Nancy did not enjoy these petulant storms and was glad when her mistress returned to sunnier moods.
The t'ai-t'ai did not take up the subject again. The next were days of unequaled calm. The weather was mild, as sometimes it will be in the deep of winter. A drowsy peace settled on the whole household after the excitement of the autumn. Nancy moved at ease through the house, often meeting the pretty, gentle girl who was so much more Ming-te's wife than she, and every time they met it was with a friendly greeting, every time with a pleasing deference on the part of the latest newcomer to the foreigner who in name was her mistress. Nancy's stepmother, her mother-in-law, both withheld their scoldings as if they were grateful to her for keeping the old t'ai-t'ai out of mischief; it seemed hard to believe they were storing venom against her. Ming-te Nancy never saw. He was busy with his studies. The father was away. The relatives, who had been a burden to the family chest, had taken their squabbling children home.
Nancy had unbroken leisure to read to the t'ai-t'ai, to listen to her, to match poems with her keen old mind. And many still afternoons they walked in the garden, enjoying sunshine so tranquil that Nancy lost all but the faintest shadow of dread that her friend might die. Death could not intrude upon this unclouded weather. She laughed at death and was willing to go on like this till she too was old, hearing the golden echo of famous times from the lips of a masterful, good-humored old woman.
Then came the wind and the dust hiding the sun, drifting through the frail protection of paper windows, laying floors and tables and chairs thick with sifted sand from the desert. Then came cold and snow and again the fierce voice of the north wind, its icy breath which no defense could keep out, numbing the faces and hands of those who tried to stand against it. People shivered and huddled on the k'ang to get what comfort they could from its warmth. The change fell so swiftly that Nancy could not shake herself all at once out of the calm which had been lulling her fears. And when she awoke it was only to outward amazement at the violence of a tempest such as she had never seen in Peking, such as she could not see except in these bleak villages of the Chihli plains, where the gales of half Asia rushed down unthwarted, trying to tear roofs from their walls, doors from their fastenings, courage from human hearts.
For a day the t'ai-t'ai must have complained of a chill before Nancy paid particular heed. She had been attentive, of course, from the first because, as the old woman had said, the girl outguessed every wish. But after a day when the chill had not begun to mend, but was growing worse, Nancy felt a doubt slip like ice through her veins. She remembered the t'ai-t'ai's prediction. In an instant she realized that death might already have stolen his march: that it was a treacherous little chill like this, so rapidly growing worse, which might end the old woman's seventy-three indomitable years. Fever, pain, coughing. Nancy was frightened by the remorseless haste they made, the way they tore down the strength of her mistress.
Backed by the wish of the sick woman, she forced the family to send for the foreign doctor, an act they were most reluctant to do, dismayed that the t'ai-t'ai at her age should turn from the tried ways of the Chinese physician. If she died the blame would not be theirs.
The foreign doctor had come. Nancy read in his face how little hope there was. And he had brought the news of Ronald's appearance in Paoling.
Her thoughts upside down, her mind confused, her heart afraid, Nancy sat through the long desolate hours of the night groping for the power to understand these fresh blows fate had dealt her. She had a promise to think of, and she wondered how she could keep it.