Читать книгу The Vintage of Yon Yee - Louise Jordan Miln - Страница 7

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In English Han-chow, Shanghai, the other Concessions and Settlements, Lois Allingham was accepted as English, usually even considered English. And there—in the conceded corners of China so acutely English—she thought of herself as English.

It was only when some stray newcomer like Tom Dudley caught her Chineseness and questioned, that the Settlement and she herself were reminded that she was not altogether English.

In Chinese China, wearing Chinese garments, alone there with Chinese friends, in Chinese conditions and surroundings, she sometimes forgot that she was in part English. And the Chinese there who loved her forgot it too, or held it of no importance.

But Edward Allingham never forgot that his daughter was half-caste. It hung over him a perpetual threat—a hair-held sword that he feared and could not escape. What chance was there that it would not fall and cut? Little.

As he saw more of her, as their acquaintance grew, Dudley lost his first sense of her Chineseness.

Cotterel—less observant than the journalist—met her several times before he caught it at all.

Betty, as they danced together that first night at Red Bridges, saw how often Cotterel’s eyes followed Lois.

Betty was glad. She liked Henry Cotterel very much. And yet she was anxious. She was sure that he did not know that Lois’ mother had been Chinese; had not happened to hear it, and had not seen it for himself. How would it affect him when he knew? Would it revolt him?

She and her brother had seen a good deal of Cotterel in England a few years ago. Charles had pronounced him sterling. Betty set great store upon her brother’s opinion of other men. She never had known him to misjudge a man who had interested him. Unlike herself, Charles was slow to form such opinions, and slower to pronounce them. When at last he said, “nice chap,” his sister did not hesitate to show the nice chap frank friendliness. When Char pronounced a man “A 1” his sister had no doubt that that other man was a very desirable acquaintance, a friend to be coveted.

When they had known Cotterel for six months Monroe had pronounced him a “nice chap,” when they had known him two years, Monroe had pronounced him “A 1.”

Accepted at her brother’s estimate, Miss Monroe had grown to like Cotterel quite on her own account, and to like him very much, during the three years of their acquaintance in England.

Here in China they had met again only a few weeks ago. Oddly enough Cotterel, a rolling stone, had been in Mo-kan-shan for a year, the Monroes had only come up from Shanghai a few weeks ago.

They all had been glad at the reencounter. Betty Monroe liked Henry Cotterel every bit as well in China as she had in London.

She had seen at once that Cotterel was delighted with China—the little of it he had seen. But she had seen that the Chinese did not attract him, that he neither understood nor approved them, and probably never would. He was that sort of Englishman. Most Englishmen are.

Incapacitated from birth, they never gain the finest cosmopolitanism—no matter how much or how far they travel—never are able to hold the scales quite fairly between other races and their own English race. They lose a great deal. Perhaps they gain something.

Great English diplomatists, and many English soldiers, outgrow this insularity and international handicap. Cotterel was not of the stuff that makes great diplomats. Miss Monroe judged that presently he would grow tired of China, sell Red Bridges or leave it to molder, and hurry back to Piccadilly and Pall Mall. She believed that he would know the Chinese no better, and like them no better—if as well—on his last day in China than he had on his first. And she believed him the type of Englishman to whom every half-caste must be “a stench in the nostrils,” even less to be accepted on a social parity than full-blooded Hindoos, Chinese or Egyptians.

Cotterel thought how beautifully Betty Monroe was dancing. He always had liked to dance with her.

He did not hear her sigh.

Betty Monroe would have given a good deal to see Lois happily married—a great deal to see her happily married to Henry Cotterel.

The older girl’s affection for Lois was real. But Betty knew that her wish to see Lois happily married was not altogether unselfish.

If Charles had wished to marry Lois, Betty Monroe would not have resented it. But Charles had shown no such inclination. Just as well, probably; for Betty was sure that any such inclination on her brother’s part would have caused Lois only dismay and amusement.

She believed that Charles never would marry. That was a bore! She would love to have nieces and nephews—in default of the children of her own which she knew that she’d greatly prefer. For she feared that she, too, would not marry. Thirty was not old, of course, a girlish age these days. But there was another reason.

Too wise to introduce the subject of Lois, Miss Monroe was glad that Cotterel did when they sat down. And she smiled a little to herself that he did it indirectly. Cotterel was not often indirect.

“I believe that Mr. Allingham is the handsomest Englishman I have seen,” her host said as he took her fan.

“No, you needn’t,” Betty told him. “Here, give it back. I am not too warm, and I like to play with it myself. Give it back; I’d hate you, if you broke it.”

“I don’t break things.”

“You might.”

Cotterel relinquished the fan. He noticed that it was neither new nor valuable. He thought that it did not go too well with the dress that Miss Monroe was wearing.

“Yes”—satisfied about her fan, Betty replied—“they are a good-looking pair, aren’t they!”

“Awfully good-looking. Worth talking to too.”

“Have you talked with Mr. Allingham much?”

“Not yet. But I have a bit. I don’t know them well—yet. Didn’t know them until the other night. I took Miss Allingham in to dinner at Lady Saunders’. By-the-way, you were not there; why?”

“‘Why’ is your favorite word, isn’t it? I was not there, because I was not asked. Lady Saunders doesn’t like me. She invites me to her big things. She has to. We all have to ask us all to big blow-outs. But she does not invite me except when she jolly well has to.”

“But, I say, I like her. I wish you did.”

“I do. I like her immensely. But she has no use for me.”

“I don’t believe it!”

“Good man! What lovely manners you’ve got! It happens to be true all the same. You ask her. You shine at asking questions. Lady S. shines at giving snappy answers. She’ll jolly well tell you all right. Well—you took Lois in to dinner—go ahead.”

“I only just met Mr. Allingham that night. But the next day when I called I was lucky. Both Miss Allingham and her father were at home. I’m afraid I stayed an indecent time. I found Mr. Allingham awfully interesting. I like him very much.”

“Oh”—in alarm—“do you dislike Lois? Poor girl!”

They both laughed again.

“Awfully good of them to come to-night,” Cotterel said.

“How many regrets did you get?”

They both laughed.

“We don’t refuse invitations in Mo-kan-shan. And we all were bursting to see your new palace.”

“Like it?”

“Not too well.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Ask Paul Trench.”

“Why?”

“He will give you better value. And he is a very patient man. I am not. And I couldn’t make you understand.”

“Trench and I don’t hit it off. You tell me. Or, I’d rather ask Mr. Allingham. I haven’t seen his place in Norfolk. But I know that it’s top-hole.”

“No, no! You mustn’t do that,” Miss Monroe cried.

“Why not?” Cotterel was amazed at the alarm he heard in her voice. He was sure that it was genuine alarm. “Why ever not?”

“Please don’t. I’ll tell you myself why I don’t like this wonderful new place of yours. Not now; it would take too long. You have other guests here now—quite a few. And it’s high time you toddled off and did the nice-nice to them all: a smile and three honied words all round.”

“I suppose it is,” Cotterel owned with a sigh. “I’d rather stay here and rag you.”

“Oh—were you ragging me? I believed that the shoe was on the other foot. Go and do your duty.”

“All right. I know that the advice is sound. But when will you tell me why you don’t like this place? I have a particular reason for wishing to know.”

“Oh—I’ll tell you all right. The first good chance. Next time you come to see me, if I’m alone.”

“As bad as that?”

“I certainly should not neglect my other guests to educate you about architecture and garden planning. But, dear me, what a lot we are making of nothing! But I tell you what, I’ll run in and have tea with you—”

Miss Monroe broke off with a tiny gale of laughter.

“There, there, my dear man, don’t look so alarmed! You don’t need to. I am not going to propose to you—now or ever. And I give you my word of honor, Harry, that if you proposed to me, I’d refuse you.”

“Why?” Cotterel demanded.

Betty replied with a derisive smile.

“Thank you just the same, thank you very much, but I will not marry you. Honor bright, I won’t. But,” she added gravely, “I can be a very good friend. Like to try me?”

Henry Cotterel bent down and laid his hand on hers.

“I’ll make a point of being at home to-morrow—and alone. Come to tea?”

“Perhaps. If I don’t, I’ll pop in one day soon. But we won’t make it an appointment. Appointments are damnable. Don’t stay in. I’ll catch you one day soon. I think it very likely that Lady S. will invite you to go to Si-wu with her to-morrow afternoon—”

“Oh, I say!”

“Fearful bore for you, I know. And I’m sorry for Lois and her father! They have promised to go. Need I remind you again that you have other guests here?”

“Let me take you back first—”

“To Char? No, thank you. I’m all right here. I shan’t be alone long; don’t you worry. Toddle off and propose to some one else; don’t take my refusal too hard. You won’t get many, I warn you. Keep mine for your collection of uniques. Be careful whom you ask next; she is sure to accept you.”

“Is she? Then, it shall be our Lady Saunders. And here goes!”

Why, he wondered, had Betty Monroe shied so from his consulting Mr. Allingham about this house and garden? And she had shied; she had been downright frightened. Of what?

Miss Monroe was not alone long. But she contrived to watch her host for some time.

He went directly to Lady Saunders. But he paid his devoirs to her somewhat briefly.

He went from woman to woman, stayed a few moments with each, which was excusable, even obligatory to the host of so many guests.

He stayed no longer with Lois Allingham. But when he had made his hospitable rounds, he went back to Miss Allingham. And Betty Monroe was not the only woman there who noticed how long he stayed beside Lois then.

It was late before the gay gathering began to thin.

The Allinghams were among the first to go. Lady Saunders was the last.

“Did she accept you?” Miss Monroe asked as Cotterel tucked the light rickshaw rug about her knees.

“No; I accepted her instead—her invitation to West Lake. Seem churlish not to.”

“Then I can’t come to tea to-morrow! What a jolt! Jilt, I mean. How you hurt me!” Miss Monroe pretended to be nearly in tears, before she giggled.

“But you will come one day very soon? You promised,” Cotterel reminded her, ignoring both her sorrow and her mirth. “See that you do, and I will not ask Mr. Allingham what’s wrong with Red Bridges.”

Had Betty Monroe flushed a little? Cotterel asked himself musingly, as he watched her rickshaw out of sight. And, if she had, why the devil had she? Oh—his imagination of course.

But Mary Saunders could have told him.

To do Lady Saunders justice, nothing could have induced her to tell him, or any one else, that. Not altogether without cause reputed the scandal-monger of Anglo-China, she had her adamant discretions, and several unswerving loyalties of which few suspected her.