Nancy was glad to get into her cart, even to be thriftily crowded among three women servants and a suffocating mass of baggage. She had not enjoyed the ring of staring eyes which had surveyed her nor the coarse guesses of the people as to her history, guesses loudly and impudently debated with many rustic guffaws over the joke of a foreigner reduced to Chinese clothes and the whims of a Chinese master.
All day long the carts moved slowly forward, lumbering in ruts, shaking the teeth of their passengers on miles of chipped highway, ploughing deep through sand. Nancy was acutely mindful of other mule-cart journeys, the rides to the Western Hills, when Edward and Kuei-lien had been her comrades and each new turn of the road had tempted their eyes to objects of joyful interest. She was scornful of the ignorant maids squashed into this unpleasant contact, closed her eyes to avoid seeing their puffy faces; their few monosyllables were like a parody of human speech. They wheezed and grunted and reeked of garlic till Nancy wondered why she could not withdraw all her senses, as she had withdrawn her sense of sight, and shut herself from these clownish wenches like a mussel in its shell.
Shortly before dark the carts lurched down the sunken streets of Paoling. It was like all the other villages they had passed, dusty and poor. Dikes of baked mud served for walls. Two policemen lounged at the gate as though the place were not worth their vain offer of protection. Mud and gray tile and leafless trees, streets without shops, worn into deep trenches, people clothed in rags so dirty that the very patches were blended to a greasy uniformity of color—not an item relieved the drab scene. And the home of her husband, Nancy found, was a consistent part of its surroundings. It was filthy, musty, and cold, a huge ramshackle place replete with tottering chairs and tables, its stone floors overlaid with grime, its courtyards heaped with dung. Only rats and spiders seemed fit to inhabit such a place and Nancy's heart became chill with dismay when she thought of dragging out her life in this cheerless hole.
In a panic of sheer terror she was taken to greet Ming-te's grandmother, the matriarch of the clan, the old lady whose temper she had heard discussed with lively fear during the month she had been married. She shrank from being led to something more terrible than any of the evil things she had seen. Her nerves were so unstrung by the weariness and misery, the depressing finish of the day, that she was ready to shriek. She halted stock-still in a room ill lit by native wicks.
"Kneel," chided the voice of her mother-in-law.
Nancy knelt and kowtowed three times before the august personage to whose face she had not yet presumed to raise her eyes. She waited, prostrate on the floor.
"Lift her, you fools," cried a voice that showed by its testiness it was used to being obeyed. "Can't you see she is worn with weariness?"
The other women hastened to help Nancy to her feet. The girl looked wonderingly at the little old woman who sat muffled in quilted satin on the k'ang. From a face crossed and transcrossed with wrinkles burned eyes whose haughtiness spoke an older and a finer generation than the women to whom Nancy had been subjected. Her mother-in-law's were dog's eyes compared with them. Nancy lost her fear. The eyes brought memories of her father. They seemed to pierce, with their sadness, their cynical discontent, the very mysteries of life.
"Come here, my child," said the old woman gently. "Come and sit with me and tell me how you are. I have waited a long, long time to welcome you."