THE RISING IN THE VILLAGE.
"Teacher, they are coming--burning, looting, killing!"
"Not our people, surely?" said Mr. St. John.
"No; but they will join, never fear, when their blood is up; they will
forget all your kindness. The lady and the children should retire."
"Yes, yes, Christine," said Mr. St. John, hurriedly; "go into the blue
room and remain there with the children until I join you; but if I am
not able to do so you know what we arranged--put on the Chinese dress,
escape through the house, which will bring you out on the road to
Wei-hai-wei, and may God bless and be with my dear wife and children."
"Paul, a wife's place is by her husband's side."
"Yes, yes, my dearest, but the children!"
"Oh, Paul, I am torn in two. I do not know what to choose.
"Darling, you have not to choose, God has chosen for you; only one way
lies open."
"Yes, but oh, my dear husband--you must let me weep for one moment--to
know that we may never meet again, that you may be going to death--even
torture!" She lifted her lovely, agonized eyes to his.
"It is very, very hard to bear, my dearest; the only thing that makes it
possible is the love of Christ; but, Christine," he said, hopefully, "I
believe we shall meet again in this world; if not, my darling wife, you
will know that I shall be with Christ, and be the first to welcome you
to the City of the King. All the paths lead there in the end, do they
not?"
"Yes, yes, my beloved husband, we shall meet again in glory, even if we
may not here. Good-bye, good-bye! Cicely and Rachel, come with me,
darlings."
Rachel had been wondering what it was all about; why her mother was
crying, and why they were saying good-bye; but she prepared to follow
Mrs. St. John, to whom she was very devoted. Cicely still clung to her
father.
"Let me stay with you, father, father darling." The little white face
raised to his, the gray eyes, so like his wife's, all touched him
infinitely; but he loosened her arms gently from about his neck.
"My sweet child, it could not be: you must let me judge, darling. I
should love to have you, but it is quite impossible."
"Oh father, do--do let me stay."
"Cicely," said her father, tenderly, "I know you do not wish to unnerve
me. I am sure you do not wish to make it harder for me, and, my dear
little girl, it would increase my pain and anxiety in a ten-fold degree
if I knew you were not in safety. Be my own sweet, brave child. Kiss
me and then run up to your mother. I know you will do all you can for
her."
"Yes, yes; good-bye, good-bye, father darling."
"Good-bye, my own dear child, my precious Cicely. Please God, we shall
meet very soon again."
He watched her as she turned slowly away, weeping quietly.
"The bitterness of death is passed," he said to himself. "Now may the
Lord enable me to do His will whatever it may be, and face with courage
whatever lies before me."
The room into which Mrs. St. John had retired with the nurse and
children opened on to the side of the house, and it was possible to get
from the verandah to the Mission-house, and from the Mission-house again
to that of one of the native Christians hard by, and so on and so
on--from one house to another, if only the people were willing--without
ever being seen in the public street for about a mile, till the road to
Wei-hai-wei was reached. It had been decided between the husband and
wife that if things looked serious they should escape in this way from
the house and village to Wei-hai-wei. They were to put on Chinese
dresses, so as to court observation as little as possible, and take
money and food for the journey.
Mr. St. John moved quickly forward to the front of the house. He was
beloved in the village and widely known, and hoped that his influence
might prevent further bloodshed; and then he could not leave the native
Christians. If only he could persuade the rioters to return, something
might still be saved, and he would gain time for his wife and children.
He lifted up his heart to God, and walked forward into the courtyard,
his head erect, his face lighted up with the courage which God gives to
those who put their trust in Him. He needed it all to-day. The sight
which met his view, when he turned the corner, was disquieting in the
extreme. The din was terrific; the courtyard a mass of howling, frantic
rioters. Glancing hastily back to the house to see that all was right
there, he suddenly turned pale. On the verandah overlooking the
courtyard stood a small, slight figure he knew only too well--the
little, white face of the child whom he loved.
"Oh, father, father darling, don't go; oh, come back to us; they will
kill you."
"Cicely, for God's sake, my darling, go back to your mother. I must do
my duty. You are only increasing my anxiety tenfold; go back at once."
The little figure suddenly disappeared, and, with a sigh of relief, Mr.
St. John went out and faced the angry crowd. What he saw gave him the
keenest pain and apprehension. Their hands were literally red with
blood. They had killed several of the native Christians, dragging their
bodies along with them in fiendish triumph. One poor fellow lay at Mr.
St. John's feet; he was suffering from frightful wounds, but he was
still alive, and as for the moment the attention of the crowd was
distracted by a fresh disturbance from without, the clergyman managed to
draw him into the house, and place him for a moment in a position of
safety. He did what he could for the poor fellow; gave him a long
draught of water, and staunched the flowing blood, but it was evident to
the practised eye of the physician that his life was ebbing fast away.
Yet the cross of Christ still triumphed--tortured, wounded, bleeding to
death, on his face there lay the light which was not of this world.
"Teacher," he murmured, with a bright smile of recognition, "it is all
over, and I am glad. Only a few minutes more and I shall be with Jesus.
Do not look sad, I have no pain, and I am going to the land where there
is no more weariness, or persecution, or suffering." Suddenly his whole
countenance was eradiated with joy. "I see the gates of heaven opened,"
he cried, with ecstasy, "and Jesus on the right hand of God waiting to
receive me. Oh, what a blessed thing to belong to Christ!"
"Dear, dear fellow," said Mr. St. John, tenderly, holding the poor man's
hand in a kind, gentle clasp. "How thankful I am that the Lord sent me
here. It has made it hard for you in this world, but this 'light
affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more
exceeding and eternal weight of glory.'"
"Yes, the glory; the glory, that is it," the dying man murmured almost
inaudibly, and even as he spoke he seemed to pass away. Mr. St. John
laid him gently, reverently down. His heart was sad and yet throbbed
with joy. The pain was over for ever, and he was at rest with Jesus.
He had no time for much thought; the noise seemed to be increasing
without, and once more he turned to the court-yard. What he saw there
sent the hot blood surging through his veins--tied to a post in the
court-yard was a poor woman he knew, one of the converts who had but
lately been baptized.
Poor Daig Ong stood there in agony of fear, her hands were tied behind
her back, and fastened to one of the posts in the court-yard; she would
be beaten to death unless someone interposed--this being a very
favourite manner of execution amongst the Chinese. The man nearest to
her raised his heavy stick; there was a dull, sickening thud, a groan of
pain. The man lifted his stick a second time, but, in a moment, before
it could descend, Paul St. John was upon him. He had not been the best
athlete at Cambridge for nothing. With one blow he dispossessed the man
with the stick, the next instant the poor woman was free, and he was
standing before her, his head thrown back, his nostrils dilated, eyes
ablaze with righteous indignation. Stern and beautiful he looked as he
stood there, yet as he gazed over that sea of cruel yellow faces, more
like demons than men, his anger died away, and a vast wave of pity
surged in his breast; it was akin to that pity the Christ felt when He
gazed at Jerusalem and wept over it. All this hatred and cruelty and
hideous passion were the result of devil thraldom--"and such were some
of you." Yes, indeed, without Christ, wherein should any of us differ?
[Illustration: "The poor woman was free, and he was standing before
her."]
How little we in England, who speak of the reproach of Christ, know what
it really means in a heathen country. Perhaps we are coldly treated,
and we think it hard if we have to put up with a sneer or a few unkind
words, and flatter ourselves with the conviction that we are bearing His
reproach that we are suffering persecution; but when we look on the
other picture our paltry woes dwindle into insignificance. Indeed, when
we read, as we did last year, of the awful hardships and privations, the
torturing deaths, which our missionaries and the native Christians
underwent, then we would sink into the ground for shame. We feel that
we can never thank God enough for His mercies to us, the while we look
on our fellow Christians over the sea with an admiration a little,
maybe, tinged with envy, in that they were accounted worthy to suffer
for that beloved Name, dearer and sweeter by far to every Christian than
any other on earth.
For a brief moment there was a respite; a mob ever recognizes power, and
this was something they could not understand. What if the white man who
stood there so fearlessly towering above them were an incarnation of one
of the gods? But no, the pictures of their gods were far different from
this: they had cruel, wicked faces, like their own. Still they
hesitated. They had heard of this man, this great doctor, of his
wonderful cures. Suppose, now, he used his magic upon them, inflicting
some sore disaster, some awful punishment. Paul St. John noticed their
indecision and took advantage of it to whisper to the poor woman behind
him to slip back by degrees, and so make good her escape. They were
standing together at the entrance of the courtyard; the crowd, for the
most part--the mad, surging, bloodthirsty crowd--stood between them and
the house. The eyes of the people seemed to be drawn to him as the one
central figure; they watched him as a man on guard would watch every
movement of his opponent in a deadly duel.
Daig Ong was permitted to pass out unperceived, and found refuge in a
house belonging to one of the native Christians. When she was gone Paul
St. John breathed more freely. He knew that unless God wrought a
special miracle in his favour this could not last long; yet he felt no
fear, Jesus had never been so near. It seemed to him that the Lord was
actually standing there beside him, and something of the rapturous
exaltation of his soul was visible in his countenance. He raised his
hand to speak. The spell was broken. With one hideous cry, more
dreadful, more cruel in its lust for blood than that of any wild beast,
they sprang at him and threw him down and trod him underfoot. It was
like a storm picture--you look out and see the gallant little vessel
battling with the waves, borne up upon their crested billows, and the
next moment they roll over it, and only a ripple, a few bubbles, show
the place where it had been. A few minutes since, and Paul St. John had
stood before them like a beautiful avenging angel; now he lay there
silent and still, with his white face upturned to the pitiless sky.