The Call of the East. Thurlow Fraser

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