Edward and David were having their own good time together. They were
not troubling much about distinctions in clothes, once Edward had
solved the mystery of how to wear pyjamas, but they were trying to
compress every incident of the twelve and thirteen years of their
lives into the few hours given them to talk. David, like his older
sisters, had come to China too late to pick up Chinese from a nurse
and had been sent to a school where conversation in Chinese was
discouraged, for fear of the undesirable things the pupils might
learn, so China, except in a superficial way, was undiscovered
territory. He could not keep out of his speech the arrogance which
foreign children assumed toward native life.
"Do you mean to say you live all the time with nothing but Chinese?"
he asked. "Don't you ever have anybody to play with?"
"Why, of course, I have lots of people to play with; our family is
bigger than yours."
"But only Chinese. That can't be much fun. What do you do? How do
you pass the time?"
"Oh, we're always busy. We make poems and draw pictures."
"For play?" David interrupted incredulously.
"Yes, it's lots of fun."
David could not hide his contempt.
"I don't see any fun there. The boys would laugh at me if I wrote
poems. They'd call me a 'softy.' We leave things like that to the
girls. Don't you play any games, any real games, I mean?"
"Yes, we play chess--"
"Chess, you play chess?"
"Nancy and I are always playing it."
"Pooh, that's an old man's game. It takes a year to make a move. Do
you play cricket?"
"Oh, yes, I play cricket," said Edward, relying too confidently on
the limited instruction from his father.
At last they had come to a subject David could appreciate. He
pounced on Edward for details as to the positions he played, whether
he bowled and how he bowled, what was his average as a batsman, who
were his team, questions Edward answered so vaguely as to appear, in
David's eyes, as anything but skillful fraud. Still he must make
allowances for Edward's lamentable training.
"Your idea of cricket isn't what we call cricket," he said
magnanimously, and he bewildered his guest to some lengths by his
highly technical exposition of the game. "Where do you go to
school?" he asked, after this tedious diversion.
"We have school at home."
"Oh--what form are you in?"
Edward did not know what he meant.
"Where have you got to in arithmetic?" explained David, trying to
gauge Edward's progress by his own. "Can you do compound interest?
I can, and we've finished South America in geography,--take up Africa
next term,--and in Latin we're on the fifth declension. You've begun
Latin, haven't you?"
Edward had to confess that these were beyond his range.
"All my work's in Chinese except the English lessons father gives us.
We have read the Four Books--"
"The Four Books?" exclaimed David, seizing the first tangible clue to
Edward's education. "What are the Four Books? Are they readers?"
Edward was speechless. He could not cope with a mind which had never
heard of the Four Books. Yet he could not make capital of his own
superior knowledge, as David had been doing, because there was a
haughtiness in the latter's manner which made him feel that
acquaintance with the Four Books was a thing to be ashamed of.
In the same overbearing way David explored every nook of Edward's
life.
"Your father is English, isn't he?" he asked.
"He was English," admitted Edward, too subdued by now to resent the
question.
"But why does he live like a Chinese? Why doesn't he live like an
Englishman?"
"I don't know," answered Edward, never really conscious before
to-night that his mode of living was abnormal. "I suppose he likes
it better."
"I know," said David. "It's so that he can have all those wives. In
England that wouldn't be allowed."
"Wouldn't it? Why not?"
"No, he would have to go to prison if he did that. We can only have
one wife."
"But don't the rich people have several wives?"
"No, everybody's just the same. And one wife's enough anyway."
Edward mused on a society so curious that rich and poor should be
just the same.
"Well, I'm going to have lots of wives," he said, with his first show
of defiance, "and I'm going to have fifty children."
David's jaw dropped. He felt it useless to argue against an ambition
so monstrous.
"Mother will give us the dickens if we don't go to sleep," he said,
and blew out the lamp.
The family rose early. The slight estrangement between the two boys
had been composed by Edward's tales of the Tatar hunting park; in the
congenial topic of leopards the boys found mutual interest and Edward
restored himself in David's eyes by describing his bow and his feats
of archery.
From the first daylight the girls had resumed talking. They put
their questions more discreetly, being of a better age to appreciate
Nancy's history. But they were more curious than their brother about
the domestic intricacies of Timothy Herrick's life and on the
glamorous subject of concubines relished every detail they could
extract from Nancy's willing lips. The guest was amused at the
importance they attached to such commonplace matters.
"But what will you do?" came at last the inevitable question.
"Surely you won't marry a Chinese."
"I don't know," said Nancy; "my father hasn't decided. I'm not
engaged yet."
"Your father!" the two girls shouted in concert; "are you going to
let your father decide?"
"Yes, certainly," replied Nancy, looking at them in surprise, "who
else should decide?"
"But suppose he wants you to marry a Chinese?"
Nancy saw nothing extraordinary in this.
"I have to marry the man my father chooses."
"Well, I think it's shameful," protested Elizabeth. "You are too
pretty, Nancy, to be thrown away like that. You ought to choose your
own husband. Suppose he should have some more wives; would you like
that?"
"No," Nancy admitted.
"Could you stop him from having more wives?"
"No."
"Do you want to marry a Chinese?"
"No," said Nancy for the third time, "I don't want to marry anyone.
I want to be a nun."
This was a greater blow than anything she had said.
"A nun?" echoed Elizabeth in dismay, "a Catholic nun?"
Nancy did not know what she meant by a Catholic nun. Surely there
was only one kind of nun.
"I want to be a nun and live in a temple far away in the mountains,"
she said.
"You mean a Buddhist nun? You want to live in a temple and worship
those ugly idols?"
David had not been more astounded by Edward's wish to have fifty
children, while Nancy realized, seeing the amazed faces of her
friends, that here lurked between West and East some quicksands of
misunderstanding such as with the best will in the world they could
not cross. Her desire to be a nun was too slightly defined to be
defended in competent speech.
Helen and Elizabeth recognized her difficulty. They were fearful of
trespassing on courtesy and did not push their indignation more
outspokenly--it was safer to turn for diversion to the mechanical
incidents of getting dressed, Nancy's tub-bath, her initiation into
the use of a sponge, the manicuring of her nails--but the girl had
become in their eyes a tragic heroine whom they were impulsively
determined to save.
Mrs. Ferris shared the concern of her daughters and looked
compassionately at the two children, whom she felt she had no right
to send back to such a travesty of a home. She confided her
indignation to Nasmith, thought something ought to be done: it was
shameful condemning such a nice, well-behaved boy, such a pretty,
really beautiful girl, to live with that immoral old man. He must
have kidnapped them; they surely could not be his children--and their
mother dead too! How she would have suffered if she had known!
Wasn't there a law to prevent such a disgrace? Ronald ought to
inquire of the British legation and get Edward and Nancy into safe
hands before they were utterly ruined.
But the early breakfast had been finished. There was no excuse for
delay. The sorrow of parting was eased by the decision of the twins
that they must escort Nancy home and David's prompt statement that he
would do the same duty by Edward. The impressionable Patricia was
convinced only with difficulty that the road was too long; she wept
as though she were parting from lifelong friends. To the
inexpressible astonishment of Edward and Nancy, Mrs. Ferris gathered
each of them into her motherly arms and kissed them. Would they all
expect to do this, Nancy asked herself? Why did nice people have
such barbarous customs? She might kiss Helen and Elizabeth, if she
saw they were disappointed, but she never could kiss Mr. Beresford
and Mr. Nasmith. The prospect called up bitter memories and turned
her thoughts in fear to contemplating the anger which her father
would visit upon their truancy.
The walk, begun with the care-free abandon of a picnic, grew more and
more depressing, despite the merry companionship of the girls,
Beresford's comic remarks, and Nasmith's quiet understanding reserve,
in which Nancy put more trust than she knew. Nancy endeavored to
give in a light-hearted vein the promises the twins were trying to
exact, that she should come and see them again, that they might call
upon her, that they should do long walks together and write many
letters.
"Yes," agreed Nancy, "if my father will let me."
She put so much inflection upon this conditional clause that the
girls knew by instinct she was withholding more than she offered.
"You mean he might not let you?" exclaimed Helen tragically.
"Perhaps," Nancy confessed. "I don't know. He does not like us to
go out."
"We're going to see you anyway, no matter what he says," was
Elizabeth's indignant rejoinder.
Nancy smiled. She hoped they might, but she dared not encourage
them. She would not let them even climb the final path to her home.
"My father doesn't see many people," she explained. "He might not
like it; and if he got angry he would take us back to Peking."
Nasmith saw her point and insisted that his nieces and nephew wait
while he and Beresford accompanied their guests to the house. Nancy
wanted to leave all of them there, but the two men evinced a complete
determination not to forsake the children one step short of their
home door so she did not waste time in futile dissuasion. She did
not escape from the twins, however, without embraces and kisses, a
strange affectionate demonstration she schooled herself to endure,
but she was glad to notice that Elizabeth and Helen made no such
advances toward Edward. Plainly there were limits to the custom.
Long before the returning prodigals had reached the door, they were
seen. The nurse came hobbling out to meet them and overwhelmed her
foster children with tears and affectionate exclamations, making them
appreciate guiltily the panic their absence had produced.
"Your father," cried the amah, "ai ya, he was like a madman! Every
one of us he had out searching, even me with my poor feet; and he
would not rest; he sent us out again and again and he himself walked
tens of li before your messenger came and eased our hearts. Eh, we
were glad! But that was late at night. I cannot tell you how we
suffered before that man came. Your father wanted to give him five
dollars. But that was not wise; it was too much. I paid him a
thousand cash and he was very happy."
The amah scarcely noticed Nasmith and Beresford at first, so
torrential was the greeting poured upon her two children. But when
the party had reached the door and were under the smiling eyes of the
servants, she grew calmer. A flutter of old remembered occasions
restored her dignity at the welcome sight of these foreigners.
Perhaps here was a husband for Nancy. The foreign gentlemen must
come in and have tea and cakes; those were the Great Man's orders.
They were not the Great Man's orders, but the amah knew what was
necessary to the moment and she was determined the Western gentlemen
who had brought back her treasures should not depart with poor
memories of the Herrick hospitality. So she seated them formally in
the guestroom, hurried Nancy and Edward to their rooms where
Kuei-lien was waiting excitedly to question them; and then informed
the father of his guests. To her intense relief the Great Man sent a
message inviting the two visitors to his own room.
Nasmith and Beresford scarcely could veil their curiosity at sight of
the elderly gentleman, wearing Chinese clothes with dignity, who
received them in his sunny room above the ravine. Herrick's gravity
of bearing showed him at his best in this first interview after so
many years with men of his own race. One forgot the sensual chapters
of his story and remembered only the scholar, the background of
shelves and books seemed so fitting, and the writing materials on his
desk, the ink-stone, the brushes, the open volume, the sheaf of
bamboo papers, even accessories like the pot of tea and the water
pipe belonged to a man who was actively concentrated upon study.
"You will excuse any defects of hospitality," Herrick began, not
choosing to remember that he had met these men before. "I have been
a long time a stranger to your ways. I understand that you have
saved my children from a great danger. It was very good of you. I
should not have liked harm to come to these two children of
mine--they are nice children," he added, as though speaking to
himself. "And I must thank you a great deal for walking so far this
morning to bring them safely home and your sister for giving them a
place to stay. It was very good, very good."
Despite his composure, Herrick was showing signs of embarrassment.
He seemed to be commenting rather sadly upon his own words, repeating
his thoughts in a stumbling manner which grew pathetic and stirred
the sympathy of the two men who were listening.
Nasmith hurried to relieve the old man--he was looking much older
than his years--by disclaiming credit for anything but a fortunate
and timely arrival. He extolled the presence of mind Nancy and
Edward had shown. As to their staying overnight with his sister,
that was too great a pleasure to be thanked for.
"Were they a trouble?" asked the father. "Did they behave well?"
"They were what they clearly have been taught to be--a lady and a
gentleman. I should be proud if my nieces and nephew could conduct
themselves in a Chinese home as your children conducted themselves in
ours."
The father smiled with pleasure.
"They are nice children," he insisted.
Then another thought occurred to him.
"You have nieces and nephews?" he asked. "Did Nancy and Edward meet
them?"
Nasmith related at length his observations upon the friendship struck
up between his family and their two guests; he saw how wistfully the
father relished even the lesser details, nodding here and there at
incidents which pleased him, repeatedly jerking out the word, "Good."
He wanted to know the names of these nephews and nieces, their ages,
their schooling. When he heard that they were waiting in the path
below, he would not hear of their going home unwelcomed.
"No," he said, "they must not. It is near noon. They will be
hungry. I will send for them--I will send Nancy herself."
The daughter came in some surprise at being summoned before the two
men had gone. She remained standing at the door, not presuming of
course to scan the face of her father, though she wondered if she
were to be scolded before strangers.
"Nancy," said Herrick in English, "you have left three of our guests
waiting outside. That is not right. We do not pay our debts in this
fashion. You will go down and welcome your friends and bring them to
your rooms. And tell amah, as you go, that the cook must prepare
nine bowls."
The man meditated with amusement upon the shock his command had given.
"Yes," he said, "she is glad. Her eyes showed it. Ah, my friends,
it had to come, it had to come. I could not keep them from making
friends with their own people. I am not sorry it happened this way."
Nancy, after she had left the room, could scarcely believe that she
had heard aright. To have her escapade condoned in this manner
exceeded her wildest hopes. She was still dazed as she repeated her
father's instructions to the amah.
"Hai, I knew it, I knew it," cried the old woman joyfully. "He is
changing at last. The sight of men of his own race has made him
homesick. Soon we shall all go to England, and every afternoon you
will wear new dresses and go to garden parties."
Prophecy, on the amah's part, could be as endless as reminiscence.
Nancy escaped on the second part of her errand and brought her
friends, who were waiting restively, up the steep path to the house.
It was her turn to play hostess, and she played the part with
unmeasured happiness, not even regretting the lack of gramophone and
piano, when she saw how instantly Helen and Elizabeth were absorbed
in every curious detail of the house. Particularly were they
entranced by Kuei-lien, who welcomed them at her radiant best.
"Is she really a concubine?" asked Elizabeth in awe. "She is such a
dear, and prettier than a picture," a compliment well earned by
Kuei-lien's unerring skill in the colors she chose to combine, jacket
and trousers of a slatish tan piped with magenta brocade.
Back and forth between them Nancy translated flattering remarks. The
servants stood gaping. The old nurse ran hither and thither, like a
bemuddled hen, cackling interminable yet disjointed recollections to
any and all who even seemed to listen. The nine bowls were got at
last on to the table, despite the confusion which prevailed, and
Nancy was made amends for her awkwardness with knife and fork by the
merrily clumsy way her guests wielded chopsticks.
"I believe you arranged this deliberately to have your revenge," said
Helen, surveying the havoc they had wreaked on pork balls and bean
curd.
Herrick himself came to view this unprecedented party. Nancy,
Edward, Kuei-lien, all rose at his entry. The others followed, while
the elderly man insisted upon shaking hands with his three visitors.
"Eat, my children," he said; "don't stand any more. It does an old
man good to see so many young faces."
"Why do they have to grow up?" he kept repeating, when he had gone
back to Nasmith and Beresford. "Why do they have to grow up?
Children are the only good thing in this world. Excuse my curiosity.
I have learned Chinese ways, you know--you are not married, are you?"
They were not.
"Of course; I forgot. You Englishmen don't marry so young. I
suppose you are not thirty? Only twenty-four? Each of you. Ah,
that's a promising age--and a difficult age, too. Well, we'd all of
us risk the difficulties, would we not?"
His inquiries went further. He extracted their names, told them his
own, apologized for having none but Chinese cards to offer in return
for their own. So they were teaching in a Government technical
school; did they like it? With insinuating persistence he found out
their opinions of China. He read them a little homily on the
classics, translated lyrics from the glorious T'ang poetry, grew
genial and discursive, giving rein to his love of the mountains and
trees and falling streams and unfading children, always
children,--ah, why could they not take the immortality of the sun
they played in?--and he ended before their wondering eyes by writing
them each a pair of scrolls in large symmetrical characters, the
characters to which he had given thirty years of his life. He
translated them:--
"The sun moving to the west kindles a splendid beacon for the moon;
The moon following from the east tenderly displays the reflection
of the sun."
"That has an interpretation," he said, smiling, as he. handed a pair
to Nasmith, "but I won't read the legend for you. You must learn to
read it for yourself. And this too has its interpretation," he said,
before translating Beresford's scroll:--
"Mirth becomes the time of danger;
Sadness suits the time of love."
"Now," he said, "I have puzzled you like the old Delphic
oracle,--wasn't it?--but I have written only what I see with my own
eyes. If my interpretations do not come true, it will be for one
reason: it will be because I am unable to control what shall be
written on my own scrolls."
"An extraordinary man," Beresford commented, after good-byes had been
said.
"And a most unhappy one," added his friend. "I don't think he will
invite us again."