"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."

"Oh, no, Donald, you mustn't!" she said, in a little alarm, as she felt

the big muscles against which she leaned swell with sudden passion.

"You mustn't. Leave it to me. Mother is determined. But I can be

determined, too. And father will not let me be pushed too far."

"I'll do whatever you want.

"Thank you, Donald. If mother knew now that I had let you speak to me

of love, she would never forgive me. But she will change. There is

something coming which will change her. I do not know what it is. But

I know that it is coming. We are Highland, you know. It is the second

sight."

The lovers sat for a while longer. Then she looked at her watch:

"Oh, Donald! Do you know that we have been here nearly two hours?"

"It seemed to me like five minutes," was the reply.

She gave a merry laugh and said:

"If time always passes so quickly, we'll be old before we know."

"I wish that I could be sure that the days after you leave would only

pass as quickly," he said, a trifle sadly.

"They'll pass, Donald. I'll be thinking of you, and you'll be thinking

of me, and the days will go. But what will Mr. McLeod be thinking of

us, that we have stayed here so long? And isn't it strange that none of

the Chinese boys ever came into the saloon in those two hours?"

Sinclair laughed his happy, boyish laugh.

"Trust McLeod!" he said. "Probably he could explain the prolonged

absence of the boys, as well as his own."

She looked at him archly.

"I am not sure now that I have done wisely in giving you my undivided

love, Donald. I am afraid that I am not getting the same in return. I

am really jealous of Mr. McLeod."

The method of his reply need not be described. She was satisfied with

it. And when they stepped out and met McLeod on the deck he knew

without being told.

*XXXI*

*ANCESTORS AND PEDIGREES*

The last night of the stay of the MacAllisters in Tamsui had come. They

were to sail for Hong-Kong on the _Hailoong_ the next day. With them

were going Mrs. Beauchamp and Constance, Mrs. MacKay and her children,

Mr. and Mrs. Thomson, Carteret, Clark, and a number of others of the

foreign community. The consul had ordered that all the foreign women

and children should leave North Formosa. A number of the men who had no

taste for the scenes and chances of war were going with them. Mr.

MacAllister feared the possibility of a blockade and so chose to go to

Hong-Kong, where he could freely prosecute his search.

As there had been on the evening after their arrival, so there was the

evening before their departure a dinner at the consulate. This time the

guests left early. Many of them were preparing for a hasty departure.

They knew that their hostess had likewise much to occupy her time for

the few remaining hours. Sinclair had gone on board the _Hailoong_ to

have a farewell talk with McLeod. Sergeant Gorman, who had been dining

with the second officer and the second engineer, joined them by their

invitation. They were sitting on the after deck, sheltered from the raw

wind of the northeast monsoon. The conversation drifted from point to

point of recent events. McLeod and Sinclair led Gorman on to tell in

his inimitable way incident after incident, while they laughed like a

pair of schoolboys out on a frolic.

"You never told me, sergeant, how you got along with Miss MacAllister

and Carteret the day you saw them safely home after the charge of the

Tamsui Blues."

Gorman cocked an eye at Sinclair, with an expression which was

irresistibly comical.

"I knew that it wud come," he said. "You did nobly, docther. You held

your whisht for a full week. But I knew it wud come."

"That's all right, Gorman," replied Sinclair, laughing to hide a little

confusion. "That's all right. But that's not the subject under

discussion. You tell us how you enjoyed your walk."

"How did I enjoy it? How could I do anything else but enjoy it, wid the

young lady talkin' to me, and askin' me questions about me experiences

in the wars, an' about the camp and the hospital at Keelung; and the two

bright eyes of her lookin' at me so friendly loike. Fwhat kind of a man

wud I be that wudn't enjoy it?"

"So the young lady talked to you all the way home?" said McLeod.

"Yes," said Gorman with a wink at McLeod, which distorted all one side

of his face, "she didn't know that I was a married man."

McLeod laughed gaily at Sinclair. The latter took Gorman's banter

good-naturedly. He could afford to be indulgent.

"How did Carteret take your monopolizing her?" he asked.

"He tould me that it wud become me to have less to say in the prisince

of me betters. 'Begorra,' sez I, 'barrin' her young ladyship here,

there's none of them prisint that I can see,' sez I. 'An' whin it comes

to savin' young ladies from General Soon's Tamsui Blues, be the powers I

haven't been seein' me betters around here, exceptin' Docther Sinclair,

may the angels make his bed in glory,' sez I. Wid that the young lady

fires up and sez, 'The divil a bit of it,' sez she. 'We don't want the

doctor to go to glory yet,' sez she."

"What! What! What's that, Gorman!" exclaimed McLeod, while Sinclair

was fairly shrieking with laughter. "You don't mean to tell us that

Miss MacAllister said that--'the divil a bit of it.' Did she say that?"

"Och, Mr. McLeod, now you're spoilin' me story. If she didn't say that

in so manny wurrds, she thought it annyway. An' fwhat's the difference?

But I'll take me affydavit on it that she did say that she didn't want

the docther here to go to glory yet. An' I'm jist tellin' the docther

for his comfort, for be that sign, they were very encouragin' wurrds."

"Did Carteret try to sit on you again?" inquired Sinclair when they

ceased laughing.

"He did. 'Sergeant,' sez he, 'you're too free with your tongue. Your

company is offensive,' sez he. 'You may consider your services dispensed

with. And I shall consider it my duty to report you to the consul.'

'Bedad,' sez I, 'if you had been a little freer wid your courage, you

wudn't have needed me company. As for me services,' sez I, 'I'm not

under your orders. I was sint to see this young lady safely home,' sez

I. 'An' I cudn't think of lavin' her in your care, for fear you might

chanst to meet a fieldmouse by the way, an' you moight run, an' lave her

to be devoured by the feroshus wild beast,' sez I.

"Wid that the young lady tuk to laughin' an' laughed so that I cudn't

finish wid the spalpeen for sayin' that he'd report me to the consul. I

was jist goin' to be afther tellin' him that afther a consultashun

together wid the consul, I had decided to deport him from the island.

But the young lady sez, sez she, 'Mr. Carteret, if I wish to talk to

Sergeant Gorman, I do not see why you should object. I hope that you

will not interfere with him again, and I'm sure that Sergeant Gorman

will not say anything more to offend you.'"

"Then the rest of your walk was quite peaceful and agreeable," said

Sinclair.

"It was," replied the sergeant. "You see the young lady and I talked

all the rest of the way. An' that spalpeen of a Carteret was as paceful

as you plase, walkin' on the other side of her, kind of sulky an'

hang-dog loike, for niver another wurrd did she say to him."

"You must have enjoyed it, for I never before knew you to take so long a

time on so short an expedition."

"Och, docther, I wudn't have thought it of you. But seein' that it's

troublin' you, I'll just make your moind aisy by tellin' you that I

wasn't wid the young lady all the toime. Part of it I was wid her

mother."

"Did Carteret tell her mother what had really happened?" asked McLeod.

"I hadn't the honor of hearin' what he did tell her. But she wasn't

jist taken wid it, for she asked me to wait, an' afther the spalpeen was

gone, she tould me to step in, for she wanted to have some conversashun

wid me. 'Wid pleasure, ma'm,' sez I. 'Sergeant,' sez she, 'are these

water-buffaloes dangerous to people?' 'That all depinds on the people,'

sez I. 'But are they not very ferocious beasts?' sez she. 'Ag'in that

depinds,' sez I. 'If there's a bit of a shillelagh wid a man behind it,

they're as p'aceful as lambs in spring-time. But if there's nothin' but

a paint-brush, wid a good-for-nothin' omadhaun at the back of it,' sez

I, 'thin they bate Bengal tigers.'

"Wid that she got very red. 'Mr. Carteret's a gentleman,' sez she.

'Maybe,' sez I. 'He's well-born,' sez she. 'The divil,' sez I."

"You would say that," interrupted McLeod.

"Och, Mr. McLeod, there you'd be afther spoilin' me story agin. An' now

that you call it to me moind, I didn't say that nayther, seein' that it

was a lady I was talkin' to. Fwhat I did say was this, that I didn't

know that he was anny better born than the rest of us; an' though I did

not remember much about the occasion, I always onderstood that me own

mother, considerin' her opportunities, had brought me into the wurrld

jist about as nately as a duchess could have done.

"Wid that she gave a bit of a laugh, an' sez, 'No doubt, Sergeant

Gorman! But I didn't mean it just that way,' sez she. 'I meant that

his ancestors have been men of rank and noble birth for generations.'

'As for that,' sez I, 'I don't take much stock in me pedigree,' sez I.

'A man don't go far wid his ancesthors till he foinds wan he'd loike to

trade off for some wan else. But seein' that they are both dead an'

done wid, he can't do it convaniently. To illustrate, I'll jist tell

your ladyship how it happened to mesilf,' sez I.

"'Wanst whin I was in Indy, I tuk it into me moind to go home to Ireland

an' hunt up me ancesthors. I came to me birthplace,

Sleeahtballymackcurraghalicky in County Cork, an' tould the ouldest man

in the place who I was an' what was me business. "Yis," sez he, "yis; I

don't know you; but I've hard of you, an' I knowed your fader. Your

name is John Gorman. Your fader's was Shon Jay Pay. His fader was Shon

Mor. An' his fader was another Shon who was hanged by the English for

bein' a Rory of the Hills." 'An', ma'am,' sez I, 'wud you believe me, I

didn't pursue me ancesthors anny farder--shure as I'm a livin' man. I

didn't pursue me dead an' gone ancesthors anny farder.'

'But,' sez she, wid a little laugh, 'Mr. Carteret's ancestors were not

like that. They were noblemen. His father is an earl. His oldest

brother is the heir. But his father is an old man, and cannot live long,

and the heir has only one lung, and when he dies, Mr. Carteret will

succeed to the title and the estates.' 'Well, ma'am,' sez I, 'if it's

my opinion you want, it's this. The heir shud trade off his wan lung

wid an auctioneer for his two, an' give him L100,000 to boot. For it's

little honor will be done to the title, an' little profit to the

estates, if that spalpeen of a Carteret gets thim,' sez I, 'beggin' your

ladyship's pardon for talkin' so freely in your prisince.'

"Thin she got very red agin. Afther a bit she sez, 'Thank you, Sergeant

Gorman, for your opinions,' sez she. 'Here's a guinea for you.' 'Thank

you, ma'am,' sez I, 'but I'm nayther a lawyer to be sellin' me gab for

money, nor a beggar to be takin' charity,' sez I. 'I'm the son of an

Irish gentleman.' Wid that she looked at me kind of curious loike, an'

sez, 'Pardon me, Mr. Gorman, for offering it to you. But just the same I

want to thank you for your services to my daughter and to me,' an' she

reached out her hand an' shook hands wid me rale friendly loike."

When Sinclair, McLeod, and Gorman separated that night, Sinclair saw

before him the possibility of a change of attitude on the part of Mrs.

MacAllister towards Carteret and himself.

*XXXII*

*A MAN AND A WOMAN.*

The day of departure had come. The _Hailoong_ was floating on a full

tide, ready to cast off. Those who were remaining were down to bid

farewell to those who were going. Impedimenta had been stored away, and

all had gathered in two groups on the promenade deck. Dr. MacKay, his

wife and children, Mr. and Mrs. Thomson, and a number of native students

and preachers, formed one group. The Beauchamps, the MacAllisters,

Commander Gardenier, Boville, Carteret (for the residents still called

him by the name by which they had known him all along), and most of the

young men of the customs and mercantile staffs, formed the other.

Dr. Sinclair, who had been busy helping in the hasty preparations for

departure, walked forward along the side of the deck next the dock.

Miss MacAllister disengaged herself from the little group and stepped to

the rail, as though to watch the last incidents of the embarkation.

They met on the very spot where they had stood that memorable evening on

which the _Hailoong_ put out from Amoy to face the capricious seas of

the Channel.

What a change had come in their relations! They knew that many eyes

were watching them. Their words, if spoken above a whisper, would be

audible. There could be no demonstration, scarcely even a sign of

understanding or affection. Yet there was the attitude of perfect

confidence. And when their eyes met, they spoke a language which both

understood.

"This scene must have grown very familiar to you in the last two and a

half months," he said.

"Yes," she replied. "For that reason one is apt to pass over many of

the features of it without noting them. I want to impress on my memory

every detail."

"Isn't it strange," he said in a very low tone, "that this little port

in a strange land, should so quickly have become a sacred spot to us?"

"The most sacred spot in all the world," she replied softly.

Some one called to them, and they both turned at once, and stood side by

side facing the company.

"What a magnificent-looking pair they make!" exclaimed Mrs. Thomson, in

a sudden enthusiasm forgetting that the voice would carry to the ears of

all present.

"Was that what you called us to hear?" Miss MacAllister flashed back.

"It certainly was worth while. Do you not think so, Dr. Sinclair?" She

laughed gaily, a little defiantly, for she had seen the expression on

her mother's face.

"I certainly do. And I'm proud to shine with the reflected light of

beauty," he replied.

"Oh, you! You are worse than they are."

She turned hastily to the rail again, to hide her blushes. Her mother

set her lips very tightly together, lifted her head very high, and

sniffed. She was more intent than ever on forcing her daughter to marry

Carteret. Whatever doubts of his suitability to be a good husband she

may have entertained, had vanished with his actual succession to the

title. A peerage can cover a multitude of sins.

"All aboard!" rang out in English and Chinese. Men sprang to the hawsers

to cast off. At that instant a sedan chair, with sweating bearers on

the run, reached the dock and was dropped at the end of the gang plank.

An unusually pretty Chinese girl of seventeen or eighteen years, richly

dressed, and bearing in her arms a child of a few months old, stepped

hastily out of it, and ran for the gangway as fast as her bound feet

would carry her. One look at the child was enough to learn its story.

Almost as dark as a Chinese in complexion, the features were distinctly

European. It was a Eurasian, the child of a European father and an

Asiatic mother.

At the sight of the sedan chair Carteret had turned abruptly from the

group on deck, and had run down the ladder. The next instant his voice

was heard by those who leaned on the rail, speaking, not loudly, but in

tones of restrained fury.

"Put that woman off. Don't let her on board this boat," uttered to the

accompaniment of savage oaths.

"Stand back, Mr. Carteret. It is not for you to say who will be a

passenger on this boat. This woman has money to pay her passage, and

she has the same rights as you have. Make way there."

It was McLeod's voice, clear and cold and hard as steel.

Sinclair and Miss MacAllister did not look at each other for some

moments. The others on the deck heard only very imperfectly what was

said below. Some of the men talked continuously and loudly, so that the

women might not hear. When Miss MacAllister's eyes did meet Sinclair's,

they had in them such a look of confidence and content that the memory

of it never faded from his mind.

There was no opportunity for them to speak such farewells as their

hearts craved. Once she had the chance to whisper,

"I'll be thinking of you, Donald, and you'll be thinking of me."

[Illustration: "I'll be thinking of you, Donald, and you'll be thinking

of me"]

His answer was,

"And I'll come to you, Jessie, though all the world try to keep us

apart."

As the general farewells were said, Constance Beauchamp shook hands with

Sinclair gravely, sedately; stood for an instant irresolute, and then

with a movement as light as that of a fawn, sprang into his arms,

clasped hers around his neck and kissed him again and again, before them

all. She had another parting boon to bestow.

"I am going away where I can't see you, Dr. Sinclair. You may get your

hair cut whenever you wish. But keep one of the curls for me."

And Miss MacAllister looking on, felt no jealous pang.

Amidst waving hats and handkerchiefs, the _Hailoong_ swung out into the

stream, and started on her voyage, with her strangely assorted freight

of humanity, going to their various destinies. Among those surely none

were more tragic than the destinies of a man, of a woman, and of their

child. He was bound for an English earldom, and a seat in the House of

Lords. She was to drift into a native brothel, frequented by the

degraded of all nationalities, in the great cosmopolitan port of

Hong-Kong. Their child was to grow up in the streets of that tropical

city, a nameless, mongrel waif, never to know his father's face, till he

should stand as his accuser before the judgment seat of God.

*XXXIII*

*MY CHILDREN IN THE LORD*

"Dr. MacKay, you are not well."

"I know that, Dr. Sinclair."

"You have a temperature, I'm sure. Have you taken it?"

"No."

"How's that? I thought that you were careful to watch your health. You

told me that you could not afford to be sick."

"So I am, as a rule. But I could not take it this time till my wife

left. She would not have gone if she had known."

"You should have gone yourself. The strain has been too much for you.

Knowing the shape you are in, why didn't you take a trip to Hong-Kong,

or at least to Amoy, and rest a while?"

"That would be to play the part of a hireling shepherd. 'He that is an

hireling, and not the shepherd, whose own the sheep are not, seeth the

wolf coming, and leaveth the sheep, and fleeth, and the wolf catcheth

them and scattereth the sheep. The hireling fleeth because he is an

hireling and careth not for the sheep.'"

Sinclair was silent while he counted the pulse, and awaited the report

of the thermometer. When he looked at it, his face was grave.

"What is it?" asked MacKay. "You need not hesitate to tell me. Is it

high?"

"Too high for a man to have and be walking about. One hundred and three

and four-fifths."

"If it were malaria, I should not mind. I have worked for days on the

East Coast with an average of one hundred and three. But this is not

malaria. I cannot be deceived in it. I know malaria too well."

"Where is the trouble?"

"In my head."

"So I thought. We must get you to bed. I'll send a chit to Bergmann.

He is your doctor."

That was the beginning of the fight for life. MacKay was battling with

all the determination of his nature against cerebral meningitis. The

battle was not very long, but it was exceedingly sharp. By his bedside

all the time sat one or other of the three doctors. This stern,

reserved, intensely concentrated man had won their respect and

admiration, and no effort was spared to save his life. Native students,

trained in the elements of nursing, glided noiselessly in and out of the

room. Over at the college, where the native preachers, elders, and

students assembled, a continuous prayer-meeting was in progress, these

yellow and brown-skinned men who "ain't got no souls," praying with the

simple faith of little children that their beloved pastor might be

restored to health.

On the white bed in the middle of the room, beneath its drapery of

mosquito curtains, MacKay's burning head turned ceaselessly from side to

side, day and night, day and night without sleep. And day and night,

day and night he talked, talked, talked, sometimes in English, sometimes

in Chinese, talked without pause or cessation about his converts, the

church which he had brought into being.

"My people! ... My people! ... My children in the Lord! ... Who will

take care of them? My sheep! ... My poor sheep! ... Left without a

shepherd! ... Who will feed them! ... My little lambs! My little lambs!

... Who will protect them from the wolves? ... O God! I commend them to

Thee! ... My children! My children in the Lord!"

One day the raving suddenly ceased. Sinclair, startled by the unwonted

silence, stepped to his bedside and threw back the curtains. MacKay was

sitting bolt upright in bed. The fire of the fever was still in his

face and eye. But his voice was perfectly natural, his manner calm and

collected.

"Dr. Sinclair, what shall I do for my people? If I die, there is no one

to take care of them. Mr. Thomson is not able now--perhaps never will be

able. No person could come from Canada for a year, and when one would

come, he would need another year or two for the language. Some of the

native preachers are able, but none of them have authority to take the

lead of their fellows. What shall I do?"

"Do not worry about that now," replied Sinclair soothingly. "There is

the Good Shepherd still to lead His sheep. Leave it to Him. It is for

you now to recover your strength."

"I am resolved what to do," MacKay went on, as if without noticing

Sinclair's reply. "I shall ordain A Hoa and Tan He,[#] the two ablest

of the preachers. That will give them authority to lead their brethren.

That will make them pastors, shepherds of the sheep. It's irregular, I

know. A presbytery should ordain. I'm not a presbytery. It's unusual.

But unusual circumstances demand unusual methods. If I live, the church

lawyers at home will crucify me for it. If I die, they'll condone my

action, praise me in public, and scarify me in private. But neither

their praise nor their blame can touch me then."

[#] Pronounced, Hay.

"The church lawyers be hanged, hanged in their own red tape!" exclaimed

Sinclair savagely. "They have never seen anything but their own little

parishes, and they think their tuppenny parochial rules can be applied

to the whole world."

"I know, Dr. Sinclair, I know. What saith the Scripture? 'Where there

is no vision the people perish.' But I am resolved that my people shall

not perish.... Leng-a," he said in Chinese to the student nurse, "call

A Hoa and Tan He to come here. Call all the other preachers, the

students and elders to come at once."

In a few minutes the room was full of native Christians, while others

stood in the hall on one side, or out on the verandah on the other.

Briefly and impressively MacKay explained to them the need and his

resolve, charged the two preachers to accept the holy office, asked them

the prescribed questions, and then, when they had knelt beside his bed,

he laid a hand upon the head of each and reverently, solemnly said in

Chinese,

"In the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, the only King and Head of the

Church, and by the authority He has given me when He committed to me the

care of these His people, I invite you to take part of this ministry

with me, and commit to your care these my children in the Lord."

Tears glistened on the faces of the natives. Sobs broke from many of

them. But the sick man continued resolutely, now in English,

"Dr. Sinclair, I have written to the Foreign Mission Committee of our

Church, asking them to appoint you a medical missionary in North

Formosa. That is your desire?"

"It is."

"If they grant my request--I do not say that they will--but if they do,

do you promise to stay with these people as long as you may find it

possible so to do, to heal their souls as well as their bodies, and to

give these native brethren your counsel, according as the Lord gives you

wisdom?"

"I do."

"I am content."

With the benediction the Chinese softly withdrew. The sick man fell back

exhausted on the pillows, soon to be tossing and raving in delirium

again. But over in the little college building the native Christians,

led by their two new-made pastors, bowed themselves continuously in

prayer for the life which was more than any other life to them.

Was it in answer to those prayers that ice was unexpectedly brought into

that port in that tropic clime? Who knows? So many things are veiled

from our eyes! But certain it is that when the ice was heaped about his

fevered head, MacKay fell into a sweet, childlike sleep, from which he

did not awake for thirty-six hours. And when he awoke he was saved.

A few days later, under compulsion from the three doctors, he sailed on

board the _Fokien_ to join his family in Hong-Kong and rest. The day

afterwards the French admiral declared a blockade, and Formosa was

sealed against the world.

*XXXIV*

*THE SOLDIER OF THE LEGION*

For the five months from October till March Dr. Sinclair and Sergeant

Gorman were with the Chinese forces before Keelung. For those five

months rain fell almost continuously. Clouds drifted in from the sea,

trailed through the valleys, and crept up the mountain sides,

discharging their burdens of water as they went. The earth was sodden

under foot. Walls and roofs sweated moisture. Tents and clothing

mildewed. Food moulded and rotted in the constant wet. Scarcely ever a

gleam of sunshine broke through the leaden canopy of cloud to cleanse

the reeking earth and atmosphere. For one period of forty-five days the

rain never ceased for an hour.

All through the wretched winter French transports arrived bringing

reinforcements, and left again carrying sick and wounded men. All

through the winter a succession of petty conflicts took place, a series

of harassing, ineffectual actions was fought. A French column would

issue from Keelung, plunge through roads which were nought but channels

of liquid mud, struggle up dripping heights, through the tall grasses

and ferns and brush, exposed to the fire of concealed sharp-shooters,

and drive the enemy from the top at the point of the bayonet, only to

find that their labour and the price of blood paid was all in vain. In

some cases the small forces they were able to spare could not hold the

heights against the rallying Chinese. In others immediately behind they

discovered higher and more strongly fortified posts dominating those

that they had captured.

All the while the French cemetery on the east side of the harbour, which

they had named La Galissoniere, was growing more and more populous at an

alarming rate. Typhoid fever, malarial fever, cholera were far more

dangerous than the bullets and knives of the Chinese. In spite of the

numbers of sick and wounded men sent home to France, by the time the

winter had passed into summer seven hundred of the small force employed

had been laid away in the rain-soaked, wave-beaten beach at Keelung.

Meanwhile still heavier losses were suffered by the Chinese. The

superior discipline and arms of the French more than compensated for

their inferiority in numbers, and enabled them to work havoc in the

close-set ranks of the Chinese. The little hospital at Loan-Loan was

always filled with wounded. Sometimes they overflowed into the

neighbouring houses requisitioned by the military authorities for the

purpose.

Among these wounded men Sinclair and Gorman worked almost day and night.

When a battle was in progress, one or other went out with the ambulance

corps, gave the wounded first aid on the field, and forwarded them to

the hospital for fuller treatment there. Under leaden skies and the

incessant downpour of rain, with insufficient medicines and equipment,

and subsisting on poor native food, they worked on week after week,

month after month.

Perhaps what was hardest to bear was the fact that during all those

months not a word reached them from the outside world. The blockade had

effectually excluded all mails. Gorman heard nothing from his family in

Amoy. Sinclair had never a line from Hong-Kong.

"Bedad," said Gorman one day, "this is a time when a man would be glad

to be afther seein' the shape of a letter, even if it were only from his

mother-in-law."

"Let me have a look at your tongue, and a feel of your pulse, Gorman!"

exclaimed Sinclair, reaching for the sergeant's wrist. "I knew that you

were in a bad way. But I had no idea that you were so far gone as

that."

"Och, docther, but wudn't I show you the iligances of an Irish jig, if

the ould lady wud only write to me that she was dead an' p'acefully

departed. Then I cud go home to me wife an' childer."

It was a time when men were tested. Daily, hourly, Sinclair thought of

the girl he loved, spending the winter in Hong-Kong, subject to the

attentions and solicitations of the now titled Carteret, and the

pressure brought to bear by her mother. His hands would clench and his

jaws set hard. But he was sure that Jessie MacAllister would do her

part. Over and over again her farewell words kept running through his

mind, "I'll be thinking of you, Donald, and you'll be thinking of me."

The longest and dreariest months will always come to an end. When

February had passed, the skies began to clear sometimes. The first week

of March had some beautiful days.

With this came renewed activity on the part of the French. In a series

of actions lasting five days, March 3d to 7th, they succeeded in

capturing some of the strongest Chinese positions on the mountain-tops

near Loan-Loan.

Sinclair had chosen for his field hospital and ambulance station a

situation at the back of the post most strongly fortified by the

Chinese. It was a mountain with a steep, almost perpendicular ascent,

covered with grass and ferns and bamboos, on the side of the French

attack. In this cover the Chinese irregulars were hidden. The crest of

the hill was crowned by an interwoven fence of sharpened bamboos, a

veritable chevaux-de-frise. Three other lines of entrenchments extended

along the face of the hill, and had to be crossed by the assailants

before the main position of the Chinese could be reached.

Behind the bamboo stockade, on the slope which led down towards the

valley in which the river and the town lay, was a strong force of

regular troops. Their right was commanded by the American, Silas Z.

Leatherbottom; their left by a young Chinese officer, trained abroad.

Gorman was with the right; Sinclair with the left.

It was the last day of the five. On an opposing hill which they had

captured two days before, the French camp was plainly to be seen. Early

in the morning the movement of troops began. A column moved off the

open plateau and disappeared in the fog which hung in the valley, as if

to attack the Chinese right. Before long heavy firing was heard in that

direction, and Chinese troops were moved across from the left to

strengthen the right under the American.

Unexpectedly rifle firing broke out under the curtain of mist in the

valley directly in front. The French mountain guns on the opposite hill

began to search the Chinese left. In an interval of the firing the

order "_Baionnettcs au canon! En avant!_" floated up to where Sinclair

stood with some Chinese officers on the crest. The loud "Hourras!" of

the French soldiers mingled with the shrill yells of the Chinese, and

the crackling of rifles. The French were charging the first line of

entrenchments with the bayonet.

It was taken, and they pressed their retreating foes on to the second.

It too was captured, and in the same way the third. All the while their

progress could be judged only by the sounds which came up through the

canopy of fog.

Now the helmets of the Europeans began to appear through the veil of

mist. They were at the foot of the last steep ascent, with its bamboo

palisade at the top. The Chinese defenders poured on them a perfect

hail of bullets. The ascent was so steep, the storm of lead so

terrible, that even those seasoned troops shrank from it. The foremost,

a company of the Bataillon d'Afrique, swung off to the left in search of

an easier ascent and less deadly fire. Another company of the same

regiment dashed straight at the steep hill-side. But the deadly fire of

the Chinese mowed the foremost of them down. A company in a different

uniform, which had been held in reserve, two hundred strong, was ordered

to their support. On they came with a rush, cheering each other in a

perfect babel of tongues. The "En avant" of their officers was echoed in

almost every language of Europe. It was a company of the famous _Legion

Etrangere_, the Foreign Legion.

Their polyglot cries mingled with the French of the Bataillon d'Afrique,

as in regimental rivalry they struggled up that terrible ascent. Bamboo

scaling ladders were placed, only to be thrown down. Men climbed them,

only to be crushed by the rocks which the Chinese hurled upon them in

savage hand-to-hand warfare. But the assailants did not draw back.

French, Austrians, Germans, Italians, Corsicans, Poles, men of

Alsace-Lorraine, exiles from every land of Europe, they struggled

desperately up. They fought their way to the palisade, hewed gaps in

it, and formed on top.

The Chinese irregulars, driven in on their regular troops, threw the

latter into confusion. In spite of the gallant efforts is of their

young commander, most of them broke and fled. Not so their leader.

Rallying a hundred or so of his broken army, he led them in a bayonet

charge against their foes. A volley decimated their ranks. When the

smoke cleared away, the young officer was seen leading those who

remained to the attack. Another volley rang out, leaving him only a

handful of men. But once more the gallant Chinese gathered the little

group around him, and dashed at the invaders. When the smoke of a third

volley cleared away there were none left to charge. The brave young

pioneer of the new China which is to be, had died on the field he was

determined to hold.

The American general, Leatherbottom, realized when it was too late that

the French had deceived him by a false attack on the right, while their

real objective was the weakened left, commanded by the young Chinese.

He explained to Sinclair afterwards,

"'Thet's whar these 'ar Europeans get the start on me. When it comes t'

fightin', I kin fight. Don't yew make enny mistake about thet. But

when it's a question of military evolyewtions an' tictacs, thet's whar

they've got me beat by a mile."

And certain it was that when the Chinese left position was captured, and

the right was forced to retreat, the French were kept from coming to

close quarters by the deadly shooting of one rifle in the Chinese

rearguard. And that rifle was in the hands of the general of the

retreating force, the long, slab-sided Vermonter, Silas Z.

Leatherbottom.

Meanwhile Dr. Sinclair, realizing that the day was lost to the Chinese,

was forwarding the wounded with all possible speed, down into the valley

towards a place of safety. As the Chinese left was broken, he had come

down with a long line of stretchers, bearing wounded who had been picked

up under fire.

As he descended to the level of the ravine which encircled the mountain,

he saw within a hundred yards of him a squad of the Foreign Legion,

hurrying along the ravine, either seeking an easier ascent to the field

of battle, or making an attempt to cut off the Chinese retreat.

Suddenly out of a dense grove of bamboos on the hill-side spirted

streams of flame and smoke. The stout, fair-complexioned sub-lieutenant

who was leading them, threw up his arms, staggered, caught the trunk of

a tree-fern which saved him from falling.

"_Mein Gott im Himmel!_" he screamed. "_Je suis tue! En avant, mes

camarades! Vorwaerts!_"

They were his last words. But they were typical of the character of the

Legion.

A sergeant of almost gigantic size sprang forward.

"_Vers la gauche!_" he shouted. "_Charges a la baionnette! En avant!_"

"Good for you, sergeant!" yelled an exile of Ireland fighting under a

foreign flag. "Give the yellow divils a taste of the steel. Hurroosh!"

They dashed at the bamboos. But the withering fire cut them down. Not

a man reached the ambuscade but the big sergeant. A bullet hit him. He

fell; rose to his feet, and made a couple of paces forward. Another hit

him on the leg. He raised himself on a foot and a knee. A heavy stone

thrown at a few yards struck him on the head. He went down silent and

motionless.

With wild screams the Chinese irregulars burst from their cover,

brandishing long knives and racing with each other to be first to reach

their victims. It was not merely their lust for blood which clamoured

to be satisfied. Still more was it their lust for gain. There was a

price set upon French heads.

Anticipating the result, and knowing what would follow, Sinclair dashed

down the steep, grass-covered side of the ravine at the top of his

speed.

"Wait a little!" he yelled in his imperfect Chinese. "Stop that!"

But the irregulars were Hakka tribesmen from the savage border, speaking

a different language from that he was learning. They probably did not

understand him. If they did, they were not to be baulked of their

rewards by the orders of the foreign doctor.

Already the bloody knives were at work. Several were quarrelling over

the body of the lieutenant, for there was a higher price for the head of

an officer. Two or three had thrown themselves upon the sergeant. This

was the nearest body to Sinclair. One of the knives was lifted. At a

dozen paces Sinclair's big revolver spoke. The Chinese flung backwards

down the slope, throwing his glittering knife high in the air.

That was a language they all could understand. For a moment they seemed

disposed to resist. But the big foreign doctor was already among them,

his revolver barking with the rapidity of a machine gun, and at every

spirt of flame a man went down. Behind him came a number of well-armed

regulars, who had been detailed to convoy the ambulances. The

irregulars broke and fled. But they carried away with them the head of

every man of that little squad save the sergeant.

The broken leg with its great gaping wound was hastily bandaged and

supported by splints. The torn shoulder and the cut head had the blood

staunched. Then the unconscious man was placed on a stretcher and borne

to camp to be cared for in the same hospital as the Chinese wounded.

As the line of stretchers moved down the ravine, the tri-colour could be

seen floating over the crest of the mountain where the battle had been

fought, and the French bugles could be heard sounding "_au drapeau_."

*XXXV*

*THE LANGUAGE OF PARADISE*

The war was practically over. The Chinese could not dislodge the French

from Keelung. The French could not advance any farther into the country.

What had they gained for all their expenditure of blood and effort?

They had not been able to make themselves masters of a single foot of

ground at Tamsui. At Keelung they held the ruined town and the harbour,

and some outposts two miles from where their warships lay. Beyond the

range of their naval guns they could not go. For such barren results,

all of which in three months' time they were to relinquish again, they

had sacrificed fully one thousand lives of French soldiers and sailors,

had disabled hundreds more through wounds and disease, and had killed an

unknown number of Chinese, none of whom knew what the war was about.

It dragged on for another month and a half before the blockade was

raised and hostilities ceased. Six weeks elapsed after that before

Keelung was evacuated, and the French squadron and transports sailed

away, leaving their silent city of the dead, their tale of killed and

wounded and missing.

Through the month of March and half of April, Sinclair laboured on among

the wounded of the Chinese army. He was their Life-Healer. By one of

the strange ironies of life two of those Hakka tribesmen who had gone

down before his revolver on the seventh of March, were brought to him

for treatment, and he healed them. They looked with wonder, not unmixed

with fear, at the big fair-haired foreigner, who had been so ferocious a

day or two before. Now his touch was as gentle as it before had been

terrible, and in his very word was healing. They did not understand. It

was a part of the foreign devil's madness. It was a part of his magic.

But there was one over whom Sinclair spent more time than over any

other. It was the big sergeant of the Foreign Legion. He was

desperately wounded, and for a long time lay silently unconscious. From

that stage he passed into one of delirium. Then he raved, sometimes in

French, sometimes in German, sometimes in English, sometimes in a jumble

of languages like the Babel of tongues in the famous corps to which he

belonged. But there was one language which he used more than all the

others, and when he used it, his voice was soft and his accents tender,

like those of a child talking to his mother, or of a lover to his

beloved. That language Sinclair did not understand.

Day after day, night after night, he sat by the wounded man's bed in the

tent where he and Gorman had their quarters. Every moment he could get

off duty among the Chinese he was at his post. There was something

about this French sergeant which attracted him strangely. He was big

and dark, with jet black hair and large, dark eyes. When he was wounded

his face, save where it was covered by thick, black, stubbly whiskers,

was tanned to a dark brown. But as the days and weeks of illness passed

by, the sunburn faded from his face, and left his skin clear, almost to

transparency. Then Gorman shaved him, "to make the poor craythur a

little more comfortable loike." The fineness of the features at once

struck Sinclair. Was it only fancy, or was it a fact that he had

somewhere seen some one who resembled this man? He racked his brain to

recall who it was, or where he had seen that expression and form of

face.

"I can't think. But I know that I have seen that face or its

counterpart somewhere."

The big dark eyes of the patient opened, and began to wander over every

object in the tent. Then the wounded man began to talk. It was in the

language Sinclair did not understand.

"I wonder would Gorman know anything of that," he said to himself. "He

has a little bit of each of a score of tongues."

A native boy ran for the sergeant. He came quickly. The wounded soldier

was silent when he entered, and Sinclair was afraid that he would not

speak again. Presently his eyes began to rove around. Then he spoke in

a low, soft voice, words of the unknown tongue. For a few moments

Gorman stood silent with a puzzled look on his face, as if unable to get

the sense of what was being said. Then with a sudden start he lifted

his hands above his head.

"Be all the saints in glory, docther, do you not know that? It's what

you'll have to speak whin you get to hiven. It's Gaelic. Not Irish,

but Scotch! The man's a Highlander.... He's jist a bit of a gossoon

ag'in, wid his mother croonin' over him and puttin' him to sleep, an'

him not wantin' to go. Och, the poor bhoy! The poor bhoy! An' the

divils had nearly cut off his head!"

Sinclair sprang to his feet, his face as pale as death, his whole frame

trembling with excitement.

"Gorman," he said, with the slow emphasis of absolute conviction, "it's

Miss MacAllister's brother."

"Be the love of God, docther, I believe that you are right."

"I know that I'm right, Gorman. It's Allister MacAllister. I was

trying to place his resemblance to some one I knew. Now I know what

that resemblance is. It is neither to Miss MacAllister nor her mother.

It is something between the two. He has his mother's colour of hair and

eyes, and form of face, with his sister's expression."

"Right you are, docther. An', docther, he mustn't die."

"He must live, if human power can save him, and God's mercy will spare

him," was the solemn reply.

Half-an-hour later a speedy runner left for Tamsui, bearing a letter to

Drs. Bergmann and Black, with an account of the case of the wounded

Frenchman, a request for needed medicines, and the hope that one of them

might be able to come over to the camp before Keelung for a

consultation.

They both came. They held a consultation, spoke many kind words of what

Sinclair had accomplished, and returned to Tamsui to tell of the most

wonderful work they had ever seen accomplished by one doctor against

such obstacles.

The day after they left, Sinclair sat by his patient in the tent by the

river side. The spring sun was shining gloriously, drawing up the

moisture from the saturated earth. The rippling of the river, the scent

of the flowers, the song of the birds floated into the tent where the

sick man lay. Sinclair had been looking out on the flowing water.

Something drew his gaze towards the patient's cot. The large dark eyes

were fixed on him, no longer wandering and restless, but intelligent,

full of questioning and wonder.

"Where am I?" he asked in French.

"With friends," was the reply in the same language.

"How did I get here?"

"You were wounded, sergeant."

The last word seemed to help his memory.

"I remember. We had taken the fort on the Table, and were trying to

capture Fort Bamboo, on the South Mountain."

"Yes, that's it."

"Did we capture it?"

"Yes."

"But some of us ran into an ambuscade in the bamboos."

"Yes, and you were wounded. I've been trying to fix you up again."

"Are you a doctor?"

"Yes."

"You are not one of the doctors of the Legion. I do not remember you.

Do you belong to the Zephyrs or l'Infanterie de Marine?"

"To neither. I am a volunteer doctor. But you have talked enough. I

do not want you to tire yourself. I want you to get better. You must go

to sleep."

That afternoon General Liu Ming-chuan visited the hospital to personally

announce that an armistice was likely to be arranged, to thank Dr.

Sinclair for his invaluable services, and to tell him that both he and

Sergeant Gorman were recommended for various buttons and rings of jade,

daggers, and feathers of honour.

"Now," he concluded, "is there any request with which the honourable

physician will deign to honour me, that I may have the pleasure of

granting it?"

"There is, Your Excellency," replied Sinclair.

"Will the honourable physician name it?"

"That Your Excellency will graciously condescend to grant that the

wounded French prisoner be handed over to me, that I may restore him to

his aged father, of whom he is the only son."

"The honourable physician's request is granted; and may the young man

comfort the heart of his father, and do honour to his ancestors."

A week later Sinclair and Gorman left the Chinese camp for Tamsui,

carrying with them in a specially constructed litter the man whom they

were convinced was the long-lost son and brother.

Of their suspicions concerning him, the wounded man knew nothing. He

indeed knew where he was and how he came to be there. He knew that he

had been a prisoner in the Chinese camp. He knew that he had been cared

for and his life saved by a Canadian missionary doctor and an Irish

sergeant. He knew that instead of leaving him in the hands of the

Chinese, they were taking him to the foreign settlement at Tamsui, until

he should be strong enough to rejoin his regiment. But for any hint

they gave or aught he suspected, he was nothing to them but Sergeant

Alfred Melnotte, of the 3d Company, 4th Battalion of the Foreign Legion,

reported by his company commander as "_disparu_," missing.

When he reached Tamsui and was installed in a large, airy room in Dr.

MacKay's house, where the soft April winds blew in, where he lay and

luxuriated in a great white bed, with its canopy of mosquito curtains,

such luxury as he had not known for years, he wondered at the kindness

of these strangers. But to them as to all the other residents of

Tamsui, he was just "the French sergeant, Sergeant Melnotte."

*XXXVI*

*AN APPARITION*

In Hong-Kong the winter had passed in such a round of gaieties as the

colony could afford. There were balls and dinner parties, state and

private, afloat and ashore. There were cricket matches and military

reviews in the city. There were races and golf, and more cricket

matches and picnics at Happy Valley. A company of players of more or

less excellence, going from Australia to England or America, from time

to time came by way of Hong-Kong, and perhaps for a week drew

astonishingly large houses, considering the smallness of the European

population. There were excursions to Macao, and trips to Canton.

Mrs. MacAllister entered with the utmost zest into the social life of

the great southern city. Although never at ease in society, always

revealing to the practised eye that she had not been accustomed to it in

her youth, the continual attendance at all manner of functions, the

association with people supposed to be of social standing, had become

her ideal of happiness. In the sumptuous apartments her husband had

taken in the hotel, she entertained lavishly. Her wealth covered all

defects of education and training. Perhaps the majority of those she met

in the social life of the colony were not so much better bred than

herself. And those who were, accepted her bountiful hospitality, and

did not laugh at her till her back was turned.

Then she had far more compensating circumstances than most who have to

depend on their wealth for admission into society. Her husband was

keenly intelligent, well-informed, and perfectly at home anywhere. Her

daughter was strikingly beautiful and accomplished. The accepted suitor

for that daughter's hand was an earl. How could any colony be expected

to resist such a combination as that? Hong-Kong simply surrendered at

discretion.

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.