He folded his hands, this time without pretense of foreign custom, nodded twice to William, and went out of the room, his step silent and swift.
William was left with the beautiful woman. She put one soft pale hand upon his sleeve. “Dear Mr. Lane, your coming is an answer to prayer. I believe that. I believe so much in prayer, don’t you? Every morning my husband and I pray together.”
Tears came to her eyes and she took a little lace handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped them away. “You know China.” Her voice was a whisper now, broken with her tears. “I can speak to you. You see my husband. He is so strong, so good, he is really good. He wants to save our people not only from the present enemy but from those who are far worse. You understand me, Mr. Lane. I am sure you do. But my husband must be helped. He has not had the advantage of education. He has many impulses. I try to control them through praying with him, Mr. Lane. What I cannot do, God will do.”
William listened with rising sympathy.
“You have a very responsible work to do,” he said. “Perhaps you are in the key position of the whole world.”
His voice was grave and he meant it to be so, and she looked at him sorrowfully. Her big black eyes were shining and the tears were gone. Her hands were outstretched to him again.
“You must help me, promise me you will help me!”
He took her hands in his own. “I promise.”
A week later, after incessant flying, from the dried sands of the northwest to the green provinces of the south, hours broken only by descents into cities where he sat out long feasts given in his honor, he went southward and then across the mountains and seas homeward. Wherever he went the beautiful woman had gone with him, and with them was always a third, a general usually, whom they picked up from the region and who could give them the latest news of the war. She translated for William as she had for the Tiger, giving him a continuing drama of a brave poverty-stricken people, patriots who wanted only guns in their hands, a few tanks and planes, to become invincible.
“Like your own Washington,” she urged. “Like Jefferson, like Lincoln!”
He might have distrusted her eagerness, but she was always ahead of his mood. She knew when to let tears fill her eyes, but she knew also when to make her eyes hard and her voice firm. She knew when to show anger at a subordinate, when to be a queen and when to be a woman. Watching her he felt a new regret that the Phoenix Throne, too, had been destroyed. She would have made an empress fit to sit beside the Tiger on the Dragon Throne. People feared her, that he perceived, and he admired her for it. There must always be some whom the people fear.
At the end of the week he left convinced that because of her it was safe to uphold the Old Tiger. Without her there might be treachery; with her there was no danger. When they parted at the final airport she used her tears again.
“Dear America,” she breathed. “Give her my love. Give everybody my love! Tell them I spend my life to teach my people the lessons that I was taught over there!”
He reached Washington exactly on schedule and made his report, and took the next plane home. It was snowing softly when he got out of the plane. The chauffeur was there to meet him. When he stepped into the car he found Emory, looking very pretty in a silver-gray frock and hat.
“This is good of you, Emory,” he exclaimed.
“Not good of me. I’ve missed you terribly.”
He crushed her shoulders in his arm and kissed her. She smelled of a delicate perfume, clean and warm, and he was grateful for all that was his, his wife, his home, his business, his country.
“I’m glad to be back. China is hell now.”
“Is it, William? Then do you feel your trip was wasted?”
“No, far from it. I made them feel that America is behind them. I made them promises that I must see fulfilled. My work is cut out for me, Emory, I can tell you. I’ve got to shape public opinion to support those two people who are all that stand between us and defeat in Asia.”
“Don’t tell me now, William. You look fearfully tired.”
“I hope we haven’t any guests tonight.”
“No, of course not. Just you and me.”
He sighed and relaxed as much as he could. Everything had a new meaning for him. He felt as he never had before the value of being an American. The big car gliding over the great highways, the smokestacks of the factories, the lifted outlines of the city beyond, this could only be America. If China was hell, this was heaven, and it was his own. Nothing must be allowed to destroy it or bring it down to dust, now or ever. Holding Emory’s hand in his, he dedicated himself afresh and with all his heart to his own country.
Upon reflection, even after a night’s sleep, William felt that his mission to China had been a successful one. He had performed it in the quiet private way he liked to do large things, simply flying across the world alone in a plane for which he had paid a fabulous sum. The money was spent as he liked to spend money, by himself alone, for an end chosen by him but which would affect the world. The world knew nothing of it and would never acknowledge its debt to him, perhaps, while he lived. But some day, when historians were able to penetrate the shades of the past, they would see that through him, perhaps above all men, the war which might have been lost was won. Let others pour their energies upon the small tormented countries of Europe. He would save China, and by saving that vast territory the enemy would be foiled. He commanded Emory to invite no guests, accept no invitations. For two weeks he must stay at the office, coming home only to sleep. During that time he would give directives to his entire staff. Those who could not obey with efficiency he would discharge at once. His whole organization must concentrate now upon his directives. Techniques must be worked out for the papers, compelling simplicity, subtle argument, plausible presentation, every visual aid, every mental persuasion.
At the end of the first day he fired four persons, among them Miss Smith and Lem Barnard. Miss Smith was nobody. He ordered the office manager to have another ready for his dictation tomorrow morning. But Lem was difficult to replace. The Chinese would not tell a foreigner things unless he had charm, although charm was something William did not care for in his own office. It was then that he thought of Jeremy. Jeremy might do very well with the beautiful woman, even with the Old Tiger, if he were accompanied by someone to buy his tickets and take care of his baggage and see that he got his stuff on time. Besides, it would move Jeremy out of the office. When he did not show up it was a bad example. Acting instantly, with that abrupt complete co-ordination which was the source of his extraordinary energy, he pressed a buzzer.
It was near the end of the day and there was a slight delay, which made the blood swell into his high forehead. The delay, it seemed, when he demanded to know the reason, was because Miss Smith had not waited for his going home as she should have done. She had gone for her check at once and had actually left half an hour ago. He was tempted to fire the office manager but was too impatient to stop for it. In a few minutes he heard Ruth’s sweet, somewhat childish voice. It sounded unusually faint.
“Ruth—that you?”
“Oh, William.” Her voice was stronger. “How wonderful to hear you!”
“Jeremy there?”
“No—he isn’t—yet, William.”
“Where is he? He wasn’t in the office.”
“William, he isn’t—he’s not quite well. I think he’ll be back in a day or so.” She had begged Emory not to tell but maybe she had been wrong. Maybe William had to know.
“I have a job for him if he can get here by tomorrow. How do you think he’d like to go to China for me, as my personal representative?”
To his astonishment William heard his sister sob. He was fond of Ruth without having any respect for her, because she depended on him. Something was wrong with her marriage, of course, but he had never cared to go into it. Personal things took too much time and every hour counted in these terrible days. Now he had to inquire.
“What’s wrong?”
“Oh William, I’m afraid you have to know. I didn’t want to bother you. Jeremy is in a sanitarium.”
“What sort? Is he sick?”
“Oh, William, no! Well, yes, I suppose it is a sickness. He was drinking too much and after you left he—Oh dear, he just went to pieces!”
“Nobody told me.”
“I didn’t want them to. I kept hoping he’d …”
He thought quickly while her voice babbled into his unheeding ear. This would give him the excuse to end everything with Jeremy. He would treat it as an illness.
“Ruth, I wish you would stop crying. I want you to know that I feel very sorry and I want to help you. I am going to give Jeremy unlimited leave of absence. He doesn’t need to feel that he has to come back at all. But I want you to be independent. He wouldn’t take a pension from me, of course, but I am going to set up a trust for you and the girls. Then whatever happens to him you’ll be safe.”
“Oh, William, darling—” her voice, still half sobbing, was breathless. “I wouldn’t think of—”
“Be sure he stays there long enough to get in good shape and let me know when he comes home. We’ll get together. Good-by. I’m frightfully busy—”
He thought for a moment and decided to send Barney Chester to China. He was a smart young Harvard man, only a few years out of college. Barney would listen to him.
He rose, refusing to acknowledge weariness, and went down the elevator to his waiting car. It was nearly ten o’clock and snow was falling. Sitting in the darkness of his car, staring steadfastly ahead, he saw the snow fly at him in little daggers of silver against the windshield. Around him were the darkness and the cold, the people still plodding along the wet streets, their heads held down against the wind. But he sat in warmth and safety, secure in himself and his possessions. All that he was he had made himself and all that he possessed he had earned. He had come from China, obscure and unknown, a shy and gawky youth, and what he was he had achieved without help. Yet America had given him opportunity. In England his birth alone would have condemned him. Even a title could not have hidden it. He smiled against the darting silver daggers which could not reach him. Here people had forgotten where he was born and who his father was. Where could that happen but in America? …
In the morning he woke inexplicably depressed again. There was no reason for it, except, he decided, that his conscience was stirring because he had not told Monsignor Lockhart about China. He had not even called him on the telephone, afraid that he would be tempted by the priest’s quiet voice to yield time he could not spare. It was not as if he needed counsel. He had already determined what he must do. Now, however, there was no reason why he should not allow himself the luxury of some hours of spiritual communion.
This musing took place long before his usual hour for rising, but he felt wakeful and he took the receiver from the telephone at his bedside and called for Monsignor Lockhart.
The priest’s voice came as usual, “I am here, William.”
“I have wanted to see you ever since I returned, Monsignor, but you understand.”
“Always.”
“I count on that. But this morning?”
“Whenever you wish. I am already in my study.”
He had planned to go back to sleep. It was still dark. Yet it might be interesting and even stimulating to get up and make his own way by foot to that huge gold-lit room. Their minds would be clear and quick.
In twenty minutes he was walking over fresh snow on the streets. He had never been out at this hour and the city seemed strange to him. The people he was accustomed to see were still in their beds. But the streets were not entirely empty, especially the side street he took from one avenue to the next. Two or three people were there, slouching along, one a woman who passed him and then stopped when an old man whose face he could just see in the approaching dawn held out a filthy hand without speaking. William went on. He made it a habit never to see an outstretched hand. His generous check went annually to the Community Chest.
“A cup o’cawfee fer Gawd’s sake,” the old man muttered.
William went on and the dirty hand brushed his arm and fell.
“Damned capitalist!” the woman shouted at his back. “Wants us to starve!”
A policeman suddenly rounded the corner.
“Did I hear somethin’, sir?” he inquired.
William considered for a moment whether he should nod in the direction of the woman and then decided that he would ignore her.
“Nothing, except that old man asking for a drink.”
“They will do it,” the policeman said apologetically.
William gave the slightest inclination of his head and went on. Five minutes later he was inside the priest’s warm and handsome home.
“You look hopeful,” Monsignor Lockhart said.
“I do not feel hopeful at all,” William retorted.
He finished a good English breakfast, while he talked, kidneys and bacon and buttered toast with marmalade. The coffee was American and delicious. A man came in and took the silver tray away, and closed the door softly.
“Yet I feel hopefulness in you,” Monsignor repeated.
“I am hopeful to the extent of thinking that it is possible to hold China. It is my belief that we should allow England to take the lead in Europe but we must take the lead in Asia, now and after the war. Since only China is a free country, it is there we must concentrate our power.”
“Very sound,” Monsignor said. “I take it you do not mean permanent power.”
“Certainly not permanent in the sense of eternal,” William agreed. “I hope a complete American victory will have been won somewhere this side of eternity.”
Monsignor’s face was benign, although he wore this morning a lean weary beauty which showed hours of thought and perhaps prayer. William allowed himself a moment’s wonder at this man who attracted him so much.
“You are tired,” he said abruptly.
The priest looked startled and then his face closed. “If I am tired I am unworthy of my faith. It is true that the Church has great and new problems. In Europe our priests are facing oppression which we have never known, never in our agelong history. The gravest reports come to me from Austria. We have reached the age of anti-Christ. There is a demon in the people.”
“Then it is no private ill that I see in your face?” William said.
Monsignor Lockhart’s fine brows drew down. “What private ill is it possible for me to have?” he retorted. “The affliction of the Church is my affliction. I have no other.”
William gazed at him, forgetful for the moment of their friendship. Monsignor seemed suddenly remote and cold. He was reminded of the temples of his childhood, where the gods sat aloof. No, it was not a god of whom he thought. It was the palace and the Old Buddha again, looking down upon him, a foreign child.
Monsignor dropped his lids. “We understand each other. Let us proceed from day to day, watchful of each hour’s history.”
He rose for the first time without waiting for William to signify that he was ready to go, and he put out his hand in the gesture of blessing. A deeper gravity came over his stern face. “Many are called but few are chosen,” he said simply, and making the sign of the cross upon his own breast he left the room.
Throughout the day William carried with him the vague alarm of the priest’s words, holding it upon the fringes of his mind.
He buzzed sharply for the new Miss Smith and did not look up when she came in.
“Dictation,” he said.
He dictated steadily for an hour, letters, finally a long directive for Barney Chester. Then he dismissed Miss Smith and buzzed for his news editor.
“That you, Barney? Come to my office. I’m sending you to China immediately as my personal representative.”
He spent the next two hours outlining to a silent and rather terrified young man exactly what he expected him to do in China.
“In short,” he concluded at the end of the two hours, “I sha
ll expect from you the most detailed reports of what American diplomacy is doing, in order that I may be kept informed here at home. At the same time I expect you to maintain confidential relationship with the Old Tiger and with—her.”
“Yes, sir,” Barney Chester said. He was a pale dark young man, very slender and smart. William liked all his young men to look smart. Actually Barney had a somewhat soft heart which he daily denied. Certainly before the stern, gray-faced man behind the circular desk he would have been alarmed to allow the slightest hint of a heart to escape him. This was the best paying job a man of his age could have anywhere in the country, anywhere in the world, probably. Lane paid his men well and worked them hard. He wished that his wife Peggy were not expecting their second baby. He had counted on asking for his delayed vacation when the time came so that he could take care of Barney Junior. There was no one to look after him, except a servant. It did not occur to him to mention such humble difficulties to William, who was still giving orders.
“Be ready to leave day after tomorrow. I’ll see that you get priority on the plane.”
“Yes, sir,” Barney said.
12
IN THE HOUSE NOW grown shabby with the years and which Henrietta never thought of renovating, Clem sat reading the newspapers. The season was summer, the first summer after the war ended. Clem had barely survived the atomic bombs dropped upon two Japanese cities. Like many other Americans, he did not know that atomic bombs existed, until on the fifth day of August, a year ago, he had opened a newspaper, to discover with agony and actual tears that the bomb had already been dropped and hundreds of thousands of people he had never seen were killed. Although he, like other Americans, except the handful, had nothing to do with this act, he felt it was his fault. He got up blindly, the tears running down his thin cheeks, and went to find Henrietta. When he found her upstairs making the bed, he had been unable to speak for weeping. He could only hold out the newspaper, pointing at the headlines. When she saw what had happened she put her arms around him and the two of them stood weeping together, in shame and fear for what had been done.
Gods Men Page 45
