Peter the Brazen: A Mystery Story of Modern China

by George F. Worts

  CHAPTER X

  During the remainder of the voyage Romola Borria did not once, so faras Peter was aware, leave her stateroom. Her meals were sent there,and there she remained, sending out word in response to his inquiriesthat she was ill, could see no one--not that Peter, after that latestastounding interview, cared particularly to renew the friendship. Hewas simply thoughtful.

  Yet he felt a little angry at his demonstration of frank selfishness,and not a little uneasy at the uncanny precision of her recital of hisrecent history, an uneasiness which grew, until he found himselfwaiting with growing concern for the rock-bound shore-line of Hong Kongto thrust its black-and-green shoulders above the horizon.

  The _Persian Gulf_ anchored outside at night, and in the morningsteamed slowly in amidst the maze of masts, of sampans and junks, whichlatter lay with their sterns pointing grotesquely upward, resemblingnothing so closely as great brown hawks which had flown down from aBrobdingnagian heaven, to select with greater convenience andfastidiousness what prey might fall within reach of their talons.

  Peter was aware that many of these junks were pirate ships, audaciousenough to pole into Victoria Harbor under the very guns of the forts,under the noses of battleships of every nation.

  When the launch from quarantine swung alongside, Peter went below andchanged from the uniform to a light, fresh suit of Shantung silk, asoft collar, a soft Bangkok hat, and comfortable, low walking shoes,not neglecting to knot about his waist the blue sarong.

  The steerage passengers were lined up when he came above a littlelater, sticking out their tongues for the eagle-eyed doctors, andgiggling at a proceeding serious enough, had they known it, to sendevery mother's son and daughter of them back to the land whence theycame, if they displayed so much as a slight blemish, for Hong Kong wasthen in the throes of her latest cholera scare.

  Satisfied at length that the eyes and tongues of the steerage and deckpassengers gave satisfactorily robust testimony, the doctors came up tothe first-class passengers, who stood in line on the promenade deck;and Peter saw the change that had come over Romola Borria.

  Her face bore the pallor of the grave. Her large, lustrous eyes weresunken, and lines seemed to have been engraved in a face that hadpreviously been as smooth and fair as a rose in bloom.

  He felt panic-stricken as she recognized him with an almostimperceptible nod, and he stared at her a trifle longer than wasnecessary, with his lips slightly ajar, his nails biting into hispalms, and he sensed rather than saw, that her beauty had beentransformed into one of gray melancholy.

  At that juncture, a tinkling voice shrilled up at him from the aftercargo-well, and Peter turned to see his small charge, the maid fromMacassar, smiling as she waited for him beside a small pile of silkenbundles of the rainbow's own colors. He had not forgotten the Eurasiangirl, but he desired to have a parting word with Romola Borria.

  He called over the rail, and instructed her of the black pigtail towait for him in a sampan, and he yelled down to one of the dozens ofstruggling and babbling coolies, whose sampans swarmed like a horde ofcockroaches at the ladder's lower extremity.

  Romola Borria, alone, was awaiting him, adjusting her gloves, at thedoorway of the wireless cabin when he made his way back to that quarterof the ship. She greeted him with a slow, grave smile; and by thatsmile Peter was given to know how she had suffered.

  Her face again became a mask, a mask of death, indeed, as her lidsfluttered down and then raised; and her eyes were tired.

  He extended his hand, trying to inject some of his accustomedcheerfulness into the gesture and into the smile which somehow wouldnot form naturally on his lips.

  "This--is _adieu_--or _au revoir_?" he said solemnly.

  "I hope--_au revoir_," she replied dully. "So, after all, you refuseto take my counsel, my advice, seriously?"

  Peter shrugged. "I'm rather afraid I can't," he said. "You see, I'myoung. And you can say to yourself, or out loud without fear ofhurting my feelings, that I am--foolish. I guess it is one of thehardships of being young--this having to be foolish. Wasn't it to-daythat I was to become immortal, with a knife through my floating ribs,or a bullet in my heart?

  "As I grow older I will become more serious, with balance. Perish thethought! But in the end--shucks! Confucius, wasn't it--that dear oldphilosopher who could never find a king to try out his theories on--whosaid:

  "The great mountain must crumble. The strong beam must break. The wise man must wither away like a plant."

  She nodded.

  "I am afraid you will never become serious, Mr. Moore. And perhapsthat is one of the reasons why I've grown so--so fond of you in thisshort while. If I could take life--and death--as stoically, ashappily, as you--oh, God!"

  She shut her eyes. Tears were in their rims when she opened them again.

  "Mr. Moore, I'll make a foolish confession, too, now. It is--I loveyou. And in return----"

  "I think you're the bravest girl in the world," said Peter, taking herhands with a movement of quick penitence. "You--you're a brick."

  "I guess I am," she sighed, looking moodily away. "A brick of clay!Perhaps it is best to walk into the arms of your enemies the way youdo, with your head back and eyes shining and a smile of contempt onyour lips. If I only could!"

  "Why speak of death on a day like this?" said Peter lightly. "Life isso beautiful. See those red-and-yellow blossoms on the hill, near thegovernor's place, and the poor little brats on that sampan, thinkingthey're the happiest kids in the world. What hurts them, hurts them;what pleases them, pleases them. They're happy because they don'tbother to anticipate. And think of life, beautiful old life, brimmingover with excitement and the mystery of the very next moment!"

  "If I could only see that next moment!"

  "Ugh! What a dreary monotony life would become!"

  "But we could be sure. We could prepare for--for--well----" She threwup her head defiantly. "For death, I'll say."

  "But please don't let's talk of death. Let's talk of the fine time youand I are going to have when we see each other again."

  "Will there be another time, Peter?"

  "Why, of course! You name that time; any time, any place. We'll eatand drink and chatter like a couple of parrots. And you will forgetall this--this that is behind us."

  Her teeth clicked.

  "To-night," she said quickly. "I'll meet you. Let me see. On theDesvoeux Road side of the Hong Kong Hotel balcony, the restaurant,upstairs, you know."

  "Right!" agreed Peter with enthusiasm. "Will we let husband go along?"

  Her face suddenly darkened. She shook her head.

  "I will be alone. So will you, at seven o'clock. You'll be there,without fail?"

  A coolie guarded her luggage near by impatiently. They could hear thesobbing of the J. C. J. passenger launch as it rounded the starboardcounter.

  "I forget," said Peter, with his flashing smile. "I'll be dead in anhour. The steel trap of China, you know."

  "Please don't jest."

  "I'll tell you what I will do. I'll put a tag on my lapel, saying,deliver this corpse to the Desvoeux Road balcony of the Hong Kong Hotelrestaurant at seven sharp to-night! Without fail! C. O. D.!"

  These last words were addressed to the empty wireless cabin doorway.The white skirt of Romola Borria flashed like a taunting signal as shehastened out of his sight with the boy who carried her grips.