Hills of Han 31

Hills of Han 31

He would have liked to express in his voice some thing of the desperate

tenderness that he felt. The experiences of the preceding evening and

of the afternoon just past--the glimpses he had had into the heart of

a girl, his little storms of anger against Mrs. Boatwright and all her

kind, followed in each instance by other little storms of anger against

himself--had finally swept him from the last rational mooring place out

into the bottomless, boundless sea of emotion. He had found himself,

already to-night, a storm-tossed soul without compass or bearings or

rudder. He burned to see Betty again. It had taken all that was left

of his will to keep from charging out once more across the city, out

through the wall, to the mission compound. He was shaken, humbled,

frightened. To such a nature as Brachey’s--stubbornly aloof from human

contacts, sensitively self-sufficient--this was really a terrible

experience. It was the worst storm of his life. He felt--had felt at

times during the evening, as he tried to brace himself for this scene

that he knew had to come within the twenty-four hours--something near

tenderness for the man who was Betty’s father. There were even moments

when he looked forward to the meeting with the hope that through the

father’s feelings he might be helped in finding his lost self.

 

He had tried, sitting among the shadows, to build up a picture of the

man. Several of these he had constructed, to meet each of which he

felt he could hold himself in a mental attitude of frankness and even

sympathy. But each of these pictures was but an elaboration of

familiar missionary types. All were what he considered--or once had

considered--weak, or over-earnest to the borders of fanaticism, or

cautious little men, or narrow formalists... men like Boatwright

And without realizing, it, too, he had counted on either real or

counterfeited Christian forbearance. The only thing he had feared might

come up to disturb him was intolerance, like that of Boatwright’s wife.

 

With that, of course, you couldn’t reason, couldn’t talk at all.... What

he really wanted to do, burned to do, was to tell the exact truth. He

had passed the point where he could give Betty up; he would have to

fight for her now, whatever happened. His one great fear had been

that Betty’s father would be incapable of entertaining the truth

dispassionately, fairly.

 

But the actual Doane cleared his over-charged brain as a mountain storm

will clear murky air. Here was a giant of a man who meant business. Back

of that strong face, back of the deep voice, Brachey felt a pressure

of anger. It was not Christian forbearance; it was vigor and something

more; something that perhaps, probably, would come out before they were

through with each other. There was a restless power in the man, a

wild animal pacing there behind the slightly clouded eyes. Even in the

blinding fire of his own love for Betty he could look out momentarily

and see or feel that this giant was burning too. And what he saw or

felt, turned his heart to ice and his brain to tempered metal. Sympathy

would have reached Brachey this night; weakness, blundering, might have

reached him. But now, of all occasions, he would not be intimidated.. ..

He felt the change coming over him, dreaded it, even resisted it; but

was powerless to check it. The man proposed to beat him down. No one had

ever yet done that to Jonathan Brachey. And so, though he tried to speak

with simple frankness in saying, “I came to see your daughter,” the

words came out coldly, tinged with defiance, between set lips.

 

It might easily mean a fight of some sort, Brachey reflected. This

mountain of a man could crush him, of course. Primitive emotion charged

the air as each deliberately stud’ed the other.... It would hardly

matter if he should be crushed. There were no police in T’airan to

protect white men from each other. His wife would be relieved; a queer,

bitter sob rose part way in his throat at the thought. There was no one

else... save Betty. Betty would care! And this man was her father! It

was terrible.... He was struggling now to attain a humility his austere

life had never known; if only he could trample down his savage pride,

hear the man out, swallow every insult! But in this struggle, at first,

he failed. Like a soldier he faced the huge fighting man with a pack on

his back.

 

“You knew my daughter on the steamer?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Before that--in America?”

 

“No.”

 

“There is something between you?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“You are a married man?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Doane, his face working a very little, his arms stiff and straight at

his sides, came a step nearer. Brachey lifted his chin and stared up the

more directly at him. “You seem to have a little honesty, at least.”

 

“I am honest.”

 

“How far has this gone?”

 

Brachey was silent.

 

Doane took another step.

 

“Why don’t I kill you?” he breathed.

 

It was then that Brachey first caught the full force of Doane’s

emotional torment. To say that he did not flinch, inwardly, would be

untrue; but all that Doane saw was a slight hesitation before the cold

reply came: “I can not answer that question.”

 

“You can answer the other. How far has this gone?”

 

Brachey again clamped his lips shut. The situation, to him, had become

inexplicable.

 

“Will you answer?”

 

“No.”

 

Doane’s eyes blazed down wildly. And Doane’s voice broke through the

restraint he had put upon it as he cried:

 

“Have you harmed my little girl?”

 

Brachey was still.

 

“Answer me!” Doane’s great hand came down on his shoulder. “Have you

harmed her?”

 

Brachey’s body trembled under that hand; he was fighting himself,

fighting the impulse to strike with his fists, to seize the lamp, a

chair, his walking stick; he held his breath; he could have tossed a

coin for his life; but then, wandering like a little lost breeze among

his bitter thoughts, came a beginning perception of the anguish in

this father’s heart. It confused him, softened him. His own voice was

unsteady as he replied: “Not in the sense you mean.”

 

“In what sense, then?”

 

Brachey broke away. Doane moved heavily after him, but stopped short

when the slighter man dropped wearily into a chair.

 

“I’m not going to attack you,” said Brachey, “but for God’s sake sit

down!”

 

“What did you mean by that?”

 

“Simply this.” Brachey’s head dropped on his hand; he stared at the

floor of rough tiles. “I love her. She knows it. She even seems to

return it. I have roused deep feelings in her. Perhaps in doing that I

have harmed her. I can’t say.”

 

“Is that all? You are telling me everything?”

 

“Everything.”

 

Doane walked across the room; came back; looked down at Brachey.

 

“You know how such men as you are regarded, of course?”

 

“No.... Oh, perhaps!”

 

“You will leave T’ainan, of course.”

 

“Well...”

 

“There is no question about that. You will leave.”

 

“There’s one question--a man dislikes to leave the woman he loves in

actual danger.”

 

An __EXPRESSION__ of bewilderment passed across Duane’s face.

 

“You admit that you are married?”

 

“Oh, yes!”

 

“Yet you speak as my daughter’s lover. Does the fact of your marriage

mean nothing to you?”

 

“Nothing whatever.”

 

“Oh, you are planning to fall back on the divorce court, perhaps?”

 

“Yes.” Brachey’s head came up then. “Does love mean nothing to you?” he

cried. “In your narrow, hard missionary heart is there no sympathy for

the emotions that seize on a man and a woman and break their wills and

shake them into submission?”

 

Looking up, he saw the color surge into Doane’s face. Anger rose there

again. The man seemed desperate, bitter. There was no way, apparently,

to handle him; he was a new sort.

 

Doane crossed the room again; came back to the middle. He seemed to be

biting his lip.

 

“I’ll have no more words from you,” he suddenly cried out. “You’ll go in

the morning! I’ll have to take your word that you won’t communicate with

Betty.”

 

“But, my God, I can’t just save myself--”

 

“It may not be so safe for you or any of us. Will you go?”

 

“Oh... yes!”

 

“You will not try to see Betty?”

 

“Not to-morrow.”

 

“Nor after.”