Robbie Taggart

by Michael Phillips

  The day after his conversation with Hsi-chen, Robbie spent the afternoon cutting shingles for the chapel roof. Rain was expected, and word was about that they could be in for quite a drenching. Robbie saw Wallace approaching and inwardly braced himself. The doctor had remained close by all day, whether because of his daughter’s fainting spell or the trouble at the village, Robbie didn’t know. But the man’s presence unnerved him. Had he analyzed his feelings, he would have found them completely irrational. For Wallace was, if anything, gracious, benevolent, kind, and certainly sincere—even if sometimes a little cold—in his faith. But in Robbie’s present mood, the man annoyed him.

  Wallace stopped and stood silently observing Robbie’s labors a moment before speaking. Robbie took the look as critical, even though the first words out of Wallace’s mouth were entirely positive.

  “The work is going well, Mr. Taggart,” said the doctor in an even, noncommittal tone. “We are all most appreciative of yours and Mr. Drew’s assistance.”

  “Let’s just hope we get this roof finished before the blasted rain comes,” replied Robbie bluntly, hardly looking up.

  “The Lord sends rain in its season, Mr. Taggart,” replied Wallace in the same measured voice. “Thus we thank Him always for it, and trust our activities to His good will.”

  Robbie mumbled something the doctor did not hear in reply, venturing no further word on the subject. Pretending that he needed to refresh his supply of wood, he then excused himself.

  Had such a harmless statement come from Hsi-chen’s lips, he would likely have thought the words innocent enough, even sweet to his ears. But from Wallace it sounded like a rebuke. Why should it bother him so? Was Robbie afraid of the raw spiritual power represented by the gospel as presented by Isaiah Wallace, a gospel he had always written off as a soft and effeminate religion pandered only by women and weaklings? Wallace made the gospel difficult to sidestep or explain away. He had such a habit of forcing every conversation back to its spiritual foundations. With both Jamie and Hsi-chen, it had been easy for Robbie to look at the power of their changed lives and dismiss its cause with his rationalizations. But Wallace made such a maneuver impossible.

  If Robbie was having difficulty ignoring Wallace, however, the Vicar had nearly reached his emotional breaking point. Wallace—in the strength of his personality and his sacrificial dedication to a cause greater than himself—typified everything Elliot Drew was running from. But even more, he represented what Drew had desired to be in his youth.

  In the years before his downfall, Drew had been well-enough acquainted with Christians from every spectrum of faith to be able to recognize a hypocrite when he saw one. Robbie may have been confused on that matter, but Drew knew that Wallace was no hollow or shallow man. Here was a man of substance, a man of God. He could feel the difference so acutely that his spiritual sensitivities cringed at the thought of his own weakness alongside one like Wallace. Each day was a growing ordeal for him. Had he been younger, perhaps he could still have turned himself around. But it was too late now. Too much water had slipped under the bridge. If only . . .

  But no—it is too late for me, Drew thought. And seeing Wallace every day only amplified that fact all the more painfully in his distressed heart. Neither Wallace nor anyone else had to say a word for Elliot to suffer so. Their lives, their very presence, lived purely and fervently for the God he had long ago repudiated was enough. As the days progressed he said less and less, hoping desperately that they would leave him alone. But it was not an existence he could long endure. The tension within grew taut, his forced abstinence from alcohol only putting him all the more on edge. Robbie’s friendly and steadying influence could not overcome the sense building inside him that he was trapped behind enemy lines, with no way of escape!

  By Saturday he appeared ready to break like the tropical storm that was brewing. He and Robbie were working as usual when Wallace approached them.

  “You should soon come to a place in your work where it can be temporarily suspended,” he said.

  “Why?” asked Robbie innocently. “We are almost done, and ought to finish by tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Tomorrow is Sunday, Mr. Taggart,” replied Wallace.

  Robbie had scarcely given the days of the week a thought. It had not even registered in his brain that since this was a mission, Sunday might possess a special significance. The Vicar, on the other hand, had been dreading its coming. He had not entered a church since that day so many years ago when he had walked out of his own parish. And he did not feel inclined to alter that trend now. What he would do to avoid the inevitable services that must come with the morning, he didn’t know. He certainly did not want to confront these people with his failure; he was just as afraid of their mercy as he was their righteous indignation.

  When Wallace left, they continued their work in silence. In an hour, no thanks to Elliot’s distracted mind, they had gone as far as possible without tearing up a new section of the roof. So they packed up their tools and finished up for the day. By the time they returned to their room at the back of the hospital to wash up, Drew was so agitated he could hardly talk. His head was throbbing, and he knew he could not face tomorrow. Had Robbie thought about it, he would have recognized the symptoms at once, would have seen what was coming, and could possibly have done something to stop it. But his mind was elsewhere, and he had not observed Elliot’s state.

  But Drew could not stand it another minute. Robbie’s uncommunicativeness only intensified his anguish. He had to have a drink! Even if he had to steal the money from someplace at the mission to get one. He would die if that gnawing thirst inside him was not quenched! Even as he thought the words, the spiritual parallel of “living waters” leaped into his tortured mind. Even in his misery he could not escape the words and phrases and dogmas of his past! He slammed down the cup of water he had been holding, drawing a puzzled stare from Robbie.

  “I’m going for a walk!” He blurted the words out like an accusation.

  “Not a bad idea,” said Robbie. “I’ll join you.”

  “No! I’m going alone!”

  Robbie shrugged. “Have it your own way,” he said, still sensing only the surface of the Vicar’s turmoil, and thinking that a quiet walk might indeed be just what he needed.

  The Vicar stalked from the room. Robbie did not bother to follow him with his eyes, or he might have seen Drew head for one of the other buildings, skulk behind it, then disappear inside. Ten minutes later, unobserved by anyone, the Vicar exited from the other side of the building, and hurried, half running, from the mission compound. He crossed the bridge, and in a few minutes was in the next village. He paid no attention to the stares he drew, nor worried about his inability to communicate. At the sort of place he sought, thirst was the universal language, and he would be able to find what he was after more easily with the stolen coins in his pocket than by any words from his tongue.

  ———

  Robbie arrived for dinner early that evening. He had begun to grow anxious about Elliot’s prolonged absence. He had hoped to find him already at the residence, but when he walked in he found he was the first to arrive other than the women who were in the kitchen preparing the meal. Hsi-chen invited him to make himself comfortable in the front room, replying to his question that she had seen nothing of his friend. Robbie idly chose a book from the shelf and took a seat. Ten minutes slowly ticked away before Coombs walked in. He and Robbie exchanged a few words, but the young missionary seemed quiet and subdued. Though he was not the ebullient sort, previously he had at least been friendly and congenial. On this occasion, however, he walked silently toward the books after initial pleasantries, pulled one out, sat down, and buried his face in it, brooding.

  A few moments later Ying Nien entered, followed by Wallace. Out of respect for the doctor, the three younger men rose, and a polite exchange of greetings followed. Coombs behaved with deference toward his superior, but it was clear that a tension had entered their relationship on the p
art of Coombs; Wallace seemed his usual self.

  Moments later Hsi-chen announced dinner, but Wallace turned to Robbie.

  “Mr. Drew is absent,” he said. “Shall we wait for him?”

  “I don’t think he’d want us to do that,” answered Robbie.

  The group moved to the table, where tonight Miss Trumbull and Shan-fei served, while Hsi-chen took a seat immediately to her father’s left. When all were served, heads bowed, and Wallace began to pray.

  “Our Heavenly Father,” he began, “we thank you and we praise you for your rich bounty. We thank you again for the opportunity of giving our lives in service to the people of this land. We pray for the rich harvest that is spread out before us on this continent. Make us worthy servants, Lord. Give us eyes and ears to see and hear the needs to which we can minister. Give us hands of service to—”

  His words were interrupted with a creak from the front door opening. Wallace paused only momentarily, then continued on. But Robbie instinctively glanced up.

  There in the doorway stood the Vicar. From his disheveled appearance, his shirt hanging out over this trousers, his smudged face, and his glassed-over eyes, it was obvious to all that he had been drinking.

  Robbie’s first instinct was to jump from his seat and lead the Vicar from the room. But he hardly dared further to disrupt the doctor’s prayer. Thus he remained seated. He soon regretted that decision.

  Elliot shambled toward the table, and almost simultaneously with Wallace’s amen, he bowed deeply, nearly toppling over in the process, and taking part of the table with him.

  “Pardon me, Your Holiness,” he said in a slurred voice. “It would appear that I have most rudely interrupted your prayer. I humbly beg your forgiveness.” There was, however, no shred either of humility or of repentance in the Vicar’s drunken tone.

  Wallace’s eyes grew noticeably darker, and he drew himself up in his chair, seeming to debate within himself over which of the two options—severity or mercy—was most called for in this situation. When at last he spoke, his normal measured calm prevailed, masking whatever emotions may have been hiding within.

  “Mr. Drew,” he said, “I can see that you are unprepared for the dinner hour. Perhaps you could do us the courtesy of allowing us to finish our meal while you gather yourself together. We will be sure to keep a portion warm for you.”

  “Are you asking me to leave, Guv’nor?”

  “I think that would be best, at least until you can make yourself presentable to ladies and youngsters.”

  Robbie wondered briefly at the term, curious whether it applied only to Ying or to Coombs also, or perhaps even himself? For Coombs winced at the word. There was not time to ponder nuances, however, for Elliot was hardly deterred by the doctor’s unmistakable request, notwithstanding the gentle words in which it was couched.

  “Aha!” replied Drew, leering at his host. Sober he would never have ventured such a confrontation. But drunkenness had filled him with every kind of foolish bravado. “I knew I could expect no forgiveness from the likes of you! You’re all the same—whited shep-sep-sepulchres!”

  “And you thought to test us?” asked Wallace, ignoring Drew’s difficulty with pronunciation.

  “Test you, Gov! Ha! I don’t have to test you—I know from experience—very intimate experience.” As he spoke he drew out the word intimate, then went on with a dry laugh, which contained no humor, only a pitiful emptiness. “Ain’t that right, Robbie? I know better than anyone. All about whited sepulchres! Ain’t I speaking the truth, Robbie?”

  “Come with me, Elliot,” said Robbie, standing as he spoke. “Let’s you and I get some fresh air.” Robbie stepped toward Elliot and laid a hand on his arm, but Drew wrenched it away.

  “Fresh air makes me sick!” he brawled. “There’s too much of the stuff here—too much goodness . . . purity. It makes me sick, I tell you! To blazes with every one of you and your puny God, too! I don’t need it!”

  But before the Vicar’s final words were out, Wallace jumped from his seat and peered at the man he was commanded to love, difficult though it may be. But there were limits his integrity could not violate. He turned toward his guest, his voice now filled with the fire of righteousness.

  “You will not blaspheme the Lord in this house!” he said. His hands were rigid at his side, but he made no move toward the Vicar. “I ask you again, Mr. Drew, to leave this house until you are sober enough to behave with the respect due our Lord.”

  Robbie now took Elliot more forcefully in hand and propelled him from the room. He did not resist; perhaps the subdued anger in Wallace’s voice had cooled his own drunken fervor. He allowed Robbie to lead him outside, but as they started to cross the dirt yard to the hospital, he pulled away, not violently this time, but with obvious disgust both at Robbie’s intervention and at his own behavior.

  “You just couldn’t leave the stuff alone, could you?” said Robbie, angry at the scene Drew had caused. He had hoped that the week’s abstinence—forced though it was—signaled the Vicar’s turnaround.

  “Leave me alone!” mumbled Elliot.

  “I hoped you were going to face things this time!”

  “You’re just as self-righteous as the rest of them!”

  “You know that’s not true. And where did you get money for your binge anyway?”

  “That’s none of your concern, mate!” snapped Drew. “Why don’t you just go back in to your pretty little Chinese doll and her high and mighty, overbearing father!”

  “You forced Wallace to react as he did—you left him no choice,” said Robbie, hardly noticing the incongruity of his defending the staunch missionary doctor.

  “Bah! What do you know? How could you know? Before you know it, you’re going to turn into one of them!”

  “You’re looney, Drew!” replied Robbie. But as they reached the door of their quarters, he turned and faced his companion. “You had better be ready to apologize to them tomorrow,” he said. “They deserve that much. Whatever else you or I may think about them or what they’re doing, they did help to save our lives.”

  The Vicar said nothing, pushing past Robbie into the small room, now almost completely dark as there was no lamp lit. He threw himself on his bed and, to all appearances, fell asleep immediately.

  Later that night, when Robbie returned to his own bed, he was not so fortunate. He had gone back to dinner, and, though a bit strained, the conversation never did allude to the Vicar’s disturbing scene. But Robbie could not help wondering what they thought of him. What do I care? he tried to tell himself. It did not matter one whit what any of them thought! But inside he could not help wanting them to know he was—was what? Sincere? A good person? Why did their opinion matter to him at all? And now, as he lay on his bed trying to find the sleep that would displace all these uncomfortable thoughts and emotions from his brain, all he could hope was that by tomorrow it would all blow over. The Vicar would apologize, and somehow the stern Wallace would find it within himself to demonstrate some Christian love and compassion—which, despite Hsi-chen’s obvious admiration of her father, did not seem to Robbie to be his strongest character traits.

  However, when Robbie awoke the following morning after a fitful night, he saw that Elliot’s bed was empty. Even before he found the hastily scribbled note, his instincts told him that the Vicar was gone for good. The shame of his actions, mingled with a fear of facing their consequences—especially face-to-face with a man like Wallace—had forced him to run.

  Robbie could not help wondering if this was how it had been that first time he ran away from his life as parish Vicar.

  37

  Sunday at the Mission

  Robbie made no haste to dress or leave his room. He had not forgotten what day it was, and he could not help a certain sense of apprehension. He, too, was reluctant to face the mission folk again—though he knew he must. Running away was an act of cowardice, not of manliness. And Robbie Taggart was proud of facing his foes squarely.

  He di
d, however, allow himself the luxury of prolonging the inevitable moment. He washed, dressed, then took a book he had borrowed and lay back down to try to read. Ying had not come to issue his usual 7:00 a.m. call to breakfast.

  Organ music from across the compound suddenly jolted him to the present. It seemed too early for church, though he had no watch. It’ll look even worse, he thought to himself, if I miss their blasted service. I’d better face it.

  He rose with a sigh, resigning himself to the inevitable, and stepped outside. Dark clouds greeted him, and before he had reached the residence, rain had begun to fall. Stopping briefly at the chapel, he had seen no one present but Miss Trumbull practicing the organ, and therefore continued on to the house. He entered to find Wallace himself sitting in a rocking chair with an open book in his lap. The doctor glanced up slowly and looked deliberately at Robbie.

  “Good morning, Mr. Taggart,” he said.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “I am afraid you have missed breakfast, but my wife can warm something.”

  “Thank you, but she doesn’t have to trouble herself,” Robbie replied somewhat stiffly. “I haven’t much of an appetite.”

  The pause that followed was finally broken by the doctor, speaking out on the subject which was on both of their minds.

  “I hope Mr. Drew is better this morning,” he said.

  “He is gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “Taken off for Shanghai, I believe.”