CHAPTER XIII
Nasmith did not answer. The proposal was too unexpected to fit into any compartment of his mind. Room had first to be made for it, room provided with hesitation and an agitated heart. Nasmith did not deny that Nancy had occupied much of his thought, more than he openly allowed. He could not shake out of his memory the sight of the girl, poised tiptoe for flight, as she stood between the doors of the temple. He had been haunted by the picture, haunted by a crying sense of wrong in restoring the girl to a dangerous, tragic future. But Herrick's offer was too real. It was stern stuff to be built upon such vague foundations.
"Don't imagine I wanted to bring up this subject," said Herrick. "I don't wish to see Nancy married to you or to anyone else. I would hide her from every last one of you if I had the choice. You haven't got her, I tell you; you haven't got her yet. I may hide her despite you. Ah, if I only had the choice! This stupid heart of mine has taken the choice out of my hands."
"There is no need to be angry with me for weighing your own proposal," Nasmith said. "Your suggestion is no less a shock to me than it seems to be to yourself. But before going into my side of the matter, I think we must consider Nancy's side. Whatever my own inclinations may be—and I must confess they are not very definite—I would not consider your offer for a moment if I thought the arrangement would be distasteful to your daughter. What do you think she would say at being disposed of in this summary manner to a man who is practically a stranger?"
"It's not at all so dreadful as you imagine. Nancy's training all her life has led her to expect no other method of betrothal. Your haphazard Western fashion would seem scandalous to her. A father is more competent to choose a husband for his daughter than the girl herself; he knows the world, she doesn't. No doubt she has her fancies, but if she is betrothed to a man who is not utterly impossible it will not be hard to attach her fancies to the husband chosen for her."
"That may be so; I am not prepared to deny it, though it seems to me, in the main, a heartless business. But what about my share in the contract? I have not been educated to think your Chinese way is normal. Can I attach my fancies to a girl I have hardly known?"
"Is this merely a theoretical question or have you some practical plan in mind? I certainly feel no need to advertise the merits of my daughter. You have seen her and, if you are the man I take you for, you have understood her. Remember this: it was not by throwing dice or tossing a coin that I chose you instead of Beresford. He, I think, would have jumped at my offer—I should suspect anyone who jumped at so unusual an offer as mine."
"No, I am not putting a theoretical question; I have a most practical plan," said Nasmith.
"I know your plan; you want Nancy to live with your sister."
"Yes, and I want more than that. I want her sent to school with my nieces."
"You want me to undo the last twelve years of her training."
"Not at all. I am quite satisfied with her training, but if she is to be a Westerner it has to be given a more definite direction; it cannot continue on Chinese lines. There will not be much shock now; there would be tremendous shock a few years later."
"Yes, I was prepared for all these arguments," said Herrick, "and for a few more as well. By living with your sister, Nancy would come to know you better; you in turn would have a better acquaintance with her. Yes, I know all these arguments. And suppose, after this mutual acquaintance, you found your tastes growing farther and farther apart, what would you do to remedy the situation?"
"Break the engagement."
"No, that's not my notion of a betrothal. That simply transfers Nancy from my care, puts her at the mercy of all the accidents which may occur in your sister's home, possible jealousies or gossip or misunderstanding,—you know the things I mean,—and leaves her with the chance of a broken engagement at the end. Then what would she be fit for? Do you expect her to go out and capture a husband as your Western women do or come back to the Chinese life she has unlearned?"
"At least, it is better," protested Nasmith, "to discover uncongenial tastes before marriage than afterward."
"Not at all. After marriage you have made your bargain. You have no choice but to make your tastes congenial. Have you forgotten your old proverb about necessity? It's when people have the option of being uncongenial that they look for excuses to quarrel just to assert their freedom. If I sent Nancy to you in a red chair to-morrow, I haven't the slightest doubt that she would prove congenial. It would be your duty to see that she did."
"You don't really wish me to marry her now?" demanded Nasmith, somewhat disconcerted, "a girl of seventeen."
"A girl of sixteen," Herrick corrected. "No, indeed I don't wish you to marry her now. I don't wish to surrender her a day before she is twenty, that is, if my heart holds out. If I die, she goes to you at once and Edward with her—he will be suitably provided for. But while I live or until she is twenty Nancy remains with me."
"And you expect me to consent to betrothal on these terms?"
"I do."
"Don't you think it is rather one-sided?"
"It is one-sided," Herrick admitted, "but it appears more one-sided now than it will later. I am asking you to put inordinate trust in the judgment of an old man who has done some thinking about the both of you. I have put twelve years into what you might term an experiment. Nancy is the result, and if you think the result lovable—as I do—you will give some credit to the methods which achieved it. I want just four more years, four more years; the Nancy you see now will not bear comparison with the Nancy I am offering you as a bride. Ah, if my heart had not given out I shouldn't need to be begging you; you would be begging me. Nancy needs no excuses, sir, no apologies, but I—I need four years of security, four years of peace of mind, to complete my work and to keep the love of my children. It is only in your own interests that I am asking you to make a one-sided bargain."
Nasmith was moved by Herrick's earnestness, but he was not convinced. Nasmith paused.
"Then you refuse my terms," he said, at last, after allowing the effect of Herrick's passionate appeal to grow cold, "you will not let Nancy visit my sister, nor go to school with my nieces, not even if I bind myself to marry your daughter."
"I cannot accept such terms even if you bind yourself. I have considered them, Mr. Nasmith, considered them thoroughly, long before I sent for you. They are too great a price for any betrothal. I would rather take chances with my heart."
"Is it fair to take such chances, fair to leave a young girl without protection?" Nasmith was angry in his deliberate way. "What other alternative have you, if I refuse?"
Herrick smiled. He had his trump card to play.
"I have the alternative I have entertained from the beginning—until I met you, in fact, and thought I had found a man large-minded enough, generous enough to make it unnecessary. I have the alternative of marrying Nancy to a Chinese."
"You are trying to threaten me now," said Nasmith. "You chose the wrong man. I will not be threatened into betrothing myself to your daughter."
"Don't decide too hastily," said Herrick; "we'll have tiffin first."
"Thank you, but I have decided. There is no use wasting more time. You have my terms; I have yours. The situation is simple. Which one of us intends to change?"
"I don't," vowed Herrick.
"Neither do I."
With these words Nasmith picked up his helmet, bowed to his astonished host, and departed.
"I've made the attempt," said Herrick to himself, much piqued by the failure of tactics he had reckoned sure of success. "I have offered him the choice decently and fairly. If he thinks I am going to seek him out and get down on my knees, begging him to take a girl who is twice too good for him, he can wait till the Yellow River runs dry."
Some such hope had occurred to Nasmith. The knowledge that Nancy had been offered to him acted like sun and rain upon his memory of her, so that only now did he begin to realize how strong was the hold she had gained. Whatever the feeling might be, it disturbed him. In a fever of uneasiness most unusual to his orderly nature he awaited Herrick's next overture, waited till his impatience could be brooked no further. There was that last ever-disquieting threat. Would the father be fool enough or selfish or wrong-headed enough to carry it into effect? Nasmith even regretted his own judgment, his own conduct, right though he knew these had been. At last, unable to contain his distress, he walked the long road to Herrick's temple and found it vacant, with only a bleary-eyed caretaker to tell him Herrick had taken his family, son and daughter, concubine and nurse, back to Peking.