Robbie Taggart

by Michael Phillips

  It was well into the afternoon when Robbie and Hsi-chen took their leave. Before they departed, Chang Hsu bowed deeply to Robbie.

  “Tō hsieh!” he said. “Ch’ing wen, hsien-sheng kuei hsing?”

  “He says, many thanks,” interpreted Hsi-chen, “and he would like to know your honorable name.”

  “I am Robbie Taggart, Mr. Hsu-yu,” Robbie replied respectfully, holding out his hand. Then, thinking better of himself, he bowed instead, in the same way as Chang had done, though perhaps a bit more stiffly.

  At Robbie’s introduction, Hsi-chen and Chang smiled at one another as if responding to some private joke. Robbie frowned, puzzled.

  “I’ve said something wrong?” he asked.

  “I am sorry,” said Hsi-chen. “I did not mean to make light of you. But even with the very little English Chang has, even he has detected your error.”

  “What have I done?” said Robbie with an apologetic grin. He did not mind joining in the humor, even if it was at his own expense.

  “I have been amiss in explaining the complexities of Chinese names to you,” answered Hsi-chen. “You see, in China the names are backwards from your way. Chang is the surname and Hsu-yu is the given name, even though Chang comes first. So the full name is Chang Hsu-yu. The surname is usually one syllable and the given name two. To address him, you would say Mr. Chang, or in Chinese, Chang hsien-sheng.”

  “That’s simple enough,” replied Robbie enthusiastically. “I’m sure I’ll remember it next time.”

  “No one will mind if you do not. I’m sure if the tables were reversed, you would not mind being called Mr. Robbie.”

  Robbie laughed and Hsi-chen joined him. After a questioning pause, Chang laughed also, though he knew not why, other than that it felt good to release some of the tensions of the day.

  Robbie and Hsi-chen were crossing the bridge to the mission when he tried to phrase what had been puzzling him for the last couple of hours.

  “Chang Hsu-yu is a good man,” he said. “Why do such things happen to him?”

  “It is too bad,” replied Hsi-chen. “And I do not have an easy answer for you, Mr. Taggart. Life is not always easy or pleasant for those who choose God’s way. But his faith sustains him. Could you not see?”

  “Yes. I suppose I did see a strength in him.”

  “That was Christ’s strength. Mr. Taggart. I am sure Chang would want you to know that.”

  “And that is why he stands and takes the treatment from the other villagers without any thought of—”

  “Reprisals, Mr. Taggart?” she queried with just the slightest edge in her lovely voice.

  “Well, it seems that the incident ought to at least be reported to the authorities.”

  “These sorts of things are common, Mr. Taggart, among Chinese converts. It is one of the things they have to accept about the life of faith. My father strongly encourages his converts to avoid involving the law in these matters. Besides, the law, so to speak, in these rural regions, is almost nonexistent. This is all just one more factor in what is involved in bringing Christianity to my people, as is conflict between the missions and local Buddhist priests, and even sometimes with vengeful tribal leaders.”

  “But what are the poor people your father’s converts supposed to do, just stand idly by while poor, sick, old women are struck down?” His tone again revealed his annoyance with the stern mission director.

  They were now on the bridge, and Robbie paused a moment and gazed out on the water as if the peaceful sight might calm him. But he couldn’t help but feel that men such as Wallace were doing a disservice to poor people like Chang. When he moved again, it was at an accelerated pace. Hsi-chen hurried to keep up with him.

  “I know this must be difficult to comprehend,” she replied after a few moments, a bit breathlessly. “But there are many reasons for it. There are some missionaries who see their efforts as political and social. The gospel they preach is less a gospel of Jesus than it is a gospel of conformity to Western ways. These will even use the might of their foreign powers, whether it be Britain or America or the Netherlands or Germany, to intercede on behalf of their converts and to bolster the power of their missions. But this just increases hostility toward the foreigners in my country and especially toward missionaries because they are the most visible foreigners. But that has never been my father’s way. He does not see his calling as a legal or a political or a social or even a cultural one.”

  “What then?”

  “My father’s mission is a spiritual calling. There is something greater, deeper here at work to him than the surface events, be they bad or good.”

  “But how can he turn his back when things like this happen?”

  “He will not turn his back, Mr. Taggart, I assure you. Would you like to know what he will do?”

  Robbie nodded, but not without a hint of skepticism in his look.

  “After he learns what has happened, he will no doubt spend several hours in prayer—”

  She paused a moment to note Robbie’s reaction, which was merely facial, but seemed to say, I thought as much! She began again with her own emphasis.

  “Then he will go to the homes of each of those involved—both the victims and the antagonists, if they will receive him, and minister the love of Jesus to them.”

  “And no doubt get himself roughed up also!”

  “Do you think that matters to him, Mr. Taggart?”

  But before Robbie could answer, Hsi-chen stopped, grasping the wooden rail on her left, her face suddenly pale.

  “Hsi-chen, what is it?” exclaimed Robbie, reaching out to steady her.

  She brought a trembling hand to her face, tried to smile, and then said, “Nothing . . . only too much excitement, I think.”

  She pushed away from the rail, determined to continue on by herself. Then her knees buckled and she would surely have fallen had not Robbie’s strong arms been ready to catch her. He lifted her slight body and carried her quickly the rest of the way back to the mission.

  35

  A Family Matter

  Hsi-chen lay staring up at the rough ceiling of her father’s dispensary. For the moment she was reflecting that only a few days earlier there had been a hole the size of an apple in the very spot where her gaze rested. Now, thanks to the new guests, it was sound again and would withstand the rains for many years to come.

  Many years to come. . . . The thought of the distant future was sobering indeed, and took her mind off the hospital’s new roof.

  Behind her Hsi-chen heard the door creak and she was glad to have her thoughts wrenched from the direction they had begun to take. She turned her head and saw her father approaching. His face wore a deeply pensive look, striking for one whose face always seemed absorbed in thought. His look drew tiny lines of anxiety to the corner of her eyes. But she tried to shake the worry away, breathed a silent prayer, and smiled to her father, now acting in the capacity of her doctor as well.

  “You need not mask your anxiety, Hsi-chen,” he said. “I share your thoughts with you, and I know your feelings are coupled with faith.”

  “I pray always that I will be able to leave this in God’s hands.”

  “He will honor your prayers.”

  “But I am still frightened.”

  Wallace reached out and took his daughter’s hand. It was damp and cold in his strong, warm grip. She felt a security in his touch. She knew God had given her this man to be her father for just such a time. He had been all a father could ever be to a daughter, and yet at this moment she knew she needed his strength and his faith in God perhaps more than ever before.

  Wallace prayed silently over his daughter for several minutes, then released her hand, stroked her silky hair, smiled, and began his examination.

  When he was finished some six or seven minutes later, he spent several moments rearranging his instruments, apparently absorbed intently on that task. Hsi-chen sat up on the table and waited patiently. She knew her father’s attention was not engr
ossed in the tidiness of his instrument tray, so she quietly gave him the time he needed to think, to draw his medical conclusions, and perhaps to collect his turbulent parental emotions.

  At length he laced his fingers together and brought his hands to his chin, which he tapped thoughtfully as he spoke, keeping his voice, even then, professional. Indeed, perhaps even more professional than ordinarily, for he had emotions to mask as well as his daughter.

  “Nothing has changed since the tests we made last month, my dear,” he said. “To know anything for certain, we will have to send more blood to Shanghai. But perhaps it is a good sign. The longer we can keep it at bay—”

  “I feel well,” Hsi-chen said, eager hope imprinted on her features. “Perhaps I just became faint from the sun. It may be unrelated.”

  “Perhaps. We may always hope that is true. I know so little about this. If only more was known—” He stopped short, his voice catching on his rising emotion.

  “Oh, Fu-ch’in, Father,” she said, beginning to weep softly. “I so want to be brave.”

  Wallace wrapped his arms around her and stroked her hair, murmuring gentle words in her ear in her native tongue, as he had often done when she was a child and knew not a word of English.

  “Always remember, dear child,” said Wallace in a tender voice, still holding his daughter, “we have our God, and He is mighty—to heal, to renew strength, to give courage to accept the path laid before us. He will never fail you, Hsi-chen.”

  She nodded bravely, her eyes alight with faith even as Wallace wiped the tears away.

  “Now,” he continued in a lighter tone, “there are two very concerned people outside.”

  “Two?”

  “Your mother, of course, and Mr. Taggart.”

  “Mr. Taggart? That is kind of him.”

  Wallace hesitated a moment, as if this were a new consideration where their guest was concerned, then said, thoughtfully, “Yes . . . I suppose it is.”

  “I do not think you like Mr. Taggart, Fu-ch’in.”

  “I believe Mr. Taggart is a man easily liked,” replied Wallace, “but he does trouble me. It is apparent that he possesses a great deal to give to others. But because he refuses to reach beyond the shallow surface of life, I fear he may not come to realize the potential God intended for him.”

  “I see, Fu-ch’in. But he is not lost yet. Do not forget your own prayers for him when he came to us. I think perhaps he is on the verge of an awakening, like a bud ready to blossom.”

  Wallace smiled. “God has given you a wonderful spirit, dear Hsi-chen.” His voice trembled slightly as he spoke, perhaps thinking of the special gift he had been allowed to have that might be all too soon taken away. “I’m sure you are right. But who can tell what the Father in heaven may have to put our Mr. Taggart through in order for him to awaken to his own awakening. We must keep praying diligently for him.”

  “I have been, Father.”

  “I know, my child. And I thank you for reminding me of my own necessity.”

  Wallace turned and walked toward the door, but before he opened it, his adopted daughter called out to him,

  “Fu-ch’in, I love you!”

  He inhaled deeply, as if to gather strength for the smile that followed. “Your name was rightly given Hsi-chen—Joy that is true. Now rest, while I call your mother.”

  After a few minutes Shan-fei came in, leaning on her husband’s arm. She did not often venture far from the residence, and when she did so, it was always on her husband’s arm, for her feet did not permit much adventuring. Wallace drew a chair for his wife up to the bed where Hsi-chen now sat, dressed and eager to return to her routine. Wallace did not miss the impatient look on his daughter’s face.

  “I have several calls I must make,” he said. “Hsi-chen, you will stay in bed the remainder of the day.”

  “But I promised Chang that I would come back this evening.”

  “I will take care of that,” he replied, now wearing his more stern countenance. “You must remain in bed.”

  When he had gone, Shan-fei turned to Hsi-chen with more pleading in her voice. “You must do as your Fu-ch’in says.” Her motherly concern was evident even beneath her reserved demeanor. “He knows what is best. Perhaps you will do even more than he says—you will rest many days. It would be good for your body.”

  “Mama, we have spoken of this before. I will not become an invalid. That is why I want no one but you and Father to know of my illness. Can it be so wrong of me to want to live a normal life?”

  “I understand, dear one,” answered the mother sorrowfully. “Have I not myself lived the life of an invalid? But God gives grace.”

  “I know. But you had no choice. I do, and I want to invest what days I have in service, in living, not merely waiting—until God tells me I must stop.”

  “Will you hear God’s voice in this matter, child?”

  “Pray for me, Mama, that I will.”

  The older woman caressed her daughter’s cheek and nodded her head. The lovely, flawless face showed lines of worry, hinting at the woman’s true age. Her eyes wept, though no tears flowed, for her only daughter whom she loved. The years had cloaked her, too, with a kind of strength perhaps only a woman can know, though it came not from herself, but from the One whom she trusted, and whom she had given up so much to serve many years ago.

  36

  The Vicar’s Fall

  Robbie accepted Hsi-chen’s explanation that the excitement and tensions of the day had simply taxed her strength. He had no reason to believe otherwise.

  And in a strict manner of speaking, the exertion of the day had in all probability brought on this renewed manifestation of her trouble. After a day’s rest indoors, she said, she would be fine. Perhaps that was stretching the truth about to its limit, but she could not be entirely certain such would not be the case. Even her father had said little was known of the thing.

  The next two days were fine ones for Robbie. Hsi-chen’s time was spent entirely in the compound, and on several occasions she walked out to visit Robbie and Elliot as they continued their work on the buildings. Though Drew settled more and more silently into himself in the midst of the stressful and awkward circumstances, Robbie found his budding friendship with the missionary’s adopted daughter to be a pleasant experience indeed. With light conversation, interspersed with a good deal of laughter, she acquainted him with the culture of her homeland, salting her words with a regular but subtle sharing of her Christian faith.

  One afternoon they fell to discussing the complex Chinese tongue. “It is a tonal language,” she said. “One word can take on many different meanings, depending on the intonation of voice that is used.”

  “Could one like me learn it?” asked Robbie, more hypothetically than with any intention of seriously taking up the subject.

  “Of course. But my father says it is a hard language to learn. I cannot say, because I grew up knowing it. Learning English was difficult enough. But there are so many different dialects here that even the Chinese become confused sometimes. Yet the written language has remained uniform for thousands of years. Chinese from different regions may not be able to understand a single verbal word spoken by one another, but they are able to communicate quite well in writing.”

  “It’s not so different from Britain,” offered Robbie. “Why, if you heard a Scots’ burr and a Cockney twang, you’d probably understand neither one. And you’d have no doubt they were speaking different languages. But your written characters seem as confusing as the spoken tongue.”

  “The writing of Chinese is both an art and a skill,” said Hsi-chen, “not easily mastered. There are many thousands of characters, as opposed to your simple twenty-six. Each possesses a beauty both in appearance and in content.”

  She paused a moment, stooped to the ground and picked up a twig that had fallen from the camphor tree, and made a sketch in the dry earth. “This,” she continued as Robbie watched and listened, fascinated, “is the character for righte
ous. That word is often used here at the mission. Yet I still remember my father’s reaction when he realized what an understanding the Chinese had of the concept long before any Westerner stepped on our soil. See,” she traced the twig around one part of the character, then another, “this first part stands for lamb, and the other for I—it is as if from the beginning God were preparing these people to meet Christ personally, the Lamb of God who cleanses each one (the I) in order to make us righteous through Him. My father laughed aloud when this truth dawned upon him.”

  Robbie glanced up, and knew from the twinkle in her eye and from his own personal experience, that this was no everyday response on the part of Isaiah Wallace.

  “So you see,” she concluded, “the characters do a great deal more than spell words. They create pictures that add to the words’ meanings.”

  For a man like Robbie, for whom no hidden motives lay beneath the surface, it was impossible to live in the presence of such a gentle and sincere faith without feeling somehow moved. Was this religion truly reserved for women, as he had once mentioned—for the Jamies and Hsi-chens of the world? What about Wallace, Drew, Coombs? The Vicar was an embittered coward, Wallace he didn’t much like, and he couldn’t tell about Coombs yet.

  Women were weaker, he reasoned. It was only natural for them to turn to religion. But why should a man accept the kind of dependency religion seemed to require? Could a man truly be a man—all a man—and be religious at the same time?

  Yes, questions raised themselves in Robbie’s mind. But he avoided the answers perhaps even more determinedly than he might have before. At the same time, he could not help being drawn to Hsi-chen as he had been to Jamie. And it was not for her mystical Oriental beauty, nor for her wit that occasionally revealed itself beneath the reserved grace that was always about her, but for some deeper inner quality which might have been labeled peace, but which was even more than that, though he had no name for it. “The indwelling spirit of Christ” was not a reality with which Robbie was familiar, so he could not give Hsi-chen’s serene strength of character its true name. He could only admire it from afar. And wonder, as he had with Jamie, whence it came. He had not got so far as to begin to desire it for himself in his conscious mind. But his subconscious was busily at work.