“Clem, you look sick!” Henrietta said. “I’m going to get you a doctor.”
“I am sick,” Clem said. “But it’s a sickness no doctor can cure. I’ll be sick as long as things go on like this.”
At noon he refused to eat and Henrietta went downstairs to eat alone, ashamed of her steady appetite. If Clem could only separate his soul from his body! But he could not and his body shared the tortures of his harassed soul. He blamed himself for things being what they were, and this Henrietta would have thought absurd except she had seen in her own father when she was a child the same suffering for the sins of others.
“Did we do our duty as Christians—” she remembered her father saying that year when they had left China, that fearful year when Clem had been left alone in Peking—“the world in a generation would be changed.”
Clem was like that, too. He wanted the world changed quickly because he saw it could be changed and he fretted himself almost to death because other people did not see what he did. Troubled and sad, she ate her robust meal, chewing each mouthful carefully because she believed Fletcher was right about that. She had got interested in Fletcherism because of Clem’s indigestion and especially because he was always in such a hurry that he swallowed his food whole.
When she went upstairs again he was lying on the bed, flat on his back, and she thought he was asleep. She tiptoed in and stood looking down at him. His hands were clasped behind his head and his eyes were closed. Then she saw his lashes quiver.
“That you, hon? I’ve been lying here thinking. I believe I’ve got an idea.”
“Oh, Clem, I hoped you were asleep! If you won’t eat—”
“I will eat but you know how I am. If I eat when I’m thinking something out the food just lays on my stomach. Hon, I am going to see your brother William.”
She sat down heavily in the soiled armchair. “Clem, it won’t do a bit of good.”
“It might, hon. He’s got a new wife.”
“Nobody could have been nicer than Candace.”
“Maybe so. She was mighty nice. But if William loves this woman, maybe it has done something to him. Maybe it’s stirred his heart.”
“I hope you don’t want me to go with you.”
“I was kind of hoping you would.”
“Clem — it won’t help! He’s invincible now. Everywhere we go people are reading his nasty little newspapers.”
“He must feel something for people, hon.”
“No, he doesn’t. He hates people. He despises them or he wouldn’t make such newspapers for them. I know why he does it, too. He feeds them the worst stuff so as to keep them down. It’s like feeding the Chinese opium — or giving whisky to the Indians. People learn to like it and because they like it they will follow the person that gives it to them.”
Clem, always generous, shook his head at this picture of William. “I kind of think I’ll go right away and see for myself, hon.”
Henrietta’s anger rose in spite of love. “Very well,” she declared. “Go if you must. But I will not go with you.”
He sighed and got off the bed. He put on his coat and smoothed his hair with his hand. Then he bent to kiss her tenderly.
“You don’t feel mad with me, do you?”
“Oh no, Clem, except—”
“Except what?” He paused and looked down upon her, his eyes bright blue in his white face and his lips pursed quizzically.
“Clem, you’re too good, that’s all. You won’t believe that anybody isn’t good.”
“That’s my faith, I guess.”
He turned at the door, looked as if he were about to say something more, kept silent instead and went his way.
Lady Emory was alone for luncheon. She was, of course, Mrs. William Lane and by now she was well used to it in all external ways. She was beginning to feel that the huge comfortable house in uptown New York was her own, and in certain ways that Hulme Castle could never be. From earliest memory she had known that while Hulme Castle was her shelter it was not her home. William had divined this very soon after their marriage and had offered to put at her disposal as much money as needed to repair the castle and put in bathrooms.
“It will make you feel more free to go there and stay as long as you like, now that you are my wife,” he had said quite gracefully.
Her father had refused the gift, however. He saw no need for more bathrooms since he himself still used a tin tub brought into his room in the mornings and set before the fire.
“I believe William would like to come here and stay sometimes, Father,” she had replied to this prejudice. “He would feel less like a guest if he had some part in the castle.”
She said this quite as gracefully as William had but her father had only grumbled and it had taken Michael to persuade him to let William repair at least the west wing as a place where Emory and her husband might stay when they came to England. Lady Hulme had early discerned in William a rather touching desire to own some part of Hulme Castle and so she had been grateful to Michael who, after all, was the one most to be considered, since he was the future heir.
As for America, as far as Emory had seen it, it was amazing. The people were very friendly, perhaps too friendly. She had been invited to a great many dinner parties and everybody had persisted in calling her Lady Emory, and this made her feel at home. William, too, called her Lady Emory in the house to the servants. Naturally when he introduced her it was as his wife, Mrs. Lane. She felt in spite of his real love for her that she did not know him as well as she hoped she would one day. He had a strange and almost forbidding dignity which she did not dislike, although she saw that it cut him off from ordinary people and even from her, sometimes. She was used to that. In his way her father had a dignity, too. He would have been outraged by familiarity from his inferiors.
Moreover, there was something about this dignity of William’s which ennobled her and their life. She was proud of his straight handsome body and was well aware of their regal appearance together.
He never talked to her of his first wife. In marriage he and she were utterly alone, and for this she was grateful. Instead, he told her much about his boyhood in Peking, and she who had never thought of China as a place existent upon this earth, now perceptively saw him there, a tall solitary boy, august in his place as the only son of the family, hungry for communication when there could be none, alien from his parents and sisters as he was from the Chinese he knew, who apparently were all servants.
“Did you not know any Chinese boys?” she asked.
“They were not allowed in the compound,” he replied. “My mother did not like them to hang about. Even my father’s study had a separate entrance so that when the Chinese came to see him they need not enter the hall.”
“Did you try to know anybody secretly?” she asked.
“It would not have occurred to me,” he replied sincerely.
Then bit by bit there came out the remembered fragments of his life in the Chefoo school and here she perceived he had been shaped. She saw the proud boy slighted and condemned by the careless lordly English boys she knew so well, for Cecil had been such a boy. Unconsciously William revealed to her his wounds never healed.
It was not all bitterness. He could speak sometimes of wide Peking streets and of the beauty of the porcelain roofs on the palaces of the dying Empire. He told her one meditative evening how his mother had taken him to see the Empress when he was a small boy. “I bowed before her, but I didn’t kneel because I was an American. The Chinese had to kneel and keep their heads on the floor. I remember her thin hands — yours remind me of them. They were narrow and pale and very beautiful. But the palms were stained red and the long nails shielded in gold gem-studded protectors. I looked at her face — a most powerful face.”