CHAPTER VI
Sidney Carton, thought Ruth, in pursuit of a sing-song girl! Theidea was so incongruous that a cold little smile parted her lips.It seemed as if each time her imagination reached out investingly,an invisible lash beat it back. Still, she knew instinctively thatall of Sidney Carton's life had not been put upon the printed page.But to go courting a slave-girl, at the risk of physical hurt! Ashudder of distaste wrinkled her shoulders.
She opened the window, for the night was mild, and sat on the floorwith her chin resting upon the window-sill. Even the stars werestrangers. Where was this kindly world she had drawn so rosily infancy? Disillusion everywhere. The spinsters were not kind; theywere only curious because she was odd and wore a dress thirty yearsout of date. Later, when they returned home, she would serve as thetopic of many conversations. Everybody looked askance at everybodyelse. To escape one phase of loneliness she had plunged intoanother, so vast that her courage sometimes faltered.
She recalled how she had stretched out her arms toward the magicblue horizon. Just beyond there would be her heart's desire. And inthese crowded four weeks, what had she learned? That all horizonswere lies: that smiles and handshakes and goodbyes and welcomeswere lies: that there were really no to-morrows, only a treadmillof to-days: and that out of these lies and mirages she had pluckeda bitter truth--she was alone.
She turned her cheek to the cold sill; and by and by the sill grewwarm and wet with tears. She wanted to stay where she was; buttears were dangerous; the more she wept, the weaker she wouldbecome defensively. She rose briskly, turned on the light, andopened Les Miserables to the episode of the dark forest: where JeanValjean reaches out and takes Cosette's frightful pail from herchapped little hands.
There must be persons tender and loving in this world. There mustbe real Valjeans, else how could authors write about them?Supposing some day she met one of these astonishing creators, whocould make one cry and laugh and forget, who could thrill one withlove and anger and tenderness?
Most of us have witnessed carnivals. Here are all our harlequinsand columbines of the spoken and written drama. They flash to andfro, they thrill us with expectancy. Then, presto! What a drearylot they are when the revellers lay aside the motley!
Ruth had come from a far South Sea isle. The world had not passedby but had gone around it in a tremendous half-circle. Many thingswere only words, sounds; she could not construct these words andsounds into objects; or, if she did, invariably missed the mark.Her education was remarkable in that it was overdeveloped here andunderdeveloped there: the woman of thirty and the child of ten werealways getting in each other's way. Until she had left her island,what she heard and what she saw were truths. And now she wasdiscovering that even Nature was something of a liar, with hermirages and her horizons.
At the present moment she was living in a world of her owncreation, a carnival of brave men and fair women, characters out ofthe tales she had so newly read for the first time. She could notresist enduing persons she met with the noble attributes of thefictional characters. We all did that in our youth, when first wecame upon a fine story; else we were worthless metal indeed. So,step by step, and hurt by hurt, Ruth was learning that John Smithwas John Smith and nobody else.
Presently she was again in that dreadful tavern of the Thenardiers.That was the wonder of these stories; one lived in them. Cosettesat under the table, still as a mouse, fondling her pitiful doll.Dolls. Ruth's gaze wandered from the printed page. She had neverhad a real doll. Instinct had forced her to create something out ofrags to satisfy a mysterious craving. But a doll that rolled itseyes and had flaxen hair! Except for the manual labour--there hadbeen natives to fetch and carry--she and Cosette were sisters inloneliness.
Perhaps an hour passed before she laid aside the book. A bobbinglantern, crossing the bridge--for she had not drawn thecurtain--attracted her attention. She turned off the light andapproached the window. She saw a pole-chair; that would be this Mr.Taber returning. Evidently Ah Cum's luck had held good.
As she stared her eyes grew accustomed to the night; and shediscovered five persons instead of four. She remembered Taber'shat. (What was the name he had given her that day?) He was walkingbeside the chair upon which appeared to be a bundle of colours. Shecould not see clearly. All at once her heart began to patterqueerly. He was bringing the sing-song girl to the hotel!
The strange cortege presently vanished below the window-sill.Curiosity to see what a sing-song girl was like took possession ofRuth's thoughts. She fought the inclination for a while, thensurrendered. She was still fully dressed; so all she had to do wasto pause before the mirror and give her hair a few pats.
Mirrors. Prior to the great adventure, her mirrors had been thestill pools in the rocks after the ebb. She had never been able todiscover where her father had hidden his shaving mirror.
When she entered the office a strange scene was presented to herstartled gaze. The sing-song girl, her fiddle broken, was beatingher forehead upon the floor and wailing: _Ai, ai! Ai, ai!_Spurlock--or Taber, as he called himself--sat slumped in a chair,staring with glazed eyes at nothing, absolutely uninterested in theconfusion for which he was primarily accountable. The hotel managerwas expostulating and Ah Cum was replying by a series of expressiveshrugs.
"What has happened?" Ruth asked.
"A drunken idea," said Ah Cum, taking his hands out of his sleeves."I could not make him understand."
"She cannot stay here," the manager declared.
"Why does she weep?" Ruth wanted to know.
Ah Cum explained. "She considers her future blasted beyond hope.Mr. Taber did not leave all his money in the office. He insisted onbuying this girl for two hundred mex. He now tells her that she isfree, no longer a slave. She doesn't understand; she believes hehas taken a sudden dislike to her. Free, there is nothing left toher but the canal. Until two hours ago she was as contented and ashappy as a linnet. If she returns to the house from which we tookher, her companions will laugh at her and smother her withridicule. On this side of the canal she has no place to go. Herpeople live in Heng-Chow, in the Hu-nan province. It is all verycomplex. It is the old story of a Westerner meddling with anEastern custom."
"But why didn't you oppose him?"
"I had to let him have his way, else he might not have returnedsafely. One cannot successfully argue with a drunken man."
The object of this discussion sat motionless. The voices went intohis ears but left no impression of their import. There was, infact, only one clear thought in his fevered brain: he had reachedthe hotel without falling down.
The sing-song girl, seeing Ruth, extended her hands and began tochatter rapidly. Ruth made a little gesture, of infinite pity; andthis was quickly seized upon by the slant-eyed Chinese girl. Shecrawled over and caught at the skirts of this white woman whounderstood.
"What is she saying to me?"
Ah Cum shrugged.
Ruth stared into the painted face, now sundrily cracked by thecoursing tears. "But she is saying something to me! What is it?"
The hotel manager, who spoke Cantonese with facility, interpreted.He knew that he could translate literally. "She is saying that you,a woman, will readily understand the position in which she findsherself. She addresses you as the Flower of the Lotus, as theResplendent Moonbeam."
"Just to give her her freedom?" said Ruth, turning to Ah Cum.
"Precisely. The chair is in the veranda. I will take her back. Butof course the money will not be refunded.
"Then take her back," said the manager. "You knew better than tobring her here under the circumstances."
"Well," said Ah Cum, amiably, "when I argued against the venture,he threatened to go wandering about alone, I was most concerned inbringing him back unhurt."
He then spoke authoritatively to the girl. He appeared to thunderdire happenings if she did not obey him without further ado. Hepicked up the broken fiddle and beckoned. The sing-song girl roseand meekly pattered out of the office into the night.
Ru
th crossed over to the dramatist of this tragicomedy and put ahand on his shoulder.
"I understand," she said. Her faith in human beings revived. "Youtried to do something that was fine, and ... and civilization wouldnot let you."
Spurlock turned his dull eyes and tried to focus hers. Suddenly heburst into wild laughter; but equally as suddenly somethingstrangled the sound in his throat. He reached out a hand gropingly,sagged, and toppled out of the chair to the floor, where he layvery still.