Читать книгу The Call of the East - Thurlow Fraser - Страница 5

[#] Sir Robert Hart, Inspector-General of Chinese customs, was familiarly known as the I.G.

"Is this where you are, Sinclair? I have been looking around for you. Have you met every one yet?"

"I believe so, Mr. Beauchamp, except the tall gentleman talking to Miss MacAllister."

"Come along then and I'll introduce you before I have to receive Gardenier. … Miss MacAllister, I am sure you will pardon me for interrupting your conversation. I should like to make these gentlemen acquainted. … Dr. Sinclair, the Honourable Reginald Carteret of the Imperial Maritime Customs staff. … Will you excuse me now? I see Commander Gardenier at the door."

Sinclair saluted Carteret with the frank, easy courtesy which suited so well his big, powerful frame and pleasant countenance. The acknowledgment was a slight, stiff bow and a brief:

"Glad to make your acquaintance, I'm sure."

The tone and the words stung Sinclair. His face lost something of its good-humour. His lips closed tightly. A gleam of anger showed for an instant in his blue eyes. The signs of irritation passed quickly. But it was in a colder and more formal tone that he uttered some commonplaces, to which Carteret made a commonplace reply.

Slight as were the changes of tone and manner, they were not lost on Miss MacAllister. She had noted the unconscious ease with which Sinclair had met Carteret, and had been surprised at the superciliousness, almost insolence, of the latter's response. She had caught that momentary flash of the eye, betraying the rising anger, immediately brought under control.

Then as the two young men exchanged a sentence or two of polite formalities, she mentally compared them. Both were tall men—with the possible exception of her father, much the tallest men in the company. Neither was less than six feet in height. The Englishman was the slighter of the two, though fairly athletic in appearance. He was black-haired and dark-eyed. A black moustache and well-trimmed pointed beard gave him a foreign appearance and made him look older than his five-and-twenty years.

The Canadian was equally tall, but broad-shouldered and deep-chested. The massive head with its abundance of loosely-curled hair, so light in colour as to be almost golden, the clear-cut features, fair complexion, and singularly bright blue eyes reminded her of pictures of idealized Vikings she had seen at home. Perhaps it was more than a fanciful resemblance. Sinclair's forefathers had come from Caithness to Canada, and the blood of Norsemen probably flowed in his veins. Though older by a couple of years than the Englishman, Sinclair's fair, clean-shaven face looked years younger than Carteret's. In spite of the maturity of the broad, white forehead, it was almost a boyish face, with its cheerful, eager outlook on life.

"Allow me to apologize, Miss MacAllister, for having interrupted your conversation with Mr. Carteret. The consul simply projected me into the midst of it."

"A heavy projectile, Dr. Sinclair, for so light an explosive! With the thunder of the bombardment still in our ears, I suppose that we cannot help talking in terms of cannonading. But I assure you that no apologies are necessary. I am ever so glad to meet again a companion of our eventful voyage."

She looked so charmingly sincere that Sinclair wondered to himself if she really meant it.

"Attention! The consul is marshalling the company for dining-room parade," said Mr. Boville, the commissioner of customs.

"Exactly seven minutes and forty seconds late," said Carteret, looking at his watch. "Beauchamp will not recover from this for a year. He'll have to report it to the Foreign Office and ask that his leave be postponed six months as a punishment."

"Why? Is Mr. Beauchamp so particular about being punctual?" asked Miss MacAllister.

"Latest for an engagement he was ever known to be, three minutes and fifteen seconds. That was because of a typhoon."

"Pity that there were not more like him!" said the commissioner tartly.

"Commander Gardenier, you will conduct my wife to the dining-room. Mr. MacAllister, will you take in Mrs. Thomson? And Mr. Boville, Miss MacAllister. The less fortunate gentlemen will follow."

Offering his arm to Mrs. MacAllister, the consul led the way.

VI

ON THE DEFENSIVE

The commissioner of customs had the honour of conducting Miss MacAllister to the table, because his official position and his long years of residence in the island gave him precedence over the newcomers, or those who were engaged in mercantile pursuits. In appearance he was ill-suited to be the escort of such a young and queenly person. He was middle-aged, very bald, rotund in figure, and so short that his head was hardly level with her shoulder.

When she took Boville's proffered arm, she realized how absurd their disproportionate statures must appear. Involuntarily she glanced around to find Sinclair. He was just offering his arm to McLeod, for lack of a lady companion. A moment later she heard their voices at her back, and knew that they had taken their places in the little procession immediately behind her and the commissioner. Then the voices ceased, and instinctively she felt that they were laughing silently. Her figure stiffened, and she held her head a trifle higher than before. Her escort made the most of his five feet one or two, but do his best he couldn't get the shiny top of his head above her shoulder.

As they entered the dining-room she caught a glimpse of McLeod's face. He was laughing undisguisedly. When she took her place at the table she found herself facing Sinclair. He was not looking at her. He was watching the last of the guests filing in, and was trying to look unconcerned. But there was a suspicious quivering of his mouth and a sparkle in his eyes. Her quick Celtic blood took fire at once.

"He's laughing at me," she thought to herself. "How dare he? There's no limit to the presumption of those Canadians. But I'll teach him."

Strange to say, she quite forgot how she had laughed at him on board the Hailoong. Stranger still, she seemed to take no offence at the laughter of McLeod, who also was a Canadian.

As soon as they were seated, the natives out on the verandah began to pull the cords; the punkah began to wave to and fro and creak. It wouldn't have been a punkah if it hadn't creaked. The consul, who had nerves, had striven to put an end to the creaking, but had failed. The creak was an essential part of the punkah. But there was no creaking about the movements of the waiters. Noiseless as spectres, the "boys" in their long blue gowns moved quickly in and out, back and forth, their felt-soled shoes sliding silently over the smooth tiled floor.

"Commander Gardenier, we have all been models of patience. No one has asked you how the day went at Keelung. But you cannot expect us to wait much longer. Such virtue would be superhuman. Do tell the company what all the noise was about to-day and who got the better of it."

A murmur of applause greeted the consul's request, and all eyes turned towards the bronzed sailor who sat beside Mrs. Beauchamp. He seemed a little uncomfortable under the expectant gaze of so many eyes and answered modestly:

"I do not know that I can tell you much about it. The French had three ships at it. On their part the Chinese in the big new fort on the east side of the harbour and in the old fortifications on the west side were engaged. Between them they put up a pretty scrap for a while."

"Really! Did the Chinese actually pretend to offer any resistance to the French?" inquired Carteret.

"There was no pretending. They offered resistance, and a very effectual one for a time," replied Gardenier. "You know, Beauchamp, the lie of the harbour?"

The consul nodded.

"The old corvette Villars was anchored in the inner harbour, opposite the south side of Palm Island. She pelted away with her guns and mitrailleuses at the new fort at a thousand-yard range. The little gunboat Lutin lay close in shore on the west side and hammered the old fortifications there. Admiral Lespès, in La Galissonnière, lay in the outer harbour and raked both sides with his long guns."

"I should think that he would be in little danger there," said one of the merchants. "The Chinese gunners couldn't hit a range of mountains, let alone a ship, at that range."

"That is just where you are mistaken. They put three holes into La Galissonnière just above water-line, almost as soon as the game commenced. If they didn't beat off the French to-day, it was not the fault of their gunners. It was because their works could not stand the French fire. The Chinese worked their guns till their forts were knocked to pieces."

"Did the French land any men?" inquired Boville.

"Yes," replied Gardenier. "When we left Keelung, a landing-party of marines had just hoisted the French flag on the ruined Chinese fort."

"Then Keelung is in the hands of the French?"

"Yes. That is if by Keelung you mean a strip of a few hundred feet wide around the harbour. But the hills all around that again are occupied by the Chinese."

"Little difference that will make," said Carteret. "The Celestials have had all they want. At the first sign of a French advance they'll run, and never stop running till they reach Taipeh."

"I'm not so sure about that," replied Gardenier, a trifle coldly. "In the first place, the French have no land forces with which to make an advance. In the second place, the Chinese are better fighters than you give them credit for, Mr. Carteret. All they need is a good leader, and I believe that they have such a man in Liu Ming-chuan."

"And in the third place," said Beauchamp, "the Keelung climate is enough to defeat the French if there were no Chinese. By the time their transports arrive the northeast monsoon will be about due. Then the Lord help them! One of the wettest spots on earth. Boville, what is the annual rainfall over there?"

"One hundred and fifty-eight inches on the average. One year it lacked only an inch and a half of the two hundred."

"One hundred and fifty-eight inches," repeated MacAllister. "That does not convey much meaning to my mind. How does it compare with some climates we do know? That of London, for example?"

"Ashamed to say that I don't know London's rainfall," said the consul. "All I remember is that it seemed to do little else but rain there when I was a boy. Boville? … Carteret? … You are Londoners. … What? Do none of you know? … Shocking ignorance!"

"I do not want to put forward my opinion on the climate of London in a company of Englishmen," said Sinclair; "but I believe the rainfall there is about twenty-five inches."

"Easy seeing that you have not lived in England," said Carteret, with the same contemptuous tone he had already used when introduced to Sinclair. "A hundred inches would be more like it."

"Dr. Sinclair is right," said Commander Gardenier, who had been consulting a tiny memorandum book. "No considerable part of the British Isles exceeds eighty inches, and London has twenty-five."

Miss MacAllister flashed a quick glance at Sinclair. There was admiration in it; admiration that he should know this simple scientific fact which those who had better opportunities did not know. She had noted this peculiarity in him before, his remarkable fund of accurate information on all manner of subjects.

Then her mind took a curious twist. What right had he to know the rainfall of London? What business had this colonial to know a fact about London which a company of Londoners did not know? It was another proof of his presumption. She'd take some of his self-confidence out of him. She'd teach him.

The conversation drifted on about the climate, the war, the probability of a bombardment at Tamsui, the prospects of an easy victory which most conceded to the French.

"I believe that you are rating the Chinese too low," said the consul, in reply to a number of expressions of such views. "From what I have seen of the new Imperial Commissioner, Liu Ming-chuan, he will give the French more than they bargained for. As Commander Gardenier says, leaders are what the Chinese need. When they get a few more men trained in Western ideas, they are going to surprise the world. What do you think, Mr. De Vaux? You have known them longer than any of us."

"'Pon my soul, Beauchamp, I believe you are right! … The Chinese are a smarter people than they get credit for. … 'Pon my honour, they are! … And they're honest, too. … The last time I was in America, a man I had business with in New York said that he did not know how I could stand living among those pig-tails, as he called them. … He wouldn't live among them for a hundred thousand a year. … It vexed me. … I told him that I'd rather do business with a good Chinese firm any time than with some Yankees. … 'Pon my soul, I would! … Do you know, that duffer cheated me the very next day!"

There was a burst of laughter at De Vaux's injured tone.

"It's a fact," he continued, his face and head growing redder and his voice higher at every sentence. "And to think of that scoundrel casting reflections on the Chinese! … Bless my soul! … It vexes me so! … By——! … I mean it's a thundering shame the way the Chinese have been treated by some white people."

"What Mr. De Vaux says is true enough," said the consul. "I am sorry Dr. MacKay is not here. He could give us more information about the preparations the Chinese have made than any one else. But I understand that he has gone over to the vicinity of Keelung to look after some of his converts who are in the danger zone. Is that not so, Dr. Sinclair?"

"Yes," replied Sinclair. "He could hardly wait for tiffin yesterday, he was in such a hurry to catch the first launch up river."

"I saw him landing from the launch at Twatutia," added one of the merchants. "He barely bade me the time of day, and set off on foot for Keelung at such a rate that the Chinese with him had to run to keep up. I never saw the like of him. I wonder that the heat does not kill him."

"It is perfectly marvellous the amount of work he goes through, no matter how exhausting the heat may be," said Mrs. Beauchamp. "No person need ever tell me again that missionaries take easy times."

"Dr. Sinclair, I'm so sorry! I do believe that I have all the wines here beside me, and your glasses are empty. Will you not allow me to pass some to you? Which shall it be, claret or sherry or port?"

It was Miss MacAllister, speaking in so clear a voice that it caught everybody's ear and attracted the notice of all to the fact that, while the wines had frequently circulated around the table, Sinclair's glasses had never been filled. A slight flush, scarcely noticeable under the tan, climbed into visibility above the line which separated the sunburn from the white of the broad forehead. The attention suddenly concentrated on him was evidently unwelcome. But it was with perfect courtesy and good-humour that he replied:

"No apologies are necessary, Miss MacAllister. To do without wine is no privation to me. My glasses are not empty because the wines have not been offered to me."

"Oh! Perhaps you are a teetotaller."

"If you wish to so describe me."

"Really! How interesting! I do not think that I ever met one before."

"Your own glasses have been filled, but, if I am not mistaken, they are yet untasted, Miss MacAllister."

"Oh, yes! That's all very well for a woman. But I mean a man. I am sure that I never before met a man who couldn't enjoy a glass of wine, except some ministers and very immature youths in Bands of Hope."

A laugh went round the table. Sinclair joined in it. But the flush deepened on his forehead.

"My dear," interrupted Mr. MacAllister, "I am afraid that you are forgetting your father. I am practically a total abstainer."

"Oh, I know, father! But then you are an elderly man, and something of a preacher, too. Such virtue is to be expected in you. But Dr. Sinclair is a young man and—a medical doctor. To find such extraordinary rectitude in him is, as the Scotch would say, 'no canny.'"

Again the laugh went round at the doctor's expense. The fair tyrant was getting even with him. Mrs. Thomson, realizing the disadvantage he was at in this verbal passage at arms with a woman, spoke up in her fellow-countryman's behalf:

"You must remember, Miss MacAllister, that different countries have different customs. In your home surroundings it may have been a manly thing to use intoxicants. Where Dr. Sinclair comes from one of the highest standards of manliness is to be a total abstainer."

"And pray tell us where such lofty standards prevail?" asked Carteret. "Where was Dr. Sinclair reared?"

"On a Canadian farm." Sinclair's voice had a defiant ring.

"I shouldn't think that it would be the most up-to-date school of social usages in the world." Carteret's tone was a trifle more insolent than before.

"Perhaps not, Mr. Carteret. But there was one thing we did learn there. We learned——" A biting retort was on his tongue. His eyes met those of the hostess. He paused and softened it. "We learned to give to others the same liberty of opinion as we claimed for ourselves. You claim the liberty to use wine. I do not interfere with your liberty. I claim the liberty to abstain. I expect, Mr. Carteret, the same courtesy in return."

Carteret's face flushed a dark red. He, the son of an English peer, to be taught a lesson in courtesy by the son of a Canadian farmer. Before he had time to frame an answer Mrs. Beauchamp interposed:

"Dr. Sinclair is perfectly right to claim liberty on this question. Our social usages are apt to become tyrannical. I like, every once in a while, to see some one independent enough to revolt against them."

"I am glad to hear you say so, Mrs. Beauchamp," said Commander Gardenier. "I was just beginning to wonder where I came in. I am an abstainer. It is not because I was trained to it from a boy, for I wasn't. Nor is it because of any pledge. It is because of my experience in the navy. I have seen so many of the most promising careers in the service come to nothing, and so many of my seniors go down and out through drink, that I felt it my duty to give it up. At our mess those who wish to drink even the Queen's health in water are free to do so."

"This discussion must stop right now," broke in the consul, "or, by Jove! every man at the table will be confessing himself a teetotaller, except De Vaux and myself. We shall not forsake the good old ways, shall we, De Vaux?"

"Bless my soul, no, Beauchamp! A little wine for thy stomach's sake," replied De Vaux amidst a burst of laughter, for this was one of the most evident weaknesses of this scion of a noble house. Already his high-pitched voice was noticeably thick.

Then the ladies retired to the drawing-room, leaving the men to their cigars, wine, and black coffee. Miss MacAllister knew that she had made Sinclair uncomfortable for a time. But she had also the consciousness that her little coup had not been so successful as she had intended. Sinclair had come out of the predicament she had contrived for him with rather the better of her. And, curious as it may seem, her feelings were a bit injured.

VII

SPARRING FOR ADVANTAGE

"I think we ought to have some music," said Mrs. Beauchamp, as the men rejoined the ladies in the drawing-room. "There is nothing which takes me back home like the old home songs. I believe that there is considerable talent in our company this evening. May we not have some songs?"

"Nothing in the world I like better! 'Pon my soul, there isn't," exclaimed De Vaux, who was talking very freely and was disposed to be gallant towards the ladies. He raised his voice, trembling perhaps with emotion, to a high pitch, and said: "Ladies and gentlemen, permit me to have the honour on your behalf of requesting our hostess to favour us with a song. Bless my soul! I'd rather hear her sing to the accompaniment of her guitar than Patti or Albani, or any other of their prima donnas. 'Pon my honour, I would! … Mrs. Beauchamp, will you not accede to our united request and give us the happiness of hearing you?"

He finished with a bow intended to be as profound as those of his Lord Chesterfield days. He seemed unconscious of the limitations imposed on him by the aldermanic proportions which had come to him since his slim and graceful youth.

Mrs. Beauchamp rose with a smile which had more of sadness than of mirth, glanced at her husband, and permitted De Vaux to conduct her to a seat near the piano and to bring her guitar. The consul sat down at the piano, ran his fingers over the keys, touching soft chords, to which the guitar was brought into tune. Then to the accompaniment of the two instruments Mrs. Beauchamp sang in a voice, not strong, but sweet and sympathetic, a tender old English love song.

"By——! … Bless my soul, I mean, it makes me homesick to hear those old songs!" exclaimed De Vaux, amidst the applause. His voice was high and trembling. There was a suspicious redness and moisture in his eyes. "I've been more than twenty years in this forgotten island. But when I hear Mrs. Beauchamp sing such a song as that I protest I want to take the first boat home. 'Pon my honour, I do!"

"Oh, no! You'll not go back to England just yet, De Vaux," said the consul. "We shouldn't know Formosa without you. But I'll tell you what you will do. You'll sing something for us yourself, will you not?"

"Yes, yes, De Vaux!" exclaimed several voices. "Do sing something. Sing 'Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep.'"

"That's De Vaux's Royal George," whispered McLeod to Sinclair. "He always sings that. But he won't sing it yet a while. He'll need a few more drinks first."

"'Pon my soul, it's awfully good of you to ask me! I do not profess to be a singer. Really! I do not. … But, since you have been so good as to ask me, I shall do my best, on one condition, that Mrs. Beauchamp will honour me by playing my accompaniment. … Mrs. Beauchamp, will you be so kind?" Another bow meant to be profound.

"Certainly, Mr. De Vaux, with pleasure."

In a voice which had once been a sweet tenor, but was now fat and breathless, he sang, "Silver Threads Among the Gold." He had to take a breath in the middle of every long note. As for the high ones, he just touched them. Then his breath failed him, leaving the audience to imagine the rest. But when he was rewarded with a round of applause he responded with an encore, "In the Gloaming." His head was becoming crimson with the effort. Perspiration streamed down his face and neck, in spite of the constant use of his handkerchief. His collar had melted and fallen limply against his coat. The starch of his shirt front had disappeared, leaving it but a crumpled rag.

Some of the guests were insisting on a third number, when the consul came to the rescue:

"This sort of thing mustn't go any further. If my wife and De Vaux continue singing such sentimental songs, they'll have us all homesick. We cannot afford to ship all the English residents of North Formosa by the Hailoong to-morrow. Just to change the current of your thoughts, I'll make a break and give you something different."

He took his place at the piano, and to his own accompaniment sang with great spirit, in a strong baritone voice, the old English song, "A Hunting We Will Go."

The applause was as enthusiastic as the spirit in which he had sung, and he was pressed for an encore. The consul replied with mock stage bows, but refused to sing again. He had done his part in chasing away the blue devils of homesickness. Now it was some other body's turn to perform. He knew Miss MacAllister could sing. Would she not continue the good work and give them something rousing?

Miss MacAllister did not wait to be urged, but responded at once. Her voice was a rich, strong soprano. With a verve and fire worthy of her choice, she sang Lady Nairn's stirring war-song, "The Hundred Pipers." To the insistent demand for another song she replied with "The March of the Cameron Men." With her stately figure at its full height, head thrown back, and eyes which seemed to look away beyond her tropic surroundings to the hills of old Scotland, she sang as if possessed by the spirit of generations of Highland ancestors.

Sinclair, from his place over by the mantel-piece, was looking at her with undisguised admiration.

"Isn't she magnificent? Yon's a prize for some man! … Sinclair, man, why don't you go in and win? If you don't try, I'll be ashamed of you, whatever."

It was McLeod. He was speaking in a low tone, only for his friend's ear. But he who had been the personification of coolness during the typhoon was now fairly quivering with excitement. The songs of his people had fired his blood.

"You needn't be ashamed of me, Mac. I'm going to try."

"Good for you! I'll back you to win."

"Don't stake too much on me, Mac. I'm new to this game. You might lose heavily. Carteret is ahead of me."

"That dirty snob!" exclaimed McLeod in a tone of disgust. "He wants her in just the same way as he wants every pretty woman he sees. And then her money would help to repair the Carteret fortunes. It's an insult to a good woman to mention him in relation to her."

"All the same she and her family are not supposed to know the things that you know against him, whatever they may be. He belongs to a titled family. That counts for a lot with most people who have risen from the ranks. Her mother is greatly taken with him."

"Yes, but the daughter is not."

"I'm not so sure about that."

"I'd stake my life on it. But look, Carteret is going to sing."

It was evident that Carteret had expected to sing, for he had just returned from the cloak-room with a roll of music in his hand. He placed it on the piano, and then turning to Miss MacAllister he conducted her to the instrument with almost an excess of courtesy. Yet his manners were easy and graceful. If at times he seemed to exceed the requirements of etiquette, his ultra politeness accorded well with his Gallic cast of countenance and the cut of beard which he affected.

His voice was a tenor, not very strong, but pure in tone and evidently well-trained. The first selection was "Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes." It was sung with feeling. The strength of his voice accorded well with the size of the drawing-room, and passion was thrown into the tender lines. As an encore he sang another love song, still more amorous in sentiment and manner.

"His musical talent is Carteret's hope of promotion if he remains in the customs," said Boville, who was one of a little group of guests near to where Sinclair stood. "He thinks that, if he could get the opportunity to sing before the I.G., he would be promoted to Pekin at once."

"Or better still, if he should succeed in marrying a handsome wife who is musical," said a merchant. "I am told that the I.G. is even more considerate of a subordinate with an accomplished wife than one who possesses the accomplishments himself."

"He has the voice already, and now he seems to be making a bold stroke for the gifted wife," interjected another.

"I shouldn't wish Miss MacAllister any ill," replied Boville. "But I do hope something will happen to take him off my hands. If the I.G. wants him, he will be most welcome to the fellow, so long as I am well quit of him."

Sinclair took no part in the conversation. But he heard every word. The careless references to Miss MacAllister hurt him in a way which surprised himself. The callousness of the suggestion that Carteret should get promotion by marrying her cut him to the quick. How could any one entertain such an idea?

Then he wondered at himself. What was Miss MacAllister to him? A passing stranger, who had taken it into her whimsical head to amuse herself at his expense. Already she had succeeded in making him feel most uncomfortable; indeed, for a time something of a laughing-stock. What need he care? She was nothing to him, and he was nothing to her but the subject of an evening's laughter. What a fool he had been to accept McLeod's challenge! He would have to straighten that out in the morning. Then they both would have shaken off the glamour of that face and figure, and those martial Highland songs which had so stirred their blood. They would be in their cool senses then. They had not been when the one had made and the other had accepted the challenge.

Meanwhile Miss MacAllister and Carteret were still at the piano. She was slowly turning over some music. He was bending low as if to see it, and perhaps to choose another song. All the while he was speaking to her in a soft voice, and she was making monosyllabic replies. She realized that his head was sinking lower and his face closer to hers. She felt his hot breath on her face and neck and shoulder. It was hot and heavy with wine.

She turned her head slightly but quickly towards him. She saw his eyes fixed greedily on the rich beauties of form only half concealed by her low evening dress. Her face flamed crimson, and she rose hastily from the piano, disregarding his appeal that she should play just one more selection.

As she passed from the instrument to a chair she heard the consul say:

"Sinclair, you're the most confoundedly comfortable-looking duffer I ever saw in a dress suit."

"That's because the tailor who made my suit put side pockets in the trousers," was the reply. "You would be just as comfortable if you had pockets to put your hands in. I have noticed you trying to get them into the seams half a dozen times this evening."

"You're right there. But it's not my fault. I laid it on that tailor in Hong-Kong as a parting injunction to put pockets in my trousers. And he promised. When the suit arrived they had none, and I was five hundred miles too far away to get my hands on him and wring the beast's neck."

"Fortunate for the beast!"

"Yes. But he'll get his punishment yet, that tailor will. He has a lot to answer for. I have sworn outwardly often, and inwardly more times than could be numbered, whenever I have had these clothes on. I envy you. You do look comfortable in that suit. It fits you as if you had been born in it, and with your hands in the trousers' pockets."

Miss MacAllister, looking at Sinclair from the seat she had taken near the French window, agreed with the consul's judgment. The big Canadian was in conventional evening dress, except for one slight concession made to the heat of the climate. Instead of the low-cut vest he wore a broad kamarband of black silk about his waist. The only trace of jewellery was the gold locket on the end of a black leather watch guard, which hung over the kamarband. There was a total absence of dressiness. But as the girl who had been for years familiar with London drawing-rooms looked at the strong, clean-cut features, the massive head with its fair hair contrasting with the black clothing, the lazy grace of the powerful frame leaning against the mantel-piece, she thought to herself that she had never seen a man who had on him more of the marks of being to the manner born. Yet he was the self-confessed son of a Canadian farmer, and reared on a Canadian farm. She found it hard to remain offended with this big, good-looking, good-tempered man.

Involuntarily she compared him again with Carteret, the son of a noble English family. The latter was now talking to Mrs. Beauchamp. She could see that his ordinarily somewhat pallid face was flushed and there was an expression in his eyes which was not pleasant to see. She thought again of that greedy look and of the hot breath, heavy with wine. She turned her eyes once more towards Sinclair. He was talking to the consul and smiling. The distinction between the two young men took shape in her mind. Sinclair was clean and his smile was frank and pure as that of a child.

She heard the consul saying to him:

"McLeod tells me that you sing."

"McLeod tells a lot of things he knows very little about. I shall have to lay an injunction upon him to hold his peace."

"That's all right for some other time. But for the present you do not deny the charge that you do sing."

"I'll plead guilty to disturbing my neighbours sometimes by singing college songs and such things. But I have none of them here and no music for the accompanist."

"Just what we want; something lively. If there's a chorus, we'll all join in. Give me an idea how it goes and I can chord for you."

Beauchamp ran his fingers over the keys while Sinclair hummed or lilted the tune. Soon the proper chord was struck. Sinclair repeated the words of the chorus till all got them. Then he sang a rollicking college song. When he reached the chorus all joined in, and for the first time the walls of the old Dutch fort and the listening palms and oleanders and magnolias heard the jolly abandon of "The Old Ontario Strand."

When the chorus was reached the second time, Sinclair relinquished the leadership of the air to Miss MacAllister. She took it as if by prearrangement, while he dropped into his rightful place and supplied the undertone of a bass powerful enough to balance the voices of all the rest of the company.

When it was finished there was an outbreak of applause and even cheers, which showed that all reserve had disappeared and the company were prepared to give themselves up with childish delight to singing. Another college song was sung with the same spirit as the first, and Sinclair was pressed to lead still another.

"I will," he said at last, "if you will allow me to choose one as characteristic of our French Canadian people as those we were favoured with by Miss MacAllister are of the Highland Scotch."

In response to the general consent he sang some verses of—

"En roulant ma boule roulant,

En roulant ma boule,"

and a number of the company joined in the simple refrain. The song which had so often echoed on lake and stream, by the evening campfire, where the paddle dipped, or in the frosty stillness of the snow-laden forests of the north rang out through the scented darkness of the warm tropic night.

A number of other songs were rendered by different members of the party. Then Sinclair was called for again.

"I am afraid that my repertoire has come very near the point of being exhausted," he said. "I have only those songs the words of which I can remember, and the selection is not very choice."

This time it was a plaintive negro melody of the Sunny South. Again Miss MacAllister found herself singing heartily with the rest in the refrain, and after the first verse leading the chorus while Sinclair sang bass. When the song was done she suddenly said to herself:

"What a silly I am making of myself! I came in here determined to get even with that doctor. And here I am singing with him and for him like a sissy in a Sunday-school concert. He can do his own singing from now on. I'll pay him back yet."

The rest were urging Sinclair to sing again, when Miss MacAllister said:

"Dr. Sinclair has shown wonderful versatility in his choice of songs this evening. English, French, negro, he sings them all with equal facility. I wonder if he would not favour us with a Canadian Indian song. I have never heard any of their music. I should so love to have the opportunity. Will you not sing us one, Dr. Sinclair?"

Her face wore an expression of childlike innocence and interest. But McLeod thought he saw a mischievous gleam in her eyes. Mr. MacAllister looked at his daughter with a puzzled face and shook his head a little. The consul eyed her doubtfully, as though trying to fathom the purpose behind this request. He saw nothing but the appearance of almost infantile guilelessness. Then he heard Sinclair saying:

"Certainly, Miss MacAllister. I am happy to do anything in my power to serve you. Only it is a little hard on Mr. Beauchamp to ask him even to chord to a type of music he may never have heard before."

"Thank you so much, Dr. Sinclair. I am all anxiety to hear you."

Then she added:

"I am sure Mr. Beauchamp will be able to accompany you. He is a man of infinite resource in music." For she was afraid that Sinclair's concern about placing the consul in a difficult position was only an attempt to provide a loop-hole for his own escape.

A buzz of conversation broke out in the room while Sinclair bent over the instrument, softly humming a slow, stately measure, and the consul's fingers felt for the harmonious chords. Soon the voice and the chords were moving together in harmony.

"That may be an Indian tune," said Beauchamp, "but it sounds remarkably like certain bars from an old sixteenth-century mass I had to practise when a boy until my fingers were nearly worn out."

"Perhaps the Indians learned it from the early Roman Catholic missionaries," was the quick reply. "In any case, I fancy it is the sound of the language Miss MacAllister wishes to hear rather than the music."

"If you like, I shall play the tune for you. I remember it perfectly."

"Thank you, I prefer the chords."

Sinclair straightened himself, and the buzz of conversation instantly ceased. Then his voice rolled forth to the slow, solemn air, words as melodious as the notes of the music. At their first sound the consul's head ducked below the level of the piano, which hid him from most in the room. Sinclair gave him a vicious dig in the ribs, but sang on without the quiver of an eyelid. The full vowel sounds of the unknown language brought out to perfection the tones of his rich bass voice.

His eyes glanced around the room. All were listening intently, and all, save Commander Gardenier, had their eyes on him. He thought that he could detect a grim smile on the naval officer's averted face. Miss MacAllister had a keen look—was it a suspicious look?—in her eyes.

Under cover of the applause which followed the consul turned on him:

"You have the nerve to pass a chorus from a Greek tragedy on a company like this for a Red Indian war-song."

"I plead guilty," replied Sinclair. "But I had to do something or be again held up to ridicule as I was at dinner. I thought that you were the only one likely to recognize it and I knew that you would not betray me."

"I acknowledge that you had to do something. For some reason Miss MacAllister seems bound to make game of you. She deserves what you have given her, and I'll not give you away. But it was nervy just the same." And the consul laughed indulgently as he turned away.

Miss MacAllister did not join in the general applause. But when it was done she said gravely:

"Thank you, Dr. Sinclair, for gratifying my whim to hear a song in the Indian language. I had no idea that it would be so beautiful. Thank you very much."

Sinclair's face flushed as he replied:

"I am only too glad to have been able to do anything which has pleased you." At the same moment he felt a pang of remorse for the deception.

He had not long to think of it when he heard Mrs. MacAllister saying to Commander Gardenier:

"What a barbarous jargon to be called a language!"

"Yes," replied the officer drily, "but I have heard a good many others more barbarous."

Then Thomson, the missionary, remarked in his slow way:

"It—some—way—seems—to—me—that—I—have—heard—some—thing—like—that—before."

Sinclair had to act quickly:

"You were a missionary once among the Indians of Bruce Peninsula, were you not?"

"Yes—I—was."

"You probably heard it there."

"Well—perhaps—I—did."

Some of the guests rose to depart, and their hostess rose with them. Before they had time to begin to say farewell, Carteret said loudly enough to be heard by all in the room:

"Mrs. Beauchamp, before we go, may we not hear Mr. De Vaux sing again? I know that we should all be delighted to hear him."

"I am afraid that we are imposing on Mr. De Vaux," replied the hostess, who realized the condition De Vaux ordinarily reached by that hour after a dinner. "I think that he is tired. He has done his part so well this evening that it seems unfair to ask him for any more."

"I am sure, Mrs. Beauchamp, that Mr. De Vaux will not feel it a hardship to sing again. He is our foremost vocalist in Formosa. We want him to uphold the honour of the local talent. Mr. De Vaux, will you not sing for us 'Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep'?"

"Lord! … Mr. Carteret—ladies and gentlemen—how good of you to ask me! … By——! … Bless my soul, I mean! … It is good of you. … I'm afraid. … I'm not in very good voice. But since you insist—I'll try. … By——! … I mean 'pon my honour, I shall!"

"Shall I play your accompaniment, De Vaux?" said the consul, in response to an appealing look from his wife.

"How good of you, Beauchamp! … By——! … 'Pon my soul, I mean—it is!"

Purple-faced, perspiring, steadying himself by the piano, The Honourable Lionel Percival Dudley De Vaux sang, in a series of high-toned asthmatic gasps, "Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep."

Then the guests said their farewells and, preceded by natives carrying lanterns, they began to move off into the warm aromatic darkness of the southern night.