Hills of Han 44

Hills of Han 44

“This is the house, isn’t it?” he remarked; then turned in toward the

steps.

 

The door burst open then, and a huge shadowy figure plunged out. A

woman’s voice followed: “I must ask you to please come back, Mr. Doane.

Really, if you--”

 

At the name--“Mr. Doane”--Brachey stopped short (one foot was already on

the first of the three or four steps) and stiffened, his shoulders drawn

back, his head high, Doane, too, stopped, peering down.

 

“Mr. Doane,” said the younger man, firmly but perhaps in a slightly

louder tone than was necessary, “I am Jonathan Brachey.”

 

A hush fell on the group of them--Brachey waiting at the bottom step,

Boatwright just behind him. Dr. Cassin barely visible in the shadows of

the porch, silhouetted faintly against the light of a candle somewhere

within, and Griggsby Doane staring down in astonishment at the man who

stood looking straight up at him.

 

Brachey apparently was about to speak again. Perhaps he did begin.

Boatwright found it impossible afterward to explain in precise detail

just what took place. But the one clear fact was that Doane, with an

exclamation that was not a word, seemed to leap down the steps, waving

his stick about his head. There was the sound of a few heavy blows; and

then Brachey lay huddled in a heap on the the walk, and Doane stood over

him, breathing very hard..

 

Dr. Cassin hurried down the steps and knelt lie-side the silent figure

there. To Elmer Boatwright she said, briskly: “My medicine case is in

your room. Bring it at once, please? And bring water.”

 

Boatwright vaguely recalled, afterward, that he muttered, “I beg your

pardon,” as he finished past Doane and ran up the steps. And he heard

the sound of some, one running heavily toward them.

 

When he came out the scene was curiously changed.

 

Some of the natives were there, and one or two whites. An iron lantern

with many perforations to let out the candle-light stood on the tiles.

One of the Chinese held another. Dr. Cassin was seated on the ground

examining a wound on Brachey’s scalp; and the man himself was struggling

back toward consciousness, moving his arms restlessly, and muttering.

 

But the voice that dominated the little group that stood awkwardly about

was the voice of M. Pourmont.

 

Doane had sunk down on the steps, his head in his hands. And over him,

somewhat out of breath, gesturing emphatically with raised forefinger,

the engineer was speaking as follows:

 

“Monsieur Doane, it gives me ze great plaisir to know zat you do not

die. To you here I offair ze vel-come viz all my ‘eart. But zis I mus’

say. It is here _la guerre_. It is I who am here ze commandair. An’

I now’ comman’ you, Alonsieur Doane, zer mus’ be here no more of ze

mattair personel. We here fight togezzer, as one, not viz each ozzer.

You have made ze attack on a gentleman zat mus’ be spare’ to us, a

gentleman ver’ strong, ver’ brave, who fear nozzing at all. It is not

pairmit’ zat you make ‘arm at Monsieur Brashayee. Zis man is one I need.

It is on ‘im zat I lean.”

 

Here Boatwright found himself breaking in, all eagerness, all nerves:

 

“If you had only known how it was! Mr. Brachey insisted on coming

straight to you.”

 

“Monsieur Boatright, if you please! I mus’ have here ze quiet! Monsieur

Doane, you vill go at once to bed. It is so I order you. Go at once to

bed!” Doane slowly lifted his head and looked at M. Pour-munt. “Very

well,” he said quietly. “You are right, of course.” On these last few

words his voice broke, but he at once recovered control of it. He rose,

with an effort, moved a few slow steps, hesitated, then got painfully

down on one knee beside the limp groaning figure on the walk. He looked

directly at Dr. Cassin, as he said:

 

“Is he badly hurt?”

 

“I don’t think so,” replied the physician simply, wholly herself. “The

skull doesn’t seem to be fractured. We may find some concussion, of

course.” Doane’s breath whistled convulsively inward. He knelt there,

silent, watching the deft fingers work. Then he said--under his breath,

but audibly enough: “What an awful thing to do! What a terrible thing to

do!” And got up.

 

Boatwright hurried to help him.

 

“I’ll go with you, Elmer,” said Doane.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XIX--LIVING THROUGH

 

 

1

 

WHEN Griggsby Doane moved, pain shot through his lame muscle. A vaguely

heavy anxiety clouded his brain, engaged as it still was with the

specters of confusedly ugly dreams.

 

The speckled area overhead was gradually coming clear; it appeared to

be a plastered ceiling, very small; a little cell of a place... oh, yes,

Elmer Boatwright’s room!

 

Faintly through the open window at the foot of the bed came the sound

of a distant, shot; another; a rattle of them. And other, nearer shots.

Then a slow whistling shriek and a crash. Then the rattle of a machine

gun, quite clear. Then a lull.

 

He sensed a presence; felt rather than heard low breathing; with an

effort that was as much of the will as of the body he turned his head.

 

Betty was sitting there, close by the bed, gently smiling. Almost

painfully his slow eyes took her in. She bent over and kissed him, then

her little hand nestled in his big one. They talked a little; he in a

natural enough manner, if very grave, spoke of his joy in finding her

safe. But as he spoke his mind, not yet wholly awake, took on a morbid

activity. Did she know what he had done in the night? Had they told her?

Anxiously, as she answered him, he searched her delicately pretty face.

How young she was! Dwelling amid tragedy, in a degree sobered by it, the

buoyancy of youth glowed in her brown eyes, in the texture of her skin,

in the waving masses of fine hair, in the soft vividness of her

voice; the touch of tragedy would, after all, rest lightly on her slim

shoulders. To her the world was young; of the bitter _impasse_ of middle

age she knew no hint. Men loved her, of course. Men had died for less

than she.... He pondered, swiftly, gloormly, the problem her very

existence presented. And he looked on her and spoke with a finer

tenderness than any he had before felt toward any living creature, even

toward the wife who had left her soul on earth in the breast of this

girl.

 

He decided that they hadn’t told her. After all, they wouldn’t. They

were, when all was said, adult folk. He couldn’t himself tell her. But

his predicament was pitiful. He knew now, from the honest love in her

eyes, that not the least black of his sins had been the doubting her.

Never again could he do that. But this realization brought him to the

verge of an attitude toward Jonathan Braehey that it was impossible for

him to entertain; the mere thought of that man roused emotions that

he could not control. But emotions, all sorts, must be controlled, of

course; on no other understanding can life be lived. If direct effort of

will is insufficient, then counter-activity must be set up.

 

Betty protested when he told her he meant to get up at once. But it was

afternoon. He assured her that his wound was not serious; Dr. Cassin had

admitted that, and he had slept deeply. H is muscles were lame; but that

was an added reason for exercise.

 

They had brought in some of the clothing of the large Australian. As he

pieced out a costume, he shaped a policy He couldn’t, at once, fit into

the life of the compound. He couldn’t face Brachey. Not yet. The only

hope of getting through these days of his passion lay in keeping himself

desperately active. He weighed a number of plans, finally discarding all

but one. Then he rang for a servant; and sent, while he ate a solitary

breakfast, a chit to M. Pourmont.

 

2

 

The engineer received him at three. Neither spoke of the incident that

had brought them together in the night. To Doane, indeed, it was now, in

broad daylight and during most of the time, but a nightmare, unreal and

impossible. During the moments when it did come real, he could only set

his strong face and wait out the turbulence and bewilderment it stirred

in him.

 

M. Pourmont found him very nearly himself; which was good. He seemed,

despite the bandaged shoulder and the thinner face, the Griggsby Doane

of old. But his proposal---he was grimly bent on it--was nothing less

than to make the effort, that night, to get through to the telegraph

station at Shau T’ing.

 

M. Fourmunt took the position that the thing couldn’t be done. After

losing two natives in the attempt, he had decided to conserve his

meager manpower and fall back on the certain fact that the legations

knew of the siege and were doubtless moving toward action of some sort.

Besides, he added, Duane with his courage and his extensive knowledge

of the local situation was the man above all others he could least well

spare.

 

Doane, however, pressed his point. “Getting through the lines will be

difficult, but not impossible,” he said. “Remember I did get through

last night. I believe I can do it again to-night. Even if I should be

captured they may hesitate to kill me. I would ask nothing better than

to be taken before Kang. He would have to listen to me, I think. And if

I do succeed in establishing communication with Peking I may be able to

stir them to action. The Imperial Government can hardly admit that

they are backing Kang. It may even be possible to force them, through

diplomatic pressure alone, to repudiate him and use their own troops to

overthrow him. But first Peking must have the facts.”

 

M. Pourmont smiled.

 

“If you vill step wiz me,” he said, and led the way down a corridor

to his spacious dining-room. There on the table, stood a large basket

heaped with apples and pears. “Vat you t’ink, Monsieur Doane! But

yesterday comes _un drapeau bianc_ to ze gate viz a let-tair from zis

ol’ Kang. He regret vair’ much zat ve suffair _ici ze derangement_, an’