A TALE OF RED PEKIN

A TALE OF RED PEKIN

BY CONSTANCIA SERJEANT

AUTHOR OF "A THREEFOLD MYSTERY," "THE YOUNG ACROBATS," ETC., ETC.

LONDON MARSHALL BROTHERS KESWICK HOUSE PATERNOSTER ROW E C 1902

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER.

Cecilia's Story

The Letter from Pekin

The Rising in the Village

Cecilia continues her Story

A Terrible Walk

Nina's Story

A Painful Discovery

Taken Prisoner

A Discovery

A Daring Attempt

Mr. Li's Wonderful House

They Wandered in Dens and Caves of the Earth

CHAPTER I.

CECILIA'S STORY.

I can remember quite well when we all came to China. It is four years ago, and I was eight years old, and you can remember when you are three, so father says. I am twelve now, and I feel quite grown up, that is because I am older than any of the others. Most people call me prim and old-fashioned, but mother says I am her right hand. Rachel is the next to me, but she is in a different generation almost, only nine years old, and quite a child. Then there is Jack, he is eight, and Jill, she is seven. Jill is not her name really—they all have Bible names—but we call her that because she and Jack are such friends, and always do everything together. Then there is Tim, he is only five years old, and little baby Anna. Baby Anna is so lovely, and the Chinese women are very fond of her. She has dark eyes, and rings of dark hair all over her head; but somehow she does not look like other children. She smiles, and yet she has a solemn look: that rapt look that the cherubs have, like pictures of the Blessed Lord Himself when He was a little child. Father says so sometimes, but mother does not like it. I never can think why, but she looks so sad, and once I saw her brushing some tears away. I think really, though I have never told anyone else, that mother is afraid baby Anna will not live. I heard the servants talking one day, and nurse said she was sure the baby would never live to grow up.

The Chinese women love her so much, they would like to bind her feet; they think it spoils us all, having such large feet—at least, those who are not Christians do, and even the others—well, it is just the very hardest thing in the world for them to have the bandages taken off their feet, but for the love of Christ they take them off at last, and then they are baptized—father never will baptize them until the bandages are taken off.

The Chinese are dreadfully, dreadfully cruel, and very cunning and deceitful, but father says they make splendid Christians. You see it's not a bit the same as it is in England—they have to go through such dreadful persecution if they become Christians; they have to give up everything for the sake of Christ's love, and you love a person far, far more if you feel you can give up everything, even life itself, for their sake.

When we first came to Cheng-si there was not a single Christian here, and the people did not like us much, but father and mother were so kind, and did so much for them when they were sick, that they got accustomed to us, and now they come from all parts, for miles around, to be healed.

You see, father is not like an ordinary Missionary, he is a doctor, too; he reminds me more of the Lord Jesus than anyone I have ever seen: he goes about doing good and healing the sick—he has such a beautiful expression. I have not seen many men, and I do not know exactly whether he is what people call a handsome man, I rather think not, but it is when he is healing the sick and speaking to them that there is that light on his face which makes me think of what is said about St. Stephen in the Acts: "They saw his face as it had been the face of an angel."

Uncle Lawrence is quite different: he is a soldier, every inch of him, a good soldier of Jesus Christ too. I have heard mother say so many times, and it is that which makes him such a good soldier of the Queen. She says the best soldier is the Christian soldier, and that very few people would contradict that now, because of Lord Roberts; and then there is General Havelock, and Sir Henry Lawrence, and a host of others. But Uncle does not look like father, and he does not speak much; you know what he is by his life more than by what he says. He has only one child, her name is Nina—Nina is three years older than I—she is my bosom friend. I never in my life saw anyone so wonderful as Nina, or anyone half so pretty; Nina is tall and dark, she has beautiful eyes, not at all like baby's, but more like wells of water, where the sunbeams lie; one can never be sad with Nina, she is so bright and sunshiny, like her laughing eyes; she loves me, too, dearly, and calls me St. Cecilia because I am so grave and old beyond my years.

Nina and Uncle Lawrence are always together, and she is the pet of the regiment—yet she is not spoilt. I have not known her long, only since the troubles began in China, and since they have been in Wei-hai-wei, which is about one hundred miles from this place; but our love for each other grew up mushroom-like in a few hours. She says she cares for me more than for any other girl. We write such long letters to each other, and when we meet she tells me stories about the officers, especially one, Uncle Lawrence's greatest friend.

We do not get the news here very fast, as we are quite in the country, but Nina wrote me a long letter yesterday from Pekin, where they are now, and told me what dreadfully cruel things the Chinese had done. She overheard a conversation between Uncle Lawrence and Colonel Taylor. Uncle Lawrence was talking of the risk of being captured, and of the awful peril which so many unprotected Europeans were in—it is far worse than death, for they torture people for days before they kill them.

"They should never capture anyone who belonged to me," said the Colonel, sternly, and he just touched his pistol with a meaning look.

Nina said her father went as white as death; she guessed what was passing through his mind. How could he kill Nina? Would it be right if it came to the worst, and to save her from a lingering death of agony? I told father, and asked him what he thought; for all the Europeans, so it seems, have resolved to kill their dearest and die, rather than fall into the hands of the Chinese. But father—well, father has such a strong, beautiful faith, he does not blame those who would do this, but for himself and for us—I know how he loves us—there were tears in his eyes as he spoke; still, he said he would not feel justified in doing this—he must leave it all with God, and He will take care of His own. I know what it cost father to say this, because I know what we are to him; but I also know that nothing, nothing would ever make him do what he would not think quite right: he does not blame others, but for himself it is different.

He and mother walked up and down for hours last evening, and part of the time I was with them, for they often take me into their confidence, and that is why I am so old for my years, I expect—the eldest in a large family generally is, they say; all father's thoughts were for mother.

"Oh, my dearest," he said—I think they had forgotten me—"I never loved you so well, and yet I am full of regret when I think of that quiet Rectory where you might have been now if it had not been for me. Do you remember it, the first time I saw you? I can see it all again: the Rectory garden, the old-fashioned grey stone house, shadows slanting over the lawn, and underneath the trees you were standing, the only young thing there, shading your eyes with your pretty hands; you were very much like our St. Cecilia, and I saw in a moment, beyond the mere beauty of your face, the Divine touch there, and I knew you were one of the Lord's dear children, and my heart went out to you, and I claimed you in my spirit then and there as my helpmeet, the woman whom God, in His love, had chosen for me. But if I had known what a future I was preparing for you, my beloved, I would never have spoken."

"A dear future," mother answered, gently clasping his arm with both her hands. "Would I have had it any different?"

"Yes, but, my darling—well, this news has unnerved me—Boxers are like devils possessed, and, if they should get hold of you and the children——"

And I saw father shudder; I had never seen him like this before: his faith had always been so strong, and now he seemed quite unnerved.

"They will not," said mother, calmly, and her eyes were soft with unshed tears, and yet had that patient, steadfast look the martyrs have. "But if there is trouble in store for us, oh! my dear husband, I would not have had it any different. God has been so good to us: we have been so happy, so happy together, there is nothing to regret; it was all ordered by a Divine love which never makes any mistakes; and it will be all ordered now," and she laughed a little to make him laugh, I think. "Oh! Paul, fancy my turning comforter!"

"Yes, darling," he replied, hurriedly, "I am ashamed of myself, and, more than all, ashamed of my lack of faith. What is our faith worth if it cannot stand this test? His strength is small indeed who faints in the day of adversity. God remains; He is over all, arranging every step of the way, and I can leave even you in peace now with this thought." And then I heard father say, and his face, which had been so wan and drawn before, was now radiant and bright: "'Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on Thee; because he trusteth in Thee.'"

But I crept up to bed and thought what dreadful news that must be to make father look and speak as he had done that evening.

CHAPTER II.

THE LETTER FROM PEKIN.

Mr. St. John might well look grave. "Upon the earth distress of nations, men's hearts failing them for fear." Yes, this text was being fulfilled. It was all very well for people in England to read of the awful things that were taking place in China, but to be on the spot—alone. Ah, there it was, therein lay the anguish—for he was not alone, if he had been he would not have cared. But his wife and children! it was the thought of them that caused him such unutterable pain.

Abraham knew something of this agony when he got up early that morning and saddled his ass. What a pathetic story! How difficult to read it without tears. It was just because Abraham felt it down to the very depth of his being, and yet never doubted God's love and God's power, that he was called faithful Abraham—God's friend.

It is easy to talk of faith to others—and to have it ourselves when everything goes well—but the faith which God approves is that which casts its burden on the Lord, that cries, "Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him."

Mr. St. John was a man full of faith. He was also full of love, or his faith could not have been so tried; and he was a man of prayer: that disquieting letter from Pekin had been spread before the Lord, and he got up very early so as to spend the morning hours in communion with Him. He had made great drafts on God's Bank, and his face had regained its usual serenity of expression. His heart, so torn and trembling overnight, was now calm with "the peace of God which passeth all understanding"—the peace which the Lord has promised to those who are stayed on him.

There was a slight sound. He looked up quickly; it was Cecilia—St. Cecilia the children called her—coming over the grass to meet him.

"Father, darling," she said, as she twined her arms about his neck, "I do wish I could do something for you."

"But you do, dear child," he answered, tenderly. "Mother's right hand: what more can we ask?"

"Yes, but father, you—you seemed so troubled last night."

"If I did, my darling, it was very wrong," he replied, gravely, "and showed a great want of trust in our Heavenly Father."

"I could not sleep for thinking of you, and wishing I were older, that I might really be able to help you."

"Poor little Cicely," he said, tenderly taking the sweet, earnest face between his hands. "Poor little right hand—old before her time. You must not take up our cares, darling. Indeed, if we older people had more faith we should never fret or worry either, but, instead, cast all our cares upon the Lord who cares for us."

"What are you and father talking about? You are both so grave," said Rachel, as she came running up to them. "Cicely looks just like that picture we have up in our room—St. somebody or other—I can't remember the name. Not anybody in the Bible, you know," said Rachel, garrulously, "but it's just like Cicely, when she is in white and grave, isn't it, father? Only she's got no halo round her head."

"You little chatterbox!" said her father, laughing, "it's a pity someone else has not a little more gravity herself."

"Oh, I can look very grave if I like, father. I practise sometimes in front of the glass, and I make such a long face—really, yards long."

"Did you measure it with your yard measure, Rachel?"

"Oh, no. But you know what I mean—as long as yours, and mother's, and Cicely's."

"Well, I am sure we all feel very flattered," said her father, smiling. "What a little pickle you are."

"A pickle! what is that? I thought it was something to eat. Is it nice?"

"Well, that is a matter of opinion," smiling. "Some people are very fond of pickles; others find them just a little bit too hot and strong."

Rachel was silent for a moment, then she dismissed the subject with a toss of her dark curls. "Father," she said, "do you know I am so glad no one is coming to be healed to-day, so we shall have you all to ourselves, and we can have some round games like Cicely says you had in England."

Mr. St. John's face changed. "Rachel," he inquired, gravely, "how do you know that no one is coming to be healed this morning?"

"Because Seng Mi said so, father. The people are angry about something, I don't know what, but I am so glad. Cicely, why don't you say you're glad, too, instead of looking like St. Cecilia at the piano?"

Cecilia flushed, and the tears came into her eyes. Her father took hold of her hand and pressed it between his own.

"Father, darling," she whispered, "has it come already?"

"God only knows," he replied, sadly, "but we shall be ready, at any rate, darling."

"Yes, father," she said, earnestly, lifting her sweet, grave eyes to his. "Do you know—I have often wished to tell you—Jesus is so precious to me that sometimes I long to suffer for His sake."

"My dearest child, God grant that He may be more exceedingly precious to each one of us every day. God be with you all in the time that is coming, and the dear native Christians. Ah, Cicely, my heart bleeds for them."

"Why, father?" asked Rachel, who had caught the last words.

"Because, Rachel, I am afraid there is a time of great trouble in store for them—terrible persecution. Indeed," he added, "it has begun already; in the letter which I received last night from Pekin, your uncle speaks of the dreadful suffering, not only of Europeans, but also of the native Christians—there have been hundreds of martyrs for Jesus already."

"Have there, father?" Rachel's gentian-blue eyes were very wide open indeed—"I haven't seen anybody being persecuted here yet."

"No; but my dear little Rachel, it has not reached us yet, God be praised for that; but it may come any day—it might even come to-day."

Rachel was silent for a moment, and then suddenly reverted to what had been uppermost in her mind—of paramount interest to her: "About the games, father," she said, coaxingly, "if mother will give us a holiday, will you come and have some games with us? I should like blind man's buff and hide and seek; Cicely and I will hide, and you shall find us."

"Rachel," said her father, gently, "I should like to do what you wish, but first I must tell you a story, and then you shall decide yourself about the games afterwards."

"Oh, a story, father, I shall like that; let's sit down here under this banyan tree, and then we can listen nicely," and Rachel flung off her big, shady hat, and settled herself down by her father's side, prepared to drink in every word. With the dark curls tossed back from her little, eager, upturned face, and her sparkling blue eyes, she made a pretty picture, and formed a pleasing contrast to her equally lovely sister—indeed, Cicely's was the lovelier face of the two, for God Himself had taken up the brush and been the Painter there.

"Once upon a time—that is the correct way to begin, Rachel, is it not?—there lived a very wicked and cruel Emperor, so cruel that his name has become a proverb."

"Nero," exclaimed the children in one breath.

"Yes, that is right," said Mr. St. John, continuing his story; "there were a great many Christians then; they were people who loved the Lord very dearly, for in confessing Him they ran the risk of the most awfully cruel death—Nero had his spies everywhere."

"What is a spy, father?"

"You will see, dear; they were people who pretended to be what they were not; they professed to be friendly with the Christians—even to be Christians themselves sometimes—and they would go to their secret meetings held in the catacombs."

"The what?" said Rachel, "what long words, father."

"The catacombs were vast dark passages underneath the city where the Christians used to meet and worship God; but you ask so many questions, Rachel," said her father, smiling, "that I lose the thread of my story."

"You were explaining about the spies, father," put in, Cicely, gently.

"Oh yes, to be sure; well, these spies got to know all about the meetings, and they came too, pretending that they were Christians themselves, and then denounced everyone who was there to the Emperor."

"How dreadfully mean," said Rachel, her eyes flashing.

"Yes, dear; well on one occasion when a great many of these followers of Christ were taken prisoners, Nero gave a large entertainment, and actually lighted his gardens with their bodies. Now, Rachel, part of my story is true and part is imagination—that part, I grieve to say, is true. Now I want you to think of a man, a Christian man, who lived with his wife and family some miles from Rome in comparative safety; this man knew—his children knew what their fellow Christians were suffering, and yet that very evening they made merry and had games, and a feast in the garden."

Rachel's eyes were full of indignant tears. "How could they, father?" she said, "how could they? I should have cried all the evening! I couldn't have helped it."

"Just so, dear," said Mr. St. John, gently, and he laid his hand tenderly on the child's hair. "Last night I got a letter from your uncle from Pekin—it's a sad letter, Rachel; Christians are being tortured and killed to-day in China, just as they were 2,000 years ago in Rome. And I know my little girl would be the last to wish to make the day that is bringing so much sadness and pain to our brothers and sisters in Christ a gala day with us."

"No," said Rachel, with a great sigh, "of course I shouldn't like that, but oh, how I wish the Christians were not being killed, because it would have been so nice to have had you to ourselves for a whole day, father."

"Now, my dear little girls," said Mr. St. John, rising, "I am going in to get some breakfast, if mother will give me some; you had yours long ago, I know, but I have been out here and not thought much about the time; then I should like to have a big prayer meeting; we must try and get the dear native Christians together—they will need all our love to-day."

"Yes, father," said Rachel, "may we go and ask them to come, I should like that," she added, dancing and skipping about.

"Ask your mother, darling, she must decide. Christine," he said, as his wife came up, "do you think it would be wise for the children to take round the invitations for the prayer meeting?"

"I hardly think so," replied Mrs. St. John. "The village is in the most unsettled state, and there seems to be danger of a general rising."

"I must go and find out what it all means," said Mr. St. John, quietly.

"Oh, my dear husband, do be careful. Do not run into any danger."

"I shall not, my dearest; never fear."