but that was different. Romney was man enough not to take any advantage
there--even in thought. He understood her that night. She was in a
scope of a more common attraction. She had hated herself in it. Had he
pressed that advantage, it would merely have meant to unseal a crater
for hell to break forth not only for himself but for her. Before
knowing her, he might have considered the savage splendour of that
passion as having to do with a woman's great gift, but he glimpsed in
the days preceding what it would mean to the man who could force the
capitulation of the full creature. Even in the blinding of those
moments of parting, he knew he was far from that magnitude.
Romney threw back his head and laughed at the upper arch of tiles, his
arms held out. It was the laugh of a man who stands on the rim of the
last ditch.... He had certainly sifted to the bottom of things. The
_John Dividend_ was the last of many ships. He had made the grand
traverse of the Asiatic coast from the Yellow Sea to the Bay of Bengal
and doubled back to Shanghai. This drink-thing was the great weakness
he had uncovered. Three days after her steamer had gone down the river,
he had fallen into the low eddies of it--a cheap thing, but he felt
cheap. He saw that he had always been intoxicated somehow. A turn of a
card and he might have become a saint instead of a drunkard. Mother
China had intoxicated him first; then the woman. It was all a matter of
temperament. Having lost the levitation of cleanness and strength, he
had permitted the mother-force of gravitation to take her certain
course. From Longstruth's at Hankow he had swirled into the great drift
of the water-fronts--deserters, remittance-men, hangovers from every
form of human failure. He had spent everything he had within reach--a
large amount of money. He had learned the value of money when his
pockets flattened to a few thin coins. There was a large slice of his
fortune left in Peking, but it was so placed that he would have to go
there to get it. He was on the way back now. In fact the _John
Dividend_ would have taken him almost there--she was booked for
Tientsin--but had been too stagnant and stenchy in her bowels. The fact
is he would never have reached Manila and the deck of the _John
Dividend_ except for this new something, superlatively fine in his
physique. Altogether he had seen a lot of life with the integument
off--and had expected little more of the late days than to be found dead
somewhere....
The scent of the fountain-place had a certain whipping magic about it.
It seemed to cleanse away some weakness.
It made Moira Kelvin draw close in memory, but there was a queer up-pull
to it now, as if she said:
"_You have played enough, Sir Romney. Give it up--you're too
clean-blooded to die soiled. You don't want me. You've forgotten for
days at a time what you are trying to kill yourself for. If that next
daybreak had found me in your arms--you would have hated me, and I would
have had for myself something infinitely worse than hatred. You were
big that night to let me go. Nature will not let a man as big as that
pass out without doing his work and finding his own. If you want
sin--pray, sin magnificently._"
The cool running water passed over his fevered and wasted body. There
was ample time for everything. A servant brought him a house-gown and
slippers. Ti Kung's barber was waiting. A little helpful drink was
brought from time to time, not too often, and just a touch. Ti Kung was
waiting for him below. Romney had found a fineness of comprehension in
the Chinese that he had not revelled in from any man for months. It was
almost like a woman's. It liberated the better parts of him, but he was
ill and fagged to the core. He looked forward to a long, clean night.
First he would go back to the fountain place. He would think of that
Longstruth's night before he slept.... Ti Kung showed him his room,
opened the door, led him to the window of the low-lit chamber. From the
casement he pointed out the stars and the lower lights of the distant
shipping.
"I'll be away tomorrow," he said, "but shall return for dinner. You may
rest and read. You may go to the city; there is a carriage. There are
books; there are servants who understand English. Forgive me, I always
forget that you speak our language; in short, anything you may wish. If
convenient, be here for dinner at eight to-morrow. If you have another
appointment, of course, I can wait--"
"I'll be here," Romney said.
... It was not until the door was shut that he saw the gleam of glass
and the half-open door of a walnut cabinet against the wall. He
understood all that it meant before he took a step toward it. He wished
that Ti Kung had spared him this hospitality.... It was very complete,
even to importations from America, even to certain brands that he had
not seen for years. There was crystal, silverware, napkins, and this
that was covered on the table clinked with ice as he touched it. He was
dry and tense. Everything had been designed to turn him loose, even the
departure of his host.
Romney thought of the words of Dr. Ti Kung in the examination cell: "I
will tell you in three days."
He laughed softly. "And what he will tell me in three days hangs
imperatively upon this most perfect cabinet. Romney, here's a ripe
chance to use your head. You are allowed one respectable _touch_. You
may choose your poison--but just one."
He measured out a portion by no means of a size that a man is inclined
to seize with his last dime, drank it with discretion and without water.
Then he stared awhile at the stars and the shipping, took a long drink
from the water-pitcher, and went to bed.
But Romney could not sleep. It was not so easy and laughable as when
the episode began. His thoughts turned to the walnut cabinet as the eye
turns to fire in the night. He lay restless and wide-eyed in the dark.
Presently the moon came in and gleamed upon the open door and upon the
glasses and bottles on the table, bringing out inner fires from the
multi-colored glass. He arose often for water. There was fever burning
full-length. The novelty of keeping himself in hand left him and it
became fight. The bars had long been down.... The long night crawled.
He heard some English sailors pass through the street below. The
Chinese city was full of sounds not to be designated--cries, gongs, the
tapping of canes, sounds that the elemental traffic of the day had
deluged, for he heard women's voices and the voices of children. One
does not hear these in the day-time. He relit the lamp at last, smoked
and read, and when the activities of the night had at last died out,
there was an hour of blackness and quiet that was like a jungle
experience. He was full of fears, not at all the kind of fears that
Romney knew when his mind was in order.
Dawn came, and with it a soft breeze that stirred the wind-glasses in
the garden below. It was a thirsty tinkle, a sound he had heard
somewhere before and found hauntingly sweet. There was a touch of rose
in the light, and the scent of rose came to him in the morning dusk, and
rushed his thoughts far up the Yellow River.... Old days in the open
swept back to mind with rugged value. He was on his feet. The night
was gone. He could take a drink now without breaking his word, but the
new strength tided him over that.
A servant tapped at the inlaid door and asked if he would have anything.
Yes, he would have coffee. He found the place of the fountain. The
cool morning air came in as he bathed, and with the scent came back to
him the sense of equilibrium that he had not known for many days, a
suggestion of self-sanction, perfect but valid.... The coffee was
served when he returned to the room. He asked if he might walk in the
garden then and the servant tarried to show him the way.
Three servants were standing at the street door in the dim-lit lower
hall as Romney and his guide passed below. They were engaged in a more
or less orderly passage of words. Suddenly a cry arose, and the three
servants were seen to leap upon a man in European dress who seemed
intent upon entering. Romney disdained more than a side glance at the
encounter down the long dark hall, as he followed the footsteps of his
diminutive but most engaging guide.
In the garden there were stone and water glasses, cool shallows, deep
drinking palms, awakening birds and amazingly perfect roses, all in a
space no larger than a city back-yard. A high wall with broken glass on
the top, suffocating China outside, and within the beauty of the pearl
and the lotus. The American's tension allayed somewhat in that beauty.
He smoked and picked his way among the stones, sniffing the blooms while
the day rose. The voices of his own countrymen outside the wall hardly
broke his reverie at first. Presently a peculiar sound held his
attention. It was a scraping, as if some wooden object were being raised
against the masonry. He halted as a hand came over the top of the
glass. A blue-sleeved arm was picking its way to the inner-coping, the
woolen sleeve alone between the flesh and the bare glass. The top of
the head that appeared presently was rugged and close-cropped.
Something about it was strangely familiar, but no more showed for the
present. There was a renewed scraping, the head paused in the air, then
dropped back again.
It startled Romney, but he did not feel called upon to protest. The
house seemed adequately protected with man-servants; that fact had been
impressed at the street-door. He forgot the incident, and was leaning
back against the wall a couple of minutes afterward, when his eyes were
called to the corner of the wall at his right. Poised motionless above
it was the ominous head again, and that light vulture-blue eye, which
found his own like an electric contact, and loosed his jaw. McLean had
seen him at the same instant.
"Looking for me?" Romney asked.
The answer made him think of the boiler-room of the _John Dividend_.
There was silence after that. The eye remained fixed upon him.
"Come here," added McLean, unwinking.
Romney did not move.
"Come here," reached him again, hoarsely.
There was pull to it. The intensity and concentration of that single
utterance had real attraction.
Just then the little house-servant appeared, saw the head above the
wall, and called for assistance. Other servants came quickly. There was
considerable hub-bub behind in the garden as Romney went indoors sick
and slowed-up.
He found his way back to his room. There hadn't been a single coin in
the clothes that he wore when entering Ti Kung's house. The contents of
these pockets otherwise had been carefully placed on the table in his
room, but the clothes were gone. As he stood in his morning-gown
reflecting upon the recent affair, his boy came in, bringing a plain
black suit of fine quality, suggesting that he try if it would do, and
adding apologetically that breakfast was now prepared. The clothing
fitted perfectly. Romney realized that they had been made overnight
from the dimensions of his old suit, which did not appear again. He
wondered if such a thing could be done outside of China.
McLean was both light and heavy upon his mind as he transferred his few
belongings to the new coat. Drawing forth his hand, he found that it
contained currency of the empire to an amount that he had not seen since
the early days of his abandonment. It was an altogether comic-opera
amount.
He turned to the servant who stood by, grinning.
"If that one-eyed man comes back again," he said, "show him in."
"One-eye gone way down," grinned the boy.
"What's that?"
The boy made an eloquent gesture to betoken an open grave, supplementing
the picture which Romney felt mentally, with: "One-eye gone way down."
"Now, that's too bad," mused Romney. Then there was a crisp, brown,
small fish before him that made him forget.
That night the Doctor came for dinner--a cool, delicate meal,
exquisitely Chinese--rice, tea, several varieties of sea-food and small
high-colored vegetables. Ti Kung appeared alert for the welfare of his
guest.
"My dear Romney, I'm afraid things have been pretty dull for you here.
A little matter takes me to the Provincial Headquarters. Would you care
to come for the ride?"
The American learned more of his friend. Certain officials and older
students were encountered. Their deepest respect, even reverence, for
Ti Kung interested Romney, as well as their quick and animated interest
in himself as he showed acquaintance with their language.
There was a secret meeting which he could not enter, but he became aware
as he waited that the long halls of the provincial building were dotted
with groups of nobles and elders not in the least pleased with the
political activity of the younger men with which Dr. Ti Kung was
associated.
Presently Romney retired to the carriage to wait, leaving word with a
page for Ti Kung to be informed. Nobles and others were still entering
the building, often old men largely attended and in full regalia. A
native throng was collecting rapidly and cluttered the street at the
entrance of the building. The effects produced on the crowd by the
entrance of different personages were varied and absorbing. Some were
lauded; others brought forth scowls and mutterings. Excitement seethed
and cleared Romney's mind.
Ti Kung was not long in coming forth. He apologised for being detained,
quite as if the matter he had attended was of most trivial importance.
Even as he talked, the crowd thickened about the carriage, and pressed
against the wheels. Dr. Ti Kung leaned forward to speak to the driver,
who began to lash furiously at the heads and shoulders of the throng.
Romney was the first to see the long knife that whipped up from the
wheel, and was lucky enough to jerk the Doctor back into the seat in
time. A pistol was thrust into his hand.
"I regret we will have to fire," Ti Kung said.
Neither shot to kill, for the way was instantly cleared for the horses.
They passed out of the public square without further molestation.
Romney leaned forward whimsically and searched the Doctor's face.
"Quite the usual thing, is it?"
"Of late. They're just children."
"Are they apt to get any less good-natured?"
"Yes, they have suffered much. They do not understand."
Romney fingered the pistol. "I feel quite like a boy," he remarked.
"There's a charm about this thing. I never shot one before--without
everybody standing well back."
Ti Kung's hand darted over and touched Romney's appreciatively.
*4*
It was the end of the promised three days. Romney was dressing for
dinner when there was a tap at the inlaid door, and Dr. Ti Kung entered
with grave smile and hand outstretched. For just a second he had looked
into Romney's eyes. His manner showed neither relief nor surprise; nor
did he offer any comment upon the rallied manhood which he must have
observed.
Romney had climbed a stiff grade in the three days. They went below for
dinner, but it was not until their coffee was served and the catfooted
servant was gone, that Dr. Ti Kung appeared to note the patience of his
companion.
"Doubtless, Mr. Romney," he began, "you have been wondering a good deal
why I brought you to my home, and toward what end things were trending
here. The time has come for me to enlighten you somewhat."
The American lit a pipe he favoured and Dr. Ti Kung drew his chair
closer. They were alone.
"I saw you laughing there in the Street of the Lepers--or was it the
Street of the Ever-lasting Spring?" continued the Chinese. "To me it
symbolised the blending of America with my poor country. We are now
without veils between us. I was in a most serious mood that morning,
anxious with the weight of many affairs.
"You sat upon the stone steps with the beggars beside you, laughing.
You were in the glow of events--at one with those about you. You used
to say back in college, 'To hell with it,' that most ingenious of many
wonderful American remarks. I thought of that. I said to myself, 'Huan
Ti Kung, you are heavy; you are long-faced. Why should you bear your
burdens with such labour? If you fail, very good. If you win,
especially good, but having done the best you can--'To hell with it.'
"So you see, Mr. Romney, you offered me a fine message that morning, and
after all I was very fond of you from the beginning. So, here we are.
I promise you days of excitement. You have seen from the little episode
in front of the Provincial House last night, that all China does not
love me. I counted it a good omen that you saved me from a wound. You
may have the pleasure again. But supposing you had not, or supposing
you were not quite so quick the next time--'To hell with it!'"
Romney leaned forward. He knew that the foregoing was simply the
Oriental way of introducing a subject of real moment. He felt new
inside, mind and will.
Dr. Ti Kung continued:
"I look upon you now with great satisfaction. You are free and
adventurous, and you are my strong friend. You are a mind--an
interpreter of our life. We need all these things from you. You know
how poor China is distressed at this hour--"
He leaned forward and spoke very softly. The long low room in which they
dined was empty, yet the voice was pitched to reach Romney's ears and no
farther.
"... I did not go ashore in the Japanese ports on the way home, but I
heard much from those who did. It happened that I became so interested
in you that much of the first day here in Shanghai was consumed. The
three days since, I have been catching up, studying the events that came
to pass during the two weeks' voyage--events, Mr. Romney, that the world
is too intensely occupied to notice, but which we Chinese regard with
finality and deepest foreboding.
"As you perhaps know, the Japanese have demanded from us all that we
hold dear. They are a fighting people, whetted by recent victories.
There are three parties here in China: Old China, which says 'We will
temporize,' the Middle Party which says, 'We will fight,' and the
party--"
Romney knew instinctively that the destiny of Ti Kung was aligned with
this third one; and yet he supposed that it was also a fighting destiny.
"And the third one," the Doctor repeated, "which believes that war as
the Japanese know it; that war as it is being waged on French and Polish
and Carpathian fields at this moment, is a stupid and ancient activity,
having no part with what the best men of all countries know--"
"But," said Romney, "it's the Japanese way. They may bring the fighting
to you--fighting such as they know. You may say that war is archaic
rot, but if it is to be met, must it not be met with force?"
"Of course, but not with force of the same nature," said Dr. Ti Kung.
"You mean to say that this third party in China is going to stand pat on
the expediency of toleration. The Hindus have taken a hundred years--"
"Not exactly that," said Dr. Ti Kung. "We believe that Japan can be
stupefied--even strangled."
A servant entered at this moment and spoke to Dr. Ti Kung--a hurried
sentence. Voices from the street now reached them, as if an outer door
had suddenly blown open.
Dr. Ti Kung arose quickly, beckoning Romney to follow. They made their
way to the rear of the house and into the garden.
"Another little engagement. So glad you appreciate these absurd
affairs. You have your pistol?"
"Yes--I have become attached to it."
Ti Kung thrust a packet of papers into Romney's hands.
"These are invaluable and safer with you. In case I am separated from
you or hurt, deliver the packet in person to the address in the inner
envelope, Tientsin. Now we must get over the masonry."
Together they lifted a bench from the poolside to the wall. Romney
helped his companion over the jagged glass on the coping. He then
removed his coat and laid it upon the top for his own passage over, his
hands and arms already bleeding. On the coping, he perceived that Ti
Kung was not alone below. Romney landed upon his feet between two
struggling figures. A knife burned his back. He kicked with effect in
the direction it came.
Meanwhile he called for Ti Kung, and a hand came up to him from below.
The assailant had vanished. Something in the touch of that hand made
him know that his friend was badly hurt.
"As little noise as you can, Romney," came a whisper. "There will be
others upon us. Are you hurt?"
"No, are you?"
"I am afraid--a little. Help me up. We must get away from here with
all speed. Have you the packet?"
Romney left him and sprang to the wall's coping for his coat, pulling it
loose from the glass. The papers dropped out as the coat fell.
"Yes," he answered, "I'm glad you mentioned that. I'll be more careful
hereafter."
"Do," said Ti Kung, regaining his feet.
They were in a passage of almost utter darkness. The Chinese was making
poor work of walking. The American lifted him forward and listened for
direction from a voice that grew weaker as moments passed. All was
silent behind.
"I need sewing up," the Chinese whispered. "It's very unfortunate....
That light ahead is the Grotto Road. We will be safe there. If
consciousness leaves me, put me in a carriage, paying the driver and
speaking the words, _Sarenji loopni_; then make your way as rapidly as
possible, taking the papers with you, to a gentleman named Minglapo, in
Merchant's Square, Tienstin--full directions inside outer envelope."
Romney reached the lights of Grotto Road with the form of the Oriental
sagging limp in his arms from loss of blood. It looked like death to
the American. The hardest, or possibly next to the hardest thing he
ever did, was to obey orders. It was very far from Romney's way to
leave a friend in a plight, but this he was called upon to do.
Whatever it meant, the driver seemed to understand, but to Romney, there
was something altogether too frail in the words _Sarenji loopni_ to send
a friend away with. The driver accepted his coin, closed the door of
the vehicle, and whipped away, leaving Romney standing alone under the
dim street light. He watched the vehicle out of sight, and began for
the first time to feel the effects of the night's activities. Under his
torn coat he was wet with blood. He transferred the packet of papers to
a safer pocket, lit his pipe thoughtfully, and then it occurred that he
must set out for Tientsin that night either by rail or the sea.
*5*
Minglapo was a dealer in inlays of wood and pearl and jewels. His shop
in Merchant's Square, Tientsin, was a still place of many riches.
Minglapo sat in the far shadows, an elderly Chinese of large unwrinkled
bulk and a voice like the wonderful water-music in Fingal's cave.
The large part of a week was required for Romney to reach this shop, for
they do not travel great distances over night as yet in China. When he
sat down before Minglapo his faculties at first were deeply occupied
with the problem of where he had seen this old master before. It dawned
upon him at last that he hadn't, but that Minglapo when he shut his eyes
was almost identical in feature and color with a death-mask of Beethoven
that had hung on his study-wall back in Palo Alto.
"I came from a gentleman named Dr. Ti Kung," Romney began.
Minglapo bowed.
"My orders were not very explicit. I believe that there was an
order-book that he asked me to deliver to you," the American resumed,
perfectly aware that a direct statement of facts would have
discountenanced the Oriental. "It was all very hurried at the last. He
was stricken with illness in the street, and turning to me, a
comparative stranger, asked me to deliver this package to you. With
that he was helped into a carriage and driven away."
"Yes," said Minglapo, raising his eyebrows just a trifle, "the
order-book--you have it?"
Romney was startled at the English, quick, concise--the speech of a
Chinese who had been among the younger peoples for many years. He drew
forth the yellow packet and gave it to the other.
Now Minglapo was sitting upon a raised dais, several sumptuous rugs
between him and the polished wood. He sat upon his limbs, and smoked
continuously.