Madame Wu turned back the covers, and she leaned over her friend.
“Meichen,” she said clearly, “give yourself no trouble. Allow your body to rest. I will work for you.”
But in spite of her words, the moment she touched the sore flesh, Madame Kang groaned. Mr. Kang clapped his hands to his mouth and turned his head away.
“Hold her hands,” Madame Wu said to him. “Give her your strength.”
He could not disobey her. Her great eyes were fixed on him with stern power. He stepped forward and took his wife’s hands. And this, this alone, could have made Madame Kang open her eyes. She, feeling her hands in those she knew so well, opened her eyes.
“You,” she gasped, “you — Father of my sons!”
At this moment of recognition Madame Wu slipped her strong narrow hands around the child, and Madame Kang screamed.
Mr. Kang burst into sweat. He groaned and clenched his hands around his wife’s. “If you will only live now,” he muttered through his teeth, “I swear, I swear—”
“Swear — nothing,” she gasped. “I am glad — your child.”
“Children are nothing to me beside you,” he shouted. “If you die I will hang myself.” The sweat ran down his face.
“Then you do — love me?” Her voice was so faint, it came in such breaths, that for a moment Madame Wu was afraid of what she had undertaken.
“Heart of my heart,” Mr. Kang was crying. “Don’t die — don’t die—”
“I won’t die,” Madame Kang said aloud.
At this moment Madame Wu moved he child out of her body. A gush of blood flowed but Madame Wu stanched it with handfuls of cotton that the midwife had put by the bed.
Mr. Kang still clutched his wife’s hands. “Is it over?” he mumbled.
“All over,” Madame Wu said.
“The child?” Madame Kang whispered.
Madame Wu wrapped the small torn body in the towel she took from her waist “The child is dead,” she said quietly, “but you two do not need this child.”
“Certainly not,” Mr. Kang babbled. “Meichen, I beg you — no more children. Never, never, I promise you—”
“Hush,” Madame Wu said sternly. “Make no promises you cannot keep.” She felt the teapot and it was still hot. She put the spout to her friend’s lips. “Drink,” she said. “You have promised to live.”
Madame Kang drank. Her eyes were closed again, but the pulse in her wrist, when Madame Wu felt it, was stronger by the least possible strength.
Madame Wu motioned to Mr. Kang to loose his wife’s hands. “She must sleep,” she directed. “I will sit here beside her. Do you take the child away for burial.”
She took the burden of the dead child and put it into Mr. Kang’s arms, and he held it.
“Let this child be the proof of what you have told her,” Madame Wu said. “Remember forever his weight in your arms. Remember that he died to save the life of his mother — for you.”
“I will remember,” Mr. Kang promised. “I promise you I will remember.”
“Make no promises you cannot keep,” Madame Wu said again.
Through the day she sat there and through the night that followed. Servants brought her food and hot tea, but she allowed them to come only to the door. Mr. Kang came in to thank her and to look at his wife while she slept. For Madame Kang slept, not opening her eyes even when she drank hot broth. Into this broth Madame Wu put the herbs which thicken the blood so that it will not flow, and she put in the dust of certain molds which prevent poisoning. These things she knew from her ancient books, and they were not common knowledge.
Meng and Linyi had come back to their mother, but even them she would not allow to enter this room. She let in only so much air through the window as she needed for her own breathing and for her friend’s, for the wind was cool and she did not want a brazier brought, lest charcoal fumes foul the air.
Under her silken quilts Madame Kang slept, washed and clean and fed every hour or two with the medicines and the broth, and hour by hour she returned again to life.
On the morning of the second day, when Madame Wu was certain of the pulse in her friend’s wrists, she left the room at last. Outside the door Mr. Kang still sat waiting alone. He had not washed himself, nor had he eaten or slept, and all pretense and courtesy and falsity had left him. He was tired and frightened and worn down to his true being. Madame Wu saw this and took pity on him and sat down in another chair.
“I owe her life to you,” Mr. Kang said, hanging his head.
“Her life must not be put into this danger again,” Madame Wu said gently.
“I promise—” Mr. Kang began, but Madame Wu put up her hand.
“Can you keep that promise when she is well again?” she asked. “And if you can, how will you keep it? Have I brought her back to life only to be sad and sorrowful because you run hither and thither to flower houses? Will it be any comfort to her that you spare her children only to sow wild seed elsewhere? It is unfortunate that she loves you so much, unless you also love her.”
“I do love her,” Mr. Kang protested.
“But how much?” Madame Wu pressed him. “Enough to make her life good?”
He stared at her, and she gazed back at him, her eyes very great and dark. “Better that she die if she is to be always sorrowful,” she said calmly.
“I will not make her sorrowful,” he said.
His look faltered, he pulled his lip with his two fingers. “I didn’t know—” he began. “I never thought — she never told me—”
“What?” Madame Wu asked. She knew, but for the good of his soul she forced him to say on.
“I never knew about life,” he mumbled. “How hard it comes — it costs too much.”
“Too much,” she agreed. “But she has loved you more than it cost.”
“Has she suffered like this each time?” he asked.
“Like what?” she pressed him again.
“Near to death—”
“Birth for any woman is always near to death,” she replied. “Now for her it has become either birth or death. You must take your choice. You can no longer have both.”
He put his hand over his eyes. “I choose her life,” he muttered, “always — always—”
She rose silently while he hid his eyes and went out of the room. She would never perhaps see him again. In their life men and women remained apart from each other, and she might never come into his presence. It was not necessary. This coarse simple man was now terrified by love, his own love for his wife.
So Madame Wu went home, very tired and not a little sickened by all she had seen and done. To step again into her own court, clean and still, was to bathe her soul. Here André had been with her, here he had walked and talked. Could the communion she felt with him now have anything in common with the crude heart of Mr. Kang and his love for his wife?
She went into the library and warmth wrapped her about. Ying had lit the brazier, and the heat from it shimmered above the coals. At the far window sunlight poured through the lattices.
Had she not known the warmth of love in her own heart, she could not by any means have saved Meichen’s life. The horror of the flesh would have overwhelmed her, the smell of blood, the stench of death, the ugliness of Mr. Kang’s fat weeping face, the disgust of his thick body, the sordidness of his mind. But she knew that love had lifted her out of herself.
Ying came in, scolding. “You,” she cried, “Lady, Lady — look at your coat — why, there’s blood on it — and you’re so pale—”
She looked down at herself and saw blood on her satin garment. She who was so fastidious now only murmured, “I forgot myself.”
It must not be thought that Madame Wu understood fully the change that had taken place in her being. She felt, indeed, that she did not know from one moment to the next where her path lay. She had no plan. But she felt that she was walking along a path of light. While she kept her feet in that path, all would be well with her. Should she step into the shadows on either side of the path, she would be lost. And the light that lit this path was her love for André. Did she need to know what step must next be taken, she had only to think of him and then she knew.