Part 19 (2/2)
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 companions.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 s.h.i.+ning 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.
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