“If I yielded to you,” Peony said in her gentle swift way, “your own conscience would grow more dear as you loved me less. No, David, I dare not. Let me go. Yes, I will go of my own free will — but not to the palace!”
She ran out of the room and David could not pursue her. What she had said was true. That which his mother had pressed into his unwilling soul had taken root there. He had defied it and crucified it, but it was not dead. It lived in him still, the spirit of the faith of his own people. It had risen from the dead and claimed him. He could not free himself. He fell on his knees, his arms folded upon the table, and leaned his head upon his arms. “O Jehovah, the One True God, hear me — and forgive me!”
Across the city Peony sped on foot, her head down, her hands empty. The gate of the nunnery was open and she entered it. The courts were still, but she cried out, “Oh, Mother Abbess, I am here!”
A gentle old woman dressed in gray robes came out and her hands were outspread to receive. “Come in, poor soul,” she said.
“I am in danger,” Peony gasped.
“Here the gods protect us from all men,” the Mother Abbess replied.
“Ah, lock the gate!” Peony begged. Now that she was here she was terrified at what she had done to herself. She seized the old woman’s hand. “If I ask to go out — do not allow me!” she implored.
“I will not,” the Mother Abbess promised, and she drew the iron bar across the gate.
How could David believe that Peony would not come back to his house? He waited for several hours, his mind thick with confusion. Then, too restless for longer waiting, he sent for Wang Ma and bade her go to the nunnery and see if Peony were there. So dark was his look that Wang Ma did not dare ask a question, and she went off in silent consternation.
In his secret heart David was afraid lest Peony had thrown herself into the river, and his spirits lifted when Wang Ma came back in an hour to say that Peony was indeed in the nunnery. He heard this news in silence, and then, knowing that it would soon spread in the house, he saw that he must tell Kueilan immediately what had happened. That is, he would tell her that Peony had feared lest the chief eunuch reach out his arm and seize her in spite of all that could be done. He would not tell Kueilan of the confusion that had been in his own heart or of the strange stillness that he now felt when a gate had been locked between him and Peony. Yet had not she left him? He was somehow wounded that she could leave him, running out of his house like a beaten slave, although he had loved her from their childhood so well that he did not know when childish love had changed into something more. He feared to face this love, whatever it had become, and fearing it now, he turned away from it and reproached Peony in his heart. She had no right to leave me so suddenly, he told himself, and feeling ill used, he let himself be angry with her, and upon this anger he went to find his wife.
As it chanced, Kueilan was this day in her sweetest mood. She enjoyed being the mistress of the house and knowing that her husband was master, and that there were no elders above them. All that was foreign here was now gone, and she smiled easily and was patient with servants and children. When David came to the moon gate of her court, he saw a picture that might content the heart of any man. This pretty woman who was his wife sat surrounded by her children playing about her. His sons had taken a holiday since Peony had not come to teach them, and the eldest was playing shuttlecock and the second was playing with a cricket on a string and Kueilan held the third in her lap. Chrysanthemums were blooming in the terraces against the walls and the afternoon sun shone down upon flowers and children. Now David saw again what sometimes he forgot — how great was Kueilan’s beauty. Her creamy skin was as smooth in the clear light as the baby’s, her lips were red, her hair, under Peony’s long care, was shining black and oiled. This very morning Peony had put jade pins into the knot of rich hair to match jade earrings and a coat of apple green.
Why should I not be happy? David inquired of his own heart.
He paused at the gate and now they all saw him. Kueilan rose and the boys ran to their father. The maids were busy elsewhere and Kueilan followed him. The sun had been as kind to David as to her, and for the same moment he had seen again how beautiful she was, Kueilan had seen her husband as he stood at the gate, tall and at the best of his manhood. He had never allowed his beard to grow too long, as some foreigners did, and his smooth face, large dark eyes, firm lips, and above all his strong frame stirred her heart. She loved her husband, but in the round of days she had forgotten how well. She sat down near him, and their eyes kindled to each other. David took his youngest son from her arms. “Let me see how big he is,” he said.
Kueilan made haste to put under the child a padded cloth. “Not so big, naughty fellow, that he cannot wet you!” she exclaimed.
David laughed, and the two elder boys, hearing this, came and leaned their elbows on his knees. Above the three fine children, the eyes of the parents met again and smiled.
“How is it you are home at this hour?” Kueilan inquired.
“A very strange thing has happened,” David said. “You remember the chief eunuch, who wanted Peony?” How easily he said this to his wife! He was amazed at his own calm.
“Do not tell me he still wants her!” Kueilan exclaimed with lively interest.
David nodded. “Since Peony will not go, there is only one way to escape without bringing danger to our house.”
Kueilan was watching his face very closely. He felt — ah, but he knew — that he could never tell her the depths of his heart. Did he himself know those depths? What man knows what is dearest to him when all he has is weighed and measured, one love against another?
“She has gone to the nunnery,” he said quietly.
“To stay?” Kueilan asked, her eyes very wide.
“How else can she be safe?” he replied.
Now the children began to ask questions. “Will Peony never live here any more?” the eldest asked.
“If she is a nun she must live in the temple,” Kueilan said.
The younger son began to cry. “I want to see Peony again,” he sobbed.
“Be quiet!” his mother said. “She can come to see us — as soon as she is a real nun.”
David sat silent, toying with his little son’s hand. Upon his open palm he spread the baby hand, and the child’s palm was warm upon his own.
Kueilan was gathering her wits together. She, too, was weighing and measuring good against evil. She would miss Peony sorely — but Peony could come here as often as she liked after her novitiate was over. True, she must always return to the temple at night, but then it might be pleasant not to have Peony here always. She did not need her as she had before the old people died. It did not matter now whether everything was done according to the rules and traditions. Yes, perhaps it would be better not to have Peony here. Sometimes it was almost as if Peony had been the mistress. A secret jealousy that had slept in her because Peony was useful to her now sprang alive. Peony was much too beautiful. Peony could read books and David liked to talk with her.
“It is a good thing for Peony to be a nun,” Kueilan suddenly declared. “She would not marry, and what can a woman do then except be a nun? Many times I told Peony that we should choose a husband for her, but no, she would not hear me. A woman gets no younger. She would have had to be a nun one of these days — that is, if she would not enter the Imperial Palace. If she had gone there, then of course—”
“She could not,” David said abruptly, not looking up.
Kueilan felt her jealousy. “She could have gone if she had loved us as much as she always pretended,” she cried. “What could have been better for the family than to have her in the Imperial Court? She might have spoken for you there, and when our sons grew older, she could have had them to visit, and I could have visited her, too, and all sorts of favors could have come from it.”