“You speak sense,” said he. “You are a brave, strong man, who knows your own mind. Yes, by the Lord! you would have been my great help had things gone the other way. I have often thought and wondered in the dark, early hours of the morning, but I did not know how to do it. But we should have heard Ainslie’s shots before now, I will go and see.”
Again the old scientist sat alone with his thoughts. Finally, as neither the guns of the relieving force nor yet the signal of their approach sounded upon his ears, he rose, and was about to go himself upon the ramparts to make inquiry when the door flew open, and Colonel Dresler staggered into the room. His face was of a ghastly yellow-white, and his chest heaved like that of a man exhausted with running. There was brandy on the side table, and he gulped down a glassful. Then he dropped heavily into a chair.
“Well,” said the Professor, coldly, “they are not coming?”
“No, they cannot come.”
There was silence for a minute or more, the two men staring blankly at each other.
“Do they all know?”
“No one knows but me.”
“How did you learn?”
“I was at the wall near the postern gate—the little wooden gate that opens on the rose garden. I saw something crawling among the bushes. There was a knocking at the door. I opened it. It was a Christian Tartar, badly cut about with swords. He had come from the battle. Commodore Wyndham, the Englishman, had sent him. The relieving force had been checked. They had shot away most of their ammunition. They had entrenched themselves and sent back to the ships for more. Three days must pass before they could come. That was all. Mein Gott! it was enough.”
The Professor bent his shaggy gray brows.
“Where is the man?” he asked.
“He is dead. He died of loss of blood. His body lies at the postern gate.”
“And no one saw him?”
“Not to speak to.”
“Oh! they did see him, then?”
“Ainslie must have seen him from the church tower. He must know that I have had tidings. He will want to know what they are. If I tell him they must all know.”
“How long can we hold out?”
“An hour or two at the most.”
“Is that absolutely certain?”
“I pledge my credit as a soldier upon it.”
“Then we must fall?”
“Yes, we must fall.”
“There is no hope for us?”
“None.”
The door flew open and young Ainslie rushed in. Behind him crowded Ralston, Patterson, and a crowd of white men and of native Christians.
“You’ve had news, Colonel?”
Professor Mercer pushed to the front.
“Colonel Dresler has just been telling me. It is all right. They have halted, but will be here in the early morning. There is no longer any danger.”
A cheer broke from the group in the doorway. Everyone was laughing and shaking hands.
“But suppose they rush us before tomorrow morning?” cried Ralston, in a petulant voice. “What infernal fools these fellows are not to push on! Lazy devils, they should be court-martialed, every man of them.”
“It’s all safe,” said Ainslie. “These fellows have had a bad knock. We can see their wounded being carried by the hundred over the hill. They must have lost heavily. They won’t attack before morning.”
“No, no,” said the Colonel; “it is certain that they won’t attack before morning. None the less, get back to your posts. We must give no point away.” He left the room with the rest, but as he did so he looked back, and his eyes for an instant met those of the old Professor. “I leave it in your hands,” was the message which he flashed. A stern set smile was his answer.
The afternoon wore way without the Boxers making their last attack. To Colonel Dresler it was clear that the unwonted stillness meant only that they were reassembling their forces from their fight with the relief column, and were gathering themselves for the inevitable and final rush. To all the others it appeared that the siege was indeed over, and that the assailants had been crippled by the losses which they had already sustained. It was a joyous and noisy party, therefore, which met at the supper table, when the three bottles of Lachryma Christi were uncorked and the famous pot of caviare was finally opened. It was a large jar, and though each had a tablespoonful of the delicacy, it was by no means exhausted. Ralston, who was an epicure, had a double allowance. He pecked away at it like a hungry bird. Ainslie, too, had a second helping. The Professor took a large spoonful himself, and Colonel Dresler, watching him narrowly, did the same. The ladies ate freely, save only pretty Miss Patterson, who disliked the salty, pungent taste. In spite of the hospitable entreaties of the Professor, her portion lay hardly touched at the side of her plate.
“You don’t like my little delicacy. It is a disappointment to me when I had kept it for your pleasure,” said the old man. “I beg that you will eat the caviare.”
“I have never tasted it before. No doubt I should like it in time.”
“Well, you must make a beginning. Why not start to educate your taste now? Do, please!”
Pretty Jessie Patterson’s bright face shone with her sunny, boyish smile.
“Why, how earnest you are!” she laughed. “I had no idea you were so polite, Professor Mercer. Even if I do not eat it I am just as grateful.”
“You are foolish not to eat it,” said the Professor, with such intensity that the smile died from her face and her eyes reflected the earnestness of his own. “I tell you it is foolish not to eat caviare tonight.”
“But why—why?” she asked.
“Because you have it on your plate. Because it is sinful to waste it.”
“There! there!” said stout Mrs. Patterson, leaning across. “Don’t trouble her any more. I can see that she does not like it. But it shall not be wasted.” She passed the blade of her knife under it, and scraped it from Jessie’s plate on to her own. “Now it won’t be wasted. Your mind will be at ease, Professor.”
But it did not seem at ease. On the contrary, his face was agitated like that of a man who encounters an unexpected and formidable obstacle. He was lost in thought.
The conversation buzzed cheerily. Everyone was full of his future plans.
“No, no, there is no holiday for me,” said Father Pierre. “We priests don’t get holidays. Now that the mission and school are formed I am to leave it to Father Amiel, and to push westward to found another.”
“You are leaving?” said Mr. Patterson. “You don’t mean that you are going away from Ichau?”
Father Pierre shook his venerable head in waggish reproof. “You must not look so pleased, Mr. Patterson.”
“Well, well, our views are very different,” said the Presbyterian, “but there is no personal feeling towards you, Father Pierre. At the same time, how any reasonable educated man at this time of the world’s history can teach these poor benighted heathen that—”
A general buzz of remonstrance silenced the theology.
“What will you do yourself, Mr. Patterson?” asked someone.
“Well, I’ll take three months in Edinburgh to attend the annual meeting. You’ll be glad to do some shopping in Princes Street, I’m thinking, Mary. And you, Jessie, you’ll see some folk your own age. Then we can come back in the fall, when your nerves have had a rest.”
“Indeed, we shall all need it,” said Miss Sinclair, the mission nurse. “You know, this long strain takes me in the strangest way. At the present moment, I can hear such a buzzing in my ears.”
“Well, that’s funny, for it’s just the same with me,” cried Ainslie. “An absurd up-and-down buzzing, as if a drunken bluebottle were trying experiments on his register. As you say, it must be due to nervous strain. For my part I am going back to Peking, and I hope I may get some promotion over this affair. I can get good polo here, and that’s as fine a change of thought as I know. How about you, Ralston?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve hardly
had time to think. I want to have a real good sunny, bright holiday and forget it all. It was funny to see all the letters in my room. It looked so black on Wednesday night that I had settled up my affairs and written to all my friends. I don’t quite know how they were to be delivered, but I trusted to luck. I think I will keep those papers as a souvenir. They will always remind me of how close a shave we have had.”
“Yes, I would keep them,” said Dresler.
His voice was so deep and solemn that every eye was turned upon him.
“What is it, Colonel? You seem in the blues tonight.” It was Ainslie who spoke.
“No, no; I am very contented.”
“Well, so you should be when you see success in sight. I am sure we are all indebted to you for your science and skill. I don’t think we could have held the place without you. Ladies and gentlemen, I ask you to drink the health of Colonel Dresler, of the Imperial German army. Er soll leben—hoch!”
They all stood up and raised their glasses to the soldier, with smiles and bows.
His pale face flushed with professional pride.
“I have always kept my books with me. I have forgotten nothing,” said he. “I do not think that more could be done. If things had gone wrong with us and the place had fallen you would, I am sure, have freed me from any blame or responsibility.” He looked wistfully round him.
“I’m voicing the sentiments of this company, Colonel Dresler,” said the Scotch minister, “when I say—but, Lord save us! what’s amiss with Mr. Ralston?”
He had dropped his face upon his folded arms and was placidly sleeping.
“Don’t mind him,” said the Professor, hurriedly. “We are all in the stage of reaction now. I have no doubt that we are all liable to collapse. It is only tonight that we shall feel what we have gone through.”
“I’m sure I can fully sympathize with him,” said Mrs. Patterson. “I don’t know when I have been more sleepy. I can hardly hold my own head up.” She cuddled back in her chair and shut her eyes.
“Well, I’ve never known Mary do that before,” cried her husband, laughing heartily. “Gone to sleep over her supper! What ever will she think when we tell her of it afterward? But the air does seem hot and heavy. I can certainly excuse anyone who falls asleep tonight. I think that I shall turn in early myself.”
Ainslie was in a talkative, excited mood. He was on his feet once more with his glass in his hand.
“I think that we ought to have one drink all together, and then sing ‘Auld Lang Syne,’” said he, smiling round at the company. “For a week we have all pulled in the same boat, and we’ve got to know each other as people never do in the quiet days of peace. We’ve learned to appreciate each other and we’ve learned to appreciate each other’s nations. There’s the Colonel here stands for Germany. And Father Pierre is for France. Then there’s the Professor for America. Ralston and I are Britishers. Then there’s the ladies, God bless ’em! They have been angels of mercy and compassion all through the siege. I think we should drink to the health of the ladies. Wonderful thing—the quiet courage, the patience, the—what shall I say—the fortitude, the—the—by George, look at the Colonel! He’s gone to sleep, too—most infernal sleepy weather.” His glass crashed down upon the table, and he sank back, mumbling and muttering, into his seat. Miss Sinclair, the pale mission nurse, had dropped off also. She lay like a broken lily across the arm of her chair. Mr. Patterson looked round him and sprang to his feet. He passed his hand over his flushed forehead.
“This isn’t natural, Jessie,” he cried. “Why are they all asleep? There’s Father Pierre—he’s off too. Jessie, Jessie, your mother is cold. Is it sleep? Is it death? Open the windows! Help! help! help!” He staggered to his feet and rushed to the windows, but midway his head spun round, his knees sank under him, and he pitched forward upon his face.
The young girl had also sprung to her feet. She looked round her with horror-stricken eyes at her prostrate father and the silent ring of figures.
“Professor Mercer! What is it? What is it?” she cried. “Oh, my God, they are dying! They are dead!”
The old man had raised himself by a supreme effort of his will, though the darkness was already gathering thickly round him.
“My dear young lady,” he said, stuttering and stumbling over the words, “we would have spared you this. It would have been painless to mind and body. It was cyanide. I had it in the caviare. But you would not have it.”
“Great Heaven!” She shrank away from him with dilated eyes. “Oh, you monster! You monster! You have poisoned them!”
“No, no! I saved them. You don’t know the Chinese. They are horrible. In another hour we should all have been in their hands. Take it now, child.” Even as he spoke, a burst of firing broke out under the very windows of the room. “Hark! There they are! Quick, dear, quick, you may cheat them yet!” But his words fell upon deaf ears, for the girl had sunk back senseless in her chair. The old man stood listening for an instant to the firing outside. But what was that? Merciful Father, what was that? Was he going mad? Was it the effect of the drug? Surely it was a European cheer? Yes, there were sharp orders in English. There was the shouting of sailors. He could no longer doubt it. By some miracle the relief had come after all. He threw his long arms upward in his despair. “What have I done? Oh, good Lord, what have I done?” he cried.
It was Commodore Wyndham himself who was the first, after his desperate and successful night attack, to burst into that terrible supper room. Round the table sat the white and silent company. Only in the young girl who moaned and faintly stirred was any sign of life to be seen. And yet there was one in the circle who had the energy for a last supreme duty. The Commodore, standing stupefied at the door, saw a gray head slowly lifted from the table, and the tall form of the Professor staggered for an instant to its feet.
“Take care of the caviare! For God’s sake, don’t touch the caviare!” he croaked.
Then he sank back once more and the circle of death was complete.
THE JAPANNED BOX
It was a curious thing, said the private tutor; one of those grotesque and whimsical incidents which occur to one as one goes through life. I lost the best situation which I am ever likely to have through it. But I am glad that I went to Thorpe Place, for I gained—well, as I tell you the story you will learn what I gained.
I don’t know whether you are familiar with that part of the Midlands which is drained by the Avon. It is the most English part of England. Shakespeare, the flower of the whole race, was born right in the middle of it. It is a land of rolling pastures, rising in higher folds to the westward, until they swell into the Malvern Hills. There are no towns, but numerous villages, each with its gray Norman church. You have left the brick of the southern and eastern counties behind you, and everything is stone—stone for the walls, and lichened slabs of stone for the roofs. It is all grim and solid and massive, as befits the heart of a great nation.
It was in the middle of this country, not very far from Evesham, that Sir John Bollamore lived in the old ancestral home of Thorpe Place, and thither it was that I came to teach his two little sons. Sir John was a widower—his wife had died three years before—and he had been left with these two lads aged eight and ten, and one dear little girl of seven. Miss Witherton, who is now my wife, was governess to this little girl. I was tutor to the two boys. Could there be a more obvious prelude to an engagement? She governs me now, and I tutor two little boys of our own. But, there—I have already revealed what it was which I gained in Thorpe Place!
It was a very, very old house, incredibly old—pre-Norman, some of it—and the Bollamores claimed to have lived in that situation since long before the Conquest. It struck a chill to my heart when first I came there, those enormously thick gray walls, the rude crumbling stones, the smell as from a sick animal which exhaled from the rotting plaster of the aged building. But the modern wing was bright and the garden was well kept. No house could be dismal which had a pretty girl inside it
and such a show of roses in front.
Apart from a very complete staff of servants there were only four of us in the household. These were Miss Witherton, who was at that time four-and-twenty and as pretty—well, as pretty as Mrs. Colmore is now—myself, Frank Colmore, aged thirty, Mrs. Stevens, the housekeeper, a dry, silent woman, and Mr. Richards, a tall, military-looking man, who acted as steward to the Bollamore estates. We four always had our meals together, but Sir John had his usually alone in the library. Sometimes he joined us at dinner, but on the whole we were just as glad when he did not.
For he was a very formidable person. Imagine a man six foot three inches in height, majestically built, with a high-nosed, aristocratic face, brindled hair, shaggy eyebrows, a small, pointed Mephistophelian beard, and lines upon his brow and round his eyes as deep as if they had been carved with a penknife. He had gray eyes, weary, hopeless-looking eyes, proud and yet pathetic, eyes which claimed your pity and yet dared you to show it. His back was rounded with study, but otherwise he was as fine a looking man of his age—five-and-fifty perhaps—as any woman would wish to look upon.
But his presence was not a cheerful one. He was always courteous, always refined, but singularly silent and retiring. I have never lived so long with any man and known so little of him. If he were indoors he spent his time either in his own small study in the Eastern Tower, or in the library in the modern wing. So regular was his routine that one could always say at any hour exactly where he would be. Twice in the day he would visit his study, once after breakfast, and once about ten at night. You might set your watch by the slam of the heavy door. For the rest of the day he would be in his library—save that for an hour or two in the afternoon he would take a walk or a ride, which was solitary like the rest of his existence. He loved his children, and was keenly interested in the progress of their studies, but they were a little awed by the silent, shaggy-browed figure, and they avoided him as much as they could. Indeed, we all did that.
It was some time before I came to know anything about the circumstances of Sir John Bollamore’s life, for Mrs. Stevens, the housekeeper, and Mr. Richards, the land steward, were too loyal to talk easily of their employer’s affairs. As to the governess, she knew no more than I did, and our common interest was one of the causes which drew us together. At last, however, an incident occurred which led to a closer acquaintance with Mr. Richards and a fuller knowledge of the life of the man whom I served.
Round the Fire Stories Page 7
