Читать книгу The Vintage of Yon Yee - Louise Jordan Miln - Страница 9

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Cotterel did not mean to stay in China.

That was no reason why he should not have a home of his own while he did stay there.

He had not cared greatly for Hong Kong. He had liked Shanghai less. When he had learned that Henderson was in Han-chow, he had welcomed his old friend’s suggestion that they should meet. Henderson could not leave Han-chow just then, and might not be able to for some time. So, Cotterel had gone to him willingly.

He had liked Han-chow at once. And Mo-kan-shan had grown upon him oddly.

Henderson, who owned the acres which now were Red Bridges, had bought them believing it a good speculation, but intending to build himself a home there if the next two or three years were prosperous. Lucy Henderson loved Mo-kan-shan. They expected never to leave China except for infrequent visits “home.”

Cotterel rather envied his old friend that delectable site of his.

Not long after Cotterel came to Han-chow Henderson’s firm nearly crashed. There was a good deal of that in China now. Business insecurity and personal peril were rife in many parts of Anglo-China. Lucy’s baby died. The mother’s love of Mo-kan-shan turned to hate. “Take her home,” the doctor advised. Henderson decided to cut his losses, and leave China.

Cotterel bought the Mo-kan-shan property at a generous price; even more pleased to do it than Henderson had been to have him do it.

It had taken Cotterel nearly a year to make this Chinese home of his. He had enjoyed every hour of it. The way he had urged and driven his workmen would have been a valuable object lesson to the most up-and-doing of turbulent China’s many generals.

Cotterel had availed himself of the best advice he could get, employed an excellent interpreter, and directed everything himself.

The more he watched his native workmen the more he admired them, and respected Chinese workmanship.

And they did indeed give him good value. For he had the two great essentials for getting the best out of Chinese labor: abundant money and unflagging good nature. He paid them treble wages which nothing could induce him to increase—neither threats of strike nor Oriental fairy tales. And he laughed at them and with them, and joined in when they laughed at him.

Cotterel never will forget the building of that Chinese house of his and the delight he had in watching it.

He indicated what he wanted, insisted upon getting it, and then let the actual builders and artisans alone. He watched them a great deal, but he did not fuss or interfere.

They made the roofs first, flat on the ground—half to the Englishman’s dismay, much to his amusement. How the devil were they going to get the roofs up, and walls under them? Capable inch by capable inch they did, building down; lifting the elaborate decorated roofs up, and making perfect and secure walls as they did.

They scarcely used a nail. They dovetailed instead; wonderful dovetailing that made the Englishman watching them take off his hat to China.

And when the house was finished and furnished, and the gardens in bud, Henry Cotterel wondered which delighted him most.

And he gave the Chinese who had served him a splendid feast.

Yes, Red Bridges pleased him very much. Betty Monroe didn’t know what she was talking about.

He believed that he might stay here much longer than he had stayed in his home in Spain or in his house of white marble beside an Italian lake. He might travel less in the future. The years were passing. One didn’t live for ever. And England always would be his permanent home. Nothing could take the place of Piccadilly and a grave in Dorset. But there was no earthly reason why he should not stay on in China for another year or two or even three, if he wished. And he wouldn’t sell Red Bridges when he went. Probably he’d not come back again so far. But he might. And he could afford to keep this little jewel of a place on the chance. Henry Cotterel was deeply grateful to his forefathers for their admirable thrift, industry and financial judgment.

He never had felt so much “at home” anywhere else out of England as he did here in Red Bridges.

He had meant to see the Wall and Peking, the Yangtsze gorges and Soochow. But he rather thought now that he’d not.

Cotterel sauntered to the lotus pond, and sat down on its wide porphyry edge. He liked to watch the big fringed and feathered, red-eyed goldfish come up to race each other in the moon-illumed water, and play hide-and-seek under the great lily pads.

He was smiling, contented, self-pleased, home-glad, at peace as he lit his third cigarette. It would be his last to-night. When Henry Cotterel had planned to enjoy just three cigarettes neither moonlight, nor lotus flowers on silver water could make him light a fourth cigarette, nor could happy thoughts.

He smiled again—thinking now of Lois Allingham.

He knew that she had attracted him more quickly than he often had been attracted—and perhaps a trifle differently. He must be on guard. And he would.

He knew that he was susceptible, far from invulnerable. And he always fled when he began to care. But he wasn’t going to let it come to that this time. No girl should drive him from Red Bridges. Certainly graceful, strange-eyed Miss Allingham should not.

But the Allinghams were not going to be here long. They had said so. And he had himself well in hand. He always did.

He liked Lois Allingham. She was delicious to watch. Her voice was music. Best of all, she was different from other girls. He couldn’t make out what that difference was. It puzzled him. But he’d find out. Cotterel liked solving easy riddles. This one would be easy enough when he had seen a little more of her.

There was no more reason why he should not enjoy her acquaintance—well on his guard, scrupulous that she should not misunderstand him, he was always that—than there was any reason why he should not stay at Red Bridges as long as he chose to stay.

Miss Allingham—he lit a fourth cigarette—had charm as well as unusual loveliness. Charm was more than beauty; it was the soul and perfume of beauty, beauty’s inmost secret.

He had only seen her three times! Odd that she rather haunted him. He believed that Betty knew it—well, what if she did?

Three times—but no; it was four. He had forgotten the morning at the tennis club. How graceful she was. And how badly she played tennis! She had said that she did not care for any games—except cards and chess, games of chance. Cotterel played tennis superbly, several other strenuous games as well. But he rather liked girls who disliked sports.

He got up presently and tossed a match and two cigarette stumps, one still burning, into the pool’s immaculate water. He never knew that he had. It was the most significant thing that he ever had done. He’d not have understood that it was, if he had realized that he had done it.

Goldfish fought for the unusual spoils. The victors were so disgusted with Turkish tobacco that they left the match alone, and it found a lasting refuge under a big lotus leaf.

Cotterel went lazily into his house, just pleasantly sleepy, pleased with the success of his picturesque house-warming, pleasantly in love with Red Bridges.