Chapter VIII: Part 8

When the consul heard what his wife had to tell, he uttered one brief, emphatic word, not loud but deep, grabbed his hat, and ran down the stairs. Breathlessly climbing the steep hill behind, he had just turned the corner of the customs compound when he heard the moan of a shell coming from the direction of the _Vipere_, which had moved from her former position and was lying well within the mouth of the river. It exploded in the air between the two mission bungalows. A fragment cut its way clean through the cottage roof of Thomson's bungalow, going in at one side and coming out at the other, leaving a great gaping hole in the tiles.

"By Jove!" said the consul to himself, "if that had been a percussion, or if the Frenchman had given it one second longer, Thomson would have been minus a house."

He caught a glimpse of swiftly-moving white figures on his lawn and quickened his pace. He called a cheery greeting to MacKay as he passed and ran down into the little hollow between the missionary's house and his own. Just then he heard Sinclair's strong voice calling:

"Fifteen--love! ... Thirty--love! ... Forty--love! ... Game!"

"What an expert! Just look at the cool, confident way he serves those balls. And we might as well try to stop a French shell with our rackets as return his service. Mr. Carteret, it's your service. Now play up or he'll win this set."

At that moment the consul ran through the gate in the hedge into the midst of the players:

"What the deuce is the meaning of this? Miss MacAllister? Dr. Sinclair?"

"Oh, Mr. Beauchamp, I'm so glad you have come! We needed another player to complete a doubles. Dr. Sinclair has been playing singles against Mr. Carteret and me. Won't you join in? There's a gentleman's racket on the settee right before you."

"Miss MacAllister, this is no time for fooling. I want to know what is the meaning of this. Carteret, you are a resident of the East and know what it means to disobey the orders of a consul. Why are you here and not at the rendezvous?"

"Ask the young lady," replied Carteret, with a shrug of his shoulders and a curl of his lip.

"Thanks, Adam! Since the blame is to be thrown back on Eve, she'll reply. I got tired of being stewed up in the house with men who crawled under the table whenever there was a hint of danger. So I came up here. Besides, I do not believe that it is nearly so dangerous here as there. Not a shell has come near us since we came, and I have not seen where one has fallen about here all day. And, if they did start to shoot at us, Dr. Sinclair keeps us jumping about so lively after his balls that the Frenchmen could never hit us."

It took all Beauchamp's self-control to maintain the gravity of his countenance. But he managed it somehow, and answered as sternly as he could:

"This foolishness must stop. I'm responsible for your lives and I'm not going to have you stuck up here for targets."

"But, Mr. Beauchamp," was the nonchalant reply, "we have won the first set from Dr. Sinclair. He has very nearly won the second from us. It would be cowardly of us to run away now without giving him a chance to finish it. I'm sure Mr. Carteret would never consent to that. Mr. Carteret, it's your service. We must get moving or we all may be killed."

"I think, Mr. Beauchamp," said Sinclair, "that what Miss MacAllister says is about right. There really appears to be less danger here than down in the town. Whether or not the French gunners have respected the consulate, their shells have done little damage just here."

But the consul was not to be put off so easily:

"Miss MacAllister, Mr. Carteret, Dr. Sinclair, I command you to stop this game and to go down to the rendezvous."

"Mr. Beauchamp, may I ask you one question?" Her voice was almost infantile in its innocence.

"Certainly, Miss MacAllister. If it be a short one."

"You remember the Canadian Indian song Dr. Sinclair sang at the consulate the evening after we arrived? Was that really Indian?"

"How do you think I know? I never lived among the Indians. It was all Greek to me."

"That's exactly what I thought. It was Greek to me. Mr. Carteret, it's your service. Please play ball."

The consul gave a long, low whistle, shrugged his shoulders, and said to himself:

"So that's where the wind lies. I fancy I might as well let them fight it out."

Sinclair's face crimsoned at her words; then paled a little. His jaw set hard and he returned Carteret's service with such a volley that neither of his opponents, though ordinarily better players than he, had any chance. In a few minutes he announced abruptly:

"Game! Set!"

"Set--all! We must play the rubber. I suppose you are willing to have a deciding set, Dr. Sinclair?"

"Certainly, Miss MacAllister."

There was something in his face and voice she had never seen or heard there before. She looked at him curiously--a little anxiously.

They exchanged courts, Sinclair taking the north or exposed end of the lawn, while his opponents had the south end and were sheltered behind the fort.

The consul looked at them for a moment, then seized a racket and joined Sinclair:

"If you young people are bound to be fools, I suppose I might as well jump into it and be a fool, too. It may finish the set so much the quicker."

It was not a long one. Miss MacAllister played well. But her partner, Carteret, usually an expert at tennis, was nervous and playing wretchedly. On the other hand, Sinclair, who ordinarily served well but was weak on the return, completely excelled himself. He drove his balls over the net with a savage strength which made his opponents' efforts to return them entirely hopeless. And on the return, where he was as a rule only moderately skilful, he let nothing pass him. Beauchamp played his usual swift, tricky, cheerful game.

The last game of the set had come. It was Sinclair's service.

"Play ball! ... Fifteen--love!"

He crossed to his left-hand court and lifted his racket. There was a long whine, a rush of wind, and a terrific crash. A slanting black groove was scored across the green almost at Sinclair's feet, and the earth thrown high in the air.

"Down! Down! Everybody down!" yelled the consul.

"Play ball!" shouted Sinclair, and drove a vicious service at Carteret. "Thirty--love!" he continued, and strode back to his right-hand court to serve again.

But there was no use continuing the game. Carteret, who had flung himself on the ground, arose with a hanging jaw and ghastly face, and a nerve too shaken to play any more that day. Miss MacAllister had thrown herself on a settee at the end of the lawn, her face covered with her hands to shut out the sight. The consul, though he had shouted to the others to down, had remained standing himself. He was staring fixedly at Sinclair:

"Doctor, you beat the devil."

"Nothing to get excited about, Beauchamp! Percussion fuse! If it did not explode when it hit the corner of the fort, it wasn't likely to when it went into the soft soil."

"Yes, that's all right. But you hadn't time to work that out before you served again. Besides, it passed within a yard of where you were standing."

"Well, what if it did? A miss is as good as a mile. There was no use going up in the air about it."

"Look here, Sinclair. What the devil ever induced you to play this fool game, anyway?"

"I had to."

The consul looked at him in silence for a minute.

"Well, perhaps you had," he said slowly.

"I'll leave you to see those people back to the rendezvous, Beauchamp. Carteret may need a stretcher. I see that Miss MacAllister is quite able to walk. I'm going to MacKay's."

He turned to go. As he did so he heard Miss MacAllister pronounce his name. He thought that she was only saying a conventional farewell. He lifted his hat and said:

"Good-afternoon, Miss MacAllister."

Without looking in her direction he was gone.

*XXVII*

*THE CHARGE OF THE TAMSUI BLUES*

During the week which lay between the first and second bombardments, Dr. Sinclair and Miss MacAllister saw very little of each other. The doctor was busy. But that was not the main reason why he did not meet Miss MacAllister. The previous week, no matter how busy he was, he could always find time to meet her.

The fact was that circumstances had changed. He did not want to see her. Between the halcyon days of the previous week and the gloom of this one some painful episodes had occurred. The stormy interview between mother and daughter had taken place. In her indignation the young lady had determined to make it plain to everybody in general, and to Dr. Sinclair in particular, that she was not enamoured of him and was not offering her love where it had not been sought.

In some respects she succeeded beyond her expectations. Sinclair was convinced. More than that! He was convinced that all along she had been only playing him. That reference to the song he had sung at the dinner made assurance doubly sure. All through those days when she had been so fascinatingly kind she had only been leading him on so that her revenge might be the sweeter.

If Sinclair had been a melodramatic individual, he would probably have torn out whole handfuls of his fair hair, thrown them two or three feet above his head in the direction of the high heavens, and raved some foolish and incoherent ravings, telling his wrongs to the winds and the wild waves, if they cared to listen. If he had been a profane person, he would have sworn picturesquely and would have asked Sergeant Gorman or some one else equally vigorous to kick him down the steep hill, on which the consulate was built, and up again for being a fool.

As he was neither melodramatic nor profane, he did neither of those things. He merely made up his mind in a cool, determined way that he would avoid Miss MacAllister as much as the narrow limits of their little community would allow, and when he was forced to meet her he would not grow enthusiastic over her, to say the least. When he met Gorman he did not ask to be kicked, but said:

"Look here, sergeant, there are going to be some lively times round here, or I'm no prophet. The French are not going to be satisfied with bombarding. And if they land a force and it comes to rifle-fire and perhaps the bayonet, there'll be some Chinese hurt."

"Right you are, docther. The shells don't take manny lives, barrin' thim that the noise scares to death. But the rifle bullets, they're the little divils that do the wurrk."

"Well, supposin' that you get leave again and we offer our services to General Soon to organize an ambulance brigade."

"I'm wid you, docther, from the drop of the hat."

So it came about that all that week Sinclair and Gorman were out on the wide commons in the vicinity of the Chinese camps, with squads of Chinese detailed for that service, to use General Leatherbottom's expression, "lickin' them into shape." Gorman gave them drill. Sinclair taught them how to splint and bandage, to put on a tourniquet and check the flow of blood, to make improvised stretchers and carry patients without irritating their wounds past recovery.

Soon the fair-haired "Life-healer" was nearly as well known and as popular among General Soon's yellow-skinned, slant-eyed hordes as he had become in Liu Ming-chuan's army before Keelung. But none of these Chinese soldiers knew how much of the training they received they owed to the fact that the "Red-haired Life-healer" had been badly used by the "barbarian girl" at a game of "phah-kiu," or strike ball.

One day Sinclair and Gorman were out as usual drilling their corps and training them in the principles of first aid. An exclamation of "Tai-eng-kok lang" (British people) from some of their men caused them to look up. Passing them some distance away were Miss MacAllister and Carteret. The latter was carrying an easel, for among his accomplishments he included considerable skill in sketching and painting.

They were making their way towards a little eminence which commanded a magnificent view in all directions. Carteret had asked her to take a walk, that he might point out the beautiful scenery. She had accepted the invitation in the hope of meeting Sinclair, whom she had not seen since he had so abruptly left the tennis lawn.

"Fwhat the divil is the spalpeen takin' the lady there for, wid thousands of Chinese soldiers rampagin' around for some diviltry to do?"

Sinclair took one look, then lowered his head, and went doggedly on with his work, giving the Chinese ambulance corps a demonstration of how to splint a broken thigh. Gorman looked at him wonderingly for an instant; then without a word joined him, pulling the shortened leg out into position and explaining each movement in the vernacular.

Meanwhile, the prime danger to which Miss MacAllister and Carteret were exposed was not from the Chinese soldiers. A herd of water-buffaloes were feeding on the short grass of the downs. Docile as these huge beasts are with the little native herd boys, they are often exceedingly vicious towards strangers, especially those dressed in a style to which they are unaccustomed. Now they were irritated by the bombardment and frequent ill-usage by the soldiers.

At the sight of the man and woman in foreign dress they began to show signs of excitement. Crowding in a dense mass of blue-grey, hairless bodies, they moved in arcs of a circle, of which the centre was the object of their intended attack. Their ugly snouts were thrust forward on a level with their shoulders. Their great, curved horns lay back on their necks. They pressed closer and closer behind the two foreigners. Suddenly one enormous brute with a snort threw itself forward in a charge.

A yell from one of the Chinese attracted the attention of Sinclair and Gorman. Miss MacAllister had turned to face the beast, with the light walking-stick she carried upraised in her hand. Carteret flung his easel at it, but did not interpose himself between his companion and the danger.

With a shout Gorman sprang to his feet and started to run, waving a heavy stick in his hand. He had not taken a half-dozen paces when a rifle cracked behind him. A bullet sang past and the great blue beast plunged forward on its knees, then rolled over on its side almost at Miss MacAllister's feet. Gorman glanced back. Sinclair was lying on the ground, in the act of throwing another shell into the breach of the rifle he held in his hands.

"Better go on, Gorman, and drive off the rest of the herd. You may have to escort these people home. It's not safe for them to be out."

With some shouts and a few resounding thwacks of his stick on their tough hides, Gorman drove off the buffaloes, and then turned savagely on Carteret:

"Tearin' ages! Fwhat in the name of all the saints possessed you to bring the young lady here? ... Fwhat? ... For a walk! ... Faith, an' if it hadn't been for the docther here, God bless him!--it's a walk her young ladyship wud have been takin' to hivin and you to hell this very minnit."

"You make very fine distinctions, Sergeant Gorman," said Carteret sarcastically.

"Distinction, is it? Begorra, the only man that has come out of this wid distinction is Dr. Sinclair here. An' you had better be afther thankin' him that the angels and the divils are not this minnit holdin' a celebration over your two souls respectively."

In spite of the danger she had just passed through, this was too much for Miss MacAllister's gravity. Her merry peal of laughter rang out at the evident discomfiture of Carteret. It was with eyes dancing with fun as well as full of gratitude that she met Sinclair as he came to inquire courteously for her well-being. He received her warm thanks quietly and made light of his skill as a shot, which she praised so highly.

"I am only too glad to be of any service to you. As for the shot, that was nothing. I have been accustomed to hunting in Canada since I was a small boy. I had to learn to take sure aim and shoot quickly."

Carteret thanked him in courteous terms, but without warmth.

Sinclair did not wait for any further conversation.

"It is really not safe for you to be out here without an armed escort," he said; "when the country is so disturbed and there are so many camp-followers about. Even we who are in a sense in the Chinese service always carry arms. Sergeant Gorman will see you safely home. I am on duty here."

He did not mention the obvious fact that Sergeant Gorman was also on duty. But Miss MacAllister did not fail to notice it, and understood. She thanked him as bravely as she could, and turned away with her escort. But it was some time before even Gorman's quaint humours and repetitions could draw a laugh from her.

That was the only time Sinclair and Miss MacAllister met that week.

*XXVIII*

*UNHOLY CONFESSORS*

That evening De Vaux and Carteret sat in the latter's quarters in the buildings of the customs compound. There were a number of other occupants of the room. De Vaux and Carteret sat on chairs, at least they did during the earlier part of the evening. The others sat on the table. They were highly honoured and necessary guests. They consisted of sundry bottles of Scotch whiskey, a nearly equal number of bottles of soda, and a varied assortment of bottles of wine.

Carteret felt that he needed some comfort and sympathy after the exciting experiences of the day. He had called in the guests, who now sat on the table to comfort him. De Vaux, as being somewhat permanently installed in Carteret's quarters, was helping to entertain. Indeed, De Vaux had a singular facility in entertaining and being entertained by guests of this nature.

"A man needs something after such experiences as I have had those last few days," said Carteret, pouring out a glass of whiskey and starting to fill up with soda. "Talk about war! By Jove! I have been in more uncomfortable places in the last five days than I was in a whole campaign in Egypt."

"Not so much soda, Carteret! Not so much soda! ... it spoils the flavour and weakens the effect. 'Pon my honour, it does! ... If my nerves are shaky and I want the taste to stay in my mouth, a little less than half soda is my rule."

"To the devil with the taste! There's lots more taste where this came from. But you're right. My nerves are all on the jump."

"The consul tells me that you had a narrow escape. Those infernal water-buffaloes! Bless my soul! I'm more afraid of a herd of them than a whole regiment of Chinese.... 'Pon my word, I am."

"So am I, the ugly brutes! And if the girl had got killed or injured there would have been the very deuce to pay. The consul and her father would have blamed me."

"The consul blames you as it is."

"Yes, that's the way with Beauchamp. He's an Englishman. But he's down on his own countrymen and his own class, and all for those damn boors of Canadians. He thinks more of MacKay and that upstart doctor than he does of a whole colony of English."

"Well, I shouldn't like to say that. Beauchamp has always been awfully decent with me. 'Pon my soul, he has! ... But he is vexed at you. He says that you ought to be deported."

"Only wish he would deport me! Anyway, he can't till the next boat. And on it he's going to have to deport his wife and Mrs. Thomson and Miss MacAllister. That will hurt him worst of all. Don't you fret. There'll be no deporting by that boat, unless I deport myself."

"You are pressing your case with Miss MacAllister deuced hard.... How is it looking? You should have some results by this time. 'Pon my honour, you should!"

Carteret drained his glass and filled it again.

"The mother's with me. She knows that the heir has only one lung."

"And the father?"

"Says nothing one way or the other. Don't think that he is quite satisfied with my religious principles."

"Bless my soul! Could you blame him?"

"Not if he knew all about them. But, thank the Lord, he doesn't!"

Carteret laughed disagreeably, cynically as he spoke.

De Vaux took his cigar out of his mouth, blew a cloud of smoke into the air, and tipped his long glass so high that one might fancy that he feared lest even the moisture adhering to its sides should escape him. He set it down and wiped his lips with a sigh of satisfaction. Then he said:

"And what about the young lady herself?"

"An uncertain quantity."

"Has she given you no sign?"

"Signs enough sometimes that she wished I was in Jericho, or at the North Pole, or some other equally remote and cheerful place."

"Why? What's the matter?"

"Just at present she's taken with that Canadian peasant's muscles. Like the rest of the women, she is more attracted by the body of a man than by his birth or brains."

He laughed again, and his laugh was unpleasant to hear.

De Vaux gulped down another drink and answered with a little bit of angry stutter:

"You've said enough, Carteret.... By Jove! there are lots of decent women.... If you and I haven't met many of them, it's our own fault.... 'Pon my honour, it is!"

"There may be. But they are not in the Far East. When I was in Shanghai, every woman in the settlement had her price, if you only knew what it was."

"I don't know what they are in Shanghai," replied De Vaux. "But I do know what they are in some other places, and I'll stake my honour on it they are not all like that. 'Pon my soul, they're not."

"Name one."

"Mrs. Beauchamp."

"Bound by conventionalities and kept in a glass case by her husband," sneered Carteret. "Get her out of that and she'd be just like the rest."

De Vaux struggled to his feet, his face purple, his voice choking with rage.

"Carteret," he stuttered in his high voice, "that's a lie---a damned lie! ... If you don't take it back"--he shook his fist across the table--"if you don't take it back, by God, I'll expose you!"

Carteret paled, sat up in his chair, and took the pipe out of his mouth.

"Look here, De Vaux," he said, "don't make a confounded fool of yourself. One would think that you were the lady's husband. I didn't mean anything. I was only joshing."

"Well, that's a kind of joshing I don't like when it is about my friends.... 'Pon my soul, I don't!" replied De Vaux, settling himself back into his chair.

"All right, De Vaux, there'll be no more of it. What'll you have? ... Let's break a bottle of champagne."

That was irresistible, and in a few minutes De Vaux's good-humour was restored. Presently he said:

"So you have hopes of winning the fair MacAllister yet?"

"Sure of it when I get her away from here and can use the title as a bait."

"The title! Is it so near as that? Have you had any word?"

"Had word from my agent and solicitor by the last boat. My dearly beloved brother's cough is quite distressing. He has been ordered to Mentone for the winter. The agent does not think that he will ever get there. And, if he does, he's sure that he'll never get back. The old man is taking on about it. He's not at all in love with the idea of the succession of the heir presumptive. They do not think that he will live through the autumn. If October does not finish him, November will."

De Vaux had little reason to love his own parents and family, whoever they were. But the cynical heartlessness of Carteret grated on him. He turned the conversation a little:

"So you intend to leave the island soon?"

"By the next trip of the _Hailoong_, if the French do not bottle us up for the winter."

"And then you'll bring matters to a conclusion with Miss MacAllister?"

"Yes. Her people intend to spend the winter in Hong-Kong. So do I. If the old man and my beloved brother are only sufficiently obliging to depart in peace with reasonable expeditiousness, I shall be Lord Lewesthorpe. You know what that means in the colony. I haven't yet seen the tradesman's daughter who could resist. They are all falling over each other in their willingness to exchange their money for a title. Quite envious of the preeminent success of their fair American cousins, as the newspapers say, in getting so many titles knocked down to them. The mother is ready to bid mine up. The decayed Lewesthorpe fortunes need the money more than I need the girl."

Drunk as he was getting to be, De Vaux was disgusted with the callousness of his companion. He sat silent for a few minutes, looking straight at Carteret out of his bulging, bloodshot eyes. Then he blurted out:

"Carteret, what are you going to do with the Chinese girl?"

"Nothing in particular," was the reply, with a cynical laugh. "Any of you fellows can have her, if you want her. If not, and the French take this beastly island, one of them will take her. They are generally ready for an _affaire d'amour_."

"And you are going to desert that Chinese girl and her child--your child--and let them go to the devil? And then you're going to ask Miss MacAllister to marry you, she of course knowing nothing of the other?"

"Of course. Why not? It won't hurt her so long as she doesn't know anything about it. If she does find it out afterwards, she can make the best of it. It would be the same if she married any other man."

"Carteret, you are a scoundrel.... 'Pon my soul! ... That's what you are--a double-dyed scoundrel."

Carteret rose to his feet and faced De Vaux across the table. His face was pale and ugly:

"Come now, De Vaux. A little of that goes a long way. If I am a scoundrel, you are five times as much a scoundrel. For, if my arithmetic and memory are right, that is just the number of half-breed youngsters I counted in your house up river."

De Vaux stood for some moments gasping for breath and struggling to get control of himself. He was dangerously near the apoplectic fit which had been so often foretold for him. But he passed the danger point, recovered himself, and said:

"Yes, Carteret, your memory and your arithmetic were right. There _were_ five. But they are all the children of one woman. And that woman, though she is a Chinese, is just as much my wife as things out here go as if the banns had been published and the service read.... 'Pon my honour, she is! ... I am educating my children. They are safe in Hong-Kong at the present moment.... Bless my soul, I had a letter from the oldest by the last mail.... More than that, Carteret, since I have had that Chinese woman, I have never sought a white woman, and never intend to.... Thank God, I have a little bit of a man in me yet!"

"That's all old woman's sentiment, De Vaux. I didn't think you were such a molly-coddle. Wouldn't it make a furore in society if I was to take a Chinese tea-girl home to be the Countess of Lewesthorpe? I have none of your fastidious notions. I intend to have a woman suited to my position, and money to keep it up."

"And leave the girl and the kid."

"Then, by God, I'll have nothing more to do with you!"

And De Vaux meant what he said. But another bottle was broken, and then another. And when the dawn peeped in, De Vaux was stertorously slumbering on a long bamboo and rattan chair, and Carteret was hidden under his mosquito curtains.

*XXIX*

*FLAGS OF TRUCE*

"Looks as if we might have something doing to-day, sergeant. I shouldn't be surprised if we should have an interesting day. What do you make of those boats away there to the north?"

"Transports, docther. They're not men-o'-war, and what else could merchant ships be doin' there except waitin' for a chanst to land soldiers?"

"I wonder where the other warships are. I can make out only the _Galissonniere_ and the _Vipere_."

"Maybe they're close in shore, behind that hill yonder. If they are goin' to put a landin' party ashore, they'll be needin' to cover it."

It was the eighth of October, six days after the previous bombardment. Sinclair and Gorman were, as was their custom, on the top of the Dutch fort, trying to foresee what might be the developments of the day.

The morning wore on until nine o'clock. Suddenly spirts of flame shot out from the two French warships which were in sight, and the thunder of their guns mingled with the distant boom from others which were hidden behind the northern hills. A transport appeared close to the shore, near the last stretch of beach visible from the fort. Another was probably hidden by the hills. The rattle of the machine guns covering the landing of the troops filled up the intervals between the booming of the big guns.

At the first report the consul joined them on the lookout. Boville, MacAllister, Commander Gardenier, and one or two others came later. With the consul's permission, Gorman left to personally superintend the work of his ambulance corps, of which he was very proud.

"Don't let the Chinese mistake you for a Frenchman," called Sinclair after him. "The Hakkas might fill you with slugs from their old match-locks."

"Faith, an' it's a poor opinion you have of their intilligence, to say nothin' of the insult you're offering meself," was the reply of Gorman, as he ran down the stair.

"There's the first load!" exclaimed the consul, as a boat filled with troops pulled from the transport to the beach.

Boat after boat followed, discharging their cargoes of armed men, who formed up on the beach and then marched away out of sight behind a spur of hills. Soon the volleys of rifle-fire joined the crash of machine guns in forming an interlude between the thunder of the cannon.

An hour passed away. As a week before, most of the residents of the hill-top had repaired to the rendezvous at MacAllister, Munro Co.'s. But the consul and his companions were still on the top of the fort.

"There comes the first of the Chinese wounded," said Sinclair. "It's some of Gorman's corps who are carrying him. I can see the red cross."

A moment later he said:

"There come more. The French must be doing some execution. There are already more wounded in sight than we had all day last Thursday. It's the rifle-fire which counts."

Singly or in groups, the squads of stretcher-bearers could be seen filing across the common on their way to the Mission Hospital.

"I must go now. We are going to have our hands full."

"Down! Down!" roared Gardenier.

Every one fell flat behind the battlements. There was a crash and the old fort trembled to its foundations. They sprang to their feet and looked over. A shell had struck it squarely a few feet above the ground. But the solid brick walls, eight feet thick, built by conscientious workmen two hundred and fifty years before, had hurled it back and were hardly even dented by the terrific impact.

Soon afterwards Sinclair left for the Mission Hospital down in the town. There he joined Dr. Bergmann in time to receive the first of the wounded. But they came so fast that before long the two doctors had to signal for Black of the _Locust_. As the afternoon came on the number increased. The hospital was small, and soon not only the operating-room and the wards, but the courtyard as well, were crowded with between one hundred and twenty and one hundred and thirty wounded men.

The forenoon passed into the afternoon; the afternoon wore slowly away. Up and down between the lines of rude plank cots the three doctors moved, with bare arms and clothing stained with blood. Several of the Christian students acted as nurses and assisted at the dressings.

The noon hour had passed, but they took no time for lunch. A messenger arrived from the rendezvous with an invitation from Mrs. Beauchamp and Mrs. MacAllister to go there for tiffin.

"I fancy that we had better accept this," said Black. "We have more time now than we shall have later. But these are slaughter-house clothes in which to go to tiffin with ladies."

"Das ist true," replied Bergmann. "Ve vill slip in mine house and vill get some clothes. I can fit Dr. Black. But Dr. Sinclair, I know not. He ist so big."

"That's all right, Bergmann. Somebody has to stay here and look after those fellows. You two go ahead and have tiffin. Present my compliments and regrets. If there is not too big a rush when you come back, I'll have something then."

His two confreres hastened away. Sinclair went on with his work silently, swiftly, determinedly. Again the pain-drawn faces appealed to him. Again the wistful eyes followed him. Again the word passed from lip to lip, "I-seng lai" (The Life-healer comes).

Some belonged to regiments which had been in the camp before Keelung and had known him there. Some had come to know him during their ambulance work of the past week. Some had heard of him. Some were mainland men from the North, speaking a different tongue. But all caught the phrase, and from every plank bed he heard the word passed to the next, "I-seng lai" (The Life-healer comes). And he worked on.

Presently Bergmann and Black returned, and with them a blue-jacket of the rendezvous guard, with a pressing invitation for him to go for tiffin. He looked at the invitation; then at the ever-increasing number of suffering men:

"Give my thanks to the ladies who sent you and say from me that there are so many wounded here now that I cannot find it in my heart to leave them. I can do very well without food till dinner-time."

"Very good, sir. I shall tell them."

The blue-jacket saluted and withdrew. Sinclair went on with his work.

A half-hour passed. Again the blue-jacket appeared accompanied by a native bearing on his carrying-pole a pair of the many-storied bamboo baskets in which the Chinese convey warm provisions.

"A chit for you, sir."

He took the note the sailor handed him and glanced at the address. It was in an unfamiliar feminine hand. Opening it quickly, he read:

"Will Dr. Sinclair be so good as to accept the accompanying refreshments from me?

"JESSIE MACALLISTER."

In spite of the mood of intense concentration which was always on him when he was at work, in spite of his rigid self-control, a slow flush showed in his face, doubtful under the tan, but certain when it climbed above the border-line of the sunburn. It was not so much the act, though that in itself would have been enough to quicken his pulses. It was the form of the brief epistle. She had started to write a purely formal note, but had ended by making it warmly personal.... "From me. Jessie MacAllister."

"I have no paper on which to write an answer, except a leaf out of a pocketbook. You will have to make apologies for me."

"I shall do my very best, sir," replied the sailor, with a grin, as he took the hastily-scribbled note of thanks, for the big, kindly doctor had, without an effort, got the good-will of this man, as he did of nearly every man his life touched.

Sinclair hastily swallowed several cups of tea, ate a piece of chicken, and, telling his student assistants to distribute the rest among the wounded, turned again to his work of mercy. But all the while four words kept writing and re-writing themselves upon his brain: "From me. Jessie MacAllister."

It was the first time that he had seen her full name written. It had always been "Miss MacAllister." Certain definite pictures had been formed in his mind with which that appellation was connected. Sometimes stately and magnificent, sometimes teasing and whimsical; sometimes kind, sometimes cruel; those clear-cut portraits were connected inseparably with the name "Miss MacAllister." But some way "Jessie MacAllister" was different. It suggested something more intimate, more confidential, more tender than the other had ever done. What could it mean?

Again and again he asked himself that question: "What could it mean?" Was she only playing with him? The week before the last bombardment she had been exceedingly kind. Then she had suddenly turned and treated him cruelly. Was she trying the same trick again? His jaw set and his lips closed tightly. She wouldn't catch him like that again.

But another thought would pass through his mind. This was different. There was something about this two-line note which he had never experienced before.... "From me. Jessie MacAllister."

Sinclair had made up his mind resolutely after that tennis game that he would not put himself in the way of receiving such treatment again. When he set his mind to anything, he was firm to the verge of stubbornness. He knew that. And with all the stubbornness of his nature he had resolved to have nothing more to do with Miss MacAllister than the laws of politeness required.

But somehow "Jessie MacAllister" did not seem just the same. Do his best, he could not be indignant and angry with her in the same degree as he had been with "Miss MacAllister." He knew that the fortifications of his resolution were shattered. He knew that the four words, "From me. Jessie MacAllister," had made a breach in them. They had been standing not quite a week.

Strange to say, the thought that they were broken, and the means by which it was effected, gave him a secret pleasure, a sense of lightness and exultation such as he had not felt for six whole days. To be consistent with himself, to maintain his self-respect and reputation for firmness, he made a pretence at repairing the breach and rebuilding the fortifications. But all the while the two-line note with its signature was stowed away in an inner pocket, which had an intimate relation to the spot beneath which his strong heart beat a little faster than usual. With a new hope and enthusiasm he toiled on among the wounded all the rest of the day. But the toil was light and the afternoon sped away.

Meanwhile, the bombardment had come to an end. The French attack had failed. Entangled in a maze of swampy rice-fields, their landing-party had been fiercely attacked by the Chinese. They were compelled to retreat to their boats, carrying their wounded with them, but abandoning their dead.

The wild Hakka tribesmen with General Soon's army, following the practice they had learned in border warfare against the Malay savages of the hills, had cut off the heads of the fallen French soldiers and exposed them on poles at the Chinese camp and in the market-place of Tamsui. Consul Beauchamp and Commander Gardenier had indignantly protested to General Soon. The Chinese commander had at once ordered that the bodies and heads of their fallen foes should be buried and promised that it should not occur again.

But the danger of the situation to the European residents and visitors had been revealed. While General Soon and many of his officers and men were deeply grateful for the services rendered by the Mission Hospital, the doctors, and Sergeant Gorman's ambulance corps, the foreigners stood in serious peril. A great European nation, a first-class military power, had been beaten back by the Chinese in an attempt to capture Tamsui. The savage instincts of the irregular and undisciplined levies of the Chinese army had been aroused by their success. There was no knowing the hour when these would break out in a general massacre. The consul resolved that all foreign women and children, and such of the men as duty did not compel to stay, should leave the island at the first opportunity.

*XXX*

*THE MYSTERY OF LOVE*

A day or two after the second bombardment the _Hailoong_ again appeared off the harbour. The French detained her long enough to satisfy themselves that she carried no munitions of war, and then allowed her to enter the port. Nearly the whole foreign community was at the dock to receive her. It was only thirteen or fourteen days since she had been there before. But to those who had been in the midst of war's alarms it seemed as many weeks.

Of course, Sinclair was there to give McLeod a hearty greeting. There was little time to talk, as the chief officer had to oversee the discharging of the cargo. Sinclair joined him in this, his knowledge of the ship and of conditions ashore making his assistance most valuable. He had his countryman's knack of turning his hand to anything. By the afternoon they had so rushed the work that they were able to knock off and have a comfortable chat in the dining saloon.

After they had discussed the bombardment and the landing, the prospects of more fighting and the possibility of a blockade, and had laughed till their sides ached at the oddities and eccentricities brought out by the unusual situation, McLeod said suddenly:

"Say, Doc, you have not told me anything about the Highland girl. How is she?"

"Just as big a conundrum as ever, Mac."

"What! Have you not been getting along well?"

"No! I don't know where I'm at."

"Why? I thought from the way she spoke of you, and the way she received you when you came back from Keelung, that things were bound to go like a house on fire."

"Well, Mac, for a few days I was feeling pretty good myself. I thought that I was making great progress. But the day of the first bombardment my castle in the air was blown sky-high and there has hardly a fragment of it come back to earth yet."

He then told of the tennis game and of how disgusted with himself he had been. To his surprise McLeod did not take it very seriously. He expressed concern at Sinclair's narrow escape from the shell, but rather laughed about the rest of the incident, especially at his friend's having left the lawn in a tantrum, as he called it.

"You would have been madder than I was," retorted Sinclair, "if you had been in my place."

"Of course I should--if I had been in your place, because like you I should not have looked for the right reason for her actions--that is, if I had been in your place."

"I don't understand what you are driving at," said Sinclair, with a trace of irritation.

"It's all right, Doc. Never mind now. Go on and tell us some more."

When Sinclair related the incident of the "charge of the Tamsui blues," and Gorman's remarks to Carteret, McLeod laughed so heartily that the doctor had to join him.

"It's all very well for you to laugh like that," he said, a little ruefully, when McLeod stopped for a moment. "You have nothing at stake. But it's different with me."

"You'll laugh about it yet, just as heartily as I have done. Probably more so. Haven't you another yarn up your sleeve? I know that you have. Go on. Give us another."

He did. He told about Clark praying under the teak table, and De Vaux dancing and stuttering around it. Sinclair was a good story-teller, and before he was through with the Free Methodist prayer-meeting McLeod's laughter could be heard the length of the ship. Sinclair had forgotten his love troubles, and his laugh, mingled with his chum's, was as rollicking and care-free as that of a schoolboy.

In the midst of it Captain Whiteley's voice was heard outside:

"What in the world's going on in here?"

A lady's voice replied:

"It's those two lovers. They should never be separated. Either one is quite inconsolable without the other."

The door was pulled open, and the two young men, vainly endeavouring to choke down their laughter, rose to receive Miss MacAllister, her father, and the captain.

The two men did not remain long. Mr. MacAllister wanted to take Captain Whiteley to see some of the damage wrought by the shells. A few minutes after they left McLeod suddenly remembered that there were some duties connected with discharging or taking cargo which he had to attend to at once. Almost before they knew, Sinclair and Miss MacAllister were left alone.

For some moments neither spoke. Ordinarily both were good conversationalists, able to acquit themselves with credit in any company. But now, left to each other's company, each seemed suddenly bereft of speech. Sinclair probably never thought so quickly on any other occasion in his life. But with all his thinking he entirely failed to think of anything to say. If he had thought of anything, it is doubtful if he could have said it. His heart was pounding so hard and fast that he experienced a slight suffocating sensation. But he didn't open the door. He had that much presence of mind. He didn't open the door to let the outside air or any one else in. Though speechless, he was not bereft of reason.

It was Miss MacAllister who first recovered.

"Dr. Sinclair," she said, "I want you to forgive me."

Then Sinclair began to wonder what she had done that he should forgive. Could she ever have done anything for which she needed to ask his forgiveness?

"But, Miss MacAllister," he stammered, "what--what am I to forgive? You never did anything----"

"Oh, Dr. Sinclair, you know that I did. Last Thursday; you remember. I acted shamefully, and"--there was a little break in her voice--"I nearly caused you to be killed.... Can you ever forgive me?"

"I could forgive you anything."

"But you were very angry. You went away angry, and when I tried to call you back you wouldn't stop to speak to me. I wanted to ask your forgiveness then."

"Miss MacAllister, I suppose that I was angry. It is I who ought to ask your forgiveness.... I didn't mean to be angry. But I felt hurt.... You had been so kind just before that day.... I was foolish enough to hope that you would continue to be kind. But when that day came you were different, and it hurt.... Miss MacAllister, I can't keep it back. I love you.... That's why it hurt."

She was sitting by one of the small windows of the saloon, with one arm resting on its sill. Through the conversation she had kept her head lowered. As his accents grew warmer, she turned towards the window, and seemed to be gazing on the water, which the northeast monsoon, driving against the current, was raising in choppy waves. He had risen and was standing in front of her. He could not see her averted face, and she made no answer.

"I know that it must seem absurd and presumptuous of me. I'm a poor and unknown missionary doctor. But I love you.... I tried not to. But I couldn't help it.... I resolved never to mention it to you.... But we were left alone here together and--I just couldn't help myself.... I had to tell you."

Without turning her face, she extended her right hand to him. He caught it in his and, dropping on one knee, pressed his lips to it.

"I'm glad you told me, Donald."

For a moment he could hardly believe his ears. He looked up in a dazed, wondering fashion. Her face was no longer averted. Shy, blushing, but smiling, it was turned towards him, and their eyes met. Almost incredulously, wonderingly he asked:

"Do you mean that?" (He did not dare say her name.)

"Yes, Donald."

He bowed his head again over the hand he held, and felt her other hand laid softly, timidly on his wavy masses of fair hair. For a few moments it rested there like a benediction. When she lifted it he rose and, turning her face up to his, gravely, reverently pressed upon her lips the sacramental kiss of pledged love.

For a time they sat silent. His arm was around her. Her head was on his shoulder. Her forehead and the crown of rich brown hair were touching his cheek. Neither wanted to speak. Each was trying to comprehend the mystery of love, the mystery of two souls who had held aloof from each other, and had fenced with each other, and had strenuously asserted their independence of each other. But all the time they had been restless and dissatisfied. Then suddenly and unexpectedly they had been forced to confess that they could not be happy apart. And immediately in that confession they had found joy unutterable. Over and over again it passed through their minds. And when they were done they understood it no more than when they began. But they knew the fact.

At length he said:

"Jessie, where did you learn my name?"

She slipped her hand into her bosom and drew out a leaf torn from a pocketbook. It was his note of thanks for the refreshments she had sent to the hospital. It was signed, "Donald Sinclair."

"And where did you get mine, Donald?"

From an inner pocket close to his heart he brought out her note ending with the words: "From me. Jessie MacAllister."

"If it had not been for those four words, I do not think that I could ever have had the courage to tell you that I loved you."

"I'm so glad that I wrote them. I tried to end that note in formal fashion, but, before I knew, I had written those words. I sealed it in a hurry for fear I should think twice and change them." Her face was hidden against his breast now.... "And--I know you will think me silly--after the blue-jacket left, I ran out to call him back.... But I was too late."

"That's once I can thank God for a person's being late," he said, as he lifted her face to his own and kissed her again, but with more of the passion and abandon of love than before. And the wonder of it grew upon him. Over and over again he kept asking himself, Was this the proud young beauty of whom he had stood in awe? Was this blushing, tender girl yielding herself to his embraces and responding to his kisses,--was this the sprightly, mischievous belle of the dinner party who had teased him, and made game of him, and held him up to be laughed at by the assembled guests? It was almost incredible. But it was true. And the mystery of love deepened.

They were silent for a while. Thoughts were too busy and too happy for speech. Then she said:

"Donald, I know that this will sound awfully improper. But I do not want mother to know of what has taken place for some time. She would be so disappointed and angry that she would make rash statements. And afterwards, even if she were convinced that she had been wrong, she is so determined that she would not go back on them."

"I was afraid that she did not like me, Jessie."

"It is not that she dislikes you. It is because she is ambitious that I should marry a man with a title."

"Carteret, for example," said Sinclair, with a smile.

"Yes, Carteret. And I hate him," she replied, with a flash of indignation. "I shudder every time he comes near me. But mother has accepted him as a suitor. She has not been so taken with him of late, since the first bombardment, and especially since the charge of Sergeant Gorman's Blues. She knew that he played the coward both times. But that is all forgotten again. He has the title."

"What! Has Carteret succeeded to the title?"

"Yes. He got word by the _Hailoong's_ mail. The heir with the one lung died of hemorrhage while crossing the Channel. His father died of shock when he was told of it. Carteret is now Lord Lewesthorpe. With mother the title has blotted out all his sins. She is more insistent than ever."

"Jessie, if Carteret bothers you, I'll wring his neck, and the Lewesthorpe title can go looking for another heir."