Part 17

"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?"