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.
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.
About half an hour before the time fixed for morning service, Mr. Bunny, his face very grave and set, stepped out of the portico of the manse. He passed through the narrow wicket-gate and entered the church enclosure. The Sunday-school class was over, and a few children were loitering at the main entrance. Others were making their way home in little groups, a feeling of relief in their hearts, and with the consciousness of an unpleasant duty done. Bunny entered the tabernacle by a side door. The clerk was already there, and with him the elder, who had just dismissed his class. They were talking in low tones, and looked up quickly as their ears caught the sound of Bunny's footsteps, which rang with a harsh clang on the stone floor. A whisper had gone forth from the servants' quarters at the manse that something terrible had happened during the night. The attendant who cleaned the church, and who during the service pulled the huge fans which swung in a monotonous manner over the heads of the worshippers, echoed this whisper to the clerk. It is the way news is carried in the East, and it is very rapid. It is impossible to tell how, but the mysterious thing called bazaar gossip travels from ear to ear, from mouth to mouth, telling strange tales which afterward unfold themselves in the press as news, or are discovered in a government resolution. And so the clerk heard a story from the puller of fans, news of the last night, thick with strange scandal, and he was dropping this into the elder's attentive ears. They stopped their conversation as Bunny approached, and somewhat awkwardly wished him good-morning. Bunny merely nodded in reply, and, turning to the clerk, begged him to excuse him as he had something of importance to tell the elder.
"If it is about Mrs. Galbraith, sir," replied the clerk, "I have just been telling the elder of it."
Bunny looked at him sharply from under his gray eyebrows, and the clerk, who was also his official subordinate, quailed under the glance.
"If so, you have been speaking of what you had no right to mention; but, as you appear to know something, stay and hear what I have to say, and you will hear what is the truth." Bunny then turned his back upon the clerk, and in as short a manner as possible described what had happened to the elder. He was no waster of words. He put what he had to say clearly before his listener, but his voice shook as he went on.
The elder, for the first time in his life, showed that he was moved. He had opposed Galbraith, quarrelled with him, and had spoken bitterly against his wife. He had thought that if some terrible sorrow overtook them it would be a righteous judgment, although he had never been able to explain to himself why this judgment should fall on them. And now that it had come, that it was staring him in all its hideous reality in the face, the elder was stirred to the deepest pity and compassion. "God help them!" he exclaimed, passing his handkerchief over his face to hide his emotion--"God help them!" When he had said this he remained silent, digging the end of his stout stick into a hassock which lay near his feet. The clerk interrupted the silence.
"Will there be service to-day?" he asked.
"Let everything go on as usual," replied the elder. "Mr. Bunny and myself will settle this when the time comes--and now, Bunny, a word with you."
The clerk took the hint and stepped back, and the two men, whose mutual jealousies had for some years past threatened to dissolve the community, walked arm-in-arm down the aisle between the grim rows of empty benches soon to be filled with Sabbath worshippers.
"Will he go?" asked the elder.
"Yes," replied Bunny, "and at once. I have advised this course. In his present state of mind there is nothing else for him to do."
"Very well," replied Bullin; "we had better see him to-day; there are a few things that must be done--we, as members of the council, can arrange this."
Bunny thanked him. "It is what I was going to propose myself," he said; "we will see him after the congregation has been dismissed--perhaps you had better do this--he wishes to go to-night."
Bullin agreed. "I suppose," he asked, "you have no news of his unfortunate wi----?" He stopped and looked somewhat awkwardly at Bunny.
"No," was the reply, "there has not been time; but I shall arrange about that if it can be done. In the meantime Galbraith must go."
As they spoke the church began to fill, and people entered in groups of twos and threes, or singly. Some, on entering, flung themselves devoutly on their knees and remained absorbed in prayer. Others made a pretence of kneeling. A few, a very few, young men put their faces into their hats, and probably examined the maker's name therein.
The clerk, who also officiated at the American harmonium, played the first bars of an old hymn; and, to the astonishment of the worshippers, Elder Bullin rose from his seat, and, ascending the pulpit, gave out the hymn to be sung. He led it off himself with a fairly good voice, and was accompanied by the whole congregation. At its conclusion, and when the long-drawn Amen died away with the notes of the organ, the elder, in a few brief words, informed the people that, owing to a domestic affliction, their beloved brother and pastor was unable to attend that day, that the trouble was of so serious a nature that it was impossible that the regular service should be held that morning, and he begged that the congregation would disperse after a short prayer and the singing of another hymn. The prayer was then offered up by the elder, and the hymn sung. One by one the people arose, after a little decorous silence, and it was not until they had passed out into the church enclosure that the full tide of their curiosity burst. Lizzie and Laura were besieged with questions, but they knew nothing, and the dread of the elder's wrath hurried them away. It became necessary for Mr. Bunny himself to go out and beg the congregation to disperse. He informed them that Galbraith was very ill, and that the kindest thing they could do was to go home. This they did after some little time. After a last instruction to the clerk to hold his tongue for the present, Bunny and the elder passed through the wicket-gate, and, walking slowly up the gravel path, entered the manse. The door of the study was slightly open, and Bunny knocked; there was no answer, and both he and the elder stepped in. Galbraith was there, sitting at his table, his white drawn face showing all the signs of the terrible time he had passed through. There was a hunted look in his eyes, which shifted their glance from side to side. Bullin held out his hand without a word. Galbraith rose and shook it silently, and then, turning, walked to the window.
Bunny approached him and whispered in his ear, while the elder employed himself in smoothing the nap of his hat with his coat-sleeve.
"Very well," said Galbraith; "you are right--the sooner the better." What was wanted were some papers relating to the church. Galbraith opened a drawer of his writing-table. They were all there, tied in neat piles, with labels showing what they were. He shuddered as he saw the handwriting on these labels, and his hand shook like a leaf in the wind as he picked out the bundles one by one and handed them to the elder.
At last the necessary business was concluded, and Bullin rose. He attempted to speak, but was unable to do so; and gathering up the papers in his hands, stood for a moment as if irresolute.
"God help you!" he said suddenly, and turning went out of the room. Bunny remained a few moments longer. "I will come back again," he said, "in an hour. It is not good for you to be left alone." He shook Galbraith by the hand, and followed the elder out.
When they had gone, Galbraith rose and wandered round the house. Breakfast was ready. He had not touched it, and at the sight of his face the servant who was waiting stepped silently out of the room. The act was in itself sympathetic, and touched Galbraith. He had packed a bag with a few things, and it was lying half open on his bed. On the wall was a photograph of Halsa. He took it down, and, placing it in the bag, closed it and turned the key. He then went back into his room and waited. He knew what Bunny's absence meant, and he was burning with impatience for his return. On the table before him was a manuscript of his sermons. He seized it with a laugh, and began to turn over its pages. He had poured his heart into them. How had he not laboured? His was the voice that breathed consolation into many a stricken heart, and now that the time had come for him to need help, there was none there to give it. The Book of Books--it was lying there before him, leather bound, with gold-edged leaves--he knew it by heart; there was nothing in that that could help a sorrow like his. Bit by bit he tore the manuscript into shreds, and strewed it about the floor; and when the last scrap of paper had fluttered on to the carpet beside him, he felt that he had broken with the past forever. Faith--had he not faith? But what faith could stand against the cruelty of his trial? And then the remains of his religion burned up within him, and he strove to pray, but the words he uttered with his lips were unmeaning, and he rose from his knees in despair.
It was somewhat late in the afternoon when Bunny returned. Galbraith was ready for him as he came into the house.
"Did you get a passage?" he asked.
"Yes," said Bunny; "you sail with the tide to-night."
They entered a hired conveyance, and Bunny gave directions to drive to the quay. There was not much spoken as they drove through the streets. At length they reached the quay, and Bunny would have entered the boat with Galbraith, but he denied him. "No," he said, "let me go alone."
Bunny regretfully agreed. "You will find a letter from me awaiting you at the Cape," he said as Galbraith shook him warmly by the hand.
"You will not fail to let me know if there is any news of her?"
"No," replied Bunny, "I will not."
Galbraith sprang into the boat, and Bunny watched it as it was rowed toward the great ship lying in the harbour, the blue-peter flying at her mast-head. Slowly the boat moved forward until it entered the broad band-of dazzling light on the waters, where the sun's rays were reflected back in a myriad of flashing colours. Shading his eyes with his hands, Bunny watched the boat until it was absorbed into that marvellous blaze of gold, and passed from his sight.
At last he turned and drove back home. But from that day nothing was heard of John Galbraith.
All attempts to secure a suitable successor to Galbraith failed. The scandal caused by the disaster, which had befallen the pastor, his mysterious disappearance, and that of Mrs. Lamport, deterred some; others were unwilling to leave their present posts; and of the one or two who would have taken charge of the flock, the sheep would have none of them. The law-suit with the Jain temple had, moreover, so impoverished the funds of the tabernacle that it was out of the question to send over the seas for a new spiritual guide. In the meantime the feelings of the community began to find vent in the columns of the Bombay Bouncer. Attacks were made against both Bullin and Bunny, and each attributed the attacks on themselves to the other. Bullin, in his headstrong way, openly charged Bunny with the offence of attacking him through the press. The latter denied it hotly, and replied with a countercharge. The result was a division of the community into two parties, and the beginning of the end as far as the existence of the tabernacle was concerned. About this time Sarkies begged for readmission into the fold. He was supported by Bunny; but Bullin, regarding this as a personal affront, strained every nerve, and secured at a general meeting a verdict confirming the former sentence of excommunication. It was at this meeting that the elder, amid much confusion, charged Bunny with having got Halsa Lamport out of the way to avoid inquiry. It was with the greatest difficulty that Bunny's friends prevented a physical struggle between the two leaders. Bunny and his following, however, left the church, where the meeting was held, leaving Bullin in possession of the field. It was thought at first that the matter would have gone before the law-courts; but this was somehow prevented, and the Bunny party, throwing off all allegiance to their former church, sought food for the soul from the Rev. Mr. MacGoggin, of the Free Kirk, and sat at his feet for evermore. Bullin, now left with undisputed power, conducted the services himself, and so great was his influence with the new council, practically creatures of his own, that he absolutely prevented any fresh nomination to the pastorship. In a brief period, however, his intolerance and bigotry outraged his own followers. In a few weeks his sermons, or rather lectures, were given to benches where the only audience consisted of his unfortunate daughters. At this time, too, an incident happened which fairly broke down the old man, and the congregation, at a great general meeting, finally dissolved themselves. The church was sold by auction. The worshippers scattered themselves elsewhere, and the history of the tabernacle was ended. Great was the rejoicing in the Jain temple. In honour of the occasion the eremite Mahendra, the terrible Swami, whose history will some day be written, swung himself for a whole afternoon by the simple process of fixing two iron hooks under his shoulder-blades, gaining thereby much credit and renown. An enterprising Parsee purchased the property. He called the manse "The Retreat," and lived there himself. He imported lime and orange trees in green tubs, and set them in rows about the garden. He may be seen among his plants any morning, clad in the whitest of coats and sheeniest of silken nether garments. Over the main entrance of the whilom chapel swings his signboard. It informs the public that Muncherjee Cheesecake is a general merchant. The flaring poster of an American cigarette manufacturer is pasted on each of the pillars of the gates. The cigarettes may be had from Muncherjee. They are very good.
What happened was this. Sarkies, smarting under the indignity of the second expulsion from the church, held a family council with his mother and aunt. It was about this time that an epidemic of going over to Rome had set in, and the accounts of the perversion or conversion of several very great people in the British Isles filled the newspapers. Sarkies determined to be in the fashion, and in a few days the whole family were received into the broad bosom of the eternal church. They placed themselves under the guidance of an Irish priest, and, after the first plunge was over, Sarkies began to consider the confessional as a most excellent institution. Presto! a wave of the hand, a benediction, and the sins of the past had joined the past. He got it all out about Lizzie, and was confident that he could bring her over to the church. The Rev. Father Faly was not unwilling to help him. Life was very dull under the cocoa palms. He informed Sarkies that the Roman Catholic ritual permitted a priest to unite a minor in marriage without the guardian's consent, and watched Sarkies go away with resolve on his face.
Under ordinary circumstances nothing would have induced Lizzie to listen to Sarkies's proposals of flight, but circumstances favoured the Armenian. The girl had some spirit in her, and the eternal bullying of the elder was beginning to tell. Besides, notwithstanding the undignified, not to say uncomfortable, position from which Sarkies was compelled to plead his cause, the young man had a somewhat silken tongue, and then he had got to love Lizzie, and love always finds words. So the old, old story was repeated; and Lizzie, flinging over a few of her belongings in a bundle, was assisted by Sarkies over the wall, and, entering the buggy, drove off with her lover. This was done in the middle of the day. Sarkies knew that it was the occasion of the great and final meeting at the chapel, and that the coast would be clear. He did not reckon, however, on its being a half-holiday, and that he should meet Master Edward Bunny on his way back from school. The old Arab was urged to his fastest pace; but Eddy took in the situation at a glance.
"My!" he exclaimed, "there's Jimmie Sarkies bolting with Lizzie--youps!"
He had a shot at the buggy with his catapult; and it is worthy of record that on this occasion he missed his mark, and found that in his excitement he had used as a pellet his favourite marble, well known by the title of "Aunty." This in itself was a terrible disaster, and Eddy boiled with wrath. An opportunity for vengeance was at hand, however, for he had hardly gone a quarter of a mile when he met the elder returning home. The meeting had ended. The little community had ceased to exist, and with it the best part of the old man's life. He was walking under the shadow of the palms, his carriage following him slowly. His heavy eyebrows were bent in a frown, and his lips were twitching nervously.
"Morning, Mr. Bullin!" exclaimed Eddy as he approached. The elder looked at him without making any answer, and passed on. But Eddy was not to be put off in this manner. He followed the old man, and, catching him up, remarked, "You'll be sorry when you hear it. I fired my catapult after them."
"Go away, boy!" exclaimed Bullin.
"Go away--oh, yes! I'm going--and so's Lizzie and Jim Sarkies. I saw them going off in the bug--oh!--hoo!--boo--ooh!"
It was too much for Bullin. He darted forward at Eddy's speech and seized him by the arm. The next moment there was a cuffing and a ringing of ears that Eddy remembers to this day, notwithstanding that he is in a fair way to succeed to his father's appointment, and has a small Eddy of his own. When he had finished with the boy and flung him from him, the elder jumped into his carriage and bade the coachman drive home. Laura's scared face as she met him at the door, confirmed his worst fears.
"Are they gone?" he asked. "Answer me, woman! Don't stand staring there."
Laura burst into tears, and the elder with a hissing cry of rage re-entered his carriage and drove to the Sarkies's house. There was no one there. A sudden thought struck him. "To the Catholic Church," he shouted; and the coachman needed no bidding to drive fast. He arrived in time to meet Faly stepping out of the door. "Where's my daughter?" inquired Bullin, furiously shaking his fist in the priest's face.
"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. "Damn you!" he shrieked with a half-articulate voice, "I shall have the law on you and your brood of snakes. May God'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.
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 Parsee 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 Parsee 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 shore, 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 tithe 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 masses 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.