Robbie had never run away from a fight before in his life. He had always stood up to his foes.
Of course, his foes had always been easily identifiable. Now it seemed the enemies were inside his own self.
How could he run from these? And if he did so, how would he be any better than the Vicar, forever running, never facing up to himself?
Such were the thoughts that had plagued his mind in the simple monk’s chamber where he had passed the night. It was morning now, and he must decide what to do.
But he already knew the answer.
It was as clear as Hui K’o’s story about the two potters. He had to confront these gnawing fears, and he knew instinctively that he must do so at the mission. There he must do battle. The fight might be with himself, or it might be with Wallace. That hardly mattered. He had to face those fears that had forced him from the mission—face them like a man.
If Hui K’o was disappointed at losing another potential convert to the mission, he did not show it. He gladly arranged a river conveyance for Robbie and bade him a fond farewell. Perhaps he sensed that what this young man was looking for would not be found in a Buddhist temple. Perhaps, too, he was recalling the expression of joy and contentment in young Ying Nien’s face as he left the temple to join the mission. Such joy was not often found in this world of sorrows. So how could he, a seeker after enlightenment, stand against him?
Robbie’s return trip to the mission proved not nearly so arduous as had been his departure. Though the river voyage took longer than the half day the priest had predicted, and required another night on the water due to their afternoon start, Robbie arrived the next day several hours before sunset. He left the junk a mile or two north of Wukiang. He had had the entire boat trip to reason out his actions and intentions, but now that he had actually arrived, he was suddenly unsure of himself all over again.
Perhaps this had been a foolish notion after all. He was no philosopher like the priest Hui K’o, content to spend his energies searching the mysteries of life. He had always been a doer, not a thinker. He did not relish the idea of having to battle with inner conflicts. Searching heart and soul was something he had always left to people like Jamie, the Vicar, Wallace. And he especially did not relish a battle of wills and emotions and ideas with Wallace. He could never match wits with the intense, fanatical missionary.
He could not deny that the thought of seeing Hsi-chen again quickened his pace. Yet the dread of having to confront her father overpowered even that. Perhaps what he dreaded most was that unrelenting gaze, with a righteous finger pointed out in front of it, and his penetrating voice shouting, “I was right about you, sinner that you are! The time has come for you to repent!”
But was he merely hoping Wallace would react in such a manner in order to give him further fuel for his own indignation? When had he actually seen the doctor treat anyone so? Vaguely he recalled the man’s reaction to his errant young disciple. He could have been vindictive and self-righteous. But that had not been his response. He had been unyielding. But there had been something else in his demeanor at the moment too, something Robbie had not allowed himself to see until now—almost a kind of tenderness toward the young man!
Robbie walked along the dirt road, casting a gaze out toward the rice fields that lay to his left and right. He absently observed the workers until his attention was suddenly arrested by the activities in a particular field just ahead of him. On first glance the workers appeared no different than any of the other Chinese villagers. Each wore a wide, round straw hat to keep off the beating sun. But all at once Robbie realized that one of the two workers he was looking at was none other than Isaiah Wallace himself. The doctor’s pant legs were rolled up to his knees as he waded ankle-deep in the muddy field. From the back, he was hardly distinguishable from the Chinese, except for his height, and he was wielding the hoe like an expert.
The scene was enough to give Robbie a severe jolt. He had certainly never before pictured Wallace as the type to sweat for hours in a hot rice field. Though now he recalled noting the doctor’s calloused hands on the first occasion they had met. But Robbie was equally taken aback when he at last realized that the second man in the field was the same who had accosted Wallace after the church service.
How could it be—the two men working side by side together? Such a short time ago the Chinese villager had been filled with such hate and threats against the mission, and even now his face appeared etched with hard lines that came from more than his present toil. Was he accepting the help of this “wai-chu” in his field out of necessity, but despising himself for having to stoop so low? What had transpired, wondered Robbie, to have forced this unlikely pair together in common cause in this muddy rice field?
As Robbie continued on, he could not avoid approaching the spot where the two were hard at work. As he drew alongside the man’s field, Wallace paused in his work to remove a handkerchief from his pocket and blot it across his sweaty brow. Glancing around at nothing in particular as he did, he saw Robbie walking toward them on the path.
Immediately his lips turned up in a smile, almost as if he had been expecting to see him on the road at that very moment. Yet along with it came a brightening of his face that Robbie could take no other way than as the cheerful and heartfelt greeting Wallace intended.
Robbie waved a hand in reply—unable for the moment to conjure up a return smile. If he’d had the chance, he probably would have run for cover in order to avoid the awkward interview he had been dreading. But instead, he walked to the boundary of the field, a small irrigation ditch, and there paused, silent, not knowing what to say.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Taggart,” said Wallace, approaching him with outstretched hand. “It is good to see you again!”
The words were spoken with such true sincerity that Robbie remained speechless. Wallace’s words had always been sincere. That was one thing Robbie had never denied. But now all at once a new dimension had been added to his tone, which his previously blind eyes had failed to see, but which he could no longer avoid. There was a sincerity to the man that went deeper than his words. As much as Robbie had argued to the contrary before, here was a man standing before him who did more than merely talk about his faith. And how many other fields had he thus labored in? It was obvious he did not handle that hoe like a novice. How many other sick pupils of pagan religions did he travel a day to visit? How many other helpless sailors had he harbored beneath his roof? The man’s actions did indeed back up his words.
“I hope—” Robbie began, but his voice was dry and he had to swallow before he could continue. “That is . . . I’m sorry to have left like I did. I was wrong.” He hadn’t intended to apologize. He had not even realized until the moment the words were out of his mouth that he had any need to apologize.
Wallace laid his tool in the dirt and walked over to Robbie. He placed a hand on Robbie’s shoulder. “I must help Li,” he said. “His father fell ill yesterday and he is alone to work his field. But I accept your words as I know you mean them. Though I want you to know that on my part you have no need to require my forgiveness. My heart has always been open to you. Go on to the mission, and we’ll talk later if you wish. Your room is waiting for you, just as you left it.”
Robbie nodded, and turned to go. He was unable to say anything further.
“Lad,” added Wallace gently, “do not be afraid for having come back. Perfect love casts out all fear, and you have nothing to fear from any of us.”
Robbie did not recoil at the words as he once might have. He hesitated, half turned toward Wallace and glanced at him momentarily, nodded again in acknowledgment of his words, then continued on toward the mission.