Hills of Han: A Romantic Incident. Samuel Merwin

Jonathan Brachey,” she read aloud. Then added, with a pretty touch of color—“But how funny! He was with us yesterday, and wouldn't talk. And now. …”

      “My go catchee?” asked Mr. Obie.

      To which little pleasantry Betty responded, looking very bright and pretty, with—“Can do!”

      “She gives out too much,” thought Mrs. Hasmer; deciding then and there that the meeting should be brief and the conversation triangular.

      Mr. Obie brought him, formally, from the smoking-room.

      He bowed stiffly. Betty checked her natural impulse toward a hearty hard-grip.

      Mrs. Hasmer, feeling hurried, a thought breathless, meant to offer him her husband's chair; but all in the moment Betty had him down beside her.

      Then came stark silence. The man stared out at the islands.

      Betty, finding her portfolio on her lap, fingered it. Then this:

      “I must begin, Miss Doane, with an apology. …”

      Betty's responsive face blanched. “What a dreadful man!” she thought. His voice was rather strong, dry, hard, with, even, a slight rasp in it.

      But he drove heavily on:

      “This morning, while not wishing to appear as an eavesdropper … that is to say … the fact is, Miss Doane, I am a journalist, and am at present on my way to China to make an investigation of the political—one might even term it the social—unrest that appears to be cropping out rather extensively in the southern provinces and even, a little here and there, in the North.”

      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

       Table of Contents

      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.