"I don't need you to tell me that," Herrick retorted. Then his voice softened. "Where is she?" he asked.
"In her room, naturally," was the tart rejoinder of the concubine. "Did you think she was so happy that she would be out on the hills catching butterflies?"
"I will go and see her," said the father.
"Good, we'll all weep together."
Herrick paid no attention to this last impudence but strode across the courtyard to the room where his daughter was draining the bitterness of reaction which had overflowed her heart after the sore tests she had been forced to meet in such quick succession these last two days. Even in her bewilderment she had obeyed her father's wish and was dressed again in Chinese clothes. The discarded Western finery lay in a pathetic heap upon the floor.
"Nancy," said the father, putting his hand gently on her shoulder, "I am sorry. I did not mean to speak so angrily to you. I did not want to make you so unhappy."
Not for years had he said such words as these. Long ago he had lost the habit of making an apology. He had played the part of the all-sufficing tyrant who does not expect his acts to be questioned. But Nancy's distress, the sight of her wish to please him even by unreasonable obedience, struck deep beneath every artifice of manner, making him utter his words of contrition as genuinely as though he had not laid aside such language thirteen years back. At the sound of his voice Nancy pulled herself up and faced him with tear-stained eyes. She did not know how to answer her father's strange words.
"You are not to blame for making me angry," the father went on, carried beyond measure along the path of genuineness by the sorrow Nancy's face revealed, "it was my fault. I could not bear that glimpse of you in the Western dress you ought to have been wearing all your life. It reminded me too unspeakably of how I have cheated you. It made me realize how I have robbed your mother's daughter, Nancy, merely to follow selfish dreams of my own. All these years, my child—they have been a mistake, and I can never make them up to you."
The girl was still speechless, her grief forgotten in this immense unveiling of her father's heart.
"But I can stop one thing," he vowed, "I can make up one mistake, I can stop the folly of this marriage. You are young and I am old. You have your whole life before you. I have—nothing. It doesn't matter what becomes of me. I am going back to Peking to-morrow to tell the t'ai-t'ai that I am done with these schemes—my heart was never in them—I am not going to sacrifice my only daughter—for you are the only daughter I have been able to care about—I am not going to sacrifice my only daughter just to pile up the ruins of my own wasted life. After that—well, it doesn't matter what comes after that. I suppose I can dodder along in a frock coat and a silk hat till you find the one man who will love you better and care for you. Then one old man less in the world won't matter."