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.