Delphi collected works o.., p.500
Delphi Collected Works of Grant Allen, page 500
Effie said nothing to us, and we said nothing to Effie, except to show her Chung’s note next morning in a casual, off-hand fashion. Two days later a note came for us from the Embassy in Chung’s pretty incisive handwriting. It contained copious excuses for his hasty departure, and a few lines to say that he was ordered back to China by the next mail, which started two days later. Marian and I talked it all over, but we could think of nothing that could be of any use; and after all, we said to one another, poor Chung might be mistaken about the probable fate that was in store for him.
“I don’t think,” Effie said, when we showed her the letter, “I ever met such a nice man as Mr. Chung. I believe he is really a hero.” We pretended not to understand what she could mean by it.
The days went by, and we went back again to the dull round of London society. We heard nothing more of Chung for many weeks; till at last one morning I found a letter on the table bearing the Hong Kong postmark. I opened it hastily. As I supposed, it was a note from Chung. It was written in a very small hand on a tiny square of rice-paper, and it ran as follows: —
“Thien-Shan Prison, Pekin, Dec. 8.
“My dear Friend,
“Immediately on my return here I was arrested on a charge of witchcraft, and of complicity with the Foreign Devils to introduce the Western barbarism into China. I have now been in a loathsome prison in Pekin for three weeks, in the midst of sights and sounds which I dare not describe to you. Already I have suffered more than I can tell; and I have very little doubt that I shall be brought to trial and executed within a few weeks. I write now begging you not to let Miss Effie hear of this, and if my name happens to be mentioned in the English papers, to keep my fate a secret from her as far as possible. I trust to chance for the opportunity of getting this letter forwarded to Hong Kong, and I have had to write it secretly, for I am not allowed pen, ink, or paper. Thank you much for your very great kindness to me. I am not sorry to die, for it is a mistake for a man to have lived outside the life of his own people, and there was no place left for me on earth. Good-bye.
“Ever yours gratefully,
“Chung.”
The letter almost drove me wild with ineffectual remorse and regret. Why had I not tried to persuade Chung to remain in England? Why had I not managed to smuggle him out of the way, and to find him some kind of light employment, such as even a Chinaman might easily have performed? But it was no use regretting now. The impassable gulf was fixed between us; and it was hardly possible even then to realize that this amiable young student, versed in all the science and philosophy of the nineteenth century, had been handed over alive to the tender mercies of a worse than mediæval barbarism and superstition. My heart sank within me, and I did not venture to show the letter even to Marian.
For some weeks the days passed heavily indeed. I could not get Chung out of my mind, and I saw that Effie could not either. We never mentioned his name; but I noticed that Effie had got from Mudie’s all the books about China that she could hear of, and that she was reading up with a sort of awful interest all the chapters that related to Chinese law and Chinese criminal punishments. Poor child, the subject evidently enthralled her with a terrible fascination; and I feared that the excitement she was in might bring on a brain fever.
One morning, early in April, we were all seated in the little breakfast-room about ten o’clock, and Effie had taken up the outside sheet of the Times, while I was engaged in looking over the telegrams on the central pages. Suddenly she gave a cry of horror, flung down the paper with a gesture of awful repugnance, and fell from her chair as stiff and white as a corpse. I knew instinctively what had happened, and I took her up in my arms and carried her to her room. After the doctor had come, and Effie had recovered a little from the first shock, I took up the paper from the ground where it lay and read the curt little paragraph which contained the news that seemed to us so terrible: —
“The numerous persons who made the acquaintance of Chung Fo Tsiou, late assistant interpreter to the Chinese Embassy in London, will learn with regret that this unfortunate member of the Civil Service has been accused of witchcraft and executed at Pekin by the frightful Chinese method known as the Heavy Death. Chung Fo Tsiou was well known in London and Paris, where he spent many years of his official life, and attracted some attention by his natural inclination to European society and manners.”
Poor Chung! His end was too horrible for an English reader even to hear of it. But Effie knew it all, and I did not wonder that the news should have affected her so deeply.
Effie was some weeks ill, and at first we almost feared her mind would give way under the pressure. Not that she had more than merely liked poor Chung, but the sense of horror was too great for her easily to cast it off. Even I myself did not sleep lightly for many and many a day after I heard the terrible truth. But while Effie was still ill, a second letter reached us, written this time in blood with a piece of stick, apparently on a scrap of coarse English paper, such as that which is used for wrapping up tobacco. It was no more than this: —
“Execution to-day. Keep it from Miss Effie. Cannot forgive myself for having spoken to her. Will you forgive me? It was the weakness of a moment: but even Chinamen have hearts. I could not die without telling her. — Chung.”
I showed Effie the scrap afterwards — it had come without a line of explanation from Shanghao — and she has kept it ever since locked up in her little desk as a sacred memento. I don’t doubt that some of these days Effie will marry; but as long as she lives she will bear the impress of what she has suffered about poor Chung. An English girl could not conceivably marry a Chinaman; but now that Chung is dead, Effie cannot help admiring the steadfastness, the bravery, and the noble qualities of her Chinese lover. It is an awful state of things which sometimes brings the nineteenth century and primitive barbarism into such close and horrible juxtaposition.
THE CURATE OF CHURNSIDE.
Walter Dene, deacon, in his faultless Oxford clerical coat and broad felt hat, strolled along slowly, sunning himself as he went, after his wont, down the pretty central lane of West Churnside. It was just the idyllic village best suited to the taste of such an idyllic young curate as Walter Dene. There were cottages with low-thatched roofs, thickly overgrown with yellow stonecrop and pink house-leek; there were trellis-work porches up which the scented dog-rose and the fainter honeysuckle clambered together in sisterly rivalry; there were pargeted gable-ends of Elizabethan farmhouses, quaintly varied with black oak joists and moulded plaster panels. At the end of all, between an avenue of ancient elm trees, the heavy square tower of the old church closed in the little vista — a church with a round Norman doorway and dog-tooth arches, melting into Early English lancets in the aisle, and finishing up with a great Decorated east window by the broken cross and yew tree. Not a trace of Perpendicularity about it anywhere, thank goodness: “for if it were Perpendicular,” said Walter Dene to himself often, “I really think, in spite of my uncle, I should have to look out for another curacy.”
Yes, it was a charming village, and a charming country; but, above all, it was rendered habitable and pleasurable for a man of taste by the informing presence of Christina Eliot. “I don’t think I shall propose to Christina this week after all,” thought Walter Dene as he strolled along lazily. “The most delightful part of love-making is certainly its first beginning. The little tremor of hope and expectation; the half-needless doubt you feel as to whether she really loves you; the pains you take to pierce the thin veil of maidenly reserve; the triumph of detecting her at a blush or a flutter when she sees you coming — all these are delicate little morsels to be rolled daintily on the critical palate, and not to be swallowed down coarsely at one vulgar gulp. Poor child, she is on tenter-hooks of hesitation and expectancy all the time, I know; for I’m sure she loves me now, I’m sure she loves me; but I must wait a week yet: she will be grateful to me for it hereafter. We mustn’t kill the goose that lays the golden eggs; we mustn’t eat up all our capital at one extravagant feast, and then lament the want of our interest ever afterward. Let us live another week in our first fool’s paradise before we enter on the safer but less tremulous pleasures of sure possession. We can enjoy first love but once in a lifetime; let us enjoy it now while we can, and not fling away the chance prematurely by mere childish haste and girlish precipitancy.” Thinking which thing, Walter Dene halted a moment by the churchyard wall, picked a long spray of scented wild thyme from a mossy cranny, and gazed into the blue sky above at the graceful swifts who nested in the old tower, as they curved and circled through the yielding air on their evenly poised and powerful pinions.
Just at that moment old Mary Long came out of her cottage to speak with the young parson. “If ye plaze, Maister Dene,” she said in her native west-country dialect, “our Nully would like to zee ‘ee. She’s main ill to-day, zur, and she be like to die a’most, I’m thinking.”
“Poor child, poor child,” said Walter Dene tenderly. “She’s a dear little thing, Mrs. Long, is your Nellie, and I hope she may yet be spared to you. I’ll come and see her at once, and try if I can do anything to ease her.”
He crossed the road compassionately with the tottering old grandmother, giving her his helping hand over the kerbstone, and following her with bated breath into the close little sick-room. Then he flung open the tiny casement with its diamond-leaded panes, so as to let in the fresh summer air, and picked a few sprigs of sweet-briar from the porch, which he joined with the geranium from his own button-hole to make a tiny nosegay for the bare bedside. After that, he sat and talked awhile gently in an undertone to pale, pretty little Nellie herself, and went away at last promising to send her some jelly and some soup immediately from the vicarage kitchen.
“She’s a sweet little child,” he said to himself musingly, “though I’m afraid she’s not long for this world now; and the poor like these small attentions dearly. They get them seldom, and value them for the sake of the thoughtfulness they imply, rather than for the sake of the mere things themselves. I can order a bottle of calf’s-foot at the grocer’s, and Carter can set it in a mould without any trouble; while as for the soup, some tinned mock-turtle and a little fresh stock makes a really capital mixture for this sort of thing. It costs so little to give these poor souls pleasure, and it is a great luxury to oneself undeniably. But, after all, what a funny trade it is to set an educated man to do! They send us up to Oxford or Cambridge, give us a distinct taste for Æschylus and Catullus, Dante and Milton, Mendelssohn and Chopin, good claret and olives farcies, and then bring us down to a country village, to look after the bodily and spiritual ailments of rheumatic old washerwomen! If it were not for poetry, flowers, and Christina, I really think I should succumb entirely under the infliction.”
“He’s a dear, good man, that he is, is young passon,” murmured old Miry Long as Walter disappeared between the elm trees; “and he do love the poor and the zick, the same as if he was their own brother. God bless his zoul, the dear, good vulla, vor all his kindness to our Nully.”
Halfway down the main lane Walter came across Christina Eliot. As she saw him she smiled and coloured a little, and held out her small gloved hand prettily. Walter took it with a certain courtly and graceful chivalry. “An exquisite day, Miss Eliot,” he said; “such a depth of sapphire in the sky, such a faint undertone of green on the clouds by the horizon, such a lovely humming of bees over the flickering hot meadows! On days like this, one feels that Schopenhauer is wrong after all, and that life is sometimes really worth living.”
“It seems to me often worth living,” Christina answered; “if not for oneself, at least for others. But you pretend to be more of a pessimist than you really are, I fancy, Mr. Dene. Any one who finds so much beauty in the world as you do can hardly think life poor or meagre. You seem to catch the loveliest points in everything you look at, and to throw a little literary or artistic reflection over them which makes them even lovelier than they are in themselves.”
“Well, no doubt one can increase one’s possibilities of enjoyment by carefully cultivating one’s own faculties of admiration and appreciation,” said the curate thoughtfully; “but, after all, life has only a few chapters that are thoroughly interesting and enthralling in all its history. We oughtn’t to hurry over them too lightly, Miss Eliot; we ought to linger on them lovingly, and make the most of their potentialities; we ought to dwell upon them like “linked sweetness long drawn out.” It is the mistake of the world at large to hurry too rapidly over the pleasantest episodes, just as children pick all the plums at once out of the pudding. I often think that, from the purely selfish and temporal point of view, the real value of a life to its subject may be measured by the space of time over which he has managed to spread the enjoyment of its greatest pleasures. Look, for example, at poetry, now.”
A faint shade of disappointment passed across Christina’s face as he turned from what seemed another groove into that indifferent subject; but she answered at once, “Yes, of course one feels that with the higher pleasures at least; but there are others in which the interest of plot is greater, and then one looks naturally rather to the end. When you begin a good novel, you can’t help hurrying through it in order to find out what becomes of everybody at last.”
“Ah, but the highest artistic interest goes beyond mere plot interest. I like rather to read for the pleasure of reading, and to loiter over the passages that please me, quite irrespective of what goes before or what comes after; just as you, for your part, like to sketch a beautiful scene for its own worth to you, irrespective of what may happen to the leaves in autumn, or to the cottage roof in twenty years from this. By the way, have you finished that little water-colour of the mill yet? It’s the prettiest thing of yours I’ve ever seen, and I want to look how you’ve managed the light on your foreground.”
“Come in and see it,” said Christina. “It’s finished now, and, to tell you the truth, I’m very well pleased with it myself.”
“Then I know it must be good,” the curate answered; “for you are always your own harshest critic.” And he turned in at the little gate with her, and entered the village doctor’s tiny drawing-room.
Christina placed the sketch on an easel near the window — a low window opening to the ground, with long lithe festoons of faint-scented jasmine encroaching on it from outside — and let the light fall on it aslant in the right direction. It was a pretty and a clever sketch certainly, with more than a mere amateur’s sense of form and colour; and Walter Dene, who had a true eye for pictures, could conscientiously praise it for its artistic depth and fulness. Indeed, on that head at least, Walter Dene’s veracity was unimpeachable, however lax in other matters; nothing on earth would have induced him to praise as good a picture or a sculpture in which he saw no real merit. He sat a little while criticizing and discussing it, suggesting an improvement here or an alteration there, and then he rose hurriedly, remembering all at once his forgotten promise to little Nellie. “Dear me,” he said, “your daughter’s picture has almost made me overlook my proper duties, Mrs. Eliot. I promised to send some jelly and things at once to poor little Nellie Long at her grandmother’s. How very wrong of me to let my natural inclinations keep me loitering here, when I ought to have been thinking of the poor of my parish!” And he went out with just a gentle pressure on Christina’s hand, and a look from his eyes that her heart knew how to read aright at the first glance of it.
“Do you know, Christie,” said her father, “I sometimes fancy when I hear that new parson fellow talk about his artistic feelings, and so on, that he’s just a trifle selfish, or at least self-centred. He always dwells so much on his own enjoyment of things, you know.”
“Oh no, papa,” cried Christina warmly. “He’s anything but selfish, I’m sure. Look how kind he is to all the poor in the village, and how much he thinks about their comfort and welfare. And whenever he’s talking with one, he seems so anxious to make you feel happy and contented with yourself. He has a sort of little subtle flattery of manner about him that’s all pure kindliness; and he’s always thinking what he can say or do to please you, and to help you onward. What you say about his dwelling on enjoyment so much is really only his artistic sensibility. He feels things so keenly, and enjoys beauty so deeply, that he can’t help talking enthusiastically about it even a little out of season. He has more feelings to display than most men, and I’m sure that’s the reason why he displays them so much. A ploughboy could only talk enthusiastically about roast beef and dumplings; Mr. Dene can talk about everything that’s beautiful and sublime on earth or in heaven.”
Meanwhile, Walter Dene was walking quickly with his measured tread — the even, regular tread of a cultivated gentleman — down the lane toward the village grocer’s, saying to himself as he went, “There was never such a girl in all the world as my Christina. She may be only a country surgeon’s daughter — a rosebud on a hedgerow bush — but she has the soul and the eye of a queen among women for all that. Every lover has deceived himself with the same sweet dream, to be sure — how over-analytic we have become nowadays, when I must needs half argue myself out of the sweets of first love! — but then they hadn’t so much to go upon as I have. She has a wonderful touch in music, she has an exquisite eye in painting, she has an Italian charm in manner and conversation. I’m something of a connoisseur, after all, and no more likely to be deceived in a woman than I am in a wine or a picture. And next week I shall really propose formally to Christina, though I know by this time it will be nothing more than the merest formality. Her eyes are too eloquent not to have told me that long ago. It will be a delightful pleasure to live for her, and in order to make her happy. I frankly recognize that I am naturally a little selfish — not coarsely and vulgarly selfish; from that disgusting and piggish vice I may conscientiously congratulate myself that I’m fairly free; but still selfish in a refined and cultivated manner. Now, living with Christina and for Christina will correct this defect in my nature, will tend to bring me nearer to a true standard of perfection. When I am by her side, and then only, I feel that I am thinking entirely of her, and not at all of myself. To her I show my best side; with her, that best side would be always uppermost. The companionship of such a woman makes life something purer, and higher, and better worth having. The one thing that stands in our way is this horrid practical question of what to live upon. I don’t suppose Uncle Arthur will be inclined to allow me anything, and I can’t marry on my own paltry income and my curacy only. Yet I can’t bear to keep Christina waiting indefinitely till some thick-headed squire or other chooses to take it into his opaque brain to give me a decent living.”
