VI

The night was so oppressive, continuing such an unusually sultry period

for the season, that Sidsall, ordinarily impervious to the effects of

weather, was unable to sleep. Although the door between her room and her

parents' was shut, she heard her father--his step, at once quick and

firm, was easily recognizable moving about beyond. Her restlessness

increased and she got up, crossing the floor to the window open on the

garden, where she knelt, the thick plait of her hair across her cheek and

shoulder, with her arms propped on the ledge. The depths of sky were

hidden in a darkness like night made visible; and, in place of moving

air, there were slow waves of perfume, now from the lilacs and now from

the opening hedge of June roses.

Her brain was filled by a multitude of minor images and speculations, but

fixed at their back was the presence of Roger Brevard. She approved of

him absolutely. He had exactly the formal manner that gave her a pleasant

sense of delicate importance, and his clothes were beautiful, a sprig of

rose geranium in a buttonhole and his gloves and boots immaculate. She

liked rather slight graceful men, she thought, with the quiet voices of a

polite ancestry. Naturally Olive Wibird preferred less restrained

companions, although Heaven knew that Olive appeared to make all kinds

welcome. Olive's opinion of Roger Brevard would have been very different

if he had asked her to dance.

Sidsall recalled the quadrille he had led her through at Lacy's party; he

had been a perfect partner, at once light and firm. He had been a

habitual caller at Java Head before that occasion, and had come in the

same manner since. That is, casually viewed, his visits seemed the same;

but in reality there were some small yet significant differences. They

were all held in his attitude of the afternoon when he had stayed talking

exclusively to her on the steps.

She couldn't say just what the change was; when she attempted to examine

it her thoughts became confused and turned to a hundred absurd

considerations, such as--at present--the loveliness of the night. The

scents of the flowers were overwhelming. He got on, too, better than

almost anyone else with her Uncle Gerrit's Manchu wife. She had watched

them together until it had dawned on her that the two had some important

qualities in common--they both appeared to stand a little aside from the

world, as if they were against the wall at a cotillion. She thought this

in spite of the fact that it was precisely what Roger Brevard never did;

it was true in the mysterious way of so much now that came from ideas

over which she had no control.

The subject of Uncle Gerrit's wife--she had not yet been told or decided

for herself what to call her--was inexhaustibly enthralling. But, before

she was again fairly launched in it, she paused to wonder at the presence

of the dreadful Dunsack man on their lawn. His hollow yellow cheeks and

staring brown eyes which somehow made her think of pain, his restless

hands and speech, all repelled her violently. Taou--Taou Yuen hadn't

liked him either: when, after the longest time, he had gone, she replied

to a short comment from her, Sidsall's, father:

"Rotten wood cannot be carved."

Some one else had mentioned opium. She had intended to ask more

particularly about this, but it slipped from her mind. She remembered

that her grandfather made one of his familiar exclamations peppered with

an appalling word. He was really very embarrassing, and she was glad that

Roger Brevard had left. It was a bad example for Laurel, too, who copied

him, and only that morning said "My God" to Miss Gomes. Her mind swung

back to the consideration of the Manchu: The latter was the fact upon

which Camilla was so insistent, that in this case a Manchu was a noble,

almost a princess. Camilla suffered dreadfully from the endless questions

put to her outside their house about Uncle Gerrit's wife. She had more

than once wept at the public blot laid on them. Laurel was frankly

inquisitive and Janet as puzzling as usual.

The clothes of course were enchanting, the richness of the materials and

hand embroidery marvellous; her jewelry was never ending. It didn't seem

quite like clothing, in the sense of her own tarlatan and crinoline, her

waist which Hodie wouldn't properly lace and tulle draping; there was a

certain resemblance to the dressing in Van Amburgh's circus; but--in

spite of Camilla's private laments--every inch of it was distinguished.

The layers of paint upset them, but Uncle Gerrit had explained, a little

impatiently, that it was a Manchu custom, adding that the world couldn't

be all measured and judged by Salem.

Sidsall liked her rather than not, she decided; and determined to make an

effort to know her better. She wanted specially to discover the nature of

the bond that held one to the other, and explore, in safety, the depths

of love. She could not help feeling that her uncle's affair,

extraordinary as it was, must throw light on the whole complicated

business of marriage. ... The clock in the hall struck an indeterminate

half hour, it appeared to grow lighter outside, and there was a

twittering of martins from the stables. From above came the vigorous

harsh cawing of crows. Suddenly sleepy she returned to bed and almost

immediately the room was flooded with sunlight.

It was an accepted fact now that Taou Yuen, the Garden of Peaches, stayed

in her room until long after breakfast; and when Sidsall, rising from the

table, found a servant taking up a pot of hot water for tea, she secured

it and knocked carefully on the door above. The slurring hesitating voice

said "Come in," and she entered with a diffidence covered by a cheerfully

polite morning greeting. She found the other in crêpe de Chine pantaloons

wrapped tightly about her ankles and bound over quilted muslin socks with

gay brocaded ribbons and a short floating gown of gray silk worked with

willow leaves. Her hair was an undisturbed complication of lustrous

black, gold bodkins and flowers massed on either side; and her face,

without paint or powder, was as smooth as ivory and the color of very

pale coffee and cream.

Sidsall saw that she was at her toilet, and she put down the pot of

steaming water, moving toward the door; but Taou Yuen, with a charmingly

shy gesture, begged her to stay. She swiftly drew a cup of tea from

silvery leaves, filled and lighted the minute bowl of her tobacco pipe,

deeply inhaled the smoke; then returned to a mirror.

Fascinated, Sidsall followed every motion.

Taou Yuen polished her face sharply with a hot damp cloth and then dipped

her fingers in a jar that held a sticky amber substance. "Honey," she

said briefly, rubbing it into her cheeks and palms. Next she attacked her

eyebrows, and skillfully wielding a thin silk cord left arches like

pencil markings. At times she interrupted her preparations to turn to

Sidsall with a little smile so engaging that the girl smiled

sympathetically in answer. There were a gilt paper box of rice powder,

with which she drenched her countenance, leaves of carmine transferred to

her cheeks with a wet finger, and a silver pot of rouge from which she

coated her lips. As she gazed approvingly at her reflection Sidsall said:

"It's very beautiful."

Her eyes, drawn up toward her temples, shone gayly; and, close to

Sidsall, she touched the latter affectionately on the cheek. The cold

sharp contact of the long curving finger guard gave the girl an

unpleasant shock. It seemed lifeless, or like the scratching of a beetle.

Suddenly the woman's glittering gaze, her expressionless face stiff with

paint, the blaze of her barbaric colors, filled Sidsall with a shrinking

that was almost dread.

She was even more oppressed by an instinctive feeling of what she could

express to herself only as cruelty hidden under the other's scented

embroidery. At the same time her curiosity persisted, conquered. She was

unable, however, to think of any possible manner of introducing the new

subject of her interest, love, and was forced to be content with an

indifferent opening.

"We were all quite surprised when Mr. Dunsack called yesterday," she

said. "He isn't in the least a friend of the family. Grandfather went to

sea with his father, but even they didn't speak for years in Salem. The

Dunsacks are a little common."

"I know," Taou Yuen replied. "Mr. Dunsack--a long time in Canton, at the

American agents. China is bad for men like him. Black spirits get in them

and the ten sins."

"He stared at you in the rudest way."

"He never saw a Manchu lady before. In China the dog would not have

passed by the first gate. Here it is nothing to be a Manchu or an

honorable wife; it is all like the tea houses and rice villages. Men walk

up to you with bold eyes. I tell Gerrit and he laughs. I stay in the room

and he brings me shamefully down. This Mr. Dunsack comes and the wise old

man talks to him like a son. He touches your mother's hand. He sees the

young girls like white candles."

"We wouldn't let him really bother us," Sidsall explained; "probably if

he comes again we'll all be out."

Taou Yuen made a comment in Chinese. "A bad thought is a secret knife,"

she continued; "it is more dangerous than the anger of the Emperor, a

sickness that kills with the stink of bodies already dead."

This seemed rather absurd to Sidsall. She considered once more the

introduction of the subject of her new concern; but, in spite of Taou

Yuen's extravagant appearance, there was a quality of being which made

impossible any blunt interrogation. She had a decidedly aloof manner. Her

mother, Sidsall recognized, and the older women they knew, had a trace of

this; but in the Manchu it was carried infinitely further, a most

autocratic disdain. Her feeling for the other shifted rapidly from

attitude to attitude.

She watched, she was certain, these same sensations come over her Aunt

Caroline Saltonstone, Mrs. Clifford and Mrs. Wibird, who called on Gerrit

Ammidon's wife that afternoon. They were sitting with their crinoline

widespread against their chairs, gazing with a concerted battery of

curiosity at Taou Yuen's shimmering figure in the drawing-room screened

against the sun. Mrs. Wibird, Sidsall thought--a woman of fat and faded

prettiness, with wine red splotches beneath her eyes, and a voice that

went on and on in the relating of various petty emotional

disturbances--must have resembled Olive as a girl. It was probable, then,

that Olive would look like her mother when in turn she was middle-aged.

Mrs. Clifford, unseasonably huddled in her perpetual shawl, more than

ever suggested a haggard marble in somberly rich clothes. Aunt Caroline

sat with complacent hands and loud inattentive speech. Taou Yuen smiled

at them placidly.

"Our men," said Mrs. Clifford, "went out to China for years. It never

occurred to them however to marry a Chinese woman; but I dare say they

didn't see the right sort."

"Most of the captains like China," Taou Yuen said. "They are so far away

from their families--" she made a brief philosophical gesture, and Madra

Clifford studied her with a narrowed gaze. "It would be the same," she

continued, "if Chinamen came to America." Mrs. Wibird shuddered. "A

yellow skin," she cried impetuously; "I can't bide the thought."

"I'm sure we'd be tremendously interested," Mrs. Saltonstone hurriedly

put in, "if you'd tell us about your wedding. A Chinese wedding must

be--be very gay, with firecrackers and--"

"My marriage with Captain Ammidon was not beautiful--I was a widow and he

foreign. The Manchu wedding is very nice. First there is the engagement

ceremony. I sit like this," she sank gracefully to the floor,

cross-legged, "on the bed with my eyes shut, and, if I am noble, two

princesses come and put the _ju yi_, it's jade and means all joy, on my

lap. Two little silk bags hang from the buttons of my gown with gold

coins, and two gold rings on my fingers must be marked with _Ta hsi_,

that's great happiness."

"I'm told polygamy is an active practice," Mrs. Wibird remarked with a

rising interest.

"Yes?" Taou Yuen asked.

"One man--a lot of wives."

"The Emperor has a great many and some Manchus take a second and third.

You think that is wrong here. Who knows! The Chinese women are very good,

very modest. The Four Books For Girls teach perfect submission; the five

virtues are benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, sincerity.

Confucius says, 'The root is filial piety.'"

"Very admirable," Mrs. Wibird nodded, agitating the small dyed ostrich

plumes tipped with marabou of her bonnet; but it was clear to Sidsall

that this was not the revelation for which she had hoped. A momentary

silence, the edge of an uneasiness, enveloped the visitors.

"What lovely satins," Mrs. Saltonstone commented.

"Please--I have a box full; you will let me give you some?"

"Indeed yes, and thank you."

Mrs. Wibird, growing resentful, said that a cousin of her aunt's had been

a missionary to China, "and did a very blessed work too."

Taou Yuen smoothly agreed that it was quite possible. "Our poor have a

great many wrong and lustful ideas," she acknowledged; "they tell lies

and beat their wives and gamble. The higher classes too, the mandarins

and princes, use the people for their own security and rob them.

Sometimes the law is not honest, and a man with gold gets free when a

laborer is put in the bamboo cage."