Hills of Han 25

Hills of Han 25

The wife of that little man now caught the look on Betty’s face, the

sudden light in her eyes, and rose, alarmed, to her feet. Taking in the

situation, she said:

 

“I shall send something up to your room.”

 

Betty moved her head wanly in the negative. It was no use explaining to

this woman that she couldn’t think of food. She moved slowly toward the

door. She was unexpectedly tired.

 

“Where are you going?” asked the older woman shortly.

 

“I’ve got to be by myself,” said Betty, apparently less resentful now.

It was more a rather faint statement of fact. And she went on out, not

so much as answering Mrs. Boatwright’s final “But you will not promise?”

It wasn’t even certain that she heard.

 

3

 

Mrs. Boatwright stood thinking. Betty had run up the stairs. The two

men were coming slowly across the courtyard, talking. Or her husband

was talking; she could hear his light voice. The other man was silent;

a gloomy figure in knickerbockers. She studied him. Already he was

catalogued in her mind, and permanently. For nothing that might happen

to present Brachey in another light could ever, now, shake her judgment

of him. No new evidence of ability or integrity in the man or of genuine

misfortune in marriage, would influence her. No play of sympathy, no

tolerant reflectiveness, would for a moment occupy her mind. She was a

New Englander, with the old non-conformist British insistence on conduct

and duty bred in her bone. Her emotional nature was almost the granite

of her native lulls. And she was strong as that granite. She feared

nothing, shrank from nothing, that could be classified as duty. No

Latin flexibility ever softened her vigorous __EXPRESSION__ of independent

thought. Her duty, now, was clear.

 

She went out into the hall and opened the door.

 

The two men were just mounting the steps.

 

“My dear,” began her husband, sensing her mood, glancing up

apprehensively, “this is Mr. Brachey. He--

 

“Yes,” said she, standing squarely in the doorway, “I understand. Mr.

Brachey, I can not receive you in this house. You, of course, know why.

I must ask you to go at once.”

 

Then she simply waited; commandingly. From her eyes blazed honest,

invincible anger.

 

Mr. Boatwright caught his breath; stood motionless, very white; finally

murmured:

 

“But, my dear, I’m sure you...”

 

His wife merely glanced at him.

 

Brachey stood as she had caught him, on the steps, one foot above the

other. His face was __EXPRESSION__less. His eyes fastened on the woman a

gaze that might have meant no more than cold curiosity, growing slowly

into contempt. Then, after a moment, as quietly, he turned and descended

the steps.

 

Boatwright caught his arm.

 

“Really, Mr. Brachey--”

 

“Elmer!” cried his wife shortly. “Let him go!”

 

But Brachey had already shaken off the detaining hand. He marched

straight across the court, stepped into the gate house, and disappeared.

 

Betty, all hurt confusion, had lingered in the second floor hall. At the

first sound of Mrs. Boatwright’s firm voice, she stepped, her brain a

tangle of little indecisions, to the stair rail.

 

She ran lightly to the front window and watched Jonathan Brachey as he

walked away. Then she shut herself in her own room, telling herself that

the time had come to think it all out. But she couldn’t think.

 

Against the granite in Mrs. Boatwright Betty, who understood herself not

at all, had to set a quick strong impulsiveness that was certain, given

a little time, to work out in positive act. Very little time indeed now

intervened between impulse and act. She scribbled a note, in pencil:

 

“Dear Mr. Brachey--I am going out to sketch in the tennis court. You

can reach it by the little side street just beyond our gate house as you

come from the city. Please do come!--Betty D.”

 

She went down the stairs again, portfolio under arm, and on to the gate

house. Sun, as she had thought, knew at which inn the white gentleman

was stopping, and at Miss Doane’s request sent a boy with the chit.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XI--EMOTION

 

BRACHEY came suddenly into view, around the corner of the wall from the

little side street.

 

He was dressed almost stiffly--not in knickerbockers now, but in what

would be called at home a business suit, with stiff white collar and a

soft but correct hat; and he carried a stick--like an Englishman, Betty

thought, careful to the last of appearances. As if there were no

such thing as danger; only stability. She might have been back in the

comfortable New Jersey town and he a casual caller. And then, after

taking him in, in a quick conflict of moods that left her breathless,

she glanced hurriedly about. But only the blank compound wall met her

gaze, and tile roofs, with the chimneys of the higher mission house

peeping above foliage. The gate was but a narrow opening, near the

farther end of the tennis court. No one could see. For that matter, it

was to be doubted that any one in the compound knew she was here. And

beyond the little street stood another blank wall.... And he had come!

 

She could not know that she seemed very composed as she laid her

portfolio on the camp stool and rose. Then her hand was in his. Her

voice said:

 

“It was nice of you to come. But--”

 

“When I asked for a meeting--for one meeting....” Her eyes were down; he

was set, as for a formal speech.... “It was, as you may imagine, because

a matter has arisen that seems to me of the greatest importance.”

 

She wondered what made him talk like that. As if determined to appeal to

her mind. She couldn’t listen; not with her mind; she was all feeling.

He was a stranger, this man. Yet she had thought tenderly of him. It was

difficult.

 

“You didn’t come alone?” she asked, unaware that her manner, too, was

formal.

 

“Yes. Oh, yes! I know the way.”

 

“But it isn’t safe. When I wrote... I heard what Mrs. Boatwright said. I

was angry.”

 

“She was very rude.”

 

“It seemed as if I ought to get word to you--after that. I promised, of

course.”

 

“But your note surprised me.”

 

“You thought I wouldn’t keep my promise?”

 

“I wasn’t sure that you could.”

 

“If you hadn’t heard from me, what would you have done?”

 

“I should have left T’ainan this afternoon.”

 

“But how could you? Where could you go?”

 

“The provincial judge has assigned four soldiers to me. He was most

courteous. He wants me to publish articles in America and England

against the Ho Shan Company. He seems a very astute man. And he sent

runners to the inn just now with presents.”

 

“Oh--what were they?”

 

“Some old tins of sauerkraut. A German traveler must have left them

here.”

 

Betty smiled. Then, sober again, said:

 

“But you should have brought the soldiers with, you.”

 

“Oh, no. I preferred being alone.”

 

“But I don’t think you understand. It isn’t safe to go about alone now.

Not if you’re a white man. I don’t like to think that I’ve put you in

danger.”

 

“You haven’t. It doesn’t matter. As I was about to tell you... you must

understand that I assume no interest on your part--I can’t do that,

of course--but after what happened, that night on the ship...” He was

ha\ing difficulty with this set speech of his. Betty averted her face to

hide the warm color that came. Why on earth need he come out with it so

heavily! Whatever had happened had happened, that was all!... His voice

was going on. Something about a divorce. He was to be free shortly. He

said that. He sounded almost cold about it, deliberate. And he had

come clear out here to T’ainan just to say that. He _was_ assuming, of

course. To a painful degree. He seemed to feel that he owed it to her

to make some sort of payment... for kissing her... and the payment,

apparently, was to be himself. She was moved by a little wave of anger.

She managed to say:

 

“We won’t talk about that.”

 

“I felt that I must tell you. I’ll go now, of course.”

 

“But...”

 

“As soon as I am free I shall write you. I will ask you, then, to be my

wife.”

 

He drew himself up, at this, stiffly.

 

Betty’s blush was a flush now. She gathered up her drawing tilings;

deliberately arranged the sheets of paper in the portfolio.

 

“I shall say good-by...

 

“Wait,” said Betty, rather shortly, not looking up “You mustn’t go like

this.”