So Peony went from one to the other, and saw that each child was made happy by some small attention and at play. She kept a little store of hidden toys, trifles that she bought here and there, always new to the children, and she brought out something now for each child, to cast out the thought of death.
“Shall we never see Grandfather again?” the eldest child asked.
“His spirit is always here,” Peony replied.
“Can I see his spirit?” the child asked again.
“Not with your eyes,” Peony replied. “But in the night sometimes think of him and how he looks and then you will feel him with you. Now here is a little book I have kept for you—see if you can read it.”
Peony had been the tutor for the little boys. Now she sat down and the two eldest leaned their elbows on her knees and she opened the book and they tried to read. She took pride in their quickness and she praised them heartily and they forgot the sadness in the house. The book was one she had found on Madame Ezra’s own shelf. Long ago Peony had sorted these books and she had put some in the library and some in the box of Madame Ezra’s private possessions with the shawls and trinkets and sacred emblems that suited no one else now. But Peony had kept for herself a little book written in simple Chinese words that told the story of Madame Ezra’s people, how they had once been held slaves in Egypt, and had been set free by a favorite of the queen, who had in his veins some of the strange blood. This story David’s sons now read with wonder.
“Where is this Egypt?” one son asked.
“Why were those people slaves?” the eldest asked, and again he asked, “Who was the Moses who set them free?”
He looked very solemn when the story was finished. “But it was not kind of their god to kill all the eldest born, like me. I am glad that god is not here.”
None of the questions could Peony answer, and so she said, “It is all only a story, long ago finished.”
After she had put the book away and had seen to it that the children had their supper and were playing, she pondered these questions in her heart. Surely someone in the house should answer them, lest later, when the children were grown, they would know nothing of their ancestors, and this would be an evil. Ancestors are the roots in any house, and children are the flowers, and the two must not be cut asunder. She made up her mind that when she had time she would delve into Madame Ezra’s old books and discover for herself enough to answer the children’s questions.
Now she must go to her mistress and see that she was comfortable and in fair spirits. The twilight was falling and the air was still and mild as she crossed the courts. The house was very quiet, and she missed with some sort of heartache the two who were gone. Yet the generations passed, and now David was the head and the oldest living generation. She thought suddenly of the locked door. Indeed, she had not for one moment forgotten it. He had locked his own door against her, for the first time in their lives. What if it had been against himself? Still, it was against her. She would never go to him now. The door was locked forever—unless he himself unlocked it.
Yet she was unchanged. She must do much for him, more than ever before. Comfort and amusement were no longer enough. She must study what would add to his dignity and his growth. His life must be of fullest worth, so that he could find strength and peace in himself. She lifted her face to the sky for a moment. She had never made a prayer in her life, and she knew no god, but her heart searched Heaven and fastened upon the god of his people, whose name, she remembered, was Jehovah.
Deign to hear the voice of one unknown to You, she prayed within herself. Inform my spirit so that I may serve with wisdom the man whom I love.
She stood a moment, waiting, but no sign came. The bamboos rustled slightly in the almost silent air, and somewhere in the city a woman’s sorrowful voice called in the distance to summon home again the wandering spirit of her dying child.
Inside the house Kueilan sat in state. She was now the mistress, the eldest lady of the ruling generation. She had recovered from the discomfort of the journey to the grave on the hillside, and she was eating sweetmeats and drinking hot tea with relish. Even her eyes were no longer red from weeping.
When she saw Peony come in she made a plaintive mouth, nevertheless, and put down the cake she was about to eat. “I shall miss our dear old lord,” she said.
“So shall we all, Lady,” Peony replied quietly. She saw that her mistress was ready to talk, and she sat down on a side seat and folded her hands.
“He was so kind to me,” Kueilan mourned. “I never felt in him anything hard or cross.”
“There was nothing,” Peony agreed.
Tears came to Kueilan’s eyes. “He was kinder than my own lord,” she declared.
“Your lord is very kind, Lady,” Peony said gently.
Kueilan’s tears dried suddenly. “There is something hard in the bottom of his heart,” she replied with energy. “I feel it there, and so would you, Peony, if you did not think him so perfect. But you are not married to him, and I am. I tell you there is something very hard in his heart—I can see it in his eyes sometimes when he looks at me.”
Peony sighed. “I have told you, Lady, that he likes to see you always fresh and pretty, and sometimes you will not let me dress you for his coming or even brush your hair. And there are nights when you are weary and will not let me bathe you before you go to sleep. Those sweetmeats, Lady—you know he has never liked the smell of pig’s fat, and these are larded. Why do you eat them?”
Through the years Peony had learned to speak very honestly to the beautiful little creature who now sat frowning at her. Yes, Kueilan was still beautiful, although it was true that a layer of soft fat was creeping over her dainty skeleton, and she complained that her feet had hurt her ever since Peony took away the bandages. She seldom moved unless it was necessary, and she loved sweets and delicate foods. Now Peony laughed at her frown. “Do not hate me, Lady, for I love you too well.”
Kueilan clung to her scowl as long as she could until her own laughter compelled her to give it up. “You scold me too much,” she declared. “I tell you, Peony, you must give it up. I am the elder lady now and you must obey me. It is not right any more for you to tell me what to do.”
This little creature drew herself up straight and looked at Peony with something more than laughter sparkling in her big black eyes.
Peony saw this with astonishment and wonder. Willful her mistress always was, but she could always be coaxed and teased and made to laugh. If now she grew proud and high, then indeed David might lose his patience with her. The bond between them was only of flesh, and it could be easily broken. David was not a man of lust. Passion he had, but it was entangled with spirit and mind, and he could not separate into parts that which was his whole being. So long as his wife was pretty and warm and sweet-tempered enough in his presence not to offend him, quiet enough not to rouse his contempt, she could hold him by the strands that touched his heart. But let her offend him somewhere, and her hold was too light to keep. She did not possess him.
These things Peony knew. There was so much time in her life for musing, and since all her life was in this house, she had mused about each soul under its roof, and most of all she had pondered upon David. She told herself that now she had passed beyond jealousy or hope, and her concern was only that he might receive from each source all that was there for his happiness and health.
She curbed her astonishment at the new pride she found in her mistress. “You know very well that you do all for your lord’s sake and willingly, Lady,” she said quietly. She moved into the bedroom then to see that it was prepared for the night. It was a lady’s room, made for her mistress, but she knew when David had come to it. There were always signs of his presence in the morning, his pipe, his slippers, his white silk handkerchief, a book he had chosen to bring with him. Such books she often examined. At first they had been books of poetry, but now they were always books of history or philosophy, abstruse pages that assuredly he could not read al
oud to his wife. Since they had come home, the books had been from his mother’s library, which for the first time he was beginning to read; why, Peony did not know, and she pondered very much what change had come into David, that in the last few days he should recall his ancestors.
When she had seen to the lamp, had dusted the table and folded the quilt ready, had loosened the heavy satin bed curtains from their silver hooks, had closed the latticed window against moths and mosquitoes, and had lit a stick of incense to pour fragrance into the air, she stepped softly from the room. Her mistress still sat idle by the table.
“Shall I help you to undress, Lady?” Peony asked.
Kueilan shook her head. “It is too early to sleep,” she declared imperiously. “Leave me alone a while.”
Peony obeyed the command and went away. It would indeed be a different house if her mistress were to shape its daily life. She stopped in the third court and considered. Should she go to David? If she did not, he would think it strange. And might he not need her? She could not go. The memory of the locked door was there. Instead she went to a side court in search of Wang Ma, and found her sitting on her bed, and Old Wang near her on a bamboo stool. Both were weeping.
She had forgotten them in all her duties, for as the years had passed it had come to be that more and more they had served Ezra while she had served the next generation. Now they were bereft. She did not presume to comfort them, but she took her sleeves and wiped her own eyes and waited until Wang Ma spoke.
“Sister, I ask you a favor,” Wang Ma said sobbing.
“Ask it, Elder Sister,” Peony replied.
“I have no heart to stay here in this house any more, I and my old man. We will go to the village and live with our eldest son and our own grandsons. Speak for us to the new master.”
They were so broken by sorrow that Peony had no courage to say what she had been about to ask, that they go and serve David in her place.
“I will speak to him as soon as he is able to forget his own sorrow for an hour,” she promised, “and be comforted, the two of you, for he will refuse you nothing. Yet how shall I manage alone, Elder Sister? I have always leaned on you.”
“I have no heart any more in this house,” Wang Ma replied, and she began to weep again.
So Peony left them sadly and found a manservant and bade him go and see if the master wished food or anything, and so she went alone to her own rooms. It was night and she felt weary indeed and the future was not plain before her eyes.
Now Ezra had had no time to tell Kung Chen of the reason why David and his family had left the northern capital so suddenly, and David in his grief had forgotten it. As if the grief were not enough, the ships loaded with goods from India sent word that they had reached port, and that the goods was being brought overland by carriers. Yet since the wars were so recently over and the people everywhere were poor there were many robbers, and David must arrange for guards and soldiers in each province through which the loads would pass. He had no time for mourning even for his father. Immediately he must return to his business. In the midst of all this trouble, he still forgot to tell Kung Chen of what had happened in regard to Peony. He was troubled within and without, for in the house he soon saw that Peony had separated herself from him, and this fretted him, even though he knew it was her wisdom so to do. He told himself that when his troubles were settled and the goods safely in the shops and the continual pain of seeing his father no more were all over, then he would face his own heart again and know what he must do with Peony.
He was in no wise prepared for Kung Chen, therefore, who came to him one morning with looks of consternation. David was in his own part of the shop, computing the quantity of the goods that were beginning to arrive each day, and appraising the quality of the fine cotton stuffs that had been woven in India. With him sat his partner, Kung Chen’s eldest son, and the two were deep in their affairs. Both were surprised when Kung Chen came in.
“David, come aside with me for a moment, and you, too, my son,” Kung Chen said gravely.
Both men followed him into a small room, where Kung Chen shut the door. His full face was gray with alarm, and his lips were pale.
“A messenger has come to us from our shops in the northern capital,” he said in a voice scarcely above a whisper. “He tells me that there is anger in the palace against us, David. The Chief Steward has sent out the rumor that one of your bondmaids was rude to the Western Empress. What is the meaning of this?”
David’s heart fell. All was clear to him in an instant, and with difficulty he told the story to the two, who listened in silence.
“The Chief Steward will certainly demand that Peony be sent for on the pretense of punishment,” Kung Chen said when David had finished. “If we refuse to give her up, then we must never hope to do good business again. The arm of the imperial favorite is long.”
“I will return to the capital alone,” David said. “I will seek audience with the empresses and tell them the truth.”
Both Chinese cried out at this. “Folly—folly!” Kung Chen declared. “Can you hope to prevail against the Chief Steward? He is in the imperial confidence and you would only be casting away your own life. No, there is no hope except to make her go.”
“That I cannot do,” David said.
Both men looked at him strangely and he had much difficulty in not allowing his eyes to falter before theirs. Then father and son looked at one another. They remembered how beautiful Peony was. Indeed, Kung Chen had remarked once or twice to his son that it might be difficult for any man to remain unmoved by so beautiful a bondmaid, who was clever and learned besides.
For David the moment was intolerable. “You wonder at me,” he said stiffly, “but I assure you, what you think is not possible. In my religion—the religion, that is, of my people—a man is allowed only one wife. I feel—gratitude to the bondmaid—who has been like a daughter in our house. I cannot deliver her to—to the eunuch.”
Kung Chen grasped at a hope. “If she is willing to go of her own will?”
David could not tell the truth, nor did he know why he could not. These men would not blame him did he say openly that he loved Peony and wanted her for himself. They would have laughed and pondered how to save her for him. He could not say it. He bowed his head. “If she wishes to go—for her own sake,” he stammered, “let it be so.”
They went back to their business then, and David tried to apply himself. Yet how could he think of figures and goods or even of profits? Kung Chen would summon Peony and force her, he would press her to realize how great a damage she would do to David and to all their two houses, and in her soft unselfishness Peony might yield. His mind misted and he could not go on.
“I feel ill,” he told Kung the First. “I shall go home and sleep a while and come back tomorrow.”
His partner stared at him and said nothing, but David saw the shrewdness in his small kind eyes and he hurried away. He could not delay one instant. As soon as he reached home he sent for Peony and waited restlessly until she came running to his rooms, still wiping her hands dry.
“I was in the kitchens,” she confessed. “They told me the jar of soy sauce was not thickening properly and I went to see.”
He paid no heed to this, but he saw her beautiful and strong, the pillar of his household. He could not live without her. “Peony, sit down,” he commanded abruptly.
She sat down on the edge of her chair, alarmed at his looks and at the sound of his voice. “What has happened now?” she asked.
He told her roughly and quickly, eager to get the burden off his own heart and knowing her able to bear anything. But he was frightened when he saw the pink drain from her cheeks and the strength from her frame. “I told you I must be a nun,” she whispered. “I shall not be able to save you otherwise.” She rose and began to untie the blue apron she had forgotten.
“Wait,” he commanded her. “There is another way for you to stay with me.”
Peony knew well what he meant, but
her heart had hardened at last and she would not spare him.
“What way?” she demanded.
“You know,” David said in a low voice, and he would not look at her.
She was angry that he turned away, and she spoke for him firmly. “You mean—take me as your concubine?”
“Yes,” he said, and still he did not look at her.
She saw his face was fixed and strained. There was no joy in his eyes. The apron dropped from her hands. “You locked your door against me,” she said. “Why?”
“How do I know?” he asked.
“You do know,” she retorted. “You were afraid of the very thing that now you ask. You were afraid of yourself—of that which is in you still and will be in you so long as you live!”
“I deny it!” he said in a loud voice.
“It will not be denied,” she said. “It is born in you.”
He bent his head on his hand and did not answer. As clearly as though she lived, he saw Leah and heard her voice, and her voice was the voice of his mother and the voice of all those men and women who had lived before him. It was the voice of Jehovah Himself.
“If I yielded to you,” Peony said in her gentle swift way, “your own conscience would grow more dear as you loved me less. No, David, I dare not. Let me go. Yes, I will go of my own free will—but not to the palace!”
She ran out of the room and David could not pursue her. What she had said was true. That which his mother had pressed into his unwilling soul had taken root there. He had defied it and crucified it, but it was not dead. It lived in him still, the spirit of the faith of his own people. It had risen from the dead and claimed him. He could not free himself. He fell on his knees, his arms folded upon the table, and leaned his head upon his arms. “O Jehovah, the One True God, hear me—and forgive me!”