CHAPTER XIV.
[JOHN GALBRAITH GOES.]
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.