Part 12 (1/2)

”G'home at once,” he shouted, ”or I'll Jimmy you--Jimmy, indeed.

G'home, you----”

He checked himself, and followed his trembling daughters to his brownberry, for he was a ”carriage man.”

This unexpected scene withdrew all attention from the widow and her companion, and when, the princ.i.p.al actors in it had gone, all thought of Halsa Lamport, for the present, vanished from the minds of the church-goers, whose ways home were full of prophecies on the consequences of Mr. Sarkies's folly.

CHAPTER II.

A CUP OF TEA.

The Rigaum Methodist Tabernacle was in a suburb of Bombay called by that name. It was a small oblong building, washed a pale blue, and embedded in a nest of cocoa palms. To the right a Jain temple raised its gold-tipped cupola, and the chimes of the bell which called together the Christian wors.h.i.+ppers of the chapel were often drowned in the discordant shriek of the conch horn, the shrill blast of trumpets, and the incessant beating of drums.

This had resulted in a lawsuit, which ended in leaving the parties much as they were before, except that it was a virtual triumph for the heathen, and his uncanny rejoicings on the Sabbath became more intolerable than ever.

So strong indeed was the feeling on the point that Elder Bullin concluded an extempore prayer one day with the words, ”_And we pray Thee, O Merciful Father! to teach us to forgive our enemies; but to send down the lightning of thy wrath on the heathen, that they, the revilers and mockers of thy wors.h.i.+p, may burn in torment without end--Amen_.”

With the exception of the pastor, John Galbraith, and Halsa Lamport, the congregation consisted of Anglo-Indians and Eurasians of the middle and lower cla.s.ses, the hereditary office hands of the Indian government. The church and the congregation were the remains of a wave of religious enthusiasm that had pa.s.sed over Bombay some years ago.

This originated with an American evangelist, who sought the East to carry, as he said, ”the glad tidings to the heathen white.”

The revivalist met for a time with a success beyond his hopes, and established at least a dozen churches which were filled with devout wors.h.i.+ppers. When the ”Bishop,” as they loved to call him, left to return home, matters were apparently on a firm basis; but in a few years the zeal he inspired died away, and the light burned but in a few places, one of which was in the chapel at Rigaum. Here, at any rate, it seemed to burn almost as brightly as in the palmy days of the Bishop, and there was no doubt that this was due to the pastor.

By no means a learned man, yet with a sympathetic manner and a fund of quiet humour that attracted all who came under its influence, Galbraith was enabled to hold his flock together when their naturally flighty nature and mutual jealousies would have driven them to dissolve with curses.

The pastor lived in a small house adjoining the church, from which it was separated by a brick wall. A narrow gate allowed a pa.s.sage from the chapel enclosure to the ”Manse,” as it was called. In the little plot of ground before the house Galbraith had tried to cultivate a garden, but his efforts were not particularly successful. Nothing would grow here except cocoa palms. There was an everlasting haze of soft dust in the air. The people were accustomed to it, but on a stranger the effect was suffocating. One felt choked in this spot where no pure air ever penetrated the wall of palms. It was never really cool, but a damp pall of dust hung over everything. On the morning we speak of Galbraith rose at an early hour, and, sitting in the small portico of his house, called for a cup of tea. After a little time his Goanese servant appeared, bearing a tray in his hands, on which was a tea-pot, a cup and saucer, with an electro-plated spoon lying beside it; there was a toast also, set in a drunken fas.h.i.+on in a rack.

Manuel's appearance was not attractive, as he shuffled along with his burden, the ends of his toes stuck into a pair of slippers which clicked under his feet. He placed the tea things down on the small table beside Galbraith with a sulky slam that set the spoon twittering in the saucer, and said--

”Master's tea ready.”

The pastor poured himself out a cup, and looked for the milk and sugar. There was none. ”Boy,” said he, ”where is the milk and the sugar?”

”Yessar,” and Manuel disappeared into the house. ”It's very odd,”

mused Galbraith; ”Manuel has been with me nearly two years now, and he persists in not bringing milk and sugar with my morning tea. I must really speak to him--perhaps it is a judgment on me for employing a follower of the Scarlet Woman.” He stirred the tea he had poured out, and tasted it, but set it down with a wry face. ”The old Adam is still strong within me,” he said with a half-smile. ”I can not bear tea alone.”

In the meantime Manuel reached the back of the house and looked round for the goat he had forgotten to milk. The goat was there, in the veranda, and at sight of him she fled toward the temple, the Goanese in hot pursuit.

”Jesu Maria!” he exclaimed as he seized her at last. ”But thou art accursed among beasts--stand still, pig, and be milked.”

He squeezed a certain amount of milk into a jug, and, giving the goat a parting kick, ran back into the house, the jug held at arm's-length in front of him.

On a sideboard was a small gla.s.s bowl, in which there were a few lumps of sugar. Manuel transferred one to his mouth, and then taking up the basin in his disengaged hand hastened into the portico. He placed the milk and sugar on the table, and silently took up a position behind his master's back.

”Manuel,” began Galbraith.

”Yessar.”