Mark Carson, back in the city after an absence of two months, thought of
Pan. He would see her that very evening. Dear little Pan, pretty Pan,
clever Pan, amusing Pan; Pan, who was always so frankly glad to have him
come to her; so eager to hear all that he was doing; so appreciative, so
inspiring, so loving. She would have forgotten that article by now. Why
should a white woman care about such things? Her true self was above it
all. Had he not taught her _that_ during the weeks in which they had
seen so much of one another? True, his last lesson had been a little
harsh, and as yet he knew not how she had taken it; but even if its
roughness had hurt and irritated, there was a healing balm, a wizard’s
oil which none knew so well as he how to apply.
But for all these soothing reflections, there was an undercurrent of
feeling which caused his steps to falter on his way to Pan. He turned
into Portsmouth Square and took a seat on one of the benches facing the
fountain erected in memory of Robert Louis Stevenson. Why had Pan failed
to answer the note he had written telling her of the assignment which
would keep him out of town for a couple of months and giving her his
address? Would Robert Louis Stevenson have known why? Yes—and so did
Mark Carson. But though Robert Louis Stevenson would have boldly
answered himself the question, Mark Carson thrust it aside, arose, and
pressed up the hill.
“I knew they would not blame you, Pan!”
“Yes.”
“And there was no word of you, dear. I was careful about that, not only
for your sake, but for mine.”
Silence.
“It is mere superstition anyway. These things have got to be exposed and
done away with.”
Still silence.
Mark Carson felt strangely chilled. Pan was not herself tonight. She did
not even look herself. He had been accustomed to seeing her in American
dress. Tonight she wore the Chinese costume. But for her clear-cut
features she might have been a Chinese girl. He shivered.
“Pan,” he asked, “why do you wear that dress?”
Within her sleeves Pan’s small hands struggled together; but her face
and voice were calm.
“Because I am a Chinese woman,” she answered.
“You are not,” cried Mark Carson, fiercely. “You cannot say that now,
Pan. You are a white woman—white. Did your kiss not promise me that?”
“A white woman!” echoed Pan her voice rising high and clear to the stars
above them. “I would not be a white woman for all the world. _You_ are a
white man. And _what_ is a promise to a white man!”
* * * * *
When she was lying low, the element of Fire having raged so fiercely
within her that it had almost shriveled up the childish frame, there
came to the house of Man You a little toddler who could scarcely speak.
Climbing upon Pan’s couch, she pressed her head upon the sick girl’s
bosom. The feel of that little head brought tears.
“Lo!” said the mother of the toddler. “Thou wilt bear a child thyself
some day, and all the bitterness of this will pass away.”
And Pan, being a Chinese woman, was comforted.