A New Incident in the Charmed Life of Miss Austin
It was Sunday afternoon in Tientsin. In the little park that is the most perfectly British thing in the British Concession, a Sikh band of fifty pieces was playing "The Stars and Stripes Forever." Tourists strolled about the gravel paths. Japanese, Hindu, and Chinese amahs placidly wheeled the perambulators of ruddy British babies. Outside, on the corner, a yellow Shantung policeman, baton under arm, languidly watched the carriages and rickshaws roll by.
Within the park, on a bench that was set far back amid the shrubbery, sat Miss Edith Austin, with a red portfolio on her knee, writing a letter with it fountain-pen. Beside her a tiny Pekinese dog, black with one white ear, was curled in slumber. Tucked away inside the portfolio was a bag of American chocolates, into which Miss Austin's left hand made occasional little forays. Her slim figure was comfortably relaxed; but her pretty mouth twisted itself unconsciously with the movement of the pen, her brows gathered every now and then into a V-wrinkle just above the straight, rather long nose, and her usually demure hazel eyes were deep with the immense seriousness of a philosophy based on nearly twenty years of living.
I realize now, Harriet dear, that can never, never again be the simple, ignorant child I was up to this year. Life has been particularly hard for me I think. Even with Mother I have to be careful what I say. She's a dear, but she isn't modern. She just isn't. And Aunt and Uncle--now, you know how perfectly bully it was of them to bring me on this glorious journey round the world. You're right--I owe them everything for that
Miss Austin had been hazily conscious, while she was writing, of some unusual disturbance on the grass-plot at her right, where, a few moments earlier, three little Britons had been playing a game with jack-knives. Now she looked over there and with an effort collected her faculties.
A young girl of about her own age--a remarkably small and remarkably pretty girl whom she had seen of late about the hotel--came running out from the bushes, closely pursued by a sinister little band of Chinese coolies. Her hat had been nearly torn off and one sleeve of her bodice was in shreds. She was deathly pale, and was panting for breath.
As Edith's startled eyes were taking in the extraordinary scene, a good-looking young American hurried to the rescue. But two of the Chinese held the girl, and the others bore the American to the ground, beating him savagely.
Edith wondered if it were a dream. The band, she knew, was still playing.
The American lay still--there on the ground. They were leaving him, and were dragging the girl away. Edith sprang up, dropping the portfolio, and ran after them. "Don't do that!" she found herself shouting. "Help her! Help her!"
A few steps carried her past a group of trees and shrubs, and there, out of view from her bench, was a large camera on a tripod, and a young fellow beside it, smoking a cigarette and turning a crank. By him stood a thin man with a derby hat on the back of his head, grayish hair, and big horn spectacles. He was smoking a cigar. And crowding in a semicircle behind these two was a respectful little gathering of tourists, amabs, children, and Chinese.
Edith stopped short. She looked at the struggling group. The face of the pretty girl was thickly painted. For a moment Edith was too confused to move; she felt the red coming into her cheeks.
Then the man with the horn spectacles took his cigar from his mouth and waved it. The camera operator stopped turning the crank. The man on the ground got up and brushed off his clothes--he was painted, too. The girl smiled--even through the thick grease-paint her smile was radiant--and nodded toward Miss Austin. "Thanks just as much," she called out in a musical voice.
Slowly Miss Austin returned to her bench, gathered up the belongings that had scattered out of her portfolio, and tried to resume the thread of her letter. But for all of half an hour she could only munch chocolates and listen to the band. Gradually, however, her composure returned. After a time she even indulged in a faint smile, and gave Wing, the dog, a friendly little pat. Then she wrote on:
. . . I owe them everything for that. But they could never in the world understand our views, yours and mine. I wouldn't dare tell them. I think it would kill them.