Hills of Han 38

Hills of Han 38

It was “hard to say.” But he found objective thought helpful. Emotion

seemed, this night, not unlike a consuming fire. Emotion was, in its

nature, desire. It led toward destruction.

 

He even made himself sleep a little, in a chair; until John knocked, at

seven. Then he changed from evening dress to knickerbockers. His spirit

had now sunk so low that he had John serve them separately with

breakfast.

 

When the caravan was ready he went out to the courtyard and busied

himself preparing the litter for her. She came out with John, very

white, glancing at him with a timid question in her eyes. In his

stiffest manner he handed her into the litter.

 

Then, accompanied by three soldiers, they swung out on the highway. The

fourth soldier joined them outside the wall; him Brachey had sent to the

telegraph station with a message to his Shanghai bankers advising them

that his address would be in care of M. Pourmont, the Ho Shan Company,

Ping Yang, Hansi, and further that cablegrams from America were to be

forwarded immediately by wire.

 

4

 

Only at intervals during the forenoon did Betty and Brachey speak; for

the most part he rode ahead of the litter. The luncheon hour was

awkward; the dinner hour, when they had settled at their second inn, was

even more difficult. They sat over their tin plates and cups in gloomy

silence.

 

Finally Betty pushed her plate away, and rose; went over to the papered

window and stared out.

 

Brachey got slowly to his feet; stood by the table. He couldn’t raise

his eyes; he could only study the outline of his plate and move it a

little, this way and that, and pick up crumbs from the table-cloth. His

mind was leaden; the sense of unreality that had come to him on the

preceding day was now at a grotesque climax. He literally could not

think. This, he felt, was the final severe test of his character, and it

exhibited him as a failure. He was then, after all, a lone wolf; his

instinct had been sound at the start, his nature lacked the quality, the

warmth and richness of feeling, that the man who would claim a woman’s

love must offer her. He could suffer--the pain that even now, as he

stood listless there, downcast, heavily fingering a tin plate, was

torturing him to the limits of his capacity to endure, told him that--

out suffering seemed a poor gift to bring the woman he loved. ... And

here they were, unable to turn back. It was unthinkable; yet it was

true. His reason kept thundering at his ear the perhaps tragic fact that

his spirit was unable to grasp.... Braehey, during this hour--with a

bitterness so deep as to border on despair--told himself that his lack

amounted to abnormality. His case seemed quite hopeless. Yet here he

was; and here, irrevocably, was she. The harm, whatever it might prove

to be, and in spite of his sensitive, fire conquest of them emotional

problem (at such a price, this!) was done. And there were no

compensations. Here they were, lost, groping helplessly toward each

other through a dark labyrinth.

 

Even when she turned (he heard her, and felt her eyes) he could not look

up.

 

Then he heard her voice; an unsteady voice, very low; and he felt again

the simple honesty, the naively child-like quality, that had seemed her

finest gift. It was the artist strain in her, of course. She was not

ashamed of her feeling, of her tears; there had never been pretense or

self-consciousness in her. And while she now, at first, uttered merely

his name--‘“John!”--his inner ear heard her saying again, as she had

said during their first talk in the tennis court--“I wonder if it is

like a net.”... Yes, she seemed to be saying that again.

 

But he was speaking; out of a thick throat:

 

“Yes?”

 

“What are we to do?”

 

He met this with a sort of mental dishonesty that he found himself

unable to avoid. “Well--if all goes well, we shall be safe at Ping Yang

within forty-eight hours.”

 

“I don’t mean that.”

 

“Well...”

 

“I shouldn’t have come.”

 

“I couldn’t leave you there, dear. Not there at T’ainan.”

 

“It wasn’t you who made the decision.”

 

“Oh, yes--”

 

“No, I did it. It seemed the thing to do.”

 

He managed to look up now, but could not knowhow coolly impenetrable he

appeared to be. “It _was_ the thing.”

 

She slowly shook her head. “No... no, I shouldn’t have come.”

 

“I can’t let you say that.”

 

“It’s true. Can’t we be honest?”

 

The question stung him. He dropped again into his chair and sat for a

brief time, thinking, thinking, in that, to her, terribly deliberate way

of his.

 

“You’re right,” he finally came out. “We’ve got to be honest. It’s

the only thing left to us, apparently... The mistake lay back there in

T’ainan. Our first talk in the tennis court. I knew then that the thing

for me to do was to go.”

 

“I didn’t let you.”

 

“But I should have. That situation was the same as this, only then we

hadn’t crossed our Rubicon. Now w e have. Don’t you see? This situation

has followed that, inevitably. And now we no longer have the power to

choose. We’ve got to go on, at least as far as Ping Yang. But we mustn’t

be together...”

 

She glanced at him, then away.

 

“--no, not even like this. We have no right to indulge our moods. I’m

going to be really honest now. We’re in danger from these natives, yes.

But that’s a small thing.”

 

She moved a hand. “Of course...” she murmured.

 

“The real danger is to you. And from me. Oh, my God, child, you’re

in danger from me!” He covered his face with his hands; then, after a

moment, steadied himself, and rose. “I can’t stay here and talk with you

like this. I can’t even help you. Already I’ve injured your name beyond

repair.”

 

She broke in here with a low-voiced remark the mature character of which

he did not, in his self-absorption, catch. “I don’t believe you know

modern girls very well.”

 

He went on: “So you see, I’ve hurt you, and now, when you need me

most--oh, I know that!--I’m fading you. It’s been a terrible mistake.

But it’s my job to get you to Ping Yang. That’s all. No good talking.

I’ll go now’.”

 

“I wish you wouldn’t.”

 

“I must. I--there we are! I’m failing you, that’s all.”

 

“I wonder if we’re talking--or thinking--about the same things.”

 

“Child, you’re young! You don’t understand! You don’t seem to see how

I’ve hurt you!”

 

“I think I see what you mean. But that--it might be difficult, of

course, for a while, but it isn’t what I’ve been thinking of. No, please

let me say this! It wouldn’t be fair not to give me my chance to be

honest too. As for that--hurting me--I came with my eyes open.”

 

“Oh, Betty--”

 

“Please! I did. I deliberately decided to come with you. I knew they’d

talk, but I didn’t care--much. You see I had already made up my mind

that we were to be married. We’d have to be, once you were free. The way

we’ve felt. You came way out here, and then you didn’t go.”

 

“That was weakness.”

 

“You can call it weakness, or something else. But I’m in the same boat.

And if we couldn’t let each other go then, it was bound to grow harder

every day. I had to recognize that. That was where I crossed my Rubicon.

Nothing else mattered very much after that. I came with you because I

was all alone, and miserable, and--oh, I may as well say it...”

 

“Oh, yes, honesty’s the only thing now.”

 

“Well, I simply had to. I couldn’t face life any other way. I’ve been

thinking it over and over and over. I see it now. I was just selfish.

Love is selfishness, apparently. I fastened myself on you. I knew you

had to have solitude, but I didn’t seem to care. Perhaps you’ve hurt me.

I don’t know. But I am beginning to see that I’ve wrecked your life. I’m

your job, now, just as you said. All those things you said on the ship

have been coming up in my mind yesterday and to-day. Don’t you suppose

I can see it? My whole life right now is a demand on you.” Her tone was

not bitter, but sad, unutterably sad. “You said, ‘Strength is better.’

I’m running up with you now a ‘spiritual’ debt greater than I can ever

pay. You said, ‘If any friend of mine--man or woman---can’t win his own

battles, he or she had better go. To hell, if it comes to that.’”

 

She was looking full at him now, wide-eyed, standing rigid, her hands

extended a little way.

 

There was a long silence; then, abruptly, without a word, without even a

change of __EXPRESSION__ on his gloomy face, he left the room.