Peony

IV

IN HER ROOM ALONE PEONY did not weep. She sat down and wiped her eyes on her undersleeves of white silk from habit although her eyes were dry, and she felt that she was in a strange house whose secret life excluded her. But she made little sighs and moans that she did not try to stifle, and in the midst of this Wang Ma came in.

The relationship between these two was a complex one. They were Chinese, and therefore united among all who were not Chinese. They were women and therefore they had a bond together among men. But one was old and no longer beautiful and one was young and very pretty. Each knew the other’s life, and yet neither thought it necessary to tell what she knew. Thus Peony knew that Wang Ma had in her youth been the young bondmaid in the house, even as she herself now was, and yet how far she had been only bondmaid and how far something more, Wang Ma in prudence had never told and doubtless would never tell. Moreover, Peony did not wish to grant that she and Wang Ma were alike. Wang Ma could not read or write, and although she was shrewd and kindly enough, she was a common soul. This Peony was not. Peony had read many books, and Ezra had allowed her to talk with him sometimes, and she had listened long hours to the old Confucian Chinese teacher while he was teaching David. Above all, she had until now wholly shared David’s mind and thought as Wang Ma could never have shared his father’s. Peony had guided David into his love of music and poetry making, and they had read together in secret such books as The Dream of the Red Chamber, and when she had wept over the sad young heroine, scattering the flower petals, David had put his arm about her that she might weep against his shoulder.

Until now he had told her everything, this she knew, and she had met his every mood with delicate eagerness and welcome. Only one thing she did not know — she had not asked him why he had not finished the poem he had begun to write. Had he even missed it when she had taken it? She had been afraid to ask him lest he force from her the truth that she had stolen it and had finished it and taken it to the third young lady in the house of Kung. She feared his angry question, “And why did you that?”

Why indeed? She could never tell him. She had always been too wise to tell him all she thought and felt, knowing by some intuition of her own womanhood that no man wants to know everything of any woman. His heart was centered in himself, and so must hers be centered in him. Thus she had never told David the one continuing question that she put to herself without being able to answer it. Here was that question: Was life sad or happy? She did not mean her life or any one life, but life itself — was it sad or happy? If she but had the answer to that first question, Peony thought, then she would have her guide. If life could and should be happy, if to be alive itself was good, then why should she not try for everything that could be hers? But if, when all was won, life itself was sad, then she must content herself with what she had. Now this old question thrust itself before her, and she found no answer in her heart.

“I knew I would find you grieving,” Wang Ma was saying calmly. She sat down, and planting a plump hand on each knee, she stared at Peony. “You and I,” she went on, “we must help each other.”

Peony lifted her sad eyes to Wang Ma’s round and good face. “Elder Sister,” she said in a plaintive voice.

“Speak what is in your mind,” Wang Ma replied.

“It seems to me that if I could answer one question to myself, I could arrange my life,” Peony said.

“Put the question to me,” Wang Ma replied.

This was not easy for Peony to do. Never had she talked with Wang Ma except about such things as food and tea and whether the rooms were clean and what should be done in house and court, and she feared lest Wang Ma laugh at her. But now her heart was ready to break because she did not know what would happen to her if David were to wed Leah.

“Wang Ma, please do not laugh at me,” she said faintly.

“I will not laugh,” Wang Ma replied.

Peony clasped her small hands in her lap. “Life,” she said distinctly—“is life happy or sad?”

“At bottom?” Wang Ma inquired. Her face was entirely serious and it seemed she understood what Peony meant.

“At bottom,” Peony replied.

Wang Ma looked grave, but she did not look surprised or bewildered. “Life is sad,” she said with clear decision.

“We cannot expect happiness?” Peony asked wistfully.

“Certainly not,” Wang Ma said firmly.

“You say that so cheerfully!” Peony wailed. Now she began to cry softly.

“You cannot be happy until you understand that life is sad,” Wang Ma declared. “See me, Little Sister! What dreams I made and how I hoped before I knew that life is sad! After I understood this truth I made no more dreams. I hoped no more. Now I am often happy, because some good things come to me. Expecting nothing, I am glad for anything.” Wang Ma spat cleverly out of the door into the court. “Ah, yes,” she said comfortably, “life is sad. Make up your mind to that.”

“Thank you,” Peony said gently. And she dried her eyes.

They sat, the two of them, in reflective silence for some time. Then Wang Ma began to talk very kindly. “You, Peony, must consider yourself. If it is your wish to spend your years in this house, then inquire into what woman is to be our young master’s wife. A man’s wife is his ruler, whether he likes her or not. She has the power of her place in his bed. Choose his wife, therefore.”

“I?” Peony asked.

Wang Ma nodded.

“Did you choose our mistress?” Peony asked.

Wang Ma rolled her head round and round on her short neck. “My choice was to go — or to stay,” she said at last.

“You stayed,” Peony said gently.

Wang Ma got up. “It is time for me to take our mistress her mid-morning sweetmeats,” she said abruptly.

With that she went away, and Peony continued in long thought. Duties waited. At this moment through the door that she had left open Small Dog came into the room on her padded feet. She moved in habitual silence unless she saw a stranger, and now she came to Peony and looked up at her, pleading but silent.

“I have forgotten you, Small Dog,” Peony murmured. She rose and found a bamboo brush, and she knelt on the floor and brushed Small Dog’s long golden hair. The stiff bamboo was pleasant to the dog and she stood motionless, her bulbous eyes half closed, while Peony lifted each ear and brushed it smooth and carefully brushed the hair about the upturned black nose. Had she been a cat Small Dog would have purred. Being a dog, she could only move her plumy tail slowly to and fro.

Yet Peony did not make the mistake of considering Small Dog more than a little dog. When her task was done she rose from her knees and washed her hands, and sitting down again, she resumed her thoughts. Small Dog lay on the stone threshold and rolled her round eyes a few times, snapped at a fly, and went to sleep.

Peony gazed at her thoughtfully. In this house Small Dog, too, was entirely happy and everyone accepted her being. Even a dog could be part of the whole. So Peony pondered, and no one came to call her. On another day, any day, she would have been called many times, and this silence gave her further warning that something new and strange was happening in the house, something in which she had no share. Whatever it was, she had to live with it and within it, yielding to it, accepting it, becoming part of it. Whatever David was, wherever he was, she would be there. If he spoke to her sometimes, if he let her serve him, if she did no more than tend his garments, she would make it enough, a life for herself.

So motionless she sat, so many were the minutes passing, that at last the small creatures who hide behind furniture and curtains and doors began to stir. A cricket sang a long thin note from a cranny in the roof, and into a beam of late sunlight that fell across the tile floor a kangaroo mouse crept out, and standing on its hind feet, it began a small solitary dance. Peony watched, and then in sudden delight she laughed aloud. The little creature darted back into its hiding place again, and she sat on, smiling now instead of grave. There were these small pleasures to be had! Here in this house little lives went gaily on, hidden from the great ones. Let her life be one of these! Into her came some spirit too gentle to be force, too quiet to be energy.

Nevertheless, it revived her. She rose, smoothed back her hair, looked into her mirror; and seeing herself pale, she touched her lips with red. Then, after a moment’s contemplation, she wound her braid again over her ear and thrust into it a jade hairpin. She had duties and she must do them. This was the day before the Sabbath and the usual evening meal must be served with special care. She must polish the silver candlesticks and the vessel for the wine, and she must place the loaves of braided bread upon the table. Then she sat down again, and sat on, knowing all that remained to be done and yet not moving. After a moment more she took brush and ink and some plain white rice paper from the drawer of the table, and quickly she wrote four lines of a poem. They had not anything to do with herself. They were in reply to the poem that she had taken to the house of Kung, and they had to do with the consuming warmth of the sun that drank the dew it found upon the flowers at sunrise.

This poem being finished, she put it in her bosom. Then only did she proceed to perform her duties for the Sabbath.

In the great hall Peony had not been seen. The three elders, Madame Ezra, Ezra, and Kao Lien, had gazed with different feelings upon David and Leah as the beautiful girl bent her head to kiss the shining scabbard of the sword. To Madame Ezra the act meant that Leah had dedicated herself to the task she had been given. Kao Lien, his narrow eyes on Madame Ezra’s face, perceived by its expression of joy and devotion that some secret hope of her heart was about to be fulfilled, and he guessed easily what it was and grieved for David, whom he loved. That Leah was handsome to look upon he could see as well as any man, but he discerned in her that quality of spirit which he had so often seen in Jewish women, and which, or so he thought, had driven and compelled their men to the separatism that he feared and deplored. For a woman to love God too much was not well, he now told himself. She must not love God more than man, for then she made herself man’s conscience, and he was the pursued.

Ezra was the most disturbed. More than ever now he longed to hide himself and all that he was in this rich and tolerant land to which his ancestors had come. He feared Leah and all her beauty, and he was afraid lest David yield to the spiritual quality it possessed. That his son was more the son of his mother than of himself Ezra well knew. David had not the consolation that he himself had had, of a rosy, warm little Chinese mother, ready to laugh at God and man, and judging all in life by her own sense of pleasure. No, although this small creature lurked in David’s blood, the main stream of his being was from his own mother, and her sternly loving eyes had been always upon him.

Ezra stirred in his chair, coughed, pulled his beard, and in all his manner he showed his displeasure. “Come now,” he cried loudly, “Leah, my dear — that dirty old sword! Has it not been in the hands of soldiers, who are the scum of any nation?”

His harsh practical voice bewildered Leah. She stepped back shyly and put her hands to her cheeks. “Oh — I took no thought,” she faltered.

“Leah did right to kiss the sword,” Madame Ezra announced. “The Lord moved her.”

Now David spoke, repelled as usual by his mother and hiding behind his rebellion his unwilling and instinctive sympathy with her. “I shall hang the sword on the wall behind my desk,” he declared half carelessly. “It will be a decoration.”

“A good thought,” Kao Lien said. “May it never again be wielded against a human life!”

Ezra rose. “Let these stuffs be gathered and put away,” he commanded Kao Lien. He took up the comb he had put aside for Peony. He ignored Leah purposely and turned to Madame Ezra. “Wife, I am hungry. Let the evening meal be early.” With this he left the room abruptly.

Leah stood, half awkwardly, half shyly. David, too, seemed to have forgotten her. He was testing the keenness of the sword’s blade upon the coarse wrappings of the bales. So sharp was the damascene metal that the blade melted through the cloth.

“Look at this, Kao Lien!” he called in delight.

Kao Lien, about to summon the men, paused to look.

“Never test it against your hand, I beg,” he said quietly. “Without half your strength it can cut through a human body. I saw it done.”

He went out, and Leah stood irresolute, now looking at Madame Ezra, now at David. But Madame Ezra looked in silence only at her son, and he, feeling that deep grave look, continued willfully to cut the cloth.

“Leah,” Madame Ezra said at last, still watching David, “you may go to your room.”

Before she could move, David raised his head. “I will go, too, Mother, and hang my sword,” he said, and quickly he left the room by the nearest door.

“Shall I still go, Aunt?” Leah asked timidly. She longed to cry out and ask what wrong she had done but she dared not, and she could only stand, tall and drooping, and wait for Madame Ezra’s command.

“Go — go!” Madame Ezra said, not unkindly, but as though she wanted to be alone.

What could Leah do but go?

On the morning of the Sabbath David sat alone in his room. He had waked late from a strange exhaustion after yesterday.

For the first time in his life it seemed to him that he understood his mother and all that she had tried to teach him and all that had made her what she was. He lay now upon his bed in the silken dimness of the curtains, and in the solitude it came to him that he was not what he had supposed he was, a young man free to be himself, to live as he liked, to take his pleasure, to be only his father’s son. He was part of a whole, a people scattered over the earth and yet eternally one and indivisible. Wherever a Jew lived, in whatever safety and isolation, he still belonged to his people.

This that his mother had taught him since he was born, to which hitherto he had been as impervious as stone to rain, he now comprehended, not with his mind, but with his blood. Why should his people be killed? A perverse anger rose in him. If the world outside sought to destroy his kind, then here inside the safety of this country where he had been born he would do all he could to keep them living. He would begin seriously to learn about his own people. For two years he had resisted his mother’s wish that he take lessons in their religion from the Rabbi. He had no time, he had told her. There were still many books he wished to read, and his father pressed him for more hours in the business, and he wanted to travel. His mother would not let him travel, he knew, until he was married and his son born. His son! Until now the child had been a myth made by his mother. But now he perceived in some depth in him, having nothing to do with thought and reason, that he ought to have sons. If his people were being killed, more must be born. Birth was their retaliation for death.

Thus for the first time in his pleasure-filled life David began to think beyond himself. He felt his hidden roots through his mother and his father, but most strongly through her. He saw now that while it had seemed to him she had been trying to control him and deny him his independence, she had actually been trying to preserve him and save him.

And then from his mother his thoughts went to Leah. How beautiful she had looked last night! They had not been alone together, and yet they had been close, united by the same bonds of blood and heart and spirit. It was true — theirs was a people separate and apart, a people of destiny, appointed by Jehovah, the One True God. He felt now, with deep strange guilt, that he had denied God by his careless gay life in a heathen country. While his people had suffered and died he had laughed and played and wasted his days. He remembered the things he had loved most, the gambling in Chinese teahouses, the idle summer afternoons on the lake where he and his young Chinese friends floated in pleasure boats, the smell of lotus flowers, the music of violin and flute in a courtyard in the moonlight. Then he remembered his father’s friend Kung Chen, and now Kueilan returned to his mind in all her innocent bloom. He knew her little face as though he had seen it a hundred times, the delicate curving eyebrows, the round black eyes, the little full red mouth, the pale beautiful skin, the willow slenderness of her small frame. But he knew her because Peony, too, was small and her mouth also was red, and her eyes were lit with laughter. How often they had laughed together! He checked his involuntary smile. While he had enjoyed his life, his people were being driven from their homes. In other cities, among other peoples, they lay dead in the streets. Impelled by guilt, he rose and went to find his mother and tell her he would go with her today to the synagogue. It would comfort her, after yesterday.

When he had washed and dressed himself his way led him past the peach garden, and as he passed the round moon gate, he saw the trees, in late bloom, reflected in the quiet oval pool. The morning was bright, the air warm, and in spite of his wish to be sorrowful, a surge of joy ran through him.

“Peony!” he called softly.

There was no answer. Yet often she did not answer him when she was in the garden. She was a teasing and mischievous little thing. He smiled and stepped inside the moon gate. It was still too early to go to the synagogue and he would not go to his mother.

Madame Ezra had scarcely slept for happiness. Her heart, so often solitary in this house, today was comforted. It was Leah, she had told herself in the night, Leah who had waked David’s sleeping spirit, if only for a moment. It would wake again — yes, and Ezra’s too. No, more than Leah, it was the mysterious way of Jehovah, Who had brought everything together at the appointed hour. The caravan had come on the day when Leah came. How blind and small of faith she had been to complain against that coincidence! It had been planned by God. For Kao Lien to bring the tidings of new persecution, for Leah to enter the room when David’s heart was moved with sorrow, for Leah to have faith and wit to seize his sorrow and twist it into a weapon to stab his conscience — who but God could have done all this?

Last night Ezra, coming into this room in the night, did not lie down beside her. Instead he had sat by her bedside, holding her hand, and they had talked deeply and sensibly, as Jewish man and wife.

“Naomi, I am willing now that David should be taught the law and the prophets,” Ezra had said.

Her heart sang before the Lord when he so spoke. Long ago the Rabbi had taught David, until the boy had rebelled and Ezra had not aided her to put down his rebellion. Instead he had said that David was old enough to help in the business and there was not time enough for everything. In triumph the boy had gone with his father and had made his own friends among the sons of Chinese merchants, and so he had gone even into the house of Kung and had seen the daughter there.

“Thank you, Ezra,” she had replied, and had subdued her joy.

“There is nothing we can do about our kinsfolk abroad,” Ezra had gone on. “The sensible thing for us is to stay here, where we at least are safe.”

“Until such time as a prophet comes forward to lead us home,” Madame Ezra had answered gently.

Ezra had coughed. “Well, my dear,” he said. He patted her hand. “I sometimes wonder why we should ever leave China. Four generations we have been here, Naomi, and David’s children will be the fifth. The Chinese are very kind to us.”

“I fear such kindness,” she had replied. She had pulled her hand away, and then alarmed lest he repent what he had promised, she put it back between his. They had not spoken again, and after a time he had returned to his rooms.

Now the Sabbath had dawned, a new Sabbath, wonderful for her, because they were all going to the synagogue together. The house was silent, no one was at work. Only from over the walls came the street noises and the voices of the heathen city. Here in her house God had come again, with sorrow, it was true, but here. He was always most near to His people in times of sorrow—“Out of death we cry to Thee, O Jehovah!” she murmured after Ezra had gone. She prepared herself for the day, putting on her richest garments, a brocaded satin of deep purple, the skirt and sleeves edged with gold.

And Leah, dear child! Did she know how obedient she had been to the will of God? Not one whit must be lost of what she had done yesterday, under the guidance of the Lord. Madame Ezra turned impulsively to Wang Ma, who had come to help her dress. “Go and fetch that dear child Leah!” she said. “I can wait no longer to bless her.”

Wang Ma threw her a shrewd look and without speaking went to obey. Then Madame Ezra stopped her. “No,” she said. “I will go to her, and see her for myself.”

Wang Ma shrugged her firm shoulders and stood aside to let her mistress pass.

Thus it was that Leah on this Sabbath morning saw Madame Ezra approaching her door. The young girl had spent the night in healthy sleep, her spirit at ease. She had obeyed the will of the Lord. Yesterday when she had been left alone, she had felt impelled to go out and find the others. She had walked through passageways and courtyards and her feet were guided. She had reached the great hall at exactly the moment when David’s heart was stirred and his soul bright with the anger of the Lord. When she put aside the curtain at the doorway she had seen him kneeling as before the altar, a silver sword across his knees. He had lifted his eyes to hers, and the Lord put words into her mouth and she spoke them. When she waked in the night she remembered David’s face turned to her, his eyes upon hers, and she slept again, smiling in her sleep.

This morning she repeated to herself a few verses from the Torah and she wondered how her father was and whether Aaron was being good, and if Rachel could manage him. Then she wondered shyly if David would come to her, or send for her, perhaps, or whether Madame Ezra would bring them together. Last night at the evening meal he had been very silent, but that was natural — she had been silent, too. Whatever was to be, she was no longer afraid. God was with her.

Filled with such dreaming thoughts this morning, she had moved here and there, and had stood smiling and gazing into space. She walked in her little garden and came in and sat down, all in such a happy hopeful mood that now when she saw Madame Ezra she went to meet her.

“Ah, dear Aunt,” Leah murmured.

“Dear child,” Madame Ezra replied, touched by this warmth. “Today you look happy.”

Leah lifted her head. “I am happier than I have ever been in my life,” she declared. They walked into the house hand in hand, and when Madame Ezra had seated herself, Leah drew a footstool near her and sat down, and again they clasped hands. Leah looked trustfully at Madame Ezra. This look moved Madame Ezra so much that her throat tightened with tears. She felt an ecstasy well up from her heart and infuse her spirit.

“Bow your head, dear child,” she murmured. “We thank God.”

She bowed her own head and began to murmur the words of a psalm, and Leah joined her. When the psalm was over Madame Ezra paused in silence, and then, lifting her head, she opened her eyes and met Leah’s.

“We have Jehovah’s blessing,” she said gently. “I feel it. Now we have only to follow step by step the way that God leads us. Dear child, my son’s father is willing, quite of his own accord, to ask the Rabbi to teach David the Torah again! I have considered how this shall be done, and now it comes to me. The Rabbi must come here to our house — we must all be together.”

“Oh, but what of Aaron?” Leah asked anxiously.

“Aaron will come too,” Madame Ezra said firmly. “They can live in the little west wing.”

“May I not live with them?” Leah asked.

“No, you will stay here,” Madame Ezra replied. Actually she had thought of all this only within the last few minutes. But it came to her so clearly, it seemed so simple, that she was sure God guided her mind.

“I shall speak to your father before we worship,” she went on. “But you will tell David now. No, I shall tell David myself, and you will come with me, and then you and he will talk together. After all, yesterday was yesterday and today is today, and each day must be managed separately so that we arrive at the goal.”

Madame Ezra pressed Leah’s hand and released it and rose. “What is the goal, dear Aunt?” Leah asked, somewhat timidly.

“David’s marriage — and yours,” Madame Ezra replied serenely. “Now is the time. I never saw him so stirred as he was yesterday.”

“Now, dear Aunt?” Leah asked, alarmed.

“Yes, certainly,” Madame Ezra replied.

She moved toward the door as she spoke. She did not want to go more deeply into what Leah might do, or should do. Let the two young creatures be together and God would do His work.

At the door she paused and looked back at Leah. The young girl had not moved. She sat, her long strong hands folded palm to palm between her knees, and her face anxious. “Talk to David about God,” Madame Ezra said abruptly, and so saying she went away.

In a short while, even before Leah had finished pondering these words, Wang Ma appeared at the door.

“Our mistress bids you come to the peach garden,” she said, and stood stolidly waiting while Leah rose, and then led her southward to that place.

The peach garden was David’s favorite spot, as Madame Ezra knew, and thither she had gone when she left Leah. She saw him standing under a blooming peach tree, alone, a puzzled look on his face.

“David, my son,” she said tenderly.

“Yes, Mother?” His reply was ready, but his mind was far away.

Death seemed remote here in the garden. The Sabbath air was quiet. The high wall of the great compound cut off even the noise of the streets. Usually David disliked silence. Not finding Peony here, he would on any other day have hastened out of the gate to find friends or to walk about the streets seeing what new thing had come into the city overnight. The city was halfway between north and south, and travelers stopped here to rest and refresh themselves and to enjoy the good inns. Fakirs and jugglers with all the tricks of India at their finger tips, or troupes of wandering actors from Peking, played at the temple grounds every day or wandered into the teashops to coax the guests.

But this morning he did not wish to see them. He wanted to stay in this house, encircled by walls whose great iron-bound gates were locked at night. How safe it was! Images of dead faces rose to the surface of his mind like drowned men.

“Your father and I have decided that you must begin the study of the Torah, my son,” his mother was saying.

She had said this before and more than once, and he had always protested that he had enough to do. But now he did not protest.

“I am ready, Mother,” he said. Inwardly he was surprised and even awed at the coincidence of his own will with that of his parents, but this he did not tell his mother.

“Today, after we leave the synagogue, I will invite the Rabbi to come here and stay with us for a while,” Madame Ezra went on. “This will make it easier for you. He can attend to his duties quite as well from here.” She looked up at the blossoming trees. “How lovely they are!” she exclaimed. “Leah enjoys them. I shall send for her.”

She was about to say that David was to wait here, and then she did not. Let God bring these two together! She lifted up her heart in secret words: Let my son wait here, O God!

David caught the movement of her spirit without hearing its words. Sensitive and receiving, he felt impelled to stand where he was under the rosy peach trees, and there he stood while his mother, smiling at him, went away, and meeting Wang Ma, commanded her to bid Leah go to the peach garden. Thus David still stood as though his feet had roots into the earth when Leah came with her long swift step to the garden gate.

“Leah!” he said, and went toward her slowly. The morning renewed the magic of yesterday. The sunlight fell upon her, her clear pale skin showed faultless, and her eyes were dark. She had put on white this morning, a white Chinese linen that fell to her feet, and her girdle was gold and so was the band about her hair. She was beautiful, fairer than any lily. At the word he remembered the unfinished poem, and why he had not finished it.

Leah came toward him and put out her hands and he clasped them. “You look like the morning,” he told her.

She lifted her eyes to him and her heart flew as straight as a bird from her bosom and nestled in him. From that moment she loved him altogether and him alone.

God bring his heart to me, Leah prayed. The prayer was so strong and so single that it sang through her body, and all her frame was tuned to it.

He saw her love in her eyes, and sensitive and still receiving, he felt her heart come into him, an overwhelming gift. Even had she been a stranger he would have been moved, and how much more when she was no stranger but one of his own blood and his own kind! They stood alone in the garden. Above them was the soft sky of the spring morning and against it were the tender hues of the peach blossoms and the small new green leaves. Against the memory, too, that Kao Lien had put into them yesterday, the terror of death and the cruelty of persecution, they felt a luxury of safety around them here in the garden.

David wavered, torn between some far past that he did not know and the pleasant childhood he had known. But he was no longer a child. That far past he shared with Leah. They were one in the bond of their people. He dropped her hands and upon the impulse of his blood he put his arms about her and held her to him.

She leaned against him, and bent her head against his breast and closed her eyes. Thus has God answered, she thought in gratitude.

And he, looking down on those dark curling lashes, wondered what he had done on this Sabbath day. Had he made a choice? Somehow he had, but what it meant he did not know.

Then suddenly he heard his mother’s voice. “Children!” So she called.

They sprang apart as she appeared at the gate. “Come and eat before we go to the synagogue together, for it is time. David, your garments for worship — I have laid them upon your bed.”

They followed her in silence, and somehow, to his own bewilderment, he was glad that his mother had come, and glad that the moment was broken in which he had held Leah in his arms. To his mother’s questioning, smiling look he answered a smile, and wondered why he felt himself a liar.

In the house of Kung, while David was at the synagogue, Peony was talking earnestly to Chu Ma, rousing the pride of the old nurse, skillfully playing upon jealousy and anger.

In the night she had determined upon this visit. The evening meal before the Sabbath had been a strange one, silent and full of feeling in which she had no share. Even Ezra had been quiet, eating his food as if he did not care what it was. David and Leah ate little and only Madame Ezra had her appetite. Yet she too had said almost nothing, although she had looked often at David and then at Leah.

Peony, feeling herself excluded, had left the room early, and had spent the evening rewriting and polishing the new poem. She would take it with her tomorrow, as tender of some kind in the bartering she had to do in the house of Kung. Now in the service courtyard in this house she sat on a stool under a cassia tree, talking with Chu Ma.

“I ask to be forgiven,” Peony said gracefully. Thus she began. Then she smoothed the straight fringe of her hair with her delicate fingers. The breeze had disarranged it.

Chu Ma, embroidering a small satin shoe, lifted her eyes from her work. “What wrong have you done?” she asked, and smiled.

“I did not come back yesterday as I hoped,” Peony said. “But hear my excuse, good mother, and then forgive me.”

So saying, she went on to tell Chu Ma how the caravan had come, and with the caravan the evil news that in foreign countries the kinsfolk of her master and mistress were being killed, and how mourning had filled the house and she feared it would be bad luck to the house of Kung for her to come here out of such mourning.

Peony looked sad and she dropped her pearly eyelids and went on, knowing that Chu Ma’s sharp eyes were on her.

“And I fear I spoke too soon yesterday,” she said very softly. “I fear I did not read my young lord’s heart rightly.”

She sighed and Chu Ma said stiffly, “Young woman, I cannot remember what you said.”

Peony knew she remembered and she went on again, “I said my young lord thinks only of your young mistress. I gave her his poem — you remember? But now they have brought the Rabbi’s daughter into our house, and I fear they have used God’s witchery and they have made our young master forget even his love.”

Chu Ma sniffed and got to her feet. She was very fat, and when she struggled upright scissors and thimble and silks tumbled from her. Peony made haste to pick them up.

“Let them lie,” Chu Ma said peevishly. “You had better come with me and undo the damage you have done.”

She went ahead and with her chin she motioned Peony to follow, and so Peony did, feeling that she was entering into a maze whose end she did not know.

The house of Kung was a large one, larger than the house of Ezra, and it was filled with generations of men, women, and children, all of whom drew their life from the same source. The women watched Peony from the corners of their eyes and the children stared, but she passed by them with her head bent modestly. So she came to the court where the young ladies lived who were the daughters of Kung Chen, the head of this great family. There were four daughters, but two of them were already married and away, and Kueilan came third, and after her had been born a child who was not the daughter of the same mother as she but of a young concubine whom Kung Chen took, and then was sorry he did because she fell in love with his head servant. After much pain, he had sent them both away, but his daughter he had kept.

Kueilan was playing cat’s cradle with this little sister when Chu Ma came in with Peony following her. Now Peony had never seen this third young lady, and had only David’s talk to make her know what she was. But she had no more to do than to look at the young lady, which she now did, without knowing that everything David had said was too little and that here indeed was the most beautiful female creature that anyone could imagine. Kueilan was childish in her looks, being only a little taller than the younger sister, whom Chu Ma now sent away.

“Nurse, why do you send Lili away?” Kueilan asked, and Peony heard what a sweet voice she had besides all her other beauties.

Chu Ma had no fear or reverence before her little mistress, and so she asked in a loud voice, not answering the question, “What have you done with the letter I gave you yesterday?”

“Here it is,” Kueilan answered, and she took David’s poem from her wide silk sleeve.

Chu Ma looked at Peony with reproachful eyes. “You see what hurt has been done!” she declared. “The child keeps his letter with her day and night.” She turned to her mistress again. “Give it to me, child,” she commanded. “It is worth nothing. I will throw it away.”

Now Peony’s quick brain had been working, and she saw very well that in this pretty girl she might have a friend and an ally to win David’s heart. There was nothing here that was strong and fearless. No, Kueilan was a kitten of a creature, her little face itself was a kitten’s face, the eyes wide and wondering and tinged with ready mischief, the mouth always ready to laugh. Just now she was looking half fearfully at Chu Ma. She clutched the paper and shook her head.

“I will keep it,” she said willfully. “I will not let you throw it away. I won’t — I won’t!”

Chu Ma looked up to heaven and Peony saw she was preparing to be angry, so she spoke at once. “Young Lady, do not trouble yourself. I have only come for your answer.” And to Chu Ma she said in a low voice, “I see how it is here. Do not be angry, Good Mother. Somehow I will mend the evil I have done.”

So Chu Ma kept silent, only continuing to pout, and Peony went nearer and spoke coaxingly to Kueilan. “Have you written an answer, Little Mistress?” she asked. Kueilan looked down and shook her head.

“Shall I help you?” Peony asked next.

Kueilan looked surprised. “Girl, can you write?” she asked.

“I can,” Peony said smiling. “If you tell me what you wish to say, I will write it down for you.”

“I can write — but I don’t know what to say,” Kueilan faltered.

“Our young lady has never written to a man,” Chu Ma proclaimed virtuously.

Peony was very gentle indeed. “You need not fear my young master,” she said. “Why, he is the kindest and best young man. He never hurts anyone. I have been his slave all my life, and he has never beaten me or let others beat me.”

Kueilan looked at her with surprise. “Even when he is angry?”

“He is never angry,” Peony said smiling.

“Oh!” Kueilan sighed.

Then Peony took from her own bosom the poem she had written and she read it aloud in a soft sweet voice.

“Within the lotus bud the dew drop waited.

At dawn the sun looked down and found her there.

He lifted her and set her on a cloud

And made her queen to rule the skies with him.”

“Give it to me,” Kueilan exclaimed. Her small face was lit with delight and she followed the four lines with the tip of her tiny forefinger. “I wish I had written it,” she said wistfully.

“Lady, I give it to you,” Peony said. “It is yours, as if you had made it.”

“Will you never tell him I did not write it?” the spoiled child asked.

“Never,” Peony promised. “But, Lady, copy it in your own handwriting,” she suggested.

“Chu Ma, fetch my brush and ink and my silk paper,” Kueilan commanded.

She sat in silence like a small reigning queen, allowing Peony to stand. When Chu Ma had brought the brush the young lady with much ado and ceremony made ready to write and then did write, her pink tongue between her lips, until she had copied the poem upon the silken paper, and had folded it intricately. Then she gave it to Peony.

“Take this to him,” she said, and waved her hands in dismissal.

Peony bowed her head, exchanged looks with Chu Ma, and went away.

Now had she gone the way she came she might have passed through this house unseen by any except Kueilan and Chu Ma. But Peony had curiosity as well as wit, and so she did not go as she came. Instead she told herself she would see this famous house while she was here, and especially the great lotus pool that was said to be in the central court. There she went, stopped only now and then by a servant who asked her what she did. She answered coolly that she had brought a message to the young mistress and was looking for the front gate. “This place is so vast I am lost,” she said laughing.

So she went on until she saw a round moon gate, and there she guessed was the central court. She tiptoed to the gate and looked in and saw a most beautiful garden. It was floored with green tiles and in the center was a long pool, and in this pool lotus leaves were pushing up their pointed buds. Around the walls stood peach trees and plums and the scarlet flowers of the pomegranate were in full bloom. Among them bamboos waved their fernlike fronds and little birds flew here and there, and looking up Peony saw far above her, over the high walls, a fine net spread to hold the birds.

She forgot everything, and stepping inside the gate, she walked softly to the pool and gazed into it. The water was clear between the lotus plants and gold and silver fish played among them. In the midst of her pleasure she heard a man’s voice.

“Little Sister, where have you come from?”

Peony was startled and she looked up, and there stood the master of the house, Kung Chen himself. Now she must explain why she was here. She smiled deeply enough to make the two dimples in her cheeks appear and she said, “I was sent from the home of Ezra to fetch a pattern for embroidery, and then, wicked one that I am, I could not resist the temptation to come and see this court, of which I have often heard. Indeed, everyone has heard of it. Please, sir, forgive me.”

Kung Chen stroked his chin and smiled. His face was round and kind and his small eyes were pleasant. He had thick placid lips and a broad flat nose. On this spring day he wore a gray brocaded silk robe, and since he was at ease in his home, he had no jacket or hat. On his feet were white silk socks and black velvet shoes. On his two thumbs he wore heavy jade rings and in his left hand he carried a silver water pipe. His eyebrows were scattered and scanty and his face was shaven, and this smoothness gave his full face a bland and open look.

“There is nothing to forgive,” he said kindly. “Enjoy the garden and the pool as long as you like. I come here at this hour every day when I have eaten, so that I may look at my fish.”

He pointed the mouthpiece of his pipe toward the water, and she looked into the clear depths where the fish swam serene and gay.

“How happy they are!” she said plaintively. “Here in your house even they are safe and well fed.”

“Have you fish at your master’s mansion?” he asked.

It seemed an idle question, but Peony recognized it for what it was, the beginning of other questions.

“Oh, yes,” she answered at once, “we have pools and fish and we feed them. We have also Small Dog.”

Kung Chen filled his pipe and took two puffs. “Birds are the best,” he murmured. “They are beautiful to look at, they sing pleasantly, and when one takes them into the bamboo grove, they attract other birds. Every evening at sunset I bring my singing thrush to the bamboos, and after I have fed it fresh meat it sings and other birds gather on the net. I sit so still they think I am a stone.”

“How pleasant!” Peony said.

“It is at such moments that the best of life is lived,” he replied simply.

She waited. Between them was all the distance of their differing sex and age and station. But there was no embarrassment. She felt his ageless simplicity, his complete hard wisdom, and suddenly she trusted him. She said, still gazing into the pool, “I did not tell you the truth, Honored One.”

His small eyes sparkled with laughter but he did not laugh aloud. “I know you did not,” he replied.

She stole a glance at him and laughed with him.

“Tell me now,” he suggested. “After all, you and I — are we not Chinese?”

She could not approach truth directly. “Sir, have you hatred against the foreigners?”

He opened his eyes. “Why should I hate anyone?” he asked in surprise. He paused and then proceeded amiably. “To hate another human being is to take a worm into one’s own vitals. It consumes life.”

“I will ask another question,” Peony said.

“Why not?” Kung Chen asked, still very amiably.

“Would you give your daughter to a foreign house?” she asked.

“Ha!” Kung Chen said. He took two more puffs of his pipe. “Why not?” he asked again. He knocked the ash from his pipe. “Now let me proceed for you,” he said. “Your house has a young master, and I have plenty of daughters. I take it my Little Three is nearest his age. I have good business with your elder master. He brings me goods from abroad that others cannot buy. My shops alone carry the goods. I shall soon have an exclusive contract — for which I shall pay much money, it is true. Were we related even in the outside fashion through my daughter, it would be good business. But — I am not a man to sacrifice my daughter for business. Therefore let us speak of rectitude and philosophy. When foreigners come into a nation, the best way is to make them no longer foreign. That is to say, let us marry our young together and let there be children. War is costly, love is cheap.”

Now Peony cast aside all modesty. She admired Kung Chen very much and she felt proud to think he was her countryman. What he had said was wise and good. So she went on: “My young master saw the Third Young Lady a few days ago and he has not been able to eat or sleep since.”

“Good,” Kung Chen replied easily.

“He has written her a poem,” Peony went on.

“Naturally,” Kung Chen said.

“She has also written him a poem,” Peony said.

At this Kung Chen looked astonished. “My Little Three cannot write poems,” he declared. “When I bade the tutor teach her to write poems with the others, he complained that her mind was only a butterfly.”

Peony blushed. “I helped her,” she confessed.

Kung Chen laughed. “Ah-ha!” he exclaimed. “Do you have the poem with you?”

Upon this Peony produced the poem, and he spread it out on his soft fat palm and read it aloud, in a half singing voice. “Very good — for the purpose,” he announced. “But I see you have not written the proper radical for the word ‘rule.’ ” He pointed out the word with the stem of his pipe.

“Forgive me,” Peony said gently.

“Leave it,” Kung Chen bade her. “If it is too perfect he will suspect her. Now you had better deliver it to him. Love must be taken on the tide, before it ebbs.”

So Peony took the poem and made her little bow and went away.

She felt so much more happy than she had when she came that she examined herself to find why this was so, and she found it was because Kung Chen had somehow made her feel one with him and with all who were Chinese. She was not solitary or alone. In the great sea of her people she was only one, but she belonged to the sea, and her life was not separate from the lives of all around her.

Oh, that David would join himself to us! she thought. Her mind grew clear. She would take him away from the dark, sorrowful people to whom he had been born and bring him into the pleasant sunshine in which her people lived. He would forget death and learn to love life.

Thus lighthearted, she went home again and to her duties. Ezra and David returned from the synagogue, and soon Madame Ezra and Leah came too, and the Sabbath day proceeded in the rites that Peony knew so well, and in which she did not share. But her part was to serve, and even as the night before she had set the great candlesticks before Madame Ezra that she might light them and usher in the sacred day, so now when they gathered for the Sabbath meal Peony brought the wine to Ezra and stood while he blessed it and spoke the Sabbath prayer. She directed the washing of the hands and then the serving of the food. When a servant newly hired was about to bring Ezra his pipe she shook her head and frowned, knowing that no fire must be lit on this day. In his own room alone Ezra might take the comfort of his pipe, but not here.

So went the day, and Peony would not let herself see how often David spoke to Leah and that even when he did not speak he looked at her long and thoughtfully. When evening came it was Leah whom David led into the court to find the first three stars of night, and he bade Leah declare the Sabbath was over.

Peony ran to light the candles and the lanterns, and never was she so glad as now to hear their greetings for another day, a good day, she told herself, a pleasant common day belonging to humans and not to a foreign god. She had spoken no word with David this Sabbath long, but she was not downcast. She could wait.