Into her own room the noise of the feasters could not penetrate. The
red candles burned with a steady gleam.
"I think I shall take this room when you are gone," said Kuei-lien;
"it is quieter than mine."
There was a light tap on the door.
"I must leave you now," announced the concubine, in the same teasing
voice; "it is time for you to weep. You must weep, you know. All
brides are supposed to weep. Your ancestors will be angry if they
see you showing no signs of sadness at leaving them. We shall all
measure your affection for us by the noise you make. Your father
will be listening with a watch in his hand. But, however much you
wail, don't spoil your dress. I shall be back soon to undress you so
that it will be fresh for the morning."
The tap on the door was repeated. Kuei-lien stepped gingerly round
the red carpet and went softly out of the room. To her surprise she
found the t'ai-t'ai waiting outside. Despite the dim light she could
see deep agitation in the woman's face; she followed without any
sound into her own room. The t'ai-t'ai looked to make sure the door
was fastened; her attention was strained as though she suspected the
walls of bending down to catch her words.
"The Great Man is dead," she said in a voice almost too low for
Kuei-lien to hear.
"What!" exclaimed the girl. "Dead? It can't be. It is not true.
How can he be dead? We have only just come from his room."
"I found him dead. He was lying with his head across his desk."
Kuei-lien considered the sentence for a moment.
"Yes, so he was," she admitted.
"I could not move him," went on the t'ai-t'ai. "His life must have
gone out like that." She clicked her tongue. "I knew he was dead
when I touched him. Ah, what a time to die, what a time to die!"
This last exclamation brought back to Kuei-lien the needs of the
moment. The possibilities of her own future were too immense to be
considered now; they were like disordered fragments strewn across the
floor of her brain, baffling her as to how to begin sorting them, and
so there was respite from her own peril diverting her thoughts to the
problem of Nancy's wedding. That at least was less disturbing than
the prospect of what might happen to her.
"Well, I suppose this must postpone the marriage," she said, trying
to see what was in the mind of her mistress; "at least it delays it
for the hundred days, doesn't it?"
"But we can't postpone the marriage," moaned the woman; "the money
hasn't been paid."
"The money hasn't been paid?" asked Kuei-lien incredulously. "But we
shall have no face at all if we go on with a wedding when the master
is dead in the house. That would be impossible. We are not coolies.
What would men say?"
"We must go on with it," persisted the t'ai-t'ai. Then she grew more
secretive. "No one knows he is dead, unless it be Nancy. He must
have died while she was there. What was she doing when you went in?"
"Just standing there, looking at her feet."
"You were outside all the time?"
"Yes."
"What did you hear? Did the girl do anything or say anything?"
"She did nothing, I am sure of that. She just stood, waiting for him
to speak. She might have stood all night; she's like that. She
didn't know he never would speak again. Finally I grew tired and
pushed the door open. And there he was, with his head on the
table"--Kuei-lien could not help shivering at the memory--"and she
was staring at the floor. I couldn't see any more use in her doing
that--ai, it was more useless than I thought! I took her hand and
brought her out again."
"Then she can't have guessed that he was dead," exclaimed the
t'ai-t'ai with a gasp of relief. "She surely would have cried out.
She can't have guessed, she certainly can't have guessed. You must
go back to her and see that she doesn't get some crazy impulse, some
crazy notion of running back to her father's room to say good-bye. I
am never sure of what she may do next. It is never safe to trust
her. If she doesn't know, then we are all right. What good would it
do to tell her now? She will learn quickly enough."
"Yes, she will--poor child," Kuei-lien said.
"It's no use telling anyone till she's safely away in her chair. I
have locked his door. What time does she go?"
"At seven; the chair will be here about six."
"Good. It's only for a night. After she's gone it won't matter if
we find out that the Great Man is dead. It will be too late to stop
the wedding. But it mustn't be known to-night. That would just make
matters difficult for all of us and wouldn't do him any good. Aren't
we carrying out his own wishes? And who knows what that girl might
do if we postponed the wedding? With her father gone, there's not a
soul in the house can control that stubborn will of hers. You go
back to her and I'll see that he isn't disturbed."
"They would have to make a lot of noise to disturb him now,"
Kuei-lien said.
She found Nancy sitting stiffly, gazing with dry eyes at the candles.
"Haven't you wept?" she asked, with a gesture of playful reproof.
"Ah, but never mind, Nancy, you will weep!"
The bride still persisted in silence.
"Come, Nancy," Kuei-lien urged, "you must talk; you must say
something. I haven't heard you say a word to-day. What are you
thinking about?"
"I am not thinking," answered Nancy.
"What a perfect nun you would make," laughed the concubine. "I wish
I could stop thinking. But it's no use, my dear, practising these
nunnery manners for the bridal bed. And even if you don't want to
think, you ought to talk. There is nothing better than talk when
your heart is in pain. Lots of talk, never mind what it's about, as
long as it keeps your mind from thinking. I have had to talk for
years, Nancy. I have had to make myself talk. You will too. You
are only just beginning to know what life is."
Kuei-lien was treating herself richly to her own medicine. In the
last few weeks her manner toward Nancy had been growing increasingly
kinder till she found herself bearing Nancy's pain with her own.
To-night, in this still room, the secret that lay between herself and
the girl she was tending overpowered her veins with a surging pity so
that she chattered desperately to hold back the recurring treacherous
need to break down and weep.
With an understanding gentleness she removed one by one Nancy's
brilliant garments while the girl submitted as obediently as a child.
Nancy's splendor slipped from her like autumn leaves blown down by a
wind, leaving her white and solitary and helpless.
"You are beautiful, Nancy," said Kuei-lien, unconsciously echoing
Elizabeth's tribute of long ago. Yet she could not resist teasing
the girl.
"Your husband will have to do this for you to-morrow night. They
will make him drunk, I expect, to give him courage. But his hands
won't be so gentle as mine. Yes, Nancy, you will miss even me."
Her sympathy, however, would not let her prod the wound she had made.
Kuei-lien's heart was sad, for Nancy's sake and her own. She began
humming a little song as she worked:--
"Leaves like scarlet rain in the air,
Leaves like scarlet dew on the ground,
Wheeling to the earth with no sound,
Leaving high branches gray and bare."
She took off Nancy's gay slippers with the whimsical thought that her
hands were the destroying wind. But her tongue could not cease
humming:--
"Yellow leaves strew down golden snow,
Yellow leaves golden on the ground,
Making hearts forlorn with their sound,
Naked branches cold when they go."
"What shall I do when I don't have you to sing to, Nancy?" she asked,
as she took off the bright bangles from the arms of the bride.
"You will have my father to sing to," Nancy answered.
"Yes, I shall have your father to sing to."
Kuei-lien almost wept. She tried hurriedly to hide her confusion in
more words of her song:--
"Swift the summer sun in his day,
Swift the autumn moon in her night,
Slow the winter frost with its blight,
Trampling golden leaves from its way."
She stood up to lift off Nancy's headdress of pearls. Then she put
them on again, and stood back to admire their sinuous lustre against
the dark hair of the girl.
"Ah, a bride can never be so beautiful to another as she is beautiful
to herself," she sighed.
And yet, she thought, these jewels were the last sight Timothy
Herrick had seen on earth. No wonder he covered his eyes so that he
might take their loveliness with him into the grave. She covered her
own eyes to keep back the tears.
"Gold youth, scarlet love, each must fade,
Moon and stars cease shining in the night,
Winter snows shall long glimmer white,
Scarlet leaves and gold low are laid."
She went softly to the girl and lifted off the pearls like a crown.
"And now," she said, "you must sleep."