“I HOPE I'm going to be happy,” Olga said wistfully.
“I hope so, dear. You will, too,” Hilda retorted cheerfully.
Frightened and a bit apprehensive over the step she had taken. Olga turned to Hilda, her older sister, for encouragement and reassurance while she changed her clothes hurriedly for her honeymoon trip.
Hilda continued gently to encourage her, until they were interrupted by their mother. With a few sharp words Frau Koerber undid all of Hilda's good work and reduced Olga almost to hysteria while Hilda was helpless–helpless even to defend herself when her mother let loose a tirade of abuse upon her because her younger sister had married first.
Happy the bride the sun shines on! But the sun didn't shine on Olga Koerber's wedding. Instead, when she came out of the church, she was greeted with a heavy downpour.
When she could, Hilda made her escape to her father's laboratory. Dr. Fane was there.
“I'm waiting for your father,” he explained.
Hilda smiled and looked out of the window at the crows of merry-makers in the street below, her father among them.
“Poor darling–doesn't know it's raining.” She looked about the place wistfully. She had really come here for sanctuary, not for conversation.
“You'll be frightfully lonely, I dare say,” Dr. Fane ventured after a moment of awkward silence. Hilda nodded gravely.
“Yes, I guess I shall.” At the moment the effort to make conversation was very great.
It was a relief when Professor Koerber joined them and the tension was broken. Hilda smiled at him affectionately. There was understanding between these two and deep love. Gently, she removed his glasses and wiped the tears from them–tears of sadness over Olga's departure.
“Must you really work tonight?” she asked anxiously.
“Oh, not really,” Dr Fane retorted.
“But, of course, we must,” Professor Koerber insisted. He turned to Dr. Fane, but his next words were addressed to Hilda. “In all the years of teaching,” he said proudly, “never a student like this.”
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After they had left, Hilda was overwhelmed with great sadness which persisted even into the night when she tried to sleep. It was so lonely without little Olga. That accounted for part of the sadness and the rest was because she, herself, didn't seem to have any definite spot in the world. She was drifting–but where?
Presently, she heard the clatter of dishes in the kitchen below, jumped out of bed, threw a robe about her and hurried downstairs to join her father and Dr. Fane.
Hilda greeted them cordially, then noticed how tired her father looked.
“I'll make some tea for Dr. Fane,” she offered, then coaxingly, “Father, go to bed.” After he had gone, she turned to Dr. Fane. “The whole house is stuffy. I'm going to get a breath of air.”
She stepped out onto the back porch and he followed her. For a moment they stood together in silence, then he spoke awkwardly.
“I'm leaving this week-end,” he announced after a moment.
“Back to China?”
“Yes–vacation's over.” He seemed about to brace himself for an ordeal. “I'm a blithering idiot,” he blurted out suddenly. “That's because I'm in love with you. I want to ask you to marry me. I know it's unutterably silly and there isn't a chance but I can't think clearly about anything else so there you are!”
Hilda turned and regarded him in amazement. Could she possibly have heard correctly? If the heavens had fallen, she couldn't have been more astounded. When, finally, she realized that he was waiting for her to say something, she spoke in a little voice scarcely above a whisper.
“Doctor Fane–have you gone quite mad?”
“No–it's true,” he retorted gravely. “I don't know how I managed to say it–heaven knows it–it was very badly said.” He hesitated, then continued. “I nearly went without saying it–I knew I'd do it so abominably. It's just true and very deep–that's how it is and”–he finished awkwardly–“I think I improve on acquaintance.”
Hilda looked up at him and started to speak, then something deep within her broke . The whole thing was too preposterous, coming after the last few days–a little too much. She laughed hysterically, but, when she saw the grieved expression on her companion's face, was instantly contrite.
“Forgive me, Dr. Fane,” she said sweetly.
Fictionization by
EVE WOODBURN
WEEKS later Hilda Fane and her husband, Walter, landed in China. As the beat drew near the harbour, he asked anxiously:
“Happy?”
“I'm excited,” she retorted truthfully. “Is that happy?” Then, curiously. “Are you?”
“There's no man so happy,” he replied. “I have no words for it, really–only I love you–I love you more and more.” He put the back of his hand on the rail and gently she covered it with hers.
For a moment she was frightened. This man loved her so much! It seemed as though she had really so little to offer him in return.
But, before she could speak, they had landed. Dr. Fane was forced to leave her for a few minutes while his friends and co-workers gave their report on the stricken cholera district. Hilda waited patiently, and presently he returned with Charlie Townsend whom he presented to her.
She regarded Townsend with interest. He was tall, dark and charming. She had no way of knowing the danger of his devastating charm and, even if at the moment she had known, she wouldn't have been greatly concerned. Wasn't she a married woman, secure in her husband's love?
They chatted inconsequently for a few minutes and Hilda was unaware of the fact that Townsend was decidedly more interested in her than in her husband.
DURING the days that followed, Hilda was swept into the social activities of the little foreign colony of Hong Kong. There was bridge at the Polo Club at Lain Tiag, a suburb of Hong Kong, where she met a great many people, among them Townsend's wife. It was all very exciting, and she came closer to happiness during those gay, pleasure-filled days than she had ever been in her life. There was a polo game when Hilda watched Townsend play, far more excited and thrilled than his wife was over the exhibition.
After the game, Townsend look her to the stables to see the horses. As they moved across the lawn, she looked at him, her lovely eyes glowing with excitement.
“These people are so calm,” she complained. “Your polo–ooh–it was exciting!”
He smiled down at her, admiringly. She was lovely, and utterly appealing.
“Don't you find it thrilling?”
Townsend's eyes met hers.
“I do at this moment.”
They moved on across the lawn to the stables where the conversation took on a impersonal note as they chatted about the horses. But, when he left her, he had exacted a promise to let him show her around Hong Kong.
TO Hilda her association with Charlie Townsend was just a fine and entertaining friendship; that is, it was until they day he took her to Ku Chon's curio shop. She looked at the treasures with childish delight while Townsend explained them to her, pointing out the real from the imitation.
Presently, Ku Chou put a small vase of flowers in her hands, then went out, closing the door softly after him. She looked at Townsend questioningly, surprised that Ku Chou should leave them alone among his treasures.
“They trust us,” he informed her. “Oriental confidence in the British flag!”
Then he told her a little legend about the flowers while she listened with the frank interest of a child.
“You know all their legends?” she asked when he had finished.
Their eyes met.
“Not when you look at me like that!” he retorted. Hilda continued to stare at him and her smile slowly faded. For the first time she sensed danger. “My word, you're beautiful!” he said, his voice charged with emotion.
She stood looking at him, petrified at the moment with the sudden storm, quiet though it was. Then, before she could speak, before she could even think what to say or do next, he put a hand on each side of her face and kissed her.
The beautiful vase in her hands dropped to the floor, while Hilda stood trembling, stunned. Quick tears sprang to her eyes. The though ran through her mind that they were tears of hurt and humiliation. Later she was to know differently.
“How could you?” she murmured after a moment.
“I went a little mad–I'm sorry–but you're so much more beautiful than anything here.” She just looked at him, her eyes shocked and hurt. “I'll never offend you again,” he promised, “if you'll forgive me–trust me.”
She didn't reply but stumbled out through a blinding mist of tears.
She hurried home, her mind chaotic. When she arrived, she was relieved to learn that Walter wasn't there. She must have time to think, to analyze this new emotion that was surging through her. Going to her bedroom, she mechanically dressed for dinner. But it was a lonely dinner, for Walter didn't come home and she found, when she tried to eat, that she couldn't. The food was tasteless. She was so lonely–so desperately lonely, with a new and bewildering kind of loneliness.
She was roused from her mood by the sound of music. Her face brightened. The festival! She had forgotten all about it. And Walter wasn't here to take her. Well, she would go alone. She grabbed her wrap, hesitated a moment, then rushed out into the garden. She halted in shocked surprise as she saw Townsend coming toward her.
“I can't go anywhere–or do anything–until I'm forgiven,” he explained simply. “I can only apologize–I can't undo it. It was a blind thing–and I couldn't help it. I mean it–you must believe me.” |
It was on that day–that terrible day that she was to remember as long as she lived that, helplessly, she and Townsend saw someone try to open the locked door which shut them away from the world. She looked at the door, fascinated, frightened.
“You should never have come here,” she finally told Townsend.
“I know it–but it's done.” He walked over to the door. “Might as well find out.” He reached for the key and unlocked the door, then opened it. There was nobody there. He turned to her. “He never comes this time of day, does he?”
She shook her head.
“Hasn't in months.”
Together they went into the living room. It was empty Hilda picked up some magazines from the table and looked at them.
“That something new?” Townsend asked.
She frowned, trying to recollect.
“I'm not sure–I get them once a month–sometimes he brings them–sometimes the store sends them around.” A feeling of uneasiness, a premonition of disaster was gradually possessing her. It was then that Townsend discovered his topee. He went over and picked it up. If Dr. Fane had come home, here was tangible evidence. “Now will you please go?” Hilda said nervously. “I'm frightened.
“It isn't any joke,” he retorted. “But you can depend on me–you know that–always.”
“I'm sure of that,” she said from the depths of her troubled heart.
ACROSS the dinner table that night Hilda regarded her husband anxiously. His face was cold, inscrutable.
“They sent my Austrian magazines,” she finally ventured.
Walter didn't look up.
“Oh, yes?”
They made but little pretense of eating and presently went into the living room for coffee. Hilda poured it, watching her husband nervously.
“You've been as silent this evening as a stone god. If there's something on your mind, why don't you say it?”
“Ever hear of Mai-tan-fu?” he asked after a moment. She regarded him in surprise.
“Should I?”
“It might be well–we're going there.”
“Where is it?”
“inland–three hundred miles.” She looked at him uneasily.
“Have you been ordered there?”
“No. There's an epidemic–cholera. I volunteered.” The color slowly drained from her face.
“Did you say we were going?”
“A wife should go with her husband.” He smiled, a funny twisted smile, then turned from her and picked up a book.
Then she broke.
“If you want to kill me, why not do it now–here? Why this crazy elaborate business?” Then, in sudden defiance, “I haven't the slightest intention of going with you.”
When he spoke, his voice was even, emotionless.
“Then I shan't go. I shall start divorce action, mentioning Townsend.”
Hilda recoiled as though he had dealt her a physical blow. It couldn't be–but she had to know.
“Then you were here this afternoon!” she said.
“We won't talk about it–any part of it,” he told her coldly.
“Oh, but we will,” she countered passionately.
Fane's voice was hard, scornful.
“I know what you'll say–you find it in bad novels about cheap people. We'll hear it in court, where they value it properly.”
Hilda looked at him helplessly. But when she tried to tell him that she was sorry, he refused to listen. His eyes had a wild, insane look and it was then that courage returned to her.
“All right then–I fell in love,” she said defiantly, “blindly, madly, with all my heart. I reached for what happiness I could get–like a fool I stole it–both of us, trapped by empty marriages, trying not to hurt anybody.”
When she had finished, Fane grinned, the same crazy queer little grin she had seen earlier.
“If Townsend will promise in writing to divorce his wife and marry you within a fortnight,” he said deliberately, “well and good. If not,” he went on pitilessly, “you go with me–or you go back where I found you and explain this great love to your father.” |
He dropped back into his chair and picked up a book. For a moment Hilda hesitated, then fear and consternation faded from her face and in their stead came a look of determination.
THE following day she went to Charlie Townsend's office. She went with courage and confidence as she had no fear concerning the outcome of her visit. After she had told him of her husband's ultimatum, he sat staring into space, his face drawn into sharp lines, deadly serious.
“Do you think he means it?” he finally asked sharply.
“I'm sure of it,” she told him with easy assurance.
“Divorce would shake this colony to its foundations and wreck a career I've worked many years to build up,” he declared, deeply troubled. Hilda regarded him incredulously, while slowly her heart sank as her little world crashed to bits. She rose wearily, blind with bitter disillusionment. “Wait, Hilda!” Townsend went over to her. “My wife wouldn't divorce me because of the children.” He hesitated, then continued with an air of bravado, “I'll smash everything if you say the word, but we're outcasts–it's a wreck any place we go. I don't promise not to hate you if I pay that price–but if you want to chance it–“
She interrupted him with a short bitter laugh.
“You know I wouldn't–that's why you say it, Charlie.”
Then she told him goodbye and left him. But she had no illusions. She knew that she was saying goodbye to love, that, even though she might carry his image in her heart forever, their love was dead.
When she returned home, she found that Walter had ordered her things packed. How well he knew Townsend!
THE journey to the stricken city was a never-to-be-forgotten nightmare to Hilda. Finally, the day arrived when the carriage bearers gave a wild shout and pointed excitedly to the arched entrance to the pestilent city.
Impulsively, Hilda turned toward Walter, seeking reassurance, but she received none. He continued to look beyond her, toward the ominous gates, his face still a mask of inscrutability, only his eyes expressing his resignation to the task that confronted him.
It was late afternoon and the heat of the spot rose as Dr. Fane's caravan made its way into Mei-tan-fu. The street, like the town itself, was congested with frightened humanity. It was a town ravished by plague, with all the disorder and terror that inevitably accompanies it.
Hilda looked about desperately and wondered what sort of a hell she had come to. Her eyes opened wide with horror as she beheld a child, with the cramps of cholera, writhing in the arms of its mother. She covered her eyes, unable for the moment to stand more.
The caravan moved into a narrow filthy alleyway. Suddenly, the chair in the lead stopped. There was a pushcart full of fruit and vegetables in the middle of the alley, and between it and the gutter was a dead Chinaman. Hilda looked at him, speechless with horror. Then, impulsively, she started to get cut of her chair. Walter came up and stood beside her.
“Get back into your chair!” he commanded shortly.
The sharpness of his tone pulled her together. Without turning, she sat back, watching dully as Fane took the pushcart and pulled it to one side. Then he spoke brusquely to the Chinese boys and told them to remove the body.
A moment later Dr. Fane was greeted by General Yu. Hilda scarcely listened to their conversation. It was only when the General complimented her upon her bravery and loyalty to her husband in accompanying him to the stricken city that she paid any attention, struck then by the irony of such a remark.
Dr. Fane took Hilda to live in a little bungalow on a slope. There were a few pieces of furniture, a table, a few chairs and necessary articles. But it was conspicuously shy of any of the warming details of the bungalow which she had left in Hong Kong.
She looked about the place in despair, standing in the middle of the room while her husband's bags and boxes were being unpacked. Unconsciously, her hands gripped her arms as she struggled to hold herself together. She felt dead–body and soul–cut off from the whole world. So she had come here to die in this awful place! but it didn't matter much. She was so utterly wretched that she didn't care.
Fane walked about briskly, giving orders to the coolies, ignoring Hilda completely.
“Walter,” she cried desperately, “this is madness! I can't go on! Why am I here?”
He looked at her squarely, then said with quiet brutality:
“Not because of me or anything I said–you're here because Townsend didn't want you at the price.”
Hilda stared at him, bitterly humiliated, her lips quivering. When she spoke, it was half to herself.
“How you do despise me!”
“I despise myself for ever caring about you,” he told her and went out.
THE days that followed were full of misery and despair for Hilda. Walter spend a great deal of time at the barracks, now converted into an emergency hospital. She was left to herself to get through the time as best she could, her heart aching with loneliness.
Somehow six weeks passed and, during those awful days, Hilda wondered how she kept from losing her mind, why she didn't go raving mad. No prisoner had ever felt more tragically trapped than she–none half so lonely.
It was this feeling that drove her to Walter's room one night. She wanted a word from him–from anybody–desperately. He was lying on his cot, almost face down.
Hilda put down on a little table the lamp she had brought with her and looked at him for a second. Suddenly, a feeling of pity for the stern barrier between them surged through her and she felt a yearning sort of impulse toward him. He had been working beyond all human endurance among the stricken people and now had dropped over like a weary soldier.
She leaned down beside him, wondering how to make him more comfortable. Gently, she took his arm from under him and tried to turn him over. He awoke with a start.
“I didn't mean to waken you, but you were sleeping on your nose,” she explained.
He stood up, gazing about the room a bit dazedly.
“Oh, thanks! Very kind of you!”
“Now lie down and go to sleep again,” she coaxed. He stretched out on the cot and she regarded him with troubled eyes. “Would it disturb you if I just sat here?” she asked finally.
Fane looked at her.
“Horribly lonely, aren't you?”
They were the first kind words he had spoken and they brought tears to her eyes.
“If you'll wait a bit, I'll drink some black coffee,” he said. “I want to talk to you.”
Relief swept over her.
“I'll get you some,” she offered impulsively.
She hurried to the kitchen and went feverishly to work. She lighted the small kerosene stove, then took an old coffee pot, put water in it and a few teaspoons of coffee. She was almost sobbing, her breath coming in little gasps through her teeth, her tears flowing frankly. Presently, Fane joined her and she turned to him.
“I'd have brought it in,” she said.
“I might fall asleep.” He looked at her compassionately. “Pretty miserable, aren't you?” Hilda said nothing. She just looked at him. “I'm sending you back to Hong Kong,” he announced suddenly. “I've ordered the chairs for day after tomorrow–giving you a day to get ready.” She regarded him questioningly.
“You're staying, of course?”
“I'm going twelve miles farther up, to Fu Kong.”
“Do you have to go to this place,” she asked anxiously. He nodded.
“Yes, I do.” Then suddenly, “Don't you want to go back to Hong Kong?”
“I'm in the dark, Walter,” she told him troubled. “I don't know.”
“You see,” he said gently, “I forgot what a sweet and lovely person you really are. If I'd married somebody else without love–and then met you–and you loved me–my standards–well–they might not be so lofty.”
She looked at him puzzled.
“Have you stopped loving me? Is that why you're relenting?”
“I can't stop–not while I live.” His eyes sought hers. “You can't stop loving anybody for any reason, can you?”
Hilda caught the full import of his words, but she couldn't answer him.
“I want you to know this,” she said finally. “Please believe me. As long as I live, I'll be ashamed. I don't know just how to say it. It's this–being in love and letting it smash things as I have–I Thought it had the right of way–I really did.”
“So did I,” Fane told her, “in my way.”
“Right now,” she continued, “you and I are closer than we ever were–and much farther apart. When you sent me to Townsend and he let me down, I didn't feel half so small-half so cheap–as I do now.”
“Oh, that isn't what I'm–“ he protested, but she interrupted him swiftly.
“But there are two reasons I haven't a soul big enough to love a man like you–I'll never meet anyone so fine–never. The other reason–“ She hesitated a second while he looked at her curiously. “I'll face that myself.”
“You are still in love with Townsend?” he asked gently.
Hilda's lips quivered. She had reached the end of her rope. She couldn't talk to him any more now. After he had left her, she put her arms on the table and dropped her head, giving way to the tears she could no longer hold back.
SHE didn't leave for Hong Kong.
When Fane went to the children's hospital, he found her there in a sister's garb, feeding on of the sick tots who has propped up on a cot. He looked at her in speechless amazement and Hilda realized that this was neither the time nor the place for them to talk. She turned back to the little girl.
“Pardon–my patient is hungry.”
He took his cue from her.
“That's a healthy sign.”
Then, suddenly, there was a groan from the next cot and Fane's attention was focused upon a writhing child. Together, he and Hilda worked over her until presently she found relief.
They had barely finished when shots were heard outside. In the street there was vicious action. Crowds of angry, shouting natives were hurrying away, protesting because Dr. Fane had ordered their houses to be burned in order to check the cholera. Stretchers were being carried. Women, some with babies in their arms, were crying and shrieking. Soldiers were busy, darting into houses and bringing out the aged and the stricken. Through the alleys, crazy mobs were darting this way and that. The soldiers were shouting orders to the civilians and using their bayonets to get them going.
Dr. Fane and General Yu and a dozen soldiers tried to drive a mob of jabbering Chinese who shouted defiance when they attempted to explain.
Hilda tried desperately not to think of Walter's danger, to help quiet the frightened children. But it was no use. Her apprehension for him grew to a frenzy. When she could endure it no longer, she rushed out into the street, only to learn that he had been stabbed by an angry coolie.
When she reached the field laboratory where Walter was, General Yu asked her to wait a few minute before seeing him as they were performing an emergency operation.
Frantic, she was trying to hold herself together, every minute an eternity. It was while she was in this frame of mind that Townsend found her. When she saw him, she had to make an effort at first to credit her sense. He broke the silent which hung for a moment between them.
“Anything I can do, Hilda? Any possible way I can help?”
“Why have you come?” she asked slowly.
“If you don't mind–that can wait?”
“Walter is hurt–he may be dying.”
“Yes, I know, Hilda,” he said simply. “I didn't come so far without something in my heart you should listen to. That's all I want to say just now.”
“There was once I waited for a word from you–it seemed life and death–“
“Forgive me–if you can,” he interrupted.
“It doesn't seem to matter,” she said gravely. “I mean, forgiving you. He may be dying in there. All I pray for is a chance to tell him how much I love him. He doesn't know that–and it's all h ever asked for. In everything else he gives–his life–his work–what he does is love–every second–every hour.”
She stopped. She had said all she could. The effort had been tremendous. She had done it quietly but she had learned from Walter that mistakes are mistakes to be forgiven. She had tried to make it clear to Townsend, without reproaching him or being small about it.
He got the message clearly and took it like a thoroughbred. He looked at her for a long moment, then said simply and sincerely:
“All the best. I wanted you to know that my love for you is really deep.” He kissed her hand with genuine respect and left her.
She turned and went to Walter. She dropped down beside to cot, her lips close to his ear. She whispered his name. It was a though she sought by a sheer miracle of some kind of pull him back.
“Walter–Walter,” she whispered over and over.
With a great effort he opened his eyes.
“I was a million miles away,” he said wonderingly, “a million miles.”
“Don't go back,” Hilda begged. “Don't leave me. I love you. I know that now. Don't go back.”
He shook his head and she put her cheek beside his. The tears streamed down her face unheeded, but they were not tears of grief. Hilda had found peace at last, for she knew that Fate had given them their chance. 
THE END
from: MOVIES February 1935
© Copyright by MOVIES
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