired. I’ve just been sitting here. You’ve been running around—if you’ve eaten, that’s good. There’s still more to deal with later…”
Her voice was so soft that even with him sitting beside her, Meng Tingjing had to focus to hear her. But once he did, all he could hear was the constant sound of food being chewed and hushed laughter filling the hall.
Though the patriarch had died, the concubines weren’t afraid. They knew the family rules were strict, and the daughters wouldn’t be left destitute. As for the daughters, they hardly had any real memories of their father—he’d never cared for children—so there wasn’t much grief to begin with. They were still Meng family young ladies, after all.
Meng Tingjing looked up and scanned the room.
The women noticed his gaze and lowered their voices again.
Truthfully, Meng Tingjing wasn’t angry with them. They were just noisy.
None of them had loved Meng Huanzhang. If someone you didn’t love died, why should you mourn?
What puzzled Meng Tingjing was this: he too had never loved or respected that lecherous, vulgar father—not even a little. So why did he have no appetite either? Why couldn’t he eat?
The lily bulbs were steamed. Wanlan brought them over with a side of locust flower honey and offered a spoonful to Meng Sushan. She reluctantly took two bites before pushing it away. “I really can’t eat. Tingjing, you have it.”
Wan Lan looked troubled. Meng Tingjing said, “Take it away.”
Wan Lan had no choice but to leave.
After sitting quietly for a while, clutching her handkerchief, Meng Sushan suddenly reached out and held Meng Tingjing’s hand. “Tingjing, have you not eaten anything either?”
Meng Tingjing said nothing, his gaze heavy as it dropped to the floor.
She sighed. “If your heart aches, just cry. It’s okay, Tingjing. I know you’re hurting. I’m hurting too. Father—he wasn’t a good man, but he was still our father. I remember when we were little, he once bought you a stick of candied hawthorn.” Her voice began to tremble. “You held it in your hand for ages, and the sugar melted all over, but you still couldn’t bear to eat it…”
Meng Tingjing listened in silence, then suddenly closed his eyes. His cheeks flushed faintly with heat. He gripped her hand and whispered, “That didn’t happen. You remembered it wrong.”
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