Pearl Buck - Peony

David wavered, torn between some far past that he did not know and the pleasant childhood he had known. But he was no longer a child. That far past he shared with Leah. They were one in the bond of their people. He dropped her hands and upon the impulse of his blood he put his arms about her and held her to him.

She leaned against him, and bent her head against his breast and closed her eyes. Thus has God answered, she thought in gratitude.

And he, looking down on those dark curling lashes, wondered what he had done on this Sabbath day. Had he made a choice? Somehow he had, but what it meant he did not know.

Then suddenly he heard his mother’s voice. “Children!” So she called.

They sprang apart as she appeared at the gate. “Come and eat before we go to the synagogue together, for it is time. David, your garments for worship — I have laid them upon your bed.”

They followed her in silence, and somehow, to his own bewilderment, he was glad that his mother had come, and glad that the moment was broken in which he had held Leah in his arms. To his mother’s questioning, smiling look he answered a smile, and wondered why he felt himself a liar.

In the house of Kung, while David was at the synagogue, Peony was talking earnestly to Chu Ma, rousing the pride of the old nurse, skillfully playing upon jealousy and anger.

In the night she had determined upon this visit. The evening meal before the Sabbath had been a strange one, silent and full of feeling in which she had no share. Even Ezra had been quiet, eating his food as if he did not care what it was. David and Leah ate little and only Madame Ezra had her appetite. Yet she too had said almost nothing, although she had looked often at David and then at Leah.

Peony, feeling herself excluded, had left the room early, and had spent the evening rewriting and polishing the new poem. She would take it with her tomorrow, as tender of some kind in the bartering she had to do in the house of Kung. Now in the service courtyard in this house she sat on a stool under a cassia tree, talking with Chu Ma.

“I ask to be forgiven,” Peony said gracefully. Thus she began. Then she smoothed the straight fringe of her hair with her delicate fingers. The breeze had disarranged it.

Chu Ma, embroidering a small satin shoe, lifted her eyes from her work. “What wrong have you done?” she asked, and smiled.

“I did not come back yesterday as I hoped,” Peony said. “But hear my excuse, good mother, and then forgive me.”

So saying, she went on to tell Chu Ma how the caravan had come, and with the caravan the evil news that in foreign countries the kinsfolk of her master and mistress were being killed, and how mourning had filled the house and she feared it would be bad luck to the house of Kung for her to come here out of such mourning.

Peony looked sad and she dropped her pearly eyelids and went on, knowing that Chu Ma’s sharp eyes were on her.

“And I fear I spoke too soon yesterday,” she said very softly. “I fear I did not read my young lord’s heart rightly.”

She sighed and Chu Ma said stiffly, “Young woman, I cannot remember what you said.”

Peony knew she remembered and she went on again, “I said my young lord thinks only of your young mistress. I gave her his poem — you remember? But now they have brought the Rabbi’s daughter into our house, and I fear they have used God’s witchery and they have made our young master forget even his love.”

Chu Ma sniffed and got to her feet. She was very fat, and when she struggled upright scissors and thimble and silks tumbled from her. Peony made haste to pick them up.

“Let them lie,” Chu Ma said peevishly. “You had better come with me and undo the damage you have done.”

She went ahead and with her chin she motioned Peony to follow, and so Peony did, feeling that she was entering into a maze whose end she did not know.

The house of Kung was a large one, larger than the house of Ezra, and it was filled with generations of men, women, and children, all of whom drew their life from the same source. The women watched Peony from the corners of their eyes and the children stared, but she passed by them with her head bent modestly. So she came to the court where the young ladies lived who were the daughters of Kung Chen, the head of this great family. There were four daughters, but two of them were already married and away, and Kueilan came third, and after her had been born a child who was not the daughter of the same mother as she but of a young concubine whom Kung Chen took, and then was sorry he did because she fell in love with his head servant. After much pain, he had sent them both away, but his daughter he had kept.

Kueilan was playing cat’s cradle with this little sister when Chu Ma came in with Peony following her. Now Peony had never seen this third young lady, and had only David’s talk to make her know what she was. But she had no more to do than to look at the young lady, which she now did, without knowing that everything David had said was too little and that here indeed was the most beautiful female creature that anyone could imagine. Kueilan was childish in her looks, being only a little taller than the younger sister, whom Chu Ma now sent away.

“Nurse, why do you send Lili away?” Kueilan asked, and Peony heard what a sweet voice she had besides all her other beauties.

Chu Ma had no fear or reverence before her little mistress, and so she asked in a loud voice, not answering the question, “What have you done with the letter I gave you yesterday?”

“Here it is,” Kueilan answered, and she took David’s poem from her wide silk sleeve.

Chu Ma looked at Peony with reproachful eyes. “You see what hurt has been done!” she declared. “The child keeps his letter with her day and night.” She turned to her mistress again. “Give it to me, child,” she commanded. “It is worth nothing. I will throw it away.”

Now Peony’s quick brain had been working, and she saw very well that in this pretty girl she might have a friend and an ally to win David’s heart. There was nothing here that was strong and fearless. No, Kueilan was a kitten of a creature, her little face itself was a kitten’s face, the eyes wide and wondering and tinged with ready mischief, the mouth always ready to laugh. Just now she was looking half fearfully at Chu Ma. She clutched the paper and shook her head.

“I will keep it,” she said willfully. “I will not let you throw it away. I won’t — I won’t!”

Chu Ma looked up to heaven and Peony saw she was preparing to be angry, so she spoke at once. “Young Lady, do not trouble yourself. I have only come for your answer.” And to Chu Ma she said in a low voice, “I see how it is here. Do not be angry, Good Mother. Somehow I will mend the evil I have done.”

So Chu Ma kept silent, only continuing to pout, and Peony went nearer and spoke coaxingly to Kueilan. “Have you written an answer, Little Mistress?” she asked. Kueilan looked down and shook her head.

“Shall I help you?” Peony asked next.

Kueilan looked surprised. “Girl, can you write?” she asked.

“I can,” Peony said smiling. “If you tell me what you wish to say, I will write it down for you.”

“I can write — but I don’t know what to say,” Kueilan faltered.

“Our young lady has never written to a man,” Chu Ma proclaimed virtuously.

Peony was very gentle indeed. “You need not fear my young master,” she said. “Why, he is the kindest and best young man. He never hurts anyone. I have been his slave all my life, and he has never beaten me or let others beat me.”

Kueilan looked at her with surprise. “Even when he is angry?”

“He is never angry,” Peony said smiling.

“Oh!” Kueilan sighed.