Chapter X: Part 10

It is true that Mr. MacAllister grew very weary of the inanities of the social round. He was becoming more and more anxious about his ill-success in getting any trace of his son. It is true also that many noted the fact that Miss MacAllister seemed to be very indifferent towards her titled suitor. But, as she once in confidence explained to McLeod, his acceptance by her mother saved her from being bored by any other of the aspiring young men she met.

Carteret had been in Hong-Kong on several occasions before and had been almost entirely ignored by colonial society. But society is not to be blamed for that. A younger son, on a small remittance, is a very different proposition, even if the heir has only one lung, from a real live earl, with the full income of his estates at his disposal. Society has a keen appreciation of the fitness of things. It regards not what a man is, but what he has.

Thus the winter passed away. But it was not without other incident. One day in January two young men were talking in the rotunda of the hotel. They were both officers of an English regiment then forming part of the garrison. One had just returned from leave, having arrived by the P. and O. liner the day before. The other had been in the city with his regiment.

"By Jove, Powell," said the former, "I got the biggest fright of my life yesterday."

"How's that?" said the other. "Didn't know that you ever got frightened."

"Well, I'll acknowledge that I'm not strong on getting scared, unless there's a woman in the case. Then I run every time."

"Perhaps! But that has not enlightened me as to what gave you the fright yesterday."

"It was this way. When we came to anchor we found ourselves right alongside of the French transport _Canton_, with troops for Formosa. She had a battalion of the Legion Etrangere. I had heard of them at Singapore, and knew that there was an old schoolmate of mine on board--Du Marais, captain commanding the first company. We chummed together when I was studying French and drill at Saint Cyr. So before coming ashore I went aboard the _Canton_ to look him up. Du Marais was there all right, brown, black rather, but fit as a fiddle after campaigns in Algiers. But it wasn't Du Marais who gave me the scare."

"What was it?"

"You remember MacAllister of the --th Dragoon Guards?"

"Who shot Standish after Tel-el-Kebir?"

"Yes."

"Of course I do. His father and mother and sister are in Hong-Kong now."

"Well, I could swear that he was on board the _Canton_ in Hong-Kong Harbour yesterday."

"But he was reported killed by Arabs on his way to Alexandria."

"I know. And that is what gave me the fright. As I was talking to Du Marais a big sergeant passed and, by the Lord, if Allister MacAllister is living that sergeant was he! If he's dead that was his ghost. Du Marais noticed me start and asked what was the matter. I told him. He said that the sergeant was not of his company and he did not know him, but that he would inquire. He came back in a little and said: 'You must be mistaken. That was Sergeant Melnotte of Lebigot's company. He is a Frenchman from Besancon.' But I was convinced that it was MacAllister or his ghost."

The two young officers strolled away. They did not notice a man sitting under a spreading tropical plant and hidden still more by the home newspaper he was reading. If they had noticed, they would have seen that the newspaper trembled like an aspen leaf in the palsied hands which held it. When they were gone, Mr. MacAllister rose from behind the plant. His face was pale as ashes, but his movements were quick and decided. He hurried to the harbour-master's office to ask about the _Canton_. She had sailed for Formosa the evening before.

He returned to the hotel to write letters to Consul Beauchamp, to Commander Gardenier, to Dr. Sinclair. Under the stringent rules of the blockade, those letters did not reach their destinations till their usefulness was past. He set himself to devise means to effect his own return to Formosa. It was not until April that it could be accomplished. Meanwhile he told neither his wife nor his daughter, lest their hopes should be disappointed, and the disappointment should be more than they could bear.

On the fourth of April the protocol was signed by the representatives of France and China. As soon as the news reached Hong-Kong the _Hailoong_ sailed for Tamsui. She had on board two white passengers for that port, Dr. MacKay and Mr. MacAllister.

The forces of nature and of man seemed determined to prevent her reaching there. When near her destination a terrific storm forced her to run back to the coast of China for shelter, as she had been compelled to do the previous August. When she again appeared off Tamsui a shot across her bows brought her to. The French commander had not heard that the blockade had been raised. Once more she had to put about and steam for the Pescadores to get authority from Admiral Courbet himself. From the Pescadores to Amoy, and again to Tamsui, she carried her impatient passengers before they were allowed to land.

*XXXVII*

*"MY SON! MY SON!"*

The day the _Hailoong_ first appeared off the harbour of Tamsui was one of deep anxiety to Sinclair. While the other foreign residents were almost delirious with joy at the prospect of the removal of the blockade, he was disturbed and anxious. He did not know who might be on board that boat. He had a presentiment so fixed that he could not shake himself free from it, that Mr. MacAllister was coming back again.

He dreaded the effect on his patient of the meeting between father and son. The wounded man was still weak. The doctor had not even hinted to him that he was known. Indeed, he had no absolute proof that this was Allister MacAllister. Yet he was convinced that this was he. He felt that he ought to tell him that he was known, and that his father was coming. Deep as was his own disappointment at the still further delay of word from Hong-Kong, it was nevertheless with a feeling akin to relief that he saw the _Hailoong_ forced to steam away without entering port. He resolved that his patient must be prepared for her return.

The two young men had grown deeply attached to each other. It was not strange. Sinclair had good reason to like the man he believed to be Jessie MacAllister's brother. Sergeant Melnotte had good reason to be grateful to the man who had saved his life.

But there was a deeper reason. It was the instinctive attraction of mutually complementary characters. Sinclair's invincible good-humour and cheerfulness were as life-giving sunshine to the wounded soldier, worn by hardship and suffering. Melnotte's patient, uncomplaining endurance of intense pain, his quiet but profound gratitude, appealed to Sinclair's admiration for all that was heroic and manly. The large, dark eyes followed his every movement with a look of devotion and thankfulness which was pathetic. It was the expression of dependence of one who had been strong, but was now brought down to the weakness of a child. In this gratitude Sinclair found his opportunity.

"Sergeant Melnotte," he said, "you are not French."

The invalid's face flushed a little, but he answered quietly:

"What makes you think so, doctor? Do I not speak French correctly?"

"Oh, yes! So far as I can see, you speak it perfectly; much better than I do. But you are not French."

"How do you come to that conclusion?"

"When you were delirious you spoke Gaelic."

"Did I?" he asked quietly, as if holding himself in hand.

"Yes."

"Did you understand what I said?"

"No; but Sergeant Gorman did."

The man on the bed did not reply. His face assumed a strained, hunted look. Sinclair sat on the edge of the bed and laid his hand gently on his patient's.

"Sergeant Melnotte," he said in a low, kind tone, "you need be afraid of nothing from me. Are you not Allister MacAllister?"

The wounded man's hand gripped Sinclair's. A spasm of pain crossed his face. He closed his eyes and lay for a few moments very still. Then, without opening his eyes, he said in English:

"What do you know about Allister MacAllister?"

"I know his father, his mother, and his sister. I know that they are searching the world for him. I know that he disappeared and left no trace behind him, because he thought he had killed a man." The great, dark eyes were open now and looking in unbelieving wonder into Sinclair's frank, kindly blue ones. "But he didn't kill him."

"Dr. Sinclair, do you mean to say that Captain Philip Standish did not die?"

"Yes, that is what I mean. He is alive and well, and has been helping your father to search for you."

"Thank God! Oh, thank God!"

He covered his face with his hands. His lips moved as if in prayer. Sinclair did not stir, nor utter a word to disturb his thoughts and thankfulness. At length he uncovered his face and looked up.

"Dr. Sinclair," he said in a voice scarcely above a whisper, "where did you meet my people?"

"Here in Tamsui.... No," he continued, in answer to the eager, startled look, "they are not here now. But they are not far away. They are in Hong-Kong."

* * * * *

Four days later the _Hailoong_ was again seen standing in towards the harbour. After a very brief delay the French allowed her to proceed.

The whole foreign population except Sergeant Gorman and the patient, whom he remained to care for, were down at the dock. The native Christians were there in a body in the hopes that Dr. MacKay might be on board.

As the first boat with the first news from abroad for exactly six months zigzagged through the field of mines and obstructions with which the mouth of the harbour was blocked, every glass was focussed upon her.

"It's McLeod who is bringing her in," said Boville, who was using the long customs telescope. "Whiteley is not on the bridge. He is on deck with two passengers."

"That's MacKay next to him," said the consul. "I can tell him by his size and the long black whiskers against his white clothes."

"Who's the big man on MacKay's left?" asked Sinclair, who wanted some one to confirm his own impressions.

"It looks like MacAllister," replied Boville. "Yes, it is MacAllister. I can see him plainly now that she has swung to starboard. I wonder what is bringing him back to Formosa."

"Lord, what shall I do to entertain him? ... I haven't a thing to eat fit to offer a white man.... 'Pon my soul, I haven't!" spluttered De Vaux.

Sinclair and the consul glanced at each other understandingly, and the latter said:

"Make your mind easy about that, De Vaux. With your permission I shall be glad to entertain Mr. MacAllister. I have a little foreign chow left. My wife will probably have sent some more by this boat."

With tears of joy, shrill cries of welcome, and exclamations of thankfulness the natives received their pastor.

No less gladly, but hiding their feelings under jest and laughter, the Britons welcomed their countrymen. In the midst of the handshaking Beauchamp said:

"Mr. MacAllister, you will be my guest this time. Come away up to the consulate."

With a brief word or two in an undertone to Sinclair, the consul led his guest away. After a cheery laugh and an exchange of banter with McLeod, the doctor climbed the steep hill with MacKay and his converts to the former's house.

Twenty minutes later he looked from the verandah and saw the consul and Mr. MacAllister coming. The latter's face was pale as death. He was stooping forward and trembling as if with palsy. But he was covering the ground with such strides that the consul, in spite of his agility, was almost running to keep pace with him. As he drew near the verandah the father broke into a run, and his trembling hands caught Sinclair's:

"May I see him, doctor? May I see him?"

"Yes. He's expecting you."

"God bless you, Dr. Sinclair! God bless you!"

As the door of the room swung open the man on the bed raised himself on his elbow and uttered one word in Gaelic:

"Athair!" (Father).

"My son! My son, Allister! My son! My son!"

The father was on his knees beside the bed, holding the great worn frame of his boy in his arms. The son's arms were around the father's neck. They were kissing each other, were crooning to each other in the Gaelic. All the passion and the tenderness of the Celtic nature was being poured forth, unrestrained. The love of this man of business and his soldier son was like the love of a man for a woman, and of a woman for a man.

Half an hour later Sinclair and MacKay gently opened the door. They were anxious about the strength of the wounded man. The father was still on his knees by the bed. The son's arms were still around his neck. The father's voice was being lifted up to God in prayer, still in the language of his native hills. It was not a prayer of petition, but of thankfulness. And the words they heard were these:

"'For this my son was dead, and is alive again. He was lost and is found.'"

*XXXVIII*

*REJECTED*

MacKay and Sinclair were sitting in the former's study. It was the first moment they had found in which to discuss their own plans and prospects.

"Dr. Sinclair," said MacKay, "you remember my prophecy about the way the Church at home would treat me, because I ordained those two native preachers."

"Yes, I remember."

"Read that."

He handed Sinclair a letter. It was from an old official of the Church. In dry, formal words he recounted the misdemeanours and errors of which MacKay was guilty in that "you did arrogate unto yourself and usurp the functions of a Presbytery, and did, by the laying on of your hands, without the presence and without the authority of a Presbytery, ordain or pretend to ordain to the office of the holy ministry two native preachers: to wit, one A Hoa and one Tan He."

After having recounted the pains and penalties which the heinous offence might incur, the letter closed with the consolation that, in view of his past services and his zeal which had outrun his discretion, the General Assembly would be petitioned to condone his offence, and it might be pleased to grant the prayer of the petition, on condition that he would promise that it would never happen again. This promise, it was trusted, would be forthcoming by return mail.

When he finished reading Sinclair sat in silence for some moments, looking straight at MacKay. Then he burst out:

"The old fossil! Has he no imagination? Has he no knowledge of conditions here? Has he no common sense to apply to an uncommon situation?"

"It looks like that," replied MacKay. "But perhaps it is not all his fault. He has never seen any Christian work except that in a congregation of decent Ontario farmers, or in a city church composed of the hereditary good. He has never been any place where cut-and-dried Presbyterian rules could not be applied as easily as a straight edge to a plane surface."

"A mere animated edition of Rules and Forms of Procedure."

"Yes."

"But did you not explain to him the exceptional situation, demanding exceptional treatment?"

"Yes. I explained it very fully."

"And could the old dry-as-dust not understand? Could he not understand that at the time you did this you were likely to die within twelve hours? Could he not understand that, if you had died and you had left no one to take the lead, all this work, this Church you have builded, was likely to go to smash before they could get another man capable of carrying it on? Could he not understand that?"

"No, he could not understand. And if he could, the total destruction of the native Church would be nothing as compared with the calamity of having broken a rule framed for the Church in Canada, but not in China."

"A case of man's being made for the rules, and not the rules for man."

"Exactly."

"I suppose he can't help it. He has been reared in a groove. He lives in a groove. He will die in a groove. And if he gets to heaven it will be through a groove fenced in by rules and precedents."

"If you like to put it that way."

"But will you submit to it? Will you promise to be good and not to do this wicked thing any more?"

"Yes."

"I don't think I would."

"If I didn't, I'd be suspended and have to give up my work. I would submit to nearly anything rather than leave these people. They are my children in the Lord."

Sinclair made no reply. He was seeing more deeply than ever into the secret springs of the life of this stern prophet of North Formosa. He had not wondered at his bearing hardship, at his facing danger, at his seeming almost to court death. That was what was to be expected of one of his nature. But when he saw this fiery Celt meekly submit to the rebukes of small and ignorant men, in order that he might be permitted by their ill-grace to go on with his work, he began to fathom the depth of his love for the dark-skinned people of his island home.

Presently MacKay spoke:

"I have another letter which touches you more closely. It is the reply to my request that you should be appointed a medical missionary. Do you care to read it? Here it is."

Sinclair took it and read. It had evidently not been written until after the Church at home had received word of MacKay's recovery from his serious illness. It opened with some very conventional and perfunctory expressions of thanksgiving to the Almighty for having "spared the life of His devoted servant and restored him to such a large measure of health."

Then it proceeded to deal with the application for Sinclair's appointment as a missionary. It was "contrary to the usage of the Committee to appoint a man who had not put in his application in regular form. The Committee also preferred that the candidate for appointment should appear in person before it, that its members might be satisfied as to his fitness. Doubtless Dr. Sinclair was all that Dr. MacKay represented him to be. But the Committee felt that it would be unwise to rely on Dr. MacKay's judgment in the matter, especially in view of some recent regrettable occurrences....

"The Committee was very particular that its missionaries should be men of deep spirituality, spending much time in prayer, characterized by meekness and humility, filled with love for the natives, ready to make sacrifices and endure hardships in order that the Kingdom of God might be established on the earth. The Committee regretted that it could not accept without reserve Dr. MacKay's judgment of the candidate's fitness, especially in view of recent events.... If Dr. Sinclair really desired appointment, he must return to Canada and appear in person before the Committee...."

As he proceeded Sinclair's face was a study. When he had read a page or more of this epistle he stopped, glanced at MacKay, then turned to the last page, and looked at the signature:

"Your brother in the Lord,
"THADDAEUS CORNELIUS McGUFFIN."

"Thaddaeeus Cornelius McGuffin," he repeated. "Who in the world is that? I thought that I knew most of the Church officials at home. But I never heard of him. Who is he?"

"A young clerk who has been appointed to help the convener of the Committee. A sort of office assistant."

"And does he dare to write to you like that?"

"You see for yourself."

"The gall of him! What does he know of the qualities needed in a missionary? Has he ever been in the foreign field?"

"Never been nearer to it than the suburbs of Toronto."

"He talks about sacrifice and enduring hardships. What has he sacrificed? What hardships has he borne?"

"To the best of my knowledge he has never sacrificed a meal of victuals or a night's rest. But these are the men who talk most glibly of self-sacrifice. As for hardships, I think the greatest he has ever known has been to ride down to the office in a Toronto street car."

"That's bad enough," laughed Sinclair, whose good-humour was returning as the absurdity of this office-hand's high and mighty attitude towards the veteran missionary grew upon him. "But tell me, Dr. MacKay," he continued, "what would they do with me if I did go home and appear before the Committee?"

"They would ask you a number of harmless questions about your disposition and temper, and your submissiveness to authority, your religious experience, devotional practices, and habits of study--the whole lasting perhaps fifteen minutes."

"And do they imagine that they would learn more of me by that than you could testify of me after having seen me among the natives for the last nine months?"

"Evidently! Especially as my judgment is not to be trusted since some recent events."

"And for that fifteen-minute interview they would expect me to travel ten thousand miles?"

"Yes."

"Then I'm not going. I shall not submit myself to the inquisition of Thaddaeus Cornelius McGuffin."

"I am very glad."

Sinclair looked at MacKay with surprise and question in his eyes.

"I am very glad that you will not go. You would not be appointed if you did."

"How do you know?"

"Read the rest of the letter."

"You tell me the substance of it. Life's too short to spend so much time reading McGuffin's effusions."

"Your sins have found you out." MacKay's face showed a gleam of grim humour as he spoke. "You are not spiritual. You were accustomed to spend only fifteen or twenty minutes in your morning devotions instead of a full hour as required by McGuffin's standards. You are not meek. You once thrashed a rough who insulted a lady on the street instead of sweetly reasoning with him. Then you took him to the hospital to recover from the thrashing. You are not sound. It is whispered that you said that you didn't think Moses wrote the account of his own funeral in the Book of Deuteronomy."

As Sinclair listened to this epitome of McGuffin's catalogue of his shortcomings he went off into peals of laughter, in which MacKay joined. The inner nature of the quiet, reserved man had come out in the intimacies of a rare friendship.

"Do they think that I would corrupt the morals of the heathen?" Sinclair inquired as he recovered himself.

"Apparently. Perhaps you would batter your heresies into them with your fists."

"What would McGuffin have thought if he had seen me at Sin-tiam or where the Hakkas were trying to cut the head off poor young MacAllister?"

"He wouldn't have seen you. He would have swooned away."

"Well, I suppose it is all off with me so far as being a missionary under my own Church is concerned."

"I am afraid that it is. I had set my heart on it. We could have done so much together. You have won the hearts of the natives in a wonderful way. I could have left the medical work all to you. You would have done great good. But it is an unrealized dream. I am disappointed. But I am not discouraged. I am accustomed to disappointments. I meet them often. But discouraged? Never!"

Sinclair gripped MacKay's hand in his powerful grasp:

"I am glad to have known you, MacKay. It has done me good."

"And I, you. But we'll say no more of that. What are you going to do? Have you anything in view?"

"Nothing. But something will always turn up for a doctor. I'll find work somewhere, where the sins of my past are not known."

Just then there was a whoop outside. Then another and another. Then the sound of a heavy footfall in a war-dance on the verandah.

"That's Gorman!" exclaimed Sinclair. "What is the matter with him?"

He sprang to the door, followed by McKay. There was Gorman, executing the wildest kind of a dance, bringing his feet down with a vigour which threatened to split the tiles of the verandah, and all the time waving a letter over his head to the accompaniment of wild yells:

"Whoop! Docther! Hurroosh! Be the blissin' of the saints! Whoop! Me mother-in-law's gone to glory. Hurroosh!"

"Dead!" exclaimed Sinclair. "When did it happen?"

"Six weeks ago, be the blissin' of hiven! Whoop! Won't the angels be havin' a divil of a time wid her now! Hurroosh! That's always the way wid her. The first month she's p'aceful as a suckin' lamb wid its twinklin' tail. Thin she cuts loose, an' be the middle of the second she bates Banagher. She'll jist have hit her gait be now. Begorra but they'll jist be wonderin' what they've got! Whoop! An' now me wife an' childer for me, an' a quiet loife! Hurroosh!"

*XXXIX*

*A REALIZED DREAM*

"Dr. Sinclair, I owe you an apology. I have a letter for you which I neglected to deliver. I was so selfish in my gladness yesterday that I forgot that I had this for you."

Sinclair rose from where he sat beside his patient on the broad verandah and received from Mr. MacAllister the letter. It was addressed in the same hand as a little note he had carried in an inner pocket until it was worn to fragments. In spite of his efforts at self-control, the hot blood rushed to his face. The keen grey eyes had a humorous twinkle.

"I shall keep Allister company for a while. When you are ready, I should like to have a few minutes' talk with you."

"Thank you, I'll be back shortly," was all Sinclair could say as he hurried to his room.

It had been a bitter disappointment to him the day before, when the _Hailoong's_ mail was distributed, that there was not so much as a note from Hong-Kong for him. All through that long, lonesome winter he had centred his anticipations around that first mail. Now it had come. There were other letters for him. But there were none from Hong-Kong. It was not till then that he realized how much Jessie MacAllister had been in his thoughts and how blank life would be without her.

But, with the stoicism which lay hidden under the easy good-humour of his surface temperament, he said nothing of his disappointment, even to McLeod, and went about his duties outwardly as cheerful as usual. He did not know how many letters in the same handwriting were lying at Swatow and Amoy and Foochow, awaiting an opportunity of transmission to the blockaded Formosan coast. He did not know of this letter, sent by her father's hand, that it might be safely delivered.

That letter was sufficient reward for all his waiting and disappointment. It was so tender, so trusting, so full of longing for his coming. Words which had refused to leave her tongue during those few brief hours of intercourse after their mutual confessions flowed easily from her pen. Again the wonder came to him that this girl who wrote to him with such confidence and laid bare her heart to him should be the same as she who had flouted him on the deck of the _Hailoong_ only a few short months before. He had to read the letter again and again and look yet once more at the signature--"Jessie MacAllister," to be sure.

There was another thought. Her father must know and be satisfied. That gave him no little comfort.

But with this he suddenly remembered that he had promised Mr. MacAllister to be back shortly. He had no idea how long he had spent reading that letter. He sprang to his feet and hurried out to the verandah, where MacKay had joined the father and son. At his apology for being longer than he had expected there came again the little twinkle in the grey eyes and the quiet reply:

"No apologies are necessary. I, too, have not found the time long."

It did not entirely remove Sinclair's embarrassment. But the business man went on in a serious tone:

"Dr. Sinclair, I am informed by Dr. MacKay that your Church has refused to appoint you a medical missionary."

"Yes, Mr. MacAllister, they have rejected me. They do not consider that I am sufficiently devout or sufficiently orthodox to be trusted to heal the heathen."

"Yes! Yes! I understand. I have seen a lot of this in the church. There is a wrong standard. A devotion and spirituality which is too deep and real to be wordy is rejected, and that shallow, spurious kind which vents itself in talk is accepted. A man who says nothing but sacrifices himself is given second place, and he who does nothing but talk of self-sacrifice is put first. They are less concerned about orthodoxy of life than they are about orthodoxy of creed. But a better day is coming. These things will right themselves by and by. In the meantime you want work, do you not?"

"I certainly do."

"There is a scheme I wish to lay before you. God has just given me the greatest joy of my life. My son, my Allister, has been restored to me. I want to establish some permanent memorial of my gratitude, something which will be of use and do good to men. It was by a doctor that my son was saved from a cruel death. It was by a doctor and in a hospital that he was nursed back to health. It was by a doctor that he has been restored to me, and will be restored to his mother and sister. It seems to me that I could give no more fitting token of my thankfulness than to erect and equip a hospital and ask that doctor to take charge of it. Dr. Sinclair, will you accept the position?"

"Mr. MacAllister, such a position has been the dream of my life. I will accept it gladly."

"I thought you would. Now as to the place. Since it was in North Formosa my son's life was saved, it would be appropriate that in North Formosa the hospital should be built. And there I intended to build it and present it to the mission of the Canadian Church. But, since your Church has refused your application on what are to me entirely insufficient grounds, the hospital will be erected in Hong-Kong and presented to one of the missions there. In all probability you will be able to do as great, or even a greater, work there than here. Would you be agreeable to that?"

"Quite. I had hoped to be able to work under the Church in which I was trained from childhood. But, since it has rejected me, it is a matter of indifference to me under what board I labour, so long as I am doing the duty set before me. But there is one request I wish to make."

"What is it?"

"I wish to take Sergeant Gorman with me as chief of the staff of male nurses and attendants, whether native or foreign. As you know, he is a Roman Catholic, and some narrow-minded people may make objections."

"There will be no objections. It will be stipulated in the deed of gift."

*XL*

*THE COWARD*

April had passed. The first week of May had come, the hot May of the tropics. Yet there was a sweetness, a certain morning freshness about it. On her second trip after the blockade the _Hailoong_ had borne back to Hong-Kong a little group of passengers. They were Mr. MacAllister, his son, and Dr. Sinclair.

Sergeant Gorman, who had returned to Amoy to his family by the previous voyage of the boat, joined them at that port and accompanied them to Hong-Kong. As he expressed it to McLeod, he wanted "jist to be in at the finish; jist to see the docther fix bayonets an' take the fort wid one gallant charge, an' see that spalpeen of a Carteret scattered an' runnin' for cover in total rout and confushun."

Towards midnight the _Hailoong_ slipped into port. There were few about and no guests in the rotunda or corridors of the hotel to whom it was necessary for Mr. MacAllister to introduce the young men by whom he was accompanied.

In the reunion which followed Mrs. MacAllister forgot for the time her opposition to the friendship between her daughter and Sinclair. Her gratitude for his rescue of her son was deep and sincere. With all the warmth of her Highland nature she thanked him, till he blushed painfully and showed an embarrassment under praise which he had never manifested in the most trying moments of the ridicule he had suffered when they were first acquainted.

The next day passed like a dream to Sinclair. Father and mother were constantly with their long-lost son. Sinclair and Miss MacAllister were left much to themselves. In some way during those seven months of separation they had grown acquainted with one another. That sacred and never-to-be-forgotten hour in which they had confessed their love had found them almost strangers. It had been as one kneels to a sovereign that he had knelt before her and gave her hand the kiss of homage. It was with the grave reverence of a sacred rite that he had sealed their vows of love by pressing his lips to hers.

But that was in the past now. Seven months had slowly worn away; seven months in which thoughts had been busy. And ever in the background of those thoughts was the fact that they loved each other, and had confessed their love, and neither had shrunk from the other nor repelled a caress. The passion, the abandon of love had grown during those months of waiting. It knew that it would not be refused.

"Oh, Donald, I have been so weary for you, so lonesome and weary! I have dreamed of you out there under the rains, among the wounded, and facing the bullets.... Donald, I'm ashamed. I know that it wasn't brave. But I couldn't help it. Often and often I cried myself to sleep."

Her face was tear-wet now as he lifted it to his. But it was smiling through its tears.

"Jessie, it was the thought of you which kept me up. It was because of you that I stayed at work. If it hadn't been for you, I might have given up before the end came.... I might not have been there when Allister fell."

She shuddered at the thought and pressed closer to him. But Allister was safe, and the suggestion of what might have been now only served as a stimulus to her love for the man to whom she had given her heart before he had done that which was to bind her to him by gratitude as well as by love.

But her mother was not yet ready to give up her project of marrying her daughter to the Earl of Lewesthorpe. He was still the suitor she had accepted, if her daughter had not. She realized very clearly that her daughter had no more inclination towards him than when they came to Hong-Kong. Indeed, it was the other way. On more than one occasion her aversion to him had been so manifest as to cause comment. But Mrs. MacAllister had resolved to have her own way and gain her ambition. Not even gratitude to Dr. Sinclair for his inestimable service could bend her will.

If because she was grateful she had allowed him some liberty that day without her watchful presence, she had intended that evening to make it perfectly plain that Lord Lewesthorpe was the only one who would be countenanced as an aspirant for her hand. With her love for social events, and a touch of the melodramatic, she had invited a very few very select friends for the evening. Most of them did not know that she had a son. None save those who had accompanied him from Formosa knew that her son was in Hong-Kong.

Of course Captain Whiteley and Mr. McLeod were among the guests. Her husband, son, and daughter had insisted that Sergeant Gorman should be one of the number. Remembering that he had once told her that he was the son of an Irish gentleman, she consented. Otherwise it was to be a surprise.

It was a surprise. The guests arrived one by one and were presented to Allister. The last to come was the lion of the evening. Mrs. MacAllister greeted him effusively and conducted him to where her son sat in a great easy-chair, hidden by a group of guests.

"Allister, my son, I want you to meet one of our most intimate friends, a particular friend of your sister, the friend of whom I spoke to you to-day, his lordship, the Earl of Lewesthorpe."

Allister had risen to his feet. The two young men were facing each other in silence. The young aristocrat's dark countenance turned a ghastly yellow and his jaw dropped. Allister's pale cheeks had a flush of burning red and his great dark eyes fairly blazed with anger.

"Carteret! The coward!" burst from his lips. On the blanched faces of the guests wonder and consternation were written. But astonishment held them dumb. Before any of them could speak Carteret's ready self-assurance returned.

"Lieutenant MacAllister," he said, "why not let by-gones be by-gones? We have both made mistakes. We have both suffered. These things belong to the past. Why not let them die, and start afresh?"

"If it were only the past, Carteret, I would let them die. But it is the present. You were a coward in the past. You are a scoundrel now."

Sinclair stepped quickly to Allister's side, for he saw that he was becoming dangerously excited. Mrs. MacAllister awoke out of her paralysis of surprise to cry:

"Allister! Allister, my son! What is the meaning of this? Has the fever come back on you? Why do you insult his lordship so? What is the meaning of this?"

"Mother," he said, "it is not fever. It is cool fact. That is the man who ragged me all through my service in the Guards. That is one of the men who insulted me after Tel-el-Kebir. He is the one who was too much of a coward either to take a thrashing or to fight, and Standish was shot. That is the man who has caused me to be an exile these nearly three years, to suffer starvation and wounds under a foreign flag. Yet I could forgive all that, as I have forgiven Standish. But knowing that, and without your knowing it, he has dared to speak love to my sister and ask her hand in marriage. I'll never forgive him that. Never!"

Drawing herself up to her full height, Mrs. MacAllister turned on her lion. Her raven black hair, her flashing eyes, her high colour and large, strong frame were the very embodiment of the fearless spirit of her race:

"Lord Lewesthorpe, iss thiss true?"

"It is very apparent that I am not welcome here," he replied. "With your permission, I'll retire."

"Bedad, an ye'd betther, ye cowardly spalpeen!"

Gorman had made one quick step forward, with the evident intention of helping him to retire, when Sinclair's iron grasp closed on his shoulder.

"You're right, docther; I was forgettin' meself."

That was the only departure Gorman made that evening from the strictest rules of the conduct to be expected of the son of an Irish gentleman. And perhaps it wasn't a departure, either, but the most characteristic act of all. In any case, he saw "that spalpeen of a Carteret scattered an' runnin' for cover in total rout an' confushun."

*XLI*

*"GOOD WILL TOWARD MEN"*

It was Christmas Day. Not Christmas Day of the North, with its clear frosty air, its robe of virgin snow, its furs, its prancing horses, and tinkling sleigh-bells. It was Christmas Day in the tropics, with a summer sky and summer sun, with roses blooming and rich tropical plants spreading their huge leaves and casting a grateful shade in the botanical gardens. A slight breeze from the northeast tempered the warmth.

It was a high day in Hong-Kong. In the early forenoon services had been held and the age-old song had been sung.

"Glory to God in the highest,
And on earth peace, good will toward men."

At high noon in the Union Church, where men of many creeds worshipped in harmony, Dr. Donald Sinclair and Miss Jessie MacAllister were married with simple, yet solemn, rites. The ceremony passed without unusual incident, save that Constance Beauchamp just missed kissing the groom before he had time to kiss the bride. And when they turned to pass out of the church Sergeant Gorman, in a stage whisper, said to McLeod:

"Be all the saints above, McLeod, if the angels in glory look anny purtier than thim two, glory's no place for you an' me."

In the afternoon the Allister Thanksgiving Hospital was formally opened by the governor of the colony, and in the name of Him who came to heal men's diseases it was dedicated to the work of healing the diseases of men.

When the notables had dispersed to talk of the merchant prince's munificent gift, when the guard of honour had marched back to the barracks, and the music of the bands had died away, a few who had special interest in the work, or had come from far to be present on that day, still strolled through the long, cool corridors, the well-furnished wards, and the high, centre-lighted operating-room. Consul Beauchamp and his family and Dr. MacKay had come from Formosa to be present. They stood with the donor, his wife, and son.

"This must be a great satisfaction to you, Mr. MacAllister," the consul said.

"Yes, Mr. Beauchamp. I never before knew as I know now that the pleasure of wealth is not in making or keeping money, but in giving it away. What do you think, Dr. MacKay?"

"I was not thinking of that. I was thinking of my little hospital with its poor equipment and its need of a doctor to take charge. I am not covetous. But I cannot help thinking that this hospital and the doctor who is at the head of it might have been in North Formosa, where it is needed even more than in Hong-Kong. But there was no vision, and my people must suffer."

And when that hospital became not only a centre of healing but developed a medical college in connection with it, when the doctor at the head of it grew to be such an authority on tropical diseases that he was called to England to be dean of a great school of tropical medicine, when he received honours from medical colleges and societies the world over and a knighthood at the hands of his sovereign, those who knew him often thought of the day when he was refused appointment as a medical missionary in the little North Formosa Mission. And they wondered.

But Dr. Sinclair was not thinking of that then. He had been showing his bride the great building her father had erected, for she had arrived from England only the evening before and had not found an opportunity to see it. Together they walked on the deep, cool upper verandah and looked out over the glorious prospect of city and harbour, mountain and sea. Side by side they stood under one of its arches, her hand resting lightly in his.

"It is all so fairy-like," he said, "that even yet I can scarcely persuade myself that it is not a dream."

"It is a dream, Donald, the loveliest dream one could wish. But what is best about it is that it is a dream of delight which does not vanish with one's waking."

"To me the strangest thought of all is the way it was brought about. I left home not knowing where I was going, with only a vague idea that I might find a place to do good somewhere. I have been given an appointment beyond my fondest imaginings. What is more than all beside, I have been given you."

Behind the lattice-work which sheltered one end of the verandah from the rays of the sun and from the gaze of the inquisitive, her head rested on his shoulder, her lips were lifted to his.

"Donald," she said softly, "my story is even stranger than yours. I came to the East with little thought of anything but pleasure; with little purpose in life, and no ambition to do good. I have been given a brother and a husband, love and a life to live. I did not deserve it. What does it mean?"

"It means that there is a hand shaping our destinies, giving us a work to do, showing us a path to tread. Are we willing to follow the leading of that hand, Jessie?"

"Yes, Donald."

The measured step of drilled men sounded on the steep gravelled road below. Sergeant Gorman and a squad of the ambulance corps he had already trained were bearing an injured man to the door. Arm in arm Dr. Sinclair and his bride walked down to see the first patient borne in. In a few moments more his wedding coat was thrown off, his operator's apron and sleeves slipped on, and Sinclair was at work.

Thus without fuss or delay, refusing to be excused even by the festivities of the marriage-day, the Life-Healer and the fair woman who had been willing to blend her destiny with his together entered on their life-long labour of Good Will Toward Men.

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