Four-Part Setting

by Ann Bridge

  This state of affairs had been brought about in rather a curious fashion. Hillier had not just plainly fallen in love with Anastasia Lydiard, been swept off his feet in the ordinary way—if he had, his thoughts would probably have been even more concrete, and a good deal less complicated. Though he was rather in love with her now, it was so to speak the end and not the beginning of a process. The beginning of the process had been his inclusion in the expedition to Por Hua Shan, and the shake-up to his ideas about almost everything which had resulted. His usual preconceptions of things had indeed been violently shaken. It was not only the novelty of finding that he was not being a success with these four people in whose company he found himself—in fact was rather disliked by them; it was that their society had actually modified his ideas of what things were worth while, and had shown him the possible merits of a set of values quite different from his own.

  Roy Hillier was a young man of a type with which most of us are fairly familiar—like Rose Pelham, though in a different way, the product of his day and generation, the disillusioned post-war generation. He was an ardent de-bunker—one might really say a de-bunker de carrière—without ever having given any very serious thought as to what things should be debunked, and why. (Henry Hargreaves’ original criticism of him in this respect had been quite just.) Words and the neat quickness of the top of his mind were, really his worst enemies; dartingly swift superficial observations, often wittily expressed, brought him a large income and a lot of general admiration, and he valued them accordingly; but they were like a curtain interposed between him and the subtler and more important, and even the simpler reaches of reality. And here for the first time in his life he had come up against a set of people for whom these things, his things, seemed to have no value at all. Hillier did value conversation for its own sake and as a means of entertainment, both for himself and others—they didn’t. It was not only the Lydiards, whom he might have contrived to write off mentally as tiresomely and superlatively austere; such different people as Rose Pelham and Captain Hargreaves also seemed bored by his verbal feux de joie. That a man like Captain Hargreaves should be visibly bored by the conversation of him, Roy Hillier, was not only almost incredible, it was at once a shock, and inexplicable.

  But it was Anastasia who had really done most in the matter. Her talk with him at Leng-Shui had produced a deep impression; not only because it went some way towards explaining the inexplicable, but because of the grounds on which she did it, and the manner in which it was done. Much as he had resented it at the time, it had set him thinking; caused him to watch and listen, to try to see what really was the thing that underlay their distaste for his way of thought and speech, to understand what they were driving at themselves. And—again chiefly through Anastasia—he had begun to see. Watching the others he had talked to her, as they walked or rode; and though they had not had any more of those conversations which the Lydiards privately described as blood-baths (unless their talk about religion in the valley above La Trappe counted as a bloodbath), her outlook, her point of view, her attitude to life and people had gradually taken shape for him. And it seemed to him good—clear-sighted, honest, fearless, accurate, and yet simple. The simplicity was the novel feature. It had never occurred to Hillier before—it wouldn’t have—that simplicity and intelligence could have any truck with one another; Anastasia showed him that they could—more, that like Mercy and Peace they could kiss each other. And this also seemed to him good. He began to think that life might be more interesting if one was not always looking for aspects of it to make fun of, people better value if one took them as they came and tried to get to know them, instead of classifying them for future witticisms, while at the same time using them as an audience. It occurred to him that the Lydiards made rather a good job of life, and with something nearer to wistfulness than his self-confidence had ever known, he began to think that it would be nice to get the trick of it.

  Then came La Trappe, and the story of the Italian, bringing him suddenly flat up against the question of what the life of man is for. The Trappists gave an answer that he could not bear to accept, and instinctively he turned to Anastasia, both for her views on their answer, and for her own. Even more than what he had got from her, the fact of his so turning to her had told him something. He began then to feel as well as to think that if he was to make much of a job of life himself, he would, being the person he was, need to live in the company of someone who had the trick of it. In fact Hillier, like a good many morally sensitive but spiritually incompetent young men, was contemplating marrying for salvation. There are worse reasons for marriage.

  So far he had got when they set off together to fetch the medicines for Rose. But on that rather ill-starred journey a fresh element had come in—something more natural, direct and imperious. He had admired her readiness, after a full day’s march and in circumstances possibly hazardous, to set straight off again on such a walk; he had been touched by her faithful efforts, short-legged as she was, to keep up with him; her courageous good-temper in their difficulties had warmed him towards her; finally, when she had never said a word about being either cold or tired, the evidence which her chattering teeth and shaking limbs, in the hut, had afforded of her being both to an almost dangerous degree had moved him to a feeling of tenderness which surprised him. He had tried—successfully—not to let this appear; he had hardly admitted it to himself; but when he took the only possible course, and warmed her in his arms, the thing had happened in spite of him. As so often, his was a delayed-action emotion; it meant much more to him now than it had meant at the time. He realised at last that he loved this little short dark woman with the powerful face, the wonderful smile, the strong lucid mind and the incorruptible character; that he loved her uncomfortably, wanted her badly, and would miss the best things in life for him, body and soul, if he couldn’t marry her. And he had no idea how she had taken the little, the very little, that he had done and said. He would have to say more and do more; it would not be a short siege or an easy one. He had got to make up his mind what was the next step—and oh, he must try not to make a mistake. It was no wonder that Roy Hillier was silent as they walked back, going as fast as was possible for Anastasia, towards Tu Chia Chuang.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Anastasia had told Rose that she expected to get back to Tu Chia Chuang the next morning at about ten, and from half-past nine onwards Rose began to look at her watch every five minutes or so, and to speculate as to how soon her cousin could arrive. She had now reached a point where the presence of Henry or Antony was almost equally distressing, and she wanted the easy neutrality of Asta’s society badly.

  About twenty to ten Antony came in, got the jug and towels ready for an inhalation, and then advanced upon her with the tube of carbolated vaseline.

  “Oh,” she said. “Don’t you think we could leave that now till Asta comes? She’ll be here so soon—it hardly seems worth it.”

  “We don’t know exactly when they’ll come,” he answered. “I think we’d better go on sticking to our routine till she does.”

  “Then couldn’t I do it myself this time?” she said. “I feel much stronger now.”

  He stood looking down at her for a moment, then dropped the tube into his pocket, and sat down on the edge of the bed.

  “Look here,” he said firmly, “I know exactly how you feel, but you’ve got to put all that past for the present. What’s happened”—he paused for a moment—“to you and me can’t be gone into now; you’re not up to it, and it isn’t the proper time. There’s only one thing that matters at the moment, and that is to get you well enough to make it possible for us all to leave—and as soon as may be. That’s your immediate job and duty; everything else can wait. And everything else, feelings and all, must give way to that. Do you see?”

  “All right,” she said, weakly; that look of humility and apology which he found so intolerable was in her eyes again as she spoke, and it pushed him on to say more than he had meant. He took her hands.<
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  “Dear Rose,” he said, “for good or ill, I do love you very much. It’s all a muddle, we both know that, and we shall have to be as good and as clever as we can about it. But not now—that’s for later on. Now you’ve really got to put it aside and go on getting well as if it hadn’t happened. Will you?”

  She nodded.

  “That’s right. Now I’ll do your chest. Where’s that sweater?”

  It was ten by the time the inhaling was over, and Rose could look at her watch again. But ten o’clock passed, ten-thirty, eleven, eleven-thirty, and still there was no sign of Hillier and Anastasia. Rose fretted more and more. “What can have happened to them?” she asked Antony at intervals, with the futile pertinacity of weakness. He did his best to soothe her, though in fact he was beginning to get anxious himself. “It’s a long way, you know—we took seven hours by the good track, coming back. They’ll have had to do the last part in the dark, and they may have got delayed somehow.” But at half-past twelve his own anxiety was so acute that after consultation with Henry he left the latter with Rose and went off to see the village authorities, and arranged to send a runner in search of the pair. By daylight, and with the threat of Tu’s troops so far unfulfilled, it was possible to get a man to go. Henry took it all much more calmly—in fact he hit on the actual cause of the delay. “That storm, up there, you know, and dark coming on—I bet you they got completely pounded and had to wait till daylight to go on.”

  “But where could they wait?”

  “Oh, under a rock or something. Don’t you fret, sweet—they’ll be all right.”

  “I want Asta,” said Rose, nearly crying.

  At last, about one-thirty, when they had had lunch and Antony was trying to persuade Rose to settle down for a nap, Asta herself pushed aside the bamboo curtain and walked in. Tired, hot and dirty as she was, she went straight up to the bed, sat down on it and said—

  “Well, you poor dear, how are you?”

  “Better. Oh, I have wanted you so!” And throwing her arms round her cousin’s neck Rose burst into tears.

  Over her head Asta raised an enquiring eyebrow at her brother—What is all this? the eyebrow said. He smiled a little blankly at her—You know what sick people are! the smile answered.

  After she had lunched and washed, Asta, to the great increase of everyone’s comfort, took over the sick-room. She heard from Antony during lunch of his various contrivances for treatment, and commended him—it was obvious that Rose was much better already, and with Asta resting on the other bed she slept for over an hour during the afternoon. The recounting of their adventures Anastasia left chiefly to Hillier, who made rather a good story out of them. “We simply crouched down in that litter stuff like two mice in a nest of old newspapers, and went to sleep. I slept very well, and I think Asta did.”

  Late in the afternoon Asta and Rose were roused from their nap by a tremendous metallic noise—the advance guard of Tu’s divisions had come in and was beating gongs all round the village to round up the inhabitants—who as usual had fled at their approach—and warn them that they must prepare food, fires and water for the troops. About five a sudden racket and clattering of hoofs in the little inner courtyard brought Anastasia to the doorway of the schoolhouse and Antony to that leading onto the t’ai, simultaneously, to remonstrate about the noise. They found the yard full of their own donkeys and donkey-boys, the latter all chattering in whispers and wild with fright. It transpired that in spite of the abundance of Union Jacks hanging over the gateway of the village inn, where the donkeys were stabled, a detachment of soldiers had tried to carry them off. Hillier’s donkey-boy, who was deaf and afflicted with ringworm, had nevertheless acted with great spirit and promptitude—he had demanded a p’iao (written paper) from an officer, and while the soldiers went off to get it he had given the alarm, collected his colleagues, and driven the whole troop down the street and into his employers’ quarters. A few minutes later a small Chinese N.C.O. with a platoon of men turned up at the school, and announced politely but firmly to Antony that he proposed to “borrow” his donkeys as transport for his company, which was going on to Chai-t’ang next day. Antony, with equal politeness and even greater firmness, replied that he and his party were themselves going to Chai-t’ang next day, and would be using their own donkeys; that they had a sick lady in the party, and that he deeply regretted his inability to help the N.C.O. This was all in the best tradition of the first round of Chinese bargaining; then the second round began. The N.C.O. and his comrades, who were heavily armed, were, like all Chinese, a little nonplussed by firmness, and also by considerations of politeness; but they seemed disposed to be insistent—military necessity, etc.; of course with more regrets. At this stage Antony produced one of Henry’s cards, with his official title in a line down the back, and introduced him formally as General Ha-koh-lei—military necessity faced military necessity, the General the N.C.O., in the little courtyard. Hargreaves was huge and calm—smiling a little, he shook his head. The N.C.O. was a small man; he bowed and retired, defeated.

  So far so good; but it was obvious to the whole party that it was a matter of urgency to get off as soon as possible, before the whole division was upon them, or they might easily find themselves without transport of any kind. For greater security the donkeys were driven into the green courtyard, where they could be overlooked from the t’ai, and picketed to long ropes; Antony, Hargreaves and Roy vacated the tents, and the donkey-boys and servants were assembled to sleep in them and in a small building in the courtyard, in case of trouble; the three men had their beds set up on the t’ai. When these arrangements were completed Antony went and fetched Anastasia out to a conclave there.

  “Tasia, do you think it would be at all feasible for Rose to start tomorrow?”

  Anastasia considered. “I wonder,” she said. “She is much better, there’s no doubt, and her temperature’s down to just under a hundred—I took it just now, at half-past six. If it were a case of merely sitting in a car or a ricksha, I should be inclined to say yes. But riding one of those foul mokes—I wonder.”

  “Couldn’t we hire a chair?” Hargreaves asked.

  “I doubt it,” said Antony, looking worried. “If there are any they’ll have been mopped up by the Army.”

  “I know!” said Hargreaves suddenly—“we can make one!”

  “How?” Asta asked.

  “Lash two of the tent-poles to the arms of a rookhi-chair, and you’ll have a regular chair-litter.”

  The three men all got up and examined their chairs. “There’ll be nothing for her feet to rest on,” Hillier said, standing behind his chair and holding it a foot from the ground—“See?”

  “Sling a foot-board and lash it to the bottoms of the legs—perfectly simple, my dear fellow.”

  Antony had hoisted his chair so that the arms came on a level with Anastasia’s shoulder, as she stood looking on. “She’ll be rather high, won’t she? Do you think it will make her sick?” he said.

  “Why carry her so high?” Hargreaves asked.

  “The men must put the poles on their shoulders.”

  “Oh ah. H’m.”

  This was rather a facer. Hillier eventually solved it, making a neat little diagram with pencil and paper. The long tent-poles, extended in front and behind the chair like shafts, would come at hand-level; two shorter poles could be slung from these with ropes, to make carrying-poles.

  “Well, if you can do that, and she’s well wrapped up, I don’t see why she shouldn’t go tomorrow, if her temperature’s no higher,” said Asta. So that was settled.

  Antony spent a rather disturbed and anxious night. The village resounded with screams, cries and angry voices till a late hour—it was only too evident that the soldiers were putting it across the villagers in one way and another. The fact that there was not only no door to the schoolhouse itself, but none to the little gateway leading into the small courtyard in front of it did not please him over-much—however there was nothing to be done about it.
At six he slipped through into the women’s room and waked Anastasia.

  “How is she?”

  “Slept like a top all night.”

  “Have you taken her temperature?”

  “Not yet—we’ve both been asleep. Must I wake her?”

  He glanced very briefly at Rose’s sleeping face.

  “I think you ought to. If we can go, we should. Come and tell me.”

  Five minutes later Asta slipped through onto the t’ai.

  “All right—ninety-nine. I think we can risk it.”

  So the tents were dismantled and Rose’s litter constructed with their poles and a large quantity of rope, under Hillier’s directions, and four bearers engaged—Rose and the chair were not heavy, but the tent-poles were; two men would not be enough. “The Leprechaun will be bouncing like a ball, with half his load gone,” Hillier observed to Rose as they set out, she muffled almost to suffocation in scarves and jackets. She laughed, and then coughed.

  “Don’t make her laugh, Henry—she oughtn’t to cough,” Asta chided him.

  They had got off just in time. Even as they left the villagers, supervised by soldiers, began to dig fireplaces and amass fuel in the green courtyard itself. Antony’s plan was to follow the Ch’ing Shui Valley down past Chai T’ang towards the Hun river, spend the night at Kung Shang, and next day take a road leading out of Kung Shang to the east, cross the pass at its head between the Ch’ing Shui Valley and the one beyond, and branch off down a side glen which runs right under Mount Conolly; once in this last they might expect to be off the track of all troop movements, and by making two forced marches on two successive days he hoped to keep ahead of Tu’s divisions. This was not the best thing for Rose, but in the circumstances it seemed the only thing to do.