1
Elmer Boatwrights chin sagged a little way. For a long moment he stood
motionless, making no sound; then, without change of expression on his
gray thin face, he moved with a slow gliding motion backward, backward,
until his knees struck the bed; and stood, bent forward, his palsied
hand tipping the candle so far that the hot tallow splashed in white
drops on the matting.
Slowly the giant figure stirred, straightened up, came slowly into the
room; closed the door, leaned back against it.
Then Boatwright spoke, slowly, huskily:
“It--it is you?”
“Yes.” It was plainly an effort for Doane to speak. “But--but I don't
see how you could have got through.”
“Men do get through now and then.” Doane spoke with the quick
irritability of the man whose powers of nervous resistance have been
tried to the uttermost.
“You're wounded. You must be tired.” Boatwright was quite incoherent.
“You'd better lie down. Here--take my bed! How did you ever find me? How
did you get in in the first place?”
“I'll sit for a moment.” Duane lowered himself painfully to the bed.
“Betty is here?”
“Betty? Oh, yes! We're all safe.”
“Where is she?”
“I--I don't know exactly.”
“You don't _know!_”
“Why, Madame Pourmont has been caring for her.”
“You mean that she is ill?”
“No. Oh, no! One moment. You've been hurt. I must tell the others. You
must have attention at once. Mary Cassin is right here--and my wife.”
The little man moved to the door. His color was returning now; he was
talking rapidly, out of a confused mind. “You must have had a terrible
time.”
“They left me for dead at the Hung Chan Gate. I crawled to the house of
a convert.” Doane's great eyes, staring out of shadowy hollows, burned
with tragic memories. Those eyes held Boatwright fascinated; he shivered
slightly. “As soon as I felt able to travel I started toward T'ainan.
Several of our native people came with me, walking at night, biding by
day. On the way we learned that you had left. So I came here. I must see
Betty.”
“But not like this,” the little man blurted out. Doane's eyes wandered
down over his muddy tattered clothing.
“I'll call the others first,” said Boatwright He set down his candle on
the wash-stand, just inside the door, and slipped out.
Doane sat erect, without moving. His eyes stared at the candle and at
the grotesque wavering shadows of the wash-howl and pitcher on the wall.
At each small night sound he started nervously--the scratching of a
mouse, a voice in the compound, a distant sputter of shots.
Boatwright slipped back into the room.
“They're coming,” he said breathlessly. “In a minute. Mary sleeps in
most of her clothes anyway, these days.”
“What is it about Betty?” Doane asked sharply.
“Oh--she's quite all right. We don't see much of her, not being in the
same house. We're all pretty busy here, these days. It's an ugly time.
I--I was just wondering. I don't know what we can dress you in. You
could hardly wear my things. One of the Australians is nearly as big as
you. Perhaps in the morning...”
His voice had risen a little, nearly to the querulous, as he hurriedly
drew on his outer clothing. From the way his eyes wandered about the
room it appeared that his thoughts had run far afield. And he was clumsy
about the buttons. Even the intensely preoccupied Doane became aware of
this, and for a moment studied him with a puzzled look.
The little man's tongue ran on. “Mary'll fix you up for now. Sleep'll
be the best thing. In the morning you can use my shaving things. And I'll
look up that Australian.... There they are!”
He hurried to the door. Dr. Cassin came in, greeted
Griggsby Doane with a warm hand-clasp, and at once examined his
shoulder. Boatwright she sent over to the dispensary for bandages.
A moment later Mrs. Boatwright appeared, her strong person wrapped in a
quilted robe.
“This is a great relief,” she said. “We had given you up.”
Duane's eyes fastened eagerly on this woman.
“Have you sent word to Betty?” he asked quickly.
Mrs. Boatwright looked at him for a moment, without replying, then moved
deliberately to the window.
“Please don't move,” cautioned Dr. Cassin, who was working on his
shoulder.
“Have you sent word?” Doane shot the question after Mrs. Boatwright.
There was no reply.
“What is it?” cried Doane then.
“If you please!” said Dr. Cassin.
“Something is wrong! What is it?”
Mrs. Boatwright was standing squarely before the window now, looking out
into the dark courtyard.
“What is it? Tell me! Is she here?”
“Really, Mr Doane”--thus the physician--“I can not work if you move.
Yes, she is here.”
“But why do you act in this strange way?”
Dr. Cassin compressed her lips. All her working adult life had been
spent under the direction of this man. Never before had she seen him in
the slightest degree beaten down. She had never even seen him tired. In
her steady, objective mind he stood for unshakable, enduring strength.
But now, twitching nervously under her firm hands, staring out of
feverish eyes after the uncompromising woman by the window, his huge
frame emaciated, spent with loss of blood, with suffering and utter
physical and nervous exhaustion, he had reached, she knew', at last, the
limits of his great strength. He had, perhaps, even passed those limits;
for there was a morbid condition evident in him, he seemed not wholly
sane, as if the trials he had passed through had been too great for his
iron will, or as if there was something else, some consuming fire in
him, burning secretly but strongly, out of control. All this she saw and
felt. His temperature was not dangerously high, slightly more than two
degrees above normal. His pulse was rapid, but no weaker than was to be
expected. Worry might explain it; worry for them all, but particularly
for Betty. Though she found this diagnosis not wholly satisfactory. Of
course it might be, after all, nothing more than exhaustion. Sleep was
the first thing. After that it would be a simpler matter to study his
case.
Then, starling up suddenly, wrenching himself free from her skilful
hands, Doane stood over her, staring past her at the woman by the
window'.
“Will you please go to Betty,” he said, in a voice that trembled with
feeling, “and tell her that I am here. Wake her. She must know at once.
And try to prepare her mind--she mustn't see me first like this.”
There was a breathless pause. Then Mrs. Boatwright turned and moved
deliberately toward the door. Then she paused.
“You'll see her?” cried the father. “At once?”
“No,” replied Mrs. Boatwright. “No. I am sorry. I would like to spare
you pain at this time, Griggsby Doane. But I do not feel that I can see
her. I'll tell you though, what I will do. I'll tell Monsieur Pourmont.”
And she went out.
2
She was closing the door when it abruptly opened. Elmer Boatwright
stood there, looking after his wife as she went along the dark hallway.
He came in then.
“I brought the bandages,” he said.
“You must sit down again,” said the physician.
Doane, evidently bewildered, obeyed. And she began bandaging his
shoulder.
He even sat quietly. He seemed to be making a determined effort to
control his thoughts. When he finally spoke he seemed almost his old
self.
“Elmer, something is wrong with Betty. Whatever it is, I have a right to
know.”
Boatwright cleared his throat.
Dr. Cassin broke the silence that followed.
“Mr. Doane,” she said, “sit still here and try to listen to what I am
going to tell you. We have been disturbed about Betty. I won't attempt
to conceal that. This Mr. Brachey--”
“Brachey? Is he--”
“Please! You must keep quiet!”
“But what is it? Tell me--now!”
“I'm trying to. Mr. Brachey came to the compound the morning after you
left--”
“But he gave me his word!”
“You really must let me tell this in my own way. He brought the news of
your death. He had it from Pao's yamen. He demanded that we all leave
T'ainan at once, with him. If he gave you his word, it is probable that
he regarded your death as a release. Well....” For a moment she bent
silently over her task of bandaging.
“Yes. Tell me?” Doane's voice was quieter still. More and more, to
Boatwright, who stood by the wash-stand lingering a towel, he looked,
felt, like the old Griggsby Doane... except his eyes; they were fixed
intently on the matting; they were wide open, staring open.
“Well... Mrs. Boatwright felt that it was not yet the time to go. She
distrusted this man. So we stayed a few days longer.”
“You are not telling me.”
“Yes. I am coming to it. Betty... Betty felt that she couldn't let him
go alone.”
In a hushed, almost a reflective voice Doane asked: “So she came with
him?”
Dr. Cassin bowed. Elmer Boatwright bowed. Doane glanced up briefly, and
took them in; then his gaze centered again on the matting.
“And they are here now?”
“Betty is staying with Madame Pourmont. Mr. Brachey is living in a
tent.”
“Where? What tent?”
Elmer Boatwright did not wait to hear this question answered, or the
rush of other palliative phrases that were pressing nervously on the tip
of Dr Cas-sin's not unsympathetic tongue. Never had he heard the quiet
menace in Griggsby Doane's voice that was in it as he almost calmly
uttered those three words, “Where? What tent?” He could nut himself
think clearly; his mind was a blur of fears and nervous impulses. Doane
wasn't normal; that was plain. Dr. Cassin's bare announcement was a blow
so severe that even as he framed that tense question he was struggling
to control the blind wild forces that were ravaging that giant frame
of his. Once wholly out of control, he might do anything. He might kill
Brachey. Yes, easily that! It was in his eyes.... And so, without a
plan, all confused impulses, Elmer Boatwright slipped out, closing the
door behind him. On the outer sill of the little building he paused,
trying desperately to think; but, failing in this effort, harried
through the night to Brachey's tent.
He was, of course, far from understanding himself. It was a moment in
which no small dogmatic mind, once touched by the illogic of merely
human sympathy, could hope to understand itself. Though he and Brachey
were barely speaking, he had watched the man during the capture of the
Chinese gun and ammunition. And since that incident he had observed that
Brachey was steadily winning the respect of all in the compound. The
confusing thought was that a sinner could do that. For he believed,
with his wife, and Miss Hemphill, that Brachey and Betty had sinned. Dr.
Cassin had been more guarded in her judgment but probably she believed
it, too. Sin, of course, to what may without unpleasant connotation
be termed the professionally religious mind, is a definite, really a
technical fact. In the faith of the Boatwrights it could be atoned only
by an inner conviction followed by the blessing of the Holy Spirit. No
mere good conduct, no merely admirable human qualities, could save the
sinner. And neither Betty nor Brachey had shown the slightest sign of
the regenerative process. In Mrs. Boatwright's judgment, therefore,
since she was a woman of utter humorless logic, of unconquerable faith
in conscience, the two stood condemned. But her husband, in this time of
tragic stress, was discovering certain merely human qualities that were
bound to prove disconcerting to his professed philosophy. He wanted,
now, to help Brachey; and yet, as he ran through courtyard after
courtyard, he couldn't wholly subdue certain strong misgivings as to
what his wife might think if she knew.
3
Before the tent he hesitated. The flap was tied; he shook it, with a
trembling hand. He heard, then, the steady breathing of the man within.
He tried knocking on the pole, through the canvas, but without effect on
the sleeper. Then, with a curious sensation of guilt, he reached in and
untied the flap, above, then below; and passed cautiously in. The night
was warm. Brachey lay uncovered, dressed, as Boatwright saw when he
struck a match to make certain of his man, in all but coat, collar and
shoes.
Boatwright blew out the match. For another moment he stood wondering at
himself; then laid a hand on the sleeper's shoulder. Brachey started up
instantly; swung his feet to the floor; said in a surprisingly alert,
cautious voice:
“What is it?”
“It's Elmer Boatwright.”
“Oh!” was Brachey's reply to this. He quietly lighted the candle that
stood on a small table by the head of his cut. Then he added the single
word, “Well?”
“I have come on a peculiar errand, Mr. Brachey...” Boatwright was
fumbling for words.
“Yes?”
“There is little time for talk. A queer situation... let me say
this--when you came to the mission and asked us to leave T'ainan with
you it was under the supposition that Griggsby Doane was dead.”
“Yes.... You mean that now... that the news was inaccurate?”
Boatwright inclined his head.
“He is alive, then?”
Another bow.
“Where is he?”
“Well... it is... I must ask you to consider the situation calmly. It is
difficult.”
Boatwright felt the man's eyes on him, coolly surveying him. It did seem
a bit absurd to be cautioning this strange being to be calm. Had he ever
been otherwise? Here he was, roused abruptly from slumber, listening,
and looking, like a judge. He said now with quick understanding:
“He is here?”
Boatwright's head inclined.
“How did he ever get through?”
“We haven't heard the details yet. There's so much else.... I want to
make it plain to you that he isn't altogether himself. He has evidently
been through a terrible experience. He was wounded. He has some fever
now, I believe.... Let me put it this way. He has just now learned that
you are here---that you--”
“That I brought his daughter here?” The remark was cool, clear,
decisive.
“Well--yes. Now please understand me. He isn't himself. The news shocked
him. I could see that. My suggestion is--well, that you move over to the
residence for the rest of the night.”
“Why?”
“You see--Mr. Doane asked where you might be found, in what tent. He has
had no time to reflect over the situation. His present mood is--well,
as I said, not normal. I've thought that to-morrow--after he has
slept--some--we can prevail on him to consider it calmly.”
“You mean that he may attack me?”
“Well--yes. It's quite possible. Monsieur Pour-mont would take you in
now. I'm sure. In the morning you'll be back in your trenches. That will
give us time to...”
His voice died out. His gaze anxiously followed Brachey's movements.
The man had buttoned on his collar, and was knotting his tie before the
little square mirror that hung on the rear tent-pole. Next he brushed
his hair. Then he got into his coat. And then he discovered that he was
in his stocking feet. That bit of absent-mindedness was the only sign he
gave of excitement.
“If I might suggest that you hurry a little,” thus Boatwright... “it's
possible that he's on his way here now.”
“Who?” asked Brachey coolly, raising his head. “Oh--you mean Doane.”
“Yes. I really think--”
Brachey waved him to be still. He moved to the tent opening, peered out
into the night, then turned and looked straight at his caller, slightly
pursing his lips.
“Where is Mr. Doane?” he asked.
“He was in my room. But you're not--you don't mean--”
“I'm going to see him, of course.”
“But that's impossible. He may kill you.”
“What has that to do with it?”
This blunt question proved difficult to meet. Boatwright found himself
saying, rather weakly, “I'm sure everything can be explained later.”
“The time to explain is now.”
With this, and a slight added sound that might have been an indication
of impatience, Brachey strode out.
4
For a moment Boatwright stood in the paralysis of fright; then,
catching his breath, he ran out after this strangely resolute man;
quickly caught up with him, but found himself ignored. He even
talked--incoherently--as his short legs tried to keep pace with the
swift long stride of the other. He didn't himself know what he was
saying. Nor did he stop when Brachey's arm moved as if to brush him off;
though he perhaps had been clinging to that arm.
Brachey stopped, looking about.
“This is the house, isn't it?” he remarked; then turned in toward the
steps.
The door burst open then, and a huge shadowy figure plunged out. A
woman's voice followed: “I must ask you to please come back, Mr. Doane.
Really, if you--”
At the name--“Mr. Doane”--Brachey stopped short (one foot was already on
the first of the three or four steps) and stiffened, his shoulders drawn
back, his head high, Doane, too, stopped, peering down.
“Mr. Doane,” said the younger man, firmly but perhaps in a slightly
louder tone than was necessary, “I am Jonathan Brachey.”
A hush fell on the group of them--Brachey waiting at the bottom step,
Boatwright just behind him. Dr. Cassin barely visible in the shadows of
the porch, silhouetted faintly against the light of a candle somewhere
within, and Griggsby Doane staring down in astonishment at the man who
stood looking straight up at him.
Brachey apparently was about to speak again. Perhaps he did begin.
Boatwright found it impossible afterward to explain in precise detail
just what took place. But the one clear fact was that Doane, with an
exclamation that was not a word, seemed to leap down the steps, waving
his stick about his head. There was the sound of a few heavy blows; and
then Brachey lay huddled in a heap on the the walk, and Doane stood over
him, breathing very hard..
Dr. Cassin hurried down the steps and knelt lie-side the silent figure
there. To Elmer Boatwright she said, briskly: “My medicine case is in
your room. Bring it at once, please? And bring water.”
Boatwright vaguely recalled, afterward, that he muttered, “I beg your
pardon,” as he finished past Doane and ran up the steps. And he heard
the sound of some, one running heavily toward them.
When he came out the scene was curiously changed.
Some of the natives were there, and one or two whites. An iron lantern
with many perforations to let out the candle-light stood on the tiles.
One of the Chinese held another. Dr. Cassin was seated on the ground
examining a wound on Brachey's scalp; and the man himself was struggling
back toward consciousness, moving his arms restlessly, and muttering.
But the voice that dominated the little group that stood awkwardly about
was the voice of M. Pourmont.
Doane had sunk down on the steps, his head in his hands. And over him,
somewhat out of breath, gesturing emphatically with raised forefinger,
the engineer was speaking as follows:
“Monsieur Doane, it gives me ze great plaisir to know zat you do not
die. To you here I offair ze vel-come viz all my 'eart. But zis I mus'
say. It is here _la guerre_. It is I who am here ze commandair. An'
I now' comman' you, Alonsieur Doane, zer mus' be here no more of ze
mattair personel. We here fight togezzer, as one, not viz each ozzer.
You have made ze attack on a gentleman zat mus' be spare' to us, a
gentleman ver' strong, ver' brave, who fear nozzing at all. It is not
pairmit' zat you make 'arm at Monsieur Brashayee. Zis man is one I need.
It is on 'im zat I lean.”
Here Boatwright found himself breaking in, all eagerness, all nerves:
“If you had only known how it was! Mr. Brachey insisted on coming
straight to you.”
“Monsieur Boatright, if you please! I mus' have here ze quiet! Monsieur
Doane, you vill go at once to bed. It is so I order you. Go at once to
bed!” Doane slowly lifted his head and looked at M. Pour-munt. “Very
well,” he said quietly. “You are right, of course.” On these last few
words his voice broke, but he at once recovered control of it. He rose,
with an effort, moved a few slow steps, hesitated, then got painfully
down on one knee beside the limp groaning figure on the walk. He looked
directly at Dr. Cassin, as he said:
“Is he badly hurt?”
“I don't think so,” replied the physician simply, wholly herself. “The
skull doesn't seem to be fractured. We may find some concussion, of
course.” Doane's breath whistled convulsively inward. He knelt there,
silent, watching the deft fingers work. Then he said--under his breath,
but audibly enough: “What an awful thing to do! What a terrible thing to
do!” And got up.
Boatwright hurried to help him.
“I'll go with you, Elmer,” said Doane.