Hills of Han 42

Hills of Han 42

“Men do get through now and then.” Doane spoke with the quick

irritability of the man whose powers of nervous resistance have been

tried to the uttermost.

 

“You’re wounded. You must be tired.” Boatwright was quite incoherent.

“You’d better lie down. Here--take my bed! How did you ever find me? How

did you get in in the first place?”

 

“I’ll sit for a moment.” Duane lowered himself painfully to the bed.

“Betty is here?”

 

“Betty? Oh, yes! We’re all safe.”

 

“Where is she?”

 

“I--I don’t know exactly.”

 

“You don’t _know!_”

 

“Why, Madame Pourmont has been caring for her.”

 

“You mean that she is ill?”

 

“No. Oh, no! One moment. You’ve been hurt. I must tell the others. You

must have attention at once. Mary Cassin is right here--and my wife.”

The little man moved to the door. His color was returning now; he was

talking rapidly, out of a confused mind. “You must have had a terrible

time.”

 

“They left me for dead at the Hung Chan Gate. I crawled to the house of

a convert.” Doane’s great eyes, staring out of shadowy hollows, burned

with tragic memories. Those eyes held Boatwright fascinated; he shivered

slightly. “As soon as I felt able to travel I started toward T’ainan.

Several of our native people came with me, walking at night, biding by

day. On the way we learned that you had left. So I came here. I must see

Betty.”

 

“But not like this,” the little man blurted out. Doane’s eyes wandered

down over his muddy tattered clothing.

 

“I’ll call the others first,” said Boatwright He set down his candle on

the wash-stand, just inside the door, and slipped out.

 

Doane sat erect, without moving. His eyes stared at the candle and at

the grotesque wavering shadows of the wash-howl and pitcher on the wall.

At each small night sound he started nervously--the scratching of a

mouse, a voice in the compound, a distant sputter of shots.

 

Boatwright slipped back into the room.

 

“They’re coming,” he said breathlessly. “In a minute. Mary sleeps in

most of her clothes anyway, these days.”

 

“What is it about Betty?” Doane asked sharply.

 

“Oh--she’s quite all right. We don’t see much of her, not being in the

same house. We’re all pretty busy here, these days. It’s an ugly time.

I--I was just wondering. I don’t know what we can dress you in. You

could hardly wear my things. One of the Australians is nearly as big as

you. Perhaps in the morning...”

 

His voice had risen a little, nearly to the querulous, as he hurriedly

drew on his outer clothing. From the way his eyes wandered about the

room it appeared that his thoughts had run far afield. And he was clumsy

about the buttons. Even the intensely preoccupied Doane became aware of

this, and for a moment studied him with a puzzled look.

 

The little man’s tongue ran on. “Mary’ll fix you up for now. Sleep’ll

be the best thing. In the morning you can use my shaving things. And I’ll

look up that Australian.... There they are!”

 

He hurried to the door. Dr. Cassin came in, greeted

 

Griggsby Doane with a warm hand-clasp, and at once examined his

shoulder. Boatwright she sent over to the dispensary for bandages.

 

A moment later Mrs. Boatwright appeared, her strong person wrapped in a

quilted robe.

 

“This is a great relief,” she said. “We had given you up.”

 

Duane’s eyes fastened eagerly on this woman.

 

“Have you sent word to Betty?” he asked quickly.

 

Mrs. Boatwright looked at him for a moment, without replying, then moved

deliberately to the window.

 

“Please don’t move,” cautioned Dr. Cassin, who was working on his

shoulder.

 

“Have you sent word?” Doane shot the question after Mrs. Boatwright.

 

There was no reply.

 

“What is it?” cried Doane then.

 

“If you please!” said Dr. Cassin.

 

“Something is wrong! What is it?”

 

Mrs. Boatwright was standing squarely before the window now, looking out

into the dark courtyard.

 

“What is it? Tell me! Is she here?”

 

“Really, Mr Doane”--thus the physician--“I can not work if you move.

Yes, she is here.”

 

“But why do you act in this strange way?”

 

Dr. Cassin compressed her lips. All her working adult life had been

spent under the direction of this man. Never before had she seen him in

the slightest degree beaten down. She had never even seen him tired. In

her steady, objective mind he stood for unshakable, enduring strength.

But now, twitching nervously under her firm hands, staring out of

feverish eyes after the uncompromising woman by the window, his huge

frame emaciated, spent with loss of blood, with suffering and utter

physical and nervous exhaustion, he had reached, she knew’, at last, the

limits of his great strength. He had, perhaps, even passed those limits;

for there was a morbid condition evident in him, he seemed not wholly

sane, as if the trials he had passed through had been too great for his

iron will, or as if there was something else, some consuming fire in

him, burning secretly but strongly, out of control. All this she saw and

felt. His temperature was not dangerously high, slightly more than two

degrees above normal. His pulse was rapid, but no weaker than was to be

expected. Worry might explain it; worry for them all, but particularly

for Betty. Though she found this diagnosis not wholly satisfactory. Of

course it might be, after all, nothing more than exhaustion. Sleep was

the first thing. After that it would be a simpler matter to study his

case.

 

Then, starling up suddenly, wrenching himself free from her skilful

hands, Doane stood over her, staring past her at the woman by the

window’.

 

“Will you please go to Betty,” he said, in a voice that trembled with

feeling, “and tell her that I am here. Wake her. She must know at once.

And try to prepare her mind--she mustn’t see me first like this.”

 

There was a breathless pause. Then Mrs. Boatwright turned and moved

deliberately toward the door. Then she paused.

 

“You’ll see her?” cried the father. “At once?”

 

“No,” replied Mrs. Boatwright. “No. I am sorry. I would like to spare

you pain at this time, Griggsby Doane. But I do not feel that I can see

her. I’ll tell you though, what I will do. I’ll tell Monsieur Pourmont.”

And she went out.

 

2

 

She was closing the door when it abruptly opened. Elmer Boatwright

stood there, looking after his wife as she went along the dark hallway.

He came in then.

 

“I brought the bandages,” he said.

 

“You must sit down again,” said the physician.

 

Doane, evidently bewildered, obeyed. And she began bandaging his

shoulder.

 

He even sat quietly. He seemed to be making a determined effort to

control his thoughts. When he finally spoke he seemed almost his old

self.

 

“Elmer, something is wrong with Betty. Whatever it is, I have a right to

know.”

 

Boatwright cleared his throat.

 

Dr. Cassin broke the silence that followed.

 

“Mr. Doane,” she said, “sit still here and try to listen to what I am

going to tell you. We have been disturbed about Betty. I won’t attempt

to conceal that. This Mr. Brachey--”

 

“Brachey? Is he--”

 

“Please! You must keep quiet!”

 

“But what is it? Tell me--now!”

 

“I’m trying to. Mr. Brachey came to the compound the morning after you left--”