Hills of Han 23

Hills of Han 23

“I have no information from my boys.”

 

“Seven years ago”--thus Mr. Boatwright, huskily, “they killed all but

a few of us. Now the trouble has started again--a similar trouble They

attacked our station up at So T’ung yesterday. Mr. Doane is on his way

there now. He left this noon. That is why they referred your case to

me. Oh. yes, I should have told you--the tao-tai, Chang Chili Ting, has

asked me to get from you an explanation of your appearance here without

a passport. But perhaps your card explains. You come simply as a

journalist?”

 

Brachey bowed.

 

“You have no connection w ith the Ho Shan Company?”

 

“None”

 

“Chang is taking up your case this evening with the provincial judge,

Pao Ting Chuan. Pao is to give you an audience to-morrow, I believe,

at noon. I will act as your interpreter.” Mr. Boatwright paused, and

sighed. “I am very busy.”

 

“I regret this intrusion on your time,” said Brachey. It was impossible

for him to be more than barely courteous to such a man as this.

 

“Oh, that’s all right,” Boatwright replied vaguely. “The audience will

probably be at noon. Then you will come back here with me for tiffin.”

He sighed again; then went on. “They shot one of Pourmont’s white men.

Through the lungs.... You must have seen Pourmont at Ping Yang, as you

came through.”

 

“I called on him.”

 

“Didn’t he tell you?”

 

“No. He advised against my coming on.”

 

“Of course. It’s really very difficult. He wants us all to get out, as

far as his compound. But, you see, our predicament is delicate. Already

they’ve attacked one of our outposts. But the trouble may not spread. We

can’t draw in our people and leave at the first sign of difficulty. It

would be interpreted as weakness not only on our part but on the part

of all the white governments as well. Mr. Doane, I know”--he said this

rather regretfully--“would never consent to that.... Mr. Doane is a

strong man. We shall all breathe a little more easily when he is safely

back. If he should not get back--well, you will see that I must face

this situation---the decision would fall on me. That’s why I asked you

for news. I have to consider the problem from every angle. We have other

stations about the province and we must plan to draw all our people in

before we can even consider a general retreat.”

 

Brachey heard part of this. He wished the man would keep still: His

own racing thoughts were with that pale girl in the hall. Was she still

there? He must plan. He must be prepared with something to say, if they

should meet face to face.

 

As it turned out, they met on the stairs. Betty was coming up. She

paused; looked up, then down. The color stole back into her face;

flooded it. She raised her hand, hesitatingly.

 

[Illustration: 0179]

 

Brachey heard and felt the surprise of Boatwright, behind him. The

little man said:

 

“Oh!”

 

Brachey felt the warm little hand in his. It should have been, easy to

explain their acquaintance; to speak of the ship, ask after the Hasmers.

In the event, however, it proved impossible, all he could say--he heard

the dry hard tones issuing from his own lips:

 

“Oh, how do you do! How have you been?”

 

Betty said, after too long a pause, glancing up momentarily at Mr.

Boatwright:

 

“Mr. Brachey was on the steamer.”

 

It was odd, that little situation. It might so easily have escaped being

a situation, had not their own turbulent hearts made it so. But now, of

course, neither could explain why they hadn’t spoke before he went into

the study. And little, distrait Mr. Boatwright was wide-eyed.

 

The situation passed from mildly bad to a little worse. Betty went on up

the stairs; and Brachey went down.

 

The casual parting came upon Brachey like a tragedy. It was unthinkable.

Something personal he must say. On the morrow it might be worse, with a

whole household crowding about. It was a question if he could face her

at all, that way. He got to the bottom step; then, with an apparently

offhand, “I beg your pardon!” brushed past the now openly astonished

Boatwright and bolted back up the stairs.

 

Betty moved a little way along the upper hall; hesitated; glanced back.

 

He spoke, low, in her ear. “I must see you!”

 

Her head inclined a little.

 

“Once! I must see you once. I can’t leave it this way. Then I will go.

To-morrow--at tiffin--if we can’t talk together--you must give me some

word. A note, perhaps, telling me how I can see you alone. There is one

thing I must tell you.”

 

“Please!” she murmured. There were tears in her eyes. They scalded his

own high-beating heart, those tears.

 

“You will plan it? I am helpless. But I must see you--tell you!”

 

He thought her head inclined again.

 

“You will? You’ll give me a note? Oh, promise!”

 

“Yes,” she whispered; and slipped away into another room.

 

So this is why he had to come to T’ainan-fu--to tell her the tremendous

news that he would one day be free! And she had promised to arrange a

meeting!

 

Never in all his cold life had Jonathan Brachey experienced such a

thrill as followed that soft “Yes.”

 

Not a word passed between him and Boatwright until they stood in the

gate house. Then, for an instant, their eyes met. He had to fight back

the burning triumph that was in his own. But the little man seemed glad

to look away; he was even evasive.

 

“You’d better be around about half past eleven in the morning,” said

he. “We’ll go to the yamen from here. We must have blue carts and the

extra servants. Good night.” And again he sighed.

 

That was all. Boatwright let him go like that, back to the dirty,

dangerous native inn.

 

He fell in behind the leading soldier, holding his umbrella high and

marching stiffly, like a conqueror, through the sucking mud.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER X--GRANITE

 

 

1

 

BETTY did not get down for breakfast in the morning. And Mrs. Boatwright

sent nothing up.

 

It was close upon noon when Betty, sketching portfolio under arm, came

slowly down the stairs. Mrs. Boatwright, at her desk in the front room,

glanced up, called:

 

“Oh, Betty--just a moment!”

 

The girl stood in the doorway. She looked so slim and small and, even,

childlike, that the older woman, to whom responsibility for all things

and persons about her was a habit, knit her heavy brows slightly. What

on earth were you to do with the child? What had Griggsby Doane been

thinking of in bringing her out here? Anything, almost, would have been

better. And just now, of all times!

 

“Would you mind coming in? There’s a question or two I’d like to ask

you.”

 

Betty paused by a rocking chair of black walnut that was upholstered in

crimson plush; fingered the crimson fringe. Mrs. Boatwright was marking

out a geometrical pattern on the back of an envelope; frowning down at

it. The silence grew heavy.

 

Finally Mrs. Boatwright, never light of hand, rame out with:

 

“This Mr. Brachey--who is he?”

 

Betty’s fringed lids moved swiftly up; dropped again. “He--he’s a

writer, a journalist.”

 

“You knew him on the ship?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“You knew him pretty well?”

 

“I--saw something of him.”

 

“Do you know why he came out here?”

 

Betty was silent.

 

“Do you know?”

 

“I should think you would ask him.”

 

Mrs. Boatwright considered this. The girl was selfconscious, a little.

And quietly--very quietly--hostile. Or perhaps merely on the defensive.

 

“Then you do know?”

 

“No,” replied Betty, with that same very quiet gravity, “I can’t say

that I do. He is studying China, of course. He came from America to do

that, I understand.”

 

“Did you know he was coming out here?”

 

Betty slowly shook her head.

 

“Have you been corresponding with him?”

 

Another silence. Then this from Betty, without heat: