The Ragged Edge | Page 9

He had an objective now.
CHAPTER IV
The tourists returned to the Sha-mien at four o'clock. They were silent
and no longer observant, being more or less exhausted by the tedious

action of the chairs. Even Ah Cum had resumed his Oriental shell of
reserve. To reach the Sha-mien--and particularly the Hotel
Victoria--one crossed a narrow canal, always choked with rocking
sampans over and about which swarmed yellow men and women and
children in varied shades of faded blue cotton. At sunset the swarming
abruptly ceased; even the sampans appeared to draw closer together,
with the quiet of water-fowl. There is everywhere at night in China the
original fear of darkness.
From the portals of the hotel--scarcely fifty yards from the canal--one
saw the blank face of the ancient city of Canton. Blank it was, except
for a gate near the bridgehead. Into this hole in the wall and out of it the
native stream flowed from sunrise to sunset, when the stream
mysteriously ceased. The silence of Canton at night was sinister, for
none could prophesy what form of mob might suddenly boil out.
No Cantonese was in those days permitted to cross to the Sha-mien
after sunset without a license. To simplify matters, he carried a
coloured paper lantern upon which his license number was painted in
Arabic numerals. It added to the picturesqueness of the Sha-mien night
to observe these gaily coloured lanterns dancing hither and yon like
June fireflies in a meadow.
Meantime the spinsters sought the dining room where tea was being
served. They had much to talk about, or rather Miss Prudence had.
"But she is a dear," said Angelina, timidly.
"I'll admit that. But I don't understand her; she's over my head. She
leaves me almost without comparisons. She is like some character out
of Phra the Phoenician: she's been buried for thirty years and just been
excavated. That's the way she strikes me. And it's uncanny."
"But I never saw anybody more alive."
"Who wouldn't be lively after thirty years' sleep? Did you hear her
explain about beachcombers? And yet she looks at one with the
straightest glance I ever saw. Still, I'm glad she didn't accept my

invitation to join us. I shouldn't care to have attention constantly drawn
to us. This world over here! Everything's upside-down or back-end-to.
Humph!"
"What's the matter?"
"Sh!"
Spurlock passed by on the way to the bar. Apparently he did not see his
recent companions. There was a strained, eager expression on his face.
"Going to befuddle himself between now and dinner," was the
comment of Prudence.
"The poor young man!" sighed Angelina.
"Pah! He's a fool. I never saw a man who wasn't."
"There was Father," suggested Angelina gently.
"Ninny! What did we know about Father, except when he was around
the house? But where is the girl? She said something about having tea
with us. I want to know more about her. I wonder if she has any idea
how oddly beautiful she is?"
Ruth at that precise moment was engaged by a relative wonder. She
was posing before the mirror, critically, miserably, defensively, and
perhaps bewilderedly. What was the matter with the dress? She could
not see. For the past four weeks mirrors had been her delight, a new toy.
Here was one that subtly mocked her.
Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities. Each
human contact leaves some indelible mark. The spinsters--who on the
morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever--had already left
their imprint upon her imagination. Clothes. Henceforth Ruth would
closely observe her fellow women and note the hang of their skirts.
Around her neck was a little gold chain. She gathered up the chain,
revealing a locket which had lain hidden in her bosom. The locket

contained the face of her mother--all the family album she had. She
studied the face and tried to visualize the body, clothed in the dress
which had created the spinsters' astonishment. Very well. To-morrow,
when she returned to Hong-Kong, she would purchase a simple but
modern dress. Anything that drew attention to her must be avoided.
She dropped the locket into its sweet hiding place. It was precious for
two reasons: it was the photograph of her beautiful mother whom she
could not remember, and it would identify her to the aunt in Hartford.
She uttered a little ejaculative note of joy and rushed to the bed. A
dozen books lay upon the counterpane. Oh, the beautiful books!
Romance, adventure, love stories! She gathered up the books in her
arms and cuddled them, as a mother might have cuddled a child. Love
stories! It was of negligible importance that these books were bound in
paper; Romance lay unalterably within. All these wonderful comrades,
henceforth and for ever hers. She would