A Galahad Of The Creeks; The Widow Lamport Part 19

John took the small hand in his, and looked at the blue mark on her finger tip. It was hardly perceptible. The shadow of a smile flickered across his face as he kissed the little fingers tenderly, and then, drawing Halsa closer to him, kissed her once more on the lips--she nothing resisting now.

Mrs. Bunny's discreet cough in the next room warned them of her impending return, and when the good lady came in Halsa had once more mounted the ladder. When she had finished her work she came down, and they all took a final survey of their labour, and were pleased by it.

Then Manuel was recalled from the back of the house, where he was employed in solacing his feelings with a native cigarette, and cursing his existence in the _patois_ of Goa.

A few orders were given to him with regard to clearing up some _debris_, and then the party, including Galbraith, went into the hall, where the ladies put on their hats, and, escorted by the pastor, returned home. The whole home party of the Bunnys, except Eddy, were to dine at the manse that night with Galbraith, and he was nervously anxious about the success of the entertainment.

Manuel watched them as they went down the road. He shook his fist after the retreating figures.

"Oh, yes!" he said, "Manuel this and Manuel that--Manuel light fire--light lamps--clean house--make fuss-cla.s.s dinner--Sancta Maria!

what Manuel not do!--Iyoo!" He crossed himself fervently, and went on--"Missus come--missus want keep keys--Manuel not a dog--Jesu!" he exclaimed, "there is that accursed goat among the new flowers." He hastened out of the door, drove the milch goat to the back of the house, and fastened her up securely.

Then, coming back, he conscientiously carried out the final instructions given him--picking up the litter of cotton and tags of hangings which lay on the floor, and when this was over made his way to the kitchen, where he exercised all his skill in superintending the preparation of a "fuss-cla.s.s dinner."

Two things were a matter of regret to him: one that he was not sufficiently skilled to write out a _menu_ card, but this he hoped to arrange with the a.s.sistance of Pedro Pinto's son, who attended the school attached to the monastery of St. Vincent de Paul; the other was that there were to be no wines, for both host and guests were teetotallers, and the drinking of wine or spirits in any form, unless medicinally prescribed, was regarded as a deadly sin.

Galbraith came out of his study a little before dinner-time to see how things were. Manuel was not there, and it seemed as if some unseen hand had set the table, had arranged that oddly pretty pattern of leaves on the snowy table-cloth, and placed that bouquet of fresh fuchsias beside the plate where Halsa was to sit.

Galbraith himself looked years younger. He glanced about him with a satisfied air, and then going back into his study, waited impatiently for the sound of wheels to tell him that his guests had come. Punctual to the moment Mr. Bunny's brownberry came up. Galbraith stepped up to the door of the carriage, and helped out Mrs. Bunny and Halsa, the latter giving his hand a little squeeze. Mr. Bunny emerged last of all, a pile of wraps on his arm, and, after directing the coachman to return at precisely ten o'clock, followed his wife and Halsa Lamport into the house. They all a.s.sembled in the cosy little parlour, and in a few minutes Manuel came in. He whispered something to Galbraith, and then slipped out again. He had conveyed thus mysteriously the announcement that dinner was ready. They all went in without any ceremony; the ladies first, the men behind. Grace was, of course, said, but Galbraith took care that it should not be unnecessarily long. The dinner was excellent, and full justice was done to the meal.

Manuel attempted to make up for the want of a written _menu_, that picaroon boy of Pinto's not having come to write it as arranged, by calling out the names of the dishes.

"Krab cutlit, sar," he said, as he thrust the delicacy before Mr.

Bunny. "p.r.o.ng curry, madam--berry good," and he held the dish for Mrs.

Bunny. Galbraith, however, interfered, much to Manuel's disappointment. He made up, however, for this by the air with which he filled the tumblers with water--the grand butler serving Louis Quatorze could not have done it with a better manner. At last it was all over; Mr. Bunny ate his last walnut, and washed it with a better manner. At last it was all and played patience; then there was a little talking, and precisely at ten the carriage came. Mr. Bunny could not be induced to stay a moment later. There was much hand-shaking, and a kiss for Halsa, soberly given in the Bunnys'

presence by Galbraith, and received by the widow with becoming modesty. When they had gone Galbraith lit a pipe, and, opening an old volume of Ingram, set himself out for an hour's read. He was interrupted by a cough, and, looking up, saw Manuel in front of him.

Manuel shifted a clean white napkin from one hand to another, and asked, "Dinner good, sar----yyerything praper?"

"Yes, indeed, Manuel; I am very much pleased with you."

"Thank you, sar," and Manuel bowed; "but, sar, I come for leave."

"Leave, Manuel?--do you mean to say you want to go?"

"Yessar--missus come, and yverything spile--missus keep keys--missus take account--missus measure out sugar--tea--work too much. My mother also dead in Goa, and I want leave."

Galbraith looked at him. "But I will increase your pay."

"No, sar; all pay same like to Manuel when in service, but when missus come--I no stay. My mother berry ill."

Galbraith smiled. "I thought your mother was dead," he said; "but it does not matter, you can go."

Manuel bowed again, and retired.

CHAPTER XI.

THE HAPPY PAIR.

The combined news that Sarkies was expelled from the fold and that their pastor was, almost at once, to marry the pretty widow, became the property of the congregation the day after the meeting. In family conclaves Sarkies was regarded as doomed to eternal perdition, and heads were gravely shaken over Galbraith's choice. Still, he commanded their respect, and his influence was strong--so strong that Elder Bullin found he was unable to get supporters to move a resolution condemning the pastor's choice, and calling upon him to give up the care of his flock. Mr. Bullin urged that this was vitally necessary for the well-being of the community, but the severity of his action against Sarkies frightened some, Mr. Bunny's influence prevailed over others, and the general liking for Galbraith was so great that his flock began in a few days to extend a portion of their regard for him to his intended wife. The elder therefore failed, but his voice did not remain unheard both in public and in private. This, however, unconsciously helped to a.s.sist Galbraith's cause, as the elder was more feared than loved, and the people he was dealing with wanted real courage of purpose. Even if their objections had taken head, the agitation would have been confined to private whisperings and perhaps a solemnly worded letter to the Bombay Bouncer.

At length the day came for the marriage, and the ceremony was performed in the tabernacle by the pastor of another congregation, an out-station resident, who came in specially for the purpose. The elder refused to attend, and forbade his daughters going; but this was a sight not to be missed, and both Lizzie and Laura were there. It is some consolation to know that their father did not discover this. With the exception of Mr. Bullin, however, every member of the congregation was present. Even Mr. Sarkies waited patiently at the chapel entrance, and as he stood he saw a neatly-dressed man step out of a hired buggy and pa.s.s into the church. When the bride came Sarkies slipped into the church un.o.bserved and witnessed the whole ceremony. He was able also to recognise in the neatly-dressed man the affable stranger of the Divan Exchange. The bride, however, claimed his attention, and his friend was forgotten as he looked at her. Very pretty looked Halsa in her dark-gray dress, with hat to match, and when the words were spoken which made her John Galbraith's wife, the whole party adjourned to Mr.

Bunny's, all but Sarkies the outcast and the neat-looking stranger, who pa.s.sed him un.o.bserved, and, getting into his buggy, drove away rapidly. At Mr. Bunny's all was very gay. As a special occasion gla.s.ses of ginger wine were served round with the cake, and the bride's health drunk amid much applause. With hearts warmed by the cordial, these emotional people felt that Halsa Galbraith was now one of them, and they one and all shook hands with her heartily. As the time approached for the happy couple to depart on their short honeymoon, order was called, and the guests, having arranged themselves soberly, listened to an exhortation from the Rev. Samuel Boase, the clergyman who officiated at the marriage. The worthy man discoursed at some length on the holiness of the inst.i.tution, and it was only the sound of carriage wheels, as they grated away from the portico, that aroused him to the fact that the newly-wedded pair had slipped away un.o.bserved. Hastily concluding his speech, the reverend gentleman included his amen in a rush for the bag of rice, and, seizing a handful, attempted to pursue the carriage, followed by all the guests. They were too late, however, and all came in hot, breathless, and a little disappointed. Eddy Bunny alone was satisfied.

Armed with an old shoe, he had concealed himself in the shrubbery, and as the carriage drove by he aimed this at Galbraith with a precision acquired by long practice with the catapult. It was some little time before the victim recovered from the shock, and when he did the carriage was well on its way toward the railway station.

The honeymoon lasted barely a fortnight, for two reasons, one being that the Rev. Samuel Boase was unable to take Galbraith's work for more than that period, and the other the important factor of expense.

Back they came, then, from a short trip to the hills near Bombay. It was the first real holiday Galbraith had ever enjoyed. The long day's dream under the trees, the gathering of ferns in some secluded glen, the rest, and, above all, the dear companionship he had, combined to make it very sweet. Galbraith told his wife of the mental struggle he was perpetually undergoing, and received much help from her clear common sense and healthful sympathy. She in her turn gave him no half-confidence, but told him honestly the story of her life. She touched as lightly as possible on her former husband's ill-treatment of her, on his cruelty and neglect, for the man was dead. She told him how, two years back, the Mahi sailed from Cochin for the Mauritius, and from that time was heard of no more, until a solitary survivor came back with a dreadful tale of the sea. He told how the ship had been scuttled, how all the boats were rendered useless except one, into which the captain and two others escaped. Clinging to a spar himself, he had seen a great green wave swamp the boat, and then for him came three days of hideous agony, and at last rescue. Of the death of her husband no doubt ever crossed Halsa's mind. She had seen the newspaper reports of the inquiry into the disaster, and had interviewed the rescued man. She opened a school at Cochin, and was enabled to keep her head above water with this, and with the proceeds of flower-painting, in which she had some proficiency. Then came a fortunate legacy of some four hundred pounds, and she consulted Mr.

Bunny, a cousin of her husband, on business matters connected with this. The Bunnys had repeatedly asked her before to make her home with them, and they renewed this invitation now in so kind a manner that Halsa accepted. It was an invitation to stay until she could obtain some suitable employment; but a year pa.s.sed--"And you found the employment," said Galbraith; "you have to take care of me now." And Halsa smiled at him from under her dark eye-lashes in reply.

Back they came, then, and even Elder Bullin was there to receive them.

"Let bygones be bygones, elder," said the pastor, as he shook the stiff fingers the old man held out. Bullin mumbled something which no one heard, but all believed that a reconciliation had taken place.

Halsa entered heartily into her husband's work. She discarded the high straw hats, the red ribbons, and fluttering white raiment, and the only trace of her former somewhat coquettish taste in dress was now in the exceeding neatness of her sober-coloured garments. She was quick and clever at figures, and Galbraith willingly relinquished to her the charge of keeping the accounts of the tabernacle funds. She wore the key of the cash-box in a chain suspended round her neck; and at the monthly audit Elder Bullin confessed that never had the cash-book been so neat or so well kept.

"I do believe the old man is getting fond of me," said Halsa, as she stood by her husband and watched the elder as he slowly walked up the garden toward the gate, his big umbrella spread over him. And Galbraith, being in love, did what was expected of him.

Now all this time a nameless horror was approaching nearer and nearer.

CHAPTER XII.

THE DEVIL AT WORK.

A dull, miserable evening, gray clouds, drizzling rain, and a damp heat. The loud blast of the conch horn from the Jain temple echoed in the heavy air. The sound made the window panes in the study of the manse rattle, and roused Halsa from her book. John had gone that day some miles away to attend a meeting of pastors, and was not to be home until late. His wife dined alone, and sat up in the study waiting for him. As the prolonged notes of the horn reached her, Halsa put down her book and held her hands to her ears. When the sound died away she felt that, for the present, further reading was impossible, and glanced at the clock which ticked in a dreary manner from the wall.

It was nearly nine. She rose from her seat, and, after pacing the room for a few moments, stood before the window listening to the soft patter of the rain. The sudden crunching of the gravel outside under a firm tread roused her from the half-dreamy state into which she had fallen. The footsteps were strangely familiar--yet not Galbraith's--still, it could be no one else. In a moment she was in the pa.s.sage and at the front door. She opened this with a little cry of welcome. "I am so glad you have come," and then she started back with a faint shriek, for the man who stepped into the pa.s.sage and removed his dripping hat, diffusing a stale odour of damp clothes and liquor as he came in, was not John Galbraith, but Stephen Lamport.

There was no mistaking him as he stood there, leaning somewhat unsteadily on a stout cane, the light from a wall lamp shining full on his face, the face she knew so well, and whose memory brought up days of horror before her. There he was, his small beadlike eyes shining brightly, and his red hair glistening.

"Well," he said shortly, "so you're glad to see me--sure there is no mistake?"

Halsa made no reply. She leaned against the wall, one hand held tightly over her heart; her face was white as death, and her lips moved tremulously as if trying to frame a sentence.

"Well, Mrs. Lamport," continued her husband, "I happened to find out that he"--he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, and Halsa shuddered--"is on the preach, and I thought I should come and look you up for old sake's sake, more especially as I have some business with you, and I should like to settle this at once." He stretched out his hand and touched her lightly on the shoulder. The touch seemed to rouse her to fury. She sprang forward and seized the collar of his coat with both hands.

"Yes," she said, "you have business with me. Well, then, come here--quick!" She pushed rather than led him into the study, and, closing the door, stood before him with clenched hands. "Now," she said in a breath, "what do you want? I suppose that story of your death was one of your trumped-up _lies?_"

Lamport laughed a little. "One question at a time. The story was not a trumped-up lie, though I suppose you are sorry it was not the truth. I ought to have died, but I was spared for you, don't you see? I haven't got time to waste telling you all about it; here I am, and what I want is--money."

"Of course," replied Halsa; "did you ever want anything else?"

"Not much, except to be even with you--and I have been even with you and your psalm-singing parson. I found out some time ago that you were here, and about to change your weeds, and I gave myself the pleasure of attending your wedding as an uninvited guest."

"Oh, G.o.d, have you no mercy?" moaned his victim.