“We shall go to the Cabots,” she said aloud; the Cabots were the missionary couple who lived in Mei Fu, thirty miles away. “We’ll wait until night, and travel by darkness.”
Her mother meekly accepted her authority, and at Lydia’s direction began to pack their bags. It did not apparently occur to her to ponder the one question that most worried her daughter: what if the Cabots had already left that city?
They were packed and ready to go by the time darkness fell, but Sarah would not leave without burying her husband.
“We can’t just leave him here like that,” she insisted. “Suppose they came in a mob, there’s no telling what they might do to him.”
“Yes, of course, you’re right,” Lydia said, though her common sense urged her to flee without any delay. “It will have to be in the garden, then. We’d better find something for digging.”
The moon had not yet risen and the air was hot and heavy with dampness, threatening a storm. They found a pair of hoes, but no shovel.
“Under the plum tree, I think,” Lydia said, indicating the straggly tree at the far corner of the enclosure. “It stays damp there. The ground will be softer.”
The ground was indeed soft under the tree. Even so, it was hard work. Within minutes Lydia’s clothes were clinging wetly to her. She had vowed that she would not think of the purpose of their labors, but it was impossible to judge the size of the pit they were scratching from the earth without considering what was to go into it.
The stillness of the night was broken by a distant sound of shouting. The two women stopped their work, cocking their heads, as a single cry of terror, like the soprano in a mass, soared high and clear above the others, ending abruptly.
“Bandits,” Lydia said, straining at the silence that had rushed back over them; or was that a footstep beyond the garden wall? Had someone whispered, or was it only the restless birds in the branches above them?
“Someone being slaughtered,” Sarah said.
Lydia shuddered, trying to think of something to say, as her father would have done, to break the tension, and all too aware of her own inadequacy.
Sarah’s hoe slipped from her fingers and dropped with a soft thunk to the ground. “I can’t do any more,” she gasped, swaying slightly.
Lydia steadied her with an arm about her shoulders. “It will do,” she said.
It would have to do, or they would be too exhausted to travel, and go they must, for she was convinced that the longer they stayed here, the greater their danger, two women, alone and unprotected, in an alien and increasingly unfriendly land.
First, however, they must finish the grim task at hand. They went into the house. Almost at once, Sarah sank weakly onto one of the hard wooden chairs.
“I can’t get my breath,” she said.
Lydia came to her and wiped her brow; her mother’s face was burning to the touch. The cholera? But if her mother died....Lydia felt a fresh spasm of fear.
“You rest here,” she said.
She went into the bedroom alone. The shutters were open and she closed them before lighting the oil lamp. In its flickering light her father’s lifeless face had a waxen, unearthly look. Lydia knelt by the bed, meaning to pray, but her heart was gripped with fear and the words would not come. Finally, despairing, she got up again.
She put her hands under his arms, averting her face, and tugged at him. Though he had been lean, he had stood more than six feet tall, and now he would not budge.
“I’ll help,” Sarah said unexpectedly, coming into the room.
“You should be resting.”
“You’ll never move him alone,” Sarah said matter-of-factly. She took hold of her dead husband’s feet and motioned for Lydia to lift his shoulders at the same time.
It was done at last, the earth scraped back into place, the restless birds clucking a benediction. The moon had risen, then vanished behind a bank of clouds, and thunder rumbled in the distance as they started back to the house, breathless from their exertions. They had just reached the door when Sarah again swayed dizzily. This time she would have fallen had Lydia not moved quickly to her side.
“I’ll be all right,” Sarah insisted, though her limbs would not support her.
“Here,” Lydia said, leading her to the cot in the other bedroom.
“We must go,” Sarah protested feebly, too weak to resist being put on the bed.
“In a few minutes,” Lydia said. “You rest while I get everything ready.”
Almost at once Sarah’s eyes fluttered closed. Lydia stared anxiously down at her. Surely her fever was worse, and she was so weak already, how would she ever manage to travel thirty miles over the hills and rice fields?
Their bags were sitting on the hard-packed dirt floor in her parents’ bedroom. They were too much, Lydia decided. She would pack just the essentials into one small valise that she could carry herself. Later, if the uproar should die down—and that was possible; her father had told her that there had been outbreaks of anti-white sentiment before, but they had lasted only briefly—then they could come back for their other belongings.
Beyond that, her plans were necessarily vague. Her mother had a brother, Richard Whitley, in San Francisco. Once they traveled safely to Shanghai, surely they could book passage on a ship there. Brother and sister were not close, but he could hardly refuse to help them, could he?
She began emptying the freshly packed bags onto the floor, tossing things hither and thither. Her nerves were stretched taut and she gave a start at a sound from outside; this time she was certain she heard footsteps in the street. She held her breath, listening. The smoke from the lamp had begun to sting her eyes so that she saw through a veil of tears. She was holding the locket Papa had given her, and it slipped from her trembling fingers, falling open. Her father’s likeness gazed up at her, his eyes seeming to reproach her.
A sob caught in Lydia’s throat and she buried her face in her hands. It was hopeless. What could she do, a mere girl?
Another sound from outside brought her sharply back to reality. Yes, there was someone there. She jumped up and ran into the front room of the house, staring wide-eyed at the door. She heard voices and more footsteps, then suddenly an imperious rapping.
She held her breath. Who could it be? The Chinese hordes, come to kill them? Or someone to rescue them perhaps, the Cabots, or even the authorities?
The rapping came again, louder, more insistent than before. Lydia could neither speak nor move. Her heart pounding, she watched the door being tested gingerly at first, then shoved abruptly inward. Ke Loo came into the room, stopping when he saw her.
Lydia stared as if mesmerized. Ke Loo’s glance went around the room, and came back to her.
“I wish to speak to the father,” he informed her arrogantly. His expression as he regarded her was a contradiction. It was plain that he disapproved of being met by a mere female, for in a proper Chinese home they would remain out of sight when a visitor was present. At the same time, there was an unmistakable glint of pleasure in his eyes as he scrutinized her more boldly than politely.
“He—he’s busy,” she replied. “He’s writing a sermon.”
Ke Loo’s eyes flicked from one end of the room to the other. There was not a sound in the house.
“The mother, then,” he said, taking a step further into the room. “I will speak to her.”
“She’s busy also.” Lydia’s heart was pounding and she could barely trust