CHAPTER X

During the remainder of the voyage Romola Borria did not once, so far

as Peter was aware, leave her stateroom. Her meals were sent there,

and there she remained, sending out word in response to his inquiries

that she was ill, could see no one--not that Peter, after that latest

astounding interview, cared particularly to renew the friendship. He

was simply thoughtful.

Yet he felt a little angry at his demonstration of frank selfishness,

and not a little uneasy at the uncanny precision of her recital of his

recent history, an uneasiness which grew, until he found himself

waiting with growing concern for the rock-bound shore-line of Hong Kong

to thrust its black-and-green shoulders above the horizon.

The _Persian Gulf_ anchored outside at night, and in the morning

steamed slowly in amidst the maze of masts, of sampans and junks, which

latter lay with their sterns pointing grotesquely upward, resembling

nothing so closely as great brown hawks which had flown down from a

Brobdingnagian heaven, to select with greater convenience and

fastidiousness what prey might fall within reach of their talons.

Peter was aware that many of these junks were pirate ships, audacious

enough to pole into Victoria Harbor under the very guns of the forts,

under the noses of battleships of every nation.

When the launch from quarantine swung alongside, Peter went below and

changed from the uniform to a light, fresh suit of Shantung silk, a

soft collar, a soft Bangkok hat, and comfortable, low walking shoes,

not neglecting to knot about his waist the blue sarong.

The steerage passengers were lined up when he came above a little

later, sticking out their tongues for the eagle-eyed doctors, and

giggling at a proceeding serious enough, had they known it, to send

every mother's son and daughter of them back to the land whence they

came, if they displayed so much as a slight blemish, for Hong Kong was

then in the throes of her latest cholera scare.

Satisfied at length that the eyes and tongues of the steerage and deck

passengers gave satisfactorily robust testimony, the doctors came up to

the first-class passengers, who stood in line on the promenade deck;

and Peter saw the change that had come over Romola Borria.

Her face bore the pallor of the grave. Her large, lustrous eyes were

sunken, and lines seemed to have been engraved in a face that had

previously been as smooth and fair as a rose in bloom.

He felt panic-stricken as she recognized him with an almost

imperceptible nod, and he stared at her a trifle longer than was

necessary, with his lips slightly ajar, his nails biting into his

palms, and he sensed rather than saw, that her beauty had been

transformed into one of gray melancholy.

At that juncture, a tinkling voice shrilled up at him from the after

cargo-well, and Peter turned to see his small charge, the maid from

Macassar, smiling as she waited for him beside a small pile of silken

bundles of the rainbow's own colors. He had not forgotten the Eurasian

girl, but he desired to have a parting word with Romola Borria.

He called over the rail, and instructed her of the black pigtail to

wait for him in a sampan, and he yelled down to one of the dozens of

struggling and babbling coolies, whose sampans swarmed like a horde of

cockroaches at the ladder's lower extremity.

Romola Borria, alone, was awaiting him, adjusting her gloves, at the

doorway of the wireless cabin when he made his way back to that quarter

of the ship. She greeted him with a slow, grave smile; and by that

smile Peter was given to know how she had suffered.

Her face again became a mask, a mask of death, indeed, as her lids

fluttered down and then raised; and her eyes were tired.

He extended his hand, trying to inject some of his accustomed

cheerfulness into the gesture and into the smile which somehow would

not form naturally on his lips.

"This--is _adieu_--or _au revoir_?" he said solemnly.

"I hope--_au revoir_," she replied dully. "So, after all, you refuse

to take my counsel, my advice, seriously?"

Peter shrugged. "I'm rather afraid I can't," he said. "You see, I'm

young. And you can say to yourself, or out loud without fear of

hurting my feelings, that I am--foolish. I guess it is one of the

hardships of being young--this having to be foolish. Wasn't it to-day

that I was to become immortal, with a knife through my floating ribs,

or a bullet in my heart?

"As I grow older I will become more serious, with balance. Perish the

thought! But in the end--shucks! Confucius, wasn't it--that dear old

philosopher who could never find a king to try out his theories on--who

said:

"The great mountain must crumble.

The strong beam must break.

The wise man must wither away like a plant."

She nodded.

"I am afraid you will never become serious, Mr. Moore. And perhaps

that is one of the reasons why I've grown so--so fond of you in this

short while. If I could take life--and death--as stoically, as

happily, as you--oh, God!"

She shut her eyes. Tears were in their rims when she opened them again.

"Mr. Moore, I'll make a foolish confession, too, now. It is--I love

you. And in return----"

"I think you're the bravest girl in the world," said Peter, taking her

hands with a movement of quick penitence. "You--you're a brick."

"I guess I am," she sighed, looking moodily away. "A brick of clay!

Perhaps it is best to walk into the arms of your enemies the way you

do, with your head back and eyes shining and a smile of contempt on

your lips. If I only could!"

"Why speak of death on a day like this?" said Peter lightly. "Life is

so beautiful. See those red-and-yellow blossoms on the hill, near the

governor's place, and the poor little brats on that sampan, thinking

they're the happiest kids in the world. What hurts them, hurts them;

what pleases them, pleases them. They're happy because they don't

bother to anticipate. And think of life, beautiful old life, brimming

over with excitement and the mystery of the very next moment!"

"If I could only see that next moment!"

"Ugh! What a dreary monotony life would become!"

"But we could be sure. We could prepare for--for--well----" She threw

up her head defiantly. "For death, I'll say."

"But please don't let's talk of death. Let's talk of the fine time you

and I are going to have when we see each other again."

"Will there be another time, Peter?"

"Why, of course! You name that time; any time, any place. We'll eat

and drink and chatter like a couple of parrots. And you will forget

all this--this that is behind us."

Her teeth clicked.

"To-night," she said quickly. "I'll meet you. Let me see. On the

Desvoeux Road side of the Hong Kong Hotel balcony, the restaurant,

upstairs, you know."

"Right!" agreed Peter with enthusiasm. "Will we let husband go along?"

Her face suddenly darkened. She shook her head.

"I will be alone. So will you, at seven o'clock. You'll be there,

without fail?"

A coolie guarded her luggage near by impatiently. They could hear the

sobbing of the J. C. J. passenger launch as it rounded the starboard

counter.

"I forget," said Peter, with his flashing smile. "I'll be dead in an

hour. The steel trap of China, you know."

"Please don't jest."

"I'll tell you what I will do. I'll put a tag on my lapel, saying,

deliver this corpse to the Desvoeux Road balcony of the Hong Kong Hotel

restaurant at seven sharp to-night! Without fail! C. O. D.!"

These last words were addressed to the empty wireless cabin doorway.

The white skirt of Romola Borria flashed like a taunting signal as she

hastened out of his sight with the boy who carried her grips.