They were alone in the garden at sunset.
They had been sitting here, on the broad garden bench, hand in hand,
since tea, but saying little. King-lo had left her a few moments ago and
had gathered the rose that she was wearing at her breast, where he had
pinned it.
“The sweetpeas need thinning over there,” Lo said, pointing. Then he
drew his hand across her face. “Ruby!” His eyes smiled into hers, and
then, like a tired child, he laid his head on her shoulder.
And when she understood—it was some time—before her tears came—his
wife bent and kissed him on the lips.
* * * * *
When the bell began to toll there was scarcely a window in the village
at which a hand did not draw down a blind.
* * * * *
When Sir Charles Snow’s letter reached Ho-nan, Sên Ya Tin proclaimed a
year of mourning. Every lute was put away. Every woman laid aside her
gay rich garments, her stickpins, and her face paints. All the
Sêns—women, men and children, and all their people—were clad in hempen
sackcloth, and their rice was plainly cooked and scanted.
They gave Sên King-lo his funeral, the funeral of his rank, in the
homestead of his fathers.
Sên Ya Tin walked behind a costly empty coffin, weeping, wailing,
moaning, tearing her white disheveled hair, and she staggered as she
walked.
And all his kindred followed her, and all their priests, servants and
peasantry.
On his tomb, when the stone was sealed down above the empty coffin, they
spread a princely feast: chicken, soy, lychees, melon, curd, and yellow
wine in costly tiny cups—food for the spirit of lord Sên King-lo.
And Sên Ya Tin fasted till she fainted.
But in her heart Sên Ya Tin did not grieve. For she thought that it was
better so.
* * * * *
The berries are red upon the holly. There is snow upon the graves. It is
quiet in the churchyard.
THE END
TRANSCRIBER NOTES
Mis-spelled words and printer errors have been fixed.
Inconsistency in hyphenation has been retained.