A Galahad Of The Creeks; The Widow Lamport Part 22

"I presume you are Mr. Bullin?" asked Faly in reply.

"Yes--I'm Mr. Bullin; and I want to know what you've done with my daughter--you and that blackguard Sarkies?"

"Gently, sir," was the reply. "Your daughter, I believe, is now on the way to the railway station with her husband. If I mistake not, her mother-in-law and another relative accompany the bride on the honeymoon trip. I presume even you will think that sufficient punishment?"

Bullin attempted to speak, but in vain. His face was purple with rage, and his hands moved convulsively up and down.

Faly was a little touched. "I don't think you need take on so, Mr.

Bullin," he said. "Mr. Sarkies will make a most excellent husband."

But here the elder found tongue. "d.a.m.n you!" he shrieked with a half-articulate voice, "I shall have the law on you and your brood of snakes. May G.o.d's curse follow----"

Faly laid his hand upon the old man's arm. "Halt, sir!" he said; "you have said enough. Go to the law. If redress is your due, you will get it there. Go to the law, I say; but also go from here. This is no place for you."

The elder stared at him for a moment, and then turning entered his carriage, and bade the coachman drive home.

A week later he flung a letter across the table to Laura. They were at breakfast.

"Send that woman her belongings," he said; "and mind you--forget from this day that she was ever your sister."

And Laura bowed her head meekly to hide the tears that filled her eyes.

CHAPTER XVI.

AN ACCOUNT BALANCED.

When Lamport left Halsa unconscious on the roadside and escaped into darkness, he ran on without stopping for nearly half an hour. At last he pulled up, fairly exhausted, and leaned against the wall on the roadside to rest and regain his breath. The run and the excitement had sobered him, and as he rested he began to think over his next move.

Bill's knife was still in his hand. He closed the blade carefully.

"If only they had been a minute later!" he said to himself as he put it away.

Yes, if only they had been a minute later Stephen Lamport would have added another item to his long list of crimes. Not that the record troubled him in any way. His only regret was that he had been foiled.

He had begun to hate his wife with the savage hatred that was born of the knowledge that he had done her terrible wrong.

After a while Lamport began to walk on again as fast as he was able to escape the rain. It was now very late, almost in the small hours of the morning, and a longing seized upon him for more drink. He had reached Digby Street by this time, and, with that strange fatality which seems to haunt criminals, the fatality which brings them back to the scenes of former crime, he entered the Hotel Metropole. It was still full, and Lamport's entrance excited no particular attention. In the glare of the lamps, however, he was enabled to see that he was splashed and covered with mud, and his clothes, where they were not protected by his rough pea-jacket, were dripping wet. He glanced at his face in the oval mirror which gleamed from the wall. It was deathly pale, and he felt a cold shivering down his limbs. He moved into the crowd at the bar, and called out for "three fingers hot." At the sound of his voice Kavasji looked up at him. Lamport was, however, certain that the shaving of his beard had so altered his appearance that he was, comparatively speaking, unrecognisable; besides, as he was spattered with mud, and with his cap pulled well over his brows, he felt perfectly secure. He was mistaken, however. Kavasji was one of those men who have a born genius for remembering faces, and he recognised Lamport at once. He said no word at first, but silently mixed his tumbler of liquor and handed it to him. Lamport stood a little on one side at the end of the bar, and began to drink. When he had finished he called for another tumbler, and as the Pa.r.s.ee handed this to him he said in a low voice, "Bill is here; he is looking for you." Lamport started at the warning, but said nothing. He drank his second tumbler quietly, and, after paying his score, slipped out into the street once more. Kavasji had not given this warning with any friendly feeling toward Lamport, but simply for the reason that he wished to get rid of him. It was perfectly true that Bill had been there that evening. He might be back at any moment, and then, if there was recognition, there would perhaps be murder. Kavasji had not forgotten the scene when Bill woke from his drugged sleep and found that he had missed his ship and had been robbed. In order that the matter might be kept quiet, the Pa.r.s.ee had placed Dungaree in funds, knowing that it would mostly come back to him over the counter, and what little loss he might suffer would be well repaid by the absence of a police visitation. Kavasji had suffered much from such inroads.

Bill had, however, shown no inclination to get another ship. As long as Kavasji's advance lasted he determined to wait, in the hopes of meeting Lamport, of recovering his lost property and of exacting vengeance. He was perfectly convinced that it was Lamport who had stolen the money. He had done similar things himself, and therefore knew. Moreover, the thought that he, Dungaree Bill, the old and hardened campaigner, should have been taken in in so transparent a manner was gall and wormwood to him, and therefore he swore to himself that he would have vengeance, even to the death of Lamport. So Bill husbanded his resources and waited, and at last the time came when Lamport was to reap what he had sown. This was Bill's last day. He was unable to get any further funds from Kavasji, and had with regret in his heart shipped on an American cargo-boat that was to sail the next day. He had stipulated for a last day on sh.o.r.e, and, as he had asked for no advance of pay, this was readily granted to him. Besides, he was known to the master of the vessel as a good sailor, and one whom he could rely on for good as well as evil. Lamport had hardly been gone half an hour when Bill re-entered the bar and feverishly looked round him. It was his last chance, and he had to go back to his ship.

There was a look of disappointment on his face as he saw that the man he wanted was not there, and that after all he should miss him. A light of eagerness came into his eyes as Kavasji beckoned to him, and whispered a few words in his ear. "Where? Which way did he go?" said Bill. Kavasji pointed to the street, and Bill, turning, rushed out of the door. Once in the street, however, he looked blankly around. There was no knowing what direction Lamport had taken, and with a curse on his ill-luck Bill squared his broad shoulders and strode through the mud toward the quay. He could have--in fact, to keep up the tradition of his kind, he ought to have--hailed a cab and been driven toward the harbour roaring a wild song. But Bill did not fancy this to-night. It was enough for him that his prey had escaped for the present. If they should meet! Dungaree swore under his bushy black beard that no mortal should part them until he had exacted his t.i.the of vengeance to the uttermost farthing.

In the meantime what had become of Lamport? When he entered the street again he found that it had practically given over raining, and the moon was shining brightly behind the dark ma.s.ses of clouds that glided slowly after each other. Lamport looked up with an expression of relief, and his first thoughts were to make his way back to his lodgings as fast as possible, change his wet things, and sleep, if he could, over the events of the past few hours. He changed his mind, however, and, hailing a cab, told the man to drive him to the quay.

Why he did this it is impossible to explain. It was the working of that fatality which was leading him to the reaping of the harvest.

Perhaps the knowledge that Dungaree was on his track induced him to do this. He wanted to think. Perhaps an indefinite idea of escaping, the forlorn hope of being able to get to sea somehow, moved him. And so he went. When he reached the quay he dismissed his cab, and, walking to the end of the pier, leaned over the chains and listened to the _lap_, _lap_, _lap_ of the waters against the stone walls. Under the lee of the pier was a small fleet of boats securely fastened one to the other, and heaving in unison with the motion of the sea. The myriad stars of the street lamps twinkled behind him, and the signal lights from the tall masts of the shipping in the harbour shone like beacons overhead. A high wind had arisen, an augury of fair weather, and the now rapidly moving clouds alternately obscured and unveiled the moonlight. From the far distance came the dull boom of the breakers as they beat against the head of the island, and occasionally there was a jarring sound as the sides of the boats grated against each other.

Lamport, leaning over the chains of the pier, noticed not one of these things. If he saw, or heard, they had no more effect on him than the flickering of one's fingers before the eyes of a blind horse. Yet Lamport unconsciously began to think of the past. Possibly the danger he had escaped and the hour were not without their influence on him.

After all, he had nothing to fear, he repeated to himself. There was not the remotest possibility of Bill meeting him. Anyway he would make that possibility as small as it could be by shipping himself off this very day. And while he was thinking Bill came up the pier, walking rapidly with that rolling lurch peculiar to sailors. Lamport was unconscious of this. He never heard the footfalls behind him, and, if he did, paid no attention to them. When Bill was scarce ten yards off, Lamport lighted a fusee and held it to his pipe. The sudden hiss of the match and the flare of light stopped Dungaree at once, and, as the blaze lit up Lamport's face, Bill saw from the gesture, the poise of the head, the cunning glitter of the eye, that he had found his man.

He drew back for a moment, and waited till Lamport had lit his pipe and flung the end of his fusee away. Bill felt the veins on his forehead stand out like knotted ropes. For a moment he stood, his sinewy hands working convulsively, and then, walking up to Lamport, he gripped him on the shoulder and swung him round.

There was no word spoken. Quick as thought Lamport's knife was in his hand. It flashed a moment in the air, and Bill staggered back with an oath. He had been only just in time to escape the stroke, which nevertheless inflicted a slight flesh wound. The next moment the knife was dashed from Lamport's hand, and Bill's fingers were round his throat. He made an effort to struggle, he tried to shout, but, active and powerful as he was, he was like a child in the hands of the giant.

It was ended very soon, that noiseless struggle, and Bill stood over the dead man. He felt for his belt, and regained it with a feeling of intense satisfaction. It was light, but the lost weight was balanced now.

Bill was not of those who hesitated at a critical moment. "Over he goes," said he, and, lifting the body, he flung it over the chains, where it fell with a plash into the water. "And now to follow suit."

He ran down the stone steps of the quay, and, carefully removing his boots, held them together in his teeth. He then pulled off his coat, and for the first time realized that he was wounded.

"Better this way than any other," muttered he to himself as he made a bold plunge and struck out for his ship.

CHAPTER XVII.

FROM THE CHOIR OF THE HOLY INNOCENTS.

Some one has said that there is a consolation in being well dressed that even religion can not afford. It was with the consciousness of this feeling that Lizzie Sarkies knelt by her husband's side at midnight ma.s.s in the Church of the Holy Innocents.

It was New Year's Eve, and the young year was being welcomed in with all the pomp and ceremony of the Roman Catholic ritual. The old year was dying. It had covered its face with its mantle of broken hopes, of resolves unkept, of withered lives. With the New Year would come fresh hope and high resolve. The pages of the past were to be turned down, the fair white sheets of a new record opened, the Most High would lend an attentive ear to the voice of His people calling from the deep. The church was full. Of those who were spared from the dangers of the past some were here to thank the G.o.dhead for his mercy, and to pray as humble creatures should for the light that never comes. There were others with dead hearts, hearts that had gotten the "dry-rot" into them. These came because the others came, because their ears were tickled by the music. Their lips murmured prayers that found no echoes in their souls, and as they looked upon the Host they gave no thought to the past. As for the future, with such as these the future has no lesson to learn. Sufficient for them was it that they lived, and sinned, and died.

Lizzie, and many others beside her, occupied a place midway between these two cla.s.ses. They had not as yet chosen their seats finally. As the solemn notes of the organ joined the silver voices of the choir Lizzie felt the full magnetic power of the music, and prayed with her heart of hearts. When from behind the high altar the low murmur of the prayers trickled down the aisles and buzzed in her ears, Lizzie's bright eyes wandered round the church up to the gallery, where the choir of dark-robed nuns sat; away into the dim colonnades, over the ghostly sea of heads; to the right, where close-cropped, straight-backed, and stalwart of limb, were ranged a contingent of the Royal Irish, then in garrison at Bombay; in front, where sat Madame Eglantine, the celebrated _modiste_, with a creation of forget-me-nots on her head. At all these Lizzie stared, and was comforted.

How pleasant this was after the deadly monotony of the tabernacle!

Here all the rough edges were smoothed off, the corners rounded neatly; there all was granite of the hardest.

The banners swayed their silken folds. From her niche in the wall the Blessed Virgin, done in wax, gazed down upon her with l.u.s.treless eyes.

The tinsel looked like gold. The incense breathed its subtle and intoxicating perfume into her brain.

And now the priests walked in solemn procession up the aisle, the organ pealed forth, and the joyous voices of the choir joined in the hymn of adoration.

At a bound Lizzie's heart went back from earth to heaven. She thrilled with a holy fervour as the music filled the church. Her eyes were full of tears.

Suddenly the voices of the choir died away. The priests had bowed before the altar, and were praying in secret. The organ wailed tremulously. Lizzie stood leaning on the seat in front of her, almost breathless with excitement.

All at once from the gallery a single voice took up the anthem--full, clear, and sweet. It seemed as if it were the answer of heaven to the prayers of the Faithful.

"_Christe c.u.m sit hinc exire_ _Du per matron me venire_ _Ad palmam victoriae_."

Lizzie turned her eyes toward the spot whence the voice came. The light shone full on the dark-robed figure, on the upturned face, thin and pale, and on the sad gray eyes of the singer.

"_Ad palmam victoriae_."

As the words reached her, Lizzie felt the light of a sudden recognition. She turned to her husband and pulled him by the coat-sleeve.