Hills of Han 4

Hills of Han 4

He was dreadful! Stilted, clumsy, slow! He hunted painstakingly for

words; and at each long pause Betty’s quick young nerves tightened and

tightened, mentally groping with him until the hunted word was run to

earth.

 

He was pounding on:

 

“This morning I overheard you talking with that young Chinaman. It is

evident that you speak the language.”

 

“Oh. yes,” Betty found herself saying, “I do.”

 

Not a word about the drawing.

 

“This young man, I gather, is in sympathy with the revolutionary

spirit.”

 

“He--he seems to be,” said Betty.

 

“Now... Miss Doane... this is of course an imposition...”

 

“Oh, no,” breathed Betty weakly.

 

“... it is, of course, an imposition... it would be a service I could

perhaps never repay...” This pause lasted so long that she heard herself

murmuring, “No, really, not at all!”--and then felt the color creeping

to her face... but if I might ask you to... but let me put it in this

way--the young man is precisely the type I have come out here to study.

You speak in the vernacular, and evidently understand him almost as a

native might. It is unlikely I shall find in China many such natural

interpreters as yourself. And of course... if it is thinkable that you

would be so extremely kind as to... why, of course, I...”

 

“Heavens!” thought Betty, in a panic, “he’s going to offer to pay me. I

mustn’t be rude.”

 

The man plodded on: “... why, of course, it would be a real pleasure to

mention your assistance in the preface of my book.”

 

It was partly luck, luck and innate courtesy, that she didn’t laugh

aloud. She broke, as it was, into words, saving herself and the

situation.

 

“You want me to act as interpreter? Of course Li knows a little

English.”

 

“Would he--er--know enough English for serious conversation?”

 

“No,” mused Betty aloud, “I don’t think he would.”

 

“Of course, Miss Doane, I quite realize that to take up your time in

this way....”

 

There he stopped. He was frowning now, and apparently studying out the

structural details of a huge junk that lay only a few hundred yards

away, reflected minutely, exquisitely--curving hull and deck cargo,

timbered stern, bat-wing sails--in the glass-like water.

 

“I’ll be glad to do what I can,” said Betty, helplessly. Then, for

the first time, she became aware that Mrs. Hasmer was stirring

uncomfortably on her other hand, and added, quickly, as much out of

nervousness as anything else--“We could arrange to have Li come up here

in the morning.”

 

“We shall be coaling at Nagasaki in the morning,” said he, abruptly, as

if that settled _that_.

 

“Well, of course,... this afternoon....

 

“My dear,” began Mrs. Hasmer.

 

“This afternoon would be better.” Thus Mr. Brachey. “Though I can not

tell you what hesitation...”

 

“I suppose we could find a quiet corner somewhere,” said Betty. “In the

social hall, perhaps.”

 

It was then, stirred to positive act, that Mrs. Hasmer spoke out.

 

“I think you’d better stay out here with us, my dear.”

 

To which the hopelessly self-absorbed Mr. Brachey replied:

 

“I really must have quiet for this work. We will sit inside, if you

don’t mind.”

 

5

 

At half past four Mrs. Hasmer sent her husband to look into the

situation. He reported that they were hard at it. Betty looked a little

tired, but was laboriously repeating Li Hsien’s words, in English, in

order that Mr. Brachcy might take them down in what appeared to be a

sort of shorthand. Doctor Hasmer didn’t see how he could say anything.

Not very well. They hadn’t so much as noticed him, though he stood near

by for a few moments.

 

Which report Mrs. Hasmer found masculine and unsatisfactory. At five she

went herself; took her Battenberg hoop and sat near by. Betty saw her,

and smiled. She looked distinctly a little wan.

 

The journalist ignored Mrs. Hasmer. He was a merciless driver. Whenever

Betty’s attention wandered, as it had begun doing, he put his questions

bruskly, even sharply, to call her back to the task.

 

Four bells sounded, up forward. Mrs. Hasmer started; and, as always when

she heard the ship’s bell, consulted her watch. Six o’clock!... She put

down her hoop; fidgetted; got up; sat down again; told herself she must

consider the situation calmly. It must be taken in hand, of course.

The man was a mannerless brute. He had distinctly encroached. He would

encroach further. He must be met firmly, at once. She tried to think

precisely how he could be met.

 

She got up again; stood over them. She didn’t know that her face was a

lens through which any and all might read her perturbed spirit.

 

Betty glanced up; smiled faintly; drew a long breath.

 

Li Hsien rose and bowed, clasping his hands before his breast.

 

Mr. Bradley was writing.

 

Mrs. Hasmer had tried to construct a little speech that, however final,

would meet the forms of courtesy. It left her now. She said with blank

firmness:

 

“Come, Betty!”

 

“One moment!” protested Mr. Brachey. “Will you please ask him, Miss

Duane, whether he believes that the general use of opium has appreciably

lowered the vitality of the Chinese people? That is, to put it

conversely, whether the curtailment of production is going to leave a

people too weakened to act strongly in a military or even political

way? Surveying the empire as a whole, of course.”

 

Betty’s thoughts, which had wandered hopelessly afield, came struggling

back.

 

“I--I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m afraid I didn’t quite hear.”

 

“I must ask you to come with me, Betty,” said Mrs. Hasmer.

 

At this, looking heavily disappointed, Mr. Brachey rose; ran a long bony

hand through his thick hair.

 

“We could take it up in the morning,” he said, turning from the bland

young Chinaman to the plainly confused girl. “That is, if Miss Doane

wouldn’t mind staying on the ship. I presume she has seen Nagasaki.”

 

His perturbed eyes moved at last to the little elderly lady who had

seemed so colorless and mild; met hers, which were, of a sudden,

snapping coals.

 

“You will not take it up again, sir!” cried Mrs. Hasmer; and left with

the girl.

 

The Chinaman smiled, clasped his hands, bowed with impenetrable

courtesy, and withdrew’ to his quarters.

 

Mr. Brachey, alone, looked over his notes with a frown; shook his head;

went down to dress for dinner.

 

6

 

Late that night Betty sat in her tiny stateroom, indulging rebellious

thoughts. It was time, after an awkwardly silent evening, to go to bed.

But instead she now slipped into her heavy traveling coat, pulled on her

tam-o’-shanter, tiptoed past the Hasmers’ door and went out on deck.

 

It was dim and peaceful there. The throb of the engines and the wash of

water along the hull were the only sounds. They were in the strait now,

heading out to sea.

 

She walked around the deck, and around. It was her first free

moment since they left the Pacific ship at Yokohama. After that very

quietly--sweetly, even--the chaperonage of Mrs. Hasmer had tightened.

For Betty the experience was new and difficult. She felt that she ought

to submit. But the rebellion in her breast, if wrong, was real. She

would walk it off.

 

Then she met Mr. Brachey coming out of the smoking-room. Both stopped.

 

“Oh!” said he.

 

“I was just getting a breath of air,” said she.

 

Then they moved to the rail and leaned there, gazing off at the faintly

moonlit land.

 

He asked, in his cold way, how she had learned Chinese.

 

“I was born at T’ainan-fu,” she explained. “My father is a missionary.”

 

“Oh,” said he. And again, “Oh!”

 

Then they fell silent. Her impulse at first was to make talk. She did

murmur, “I really ought to be going in.” But he, apparently, found talk

unnecessary. And she stayed on, looking now down at the iridescent foam

slipping past the black hull, now up into the luminous night.