“IT is growing dark,” Wu said, as he put the sword down beside the gong.
Three other servants followed Ah Sing through the sliding door that he had opened from the other side. Two were tea-bearers and the other a servant of the lamps.
The tray of tea was laid on the table. The lamp-man moved about the room, and a dozen dim lights broke out, like disks of radiant alabaster, so dim, so beautiful, and so unexpectedly placed that their shrouded brilliance made the wonderful room seem even eerier than before.
The woman watched it all, inert and motionless. She felt, without thinking about it—she was almost worn past thinking now—how more than useless it would be to appeal to these wooden-faced Chinese, the creatures and automatons of Wu Li Chang. And an instinct of dignity that was very English held her from making to foreign servants a prayer that would, she knew, be denied. She would make no exhibition of a plight they would not pity or of an emotion that would not move them—unless it moved them to mirth.
But when, their service done, the servants went out, soft-footed as they had come, and after the door closed, bolts clanged, she realized that she and Wu were again alone—the room locked—and she sprang up and dashed to the door.
Wu watched her, smiling. “Come,” he said—almost as he might have spoken to a restless child—“tea is served.”
And she turned, in obedience to his voice, and looked at him. “I couldn’t, Mr. Wu,” she said with plaintive petulance, “I couldn’t possibly.” The distress in her voice was more than the annoyance.
Wu ignored her words good-naturedly, and began pouring out the tea. “I have sugar and cream, you see, quite in the Western way.”
“No—no, I couldn’t,” she reiterated impatiently, but coming back to the table and watching the cups as he filled them. “Please tell me of my son and let me go.”
For answer, the mandarin held out to her a cup of tea. “Pray take this cup of tea, Mrs. Gregory,” he said with grave politeness. “Oh! I understand,” he added with a slight, chill smile, when she paid no attention to the cup he proffered her. He put it down. “You would prefer to see me drink first.” With an inclination of his head to her, he lifted his own cup and drained it at a draught. “So! perhaps that will reassure you.” He put his cup down and refilled it. “Pray take the tea,” he urged hospitably: “it will not only be refreshing—and your lips look dry and parched—but it will also be a politeness to do so.”
She stood looking at him dully, and then sank slowly down on to a stool.
“Sugar—and—cream,” the mandarin said brightly. There was more of Mayfair and of Oxford in tone and in manner than there was of Cathay. And the anachronism was gruesome rather than droll, as he stood in his mandarin’s robes fanning himself with his left hand (the sons of Han are more nearly ambidextrous than they of any other race) and with his right hand plying thesilver sugar-tongs with slow dexterity. “So!” he held out the perfected cup. “It is the choicest growth of the Empire, Mrs. Gregory, sun-dried with the flowers of jasmine.”
She took the cup, and he took up his. Just as she was forcing herself to drink—his own cup almost to his lip—he said with the same suave manner, “Have you no curiosity, Mrs. Gregory, to learn the name”—a poisonous change came in his voice—“of my daughter’s seducer?”
The Englishwoman put down her cup quickly, with a hand so unnerved and trembling that it scarcely served to guide its small burden. She tried to drop her eyes, but she couldn’t—he held them with his relentlessly. “I don’t understand you,” she faltered. “Your—your manner is so strange.”
Wu said nothing, but he smiled into her gaze coldly, and she rose with a shudder. Wu smiled at her still, and with a sudden wild cry she darted to the sliding doors and beat on them hysterically. But she realized at once that they were locked and were strong. And she turned around, at bay but hopeless, leaning her back against the door, and faced Wu miserably, her smarting hands hanging limp at her sides.
Wu Li Chang unfolded his fan and began to churn the air towards his face with it.
No European ever has understood what his fan means to a Chinese. Probably no European ever will be able to understand that. With their fans the Chinese hide emotion, express emotion, and, when it reaches the danger point, give it vent. Often a Chinese man’s frail, tiny fan is his safety valve. China’s greatest warriors have carried their fans into battle. Criminals fan themselves on the execution ground. Frightened Chinese girls, inthe torment of first child-birth, fan themselves. Wu was fanning himself in triumph. And he spoke to her quickly, his voice ringing with triumph. “There are several ways into this room, Mrs. Gregory, but only one way out.” The fan shut with an ominous click—a rattle of ivory, a hiss and a rustle of silk. “It lies by that door”—he pointed it with his fan—“which leads tomy own inner chamber.”
The woman smothered a scream, but she could not smother a groan.
Wu laughed. He took a step towards her. “Have you no desire to hear my news of your son?” he asked softly. “Good news? I promised that you should—I am here to keep my promise.” The terrible significance of his words could not have been clearer, but he emphasized it hideously by gliding still a little nearer to the stricken, appalled woman.
“Oh! don’t torture me,” she implored, moving away.
“He is well—comparatively. His hands have received a trifling injury—quite trifling. But he is quite well”—nearing the woman again—“and he is here.”
“Here?” she sobbed, “here?”
“Almostwithinsound of your voice”—still nearer.
“O my God! where?” she cried, looking about her frantically. The third door caught her attention, and she ran to it weakly and beat against it, crying, “Basil! Basil!”
“Do not be so impetuous, dear lady,” Wu said with insolent gentleness; “I did not say he was there. And it is not good that he should hear your voice, for the sound would only distress him.”
She looked at Wu questioningly, and he gave her the cruel explanation. “You see, he is not at liberty to come until the right signal is given. It lies with youwhether that signal shall be given or not!” He was very close to her now.
Wu Li Chang intended to use no physical force with this woman. He would not grant her degradation even that poor loop-hole of excuse.
That she would yield, he had no doubt. And her own tortured soul knew that it wavered now, and it was sick.
Wu laid his hand on her arm. And she scarcely shrank back, but drew herself up, proud in her sorrow, and said slowly in his smiling face, “You—you devil!”
“Harsh words will not help him, Mrs. Gregory,” the mandarin said. “Only one thing can.” Face almost brushed face—they were so close.
She hid hers in her hands and sobbed in fear.
“I will leave you whilst you decide,” Wu said, and turned to the door that was, he had told her, her only way “out.”
In a sudden frenzy and palsied with nausea, she dashed at the other doors, sobbing, “Let me go!”—panting—“let me go, I tell you!”
Wu watched her a little before he said calmly, still smiling gravely, “This door is the only door which remains unlocked. If you should decide to enter it before I return, I should not be unresponsive to the honor you will do me. If not, I shall return soon myself—to assist you, if I may, to decide.”
“My husband knows that I have come here!” Mrs. Gregory cried defiantly. “I told him!” (Wu smiled.) “He will be here at any moment, and then——! Oh! I am not afraid of you!”
“Oh! I am glad of that!” Wu Li Chang said eagerly, “I desire only to inspire trust—and confidence—and the tenderest sympathy! But I know that your husband—that amiable, estimable Mr. Gregory—an odd, subtlecreature, but so lovable—does not know you are here. You have not the remotest hope of seeing him—or you would not have told me! You would have temporized—delayed—said nothing.”
“Hedoesknow!” she stormed. “He may be here at any moment! And if he is not admitted he will batter your gates and doors down!”
The mandarin laughed softly and shook his head at her indulgently.
“You scoundrel!” she told him, infuriated.
“Oh! I forgive your trying to deceive me, Mrs. Gregory,” Wu said calmly; “it is only natural. Oh! that window,” he added, in answer to an involuntary look toward it. “Yes, it leads out on to the courtyard where your devoted servant is waiting; but the architect has placed it so very high, and has made it so very small. Now”—he made her a little bow—“I will leave you, but not for long.” And he passed through the unlocked door and closed it behind him very gently.