A Galahad of the Creeks; The Widow Lamport

by S. Levett Yeats

Then, coming back, he conscientiously carried out the final instructions given him--picking up the litter of cotton and tags of hangings which lay on the floor, and when this was over made his way to the kitchen, where he exercised all his skill in superintending the preparation of a "fuss-class dinner."

Two things were a matter of regret to him: one that he was not sufficiently skilled to write out a menu card, but this he hoped to arrange with the assistance of Pedro Pinto's son, who attended the school attached to the monastery of St. Vincent de Paul; the other was that there were to be no wines, for both host and guests were teetotallers, and the drinking of wine or spirits in any form, unless medicinally prescribed, was regarded as a deadly sin.

Galbraith came out of his study a little before dinner-time to see how things were. Manuel was not there, and it seemed as if some unseen hand had set the table, had arranged that oddly pretty pattern of leaves on the snowy table-cloth, and placed that bouquet of fresh fuchsias beside the plate where Halsa was to sit.

Galbraith himself looked years younger. He glanced about him with a satisfied air, and then going back into his study, waited impatiently for the sound of wheels to tell him that his guests had come. Punctual to the moment Mr. Bunny's brownberry came up. Galbraith stepped up to the door of the carriage, and helped out Mrs. Bunny and Halsa, the latter giving his hand a little squeeze. Mr. Bunny emerged last of all, a pile of wraps on his arm, and, after directing the coachman to return at precisely ten o'clock, followed his wife and Halsa Lamport into the house. They all assembled in the cosy little parlour, and in a few minutes Manuel came in. He whispered something to Galbraith, and then slipped out again. He had conveyed thus mysteriously the announcement that dinner was ready. They all went in without any ceremony; the ladies first, the men behind. Grace was, of course, said, but Galbraith took care that it should not be unnecessarily long. The dinner was excellent, and full justice was done to the meal. Manuel attempted to make up for the want of a written menu, that picaroon boy of Pinto's not having come to write it as arranged, by calling out the names of the dishes.

"Krab cutlit, sar," he said, as he thrust the delicacy before Mr. Bunny. "Prong curry, madam--berry good," and he held the dish for Mrs. Bunny. Galbraith, however, interfered, much to Manuel's disappointment. He made up, however, for this by the air with which he filled the tumblers with water--the grand butler serving Louis Quatorze could not have done it with a better manner. At last it was all over; Mr. Bunny ate his last walnut, and washed it with a better manner. At last it was all and played patience; then there was a little talking, and precisely at ten the carriage came. Mr. Bunny could not be induced to stay a moment later. There was much hand-shaking, and a kiss for Halsa, soberly given in the Bunnys' presence by Galbraith, and received by the widow with becoming modesty. When they had gone Galbraith lit a pipe, and, opening an old volume of Ingram, set himself out for an hour's read. He was interrupted by a cough, and, looking up, saw Manuel in front of him.

Manuel shifted a clean white napkin from one hand to another, and asked, "Dinner good, sar----yyerything praper?"

"Yes, indeed, Manuel; I am very much pleased with you."

"Thank you, sar," and Manuel bowed; "but, sar, I come for leave."

"Leave, Manuel?--do you mean to say you want to go?"

"Yessar--missus come, and yverything spile--missus keep keys--missus take account--missus measure out sugar--tea--work too much. My mother also dead in Goa, and I want leave."