THE WIDOW LAMPORT

THE WIDOW LAMPORT.

CHAPTER I.

AT THE DOOR OF THE TABERNACLE.

When Mrs. Lamport, the pretty widow, was observed standing outside the door of the Methodist meeting-house in Rigaum one Sabbath morning after service, the congregation began to wonder and cast little inquiring looks at each other.

They were serious folk, and it was clear to them that the proper course to pursue, after attending divine worship, was to make one's way soberly home, looking neither to the right nor to the left, lest the enemy of mankind should seize his opportunity to the ruin of a soul. Her presence excited curiosity the more as none of the worshippers had seen her in church that day. This absence disappointed the womankind, who were wont to take surreptitious notes of Halsa Lamport's dress, between their fingers, as they knelt apparently absorbed in prayer. Mrs. Lamport stood on the steps of the chapel entrance, leaning lightly on the end of her parasol, a neat figure dressed in white, with a coquettish knot of red ribbons in her high straw hat. The flash of these ribbons in the sunlight caught the eye of Elder Bullin as he stepped forth, smug and clean shaven, his two daughters following demurely in his footsteps. A scowl passed over the old man's features, and he muttered something under his breath about Rahab and the city wall. As the people filed out of church they stared at Mrs. Lamport. Most of the young men lifted their hats, but the greater portion of the women pursed up their lips and sniffed at the figure before them. There were two crimson spots on the widow's cheeks now; she had a temper, and it was evident that it was being put to trial. She rattled the plated end of her parasol on the stone steps, and made an impatient movement.

Let it be at once understood that, as far as the good people of the Rigaum tabernacle knew, there was no record against Mrs. Lamport, except the fact that she was a pure European, and they, for the most part, were of mixed descent. She had come suddenly into their midst about a year ago, and all that they knew of her was that she boarded with the Bunnys, and was supposed to be a distant connection of theirs. Her living with the Bunnys ensured her toleration, for Mr. Bunny was the registrar of a government office, and not a man to be offended with impunity.

Nevertheless the word was passed that friendly relations with the pretty widow were not to be cultivated. It was not to be denied that she was diligent in her attendance at chapel, that no word of hers had given offence--yet the women took alarm, the husbands yielded to their wives, and Mr. Bunny's influence alone preserved an armed neutrality.

As Mr. Bunny and his wife came out of church they stopped and looked inquiringly at the widow, for she had pleaded a headache as an excuse for not attending service with them.

"Come to meet us?" asked Mrs. Bunny with a smile.

"No," was the reply; "I have come to meet Mr. Galbraith."

Almost as the words were spoken the pastor appeared, and after a few moments' conversation he and Mrs. Lamport moved off slowly together, under the shadow of the palm trees, in the direction of Mr. Bunny's house. Mrs. Bunny discreetly induced her husband to take a longer road, and as for those of the congregation who overheard the words spoken, they remained almost struck dumb with astonishment. Mr. Sarkies, however, a semi-Armenian, and a member of the congregation, who was himself looked upon with suspicion as not having yet found Christ, made a little mistake at this moment.

"Well, I'm damned!" said he to himself as he struck his gray pantaloons with a thin cane smartly and looked after the retreating pair. Sarkies prided himself somewhat on being a lady-killer, and it had been his intention, as soon as he had straightened his collar sufficiently, to give the widow the pleasure of his company home.

It was unfortunate for him, however, that the bad word caught Elder Bullin's ear. The old man had stopped for a moment, much against his will, to reply to a remark made by a friend. He was about to rebuke the speaker for having his thoughts on earthly matters on the Lord's Day when the oath, softly spoken though it was, reached him. He turned sharply. "Young man," said he, "swear not at all. Behold!" he added, pointing with his stick at the shrinking figure before him, "here is one whose paths are in the Valley of Sin, and whose ways lead him to hell fire."

"Oh, paw!" exclaimed his eldest daughter deprecatingly.

"I--I beg pardon, Mr. Bullin," stammered Sarkies; "it slipped out."

"Never you come to my house again," continued the elder. "I will bring your scandalous conduct before the next meeting."

Sarkies tried vainly to smile and carry it off with a high hand, but the elder's words attracted a crowd, and their united attention was too much for him. He made an effort, however, to retreat with dignity.

"I don't want--come to y'r'ouse," he said with a sickly smile as he pushed his hat slightly on one side of his head and moved off with an air of apparent unconcern.

At this junction Miss Bullin burst into tears.

"Shame! shame! Lizzie!" exclaimed her sister Laura; but Lizzie was not to be appeased. She wore her heart upon her sleeve, after the manner of some women.

"Oh, my Jimmy!" she cried, and the elder was moved to uncontrollable wrath.

"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 principal 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 worshippers 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 worship, 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 classes, the hereditary office hands of the Indian government. The church and the congregation were the remains of a wave of religious enthusiasm that had passed 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 worshippers. 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 passage 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 fashion 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 glass 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."

"Why is it that I have always to ask you about the milk and sugar. Negligent in these little matters, I fear that you neglect also your higher duties."

Manuel ran his fingers uneasily through his oily locks, and burst out, "Nosar--confess, sar--reglar."

"Confess!" exclaimed Galbraith, roused at having his servant's religious belief thrust before him; "confess to an idol."

"Nosar--confess to Father St. Francis."

"Pish!" and Galbraith helped himself to a fresh cup of tea, but said no more.

When he had finished, the Goanese removed the tea things, and the pastor remained sitting in his easy-chair. He would have liked to smoke; in fact, an almost intolerable longing seized him, but he thrust it down.

"I will not desecrate the Sabbath," he said. He would not even look at his flowers; but after staring for a few minutes at the cheerless walls of the meeting-house, rose and went in.

CHAPTER III.

A BILLET-DOUX.

As Galbraith went into the house he noticed the dreary aspect of the rooms. He laid his hand for a moment on a small side-table, and when he lifted his fingers off their impression was distinctly visible on the dusty surface. A picture on the wall before him had slipped from its moorings, and hung in a helpless sort of way from a brass-headed nail. The pastor mounted a chair, and set the picture straight, wiping the glass carefully with his pocket-handkerchief. As he stepped down he called to mind a remark made by good-natured Mrs. Bunny.

"You want a wife," she said to him one day, when he complained of some domestic trouble, in which Manuel had played a principal part. Her eyes rested, as she said this, on Halsa Lamport, who was standing in the veranda attending to a canary. Galbraith followed the glance, and although he smiled a little, and parried the speech, Mrs. Bunny's words set him thinking seriously. And now the little episode of the milk and sugar and the untidy room brought Mrs. Bunny's words back again. It struck him that Mrs. Lamport was very kind and gracious to him. The recollection of their last meeting, and the slight yet warm pressure of her hand which had sent the blood dancing through his veins, came vividly before him.

He reached his dressing-room, and looked at the glass. The few gray hairs were not unbecoming, and he was a well set up man--not bad looking too, he thought, and then--he blushed like a girl at his own folly, and proceeded to dress. Service was at eleven. It was now only eight, so that Galbraith had three hours at his disposal. There was, of course, a Sunday-school class, but this was under the special care of Elder Bullin. It was on such mornings that the elder was in his element. He insisted on a verbatim repetition by heart of a chapter of the Bible by every member of his small class, and in case of failure--three mistakes only were allowed--he painted in glowing colours the horrors of eternal torment that awaited the culprit, when his earthly life closed. He would go so far as to definitely state that the shadowy wings of Death were at that moment hovering over the class, and it often happened that a small member was so overcome with terror that he had to retire bellowing lustily. Fortnightly the elder gave the class an extempore lecture of vast length, and on the following day his two daughters were required to write this out from memory, a labour watered with their tears.

Galbraith completed his toilet, and went into his study to touch up his sermon. The text he had chosen was, "And God hath both raised up the Lord, and will also raise up us by his own power." They were strong, healthful words, but the pastor was not quite certain that he realized their meaning. He was of those who judge of great things by comparing them with little things. He had found that small vices were extremely hard, sometimes impossible, to get rid of, notwithstanding the most assiduous application to the Deity. He almost despaired at times of one of the primal doctrines of his sect--the direct intervention of Providence in the affairs of this world. He was by turns full of certainty and full of doubt. He was willing to concede that the all-seeing eye marked the sparrow falling, but for the life of him he could not help asking himself why the sparrow was allowed to come to disaster.

His profession and education taught him that such a question was almost a deadly sin, and then would come a long fight between the man's religion and his reasoning powers.

He ran his eyes over the text at the head of his sermon with a look of doubt in them, and while doing so his hand unconsciously stole to the corner of his table, where a brown cherry-wood pipe lay snugly on a fur tobacco-bag. The touch of his fingers against the satin surface of the wood aroused him in a moment to a sense of what he was about to do. He looked at his outstretched hand, the pipe held between his fingers, and then burst out laughing. A moment after his face became grave. "The sparrow was not allowed to fall this time, at any rate," he said, as he put down the pipe and lifted up a small Bible. He turned to the chapter whence he had taken his text, and read it attentively to the end. He went on to the next chapter. It was that in which St. Paul lectures the Corinthians on their conjugal duties. John Galbraith read this slowly, his eyebrows now and then contracting into a slight frown. While he read the face of Halsa Lamport seemed to come between him and the pages, and unseen lips to murmur her name in his ears. There was no use in resisting any longer. In fact, he had never made any resistance, but from the time of Mrs. Bunny's speech mentally associated the widow in all his actions; perhaps, too, the defects in his domestic arrangements had their effect, although he may not have been conscious of the full extent of the power.

"I'll risk it," he said, with sudden resolution, as he pulled a piece of writing paper toward himself and seized a pen. But it was easier said than done, and John ran through a good dozen sheets before he decided on what to say. What he did say was this. He wrote to Halsa Lamport asking for an interview that day as he had that to tell her which was of the greatest importance to himself. The note was very brief, and contained nothing more. He folded and addressed the letter as Manuel came in to announce breakfast. Manuel had smartened himself up. He had on a clean white linen jacket. His hair was more resplendent than ever.

Galbraith felt that breakfast was out of the question. He was feverishly eager now for the time to come when he should see Halsa, and hear from her "ay" or "nay."

"I don't think I'll have any breakfast to-day; and look here, Manuel, take this note to Mr. Bunny's house, and give it to Mrs. Lamport. Bring the answer back before I go to church."

Now the Bunnys lived some little distance away from the Manse, and Manuel was not fond of walking. He tried to put off the evil hour by an affectation of concern. He took the note from Galbraith, and said--

"Yessar--master not ill?"

"No--no," replied Galbraith; "take the note at once, please."

"Fry pomflit for breakfas, sar," said Manuel, "and prong curry--all spile."

"Never mind, Manuel--we'll have some another day. Take that letter and--run."

Manuel did as he was bidden, and Galbraith watched him shuffling along the road until he reached the corner where Pedro Pinto's liquor stall stood. Manuel hesitated a moment here. A glass of toddy, a liquor made out of the fermented sap of the palmyra, would be very grateful; but--he glanced round only to find the pastor standing at the gate and watching him. With a sigh the Goanese turned and went on; but, now that he had passed the curve of the street, slackened his pace to a leisurely walk. He remained away for more than an hour, during which time Galbraith paced the little veranda impatiently, wondering whether there would be any reply to his note. It was impossible to think of anything else, and each moment seemed to him an age. At intervals he walked to the gate, and looked down the road, but there was no sign of Manuel. At last he saw him turn the corner; whereupon, filled with a sudden terror, John hastily retreated into his study, and began to turn over the leaves of his sermon. He tried to persuade himself that he had retired because it was undignified to watch his servant in this manner, but the thick beating of his heart told him he lied to himself. At last there was a shuffle at the door, and Manuel, coming in, stood before his master silently.

Galbraith looked at him. "Did you give the letter? Was there any answer?"

"Yessar." Manuel produced a little gray square envelope from his breast pocket and handed it to Galbraith.

"Very well," said the pastor as he stretched forth his hand to receive the letter, "you can go now."

"Master have tiffin?" inquired Manuel, but Galbraith peremptorily ordered him out of the room. When he had gone John tore the note open. It was written on that abominable pattern of paper which folds like an envelope, and as a consequence, Galbraith in his excitement tore the whole letter in two. With hands that trembled with eagerness he placed the pieces together, and resting them on the table, read the reply--

"I will meet you after church, and we can walk home together."

There was no signature, but Galbraith knew the handwriting. He looked furtively around, and then kissing the precious scraps of paper, locked them carefully away.

CHAPTER IV.

YES.

On leaving the church, Galbraith and his companion walked slowly down the road. The street was hedged in between two low walls, gray with age, and partly coated with a short, thick moss, whose original colour was hidden by the dust lying heavy upon it. The tops of the walls were covered with bits of broken glass, fragments of bottles stuck upright into the masonry as a defence against trespassers.

Behind these barriers, on either side, the date and cocoa palms grew in thick profusion, hiding from view the dwelling-houses which lay among them. At short intervals a disreputable-looking gate was passed, the paint peeling off in patches from the wood-work. With the exception of the one or two couples returning from service, and a few native Christians at Pinto's liquor stall, lounging with the flies among the long-necked glass bottles, there were no people in the street. The middle of the road was six inches deep in fine dust, but on the side where the pavement should have been, was a small pathway, beaten hard, with just sufficient room for two, provided they walked somewhat closely to each other. John went in the dust, leaving his companion the whole of the sidewalk. His boots were covered with the clinging gray powder, and a portion of it had sprinkled itself on his clothes.

"It's very dusty there, Mr. Galbraith; don't you think you had better come on to the sidewalk?"

"Thank you," said John humbly, as he joined the widow. As he came up, the folds of her dress brushed against him, and her shoulder grazed his. The touch sent a thrill through Galbraith's veins.

"I--I beg pardon," said he nervously, "I am very awkward."

The widow smiled slightly, and shot a glance at him from under her dark eye-lashes. "I don't see that you have anything to beg pardon for."

Galbraith was about to say that all life should be one appeal for pardon, but he checked himself, and, glancing at the walls on either side of them, remarked--

"I wonder how many thousands of bottles were used to make that defence work on the walls here!"

"I really couldn't tell, Mr. Galbraith," replied the widow a little sharply.

John remained silent and abashed for a few moments, and at last she spoke.

"I got your letter, of course, this morning. What was it you were going to tell me? Not about the glass bottles, I hope?" and she showed an even row of pearly teeth between her red lips.

A cold sweat burst out on Galbraith's forehead, and his tongue seemed paralysed. "I--I," he stammered, and then he clutched at a straw. "But what a number of people are on the road to-day."

"There is the short cut, and I think we had better take that." The widow lifted her skirts slightly, and daintily tripped across. John caught a glimpse of an exquisite foot and ankle as he followed.

"Lord," he cried in his heart, "deliver me from temptation!"

Arrived at the opposite side of the road, Halsa turned to her companion, and putting out her foot, looked ruefully at it.

"I have made my boots so dusty--what a horrid road this is!"

John glanced round him nervously, then he pulled out his handkerchief.

"May I?" he asked in a hesitating manner as he waved the folds in the air.

"If you would be so kind;" and John, stooping down, brushed away the dust from one dainty foot, and then the other. He could not help lingering over the task.

The widow, looking down on him, smiled to herself. "He's getting on," she murmured, and then--

"I think that will do--thank you so much. I'm afraid you have ruined that handkerchief--I'm so sorry."

John gave a last brush at the boot before him and rose. He was a little red in the face, but--he was getting on.

"I shall always keep this handkerchief sacredly, Mrs. Lamport," said he, putting it into his pocket carefully.

"How ridiculous!" And the widow gave a little toss to her head, her colour rising slightly.

They walked down the lane until they reached a small gateway. "This," said Halsa as she passed through it, "takes us into the custard apple garden, immediately behind the palm tree, and my favourite seat is there--near the well."

Galbraith followed her under the shade of the palms to the orchard. Their feet crackled over the dry leaves. A rough wooden seat was placed near a banyan tree which spread its shade over the well. Behind the seat was a thick lentena hedge in full bloom, and the butterflies were playing in a small cloud over the blossoms. Close to them a few mynas squabbled over some fallen fruit, and a gray squirrel scuttled past their feet up the trunk of the banyan, and chattered shrilly at them from its branches.

The widow sank into the seat with a comfortable purr, and began tracing imaginary diagrams with the end of her parasol among the fallen leaves at her feet. Galbraith remained standing. "Won't you sit down, Mr. Galbraith?" and Halsa pointed to the vacant space at her side. "There's room for two."

"It is not very warm to-day," he said, as he accepted the invitation.

"No; I think it is quite cool. Look at the clouds. I shouldn't be surprised if there was rain;" and the widow looked up at the fleecy masses which had floated between the sunlight and the earth, hiding the glare and cooling the day.

"Yes, I think we want some rain. This is about the time it usually comes."

"Does it?" Halsa turned her eyes straight upon Galbraith as she said this and looked at him. They were very pretty eyes, very honest and true.

Galbraith had thought over what he meant to say, but could remember nothing. All at once a desperate courage seemed to possess him. "Halsa," he said--his voice was very low and tender--"will you give me this?" He took her hand as he spoke. It lay in his unresistingly. It seemed to return his warm pressure.

The widow's eyes were lowered now, and her cheeks like flame. "My dear," he said, and Halsa, lifting up her face, answered, "I will."

Galbraith could hardly believe himself. He could almost hear the beating of his own heart as he sat with Halsa Lamport's hand in his.

After a while she drew her hand gently away. "Was it this that you meant to tell me?" she asked, and John smiled back "Yes."

There was another silence of a few minutes. Galbraith breathed a silent prayer for the blessing which he believed had been vouchsafed to him. "Lord," he murmured to himself, "I see thy work in this."

"It's getting late," said Halsa suddenly. "They must be back from church now, and will miss us." She rose and stood near Galbraith, her dress touching him. John stood up meekly, and as he stood the widow started back with a little cry, "Don't!"

"Don't--what?"

"I--I thought----" She did not finish her sentence, for the next moment Galbraith's arm was round her waist, and he drew her toward him. Except his mother, he had never touched lip of woman. He kissed her gently with the tenderest possible pressure, and then he kissed her again and again, until at last Halsa drew herself from his arm.

"There," she said, "I think that's enough for you to-day."

John wondered to himself if he could ever have enough of the nectar he had tasted.

"We must really go in now," said Halsa decisively.

"One kiss more," he pleaded. His arm was round her waist; her lips were once more raised to his, when there was a crash in the lentena hedge, a rush of scampering feet, and a shrill voice called out:

"Oh my! how nice! I'm going to tell mummy."

The lovers shot back from each other, and the widow bit her lips with anger.

"It's that horrid little Eddy Bunny. He must have been watching us the whole time. I should like to shake him," and she stamped her foot.

John recovered himself. "Never mind, darling," he said. "Eddy will only break the news for us."

It was wonderful how easy it all seemed now.

CHAPTER V.

MRS. BUNNY DOUBTS.

On Sundays the carved blackwood furniture in the Bunny's drawing-room emerged from its weekly suit of holland and shone resplendent in red satin upholstery. Mr. Bunny had exchanged his boots for a pair of list slippers, and was seated in a straight-backed chair, his spectacles pushed on to his forehead. He was a little ill-tempered at having had to take that long road home, and regretted that he had not taken out his brownberry. It was just this point, however, that he was unwilling to concede to Elder Bullin. In a recent argument Bunny maintained that it was flying in the face of divine law to work a horse on a Sunday. The elder held more practical opinions on the subject, and there had almost been an open rupture. Since that time, however, Bunny walked to church on the Sabbath, but was beginning to regret his line of action. He was not a young man, and adipose tissue had increased with his years. It irritated him to see the elder pass him with his pair of katty-war horses. Bunny had only one. The irritation he felt, however, was equalled by the sense of satisfaction that stole over the elder as he passed his opponent engaged in carrying out his convictions. There was a rustle, and Mrs. Bunny came into the room in her black silk dress. She was nearly fifteen years younger than her husband, a somewhat uncommon thing in the class of life to which they belonged, where husband and wife are mostly of the same age, or very near it. Her active habits had, moreover, prevented her from running into flesh as most Eurasian women do. She came into the room briskly, stopped, set some grass in a vase straight, and picking up The Evangelical Record, the organ of the Methodist community, settled herself in a chair opposite Bunny, after giving a satisfied glance round the room.

"Halsa and Mr. Galbraith haven't come in yet?" said Bunny, a tone of inquiry in his voice.

"They'll be in just now," replied his wife, unfolding the sheets of the paper and smiling to herself. She was a cunning little woman, and had long read Galbraith's feelings in his eyes.

"Where's Eddy?" asked the father. Eddy was their only child, a boy about twelve years of age. "I think I'll hear him his chapter," he added.

"Yes--where's the boy? Ed-dee!--Ed-dee!" and Mrs. Bunny cried aloud for her offspring.

There was a patter of footsteps in the hall, a rush up the passage, and Eddy burst into the room.

"Oh, maw!" he exclaimed, "Mr. Galbraith is kissing Aunty Halsa in the garden!"

"What!" shouted Bunny, fairly jumping to his feet.

Mrs. Bunny burst out laughing. "You old goose, wait till they come in, and you'll hear more."

"On the Lord's day, too!" said Bunny, holding up his hands. "And what were you doing in the garden? Have you learned your chapter?"

Eddy shuffled from one leg to the other. "It was very long," he protested with a whimper.

"I'll long you--come with me," and Bunny took Eddy's right ear between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand.

Eddy set up a dolorous howling, and Mrs. Bunny interposed. "Remember it's Sunday, Tom," she said.

"Oh--here you are," she added, as Galbraith and Halsa came into the room. Eddy seized his opportunity, and made a run for it.

Galbraith came forward at once, leading Halsa by the hand.

"Mr. Bunny," he said, "I have asked Halsa to be my wife, and she has said----"

"Yes--I knew she would," and Mrs. Bunny kissed Halsa, who blushed and trembled very much.

Mr. Bunny shook hands alternately with Halsa and Galbraith.

"I am very glad," he said. "I didn't think of this; but I am very glad."

After a while Galbraith left. It was agreed that the engagement should be given out at the next meeting of the Council of the Tabernacle, which was to be held in a few days.

"But Eddy knows all about it," said Mrs. Bunny, and Halsa blushed furiously, while Galbraith looked helplessly around.

"I don't think Eddy will say much after I have spoken to him," said Bunny; "and, Galbraith, don't forget that you dine here to-night."

They all walked home after the evening service, and dined quietly and happily together. When the time came for Galbraith to go, Halsa walked with him to the gate. They lingered for a moment there together.

"Good-night, John." She raised her face to his, and he kissed her softly.

"You do not regret?" asked Galbraith, and for answer Halsa kissed him of her own accord. He turned at last, and vanished into the gloom.

That night when they retired to rest, and Bunny and his wife had read a chapter of the big leather-covered Bible, which lay on a small table in their bedroom, Mrs. Bunny turned to her husband.

"Tom," she said, "what if all this should end badly? I am frightened now."

"Why should it end badly?" and Bunny wiped his spectacles carefully and folded them into their case.

"I am afraid now--I don't know why. Why don't you tell me all about Halsa? You never have."

"There's not much to tell. You knew Stephen Lamport, my cousin, when he married Halsa six years ago, and we went on board the Petrel and met them. You know what a scoundrel Stephen was. He led her an awful life for six years, and then deserted her before that last voyage of his to the Mauritius, when the Mahi went down with all on board. Lamport was a big blackguard, but he is dead now."

"What if Stephen is not dead?"

"Not dead--that's nonsense. But it's half-past ten, and I'm going to bed."

Nevertheless Maggie Bunny lay awake late that night. What if Stephen Lamport should not be dead? she kept ever thinking to herself.

At last she stole out of bed and prayed in the dim light for Halsa and Galbraith. When she rose she felt comforted and refreshed. She stole back slowly; Bunny was asleep, and she looked at his face.

"He is a good man," she murmured; "but----"

CHAPTER VI.

MASTER EDWARD BUNNY.

Mr. Sarkies lived with his widowed mother and an unmarried aunt, an elderly spinster, in a small house behind that occupied by the Bunnys. The family were of Armenian descent, although they were unwilling to own the fact. Wherever they went, however, they bore the cachet of their origin with them in their noses, the insignia of race bestowed upon them by Providence. When the wave of religious enthusiasm swept over Bombay it caught up among other flotsam the Sarkies family. The head of the house died shortly after this event, making a most edifying end. He left a little money, and his son was educated as well as it was possible for a man of his class, and was now an assistant accountant in the great firm of Apcoon Brothers, and in receipt of a salary of about two hundred pounds a year. Of a light, volatile character by nature, the strain of having to live under the restraints of the sect to which he belonged was sometimes too much for Sarkies, and he often broke out occasionally, as on the memorable Sunday when the elder fell foul of him, with disastrous results to himself. He was idolized by his mother and his aunt, and was a contributor to the Poet's Corner of the Bombay Bouncer. He had been much touched by the emotion displayed by Lizzie Bullin when the elder attacked him. He sat up half the night pouring his feelings into verse. He rose early, and copied the verses out neatly on a piece of bright pink Baskeville paper, with a blue J. S. in rustic letters on the top. This he folded carefully in an envelope, but did not address it. "Don't want rows," he said emphatically to himself. His excitement was so great that he contented himself with about one-third of his usual quantity of curry for breakfast, and, entering his buggy, a legacy from his father, in which an old flea-bitten Arab worked loyally, he drove toward his place of business.

"Mind and come back earlee, Jimmee!" screamed his aunt after him.

"Yes, auntee," and the buggy rattled out of the gate on to the road, a cloud of dust rising behind it.

He had not gone far when he saw Eddy Bunny before him, walking to school, a satchel full of books swinging in his hand. A happy thought struck Sarkies; Eddy Bunny attended the High School, where both boys and girls were taught, in different classes, however. Now Sarkies knew that a small sister of Lizzie's was also a pupil at the school. If he could only induce Eddy to give the verses to Florry they would be sure to reach safely. He pulled up, therefore.

"Hallo, Eddy!"

"Hallo!" shouted back the boy, making a shambling sort of salute.

"Want a lift?--drive you to school."

"Orright," and Eddy climbed in.

"When I grow up I'm going to get a buggy better than this."

Sarkies felt a little nettled, but made no reply. He hit the horse smartly, and the beast kicked up its heels, and then went on.

"I say, give me the whip."

"Here you are; and look here, Eddy, I want you to do something for me."

"Aw!"

"Do you know Florry Bullin?"

"She's my sweetheart," replied Eddy; "I'm going to marry her when I grow up."

Better and better, thought Sarkies. "Well, look here, Eddy: Lizzie is my sweetheart, and I want to marry her."

"Then you are not going to marry Aunty Halsa? But she wouldn't marry you; she is going to marry Mr. Galbraith."

"What!" Sarkies pulled the reins in and stopped the horse.

"Yes. What'er you stopping for?"--chick, slish--and Eddy used the whip with all his little might.

"Are you sure of this?" asked Sarkies, as they moved on.

"Yes; paw said he'd lick me if I spoke about it."

"Well, look here, Eddy; I want you to give a letter I have to Lizzie; give it to Florry, and tell her to give it. I will give you a ru--no, eight annas, if you do this, and mind and keep quiet about it, or I'll tell that you spoke about Aunty Halsa."

"Give me the eight annas," said Eddy, stretching out his disengaged hand.

They had reached the school gate by this time.

"All right; get down first."

Eddy descended, and held out a small paw, into which Sarkies dropped the coin.

"Quick!" said Eddy, "the bell is ringing. Give me the letter."

Sarkies handed him the note. "Be careful," he said, and Eddy, nodding, turned back in the direction of the school. He had not gone ten yards, however, when he stopped suddenly.

"Mr. Sarkies!" he shouted.

"What is it?"

"Oh! I heard paw tell maw that you are to be turned out of church--wot fun!" He turned again and ran down the road toward the school.

Sarkies was taken aback. He had no idea that the elder meant to carry his threat out.

"Damfool!" he burst out savagely and loudly, for there was no danger of being overheard. Having relieved his feelings in this manner, he urged the old Arab forward, and the buggy once more joggled down the road.

It was not until the half-hour's recess that Eddy obtained an opportunity to deliver the note. He pulled out of his satchel, which hung on a peg in the veranda of the school, a brown paper parcel containing his lunch--egg sandwiches. Clutching this in one hand, he made his way to the back garden of the school, and found Flora Bullin there. It was their trysting place.

"Have a sweet?" she asked, handing him a lozenge which had become rather damp and limp in her hand.

"Lozengers--eh!" said Eddy, and transferred the delicate morsel to his mouth.

"I say," he said, "that's nice." He took a huge bite out of one of his egg sandwiches and began to speak again, with his mouth full.

"I say, Florry, Jim Sarkies is sweet on Lizzie."

"Lizzie is a horrid cat," replied Florry, as she soberly chose a sweet for herself out of a glass bottle. "She pinched me--awfool, last night, as I lay awake and listened. See there," and Florry bared a small arm showing the blue marks of a finger and thumb.

Eddy examined it gravely. "How did you get caught?" he inquired--"laff?"

"Yes."

"Well, you are a muff. I never get caught that way."

"Oh, but you're a boy!"

"Yes; when I'm a man I'm going to marry you--do you hear that?"

Florry nodded. "All right," she said. "What did Jimmee say about Lizzie?"

"Oh! he gave me--a--hm--no--he gave me a letter for Lizzie, and I promised to give it to you to give to her, y'know."

"Where's the letter?--give it to me."

Eddy pulled out of his pocket the envelope, now soiled and grimy from contact with a peg-top, a bit of native sweetmeat, and the leather pouch of his catapult.

"Here 'tis," he said; "you'll give it to Lizzie?"

Florry took the letter carefully. "It's very dirty," she said, as she slipped it into her pocket. There was a silence of about a minute, during which time Eddy finished the remainder of his sandwiches.

"Well," he said, "I'm off to bowl a little; you girls are no use--can't do anything."

"Stop a minute, Eddy. Lizzie is a cat. She don't like you neither. Wouldn't it be fun to give this letter to paw?"

"Urn," reflected Eddy, "Lizzie pinched you. I won't have anybody pinching you, y'know. I'm going to marry you when I grow up. Serve Jimmy Sarkies right, too," he added, suddenly brightening up--"awful sneak. Yes, leave it on your paw's table, and say nothing. I'm off now, only ten minutes left."

"Look here, Eddy."

"Oh, bother! what's it now?"

"Only this. I might like to marry some one else, you know, when I grow up. Ta--ta." She blew a kiss at him, and was gone.

Eddy thrust his hands into his pockets and looked moodily after her. Suddenly an idea seemed to strike him. "It's Billy Bunder," he said, striking his clenched fist into his open palm--"only wait till I catch him----"

Clang, clang, went the school bell. The recess was over.