Our Band Could Be Your Life Scenes From The American

Indie Underground 1981

Order now at alibris.com

( 4.6/5.0 ★ | 293 downloads )
-- Click the link to download --

https://click.linksynergy.com/link?id=*C/UgjGtUZ8&offerid=1494105.26
539780316063791&type=15&murl=https%3A%2F%2F2.zoppoz.workers.dev%3A443%2Fhttp%2Fwww.alibris.com%2Fsearch%2
Fbooks%2Fisbn%2F9780316063791
Our Band Could Be Your Life Scenes
From The American Indie Underground
1981
ISBN: 9780316063791
Category: Media > Books
File Fomat: PDF, EPUB, DOC...
File Details: 14.6 MB
Language: English
Website: alibris.com
Short description: Fast &-Good condition with a solid cover and clean
pages. Shows normal signs of use such as light wear or a few marks
highlighting but overall a well-maintained copy ready to enjoy.
Supplemental items like CDs or access codes may not be included.

DOWNLOAD: https://click.linksynergy.com/link?id=*C/UgjGtUZ8&
offerid=1494105.26539780316063791&type=15&murl=http%3A%2F%2F
www.alibris.com%2Fsearch%2Fbooks%2Fisbn%2F9780316063791
 Our Band Could Be Your
Life Scenes From The
American Indie
Underground 1981

• Click the link: https://click.linksynergy.com/link?id=*C/UgjGtUZ8&offerid=1494105.2653978031606379

1&type=15&murl=https%3A%2F%2F2.zoppoz.workers.dev%3A443%2Fhttp%2Fwww.alibris.com%2Fsearch%2Fbooks%2Fisbn%2F9780316063791 to do
latest version of Our Band Could Be Your Life Scenes From The American Indie Underground 1981 in
multiple formats such as PDF, EPUB, and more.
• Don’t miss the chance to explore our extensive collection of high-quality resources, books, and guides on
our website. Visit us regularly to stay updated with new titles and gain access to even more valuable
materials.
.
 CHAPTER X—GRANITE
1

B
ETTY did not get down for breakfast in the morning. And Mrs.
Boatwright sent nothing up.
It was close upon noon when Betty, sketching portfolio
under arm, came slowly down the stairs. Mrs. Boatwright, at her
desk in the front room, glanced up, called:
“Oh, Betty—just a moment!”
The girl stood in the doorway. She looked so slim and small and,
even, childlike, that the older woman, to whom responsibility for all
things and persons about her was a habit, knit her heavy brows
slightly. What on earth were you to do with the child? What had
Griggsby Doane been thinking of in bringing her out here? Anything,
almost, would have been better. And just now, of all times!
“Would you mind coming in? There's a question or two I'd like to
ask you.”
Betty paused by a rocking chair of black walnut that was
upholstered in crimson plush; fingered the crimson fringe. Mrs.
Boatwright was marking out a geometrical pattern on the back of an
envelope; frowning down at it. The silence grew heavy.
Finally Mrs. Boatwright, never light of hand, rame out with:
“This Mr. Brachey—who is he?”
Betty's fringed lids moved swiftly up; dropped again. “He—he's a
writer, a journalist.”
“You knew him on the ship?”
“Yes.”
 “You knew him pretty well?”
“I—saw something of him.”
“Do you know why he came out here?”
Betty was silent.
“Do you know?”
“I should think you would ask him.”
Mrs. Boatwright considered this. The girl was selfconscious, a
little. And quietly—very quietly—hostile. Or perhaps merely on the
defensive.
“Then you do know?”
“No,” replied Betty, with that same very quiet gravity, “I can't say
that I do. He is studying China, of course. He came from America to
do that, I understand.”
“Did you know he was coming out here?”
Betty slowly shook her head.
“Have you been corresponding with him?”
Another silence. Then this from Betty, without heat:
“I don't understand why you are asking these questions.”
“Are you unwilling to answer them?”
“Such personal questions as that last one—yes.”
“Why?”
“You have no right to ask it.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Boatwright considered. “Hmm!” She controlled her
temper and framed her next remark with care. This slip of a girl was
unexpectedly in fiber like Griggsby Doane. There was no weakness
in her quiet resistance, no yielding. Perhaps she was strong, after all.
Though she looked soft enough; gentle like her mother. Perhaps,
even, she was a person, of herself. This was a new thought. Mrs.
Boatwright drew a parallelogram, then painstakingly shaded the
lines.
“We mustn't misunderstand each other, Betty,” she said. “In your
father's absence, I am responsible for you. This man has appeared
rather mysteriously. His business is not clear. The tao-tai asked Mr.
Boatwright to look him up, for it seems he hasn't even an interpreter.
He has just been here. They've gone for an audience with the
provincial judge. Mr. Boatwright has asked him to come back here
for tiffin. Which was rather impulsive, I'm afraid....” She paused;
started outlining an octagon. “I may as well come out with it. Mr.
Boatwright told me a little of what happened last evening—”
“Of what happened But nothing—”
“If you please! Mr. Boatwright is not a particularly observant man
in these matters, but he couldn't help seeing that there is something
between you and this Mr. Brachey.... Now, since you see what is in
my mind, will you tell me why he is here?”
During this speech Betty stopped fingering the crimson fringe. She
stood motionless, holding the portfolio still against her side. A slow
color crept into her cheeks. She wouldn't, or couldn't, speak.
“Very well, if you won't answer that question, will you at least tell
me something of what you do know about him?”
“I know very little about him,” said Betty now, in a low but clear
voice, without emphasis.
“I must try to make you understand this, my dear. Here the man
is. Within the hour we are to sit down at tiffin with him. It is growing
clearer every minute that Mr. Boatwright's suspicion was correct—
“You have no right to use that word!”
“Well, then, his surmise, say. There is something between you and
this man. Don't you think you'd better tell me what it is?”
“There is nothing—nothing at all—that I need tell you.”
“Is there nothing that you ought to tell your father?”
 “You can not speak for him.”
“I stand in his place, while he's away It is a responsibility I must
accept. You say you know very little about the man?”
Betty bowed.
“You met him on the ship, by chance?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know any of his friends?”
“No.”
“Anything of his past?”
Betty hesitated. Then, as the woman glanced keenly up, she
replied:
“Only what he has told me.”
“Do you know, even, whether he is a married man?”
Another long silence fell. Betty stood as quietly as before, looking
out of frank brown eyes at the sunlit courtyard and the gate house
beyond where old Sun Shao-i, seated on a stool, was having the
inside of his eyelids scraped by an itinerant barber.
“Yes,” Betty replied.
“You mean—?”
“I know that he is married.”

B
etty, as she threw out this bit of uncompromising truth, was
stirred with a thrill of wilder adventure than had hitherto
entered her somewhat untrammeled young life. The situation
had outrun her experience; she was acting on instinct. There was a
sense of shock, too; and of hurt—hurt that Mrs. Boatwright could
look, feel, so forbidding. Her firm face, now pressed together from
chin to forehead, wrinkled across, squinting unutterable suspicions,
stirred a resistance in Betty's breast that for a little time flared into
anger.
There was no telling what Mrs. Boatwright felt. Her frown even
relaxed, after a moment. The outbreak of moral superiority that
Betty looked for didn't come. Instead she said:
“How did you learn this?”
“He told me.”
“Oh, he told you?”
“Well, he wrote a letter before he—went away.”
“Oh. he went away!”
“Yes. He went. Without a word. I didn't know where he was.”
“When was that?”
“When we landed at Shanghai.”
“Hardly three weeks ago. He's here now. Tell me—he wouldn't
have gone off like that, of course, leaving such an intimate letter,
unless a pretty definite situation had arisen.”
Betty was silent.
“Will you tell me what it was?”
“No.”
“Then—I really have a right to ask this of you—will you give me
your word not to see him until your father returns, and then not until
you have laid it before him?”
Silence again. The fringed lids fluttered. A small hand reached for
the crimson fringe, slim fingers clung there.
Betty's thoughts were running away. She felt the situation now as
a form of torture. That grim experienced woman must be partly
right, of course; Betty was still so young as to defer mechanically to
her elders, and she had no great opinion of herself, of her strength
of character or her judgment. She thought of the boys at home, who
had been fond of her. ... She thought of Harold Apgar, over there in
Korea. He was clean, likable, prosperous; and he wanted to marry
her. It really would solve her problems, could she only feel toward
him so much as a faint reflection of the glow that Jonathan Brachey
had aroused in her. But nothing in her nature answered Harold
Apgar. For that matter—and this was the deeply confusing thing—
she could not formulate her feeling for Brachey. She couldn't admit
that she loved him. The thought of giving her life into his keeping—
one day, should he come to her with clean hands; should he ask—
was not to be entertained at all. But she couldn't think of him
without excitement; and that excitement, last night and to-day, was
the dominant fact in her life. She had no plans in which he figured.
She was vaguely bent on forgetting him. During the night she had
regretted her promise to meet him once more alone. Yet she had
given that promise. Given the same situation she would—she knew
with a touch of bewilderment that this was so—promise again.
Betty looked appealingly at Mr. Boatwright. Then, meeting with no
sympathy, she drew up her little figure.
“You said he was coming here for tiffin, Mrs. Boatwright?”
“Yes.” The woman glanced out at the courtyard. “Any moment.”
“Then I shan't come into the dining-room.” And Betty turned to
leave the room.
“Just a moment! Am I to take that as an answer? Are you
promising?”
Hetty turned; hesitated; then, suddenly, impulsively, came across
the room.
“Mrs. Boatwright,” she said unsteadily—her eyes were filling
—“would it do any good for me to talk right out with you? Probably I
do need advice.” She faltered momentarily, shocked by the
expression on that nearly square face. “Oh, it isn't a terribly serious
situation. It really isn't. But that man is honest. He has led an
unhappy, solitary life...”
 Her voice died out.
“But you said he was married!” cried Mrs. Boatwright explosively.
“Yes, but—”
“'But! But!' Child, what are you talking about?”
There was nothing in Betty's experience of life that could interpret
to her mind such a point of view as that really held by the woman
before her. She had no means of knowing that they were speaking
across a gulf wider and deeper perhaps than has ever before existed
between two generations; and that each of them, quite
unconsciously, was an extreme example of her type. She turned
again.
It was a commotion out at the gate house that arrested her this
time. She felt that curious excitement rising up in her heart and
brain. Old Sun was springing up from the barber's stool, with his
always great dignity brushing that public servitor aside. Then
Brachey appeared, followed by Mr. Boatwright.
The wife of that little man now caught the look on Betty's face,
the sudden light in her eyes, and rose, alarmed, to her feet. Taking
in the situation, she said:
“I shall send something up to your room.”
Betty moved her head wanly in the negative. It was no use
explaining to this woman that she couldn't think of food. She moved
slowly toward the door. She was unexpectedly tired.
“Where are you going?” asked the older woman shortly.
“I've got to be by myself,” said Betty, apparently less resentful
now. It was more a rather faint statement of fact. And she went on
out, not so much as answering Mrs. Boatwright's final “But you will
not promise?” It wasn't even certain that she heard.

3
M
rs. Boatwright stood thinking. Betty had run up the stairs.
The two men were coming slowly across the courtyard,
talking. Or her husband was talking; she could hear his light
voice. The other man was silent; a gloomy figure in knickerbockers.
She studied him. Already he was catalogued in her mind, and
permanently. For nothing that might happen to present Brachey in
another light could ever, now, shake her judgment of him. No new
evidence of ability or integrity in the man or of genuine misfortune in
marriage, would influence her. No play of sympathy, no tolerant
reflectiveness, would for a moment occupy her mind. She was a New
Englander, with the old non-conformist British insistence on conduct
and duty bred in her bone. Her emotional nature was almost the
granite of her native lulls. And she was strong as that granite. She
feared nothing, shrank from nothing, that could be classified as duty.
No Latin flexibility ever softened her vigorous expression of
independent thought. Her duty, now, was clear.
She went out into the hall and opened the door.
The two men were just mounting the steps.
“My dear,” began her husband, sensing her mood, glancing up
apprehensively, “this is Mr. Brachey. He—
“Yes,” said she, standing squarely in the doorway, “I understand.
Mr. Brachey, I can not receive you in this house. You, of course,
know why. I must ask you to go at once.”
Then she simply waited; commandingly. From her eyes blazed
honest, invincible anger.
Mr. Boatwright caught his breath; stood motionless, very white;
finally murmured:
“But, my dear, I'm sure you...”
His wife merely glanced at him.
Brachey stood as she had caught him, on the steps, one foot
above the other. His face was expressionless. His eyes fastened on
the woman a gaze that might have meant no more than cold
curiosity, growing slowly into contempt. Then, after a moment, as
quietly, he turned and descended the steps.
Boatwright caught his arm.
“Really, Mr. Brachey—”
“Elmer!” cried his wife shortly. “Let him go!”
But Brachey had already shaken off the detaining hand. He
marched straight across the court, stepped into the gate house, and
disappeared.
Betty, all hurt confusion, had lingered in the second floor hall. At
the first sound of Mrs. Boatwright's firm voice, she stepped, her
brain a tangle of little indecisions, to the stair rail.
She ran lightly to the front window and watched Jonathan Brachey
as he walked away. Then she shut herself in her own room, telling
herself that the time had come to think it all out. But she couldn't
think.
Against the granite in Mrs. Boatwright Betty, who understood
herself not at all, had to set a quick strong impulsiveness that was
certain, given a little time, to work out in positive act. Very little time
indeed now intervened between impulse and act. She scribbled a
note, in pencil:
“Dear Mr. Brachey—I am going out to sketch in the tennis court.
You can reach it by the little side street just beyond our gate house
as you come from the city. Please do come!—Betty D.”
She went down the stairs again, portfolio under arm, and on to
the gate house. Sun, as she had thought, knew at which inn the
white gentleman was stopping, and at Miss Doane's request sent a
boy with the chit.
 CHAPTER XI—EMOTION

B
RACHEY came suddenly into view, around the corner of the
wall from the little side street.
He was dressed almost stiffly—not in knickerbockers now,
but in what would be called at home a business suit, with stiff white
collar and a soft but correct hat; and he carried a stick—like an
Englishman, Betty thought, careful to the last of appearances. As if
there were no such thing as danger; only stability. She might have
been back in the comfortable New Jersey town and he a casual
caller. And then, after taking him in, in a quick conflict of moods that
left her breathless, she glanced hurriedly about. But only the blank
compound wall met her gaze, and tile roofs, with the chimneys of
the higher mission house peeping above foliage. The gate was but a
narrow opening, near the farther end of the tennis court. No one
could see. For that matter, it was to be doubted that any one in the
compound knew she was here. And beyond the little street stood
another blank wall.... And he had come!
She could not know that she seemed very composed as she laid
her portfolio on the camp stool and rose. Then her hand was in his.
Her voice said:
“It was nice of you to come. But—”
“When I asked for a meeting—for one meeting....” Her eyes were
down; he was set, as for a formal speech.... “It was, as you may
imagine, because a matter has arisen that seems to me of the
greatest importance.”
She wondered what made him talk like that. As if determined to
appeal to her mind. She couldn't listen; not with her mind; she was
all feeling. He was a stranger, this man. Yet she had thought
tenderly of him. It was difficult.
 “You didn't come alone?” she asked, unaware that her manner,
too, was formal.
“Yes. Oh, yes! I know the way.”
“But it isn't safe. When I wrote... I heard what Mrs. Boatwright
said. I was angry.”
“She was very rude.”
“It seemed as if I ought to get word to you—after that. I
promised, of course.”
“But your note surprised me.”
“You thought I wouldn't keep my promise?”
“I wasn't sure that you could.”
“If you hadn't heard from me, what would you have done?”
“I should have left T'ainan this afternoon.”
“But how could you? Where could you go?”
“The provincial judge has assigned four soldiers to me. He was
most courteous. He wants me to publish articles in America and
England against the Ho Shan Company. He seems a very astute
man. And he sent runners to the inn just now with presents.”
“Oh—what were they?”
“Some old tins of sauerkraut. A German traveler must have left
them here.”
Betty smiled. Then, sober again, said:
“But you should have brought the soldiers with, you.”
“Oh, no. I preferred being alone.”
“But I don't think you understand. It isn't safe to go about alone
now. Not if you're a white man. I don't like to think that I've put you
in danger.”
 “You haven't. It doesn't matter. As I was about to tell you... you
must understand that I assume no interest on your part—I can't do
that, of course—but after what happened, that night on the ship...”
He was ha\ing difficulty with this set speech of his. Betty averted her
face to hide the warm color that came. Why on earth need he come
out with it so heavily! Whatever had happened had happened, that
was all!... His voice was going on. Something about a divorce. He
was to be free shortly. He said that. He sounded almost cold about
it, deliberate. And he had come clear out here to T'ainan just to say
that. He was assuming, of course. To a painful degree. He seemed
to feel that he owed it to her to make some sort of payment... for
kissing her... and the payment, apparently, was to be himself. She
was moved by a little wave of anger. She managed to say:
“We won't talk about that.”
“I felt that I must tell you. I'll go now, of course.”
“But...”
“As soon as I am free I shall write you. I will ask you, then, to be
my wife.”
He drew himself up, at this, stiffly.
Betty's blush was a flush now. She gathered up her drawing
tilings; deliberately arranged the sheets of paper in the portfolio.
“I shall say good-by...
“Wait,” said Betty, rather shortly, not looking up “You mustn't go
like this.”
There was a long silence. Then, abruptly, he broke out:
“There is no way that I can stay. I would bring you only trouble.
And it will be easier for me to go. Of course, I should never have
come. It has been very upsetting, I haven't faced it honestly. I
wanted to forget you. I've been tortured. And then I learned that
you were in danger. I—can't talk about it!” And he clamped his lips
shut.
 Betty opened her portfolio and slowly fingered the sheets of
drawing paper. Her eyes filled; she had to keep them down.
“Where are you going?” Her voice was no more than a murmur.
She said it again, a little louder: “Where are you going?”
“Back to the inn. And then, perhaps—”
“You mustn't leave T'ainan.”
“That is the difficulty. I couldn't save myself and leave you here.”
“On your account, I mean. We're safe enough; I've heard them
talking at the house. Pao will protect us. And Chang, the tao-tai. But
if you were to go out alone—on the highway—”
“Oh, that is nothing. I have soldiers.”
“You said four soldiers. Father was attacked right here in the city,
with Chang and his body-guard defending him. They even tore
Chang's clothes.”
“I don't care about myself,” said he.
She glanced up at him. She knew he spoke the truth, however
bitter his spirit. He was talking on: “Don't misunderstand me....”
“I don't.”
“This journey has been a time of painful self-revelation. I used to
think myself strong. That was absurd, of course. I am very weak. In
this new trouble my will seems to have broken down. Yes, it has
broken down; I may as well admit it. I had no right to fall in love
with you. Already I have injured the life of one woman. Now, by
merely coming out here in this ill-considered way, I am injuring
yours.... The worst of it is these moments of terrible feeling. They
make it impossible for me to reason. At one time I can really believe
that a fatal accident out here—an accident to myself—would be the
best thing that could happen for everybody concerned: but then, in
a moment, I become inflamed with feeling, and desire, and a
perfectly unreasonable hope.”
 “I wonder,” mused Betty, moved now by something near a thrill of
power—a disturbing sort of power—“if love is like that.”
“I don't know. I don't even know if this is love Part of the time I
resent you.”
“Oh!... Well—yes, I can understand that.”
“Then you resent me?”
“Sometimes.”
“In my lucid moments I sec the thing clearly enough. It is simply
an impossible situation. And I have added the final touch by coming
out here.” He seated himself on a block of stone, and rested his chin
moodily on his two hands. “That is what disturbs me—it frightens
me. I have watched other men and women going through this queer
confusion we call falling in love. I've pitied them. They were weak,
helpless, surrendering the reasoning faculty to sheer emotion.
Sometimes, I've thought of them as creatures caught in a net.”
“Oh!” Betty breathed softly, “I've never thought.. I wonder if it is
like that.”
“It is with me. I see no happiness in it. I hope you will never have
to live through what I've lived through these past few weeks. And
now I sit here——weakly—knowing I ought to go at once and never
disturb you again. But the thought of going—of saying good-by—is
terrible. It's one more thing I seem unable to face.”
Betty was struggling now against tumultuous thoughts. And
without overcoming them, without even making headway against
them, she spoke:
“I can't let you take all this on yourself. I must have—well made it
hard for you, there on the ship. I enjoyed being with you.”
This was all she could say about that.
There was a long, long silence.
Suddenly, with an inarticulate exclamation, he sprang up.
 Startled, all impulses, she caught his hand. His fingers tightened
about hers.
“What?” she asked, breathless.
“I'll go.”
“Not away from T'ainan?”
“Yes. It's the only thing. After all, it doesn't matter much what
happens to any individual. We've got to take that chance. When my
—when I'm—free, if I'm alive, and you're alive. I'll write you. I won't
come—I'll write. Meanwhile, you can make up your mind. All I'll ask
of you then is a decision. I'll accept it.”
Her fingers were twisting around his. She couldn't look up at him,
nor he down at her.
“When shall you leave T'ainan?”
“Now—this afternoon.”
“No.”
“But... don't you see?..
“I don't know what to say.”
He knelt beside her.
“You dear child!” he murmured unsteadily, “can't you see what a
trouble we're in? It's my fault—”
“It's no more your fault than mine.”
“Oh, but it is! I'm an experienced man. You're a girl. They're right
in blaming me.”
“People can't help their feelings.”
“God, if they could! Don't you see, child, that I can't stay near
you? I can't look at you—you're so little, so pretty, so charming!
When I'm with you, all this feeling, all the warm feminine quality, all
the beautiful magic that's been shut out of my life comes to me
through you. It drives me crazy.... Betty, God forgive me! I can't help
it—this once! It's good-by.” He took her lightly, reverently, in his
arms, and brushed his lips against her forehead. Then he arose.
“Good-by, Betty!”
“It's too late to start to-day. You can't travel Chinese roads at
night.”
“I'll start early in the morning.”
“I'll—if you—I'll come out here this evening. I think I can.”
“Oh—Betty!...”
“It may be a little late. Perhaps about half past eight. They'll all be
busy then.... Just for a little while.”
He considered this. “It's wrong,” he said. “But what's the good of
my deciding not to come. Of course I will.”
“You came clear to T'ainan.”
“I know....”
“And how about me!” she broke out. “I'm shut in a prison here.
You're the only friend that's come—the only person I can talk with.
Father is wonderful, but he's busy and worried, and I'm his daughter,
and we can't talk much. And you and I—if you're going in the
morning—we can't leave things—our very lives”—her voice wavered
—“like this.”
“I'll come,” he said.
“And keep the soldiers with you.”
“I'll come.”
“I wonder if it is like a net,” said she.
 CHAPTER XII—STORM CENTER
1

C
HINA, 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.

A
s 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.

B
oatwright 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