Round the Fire Stories. Артур Конан Дойл
speak sense,” said he. “You are a brave, strong man, who know 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 grey 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 to-morrow morning?” cried Ralston, in a petulant voice. “What infernal fools these fellows are not to push on! Lazy devils, they should be court-martialled, 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 away 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 port 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 to-night.”
“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 westwards 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,