Hills of Han 12

Hills of Han 12

He thought, at times rather grimly, of the trials for heresy that now

and then rocked the church; and wondered, as grimly, how soon the heresy

hunters would be getting around to him. The smallest incident might,

sooner or later would, set them after him.

 

Henry Withery was certain, in spite of his personal loyalty, out of his

very concern, to drop a word. And there was literally no word he could

drop, after their talk, but would indicate potential heresy in his

friend, James Griggsby Doane.

 

Or it might come from within the compound. Or from a passing stranger.

Or from remarks of his own at the annual conference. Or from letters.

 

There were moments when he could have invited exposure as a relief from

doubt and torment of soul. There was nothing of the hypocrite in him.

But in soberer moments he felt certain that it was letter to wait until

he could find, if not divine guidance, at least an intelligent earthly

plan.

 

All he could do, as it stood, was to work harder and harder with body

and mind. And to shoulder more and more responsibility. Without that he

would be like a wild engine, charging to destruction.

 

His daughter would be, for a time certainly, one more burden. He was

glad. Anything that would bring life real again! Work above all; every

waking moment, if possible, filled; his mental and physical powers taxed

to their uttermost; that was the thing; crowd out the brooding, the

mere feeling. Action, all the time, and hard, objective thought. The

difficulty was that his powers were so great; he seemed never to tire

any more; his thoughts could dwell on many planes at once; he actually

needed but a few hours’ sleep.... And so Betty would be a young woman

now, mysteriously as old as her mother on her wedding day: a young woman

of unknown interests and sympathies, of a world he himself had all but

ceased to know. And it came upon him suddenly, then with tremendous

emotional force, that he had no heritage to leave her but a good name.

 

He stood gripping the railing, head back, gazing up out of misty eyes at

a white-flecked blue sky. A prayer arose from his heart and, a whisper,

passed his lips: “O God, show me Thy truth, that it may set me.”

 

In the intensity of his brooding he had forgotten to watch for

the steamer. But now he became aware of a stir of life along the

river-front. The beggars were paddling out into the stream, making ready

their little baskets at the ends of bamboo poles.

 

Over the cliffs, down-stream, hung a long film of smoke. The steamer had

rounded the bend and was plowing rapidly up toward the twin cities. He

could make out the two white stripes on the funnel, and the cluster of

ventilators about it, and the new canvas across the front of the bridge.

A moment later he could see the tiny figures crowding the rail.

 

The steamer warped in alongside a new wharf.

 

Doane stood near the gangway, all emotion, nearly out of control.

 

From below hundreds of coolies, countrymen and ragged soldiers swarmed

up, to be herded off at one side of the wharf. The local coolies went

aboard and promptly started unloading freight, handling crates and bales

of half a ton weight with the quick, half grunted, half sung chanteys,

intricately rhythmical, with which all heavy labor is accompanied in the

Yangtse Valley.

 

Two spectacled Chinese merchants in shimmering silk robes came down the

gangway. A tall American, in civilian dress and overcoat but carrying

a leather sword case, followed. Two missionaries came, one in Chinese

dress with a cue attached to his skull-cap, bowing to the stern giant as

they passed. Then a French father in black robe and shovel hat; a group

of Englishmen; a number of families, American, British, French; and

finally, coming along the shaded deck, the familiar kindly face and

silvery heard of Doctor Hasmer--he was distinctly growing older,

Hasmer--then his wife, and, emerging from the cabin, a slim little

figure, rather smartly dressed, extraordinarily pretty, radiating a

quick charm as she hurried to the gangway, there pausing a moment to

search the wharf.

 

Her eyes met his. She smiled.

 

It was Betty. He felt her charm, but his heart was sinking.

 

She kissed him. She seemed all enthusiasm, even very happy. But a moment

later, walking along the wharf toward the Bund, her soft little face was

sad. He wondered, as his thoughts whirled around, about that.

 

Her clothes, her beauty, her bright manner, indicating a girlish

eagerness to be admired, wouldn’t do at the mission. And she couldn’t

wear those trim little shoes with heels half an inch higher than a

man’s.

 

She had, definitely, the gift and the thought of adorning herself. She

was a good girl; there was stuff in her. But it wouldn’t do; not out

there in T’ainan. And she looked like anything in the world but a

teacher.

 

She fascinated him. She was the lovely creature his own little girl

had become. Walking beside her up the Bund, chatting with the Hasmers,

making a fair show of calm, his heart swelled with love and pride. She

was delicate, shyly adorable, gently feminine.

 

It was going to be difficult to speak about her costume and her charming

ways. It wouldn’t do to crush her. She was quick enough; very likely she

would pick up the tone of the compound very quickly and adapt herself to

it.

 

3

 

Young Li Hsien, of T’ainan had come up on the boat. Doans talked a

moment with him on the wharf. He was taking the Peking Express in the

morning, traveling first-class. The boy’s father was a wealthy banker

and had always been generous with his firstborn son.

 

Li appeared in the dining-car at noon, calmly smiling, and, at Doane’s

imitation, sat with him and Betty. He carried a copy of _Thus Spake

Zarathustra_, in English, with a large number of protruding paper

bookmarks.

 

Doane glanced in some surprise at the volume lying rather ostentatiously

on the table, and then at the pigtailed young man who ate foreign food

with an eagerness and a relish that indicated an excited interest in

novel experiment not commonly found among his race.

 

They talked in Chinese. Li had much to say of the Japanese. He admired

them for adopting and adapting to their own purposes the material

achievements of the Western world. He had evidently heard something of

Theodore Roosevelt and rather less of Lloyd George and Karl Marx. Doane

was of the opinion, later, that during the tiffin hour the lad had told

all he had learned in six months at Tokio. When asked why he was not

finishing out his college year he smiled enigmatically and spoke of

duties at home. He knew, of course, that Doane would instantly dismiss

the reason as meaningless; it was his Chinese way of suggesting that he

preferred not to answer the question.

 

Twenty-four hours later they transferred their luggage to the Hansi

Line, and headed westward into the red hills; passing, within an hour,

through the southern extension of the Great Wall, now a ruin. The night

was passed in M. Pourmont’s compound at Ping Yang. After this there were

two other nights in ancient, unpleasant village inns.

 

Duane made every effort to lessen the discomforts of the journey.

Outwardly kind, inwardly emotions fought with one another. He felt now

that he should never have sent for Betty; never in the world She seemed

to have had no practical training. She grew quiet and wistful as the

journey proceeded. The little outbreaks of enthusiasm over this or that

half-remembered glimpse of native life came less frequently from day to

day.

 

There were a number of young men at Ping Yang; one French engineer who

spoke excellent English; an Australian; others, and two or three young

matrons who had adventurously accompanied their husbands into the

interior. They all called in the evening. The hospitable Pourmont took

up rugs and turned on the talking-machine, and the young people danced.

 

Doane sat apart, watched the gracefully gliding couples; tried to smile.

The dance was on, Betty in the thick of it, before he realized what

was meant. He couldn’t have spoken without others hearing. It was plain

enough that she entered into it without a thought; though as the

evening wore on he thought she glanced at him, now and then, rather

thoughtfully. And he found himself, at these moments, smiling with

greater determination and nodding at her.

 

The incident plunged him, curiously, swiftly, into the heart of his own

dilemma. He rested an elbow on a table and shaded his eyes, trying, as

he had been trying all these years, to think.

 

What a joyous little thing she was! What a fairy! And dancing seemed,

now, a means of __EXPRESSION__ for her youth and her gift of charm. And

there was an exquisite delight, he found, in watching her skill with the

young men. She was gay, quick, tactful. Clearly young men had, before

this, admired her. He wondered what sort of men.

 

She interrupted this brooding with one of those slightly perturbed

glances. Quickly he lowered his hand in order that she might see him

smile; but she had whirled away.

 

Joy!... Not before this moment, not in all the years of puzzled,

sometimes bitter thinking, had he realized the degree in which

mission life--for that matter, the very religion of his denominational

variety--shut joy out. They were afraid of it. They fought it. In their

hearts they associated it with vice It was of this world; their eyes

were turned wholly to another.

 

His teeth grated together. The muscles of his strong jaws moved; bunched

on his cheeks. He knew now that he believed in joy as an __EXPRESSION__ of

life.

 

Had he known where to turn for the money he would gladly have planned,

at this moment, to send Betty back to the States, give her more of an

education, even arrange for her to study drawing and painting. For on

the train, during their silences, she had sketched the French conductor,

the French-speaking Chinese porter, the sleepy, gray-brown, walled

villages, the wide, desert-like flats of the Hoang-Ho, the tumbling

hills. He was struck by her persistence at it; the girlish energy she

put into it.

 

That night, late, long after the music had stopped and the last guests