Hills of Han 5

Hills of Han 5

Then he remarked, casually, “Shall we walk?” And she found herself

falling into step with him.

 

They stopped, a little later, up forward and stood looking out over the

forecastle deck.

 

“Some day I’m going to ask the chief officer to let me go out there,”

said she.

 

“It isn’t necessary to ask him,” replied Mr. Brachey. “Come along.”

 

“Oh,” murmured Betty, half in protest--“really?” But she went, thrilled

now, more than a little guilty, down the steps, past hatches and donkey

engines, up other steps, under and over a tangle of cables, over an

immense anchor, to seats on coils of rope near the very bow.

 

The situation amounted already to a secret. Mrs. Hasmer couldn’t be

told, mused Betty. The fact was a little perplexing. But it stood.

 

Neither had mentioned Mrs. Hasmer. But now he said:

 

“I was rude to-day, of course.”

 

“No,” said she. “No.”

 

“Oh, yes! I’m that way. The less I see of people the better.”

 

This touched the half-fledged woman in her.

 

“You’re interested in your work,” said she gently. “That’s all. And it’s

right. You’re not a trifler.”

 

“I’m a lone wolf.”

 

She was beginning to find him out-and-out interesting.

 

“You travel a good deal,” she ventured demurely. “All the time. I prefer

it.”

 

“Always alone?”

 

“Always.”

 

“You don’t get lonesome?”

 

“Oh, yes. But what does it matter?”

 

She considered this. “You go into dangerous places.”

 

“Oh, yes.”

 

“You traveled among the head-hunters of Borneo.”

 

“How did you find that out?”

 

“There’s an advertisment of that book in _To-morrow in India_.”

 

“Oh, have you read that thing?”

 

“Part of it. I...”

 

“You found it dull.”

 

“Well... it’s a little over my head.”

 

“It’s over everybody’s. Mine.”

 

She nearly laughed at this. But he seemed not to think of it as humor.

 

“Aren’t you a little afraid, sometimes--going into such dangerous places

all alone?”

 

“Oh, no.”

 

“But you might be hurt--or even--killed.”

 

“What’s the difference?”

 

Startled, she looked straight up at him; then dropped her eyes. She

waited for him to explain, but he was gazing moodily out at the water

ahead.

 

The soft night air wrapped them about like dream-velvet. Adventure was

astir, and romance. Betty, enchanted, looked lazily back at the white

midships decks, bridge and wheelhouse, at the mysterious rigging and

raking masts, at the foremost of the huge funnels pouring out great

rolling clouds of smoke. The engines throbbed and throbbed. Back there

somewhere the ship’s bell struck, eight times for midnight.

 

“I don’t care much for missionaries,” said Mr. Brachey.

 

“You’d like father.”

 

“Perhaps.”

 

“He’s a wonderful man. He’s six feet five. And strong.”

 

“It’s a job for little men. Little souls. With little narrow eyes.”

 

“Oh... No!”

 

“Why try to change the Chinese? Their philosophy is finer than ours. And

works better. I like them.”

 

“So do I. But...” She wished her father could be there to meet the man’s

talk. There must surely be strong arguments on the missionary side, if

one only knew them. She finally came out with:

 

“But they’re heathen!”

 

“Oh, yes!”

 

“They’re--they’re polygamous!”

 

“Why not?”

 

“But Mr. Brachey...” She couldn’t go on with this. The conversation was

growing rather alarming.

 

“So are the Americans polygamous. And the other white peoples. Only

they call it by other names. You get tired of it. The Chinese are more

honest.”

 

“I wonder,” said she, suddenly steady and shrewd, “if you haven’t stayed

away too long.”

 

His reply was:

 

“Perhaps.”

 

“If you live--you know, all by yourself, and for nobody in the world

except yourself--I mean, if there’s nobody you’re responsible for,

nobody you love and take care of and suffer for...” The sentence was

getting something involved. She paused, puckering her brows.

 

“Well?” said he.

 

“Why, I only meant, isn’t there danger of a person like that

becoming--well, just selfish.”

 

“I am selfish.”

 

“But you don’t want to be.”

 

“Oh. but I do!”

 

“I can hardly believe that.”

 

“Dependence on others is as bad as gratitude. It is a demand, a

weakness. Strength is better. If each of us stood selfishly alone, it

would be a cleaner, better world. There wouldn’t be any of this mess of

obligation, one to another. No running up of spiritual debt. And that’s

the worst kind.”

 

“But suppose,” she began, a little afraid of getting into depths from

which it might be difficult to extreate herself, “suppose--well, you

were married, and there were--well, little children. Surely you’d have

to feel responsible for them.”

 

“Surely,” said he curtly, “it isn’t necessary for every man to bring

children ‘nto the world. Surely that’s not the only job.”

 

“But--but take another case. Suppose you had a friend, a younger man,

and he was in trouble--drinking, maybe; anything!--wouldn’t you feel

responsible for him?”

 

“Not at all. That’s the worst kind of dependence. The only battles a

man wins are the ones he wins alone. If any friend of mine--man or

woman--can’t win his own battles--or hers--he or she had better go.

Anywhere. To hell, if it comes to that.”

 

He quite took her breath away.

 

One bell sounded.

 

“It’s perfectly dreadful,” said she. “If Mrs. Has-mer knew I was out

here at this time of night, she’d...”

 

This sentence died out. They went back.

 

“Good night,” said she.

 

She felt that he must think her very young and simple. It seemed odd

that he should waste so much time on her. No other man she had ever met

was like him. Hesitantly, desiring at least a touch of friendliness, on

an impulse, she extended her hand.