Part 9 (1/2)

Li had had his own way about many things during a great number of years, and opposition, no matter from what motives, meant nothing to him. He settled his big horn spectacles more firmly on his nose, and flecked invisible dust from his rich black brocade coat.

”Want go America,” he repeated without emphasis.

”Whatever for?” asked young Withers, to whom a desire to go to America was incomprehensible. He himself had never felt a desire to go to America, and that his old compradore should be so obsessed was past his understanding. Besides, he could imagine somewhat what would befall the old gentleman, who after many years was only able to speak pidgin-English, who never wore European clothes, and who had managed to retain his magnificent queu in spite of all the troubles following the Boxer business. Old Withers had managed to preserve Li's queu for him. Took him into his compound and sheltered him, and finally got a permit from the Legation to allow him to wear it. Li was enormously proud of this queu, which was long and thick and glossy, and its length enhanced by a black silk cord, neatly plaited in towards the end--altogether, it came nearly down to his heels, the envy and admiration of many a Chinese gentleman who had been abruptly shorn before help arrived. Young Withers visualised his dignified compradore the figure of fun to irreverent American crowds. He sincerely wished to preserve him from what he felt must be an unpleasant experience. He was even more anxious to protect his old friend from what would probably be in store for him, than through any selfish desire to retain his services.

”Come back again four month,” observed Li. ”Not long time. Want to go.” Young Withers sighed. It was impossible to explain to the old man. There were pitfalls and pitfalls, he well knew. Yet he had never been to America himself, so could not speak from experience. Only the evening before he had been dining in company with a wise woman of sorts, a French lady who had lived in a cave in Tibet for some years, pursuing reluctant hermits into their mountain fastnesses in order to obtain elucidation on certain Buddhist books. She had told him frankly that she was bound back again for her cave, or for the wilds of Mongolia, but never, under any circ.u.mstances, could she trust herself to the risks of American civilization. Young Withers tried to explain something of this to the old man, who was very patient and did not interrupt him, but the seed was falling on barren ground. If he could just understand English better, thought Withers, I might be able to make him see. So Withers' oratory was lost, to a large degree, and when he came to a pause Li repeated, without emphasis,

”Want go America.”

”But you're too old!” exclaimed the young man, exasperated by such obstinacy. ”Too--you're too--you're not strong enough. You're too--delicate----”

”Want go America. Four month. Come back then,” said Li, and Withers gave it up. Two weeks later Li was standing on the deck of a small j.a.panese liner bound from Tientsin to Kobe, from which port he would transs.h.i.+p to a larger j.a.panese liner bound for San Francisco. He took with him many bundles of odd sizes, wrapped in coa.r.s.e blue cotton, seemingly of no value. He waved a dignified farewell from the rail, and young Withers, on the dock, watched the departure of his old compradore with infinite misgivings.

Four months, including the pa.s.sage both ways, proved much too long a time in which to see America. Li returned unexpectedly one day, within half that time, a silent and broken man. His blue bundles, whatever their mystery, were gone, his rich brocade coat was gone, and gone also was his confidence and trust in human kind. Only his thick, glossy, long queu remained to him,--that, and a singular taciturnity.

Whatever his experiences, no word would he speak concerning them--he preserved a rigid silence. Something had been broken in the old man, there beyond the seas, and whatever had befallen him was abhorrent and unspeakable. He seemed very much older, very much more frail, and his thin, fine hands were always trembling in a manner unaccustomed. Young Withers was in distress, for Li's distress was so obvious, his singular reticence making him suffer still more.

”Those thugs in San Francisco must have cleaned out the old fellow first day on sh.o.r.e,” he concluded, and then thought no more about it.

It was pitiful to see the old man, however, pitiful to watch him going about his duties with the recollection of his terrible days in the New World undermining his spirits and vitality. The secret, whatever it was that had befallen him, was sapping his frail strength. Only on one occasion, several months later, did he bring up the subject. He appeared suddenly before Withers' desk one day, and there was an angry gleam in his spectacled eyes.

”Your uncle never let me go America. Twenty years with your uncle.

Very good man. Never can go.” He turned away abruptly.

”By Jove,” thought young Withers to himself, ”the old chap's holding me responsible. Blaming it all on me. I like that!” and he laughed a little, uneasily. These Chinese were queer ones. You never knew how they stood.

The firm of Withers, Ltd. was very busy. Every week or so s.h.i.+ps came into the harbour with boxes and bales of European merchandise of a rather shoddy kind, intended for the markets of North China. And there was much business in transferring these boxes and bales to the big G.o.downs, with their heavy iron doors and windows, in checking them up, sorting them out--in short, all the sort of activity that goes with a firm of importers, such as this one. Also there was much business in distributing these boxes and bales, or rather the contents thereof, to the railway station, for s.h.i.+pment to Peking and to remote provinces in the north and west. In Peking, these shoddy goods were made into smaller bales, and laden on camels, for some far off, remote destination in the interior. This took Withers frequently to Peking, leaving old Li in charge of the G.o.downs in Tientsin. Withers always took charge of this end of the business, because of the opportunity it offered to get away from daily contact with his old compradore.

Somehow, he felt rather uneasy in the old man's presence. There was a change in his manner, most marked. Again and again that remark occurred to him, and again and again, in the compradore's presence, Withers was conscious of a feeling of undefinable hostility. He holds me responsible, he thought, absurd, but that's what it is. Because I did not prevent him from going to America. Therefore Withers was very glad to go to Peking from time to time, for he liked the excitement of the barbaric capital, and besides, he thought it would be good for Li to be quite on his own in charge of the G.o.downs, and might distract his thoughts from that obsession which was preying upon him.

One day, after an absence of two weeks, young Withers returned to his Tientsin office, which wore a somewhat deserted air. The shroff was clicking on his abacus, and left off snicking the beads up and down to remark casually that the compradore had gone. The shroff was a young Chinese who spoke excellent, mission-school English, and wore good European clothes, and he shared Withers' astonishment that such a thing had happened.

”Wanted to go home, he said. Had had enough business. Gone home ten days ago, with his family. Said say good-bye to you.”

Withers' first feeling was of relief. That's that, he thought to himself, and just as well. He stood eyeing the young Chinese accountant, and the shroff looked him back fairly in the eye, and the same thought pa.s.sed through both minds. A younger man would do just as well as compradore, and here was the younger man at hand, waiting.

”Let's go down to the G.o.downs,” said Withers, and the two walked out of the office together, in the direction of the quais. The shroff should learn things from the beginning, and taking charge of the bales and boxes in the warehouses, counting them, distributing their contents, was part of the business.

On unlocking the great, heavy doors, the G.o.downs presented a singular aspect. Never, in all the years that young Withers had been a.s.sociated as junior partner in Withers, Ltd., and never in the few years since he had become Withers, Ltd. himself, had the G.o.downs presented such an aspect. They were empty. Quite, stark, utterly empty. Not a bale, not a box, not a yard of calico was to be found anywhere about. The suns.h.i.+ne slanted in through the open door, and not a moat of dust danced in the rays, for nothing had been disturbed for some time, and the dust was settled. They went top-side, into the lofts. The same thoroughness presented itself. Everything had been cleared out, absolutely.

”Stolen!” exclaimed Withers.

”Clean-sweep!” said the shroff, in his mission-school English.