A Galahad Of The Creeks; The Widow Lamport Part 13

"Fry pomflit for breakfas, sar," said Manuel, "and p.r.o.ng curry--all spile."

"Never mind, Manuel--we'll have some another day. Take that letter and--run."

Manuel did as he was bidden, and Galbraith watched him shuffling along the road until he reached the corner where Pedro Pinto's liquor stall stood. Manuel hesitated a moment here. A gla.s.s of toddy, a liquor made out of the fermented sap of the palmyra, would be very grateful; but--he glanced round only to find the pastor standing at the gate and watching him. With a sigh the Goanese turned and went on; but, now that he had pa.s.sed the curve of the street, slackened his pace to a leisurely walk. He remained away for more than an hour, during which time Galbraith paced the little veranda impatiently, wondering whether there would be any reply to his note. It was impossible to think of anything else, and each moment seemed to him an age. At intervals he walked to the gate, and looked down the road, but there was no sign of Manuel. At last he saw him turn the corner; whereupon, filled with a sudden terror, John hastily retreated into his study, and began to turn over the leaves of his sermon. He tried to persuade himself that he had retired because it was undignified to watch his servant in this manner, but the thick beating of his heart told him he lied to himself. At last there was a shuffle at the door, and Manuel, coming in, stood before his master silently.

Galbraith looked at him. "Did you give the letter? Was there any answer?"

"Yessar." Manuel produced a little gray square envelope from his breast pocket and handed it to Galbraith.

"Very well," said the pastor as he stretched forth his hand to receive the letter, "you can go now."

"Master have tiffin?" inquired Manuel, but Galbraith peremptorily ordered him out of the room. When he had gone John tore the note open.

It was written on that abominable pattern of paper which folds like an envelope, and as a consequence, Galbraith in his excitement tore the whole letter in two. With hands that trembled with eagerness he placed the pieces together, and resting them on the table, read the reply--

"_I will meet you after church, and we can walk home together_."

There was no signature, but Galbraith knew the handwriting. He looked furtively around, and then kissing the precious sc.r.a.ps of paper, locked them carefully away.

CHAPTER IV.

YES.

On leaving the church, Galbraith and his companion walked slowly down the road. The street was hedged in between two low walls, gray with age, and partly coated with a short, thick moss, whose original colour was hidden by the dust lying heavy upon it. The tops of the walls were covered with bits of broken gla.s.s, fragments of bottles stuck upright into the masonry as a defence against trespa.s.sers.

Behind these barriers, on either side, the date and cocoa palms grew in thick profusion, hiding from view the dwelling-houses which lay among them. At short intervals a disreputable-looking gate was pa.s.sed, the paint peeling off in patches from the wood-work. With the exception of the one or two couples returning from service, and a few native Christians at Pinto's liquor stall, lounging with the flies among the long-necked gla.s.s bottles, there were no people in the street. The middle of the road was six inches deep in fine dust, but on the side where the pavement should have been, was a small pathway, beaten hard, with just sufficient room for two, provided they walked somewhat closely to each other. John went in the dust, leaving his companion the whole of the sidewalk. His boots were covered with the clinging gray powder, and a portion of it had sprinkled itself on his clothes.

"It's very dusty there, Mr. Galbraith; don't you think you had better come on to the sidewalk?"

"Thank you," said John humbly, as he joined the widow. As he came up, the folds of her dress brushed against him, and her shoulder grazed his. The touch sent a thrill through Galbraith's veins.

"I--I beg pardon," said he nervously, "I am very awkward."

The widow smiled slightly, and shot a glance at him from under her dark eye-lashes. "I don't see that you have anything to beg pardon for."

Galbraith was about to say that all life should be one appeal for pardon, but he checked himself, and, glancing at the walls on either side of them, remarked--

"I wonder how many thousands of bottles were used to make that defence work on the walls here!"

"I really couldn't tell, Mr. Galbraith," replied the widow a little sharply.

John remained silent and abashed for a few moments, and at last she spoke.

"I got your letter, of course, this morning. What was it you were going to tell me? Not about the gla.s.s bottles, I hope?" and she showed an even row of pearly teeth between her red lips.

A cold sweat burst out on Galbraith's forehead, and his tongue seemed paralysed. "I--I," he stammered, and then he clutched at a straw. "But what a number of people are on the road to-day."

"There is the short cut, and I think we had better take that." The widow lifted her skirts slightly, and daintily tripped across. John caught a glimpse of an exquisite foot and ankle as he followed.

"Lord," he cried in his heart, "deliver me from temptation!"

Arrived at the opposite side of the road, Halsa turned to her companion, and putting out her foot, looked ruefully at it.

"I have made my boots so dusty--what a horrid road this is!"

John glanced round him nervously, then he pulled out his handkerchief.

"May I?" he asked in a hesitating manner as he waved the folds in the air.

"If you would be so kind;" and John, stooping down, brushed away the dust from one dainty foot, and then the other. He could not help lingering over the task.

The widow, looking down on him, smiled to herself. "He's getting on,"

she murmured, and then--

"I think that will do--thank you so much. I'm afraid you have ruined that handkerchief--I'm so sorry."

John gave a last brush at the boot before him and rose. He was a little red in the face, but--he was getting on.

"I shall always keep this handkerchief sacredly, Mrs. Lamport," said he, putting it into his pocket carefully.

"How ridiculous!" And the widow gave a little toss to her head, her colour rising slightly.

They walked down the lane until they reached a small gateway. "This,"

said Halsa as she pa.s.sed through it, "takes us into the custard apple garden, immediately behind the palm tree, and my favourite seat is there--near the well."

Galbraith followed her under the shade of the palms to the orchard.

Their feet crackled over the dry leaves. A rough wooden seat was placed near a banyan tree which spread its shade over the well. Behind the seat was a thick lentena hedge in full bloom, and the b.u.t.terflies were playing in a small cloud over the blossoms. Close to them a few mynas squabbled over some fallen fruit, and a gray squirrel scuttled past their feet up the trunk of the banyan, and chattered shrilly at them from its branches.

The widow sank into the seat with a comfortable purr, and began tracing imaginary diagrams with the end of her parasol among the fallen leaves at her feet. Galbraith remained standing. "Won't you sit down, Mr. Galbraith?" and Halsa pointed to the vacant s.p.a.ce at her side. "There's room for two."

"It is not very warm to-day," he said, as he accepted the invitation.

"No; I think it is quite cool. Look at the clouds. I shouldn't be surprised if there was rain;" and the widow looked up at the fleecy ma.s.ses which had floated between the sunlight and the earth, hiding the glare and cooling the day.

"Yes, I think we want some rain. This is about the time it usually comes."

"Does it?" Halsa turned her eyes straight upon Galbraith as she said this and looked at him. They were very pretty eyes, very honest and true.

Galbraith had thought over what he meant to say, but could remember nothing. All at once a desperate courage seemed to possess him.

"Halsa," he said--his voice was very low and tender--"will you give me this?" He took her hand as he spoke. It lay in his unresistingly. It seemed to return his warm pressure.

The widow's eyes were lowered now, and her cheeks like flame. "My dear," he said, and Halsa, lifting up her face, answered, "I will."

Galbraith could hardly believe himself. He could almost hear the beating of his own heart as he sat with Halsa Lamport's hand in his.