CHINA, in its vastness, its mystery, its permanence, its ceaseless ebb and flow of myriad, uncounted life, suggests the ocean. The surface is restless, ripped by universal family discord, whipped by gusts of passion from tong or tribe, upheaved by political storms, but everywhere in the unsounded depths lies the peace of submissiveness. Within its boundaries breathes sufficient power to overwhelm the world, yet only on the self-conscious surface is this power sensed and slightly used. Chinese life, in city and village, as in the teeming countryside, moves in disorganized poverty about its laborious daily tasks, little more aware of the surface political currents than are Crustacea at the bottom of the sea of ships passing overhead; while to these patient minds the mighty adventure of the Western World is no more than a breath upon the waters.
This simile found a place among the darker thoughts of Griggsby Doane as he tramped down into the fertile valley of the Han. Behind him lay tragedy; yet on every hand the farmers were at work upon the narrow holdings that terraced the red hills to their summits. At each countryside well the half-naked coolies—two, three, or four of them—were turning windlasses and emptying buckets of water into stone troughs from which trickled little painstakingly measured streams to the sunbaked furrow of this or that or another field. The trains of asses anil camels wound ceaselessly up and down the road that led from the northern hills to T'ainan. The roadside vendors and beggars chanted their wares and their grievances. The villages, always indolent, lived on exactly as always, stirred only by noisy bargains or other trivial excitement. The naked children tumbled about. It w as hard to believe that here could be—had so lately been—violence and cruelty. It was simply one of the occasions, evidently, when no Lookers or hostile young men happened to be about to shout their familiar taunts at the white devil. Though the fighting of 1900, for that matter, had passed like a wave, leaving hardly more trace. Still more, at dusk, the outskirts of the great city stirred perplexing thoughts. The quiet of a Chinese evening was settling on shops and homes. Children's voices carried brightly over compound walls. Kites flew overhead. The music of stringed instalments floated pleasantly, faintly, to the ear.
And every quaint sight and sound was registered with a fresh vividness on Doane's highly strung nerves. He was tired; might easily, too easily, become irritable; a fact he sensed and struggled to guard against. Now, of all occasions in his life, he must exercise self-control. Difficult tasks lay directly ahead. One would be the talk with Pao Ting Chuan about the So T'ung massacre. Pao was, in his Oriental way, friendly; but his way was Oriental. It would be necessary to meet him at every evasive turn; necessary to read behind every courteous speech of a cultivated and charming gentleman the complex motivation of a mandarin skilled in the intricate relationships of the Court of Peking. Helping avert trouble was one matter; Pao could doubtless, or apparently, be counted on to that extent; but assuming full responsibility for the taking of white life and the destruction of white man's property, was a vastly more complicated matter. No other sort of human creature is so skilful at evading responsibility as the Chinaman; this, perhaps, because responsibility, once accepted, is, under the Chinese tradition and system, inescapable.... Another task, of course, would be the telling Boatwright of his personal disaster. It still seemed better to do this before the news could drift around in some vulgar, disruptive way from Shanghai. He couldn't plan this talk, not yet; but a way would doubtless present itself. He stood before his God, in his own strong heart, convicted of sin. There had been moments, during the tramp southward, when he found himself welcoming this nearly public self-arraignment with a bitter eagerness. But at such moments pictures of Betty rose in his mind, and of the gentle beautiful wife of his youth—wistful, delicately traced pictures.
His face would change then; the lines would deepen and a look of torment, of wild hurt animal strength that was new, would appear in and about his deep-shaded eyes.
As he drew near the mission compound his stride shortened and slowed. Once he stopped, and for a brief bme stood motionless, not heeding the curious Chinese who passed (dim figures with soft-padded shoes), his lips drawn tightly together over nervous mutterings that nearly, once or twice, came out as sounds. He was not a man who talks out overwrought feelings on the public way. The tendency alarmed him.
He came deliberately into the gate house. Here, talking in some excitement with old Sun, were four or five of the servants.
He paused to ask what was the matter. To take hold again, to step so quickly into his position as head of the compound, brought a sense of relief. That would be habit functioning. A moment later, his confusion was deeper than before; in one of those quick flashes that can illuminate and occupy the inner mind while the outer is engaged with the brisk affairs of life, he was wondering how soon these men would know what he was, what pitiful sort he had overnight become; and what they would think of him, they who now obeyed and loved him.
'They told him the gossip of the streets. Those strange soldiers, Lookers, from beyond the western mountains, had been coming of late to the yamen of old Kang Hsu. Kang, so ran the local story, had reviewed these troops within the twelve hours, witnessing their incantations, giving them his approval.
Doane said what little he could to quiet their fears; he even managed a rather austere smile; then passed on into the courtyard.
Dr. Cassin came slowly down the steps from the dispensary, her keys jingling in her hand. She was a spare, competent woman, deeply consecrated to her work, but not lacking in kindliness.
“Oh, Mr. Doane!” she said. Then, “How did you find things at So T'ung?”
He stood a moment, looking at her.
“Very bad,” he said.
“Not—well—”
Doane inclined his head. “Yes, Jen is gone—and twelve to fifteen others. Shot or burned. One helper escaped. I could get word of no others. One of Monsieur Pourmont's engineers helped very bravely in the defense, but was finally clubbed to death.”
Dr. Cassin stood silent; then drew in her breath sharply. The keys jingled.
“Oh!” she murmured in a broken voice, “That is bad!”
“It couldn't be worse. How is it here?”
“Well”—she pursed her lips—“I'm afraid we've all been getting a little nervous. It's well you're back. We need you. The servants are jumpy....”
“I gathered that, in the gate house.”
“I wonder... in the fighting at So T'ung there must have been a good many wounded...
“Among the attackers, yes; the Lookers themselves, and village rowdies.”
“I was wondering... mightn't it be a good thing for me to go up there and take charge?”
“No.”
“For the effect it might have on the people, I mean. Wouldn't it help restore their confidence in us?”
“No, Doctor. The people—except the young men—haven't changed. Trouble will come wherever the Lookers go. No, your place is here.”
Once in the mission residence, Doane hurried up the two flights of stairs to his own rooms. He met no one; the door of Boatwright's study was closed.
So they needed him. The strain was shaking their monde a little. It was really not surprising, after 1900. But if they needed him it was no time to indulge his own emotions. He would have to take hold again, that was all; perhaps keep hold, letting the news that was to be to him so evil come up as it might. He sighed as he closed his door. Some sort of a scene there must be; at least a talk with the Boatwrights about So T'ung and about the local problem.... One thing he could do; remove his dusty clothing, wash, put on fresh things. It would help a little, just the physical refreshment. He went back to the door and locked it..... Boatwright would be up, almost certainly.
Very shortly came the familiar hesitant tapping. For years the little man had made his presence known in that same faintly timid way. It was irritating.... Doane called out that he would be down soon.
“Oh... all right... thank you!” Thus Boatwright, outside the door. And then he moved slowly, uncertainly, down the stairs.
Boatwright was sitting idle at his desk, rolling a pencil about. It was an old roll-top desk from Michigan via Shanghai. Doane closed the door, quietly, and drew up a chair.
“You'd better read this.” Boatwright spread a telegram on the desk. “I haven't told the others. It came late this afternoon.”
The message was from Mrs. Nacy, acting dean of the little college at Hung Chan.
“Several hundred Lookers”—it ran—“broke into compound this noon and took all our food, slightly injuring cook and helper who resisted; they order us to send all girl students home; remain at present carousing near compound; very threatening; commander forbids any communication with you as they seem to fear you and your influence at Judge's yamen, though boasting that Treasurer now rules province and that Judge will be fortunate to escape with his life; wish greatly you could be here.”
Doane, sifting very quietly, shading his eyes with a powerful hand, read the message twice; then asked, calmly:
“Have you notified Pao?”
“Not yet. Your message came several hours earlier. It seemed wise to wait for yuu.”
Doane considered the matter; then reached for red paper, ink pot and brush, and wrote, in Chinese, the equivalent of the following note:
“I beg to report that a band of Lookers at So T'ung, assisted by local young men, killed Jen Ling Pu and about fourteen others, including white engineer named Beggins from compound of Monsieur Pourmont at Ping Yang. Considerable property destroyed. Several buildings burned to ground. Further, to-day, comes a report of attack on the Mission College at Hung Chan, with urgent appeal for help. I am going to Hung Chan at once, to-night, and must beg of Your Excellency immediate support from local officials and troops. I must further beg to advise Your Excellency that I am reporting these unfortunate events to the American Minister at Peking by telegraph to-night and to suggest that only the greatest promptness and firmness on your part can now avert widespread trouble which threatens to bow the head of China once more with shame in the dust.
“James Griggsby Doane.”
He struck a bell then, and to the servant who entered gave instructions regarding the etiquette to be observed in promptly delivering the note at the yamen of the provincial judge.
“I am worried, I'll admit, about Kang,” observed Boatwright, when the servant had gone. He said this without looking up, rolling the pencil back and forth, back and forth. His voice was light and husky.
Deane, watching him, felt now that his own task was to forget self utterly. It was beginning, even, to seem the pleasantly selfish course. The trip down to Hung Chan he welcomed. He would drive himself mercilessly; it would be an escaping from his thoughts. Moments had come, during the walk from So T'ung, when for the first time in his life he understood suicide. So many men fell back on it during the tragic disillusionments of middle life. The trouble with suicide, of course, this sort, was the element of cowardice. He wasn't beaten. Not yet. At least, he had strength left, and physical courage. No, action was the thing. It was the sort of contribution he was best fitted to give these helpless, frightened people here. As to Betty, he would give to the limits of his great strength.
And so he answered Boatwright with a manner of calm confidence.
“Kang is putting up a fight, of course, but Pao will prove too strong for him. At least, there's no good in believing anything else, Elmer. It's the position we've got to take. I'll get into my walking clothes again.”
“You're not going to Hung Chan alone, to-night?”
“Yes. It's the quickest way.”
“Don't you need sleep—a few hours, at least?”
“No, I was too late at So T'ung.”
“That was not your fault.”
“No. Still... I'll go right along.” Doane got up.
“If you could give me a few minutes more there's another matter. I'm afraid you'll regard it as rather important. It's—difficult....” And then, instead of continuing, he fell to rolling the pencil, and gazing at it. His color rose a little.
There was a light knock at the door. Neither man responded. After a moment the door opened a little way, and Mrs. Boatwright looked in.
“Oh!...” she exclaimed, then: “How do you do, Mr. Doane!... Elmer, have you spoken of that matter?”
“I was just beginning to, my dear.”
Mrs. Boatwright, after a silence, came in and closed the door softly behind her.
“Mr. Doane hasn't much time.” Boatwright's voice was low, tremulous. “Matters at So Thing are as bad as they could be. And he is going down to Hung Chan now.”
“To-night?” asked the wife, rather sharply.
Doane inclined his head.
“Then what are we to do?”
“Mr Doane,” put in the husband, “has given instructions that we are to stay here.”
“Oh—instructions?”
“Yes,” said Doane gravely. And he courteously explained: “The situation is developing too rapidly for us to get all the others in to T'ainan. And we can't desert them. Not yet. You will certainly be safer here than you would be on the road. Hung Chan is only eighteen miles. I shall be back within twenty-four hours, probably to-morrow evening. Then we will hold a conference and decide finally on a course. We may be reduced to demanding an escort to Ping Yang, telegraphing the others to save themselves as best they can.”
Mrs. Boatwright soberly considered the problem.
“It looks like nineteen hundred all over again,” Boatwright muttered huskily, without looking up.
“No,” said Doane, “it won't be the same. The only thing we positively know is that history never repeats itself. We'll take it as it comes.” He didn't see Mrs. Boatwright's sharp eyes taking him in as he said this. “I'll leave you now.”
“Just this other matter,” said the wife, more briskly. “I won't keep you long. But I don't feel free to handle the situation in my own way, and—well, something must be done.”
“You see,” said the husband, “there's a man here—a queer American—he turned up—”
“Elmer!” the wife interrupted, “if you will let me.... It is a man your daughter met on the ship coming out, Mr. Doane. Evidently a case of infatuation....”
“He is a journalist—has written works on British administration in India, I believe—”
“Elmer! Please! The fact is, the man has deliberately followed Betty out here. There is some understanding between them—something that should be got at. The man is married. Betty admits that—she seems to be intimately in his confidence. He came rushing out here without so much as a passport. Elmer has had to give up a good deal of time to setting him right at Pao's yamen. I very properly refused to accept him here as a guest, whereupon Hetty got word to him secretly and they have been meeting—”
“Out in the tennis court!”
“Last night I found them there myself. I sent him away, and brought Betty in.”
“Tell it all, dear!”
“I will. Mr. Doane must know the facts. The man was kissing her. He offered no apology. And Betty was defiant. She seemed then to fear the man would not appear again, but in some way she found him this afternoon out in the side street. They must have been there together for some time, walking back and forth, talking earnestly. I had other things to do, of course. I couldn't devote all my time to watching her. And it would seem, if she had any normal sense of... I secured a promise then from Betty that she would not meet him again until after your return. The man, however, would promise nothing.”
On few occasions in her intensely busy life had Mrs. Boatwright been so voluble. But she was excited and perhaps a little prurient; for to such severe self-discipline as hers there are opposite and sometimes equal reactions.
“Something must be done, and at once.” She appeared to be bringing her speech to a conclusion. “The man impressed me as persistent and quite shameless. He is unquestionably exerting a dangerous power over the girl. Even in times like these, I am sure that you, as her father, will feel that a strong effort must be made to save her. I needn't speak of the whispers that are already loose about the compound.”
Through all this, Doane, his face wholly expressionless except for a stunned look about the eyes and perhaps a sad settling about the mouth, looked quietly from wife to husband and back again. They seemed utter strangers, these two. With disconcerting abruptness he discovered that he disliked them both.... Another thought that came was of the scene of desolation he had left at So T'ung. After that, what mattered, what little human thing! Then it occurred to his dazed mind that this wouldn't do. Suddenly he could see Betty—her charm and grace, her bright pretty ways, with his inner eye; and again his spirit was tom and tortured as all during the night, back there in the hills. If only he could recall the prayers that used to rise so easily and earnestly from his eager heart!
“Where is she now?” he asked, outwardly so calm as to stir resentment in the woman before him. She replied, acidly:
“In her room. If she hasn't slipped out again.”
“She promised, I believe you said.”
This was uttered so quietly that a slow moment passed before it reached home. Then Mrs. Boatwright replied, with less emphasis:
“Yes. She promised.”
“And where is the man?”
“At an inn, somewhere inside the walls. Sun would know.”
“What is his name?”
Boatwright fumbled among the papers on his desk, and found a card which he passed over.
Doane looked thoughtfully at it, then slipped it into a pocket; said, quiet, deathly sober, “You may look for me sometime to-morrow night. We will make our final arrangements then. Meantime you had all better get what rest you can.” Then he left the room.
Husband and wife looked at each other. The man's lids drooped first. He began rolling the pencil. Finally he said, listlessly:
“Probably it would be wise to sort out these papers—get the letters and reports straight. If we should go, there wouldn't be much time for packing.”
Doane went directly to Betty's door, and knocked. She came at once, in her pretty kimono; peeped out at him; cried softly:
“Oh, Dad! You're safe!”
“Yes, dear. I have one more trip, a short one. It will be all I can do. To-morrow night I'll be back for good. Take care of yourself, little girl.”
“Yes—oh, yes! But I shall worry about you.”
“No. Never worry. I'll be back.”
That seemed to be all he could say. She, too, was still. The silence lengthened, grew into a conscious thing in his mind anti hers. Finally he took a hesitating backward step.
“I must be off, dear.”
“Dad—wait!” She stood erect, her head drawn back, looking directly at him out of curiously bright eyes. Her abundant hair flowed down about her shoulders... But he thought of her eyes. They were frank, brave, and very young and eager and bright. Somewhere within her slim little frame she had a store of fine young courage; he knew it now, and felt a thrill that was at once hope and pain. He had to fight back tears.... She was going to tell him. Yes, she was plunging wonderfully into it:
“There's one thing, Dad! I'm sorry—I oughtn't to make you think of other things now. But if we could only have a little talk....”
He managed to say:
“Only a day more, dear.”
“Yes. I suppose we should wait... though...” He stepped forward, drew her to him, and in an uprush of exquisite tenderness kissed her forehead; then, with an odd little sound that might almost have been a sob, he rushed off, descended the stairs, and went out the front door.
From the window she saw his dim figure crossing the court. At the gate house he paused and called aloud.
Two of the servants came; she could see their quaintly colored paper lanterns bobbing about. One of them went into the gate house and came out again. He was struggling with something. She strained her eyes against the glass. Oh. yes—he was getting into his long coat; that was all. Apparently he went out, this man, with her father.... The other colored lantern bobbed back into the gate house, and the compound settled again into calm.
Doane, though he could not talk with his daughter, could talk directly and bluntly to the man named Brachey, who had rushed out here incontinent after her He knew this; was alive with a slow swelling anger that came to him as a perverse sort of blessing after the cumulative emotional torment of the past three days.
ON the morning of that same day—while Griggsby Doane was striding down the mountain road from So T'ung to T'ainan-fu—Jonathan Brachey sat in his room at the inn trying to read, trying to write, counting the minutes until two o'clock at which hour Betty would be waiting in the tennis court, when John slipped in with a small white card bearing the printed legend, in English:
Interpreter and Secretary
Yamen of His Excellency the Provincial Judge T'ainan-fu
Mr. Po proved to be a tall, slim, rather elegant young man in conventional plain robe, black skull-cap and large spectacles, who met Brachey's stiff greeting with a broad smile and a wholly Western grip of the hand.
“How d' do!” he said eagerly: “How d' do!” Then he glanced about at the two worn old chairs, the crumbling walls of the sun-dried brick with their soiled, ragged motto scrolls, the dirty matting on the kang, and slowly shook his head. “You're not comfortable as all get-out.”
If there was in Mr. Po's speech a softness of intonation and a faint difficulty with the r's and l's, the faults were not so marked as to demand changes of spelling in setting it down. He accepted a cigarette. Brachey lighted his pipe.
“You are quite at home in English,” remarked Brachey.
“Oh, yes! English is my professional matter in hand.”
“You have lived abroad?”
“Oh, no! But at Tientsin Anglo-Chinese College, I made consumption largely of midnight oil. And among English people society I have broken the ice.”
Brachey settled back in the angular chair; pulled at his pipe; thought. The man was here for a purpose, of course. But from that slightly eager manner, it seemed reasonable to infer that among his motives was a desire to practise and exhibit his English, a curious mixture of book phrases and coast slang, with here and there the Chinese sentence-structure showing through. And he offered an opportunity to study the local problem that Brachey mentally leaped at.
So these two fell into chat, the smiling young Chinese gentleman and the austere Westerner. Mr. Po, speaking easily, without emphasis, his casual manner suggesting that nothing mattered much—not old or new, life or death—revealed, through the words he so lightly used, stirring enthusiasms. And Brachey observed him through narrowed eyes.
Here, thought the journalist, before him, smoking a cigarette, sat modern China; in robe and queue, speaking of the future but ridden by the past; using strong words but with no fire, no urge or glow in the voice; as if eager to hope without the substance of hope; at once age and youth, smiling down the weary centuries at himself.
“It has been expressed to me that you are literature man.” Thus Mr. Po.
Brachey's head moved downward.
“That is quite wonderful. If you will tell me the names of certain of your books I will give myself great delight in reading them. I read English like the devil—all the time. I'm crazy about Emerson.”
Brachey led him on. They talked of Russia and England, of the new railways in China, of truculent Japan, of Edison, much of Roosevelt. Mr. Po suggested a walk; and they mounted the city wall, sat on the parapet and talked on; the Chinaman always smiling, nerveless, his calm, easily flowing voice without body or emphasis. Brachey finally succeeded in guiding the man to his own topic, China.
“It puzzles and bewilders,” said Mr. Po. “China must leap like grasshopper over the many centuries. To railways one may turn for beneficent assistance. And also to missionaries.”
“I'm surprised to hear you say that. I supposed all China was opposed to the missionaries.”
“I do not dwell at present time upon their religion practises. That may be all to the good—I can not say. But the domicle of each and every missionary may be termed civilization propaganda center. Here are found books, medicines, lamps. Your eyes have discerned enveloping gloom of Chinese cities by night. Think, I beg of you, what difference it will be when illumination brightens all. Our people do not like these things, it is true. They descend avidly into superstitions. They make a hell of a fuss. But that fuss is growing pain. China must grow, though suffering accumulate and dismay.”
“Come to think of it,” mused Brachey aloud, “superstition isn't stopping the railroads.”
Mr. Po snapped his fingers, smilingly. “A fig and thistle for superstition!” he remarked. “Take good look at the railways! What happened? In every field of China, as you know, stand grave mounds of honorable ancestral worshiping. It will break heart of China to desecrate those grave mounds. It will bring down untold misery upon ancestors. But when they build Hankow-Peking Rahway, very slick speculator employed observation upon surveyors and purchased up claims against railway for bringing misery upon ancestors and sold them to railway company at handsome profit to himself. And, sir, do you know what it set back company to desecrate ancestors of China? It set back twelve dollars per ancestor. And that slick speculator he is now millionaire. He erects imposing house at Shanghai and elaborates dinners to white merchants. It is said that he will soon be compradore and partner in most pretentious English Hong.... No, the superstition will have to go. It will go like the chaff.”
“But this big change will take a little time.”
“Time? Oh, yes, of course! But what is time to China! A few centuries! They are nothing!”
“A few centuries are something to me,” observed Brachey dryly.
“Oh, yes! And to me. That is different. There are times to come of running to and fro and hubbub. It is not easy to adjust.”
“It is not,” said Brachey.
“For myself, I would like to get away. I have observed with too great width customs of white peoples, I have perused with too diligent attention many English books as well as those of French and German authorship, to find contentment in Chinese habit ways. I would appreciate to voyage freely to America. If I might ask, is not there an exception made under so-called Chinese Exclusion Act in instance of attentive student and gentleman who finds himself by no means dependent upon finance arrangements of certain others?”
“I really don't know,” said Brachey. “You'd have to talk with somebody up at the legation about that.”
“But up at legation somebodies make always assumption never to know a darn thing about anything.” Mr Po laughed easily.
“I have employed great thought concerning this topic,” he went on, with mounting assurance. “It is here and now time of beginning upset in Hansi, as perhaps as well in all China. At topmost pinnacle of Old Order here stands Kang, the treasurer. It can not, indeed, be said that for ennobling ideas of New Order he cares much of a damn. And he is miserably jealous of His Excellency, Pao Ting Chuan. But Pao is very strong. Sooner or later he will pin upon Kang defeat humiliation.”
“You feel sure Pao will be able to do that?”
“Oh, yes! Pao is cat, Kang is mouse.”
“Hmm!”
“Yes indeed! But it is nothing to me. Nothing in world! I have laid before His Excellency desires of my heart. He expresses willing courtesy. If I may make voyage freely he will make best of it. And not unlike myself he has perceived half-notion that if I turn to you for wisdom advice you will not turn cold shoulder and throw me down.” Catching the opposition behind Brachey's slightly knit brows, he added hastily, “I have no need. That is to say, I'm not broke. And—with this thought plan I have made transferrence of certain monies to Hongkong Bank at Shanghai where no revolution or hell of a row can snatch it from my outstretched hands. With but a nod from your head, sir, and also with permission of His Excellency, I could make sneak out of province as your servant.”
Brachey, after some thought, said he would take the proposal under consideration.
During the walk back to the inn he contrived to hold the interpreter's chatter closely to the ferment in the province.
Kang, it appeared, was openly backing the Lookers now. His yamen enclosure swarmed with ragged soldiers from the West who foraged among the shops for food and trinkets, and beat or shot the inoffensive Chinese merchants by way of emphasizing rather casually their privileged status in the capital city. Down the river, near Hung Chan, a more considerable concentration of the strange troops was taking place. Hung Chan was also the rendezvous for the local young men who had been initiated into the Looker bands. Rumors were flying of a general massacre to come of the white and secondary (or native) Christians. There was even talk of a political alliance with the organizers of rebellion in the South against the Imperial Manchu Government and of a triumphant march to the coast. A phrase that might be translated as “China for the Chinese” had come into circulation.
Brachey grew more and more thoughtful as he listened.
“If Pao is so strong, why does he permit matters to go so far?” he asked.
Mr. Po laughed. “His Excellency will in his own good time get move on himself.”
“Hmm!”
“Only yesterday I myself was pinched on street by Western soldiers.”
“Pinched?”
“Seized and arrested. Taken up.”
Brachey raised his eyebrows; but Mr Po smiled easily on.
“Oh, yes! They called me secondary Christian. They ran me in before low woman, a courtesan. They have told Kang that this courtesan is second-sighted.”
“Clairvoyant?”
“Yes, that is now firm belief of Kang on mere say-so of cheap skates. This courtesan has been conveyed to treasurer's yamen where with eunuchs and concubines to attend and soldiers to stand sentry-go she now holds forth to beat the Dutch. All perfectly absurd!”
“And this creature sat in judgment over you?”
“Oh, yes! Not a day since.”
“What was her decision?”
Again that easy laugh. “Oh, she decree that I am to kick bucket.”
“Execute you, eh? You take it lightly.”
“It is nothing. I will tell you. In companionship with me was my bosom friend, Chili T'ang, who is third son of well-known censor of Peking, Chili Chang Pu. It was Chih who got hustle on to yamen of His Excellency—”
“By His Excellency you mean Pao?”
“In every instance, if you please! Well, like a shot His Excellency acted in my behalf. In person and with full retinue grandeur panoply he set forth to pay visit to old rascal Kang, carrying as gift of utmost personal esteem ancient ring for thumb of jade that Kang had long made goo-goo eyes at. And he asked of Kang as favor mark to himself that he be let known instanter, right away, if any of soldiers from his yamen should behave with unpleasantness toward new soldiers of Kang, for new soldiers of Kang had come to T'ainan-fu out of far country and not unnaturally felt homesick and were not in each instance in step with customs of our city. And he made explanation as well that he would instruct his secretary, Po Sui-an, to bring news quicker than Johnny get your gun if his own soldiers should act up freshly or become stench in the nostrils.... Well, you see, sir?”
“Not quite.”
“But I am Po Sui-an! It was rebuke like ton of brick, falling on all but face of old Kang. It has been insisted to me that Kang trembled like swaying aspen reed as he made high sign to attendant mandarins. And then His Excellency set forth that I had just stepped out on brief journey but would shortly be back and that he would then instruct me with determined vigor.... Such is His Excellency, a statesman of stiff upper lip. A most wise guy! Thus he served notice on that old reprobate that he will strike when iron is hot.”
“They released you?”
“At once. On return of His Excellency, to his yamen. There was I, slick as whistle!”,
“Very interesting. But if Kang continues to bring in soldiers from the West, how is Pao going to strike with any hope of success? Is he, too, marshaling an army?”
“Oh, no! But you see, I come to call upon you, with you I walk freely about streets. At Kang I thumb my nose and tell him go chase himself. Pao will protect myself and you.”
“But as I understand it, Kang officially ranks Pao.”
“Oh, yes! But that is nothing.”
“It looks like a little something to me.”
“Oh, no! I will ask you for brief moment to glance sidelong at Forbidden City of Peking. There during long devil of a while Eastern Empress officially ranked Western Empress, but I would call your attention to insignificant matter that it was not Western Empress—she whom you dub Empress Dowager—that turned up her toes most opportunely to daisies.”
“Oh, I see! Then it is believed that the Empress Dowager had the Eastern Empress killed?”
“You could not ask that she neglect wholly her fences.”.
“No.... no, I suppose you couldn't ask that.”
“She is great woman. She will not permit that another person put her on the blink. It is so with His Excellency. A dam' big man! We shall see!”... He hesitated, smiling a thought more eagerly than before. They had reached the gate of the inn compound. His quick eye had caught increasing signs of preoccupation in Brachey's manner. Finally, laughing again, he said:
“'There is one other little bagatelle. An utter absurdity! I have made preparation for lecture in English about China. Name of it is 'Pigtail and Chop-stick.' When I read it at college I must say they held sides and shook like jelly bowl. On that occasion it was made plain to me by men of thought that it is peach of a lecture. It's a scream.” His laugh indicated now an apologetic self-consciousness. “It was said that in America my lecture would be knockout, that Chinaman treading with humor the lyceum would make novelty excitement. Indeed, by gentleman of Customs Administration this was handed me....” He fumbled inside his gown, finally producing a frayed bit of ruled paper, evidently torn from a pocket note-book, on which was written in pencil: “Try the J. B. Pond Lyceum Bureau, New York City.”
“Since it was expressed to me,” he hurried to add, “that American journalist notability was in our midst, I have amused myself with fool thought that you would run eyes over it and let me have worst of it.”
“It would be a pleasure,” said Brachey, civilly enough but with considerable dismissive force, extending his hand.
So, Mr. Po, smiling but something crestfallen, sauntered away.
At ten o'clock that night Brachey sat in the angular chair, his Bible in Spain lying open on his knees, his weary face deeply shadowed and yellow-gray in the flickering light of the native lamp on the table beside him.
John tapped at the door; came softly in; stood, holding the door to behind him.
“Well?” cried Brachey irritably. “Well?”
“Man wanchee see you. Can do?”
“Man?... What man?”
“No savvy.”
“China man?”
“No China man. White man. Too big.”
Brachey sprang up; dropped his book on the table with a bang; brushed John aside and opened the door. The only light out there came slanting down from a brilliant moon. Dimly outlined as shadowy masses were the now familiar objects of the inn courtyard—the row of pack-saddles over by the stable, the darkly moving heads of the horses ami mules behind the long manger, the two millstones on their rough standard; above these the roofs of curving tile and a glimpse of young foliage. Then, after a moment, he sensed movement and peered across, beyond the stable, toward the street gates. A man was approaching; a huge figure of a man, six feet five or six inches in height, broad of shoulder, firm of tread; stood now before him. He carried something like a soldier's pack on his back.
“Why did you come here?”
Brachey on the door-step found his eyes level with those of his caller.
“Mr. Brachcy?” The voice had the ring of power in it. Brachey's nerves tightened.
“Yes.”
“I am Mr. Doane.”
“Will you please come in?”
John slipped away. Doane entered; moved to the table; turned. Brachey closed the door and faced him.
“You will perhaps wish to take off your pack,” he said, with bare civility.
Doane disposed of this remark with a jerk of his head. “I have very little time to waste on you,” he said bruskly. “What are you doing in T'ainan? Why did you come here?”