Hills of Han: A Romantic Incident. Samuel Merwin

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.

      He took it; held it a moment firmly; then said:

      “Will you give me that drawing?”

      “Yes,” said she.

      “Now?”

      “Yes.” And she tiptoed twice again past the Hasmers' door.

      “Please sign it,” said he, and produced a pencil. “But it seems so silly. I mean, it's nothing, this sketch.”

      “Please!”

      She signed it, said good night again, and hurried off, her heart in a curious flutter.

CHAPTER II—ROMANCE

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I

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      UNWILLING either to confess like a naughty child or to go on keeping this rather large and distinctly exciting secret under cover, Betty, at teatime, brought the matter to an issue. The morning ashore had been difficult. Mr. Brachey had severely ignored her, going about Nagasaki alone, lunching in austere solitude at the hotel.

      She said, settling herself in the deck chair:

      “Mrs. Hasmer, will you ask Mr. Brachey to have tea with us?”

      After a long silence the older woman asked, stiffly: “Why, my dear?”

      Betty compressed her lips.

      Doctor Hasmer saved the situation by saying quietly, “I'll ask him.”

      It was awkward from the first. The man was angular and unyielding. And Mrs. Hasmer, though she tried, couldn't let him alone. She was determined to learn whether he was married. She led up to the direct question more otariously than she knew. Finally it came. They were speaking of his announced plan to travel extensively in the interior of China.

      “It must be quite delightful to wander as you do,” she said. “Of course, if one has ties … you, I take it, are an unmarried man, Mr. Brachey ?”

      Betty had to lower her face to hide the color that came. If only Mrs. Hasmer had a little humor! She was a dear kind woman; but this! …

      The journalist looked, impassively enough, but directly, at his questioner.

      She met his gaze. They were flint on steel, these two natures.

      “You are obviously not married,” she repeated.

      He looked down at his teacup; thinking. Then, abruptly, he set it down on the deck, got up, muttered something that sounded like, “If you will excuse me …” and strode away.

      Betty went early to her cabin that evening.

      She had no more than switched on her light when the Chinese steward came with a letter.

      She locked the door then, and looked at the unfamiliar handwriting. It was small, round, clear; the hand of a particular man, a meticulous man. who has written much with a pen.

      She turned down the little wicker seat. Her cheeks were suddenly hot, her pulse bounding high.

      She skimmed it, at first, clear to the signature, “Jonathan Brachey”; then went back and read it through, slowly.

      “I was rude again just now,” (it began). “As I told you last night, it is best for me not to see people. I am not a social being. Clearly, from this time on, it will be impossible for me to talk with this Mrs. Hasmer. I shall not try again.

      “I could not answer her question. But to you I must speak. It would be difficult even to do this if we were to meet again, and talk. But, as you will readily see, we must not meet again, beyond the merest greeting.

      “I was married four years ago. After only a few weeks my wife left me. The reasons she gave were so flippant as to be absurd. She was a beautiful and, it has seemed to me, a vain, spoiled, quite heartless woman. I have not seen her since. Two years ago she became infatuated with another man, and wrote asking me to consent to a divorce. I refused on the ground that I did not care to enter into the legal intrigues preliminary to a divorce in the state of her residence. Since then, I am told, she has changed her residence to a state in which 'desertion' is a legal ground. But I have received no word of any actual move on her part.

      “It is strange that I should be writing thus frankly to you. Strange, and perhaps wrong. But you have reached out to me more of a helping hand than you will ever know. Our talk last night meant a great deal to me. To you I doubtless seemed harsh and forbidding. It is true that I am that sort of man, and therefore am best alone. It is seldom that I meet a person with whom my ideas are in agreement.

      “I trust that you will find every happiness in life. You deserve to. You have the great gift of feeling. I could almost envy you that. It is a quality I can perceive without possessing. An independent mind, a strong gift of logic, stands between me and all human affection. I must say what I think, not what I feel.

      “I make people unhappy. The only corrective to such a nature is work, and, whenever possible, solitude. But I do not solicit your pity. I find myself, my thoughts, excellent company.

      “With your permission I will keep the drawing. It will have a peculiar and pleasant meaning to me.”

2

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      Betty