These words, said so innocently, fell into Violet’s heart like a dart thrown by a child. They made a little wound which she quickly concealed. “Good-by, dear Mrs. Wetherston,” she said. “I will tell my friends how kind you are.”
In the street again she took a passing cab and went directly to Dr. Liang’s apartment. During the family distress Mrs. Liang had subdued her jealousy and now it was she who met Violet at the door.
“Come in, come in,” she said warmly in English. “Tell us all about something.”
She pattered into the living room ahead of Violet and as she passed the closed door of the study she raised her voice. “Eh, Liang! Violet Sung got here.”
There was no answering voice. Dr. Liang heard her and was displeased at the rude summons. He did not therefore move for some five minutes. Had anyone opened the door he would have been sitting at his desk, a brush held upright between his thumb and two fingers as he wrote Chinese letters. But no one opened the door and after the five minutes he got up and walked with slow dignity into the living room.
“Forgive me,” he said to Violet. “I was just finishing a stop-short.”
He had taught her the necessary qualities of the four-line poem thus named, and she smiled at him. “You must let me read it,” she said.
He made a deprecating gesture. “It is far from perfect yet,” he replied. “I have worked on it for four days, but I am not satisfied.”
“Now, Liang,” his wife broke in, “don’t talk some poetry. Sit down. Miss Sung wants to tell us how is Wetherstons.”
In her eagerness she was to Dr. Liang’s perceptions more than usually vulgar. To quiet her therefore he sat down and prepared to listen. Violet, glancing at his sensitive and handsome face, imagined that she saw suffering there. Certainly his pallor was deeper than usual. She proceeded very gently.
“You are fortunate. The home is a good one. It is not too rich, but there is some money. The mother-in-law is kind, and she wishes to do well but she does not know anything. Everything will depend upon Louise. The mother believes that her sons are all good and even great men, and Louise must learn the wisdom of agreeing with her mother-in-law.”
Mrs. Liang cried out at this. “Our Louise? She cannot agree with anybody. What do you say, Liang?”
“Please go on, Miss Sung,” he said.
Violet went on. “The mother-in-law, wanting to be kind and correct, is determined that she does not mind her daughter-in-law being Chinese. But in her heart she minds because it is something strange. It makes her different from other women she knows. Also she is not sure how Louise will fit into the home. I told her Louise was very American — is indeed by birth a citizen — and this comforts her somewhat but not wholly. And she is wounded that her son told her nothing of his first love affair or that a child was born.”
Dr. Liang had been making up his mind rapidly as Violet talked. The Wetherston family was not distinguished. The Liang family was better. It was therefore an honor for the Wetherstons to be connected with him. He would maintain this position.
Violet Sung went on. “She hopes to invite you to dinner.”
Mrs. Liang brightened. “I like to go and see,” she exclaimed.
Dr. Liang rose. “Thank you very much, Miss Sung,” he said formally. “You have done us a great service. Let us be glad that the family is respectable. I suppose we should not hope for more. The man might have been someone from the slums. It is useless to pretend, however, that I am pleased. I shall not feel the same toward my daughter Louise.”
“Please wait,” Violet said. “It may all turn out very well. I believe that blood and body differences do not matter if minds and hearts are the same.”
Mrs. Liang agreed to this with enthusiasm. “Miss Sung, you say true. I also! Of course, it is much better to marry Chinese if possible. If not possible, then American is not too bad. Liang, I am not agreeing. I am happy seeing my daughter, and I am feeling nice to her husband. As for baby, it is boy, and that is some better than girl. I say everything is not too bad.”
Dr. Liang ignored this. He spoke only to Violet. “I suppose,” he said with a slight smile, “that it is only natural for me to maintain certain superiorities. Will you forgive me if I go back now to my studies?”
He bowed and walked out of the room, conscious that Violet was looking at him thoughtfully.
16
IN THE ANCESTRAL VILLAGE the four sat talking. James, Chen, and Peter had three rooms leading one into the other and facing south upon a small barren court. James kept for his own the central and slightly larger room which, having no windows, had a wide door that was now open to the winter sun. Here they were gathered. There was no other heat than the sunshine, and they were all clothed in padded Chinese garments and Mary sat with her feet on a small brass footstove within which were coals imbedded in ash. All of them wore half gloves which Mary had knit from gray camel’s-hair yarn.
They had been here for nearly a month and under James’s command had done nothing, apparently, except receive all who wished to come and see them. Yet within the house they had been quietly busy, except for Peter who read and studied much alone. The monotony of the country food had persuaded Mary to bid Young Wang to buy an earthen portable stove shaped like a jar with a small iron grate at the top. He put it in a sheltered corner of the barren court, and buying small pond fish and white cabbage and soy bean vermicelli with an occasional scrawny chicken, he set before them private and pleasant dishes. Other members of the family did the same in their part of the rambling earthen house and it was not taken amiss.
No one had expected Young Wang to remain in the village since he so enjoyed city life, but he had surprised all of them by falling in love with the daughter of the village innkeeper. Chen had first suspected it in the careless service and generally absent-minded behavior which Young Wang began to show soon after their arrival. Upon inquiry Young Wang confessed that he felt it was time for him to start a family for himself, and that it would be convenient if he settled here. He reminded himself and James that he had always dreamed of returning to the sea to be a ship’s cook, but now that he had seen the innkeeper’s daughter, he preferred to be a land cook. The inn was a good business, he further explained, and it was his luck that the innkeeper’s two sons had died, one as a child and the other last year of smallpox, leaving the daughter the only offspring. This meant that her husband would be accepted in place of a son, and he could step into the business as heir.
“I suppose you care nothing about the girl herself,” Chen had said teasingly.
Young Wang had grinned. “I have seen her once or twice,” he admitted. “She is not too ugly.”
Anybody could see the innkeeper’s daughter any day as she served at the tables and Chen had laughed loudly. “You need a marriage broker,” he told Young Wang. “Allow me to offer myself. I will ask no fee except a good meal cooked by your own hands and served by your wife after the wedding.”
Young Wang was much pleased, and Chen had gone to the innkeeper and had made so handsome a picture of Young Wang that both parents had soon agreed to accept him.
“Shall we not also ask the young woman if she will consider him as a husband?” Chen had suggested daringly.
“No,” the innkeeper said with decision. “It is none of her business. The inn is mine.”
Nevertheless Chen took care one day before the betrothal papers were written to eat a meal at the inn and to ask for wine, which the girl always served. The hour was early and he sat alone at a table. When she poured the wine from the long slender spout of the pewter winepot, he leaned toward her and without looking at her he said these words in a low voice. “If there is any reason why you do not wish to proceed with the papers which bind you to Young Wang, remove the lid of the winepot as a sign.”