Kitabı oku: «A Galahad of the Creeks; The Widow Lamport», sayfa 11

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 assist 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 pass into the church. When the bride came Sarkies slipped into the church unobserved 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 passed him unobserved, and, getting into his buggy, drove away rapidly. At Mr. Bunny's all was very gay. As a special occasion glasses 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 institution, 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 unobserved. 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 passed-"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 passage 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 passage 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, God, have you no mercy?" moaned his victim.

"You'd better ask God to give you the dollars-you'll want them badly, if I mistake not," said Lamport as he seated himself in a chair.

"How much do you want?" asked Halsa in a faint voice. What she desired was to gain a little time. All this had happened with such awful suddenness. If she could persuade this man to go away with all she had, even for a day, she could decide on some course of action. At present, beyond the one idea of getting rid of Lamport, nothing else crossed her mind.

"Oh, a thousand will see me!" said Lamport. "I suppose you can give me a hundred now-take it out of the poor-box-and the rest I must have in three days, or I blow the whole gaff. I will tell you where to send it."

Halsa stood before him lacing and interlacing her fingers. While Lamport was speaking she was thinking: money-there was no use in giving this man money, even if she could lay her hands on the impossible sum he named. She had never deceived John; she would not do so now, come what may. She was a brave woman, and rose to her trouble.

"Stephen Lamport," she said slowly, "listen to me: you shall not have one penny from me-you can do your worst. God will help me."

Lamport looked at her in amazement. "You damned fool!" he said; "do you know what the consequences of this will be?"

"Go!" said his wife, pointing to the door; "I shall tell John Galbraith all myself-he is a good man-he will know. Ah!" and she sprang past Lamport, "John, you have come back-save me." She looked at Galbraith's face, and the glance showed that he knew all. She slid down and knelt at his feet. "Forgive me," she said; "God knows that I was innocent."

As Galbraith entered the room Lamport retreated toward the corner, and, laying his hand on the back of the chair, waited for what he fully expected would happen. He was no coward, and was quite prepared for a physical struggle. Galbraith had heard all. In their excitement neither Halsa nor Lamport were aware that he had been in the passage almost as soon as they entered the study. The first few words that reached him rooted him to the spot, and he heard everything that followed. For the first time in his life he felt the wild beast within him awake. His breath came thick and fast, and then through it all a voice seemed to shout in his ears that he had no claim-that they who were before him were husband and wife, and he the outsider. The man lived a lifetime standing there. At last he could bear it no longer, and stepped into' the room. Gently, very gently, he lifted the woman whom he loved, and supported her with his arm.

"I believe every word you have said; as for that man-" his voice failed him. He stood before Lamport with an ashy face that quivered with anguish.

But Lamport was not going to give up the struggle. He had wandered here in a half-drunken state, bent on extorting money; if this could not be done he was in the humour for any mischief. He was almost sobered by what had happened, and his malice was ready to suggest the means of inflicting further misery. There seemed no chance of the physical struggle he expected. Well, he could wound in other ways than with the blade of Bill's knife, over the haft of which he had gently slipped his hand.

"Look here," he said; "that woman there is my wife-she dare not deny it-I claim her."

Galbraith's hold tightened round Halsa's waist, but she drew herself from him.

"It is true; every word he has spoken is true; but he has forgotten the whole story-the ill-treatment, the wilful desertion, the devilish malignity of his last action. Oh, God is very merciful, is he not?" she cried hysterically; "and yet you," and she pointed to Lamport, "are my husband, and I suppose the law gives you the right to claim me. I am ready to go."

Galbraith walked to the table and sank into a chair. He buried his face in his arms, and sat there silently. While Halsa spoke there had been a short but mighty struggle in his heart between the man and the priest, and as her voice ceased the priest had triumphed. The woman looked at him as he sat there, motionless and silent. "Come," she said to Lamport, "let us go-but first this-" She suddenly knelt at Galbraith's side, and, taking his hand in both of hers, kissed it passionately, and then rising walked out of the room into the night, her companion following closely behind.

How long Galbraith stayed thus he never knew, but the gray light of the morning was streaming into the room when he lifted his head and looked around him. With a shudder he covered his face again with his hands. A wild thought struck him that after all it might have been a hideous dream, and he rose from his chair, but only to sink down again in despair as the horrible reality of it all forced itself upon him. He remembered it was Sunday, that in a few hours it would be time for him to be in church. Of course this was impossible. He felt that he could endure being in the house no longer, and, taking his soft felt hat, walked out into the garden. Which way had she gone? A sob rose to his throat as he thought of this-was he right? He began to doubt, and then it struck him that he would see Bunny. He would tell Bunny all, and act upon his advice; but as for the church, he felt he could never enter one again. What had he done that this awful misfortune should have come upon him? He bent his steps toward the road leading to Bunny's house. Although the sun was barely up, he found the old man in his garden, and he came forward cheerily to meet Galbraith. One look at his face, however, told him that something dreadful had occurred.

"Come into my office," he said, and led John to the back of the house.

CHAPTER XIII
HUSBAND AND WIFE

On leaving the house Halsa and her companion walked toward the gate. She had snatched up a hat from the stand in the passage as she passed through, but had not thought of taking a cloak, and even by the time they reached the gate the steady drizzle had drenched her light dress. She stopped here for a moment, and, turning, looked back at the house. Through the mist of rain she saw the windows of the study and the lamp burning brightly. Within the study was-as she thought of him, an uncontrollable sob burst from her.

"Are you going to stay here all night?" asked Lamport roughly.

"Which way are we going?" she replied.

"Any way I choose; go straight ahead. Keep alongside of me if you can; if not, follow. I want to get out of the rain."

And Lamport, plunging his hands deep into his pockets, stepped forward at a pace so rapid that his wife was only barely able to keep up with him. They spoke no word to each other, but at intervals Lamport swore aloud to himself, and cursed Halsa. He was bitterly disappointed at the failure of his plans; he was furious with Halsa for following him as she had. He had not quite expected this. The drink was working in his brain, rousing him to madness.

Halsa felt that every step was taking her away from the best part of her life, and yet with all the sorrow was mingled a proud sense of the sacrifice she had made. Then a great doubt came upon her. Had she acted rightly? Was this man-this fiend who had deliberately allowed her to commit a crime-worth the sacrifice? No, a thousand times no. She had it almost in her heart to turn back and throw herself at Galbraith's feet, to be his slave, to be anything, rather than parted from him. Then the horror and shame of it all made the hot blood rush in madness to her face. And so, on they went through the dark street, where lamps shone only at long intervals amid the ghostly gloom of the cocoa palms, and the rain now pouring fast. Her clothes were drenched through, and Halsa felt that her strength would not enable her to keep up with her companion much longer. At last she could endure no more, and slackened her pace. Lamport walked on for a little, and then, apparently suddenly missing her from his side, turned sharply.

"Did I not tell you to keep up with me?" he said.

Halsa made no reply, but the strain was too great for her, and she burst into a passion of tears. Lamport looked on her for a moment, and then, raising his clenched fist, he struck her down.

"Damn you!" he said, "you can die there if you like." He had longed for this opportunity ever since they had left the house. He looked at the motionless body before him. "I have a mind to finish the job," said he aloud, and his knife seemed to slip into his fingers of its own accord. He glanced round him for a moment, and as he did so he heard the rumble of carriage wheels and saw the flash of lights as they turned the corner of the dark street, not fifty yards ahead. Quick as lightning Lamport dashed down a narrow side road between two walls, and disappeared in the darkness. Almost as he did this the carriage came up. The horses shied backward on their haunches, and then stopped dead. There was the alarmed cry of feminine voices, and an anxious inquiry made in deeper tones. The groom, descending from the seat behind, went forward.

"'Tis some one lying on the road dead or drunk, Padre."

"Most likely the latter," was the reply as the Padre stepped out of the carriage and went forward. "Here, Pedro, hand me that light. Good God!" he exclaimed as he bent over the prostrate figure, "it is a woman-a European, too; there has been some devil's work here. Hold the light up, Pedro, while I lift her-thanks-Mother," said he to another figure, that of a woman clad in a long dark gown, who had followed him out of the carriage, "this is work for you; help me with her to the carriage."

He raised the body in his arms, and with the assistance of the nun and two others, her companions, who had come out of the carriage, put Halsa in.

"Is she dead?" asked one, evidently a young woman from her voice.

"No," said the nun whom the Padre had addressed as mother, "she breathes yet. Pedro, drive on quickly."

Pedro needed no further bidding; he waited but for a moment until the Padre climbed on to the box seat beside him, and then urged the horses on almost at a gallop through the endless avenues of palms. Finally they stopped before a large gate, and after much shouting it was opened, and the carriage drove in. They were met at the door by two nuns, and with their assistance the unconscious body of Halsa was carried in. The Padre examined the wound; there was a deep cut on the forehead, but nothing else. "There is no necessity for a doctor," he said, "but I shall tell D'Almeida to come to-morrow. This is a case of-" He touched his hand to his heart, and, giving the nuns his blessing, entered his carriage and drove off.

* * * * *

Very tenderly the nuns cared for Halsa. She regained consciousness in the morning, but when the white-haired Doctor D'Almeida came he pronounced her in high fever. Then came a long illness, and after that convalescence. When she was better at last, she called the superior, Mother St. Catherine, to her side and told her her story. "And now," she said with a faint voice, "I am better and must go." Then the good nun spoke to her long and earnestly, and Father St. Francis came. He bore her news that made her cheek flush and then grow pale. "Take time to consider," said the priest as he left her. A week after Halsa saw the lady superior once more. "I have considered," she said. The superior looked into her eyes: "It is well," she said, as she stooped and kissed her.