Dr. Lane had not liked this.
“Helen, in the sight of God, all are alike,” he had reminded his wife.
“Of course, I know that,” she replied. “But we aren’t God, are we? The Empress is still the Empress and there is no use in pretending that William has not had a great honor, for he has. It’s a wonderful thing and I must say that if I hadn’t had the courage to push forward and ask for it, he would not have had the chance.”
Dr. Lane, thinking now of his son, sighed as he so often did, without knowing it. Helen had not changed very much. Sometimes, although she observed quite carefully all the outward forms of religion, he feared that at heart she was nevertheless a worldly woman.
William, who had been named for Helen’s father, not his, had grown up clever and proud. Whether the boy’s heart had ever been touched he did not know. Perhaps a boy’s heart was never touched until the dews of young manhood fell upon it. Dr. Lane remembered even himself as a callous youth until suddenly one day when he was almost twenty he had perceived that life was a gift in his hand, to be used or wasted. God had spoken to him at that moment.
The Chinese dinner gong struck softly, and he turned the oil lamp low. It was a fine bit of furnishing, something Helen had contrived from a Ming jar. She had a taste for luxury. Outside Peking it might not have been fitting to a minister of Christ who secretly believed in poverty, but in Peking the houses of the diplomats were so much richer that this house was not remarkable. The fantastic extravagance of the Imperial Court set the atmosphere of the city. Yet the old Empress was conscience-stricken now. The monies which had been collected from the people for a modern navy she had spent upon a huge marble boat, set in the lake at the Summer Palace. While her ministers prophesied disaster from the West and the young Emperor fomented secret rebellion, she was dickering with that absurd secret society of the Boxers. They, excited by her notice, were boasting like fools that they were invulnerable. Neither swords nor bullets, they declared, could pierce their flesh. They had a magic, they told the superstitious Empress, and she might be desperate enough to believe them.
He went slowly down the carpeted stairs, uneasy in his heart, not knowing what to do. Precautions would be taken, of course, by the American Embassy. Yet should he wait for this? William was ready for college, and Helen longed for a summer at home. Home was always America.
He went into the dining room where his family was waiting for him and took his seat at the head of the oval table. The linen was fine and the Chinese nuns at the Catholic convent had embroidered it with a large heavy monogram. It was the sort of thing, he told himself, which looked expensive but was not. The nuns worked cheaply and he had not the heart to deny Helen beauty of so little cost. After all, she had given up a great deal to become his wife. She missed the New York season every year, music and theater and parties. She had never enjoyed Chinese theater although the finest was here in Peking and this was as well, perhaps, for most of the missionaries were still puritans and he was always uneasily conscious of their criticism, unspoken, of his wife. Most of them came from simpler homes than his in America and this did not make them more merciful. Perhaps had she had time to learn Chinese — yet for that he could scarcely blame her. William had been born a scant year after their marriage and the two girls followed quickly. Since her passionate anger with him that day when she found herself pregnant for the third time, there had been no more children.
He folded his napkin and looked about the table at every face. Ruth was growing very pretty. She looked like his side of the family. William and Henrietta took after their mother, the boy was handsome but Henrietta had missed her mother’s distinction. She would have to go in for good works. He was not sure that he wanted any of his children to be missionaries. That was as God willed. He smiled at them.
“How would my family like to go home for this summer?”
Wang, robed in a long white linen gown, was serving the soup. From it rose the smell of chicken delicately flavored with fresh ginger.
“Why, Henry!” his wife exclaimed. “I thought you said we couldn’t this year because the house at Peitaiho was costing so much.”
Like most of the missionaries they had a summer home at the seashore. A hurricane had torn the roof from the walls during the winter and it had cost some hundreds of Chinese dollars to replace.
“We could rent the house,” he replied. “That would pay something toward the tickets. I don’t think we can ask the Board for expenses, since my furlough is not due yet.”
“I don’t want to go,” Henrietta announced in a flat voice. She was gulping her soup but Dr. Lane did not correct her. He had a sympathy with Henrietta which he himself could not explain.
“But is William quite ready for Harvard?” Mrs. Lane asked. Her eyes were upon Wang as he served croutons.
“Since he has been taught by English standards, I believe he would have no difficulty,” Dr. Lane replied. He disliked soup, and he helped himself well to the crisp croutons.
“I’d like to go,” William said. The thought of having no more to face the arrogance of English boys, who still called all Americans rebels and missionaries yellow dogs, cheered him. He began to eat with sudden appetite.
Ruth was silent, her mild blue eyes stealing from face to face.
“I had better tell you the truth,” Dr. Lane decided. “I do not at all like the way things look. Something is seething in the countryside. The young Emperor is in difficulties again with the Old Empress and she has locked him up. The gossip is that she is determined to kill his tutors for encouraging his Western ideas. But she will have to do something to satisfy her ministers. They are outraged with the new foreign concessions she has been compelled to give the German government. If she should take it into her ignorant old head to exterminate all foreigners, I don’t want my family here.”
He tried to speak humorously, but they saw that he was anxious. His quiet rather delicate face, always pale, now looked white above his clipped gray beard and mustache.
“I’ve always said the Chinese hate us,” Mrs. Lane said.
“I don’t believe they hate us,” he said mildly.
“They’ve killed those German missionaries,” she argued.
He put down his soup spoon. “That was an accident, as I’ve told you, Helen. The bandits just happened to attack a town where the Germans were.”
“Even bandits have no right to kill foreigners,” she retorted. No one paid any heed to Wang until she said almost violently, “Wang, take away the soup plates!”
“I don’t think Wang hates us, Mother,” Ruth said when he had left the room. Her voice, soft and timid, was different from the other voices. Even Dr. Lane, accustomed to many years of preaching, spoke with an articulate clarity which was almost forceful.
“That’s because he gets paid,” Mrs. Lane replied.
Dr. Lane felt obliged, for the sake of the children, to pursue truth. “If the Chinese feel antiforeign, it is the result of the way Germany has behaved. To seize ports and demand the use of the whole bay, besides all that indemnity, just made an excuse for the murder of the missionaries. Then Russia, then England, then even our own government — all this is at the bottom of these so-called antiforeign outbreaks. Naturally the Chinese don’t want to see their country sliced away.”
Mrs. Lane interrupted. “Oh, of course, Henry, you always think the Chinese are right!” She went on, repressing his attempted reply. “If there is any danger, I want to go away at once. But I won’t go without you. I will not allow you to sacrifice yourself for these people. Your first duty is to the children and to me.”