1
SHE heard little more for several hours; merely a muffled stirring
about, at long intervals, as if he were walking the floor or trying to
move a chair very quietly. The cot on which she now so restlessly lay
was his. She couldn't sleep; he might as well have it, but would, of
course, refuse.... She listened for a long time to the movements of the
animals in the stable. Much later--the gong-clanging watchman had passed
on his rounds twice at fewest; it must have been midnight--she heard
him working very softly at his door. He was occupied some little time at
this. She lay breathless. At length he got it open, and seemed to
stand quietly in the corridor. Then, after a long silence, he opened
as carefully the outer door, that had on it, she knew, a spring of bent
steel, like a bow. After this he was still; standing outside, perhaps,
or sitting on the top step.
For a moment she indulged herself in the wish that she might ha\e
courage to call to him; to call him by name; to call him by the name,
“John,” she had no more than begun, that last day in the tennis court,
timidly to utter. Her whole being yearned toward him She asked herself,
lying there, why honesty should be impossible to a girl. Why shouldn't
she call to him? She needed him so; not the strange stilted man of the
day and evening, but the other, deeply tender lover that breathed still,
she was almost sure, somewhere within the crust that encased him.
And they had been honest, he and she; that had turned out to be the
wonderful fact in their swift courtship.
But this was only a vivid moment. She made no sound. The warm tears lay
on her cheeks.
After a little--it rose out of a jumble of wild thoughts, and then
slowly came clear; she must have been dozing lightly--she heard his
voice, very low; then another voice, a man's, that ran easily on in a
soft nervelessness, doubtless the voice of Mr. Po. She thought of making
a sound, even of lighting the little iron lamp; they must not be left
thinking her safely asleep; but she did nothing; and the voices faded
into dreams as a fitful sleep came to her. Nature is merciful to the
young.
2
During those evening hours, Brachey sat for the most part staring
at his wall. Finally, at the very edge of despair--for life, all that
night, and the next day and the next night, offered Brachey nothing
but a blank, black precipice over which he and Betty were apparently
plunging--he gave up hope of falling asleep in his chair (important
though he knew sleep to he, in the grisly light of what might yet have
to be faced) and went out and sat on the steps; still in the grotesquely
inappropriate dinner costume.
A shape detached itself from the shadows of the stable door and moved
silently toward him.
Brachey welcomed the opportunity for a little man talk, if only
because it might, for the time, take his mind in some degree out of the
emotional whirlpool in which it was helplessly revolving.
“You've heard no more news?” he asked.
“Oh, no,” replied Mr. Po, with his soft little laugh. “There is no more
oil on fire of province discontent.”
“From your letter I gathered that you are not so sure of Pao.”
Mr. Po did not at once reply to this; seemed to be considering it,
gazing out on the moonlit courtyard.
“It is no longer a case of cat and mouse,” Brachey pressed on.
“Something happened last night at the yamen. Am I right?”
“Oh, yes.”
Brachey waited. After a long pause Mr. Po shifted his position, laughed
a little, then spoke as follows:
“In afternoon yesterday old reprobate, Kang, sent to His Excellency
letter which passed between my hands as secretary. He said that in days
like these of great sorrow and humiliation agony of China it is best
that those of responsible care and devotion to her welfare should draw
together in friendship, and therefore he would in evening make call on
His Excellency to express friendship and speak of measures that might
lay dust of misunderstanding and what-not.”
“Hmm!” Thus Brachey. “And what did _that_ mean?”
“Oh, the devil to pay and all! It was insult of blackest nature.”
“I don't quite see that.”
“Oh, yes. He should not have written in arrogant put-in-your-place way.
His Excellency most graciously gave orders to prepare ceremonial banquet
and presents of highest value, but in his calm eye flashed light of
battle to death. You see, sir, it was thought of Kang to show all
T'ainan and near-by province who was who, taking bull by horns.”
“Hmm! I don't know as I... well, go on.”
“In particular His Excellency made prepare great bowl of sweet lotus
soup, for in past years Kang had great weakness for such soup made by
old cook of far-away Canton who attach to His Excellency a devil of a
while ago.”
“And so they had the banquet?”
“Oh, yes, and I was privileged to be in midst.”
“You were there?”
“Oh, yes. Banquet was of great dignity and courteous good fellowship.”
“I don't altogether understand the good fellowship.”
“China custom habit differs no end from Western custom habit.”
“Naturally. Yes. But what was Kang really up to?”
“I'm driving at that. After banquet all attendant retinue mandarins
withdraw out of rooms except secretaries.”
“Why didn't they go too?”
“Oh, well, it was felt by Kang that His Excellency might put it all
over him with knives of armed men. And His Excellency had not forgotten
tricky thought of Kang in eighteen-ninety-eight in Shantung when he asks
disagreement but very strong mandarins to banquet and then sends out
soldiers to remove heads in a wink while mandarins ride out to their
homes when all good nights are said.”
“You mean that Kang's men beheaded all his dinner guests, because they
disagreed with him?”
“Oh, yes.” Here Mr. Po grew reflective. “Kang is very queer old son of a
gun--very tall, very thin, very old, with face all lines that come down
so”--he drew down his smooth young face in excellent mimicry of an old
man--“and he stoops so, and squints little sharp eyes like river rat,
so. A mighty smart man, the reprobate! Regular old devil!” Mr. Po
laughed a little. “My bosom friend Chih T'ang slipped himself in to
me and explained in whisper talk that yamen of His Excellency was
surrounded by Western soldiers of that old Manchu devil. And within
yamen, up to third gate itself, swarmed a hell of a crowd of Manchu
guard of Kang. It was no joke, by thunder!”
“I should say not,” observed Brachey dryly. “You were going to tell me
what Kang was really up to.”
“Oh, yes! I will tell that post haste. When all had gone except four--”
“That is, Kang, and His Excellency, and two secretaries?”
“Yes, of whom it was my honor to be absurdly small part. Then Kang
explained with utmost etiquette courtesy to His Excellency that letter
had but yesterday come to him of most hellish import and very front
rank. And his secretary handed cool as you please letter to me and I
to Kis Excellency. It was letter of Prince Tuan to old Kang giving him
power to have beheaded at once His Excellency.”
“To behead Pao?”
“Oh, yes! And Kang said in neat speech then that no one could imagine
his heartsick distress that one in power should wish great headless
injury to dear old friend of long years and association government. To
him he said it meant hell to pay. And he asked that His Excellency pass
over from own hand infamous letter to be destroyed on spot by own hand
of himself with firm resolve. But His Excellency smiled--a dam' big
man!--and said for letter of Prince Tuan he felt only worshipful respect
and obedience spirit, and he gave letter to me, and I delivered it to
secretary of Kang, and secretary of Kang delivered it; to old Manchu
himself. Then Kang, with own hands tore letter to bits and dropped bits
in bowl, and his secretary asked me to have servant burn them, but I put
on courteous look of attention to slightest wish of His Excellency
and do not hear low word of secretary to old devil. And then Manchu
reprobate with great courtesy makes farewell ceremony and goes out to
his chair and altogether it's a hell of a note.”
Bradley, in his deliberately reflective way, put the curious story
together in his mind.
“Kang, of course, sent to Peking for that letter.” he said.
“Oh, yes.”
“It was, in a way, fair warning to Pao that the time had come for action
and that Pao had better not try to meddle.”
“Oh, yes--all of that. When he had gone Pao was sad. For he knew now
that Kang had on his side heavy hand of Imperial Court at Peking. And
then, late in night we have word from yamen of Kang and other word from
observing officers of His Excellency that Western soldiers make attack
at Hung Chan and that Reverend Doane is killed at city gate. Old Kang
express great regret consideration and shed tears of many crocodiles,
but they don't go.”
“And Pao found himself powerless to interfere.”
“Oh, yes! And so then I had audience of His Excellency and with
permission of his mouth sent letter to you. His Excellency formed
opinion right off the reel that it is not wise to send warning to
mission compound, and that if I ever send word to you my head would not
longer be of much use to me in T'ainan.”
“Need they know of it at Kang's yamen?”
“There can not be secrets 'n yamen of great mandarin from observation
eyes of other mandarin. Nothing doing!''
“Oh, I see. Spying goes on all the time, of course.”
“Oh, yes! So I say farewell with tears to His Excellency, and in these
old clothes of great disrepute, I”--he chuckled--“I make my skiddoo.”
From within the rags about his body he drew a soiled roll of paper “It
has occurred to me that at Ping Yang time might roll around heavily on
your hands and then, if you don't care what fool thing you do, you might
bring me great honor by reading this silly little thing. It is lecture
of which I spoke lightly once too often.”
Absently Brachey took it. “But why can't old Kang see,” he asked--“and
Prince Tuan, for that matter--that if they are to start in again
slaughtering white people, they will simply be piling up fresh trouble
for China? Pao, I gather, does see it.”
“Oh. yes, His Excellency sees very far, but now he must sit on fence and
wait a bit. Kang, like Prince Tuan, is of the old.”
“Didn't the outcome of the Boxer trouble teach these men anything?”
“Not these men. Old China mind is not same as Western progress mind--”
“I quite understand that, but...”
Mr. Po was slowly shaking his head. “No, old China minds dwell in
different proposition. It is hard to say.”
3
Toward morning, before his lamp burned out, Brachey read the lecture
to which Mr. Po was pinning such great hopes. It seemed rather hopeless.
There was humor, of course, in the curious arrangement of English words;
but this soon wore off.
Later, sitting in the dark, waiting for the first faint glow of dawn,
and partly as an exercise of will, he pondered the problems clustering
about the little, hopeful, always aggressive settlements of white in
Chinese Asia. Mr. Po's phrases came repeatedly to mind. That one--“Old
China mind dwell in different proposition.” Mr. Po was touching there,
consciously or not, on the heart of the many-tinted race problems which
this bafflingly complex old world must one day either settle or give up.
The inertia of a numerous, really civilized and ancient race like the
Chinese was in itself a mighty force, one of the mightiest in the
world.... Men like Prince Tuan and this Kang despised the West, of
course. And with some reason, when you came down to it. For along
Legation Street the whites dwelt in a confusion of motives. They had
exhibited a firm purpose only when Legation Street itself was attacked.
By no means all the stray casualties among the whites in China were
avenged by their governments. In the present little crisis out here in
Hansi, it might be a long time--a very long time indeed--before the
lumbering machinery of government could be stirred to act in an
unaccustomed direction. At the present time there were not enough
American troops in China to make possible a military expedition to Ping
Yang; merely a company of marines at the legation. To penetrate so far
inland and maintain communication an army corps would be needed; troops
might even have to be assembled and trained in America. It might take a
year. And first the diplomats would have to investigate; then the State
Department would have to be brought by heavy and complicated public
pressures to the point of actually functioning; a sentimental element
back home might question the facts... Meantime, he hadn't yet so much as
got Betty safely to Ping Yang.
It was “hard to say.” But he found objective thought helpful. Emotion
seemed, this night, not unlike a consuming fire. Emotion was, in its
nature, desire. It led toward destruction.
He even made himself sleep a little, in a chair; until John knocked, at
seven. Then he changed from evening dress to knickerbockers. His spirit
had now sunk so low that he had John serve them separately with
breakfast.
When the caravan was ready he went out to the courtyard and busied
himself preparing the litter for her. She came out with John, very
white, glancing at him with a timid question in her eyes. In his
stiffest manner he handed her into the litter.
Then, accompanied by three soldiers, they swung out on the highway. The
fourth soldier joined them outside the wall; him Brachey had sent to the
telegraph station with a message to his Shanghai bankers advising them
that his address would be in care of M. Pourmont, the Ho Shan Company,
Ping Yang, Hansi, and further that cablegrams from America were to be
forwarded immediately by wire.
4
Only at intervals during the forenoon did Betty and Brachey speak; for
the most part he rode ahead of the litter. The luncheon hour was
awkward; the dinner hour, when they had settled at their second inn, was
even more difficult. They sat over their tin plates and cups in gloomy
silence.
Finally Betty pushed her plate away, and rose; went over to the papered
window and stared out.
Brachey got slowly to his feet; stood by the table. He couldn't raise
his eyes; he could only study the outline of his plate and move it a
little, this way and that, and pick up crumbs from the table-cloth. His
mind was leaden; the sense of unreality that had come to him on the
preceding day was now at a grotesque climax. He literally could not
think. This, he felt, was the final severe test of his character, and it
exhibited him as a failure. He was then, after all, a lone wolf; his
instinct had been sound at the start, his nature lacked the quality, the
warmth and richness of feeling, that the man who would claim a woman's
love must offer her. He could suffer--the pain that even now, as he
stood listless there, downcast, heavily fingering a tin plate, was
torturing him to the limits of his capacity to endure, told him that--
out suffering seemed a poor gift to bring the woman he loved. ... And
here they were, unable to turn back. It was unthinkable; yet it was
true. His reason kept thundering at his ear the perhaps tragic fact that
his spirit was unable to grasp.... Braehey, during this hour--with a
bitterness so deep as to border on despair--told himself that his lack
amounted to abnormality. His case seemed quite hopeless. Yet here he
was; and here, irrevocably, was she. The harm, whatever it might prove
to be, and in spite of his sensitive, fire conquest of them emotional
problem (at such a price, this!) was done. And there were no
compensations. Here they were, lost, groping helplessly toward each
other through a dark labyrinth.
Even when she turned (he heard her, and felt her eyes) he could not look
up.
Then he heard her voice; an unsteady voice, very low; and he felt again
the simple honesty, the naively child-like quality, that had seemed her
finest gift. It was the artist strain in her, of course. She was not
ashamed of her feeling, of her tears; there had never been pretense or
self-consciousness in her. And while she now, at first, uttered merely
his name--'“John!”--his inner ear heard her saying again, as she had
said during their first talk in the tennis court--“I wonder if it is
like a net.”... Yes, she seemed to be saying that again.
But he was speaking; out of a thick throat:
“Yes?”
“What are we to do?”
He met this with a sort of mental dishonesty that he found himself
unable to avoid. “Well--if all goes well, we shall be safe at Ping Yang
within forty-eight hours.”
“I don't mean that.”
“Well...”
“I shouldn't have come.”
“I couldn't leave you there, dear. Not there at T'ainan.”
“It wasn't you who made the decision.”
“Oh, yes--”
“No, I did it. It seemed the thing to do.”
He managed to look up now, but could not knowhow coolly impenetrable he
appeared to be. “It _was_ the thing.”
She slowly shook her head. “No... no, I shouldn't have come.”
“I can't let you say that.”
“It's true. Can't we be honest?”
The question stung him. He dropped again into his chair and sat for a
brief time, thinking, thinking, in that, to her, terribly deliberate way
of his.
“You're right,” he finally came out. “We've got to be honest. It's
the only thing left to us, apparently... The mistake lay back there in
T'ainan. Our first talk in the tennis court. I knew then that the thing
for me to do was to go.”
“I didn't let you.”
“But I should have. That situation was the same as this, only then we
hadn't crossed our Rubicon. Now w e have. Don't you see? This situation
has followed that, inevitably. And now we no longer have the power to
choose. We've got to go on, at least as far as Ping Yang. But we mustn't
be together...”
She glanced at him, then away.
“--no, not even like this. We have no right to indulge our moods. I'm
going to be really honest now. We're in danger from these natives, yes.
But that's a small thing.”
She moved a hand. “Of course...” she murmured.
“The real danger is to you. And from me. Oh, my God, child, you're
in danger from me!” He covered his face with his hands; then, after a
moment, steadied himself, and rose. “I can't stay here and talk with you
like this. I can't even help you. Already I've injured your name beyond
repair.”
She broke in here with a low-voiced remark the mature character of which
he did not, in his self-absorption, catch. “I don't believe you know
modern girls very well.”
He went on: “So you see, I've hurt you, and now, when you need me
most--oh, I know that!--I'm fading you. It's been a terrible mistake.
But it's my job to get you to Ping Yang. That's all. No good talking.
I'll go now'.”
“I wish you wouldn't.”
“I must. I--there we are! I'm failing you, that's all.”
“I wonder if we're talking--or thinking--about the same things.”
“Child, you're young! You don't understand! You don't seem to see how
I've hurt you!”
“I think I see what you mean. But that--it might be difficult, of
course, for a while, but it isn't what I've been thinking of. No, please
let me say this! It wouldn't be fair not to give me my chance to be
honest too. As for that--hurting me--I came with my eyes open.”
“Oh, Betty--”
“Please! I did. I deliberately decided to come with you. I knew they'd
talk, but I didn't care--much. You see I had already made up my mind
that we were to be married. We'd have to be, once you were free. The way
we've felt. You came way out here, and then you didn't go.”
“That was weakness.”
“You can call it weakness, or something else. But I'm in the same boat.
And if we couldn't let each other go then, it was bound to grow harder
every day. I had to recognize that. That was where I crossed my Rubicon.
Nothing else mattered very much after that. I came with you because I
was all alone, and miserable, and--oh, I may as well say it...”
“Oh, yes, honesty's the only thing now.”
“Well, I simply had to. I couldn't face life any other way. I've been
thinking it over and over and over. I see it now. I was just selfish.
Love is selfishness, apparently. I fastened myself on you. I knew you
had to have solitude, but I didn't seem to care. Perhaps you've hurt me.
I don't know. But I am beginning to see that I've wrecked your life. I'm
your job, now, just as you said. All those things you said on the ship
have been coming up in my mind yesterday and to-day. Don't you suppose
I can see it? My whole life right now is a demand on you.” Her tone was
not bitter, but sad, unutterably sad. “You said, 'Strength is better.'
I'm running up with you now a 'spiritual' debt greater than I can ever
pay. You said, 'If any friend of mine--man or woman---can't win his own
battles, he or she had better go. To hell, if it comes to that.'”
She was looking full at him now, wide-eyed, standing rigid, her hands
extended a little way.
There was a long silence; then, abruptly, without a word, without even a
change of expression on his gloomy face, he left the room.
5
That night was Betty's Gethsemane. Again and again she lived through
their strange quarrel over the half-eaten dinner here in her room. Her
mind phrased and rephrased the wild strong things she had said to him.
And these phrases now stung her, hurt her, as had none of his.
But once again, after hours of tossing on the narrow folding cot--_his_
cot--sleep of a sort came to her. She did not wake until half a hundred
beams of sunshine were streaming in through the dilapidated paper
squares.
She rose and peeped out into the courtyard. They were packing one of
the saddles; John, and cook, and a soldier. Brachey was not in sight. He
would be in his room then, across the corridor. She wondered if he had
slept at all, then glanced guiltily at the cot. He would hardly lie on
the unclean _kang_; very likely he had been forced to doze in a chair
these two nights, while she found some real rest. There, again, she was
using him, taking from him; and all he had asked of life was solitude,
peace. For that he had foregone friends, a home, his country.
Then her eyes rested on a bit of white paper under the door. She quickly
drew it in, and read as follows:
“My Dear, Dear Little Girl--
“As you of course saw this evening, it is simply impossible for me to
speak rationally in matters of the affections. It is equally clear
that by indulging my feelings toward you I have brought you nothing
but unhappiness. This was inevitable. As I wrote you before I am not a
social being. This fact was never so clear as now. I must be alone.
“As regards the statements you have just made, indicating that you
attach the blame for the present predicament to yourself, these are, of
course, absurd. I'm sure you will come in time to see that. It will be
a question then whether you will be able to bring yourself to forgive
me for permitting matters to go so far as they have. That has been
my weakness. I allowed my admiration for you and my desire for you to
overcome my reason.
“As for the course you must pursue, it will be, of course, to go on as
far as Ping Yang. There I will leave you. It may even prove possible,
despite the malignant enmity of Mrs. Boatwright, to convince M. Pourmont
and the others that we are guilty of nothing more than an error of
judgment in an extremely difficult situation. Certainly I shall demand
the utmost respect for you.
“I shall make it a point to avoid you in the morning; and it will
undoubtedly be best that we refrain so far as possible from speech
during the remainder of our journey. I shall go on alone, as soon as you
are safe at Ping Yang. I can not forgive myself for thus disturbing your
life.
“I can not trust myself to write further. It is my experience that words
are dangerous things and not to be trifled with. I will merely add, in
conclusion, and in wishing that you may at some later time find a mate
who can bring into your life the qualities which you must have in order
to attain happiness, and which I unquestionably lack, that I shall hope,
in time, for your forgiveness.. Without that I should hardly care to
live on.
“Jonathan Brachey.”
Soberly Betty read and reread this curious letter. Then for a moment
her eyes rested on the cool signature, without so much as a “sincerely
yours,” and then she looked at that first phrase, “My Dear, Dear Little
Girl”; and then her eyes grew misty and she smiled, faintly, tenderly.
Suddenly, this morning, life had changed color; the black mood was gone,
like an illness that had passed its climax. The curious antagonism in
their talk the evening before had, it seemed, cleared the air--at least
for her. And now, all at once--she was beginning to feel quietly but
glowingly exultant about it--nothing mattered.
She ate all the breakfast that John brought; then hurried out. It gave
her pleasure to stand aside and watch the packing, and particularly to
watch Brachey as he moved sternly about. He was a strong man, as her
father had been strong. He hadn't a glimmer of humor, but she loved him
for that. He had all at once become so transparent. In his lonely way
he had expended so much energy fighting the illusions of happiness, that
now when real happiness was offered him he fought harder than ever. Her
thoughtful eyes followed his every motion; he was tall, strong, clean.
His heart and mind, in their very austerity, were like a child's.
So deep ran this sober new happiness, as she stood by the litter waiting
until he came--austerely--and helped her in (she was waiting for the
touch of his hand, averting her face to hide the smile that she couldn't
altogether control) that only a warmly up-rushing little thought of her
father that came just then could restore her poise. She cared now about
nothing else, about only this man whom she now knew she loved with her
whole being and the father she had so suddenly, shockingly lost. If
only, in the different ways, she might have brought happiness to each
of these strong men. If only she could have brought them together, her
father and her lover; for each, she felt, had fine deep qualities that
the other would be quick to perceive.
All during the morning, feeling through every sensitive nerve-tip the
nearness of this man who loved her and whom she loved, she rode through
a land of rosy dreams. She felt again the power over life that she had
felt during their first talk at T'ainan. Love had come; it absorbed her
thoughts; it was right.... She exulted in the misty red hills with their
deep purple shadows. She smiled at the absurd camels with the rings in
their noses and the ragged, shaggy coats.
After a time, as the morning wore along, she became aware that he,
too, was changing. Once, when he rode for a moment beside her Inter, he
caught sight of her quietly radiant face and flushed and turned away.
At lunch, by a roadside temple, under a tree, they talked about nothing
with surprising ease. He was eager that she should draw and paint these
beautiful hills of Hansi.
Late in the afternoon--they were riding down an open valley--he appeared
again beside the litter. Impulsively she reached out her hand. He guided
his pony close; leaned over and gripped it warmly. For a little while
they rode thus; then, happening out of a confusion of impulses that,
with whichever it began, was instantly communicated to the other, he
bent down and she leaned out the little side door and their lips met.
The cook, from his insecure seat on the pack-saddle, carolled his
endless musical narrative. John rode in stolid silence; the merely human
emotions were ages old and quite commonplace. Mr. Po merely glanced up
as he trudged along in the dust, taking the little incident calmly for
granted.
So it was that, unaccountably to themselves, the spin of these two
lovers rebounded from acute depression to an exaltation that, however
sobered by circumstance, touched the skirts of ecstasy. They rode
on silently as on the other days> but now their hearts beat in happy
unison. No longer was the situation of their relationship unreal to
them; the unreality lay with the white world from which they had come
and to which they must shortly return. The mission compound was but
an immaterial memory, like an unpleasant moment in a long, beautiful
journey.
In the evening after dinner, they sat for a long time with her head on
his shoulder dreamily talking of the mystery, their mystery, of love.
“It had to be,” she said.
He could only incline his head and compress his lips as he gazed out
over her head down a long vista of years, during which he would, for
better or worse, for richer or poorer, protect and cherish her. The old
phrases from the marriage service rang in his thoughts like cathedral
bells.
“1 don't believe we'll ever have those dreadful moods again,” she
murmured, later. “At least, we won't misunderstand each other again. Not
like that.”
“Never,” he breathed.
“Only one thing is wrong, dear,” she added. “I wish father could have
known you. He'd have understood you. That's the only sad thing.”
He was silent. At last, after midnight, in a spirit of deepest
consecration, he held her gently in his arms, kissed her good night, and
went to his own room.