Free The Bitter Tea of General Yen by Grace Zaring Stone Page A

grossly multiplied odds. She saw too, with some confusion offeeling, his blue eyes. Dear Bob. And she did not know she had gone to sleep until a bell jangled immoderately somewhere in the midst of her unconsciousness. Before she knew what she was doing she had jumped up and turned on the light. Her traveling clock said three-thirty. The bell rang again and she heard one of the boys scuffling to the door. As she dressed she heard the door open and Doctor Strike’s voice in the hall. Then she heard the voices of the Jacksons. But while she listened there were no sounds that might be Miss Reed and her orphans.
    When she got down-stairs she found Doctor Strike and the Jacksons in the living-room before the fireplace, where the sleepy coolie was laying a fresh fire. Mrs. Jackson wore one of Mr. Jackson’s overcoats, Mr. Jackson was wrapped in a blanket, Doctor Strike was hanging his wet overcoat on a chair. His face was hollower under the eyes and quite white, but he did not suggest fatigue; on the contrary he seemed to restrain, as ever, a restless, burning vitality.
    “Good evening, Miss Davis,” he said as she came in. “Or probably it is good morning.”
    “Yes, it is three-thirty. No Miss Reed?”
    “Not yet,” he answered. He sat down with them and began to rub his strong bony hands together. “Pretty cold,” he said briskly. “I wonder if I could have some coffee. I have not eaten anything since noon.”
    “I’ll get you some,” said Mrs. Jackson, “and you’d better have some sandwiches too.”
    She went out and Megan sat waiting for Doctor Strike to tell them what had happened. The room had a strange look, seen in a startled awakening from sleep, as though what was most familiar in it was only a replica in a changed substance. She let her eyes linger on the plush carpet, the pictures of dogs in lace caps and toppers, the flannel collar sticking up from Mr. Jackson’s blanket, the coolie making the fire, whose bristling head some diseasehad turned bald in patches, all of which assured her that she was awake in a world of things that remain permanent.
    “It is cold driving,” said the Doctor, still rubbing his hands together.
    “Have you an open car?” asked Mr. Jackson.
    “Yes, all I could get. It was the only kind they would send with a Chinese license, and they were reluctant enough to give me that.”
    “Then you got your permit, did you?”
    “Yes, finally.” And though he did not yet say so, Megan felt sure by the sudden flare in his eyes that he had got it from General Yen. “I spent some time at the Consulate, as you know, and a great deal more time trying to get in touch with the Nantao Yamen. I tried through every Chinese of influence I know in Shanghai. Our authorities were trying to arrange an armistice between the Cantonese and the Northern troops cornered in various sections around the North Station, and General Duncan sent one of his officers who went with a Commissioner and some Chinese to the Nantao Yamen to see what could be done about it. I asked them to speak at the same time about the orphanage. But all the negotiations fell through and on their way back from the Yamen they were nearly killed by a mob. They only escaped because General Hsu, questioning the guard he had sent with them, found they had not been escorted all the way to the Settlement. So he sent after them, and they were barely reached in time to save them from the mob. Not too reassuring, is it? Remember, these were some of our highest officials under a flag of truce. Well, well,—at any rate this got me nowhere and it was already late. Earlier in the day a Chinese I knew had mentioned that General Yen was staying in a house on the Route Ghisi, and I determined as my last resort to try to reach him. After all,” he said, “we had been friends.”
    Mrs. Jackson came back and sat down.
    “The sandwiches and coffee are coming,” she said. “So you saw General Yen again? What did he do?”
    “I went to the house