Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by Google Books
Transcriber's Note:
1. Page scan source:
http://books.google.com/books?id=Kv8MAAAAYAAJ
2. the diphthong oe is represented by [oe].
Appleton's
Town and Country
Library
No. 214
A GALAHAD OF THE CREEKS
_NINTH EDITION_.
The Honour of Savelli.
BY S. LEVETT YEATS.
12mo. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cents.
* * * * *
"Unsurpassably written, full of matter of historical value, and in
excellence of composition, clearness of description and delineation of
character is assuredly one of the first in the field."--_Chicago
Journal_.
"The story is full of romance, life, and action.... One of those which
demand reading through at a sitting."--_San Francisco Chronicle_.
"A picturesque and exciting panorama of the most brilliant and
eventful period of old Italian history."--_London Times_.
"The book is a first-rate piece of work, and holds the reader
enchained from the sensational outset to the very last page."--_London
Athenaeum_.
"Stirring incidents and adventures follow so closely upon each other's
heels that the reader becomes fascinated. It is a story to be read and
reread for the mere pleasure the reading gives."--_New York Evening
World_.
* * * * *
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.
A GALAHAD OF THE CREEKS
* * *
THE WIDOW LAMPORT.
BY
S. LEVETT-YEATS
AUTHOR OF THE HONOUR OF SAVELLI
NEW YORK
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
1897
COPYRIGHT, 1897,
BY D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
CONTENTS.
* * * * *
A GALAHAD OF THE CREEKS.
I.--The coming of the Woon.
II.--A dinner a deux.
III.--Father Fragrance limes a twig.
IV.--Ruys Smalley.
V.--"Furiis agitates amor."
VI.--Anthony Pozendine speaks up.
VII.--The ruby bracelet.
VIII.--The Sirkar's salt.
IX.--His lady's gage.
X.--An atonement.
XI.--The patience of Habakkuk Smalley.
XII.--The episode of Li Fong.
XIII.--An overreach.
XIV.--Pallida mors.
XV.--The passing of the Woon.
* * * * *
THE WIDOW LAMPORT.
I.--At the door of the tabernacle.
II.--A cup of tea.
III.--A billet-doux.
IV.--Yes.
V.--Mrs. Bunny Doubts.
VI.--Master Edward Bunny.
VII.--Dungaree's Belt.
VIII.--Cast out from the fold.
IX.--At The Divan Exchange.
X.--Exit Manuel.
XI.--The happy pair.
XII.--The devil at work.
XIII.--Husband and wife.
XIV.--John Galbraith goes.
XV.--The glory departs.
XVI.--An account balanced.
XVII.--From the choir of the Holy Innocents.
A GALAHAD OF THE CREEKS.
CHAPTER I.
THE COMING OF THE WOON.
The good ship steered toward the East,
To the East, o'er the salt sea foam;
And years rolled by, and time grew old,
But she nevermore came home.
_Voyage of the Tobias_.
When a man has taken a first-class degree, when he has won his blue,
and has passed high into the Indian Civil Service without the
wet-nursing of a crammer, it might be hazarded that he is worth
something. One might go further and picture out his future career--how
he would be a prop of Israel; how, step by step, he would rise until
the Honourable Council enshrouded him; and how, after a life of useful
work, he would, like Oliver, desire more, and drop into being the bore
of "the House," or into the warmest corner of the "Oriental," and
dream over the fire of the time when he was his Honour the Lieutenant
Governor; but the lion is very old now--let him doze.
Peregrine Jackson had taken the first steps to qualify for this part
in the tragedy of life, for this forging of the links of that
mysterious chain of which we know not the beginning and may never know
the end until, as to Longinus, the gates of immortality are opened
unto us. But the tall, straight, broad-shouldered young Englishman was
thinking of none of these things at present. He had elected to serve
in Burma, and he was now posted as assistant commissioner, practically
Governor of Pazobin, which is in lower Burma, and lies near the sea on
a slimy creek of the Irawadi. He leaned over the gunwale of the river
steamer that was bearing him to his destination, and the skipper, the
sleeves of his gray-flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows, stood
beside him and pointed out Pazobin, which lay about two miles off,
clinging like a limpet to the river bank. Now, a Burman river steamer
can walk, and at twelve knots an hour two miles would not take long to
cover--in fact, the Woon had already whistled shrilly to announce her
coming--a whistle that found a hundred echoes in the forest which
fringed the banks, until it died away in fitful cadences in some
unknown swamp. And let it be remembered that this is the country of
the creeks. Here the Irawadi, whose source no man knoweth, comes down
from its cradle of snow, past the tremendous defiles of Bhamo, through
the whole length of that strange land from which the veil has only
just been lifted, past cities and temples, until at last the mystery
of waters spread out with a hundred thirsty throats toward the sea,
and puddles its blue field with a muddy yellow far out, even to where
the breakers hiss around Cape Negrais. Between the wide necks that
stretch out to the sea the water has made for itself countless
cuttings, through which it ebbs and flows sluggishly beneath the
shadows of a primeval forest. The whistle of the steamer was answered
by the dull boom of a signal gun, and the broad bosom of the creek was
almost immediately dotted over with a vast number of small craft
making their way toward the incoming mail boat. "There's the pagoda,"
and the Mudlark, as captains of Burman river steamers are irreverently
called, pointed to the gilded cupola which rose high above the
feathers of the bamboos that surrounded it. "There's the jetty," he
added, "and there's the courthouse. You'll know more about that
presently. Wonder how you'll like sitting there ten hours a day? And,
by George, there's the _nga-pe!_" "The what?" But as Jackson spoke, a
puff of wind brought a decomposed odour to the steamer. It was
overpowering, an all-pervading essence, and for a moment Peregrine
forgot everything in a vain effort to beat off the evil with his
pocket-handkerchief. "It's all right when you're used to it," mocked
the captain, "and you mustn't turn up your nose at it, for that
delicate condiment is the main source of revenue of your district.
Wait till I take you up some day with a shipload on board! And now,
your humble, I must be off."
He vanished to attend to his duties, which to the non-professional
onlooker appeared to consist principally of swinging his arms round
like the sails of a windmill and using frightful language toward a
person whom he called the _serang_. The fitful wind, changing at this
time, relieved Jackson from the terrible odour, and allowed him to
look with a somewhat despairing curiosity at his new home. Before him
lay a fleet of small fishing craft and a single row of bathing
machines on stilts. The latter were the houses of the inhabitants, and
they were all built on piles. They were of the roughest possible
description, but here and there a plutocrat had got some corrugated
iron to make a roof with and to excite thereby the envy, malice, and
hatred of his fellows. There was but one street, from the end of which
the jetty projected into the river. Beyond this rose some larger
buildings, the largest of which had been pointed out by the skipper as
the courthouse. A little way inland towered the gilded spire of the
pagoda, with its umbrella crest that swung slowly round in the breeze.
The one street of the township was thoroughly alive. It seemed as if a
swarm of butterflies was on the move in the bright sunshine.
Everywhere there was the sheen of brilliant colour--red, yellow,
electric blue, and that strange tint which is known to milliners as
_sang de b[oe]uf_. The small boats surrounded the steamer, and,
regardless of the danger of being swamped, recklessly jammed up
against her. With few exceptions their occupants were either women or
Chinamen. These latter exchanged joyous greetings with their
compatriots on board, and, swarming up the ship's side, set vigorously
to work preparing to land their consignments as soon as ever the
steamer drifted alongside the jetty. The ladies followed almost as
rapidly, and their agility and the skill which they displayed in
preventing the too great exposure of shapely limbs was beyond all
praise. The women had brought with them their peddling wares, and a
brisk market was opened--sharks' teeth, an invaluable love philter,
silks and fruits, and the nameless little wants of semicivilized life.
One held high above her head a row of mutton chops impaled upon a
bamboo skewer. "Excellent they are," she cried; "they have come from
the fat sheep the mail brought for me all the way from Calcutta."
Everybody was smoking, except the Chinamen and the man at the wheel,
who were too busy. The Burman man was, however, so absorbed in the
contemplation of his own dignity that he did nothing but smoke; the
Burman woman, on the other hand, simply coaled herself with each whiff
of the long green cheroot she sucked, and every puff inspired her with
fresh energy for the driving of a bargain. Through all the maze of
business, however, madam remained a very woman, and many an astute
deal was lost as the joints of her armour were pierced by Ah-Sin's
oily tongue or the open admiration in Loo-ga-lay's little eyes. They
were now so close to the shore that Jackson could distinctly see the
faces of the people and the medals on the breasts of the half company
of Sikh police that were formed up on the jetty--a tribute of honour
to him, as he found out subsequently. Two Europeans stood amid the
crowd; in one, dressed in a police uniform, Peregrine recognised
Hawkshawe, the district police officer, who, while nominally his
second in command, was really to be Jackson's dry nurse in controlling
his charge until he was fit to fly alone. This period of probation
would be, of course, just as long or as short as Peregrine chose to
make it, for a member of the Indian Civil Service is ordinarily
hatched full-fledged--a diplomat, a magistrate, anything you will. In
the other, who stood beside the police officer, Jackson, although new
to the country, recognised the missionary. His unkempt beard and hair,
his long clerical coat of raw silk, and the dejected appearance of his
lean face, hall-marked him as such distinctly.
The steamer had now come almost opposite the jetty. A light line, one
end of which was attached to the hawser, was cleverly thrown out and
as cleverly caught by a blue-bloused Lascar. The hawser was dragged to
the shore to the accompaniment of a "hillee-haulee" chorus, and it
surged through the water like an unwilling water boa being pulled to
land. At length the end of the huge rope touched the bank, somebody
jumped into the ooze and lifted it with both arms, somebody else
twisted it deftly round a short stumpy pillar, and then, with a
drumming of the donkey engine and an insistent hiss-hiss of the
paddles, the steamer sidled slowly alongside the jetty until she
almost touched it. In an instant the bridge was placed in position and
a crowd that seemed all elbows met an invading army bent upon forcing
its way on board, and there was a little trouble. With the aid of a
fierce-looking sergeant, who used his cane freely, Hawkshawe made his
way on deck, and after a brief greeting with the skipper came up to
Peregrine.
"You're Jackson, I suppose? I'm Hawkshawe."
The two men shook hands and looked each other straight in the face.
Each saw the other's strength. It was later on they noticed the loose
rivets in each other's mail. After a few moments spent in desultory
conversation, during which Jackson heard and replied to the usual
question of how he liked the country, the two prepared to leave the
ship, and Peregrine sought the skipper to say adieu.
"Good-bye, captain."
"Good-bye. The next time you come with me I'll have the _nga-pe_ all
ready for you."
They were over the bridge, the guard of honour had presented arms, and
the Reverend Doctor Habakkuk Smalley, American missionary, was
introduced. Dr. Smalley performed the feat of shaking hands, of
mopping his face with a red handkerchief, and of asking Jackson if he
had "got it" all at once.
"Got it!" was the reply; "I should think we all did--got it nearly a
mile up. It was most horrible!"
Dr. Smalley groaned aloud, and stretched forth both hands in protest.
"Sir," he began, but Hawkshawe interposed.
"Excuse me for a moment, doctor, but I must introduce these people to
the new king," and he led up the portly native treasury officer to the
bewildered Jackson, who found himself compelled to make and to answer
civil speeches, while he was wondering how he could have given
offence. The presentations were rapidly brought to an end, and
Hawkshawe urged a move toward breakfast, turning to include Dr.
Smalley in the invitation; but the reverend gentleman was nowhere to
be seen. He had stalked off in high dudgeon.
"I've done something to offend Dr. Smalley; let me go after him and
explain, if I can, though what it can be I can't guess," said Jackson.
"I should think you have!" was the answer. "Fancy Smalley asking you
his usual question about your certainty of your salvation, and only
think of your reply!"
"But I meant that fearful-smelling compound!"
Hawkshawe's laugh pealed out loudly. "Well, if a man will speak of
religion like the measles, he must expect to be misunderstood. But
there is no use in saying anything now. I will square matters for you.
Smalley is a very good fellow really, and you will get to like him
and---- But you must be very hungry. My men will take your traps over
to your own place, and you have to breakfast with me, and can then go
on, if you like. Here is the trap. Jump in."
After the cramped life of the river steamer, however, the traveller
wished to stretch his limbs a little, and begged to be permitted to
walk. To this Hawkshawe agreed with an inward curse, for walking
exercise is hateful to the Anglo-Burmese. He will ride or drive
anywhere, but the climate does not contemplate walking. It is not in
the programme. An officious peon opened a huge umbrella over Jackson's
head notwithstanding his protests, and a small procession was formed.
This was increased to a very respectable size by the time they reached
their destination, for most of the inhabitants of the place, having
nothing better to do, attached themselves in a semiofficial manner
to the party, and there was quite a crowd when, after a final
leave-taking, Jackson and his host entered the house. It was a great
pleasure to find that there were houses far back from the dreary
little town on the river bank. It was disheartening to think that one
had to live amid the malodorous mud and slime, and it was equally
cheering to find instead of this a trim garden and a fantastically
pretty little house, with a breakfast table set out in a shady
veranda, which overlooked a lawn as green as emerald, upon which two
little fox terriers were chasing each other in joyous play, to the
detriment of the turf but to their own great good.
"You may consider yourself fairly installed now," said Hawkshawe, "and
after breakfast we will take a run down to the courts. Drage, your
predecessor, left only three days ago, but his house, which you have
taken, will suit you admirably. You will find yourself very
comfortable there, for Drage did himself well."
After breakfast Hawkshawe's fast-trotting pony took them the one mile
to the courthouse "in less than no time," as the policeman said, and,
the trifling business of the first day concluded, they drove to the
house Jackson was to occupy. He had taken it over as it stood from his
predecessor, who had gone home on long furlough, and he was much
pleased to find it comfortable beyond his expectations. All his heavy
baggage had come on before, and Ah-Geelong, the Chinese servant, whom
he had engaged as head man, was evidently a treasure. His books were
neatly stacked in their shelves, and not with the titles upside down,
for Ah-Geelong was skilled in the English tongue after his kind.
Everything was spotlessly clean, from the half-dozen servants, who
greeted him respectfully as he arrived, to the shining floor of the
rooms, on the dark wood of which a mirrorlike polish had been
scrubbed. After a few minutes Hawkshawe drove off, having made Jackson
promise to dine with him that evening, and Peregrine was left to
himself. He spent about an hour in arranging photographs and a few
paintings, and then made a tour of the house and grounds. His
ponies--two strong cobby little Shans--had come, and were looking
sleek and comfortable in their stalls. He came back and made for the
room which Ah-Geelong had arranged as his master's study. The Chinaman
had selected this with a natural taste that could not be surpassed.
The wide windows of the room opened into a veranda, from which there
was an outlook over the river. There was a perfect north light, and
the soft sea breeze that had travelled so many miles came in cool
puffs past the _quis-qualis_ blossoms that twined and thrust
themselves through the trellis work of the veranda. He wheeled out a
small table and sat down to write home, for the steamer left early the
next morning and the mails went with her. The letter was to his
father, and, after describing the events of his journey, he went on to
explain the feelings which moved him on his entry into the task of
governing his fellow-creatures. He was aware that he ought to have
first learned to govern himself; but practical work mostly leaves out
that little detail upon which the moralist insists. Beyond a certain
amount of book knowledge, he knew little or nothing of the people upon
whom he was pitchforked by a gazette notification. He had been told
that the Burman was incapable of progress, a sluggard, and a fop, and
that the Chinaman was the future of Burma. His work was to collect the
revenue, to preserve order, and to administer the law. But Jackson was
not satisfied with accepting as an axiom the definition of the Burman
given to him, nor did he feel that to carry out the mere routine of
his work was sufficient. He had read much of the civilization of the
East; but, after all, what is the civilization of the East to that of
the West! Jackson was bringing all the active, vigorous West with him
to this sleepy hollow in the creeks, and his coming would be as a
breath of strong air to an invalid. He mapped out his programme. He
would be to the benighted creatures--for of course they were
benighted--over whom he was placed what his father had been and was to
him, and so on for many pages of what a high-souled boy always dreams
when he enters upon the battle of the East. With few exceptions, he
comes out of the struggle dispirited and broken, feeling that the
strong years of his life have been wasted in trying to affix the
impression of a seal upon water. He folded his letter, and, ringing
the little bell which stood near him, gave it to the servant who came
to carry to the post. He then rose and, leaning over the railings of
the veranda, looked out before him. It was almost sunset, and a veil
of shimmering gold was over the land. The yellow light fell softly on
the sleepy forest and trembled over the dreaming river. Out on the
west stretched a long, thin line of purple clouds, and his heart went
forth there, for beyond was home--home, which he should see again when
his task was done--when he had struck the dead Budh once more into
life--when the East had heard the message he bore it from the West.
CHAPTER II.
A DINNER A DEUX.
Ho! A flowing bowl and a merry lass,
And a fig for monk or friar!
And the clean white light
Of a sword in fight,
And gold to my heart's desire.
_The Buccaneer_.
Eight o'clock! There was just time to dress and reach Hawkshawe's
house, unless Jackson wanted to be late for dinner. He was unromantic
enough to have an extremely good appetite, and a man must dine even if
he is going to make the old East new. He got through his dressing as
quickly as possible, and found his pony waiting for him under the
portico that protected the front door of the house. Ah-Geelong
followed close at his heels with an enormous hand lantern, which threw
a blaze of light many yards around them. Peregrine protested.
"There is a bright moon, Ah-Geelong; you surely do not want a lamp!
You might as well bring an umbrella!"
"Plentee snakee, master," and the Chinaman pointed generally all
around him with a long knotted bamboo staff. The argument was
unanswerable. Out of deference, therefore, to the cobra the lantern
was permitted to assist the moonlight, and the procession moved off.
Peregrine determined that, snake or no snake, he would come back
without the lantern, and as he rode took little mental bearings, in
order to guide himself home again. On arrival, he sent back the pony
with his groom, and Ah-Geelong disappeared into the servants' quarters
with his cosmos burner. Hawkshawe came forward with cordial greeting,
and it might have been fancy, but as they entered the drawing-room
Peregrine thought he saw the curtain that guarded the entrance to a
side door falling swiftly, and the flicker of a silken _tamein_ as it
vanished from sight.
"Take that long chair," said Hawkshawe, "and have a sherry and
bitters; it will give you a fillip up!"
Jackson did not want the fillip up, but he took the sherry and
bitters. He did not do so, however, in his host's scientific way.
Hawkshawe first sprinkled the bitters in, and holding the glass before
him bent it on one side, slowly turning it until there was a streak of
burnt sienna winding round the inside; then he poured in the sherry
and drank sip by sip with deep satisfaction. "It's the only way to get
the true flavour of the bitters," he remarked. This was, of course,
utter nonsense; but Hawkshawe fully believed it, and said the words so
positively that his listener bowed to his superior knowledge and also
believed. When Hawkshawe had absorbed some of the flavour of the
bitters, he asked, "How have you been amusing yourself since I left
you--office files?"
"No, a lot came in, but I have reserved them for later on. I've been
writing letters. The mail goes out to-morrow, and I took the
opportunity to write home."
"Of course you did. I never write home now. The fact is I haven't seen
Old England for many a long year now, and one loses touch. Besides, I
never was a good hand at writing letters, and I don't suppose anything
I have to say would be particularly interesting."
"I should have thought it was quite the other way, Hawkshawe."
As Jackson spoke dinner was announced, and they moved to the
dining-room. It was dinner _a deux_, and for a few moments the
conversation was general, Hawkshawe asking about friends at the
capital, most of whom Jackson had met, notwithstanding his short stay
there; but in this respect the East is a very small place. Finally
Hawkshawe got on to the subject of his work, and gave a most
interesting account of the robber gangs, or dacoits, that infested the
district, concluding by expressing his firm belief that the chief
malefactor was a well-known priest, who to all appearance had
abandoned the world, but who, Hawkshawe was convinced, although he had
apparently nothing to support his statement, acted as a fence, and was
at the bottom of all the mischief.
"And you really think," inquired Jackson, "that this man is a sort of
head centre? It seems improbable, if what I have read and heard of the
Buddhist priesthood is true; but I suppose there are exceptions."
Hawkshawe slowly raised his glass to the light and watched the little
beads in the Ayala. "Nothing is improbable in this country, as you
will find after a few years' experience," he answered, half in mockery
and half in earnest. "For instance, I believe it is really true that
the bad characters of the adjoining district of Myobin were all driven
here by the mosquitoes. They grow a special kind in Myobin--big gray
ones about half an inch long, and striped like a tiger. They were more
effective than the police; the dacoit couldn't stand them and came
here, worse luck!"
"The obvious course, then, would be to import some of your
tiger-striped friends," laughed Jackson.
Hawkshawe sighed. "We have done that, but it was of no use; there is
something in the air here which does not agree with that particular
brand of insect life. But, joking apart, the dacoits are a very
serious evil here, and I have made little or no headway against them.
Now and then I score a success, but I put down all my failures to the
priest Bah Hmoay--old Father Fragrance."
"I suppose there is no way of clearing the fragrant old gentleman
out?"
"None; but if one could be devised, you would end all our troubles and
earn Smalley's undying gratitude as well. But Bah Hmoay is a power in
the land in more ways than one, as you will find before many weeks, or
rather days, have passed."
"Why Smalley's gratitude in particular?"
"Because two of a trade never agree, I fancy. I don't mean by this
that Smalley is a dacoit in disguise, but that they are both bigoted
representatives of religion, and each believes the other to be the
fiend himself. By the way, the mention of Smalley reminds me that I
have explained your little mistake of this morning to the reverend
Habakkuk, and he is quite prepared to smoke the pipe of peace with
you; and this is well, as he is the only doctor within a hundred
miles, and no one knows what may happen. Of course, he will bother
you a good deal; but I should think you would know how to meet him
when he opens fire on the mission side."
"It was very good of you to explain. I think also that I know what
Smalley wants, and I must say I don't see why Government should help
the mission on purely religious grounds--and he won't take help on any
other. As an educationalist, Smalley should of course be helped, and
the same argument would apply to the pagoda schools, over which I
suppose Bah Hmoay presides. I don't think we should bring in religion
into grants in aid, and it doesn't seem as if Christianity suits the
Eastern. What do you think?"
"Don't know; all that's beyond me. I do know, however, that the native
Christian is generally a d--d scoundrel. Try these cigars--they are
specially made, and you must be patriotic and adopt your new country
properly. If you won't face them, there are some Havanas--made of
cabbage leaves probably."
"Thanks," said Jackson, "but I am afraid I am not yet blooded
sufficiently for a Burman cheroot. I shall move up to the height by
easy stages, and, if you will permit me, will stick to the Havanas,
which I am sure you libel."
"They are better for the nerves, at any rate," replied Hawkshawe, and
Jackson noted how the flaring, sputtering vesta he lighted trembled in
the policeman's hand as he held it to the cheroot. For the true
enjoyment of tobacco there must be silence and repose. Although
Jackson was utterly unable to attack a yard of poison, such as
Hawkshawe was smoking, he knew how to enjoy a cigar, and the Havana
was very good. The little incident of the curtain and the silken robe
came into his mind again, and he caught himself getting curious about
it. Hawkshawe was smoking nervously with quick, short puffs; he
continually took the cheroot out of his mouth and rolled it between
his fingers, apparently to make the rank leaf draw easier, and
assisted his tobacco with short nips of old brandy--a thing which was
not good to see. Jackson made no attempt to speak, and they smoked
without a word being exchanged until the silence was apparently too
much for the policeman, and he suddenly asked, "I suppose you like
your new house?"
"Very much indeed. You were right in saying that Drage did himself
well. It is very nearly perfect."
"Do you know what became of his impedimenta?"
Jackson understood the question, and flushed with anger. He controlled
himself, however, and answered shortly: "No; those are matters about
which I am not in the least concerned, nor do I think any one else
should be."
"Don't you?" said Hawkshawe--his potations had evidently loosened his
tongue--"don't you? Well, it will force itself on you some day. You
shy at it now. We all did--I did--Thomson, Perkins, Drage did--and yet
you see we are as we are. We have found that the cycle of Cathay is
better than the fifty years of Europe."
"And you call yourselves rulers of men! Why should you go down to the
level of the brute if you happen to live near him?"
"Don't know, my dear fellow, except that one gets to like, or like the
brute after a time. Why, man," and Hawkshawe rose and began to pace
the room, "what have we got to live for in this infernal country? You
rot here--_rot_, I say--and your mind and your body both go to ooze
and slime. Books! One can't read in this climate. The blue mould
covers them up, as it has covered me, and as it will cover you and
many a better man yet, and you will be as I am." Hawkshawe filled his
glass and drank to the dregs. It seemed as if he were toasting the
success of his hideous prophecy. "_And you will be as I am!_" The
words hit Jackson like a life sentence. He looked at the man before
him, at the promise in the high aquiline features and still, clear
eyes, and then he saw the little crowsfeet round the eyelids, the
puffy cheeks and trembling hands, and shuddered. No! It would never
come to that with him. But a dread rose in his heart. What, after all,
if he was wrong in his thoughts of his strength? Hawkshawe looked to
him with a strange light in his eyes. "Come," he said, "let me show
you what it is like."
It was evident that Hawkshawe was determined, with a half-drunken
persistence, to continue a subject that was more than unpleasant to
his guest, and there was only one course open to Jackson, and that was
to get away as quietly as possible. "I don't think I will venture," he
replied, "and, at the risk of offending you, I must ask you to excuse
me for to-night. One always has a lot to do on first coming to a
place, and I am no exception to the rule. No, not any more, thank you,
to-night; but I will have another of those cheroots, if I may."
"I suppose if wilful will, then wilful must, but you are losing a new
experience," said Hawkshawe, as he accompanied his guest to the door.
He there found that Peregrine was going to walk home. "Let me order my
trap for you, or a pony, if you prefer to ride?" he asked.
"No, thanks, Hawkshawe; there is a bright moon, and I know my way
perfectly. I go to plan the suppression of Bah Hmoay. Goodnight!"
The hard gravel crunched under his firm footsteps as he walked down
the drive. Hawkshawe stood looking after him. "He knows his way, he
says. I wish I knew mine. Mr. Peregrine Jackson strikes me as rather a
cold-blooded prig. I never could stand that sort of fellow--no," and,
as if to keep his heart up, he sang:
"Pass the bowl, the merry, merry bowl,
Let it brim with good red wine.
I have pledged my soul
To the merry, merry bowl,
And the ruby light of wine."
He trolled out the verse in a rich baritone as he walked upstairs and
entered his drawing-room. Taking up a book, he flung himself into the
same long chair he had so hospitably pressed on Jackson earlier in the
evening. He glanced over the leaves for a few moments; but the effort
to read was beyond him, and putting down the volume he stared moodily
into space. He had done this for years. Every evening, except when he
was on active service--and he was keen enough then--he had drunk more
than was good for him, and sat drearily through an hour or so before
going to sleep. Ordinarily he did not think at all on such occasions;
but somehow Jackson's attitude had impressed itself on him, and he was
feeling nervous and depressed. There was that also which brought a hot
flush of shame to his forehead, for he had lied to his guest when he
had expressed his inability to bring Bah Hmoay, the dacoit priest, to
justice. It would all come out some day, and then he, Hawkshawe, would
be cast adrift on the river of shame. "D--n!" he hissed between his
teeth, and buried his hot face between his hands.
The curtain before a door that led to an inner room was lifted, and a
figure entered the room. It was that of a woman dressed in the
national costume of Burma, which is so adapted to conceal as well as
reveal the figure. Taller than ordinary, she had a face and form of
imperial beauty, and as she stood there, looking at the bowed head
before her, it was possible to understand Hawkshawe when he said that
for himself he had chosen the cycle of Cathay. She crossed the room
with light steps, and, laying her hand on his shoulder, asked in
Burmese, "What is the matter? Are you ill?"
Jackson had touched a lost chord in Hawkshawe's memory, and the
murmurs of the white past were sighing in his ears. He raised his head
wearily, and drooped it again. "No, Ma Mie, not ill in body but sick
at heart."
She looked at him, and, untutored savage as she was, she understood,
and, stooping suddenly, kissed him with a fierce little pressure.
"Hawkshawe," she said, "I have news for you--good news. Look up, my
husband!"
CHAPTER III.
FATHER FRAGRANCE LIMES A TWIG.
_Ruys_.--I care for naught but gold.
Gold holds the keys of this strong earth, and I
Am earthy, of its mould. That unseen thing,
The crown of glory, lies beyond the stars;
I know it not.... Give me my gold.
_Maraffa, a Tragedy_.
A broad streak of yellow water is drowsing toward the sea, and lies
hedged in to the right and to the left by the most luxuriant
vegetation. Here teak and mango, palm and bamboo grow side by side,
and are laced together by the octopus arms of the cobweb of creepers
that spreads over the forest and tries in vain to bind down its
splendid growth. There is hardly any sign of animal life, although the
forests teem with it. Occasionally the great woodpecker or a flight of
green paroquets flash like emeralds through the patches of sunshine
between the leaves, or the melancholy cry of a mule pheasant echoes
dismally through the woods. Yet although no beast and hardly a bird
may be seen, this void is filled by the ever-present abundance of
insects, for here is their paradise. It is true that those grotesque
specimens of creation which, like the sons of Belial, wander forth at
night, are reserving themselves in a million cracks and crannies for
the pleasures of the evening; but the gnat and mosquito are on the
alert, and the fly is here on his path of annoyance. Through the dense
masses of foliage glide, like the snakes which infest them, the creeks
that cut the delta of the Irawadi into numberless channels, and while
thus dividing it serve as a means of communication from one part of
the country to the other; for who, unless an Englishman, would
scramble through the bramble and thorn of the jungle? Who would do so,
when it is so easy to sit in a canoe and ship silently along the ooze
of the creeks?
Some little way back from the main stream a canoe lies hidden in a
small backwater. There are two occupants, and, being Burmans, they are
of course both smoking, for smoke to the Burman is what beer is to the
Saxon, a Derringer to the gentlemen of Arkansas, or opium to the
Celestial. One of the two, in whose powerful hand is grasped a
long-bladed paddle, is apparently a man of the people. He wears his
hair long, and the golden brown of his limbs is covered with tattoo
marks in strange devices. The other is a man of God; his yellow robe,
his shaven crown, mark the priest of Budh. There is no asceticism,
however, in the fat cheeks, or in the beadlike eyes which glint out
from above the high cheek bones. The mouth is like a sword cut, long
and cruel-looking, and the sensual aspect of the face is only matched
by its cunning and treacherous look.
"Payah," said the man with the paddle, using a Burmese title of the
highest respect, "we have now waited for two hours; the steamer will
not come to-day."
The priest went on smoking as if he had not heard the remark, and his
companion relapsed into silence. After a few minutes, however, the
clerical gentleman found voice.
"Moung Sen," said he, "your name means red diamond, but it ought to
have meant a clod. Did I not tell you that the steamer will come
to-day? and I tell you again she will come. The wire has brought me
the news. Two hours! What are two hours to me? I gain two hundred
years of eternal bliss by meditating during two hours on holy matters
of which you laymen know nothing---- Hark! there is the whistle that
was to be our signal."
And even as he spoke the shrill whistle of the Woon announced her
coming, and the dull boom of the answering gun from Pazobin rang out
in response.
Moung Sen bent his back to the paddle, and the boat shot out of the
backwater to the very edge of the creek. There, concealed by the
drooping foliage, they could see without being seen, and watch without
any risk of discovery.
"Payah Bah Hmoay, the steamer approaches near," and, parting the
screen of leaves with his hands, Moung Sen peered out.
"Yes, and with it Jackson, the new ruler of the land. I heard him say
in Rangoon that he would stamp out all evildoers, so you, Moung Sen,
had better be careful."
The boatman showed a row of teeth that would have driven a tiger mad
with envy, and chuckled to himself. As the steamer came near they
could hear the hissing of the paddles, and the wash rocked the canoe
up and down to the no small danger of its upsetting.
Moung Sen was longing for a race. He would have dearly liked to have
pulled against the steamer for the jetty. His slanting eyes twinkled
with excitement, and he turned an imploring look on Bah Hmoay.
"Ho!" grunted Father Fragrance, "be still. What with racing and
gambling and women, you will come to a bad end some day--hang to a
string and dance upon nothing. Is this a time to think of racing,
when that young fool on the steamer yonder is come here with his
new-fangled notions? Back, I say! Our friends have heard the steamer's
whistle and will have assembled. Here! give me a paddle too." He
seized the spare paddle that was handed to him, and, loosening his
robe to give his arm free play, rowed with a most unclerical skill.
Guided by their powerful strokes the canoe sped back, and, taking a
narrow cutting at the head of the backwater, they rowed steadily on
for ten minutes and then stopped.
Moung Sen put his hands to his mouth and hooted twice like an owl. A
cock crowed twice in reply. "They are there," he said, and, running
the canoe on to the bank, the two men secured it firmly with a
creeper, then, taking an almost invisible path, they trotted along it
like sleuthhounds. After a short distance was travelled in this manner
Moung Sen hooted again, and again the cock answered as it were out of
the hollow of a huge silk-cotton tree a few yards away. Then the tree
began to give up its fruit. One by one four men came out of the
hollow, and half a dozen others dropped lightly from the branches
where they had lain concealed. Each as he approached the priest bowed
lowly before him. They took their places in a semicircle whose ends
were to the right and left of Bah Hmoay. He gazed on them for a
moment; they were a strong and likely looking set of men, fit for any
devil's work. The chequered light fell on the bronze of their bodies,
for they were naked to the waist, lit up the hideous blue and red of
the tattoo marks with which they were covered, and ran in a line of
fire on the long straight blades of the _dahs_ they held in their
hands. Then Bah Hmoay spoke, taking the men before him into his
confidence, choosing his language simply, and appealing to all their
weaknesses.
"And now, my companions," he concluded, "I have told you all that I
learned during my visit to Rangoon, and how the plans are progressing.
At Wuntho the chief is ready to take up arms; the Shan States are
on fire--on fire, I say--and every creek and jungle holds gallant
men only waiting for the signal to rise. Our whole difficulty is
money--for when was a Burman rich? I propose, however, to meet this,
and to find funds by a bold stroke. You all know the treasury at Yeo.
It is thirty miles from here, and there are a hundred rupees there,
all with the White Queen's head on them. Half shall be yours; the
other half goes to the cause. Are you ready?"
There was a murmur of assent.
"Thank you. There is but one word more: in a week from to-day--the day
of the guinea pig--you must be at Yeo. And now for the water of the
oath." He loosened a small pocketbook from his waist cloth as he said
these words, and, writing a few lines on a page, tore it out. One held
an earthen vessel full of water before him, and another lit a sulphur
match. The Boh put the match to the paper and held it over the water,
into which as it burned away the cinders fell; but when the flame got
too close to his fingers to be pleasant the chief dropped the little
unburned tag of paper into the water, and it went out with a splutter.
Then taking the vessel in his hands, he swore to be faithful to the
men before him, and, drinking a little, handed it to Moung Sen. That
worthy pledged his soul on his good faith to the assembly, and, taking
his sip, passed on the bowl. It went the round of every man there
until it reached the last, who, when he too had sworn and drunken,
dropped the vessel to the ground, where it broke into pieces.
This closed the chapter of the order, and the knights proceeded to
disperse, each man with his long green cheroot burning in his mouth
and his _dah_ tucked away over his shoulder, a grotesque amalgam of
devil and the child, the like of which is not equalled anywhere in the
world.
Bah Hmoay and his Little John were once more alone, and the Boh or
chief turned to his subaltern with a somewhat anxious look in his
eyes, and asked:
"Do you think they will be true?"
"My name means red diamond, but it ought to mean a clod," laughed
Moung Sen. "Yes, I think they will be true, and will all be hanged for
their faith, while you will end as a great man. But there is something
else to do to-day."
"Hawkshawe--true--I have not forgotten; however, we ought to be
getting back," and making for the canoe they rowed out into the open
stream and then drifted down toward the town. As the priest stepped
from the canoe his face assumed the severe expression of sanctity
suitable to his calling; an obsequious disciple met him and opened an
umbrella over his head, and he walked toward the pagoda or temple
meeting with respectful greetings from all. He entered the gates of
the pagoda, on either side of which grinned two colossal griffins,
and, making his way through a courtyard thronged with worshippers,
passed into the great hall, where a huge image of Gautama looked down
upon him with calm, inquiring eyes. A tall, graceful woman stood at
the foot of the idol, and as the priest approached she looked at him
with something of impatience in her glance, and said, "I have been
waiting here for nearly an hour."
"My daughter, it is patience and resignation which, united with
thought, leads us to holy Nirvana."
"Pish! I haven't come here to bandy words about Nirvana. Was it for
this you sent Loo-ga-lay for me?"
Bah Hmoay dropped his voice to a whisper as he said, "You are too
hasty; women are always so. Follow me," and, passing behind the idol,
he touched a door which seemed to open of its own accord, disclosing a
small passage dimly lighted by a single lamp. At the end of the
passage was a small archway, so low that it was necessary for both to
stoop as they entered it, and beyond was a large hall, along whose
sides a row of Gautamas or images of the Budh was arranged with
military precision. The images were alternately of white and black
marble, and at the extreme end lay a huge recumbent casting of the
Messiah of the East. Small lozenge-shaped cuttings in the wall above
let in bars of light, which fell on the dim statues and made the
polished brass of the recumbent image glow as if it were red-hot. The
girl leaned lightly against the arm of the huge figure, and something
flashed in her hand as she did so. Bah Hmoay observed it as he pointed
to the dagger, and said with a smile, "You are very careful, Ma Mie;
too careful for one so beautiful."
There was enough in the speaker's voice to make his listener turn on
him like a panther, and Father Fragrance stepped back with a hasty
apology. Then he spoke in a low tone for some time, the woman all the
while keeping her guarded attitude. "There," he said at last, "this is
a good offer. Will it do?"
"I am selling my husband's honour," she replied. "No, it is worth a
larger price."
The priest uttered an exclamation of impatience, and moving off a few
feet stooped near the foot of an idol, and picking up something from a
recess there returned bearing it in his hands. He held it to the light
as he approached, and Ma Mie saw that it was a bracelet of rubies,
which flashed and glowed with a hundred colours. She almost gasped as
she looked at it.
"Oh, how lovely!"
"Let me put it on your arm." Bah Hmoay, suiting his action to his
words, stepped back with an admiring look. "There is nothing like this
in all Pazobin," he said. "I will add it to my offer."
The woman hesitated and was lost. "It is a bargain," she said, and the
face of Father Fragrance glowed with joy. "The new Englishman comes to
dine with him to-night," she added. "When he is gone, I will settle
all. And now I must go; I have been away too long."
"You can go this way," said the priest as he turned the key in a
carved door toward the right, and opening it showed Ma Mie a back path
that led out of the pagoda gardens. "And remember, the police guard
must be very weak at Yeo next Friday."
She nodded and passed out, and Bah Hmoay watched her down the pathway
and saw her raise her arm and look at the bracelet upon it. "Selling
her husband's honour!" he laughed to himself. "When had Hawkshawe any
to sell? Those ideas of hers are, however, very expensive, and I had
to take away my peace offering from this old gentleman here." He
patted the face of the idol from under whose foot he had removed the
jewels. "However, he won't miss it, and Friday evening will see me
repaid and ready to buy another rag of Mr. Hawkshawe's honour."
CHAPTER IV.
RUYS SMALLEY.
He rode toward the Dragon Gate,
And blew a ringing call,
A virgin knight, in armour bright,
'Twere sad to see him fall.
Ah, saints of heaven, steel his heart,
And nerve his arm withal!
_Sir Amory_.
Jackson walked out into the moonlight with a feeling of relief at
having escaped from Hawkshawe. His disgust at his host's code of
morality was only equalled by his pity for him. Perhaps, after all,
the man did not mean what he said; and it was possible that an appeal
to Philip sober would result in the expression of sentiments widely
different from those which bubbled forth from Philip charged with a
quart of Ayala, sundry short brandies, and a multitude of "baby pegs,"
as three fingers of mountain dew tempered with a split soda are called
in the country of the creeks. Peregrine hesitated a moment whether he
should go straight home or walk on a little. A great mass of official
papers had come to the house as he left it that evening, and his work
was cut out for him; but after what had happened he was in no mood to
begin at once. He pulled out his watch, and seeing by the bright moon
that it was barely half-past ten, decided to adopt the latter course.
He walked slowly toward the river face, and then across the soft sand
to the deserted jetty, where he paced up and down its full length. In
front of the dark outline of the forest a few twinkling lights marked
the sleeping town, for Pazobin went to roost early. The fishing craft
were all huddled together like sheep in a pen, and the outgoing tide
lapped angrily at the wooden piles below. The wind bore to him the
soft tinkle of the bells that swung from the golden umbrella on the
spire of the pagoda. Their dreamy monotone fitted exactly with the
scene, and seemed to call all good Buddhists to that Nirvana which to
them is the end of all things. Everything was calm except the mind of
the man who paced the teak planking of the jetty. Jackson was in that
temper which would have been horrible doubt to an older man, but which
to him in his youthful confidence in his own power was absolute
certainty. He had shaken off the momentary terror of Hawkshawe's
prophecy, "And you will be as I am!" That would never be; his young
heart swelled with pride as he drew himself up in the consciousness of
his strength. He did not seek aid in prayer. He had never sought it,
except in dim infancy. Since his mother's death, in his childhood, he
had known no care but that of his father, and the older man had
brought up his son in his own creed, which was, to summarize it, man.
And Peregrine drunk it all in eagerly and was an apt pupil. He held
himself apart from all beliefs--Calvary, Mecca, the groves of Gya,
were all one to him in that they all aimed at the good of mankind, in
that they had all accomplished untold good. He was aware of the
rewards offered to the faithful--the harp and crown of the Christian,
the sensual paradise of the Moslem, the merging into the deity of the
Buddhist--and none of these tempted. He had looked with scorn on the
professor of a faith who calculated on the advantages that would
accrue to him from his fidelity; he despised the human being who sold
good works for a price and speculated in futurity like a stock broker
making a time bargain. He was young and very cocksure. The solitary
up-and-down tramp, combined with the cheroot and his naturally calm
temper, began to quiet Peregrine's excitement, and he finally put
aside all thoughts of Hawkshawe and stopped for a moment near the huge
crane which stretched out its long arm over the river as if begging
for something. The Havana had burned low by this time, and he flung it
from him, watching the little arc of fire die away with an angry hiss
into the water below. Then he turned to go. He recrossed the sand,
once more passed Hawkshawe's house, from an upper window of which the
light was burning brightly, and, turning to the right, took, as he
imagined, the road home. He had said that he thought he knew his way
perfectly, but now it seemed as if the bearings he had taken were all
wrong. One tree was like another, one bend of the road was like every
other he had passed. The few houses were all built on the same plan,
and he could scarcely discern them in the mass of foliage with which
they were surrounded. It flashed upon him that he had lost his way,
when he was so sure of it. What if he had miscalculated his strength
as he had done the road? He stopped for a moment near a wooden gate to
try and see if he could find a landmark, and as he did so a sudden
blaze of light streamed out of one of the windows of a long building
that lay within the gateway. A moment after the droning tones of an
American organ stole into the night, and above them rang out a woman's
voice clear and distinct:
My God, I love thee; not because
I hope for heaven thereby,
Nor yet because who love thee not
Are lost eternally.
He listened in a manner spellbound not only by the voice, which was of
the rarest order, but also by the words, which poured forth from the
heart, the genuine unselfishness of the Christian's belief. That pure
flood of melody floating into the night seemed to give all his
convictions the lie as it passed out on its way beyond the stars to
God's throne. Cheap and jingling as the verses were, the simple words
sung by such a voice carried with them a revelation he had never
imagined. He wondered to himself what manner of woman this was whose
voice affected him so powerfully. He determined to see this beautiful
saint--for of course she was beautiful--and stepping cautiously down
the road approached the open window through which the song poured.
Standing back amid the yellow and purple leaves of a croton, he peered
in, and saw a long narrow hall filled with rows of empty benches. At
the head of the room, and close to the window, was a low dais, and
upon this the organ was placed. The singer was seated with her back
turned toward him; but the light from a shaded lamp lit up the sunny
gold of her hair and fell on the outlines of an exquisite figure. She
was alone, singing to the night. Overcome with curiosity, Peregrine
stole softly to the window and raised himself slightly with his hands
to look in. As he did so the sudden snapping bark of a dog, hitherto
lying concealed near its mistress's dress, rang out, and the singer
turned round so sharply that it was impossible for Peregrine to
withdraw unobserved; but as she turned he saw that the perfect beauty
of her face more than realized the picture he had drawn in his
imagination.
"Who are you? What do you want?" she gasped, with an alarmed light in
her eyes.
"I am very sorry," explained Peregrine humbly. "I have lost my way,
and seeing a light and hearing music thought I--I----" and he
stammered and broke down for a moment; but picking himself up, went
on, "I have only arrived here to-day. My name is Jackson, and the
house I want to find is the one that was occupied by Mr. Drage;
perhaps you know it, and if you can give me a rough idea how to find
it I shall be very grateful, and I hope you will accept my sincere
apologies for having frightened you."
As he spoke, the look of fear on his listener's face passed away. "Be
quiet, Flirt!" she said to the little dog, who kept alternately
growling and yapping to herself, and then, turning to Jackson: "Yes,
you did startle me at first. So you are Mr. Jackson. My husband--that
is, Dr. Smalley--said he met you to-day," and she smiled as if she was
thinking of something that amused her. "This," she continued with a
little wave of the hand, "is the school, and we live next door. If you
will kindly come in by that door to your left you can help me to shut
the musical box, and then I will take you right away to my husband,
and he will see you through the wilderness to your home." The slight
American accent in her voice lent her words a piquant charm, and it
was with a true American's ready resourcefulness that she carried on
the conversation with Jackson and attempted to take stock of him at
the same time as he stood outside, half in shadow and half in light.
"It is very kind of you," said Peregrine gratefully, and he made
toward the door, delighted with the lucky accident that had brought
him this adventure. Nevertheless, the words "my husband" did not
please him. So this beautiful creature was Smalley's wife! "I wonder,"
he muttered to himself, "if marriages are really made in heaven, why
they don't assort people better." There was, however, no more time for
regretful reflection, for the door was opened by his involuntary
hostess, and they walked up to the dais together. As Jackson closed
the organ Mrs. Smalley looked at him from under her long lashes,
and a faint colour stole into her cheeks. She stood by placidly,
however, holding a large hymn book in her hand and saying nothing.
When he had finished, she spoke: "Now you can carry the light and
come along--tchick, Flirtie!"
And they went into the garden, Peregrine full of pleasure at being
ordered about in this unceremonious manner, and his companion walking
demurely beside him.
A few steps brought them to the parsonage; the Reverend Habakkuk was
summoned from the interior and matters explained to him. He hospitably
pressed Jackson to stay and have some refreshment, but Peregrine
noticed an impatient look in his hostess's face and declined. Smalley
determined to lead Peregrine back himself, notwithstanding his
protestations that all he wanted was a few simple directions, and,
putting on a wide felt hat, turned to his wife, "I shall be back soon,
Ruys; do not wait for me."
"Good-night, Mrs. Smalley." For the life of him Peregrine could not
help throwing a shade of regret into the last words, and an odd light
came into his listener's eyes.
"Good-night, Mr. Jackson. I am--we both are--_so_ glad you _lost_ your
way here. I trust you will in future be able to find it often." She
made a demure little courtesy as she said this in an even voice, and
Jackson and his host passed out of the house.
She listened till the sound of their footsteps died away, and then
turning round to her dog picked it up and sat in a chair with the
little animal in her lap. "Flirt," she said, "I guess he's perfectly
luv-ly. There, you can go down now. I want to think." And she sat
leaning back in her easy-chair with a pleased expression on her face
until Habakkuk returned, and said, as he put down his hat:
"A most excellent young man that, Ruys; I am afraid I misjudged
him sadly to-day," and the missionary, pulling a chair near his
wife, rubbed the palms of his hands together softly. "Remarkably
good-looking, too, don't you think?"
She turned and looked him full in the face. "I don't think I've given
Mr. Jackson's looks a thought."
"Of course not, of course not," said Habakkuk timidly, and began to
repeat the nervous rubbing of his hands together.
"Why of course not?"
The calm tone in which this question was asked entirely upset Smalley;
he stopped his hand exercise, and, crossing one leg over his knee,
began to nurse it and sway slightly backward and forward. He did not
answer his wife's question, and she watched him for a moment, and in
her heart began to wonder how it was she had ever consented to marry
this lanky, shuffling creature before her. She knew his moral
character was irreproachable; if only his personal appearance were
more prepossessing. She had truly and honestly tried to do her duty as
his wife, but the chains of her bondage were beginning to gall.
Mentally she was far Smalley's inferior. She could not live in the
clear ether, in the pure air of his thoughts, and she was always
unconsciously dragging him down while making many an honest effort to
rise to his level. She had lived so quietly for so long a time that
the sudden and unconventional manner of her meeting with Jackson
had affected her powerfully. There was no denying that he was
good-looking, and she had drifted into a flirtation with him at sight
as naturally as a duck takes to the water. Oh, if life were only
different for her! she thought as she watched Smalley swinging himself
in his chair. The slow motion exasperated her; her nerves were at a
tension, and she said sharply:
"Habakkuk, I wish you wouldn't fidget so! Can't you sit still anyhow,
like any other mortal? Do read, or do something. I want to think, and
my head is aching."
"Of course, of course," assented the missionary, and a furious light
gleamed in his wife's eyes, which, fortunately for him, Habakkuk did
not observe. He was a man slow of thought, and it was only after a
little time that he began to realize that his wife had said she was in
pain. He looked at her softly from his calm blue eyes, and then,
putting forth his hand, laid it gently on hers. Ruys received the
caress passively. Then Habakkuk was emboldened, and he tried to draw
her toward him. She evaded him, however, by a deft turn of the
shoulder, and, rising, walked to a table in the room, and picking up a
heavy Bible placed it before her husband, as she said primly:
"It is getting very late. I think you had better read a chapter before
going to bed."
CHAPTER V.
"FURIIS AGITATUS AMOR."
Belike for her, a royal crown
I'd wager to a penny piece.
_Old Play_.
As Jackson and his guide left the gates of the parsonage Peregrine
struggled with a temptation to look back over his shoulder. Finally he
gave in with a sense of shame at his weakness, and then was
unreasonably irritated to find that no shadowy figure behind the
tinkling bead screen before the open window watched their passage down
the moonlit road. The result was that for the first few hundred yards
of their walk there was very little talk, for Peregrine's silence
discouraged all the missionary's attempts at conversation. Suddenly
the whole countryside seemed to be filled with the flashing light of
gems. A blaze of jewelled glory came and vanished in a moment, and
then appeared again in all its fairy beauty to slip away as swiftly as
before.
"What on earth is that?" asked Peregrine, moved out of his reserve at
the sight.
"Bugs," replied Habakkuk, "fire-bugs. They're pretty lively to-night,
anyhow. Each one with the little lantern God has given him. They don't
make a real show, however, because of the moon."
"Of course," said Peregrine, "I might have known they were fireflies,
but it all came so suddenly, and I had no idea the sight was so
perfectly beautiful," and he pointed to the millions of little lights
twinkling through the night.
"I guess so, Mr. Jackson; just as if all the little stars had come
down to earth and hung themselves out on the trees to dry." The
constraint with which the walk began now vanished, and Smalley took
the opportunity to read Jackson a lecture on the subject of health,
summing up with these words, "I am speaking as a medical man now, Mr.
Jackson; you must remember to take care of No. 1--that is, of
yourself. This is a most treacherous climate, and I have known many
men stronger even than you look fall before it like withered leaves.
Take a quinine pill daily, and always wear flannel next to your skin.
I don't do it myself, but then I'm a seasoned vessel. Ah! here we are
at your gate."
"Do come in, Dr. Smalley?" and Jackson held the wicket invitingly
open.
"No, no, thanks," replied Habakkuk. "Pooh, man! Don't thank me for
showing you the way a few yards. Good-night! I must get back, for my
wife is sure to be waiting for me."
The last words jarred on Jackson, and he felt all his old feelings
returning as he shook hands with his guide, who turned and shuffled
off into the moonlight. When Jackson had got about a third of the way
down to his own door, however, he heard his name shouted out by
Habakkuk.
"What is it?" he called out as he hastened back.
"Only this--don't forget about the flannel and the quinine.
Good-night!"
"Confound him!" and the angry young man turned on his heel and entered
the house. It was very fairly late now, and Jackson had worked himself
again into a thoroughly excited frame of mind. Ah-Geelong devoted
himself to making his master comfortable for the night, and as the
slippered Galahad sat in an easy-chair trying to collect himself and
gather together the fragments of resolve to attack the pile of papers
he saw on the table in his study, he heard the angry fizz of a
soda-water bottle and the hissing of its contents as it was poured
into a long tumbler and placed beside him.
"What _are_ you doing, Ah-Geelong?"
"Allee masters dlinkee peg--peg him keep off fever. Dlinkee peg and go
sleep," and Ah-Geelong almost lit up the room with the shining row of
teeth he displayed. It was impossible to be angry, but Jackson told
the man to go, and he went, wondering, perhaps, wherein he had done
wrong.
Peregrine rose from his seat and went to his study. But over the file
before him flirted the outlines of the face he had seen. "Ruys," he
murmured to himself, repeating the name by which he had heard her
called, and it almost seemed to him that she replied, and that he
heard the melody of her voice again. The far-off shadows of the room
gathered to themselves form and substance, and as he leaned back idly
there rose before him the vision of the dimly lighted school hall and
that golden head bending slightly over the music. He had never been in
love, and he gave himself up for the moment to the fascination of
dreaming over the face he had seen. This was what inspired the knights
of old. He stretched out his strong right arm and almost felt that he
held a lance in rest. What would he not give to know that this
peerless woman was his own? How he would work and labour! But a few
short hours ago he was bowing at the shrine of a lofty ideal that was
to carry him through life, at that invisible glory which strengthened
his shrinking heart and nerved him to the highest for duty's sake. And
all this was gone. The old god was dethroned in a moment, and the soft
notes of a woman's voice, the touch of her hand, a glance from her
eyes, and the past was rolled up like a scroll.
"My God," he said, "can this be love?" It never struck him that he had
unconsciously appealed to that Godhead in whom he thought he had no
belief. He was not able to think of that then--of how in a moment of
trial the doubting soul turns instinctively to cling for support to
that ethereal essence we call the Creator, and endows it with a living
faculty to hear and to answer. Surely this spontaneous appealing to a
higher power is something more than the mere force of habit. It
springs from the heart pure as the snows of Everest, genuine and true.
And this is the instinct which is not taken into account in the
mathematical reasoning of the atheist; the touch of fire that would
enlighten him out of his darkness is wanting. He will allow the
instinct which tells an animal of his danger, which signals to him a
friend; but to man, the highest of all animals, will he deny the
instinct of the soul which shouts aloud to him the existence of God.
And the answer to Peregrine's question came unspoken, but he felt it
ringing within him. Yes, and a hot flush of shame went over him as he
thought of another man's wife. "It will not be! it shall not be!" he
said, and he fought with himself as a strong man can fight. He fought
with the devil that tempted until he saw the light of the morning star
pale in the east and a pink flush steal into the sky; and then, being
utterly wearied, he lay down and slept a dreamful sleep. It seemed to
him that he was standing beside his own body and watching a dark
stream trickle slowly, slowly from his heart. Around him were misty
figures whom he could not recognise, and he lay there very still and
silent. Suddenly there was a flash of golden hair, and a woman robed
in white stooped and kissed him on the forehead, and as she rose he
knew the glorious beauty of her face, and then he awoke.
CHAPTER VI.
ANTHONY POZENDINE SPEAKS UP.
Hark unto me! Myself will weave the plot
Close as the spider's web, with threads as fine.
_Old Play_.
Anthony Pozendine, the half-caste head clerk of the district office of
Pazobin, had evidently something on his mind. He sat at his desk amid
a heap of files, over which his head just appeared, and every now and
again his squeaky voice rose in petulant complaint or censure of one
of his subordinates.
"Here, Mr. Pillay, can't you add, eh? You make out four hundred cases
tried last quarter, and seven hundred convictions! Sshoo!" And he
flung a file across the room at the unfortunate Mr. Pillay, who
stooped and, picking it up humbly, went on with his work.
Through the half-open door of the office the buzz of voices from the
court room came in, and occasionally a peon would enter with a request
for Pozendine to see either Hawkshawe or Jackson. When it was to see
Jackson, Anthony obeyed with a resigned air and a certain amount of
pleasure, because he knew he was being sent for to remove some
difficulty of routine which the new chief felt, and this would raise
him in the eyes of his subordinate clerks, and make them think the
power of Pozendine was great in the land. When it was to see
Hawkshawe, Anthony's thin legs trembled under him, and he went with an
outside assumption of dignity but a great fear in his heart, and when
he returned there was generally an explosion of some kind. Hawkshawe
had already sent for him four times to-day, and Anthony's temper was
in shreds. He had just taken a fair sheet of foolscap, folded it
lengthwise, and written in a clerkly hand across the half margin near
the top "Memo. for orders," when again the messenger entered with a
request from Hawkshawe, that was practically an order, to see him at
once. "Damn!" said Anthony so loudly that the ten busy heads in the
room bobbed up from among the heaps of papers in which they were
buried, and ten scared faces looked at Anthony in alarm. Ten pairs of
eyes were fixed upon him with anxious inquiry in their gaze, and the
magnetic effect of this made the head clerk cough nervously and very
nearly upset the inkstand.
"Are you coming?" said the messenger in an insolent tone, as he stood
in an easy attitude before Anthony and inserted a piece of betel
between his teeth.
Anthony glared at him. "I'm coming," he said. "Go 'way," and then he
turned on his assistants.
"Wot are you all looking at, eh? Wasting time this way and that way.
Think gov'ment pays you to sit in your chairs and look about! Here
you, Mr. Rozario, you joined office a last-grade clerk two years ago,
you're a last-grade clerk now, you'll leave it a last grade, I think.
G'long and work--plentee of work--if not, I will reduce
establishment."
Ten heads sank back into their papers, and the little man, seizing a
file in his hand, walked slowly out with becoming dignity, his heart,
however, full of combined fear and anger.
He was absent for fully half an hour, and the clerks once or twice
distinctly heard the strident tones of Hawkshawe's voice echoing along
the long passage, through the court where Jackson sat, and into the
room where they worked.
"Big row on," remarked Mr. Rozario to no one in particular. "Pozendine
ketching it warm, warm."
Finally the head clerk reappeared, but he came back with hasty steps
and a face in which green predominated over its habitually yellow
tinge. There were two blue lines to mark his lips, and his hands
shivered over his papers as he stood at his desk in an irresolute sort
of way. Finally he could contain himself no longer, and turned to his
chief assistant.
"Mr. Iyer," said he, "am I head clerk of the district office or head
clerk of the police office, eh? Answer me, eh?"
The stout Madrassee clerk looked at a fellow, who looked at another,
and then, as if by one impulse, the whole room arose and crowded
around Pozendine.
"Am I," repeated Anthony, "head clerk of the district office or of the
police office?"
"You're chief clerk," hazarded Mr. Rozario.
"Yes," assented Anthony, "I am the chief clerk. I have served gov'ment
twentee-four years, and now Mr. Hawkshawe he sends for me and tells me
before a menial servant that I know nothing. Why, I taught four deputy
commissioners their work! Who writes revenue report? Who writes notes
on crops? Who makes tabular statements? Who drafts to commissioner and
revises administration report? Who attends to district roads? Who sees
to cess collections, budget work, record and despatch, stamps and
stationery, office routine and discipline, eh? Who? Who? Who? And now
Mr. Hawkshawe he sends for me to look over Mr. Drage's report on
police. 'Pozendine,' he says, 'you're a damfool'--call me, Anthony
Pozendine, head clerk of the district, _damfool!_ 'Sir,' I said,
'that's Mr. Drage's order,' and he say, 'You ought to have been able
to tell Mr. Drage what to write.' 'See,' he say, 'now that Mr. Drage
has gone on leave nothing can be done about this, and it will give
beastly trouble--and now be off with you, infernal idiot!' _Damfool
and infernal idiot!_ I will report to commissioner at once by wire
through assistant commissioner and resign. Now you go on with your
work." He flung himself down into his seat and began to scribble a
long complaint to Jackson about the treatment he had received from
Hawkshawe. There was much irrelevant matter in it, and his pen fairly
hissed along the paper. While he was thus engaged the Madrassee clerk
Iyer rose softly and, stealing toward Pozendine, whispered in his ear.
It was like one devil tempting another, and Anthony's face was
perfectly satanic in its expression of glee as he listened.
"Plenty witness--Ma Mie's sister my wife," murmured Iyer, and his
yellow eyes twinkled like two evil stars. Pozendine nodded his head.
"Ah, ha! Mr. Hawkshawe, you call me damfool--I will brand you dam'
blaggard!" he hissed out aloud as his busy fingers travelled over the
paper and Iyer went back to his seat.
The Madrassee watched his superior keenly from his chair, and a wicked
smile stole over his features as he half expressed his thoughts.
"Pozendine will get sack, and I will become chief clerk." He then
placidly put up a memo. for orders on the subject of the wasteful
extravagance in blue pencil indulged in by the district engineer.
* * * * *
"I can not stand that beast of a head clerk, Jackson," and Hawkshawe,
flinging himself into a chair, pulled out a long brown-leather cheroot
case and extracted a gigantic cheroot therefrom.
Peregrine looked up as he said slowly: "Why not? He seems a decent
sort of fellow--all nerves, though, I expect, but most men of his
class are. But what has he been doing to upset you?"
"Oh, nothing in particular, only I don't like him; can't help it,
perhaps, but I hate him like poison. Why don't you get rid of the
brute? He's been too long here. Is a sort of power in the place, and
owns property. That's the sort of man who gets his palm greased, you
know."
"It's a very serious matter to punish a man for a fault you think he's
going to commit. Still, as you say, he has too much power; but that
can be remedied without resorting to anything like the measures you
suggest."
Hawkshawe shrugged his broad shoulders. "As you please; but if the
crash comes, don't say I didn't warn you. However, I didn't come to
talk to you about this, but to ask you if you think it wise to have so
much money at Yeo. There's close on a hundred thousand there, and the
engineer on the famine works a native, too."
"What can be done? There is a strong guard, I believe?"
"Yes, twenty men, and old Serferez Ali, my inspector, commands them.
He's the best man in the service. Still, I think you had better bring
in the money."
"You think there is any danger?"
"Absolutely none that I know of at present; but old Bah Hmoay has been
so quiet of late that I'm afraid mischief is brewing, and one never
knows what may happen."
"We have, then, two alternatives before us--either to bring in the
money or the greater part of it here, and send it out as it is wanted,
exposing it to the danger of being stuck up, to use a slang phrase, on
its passage, or to increase the police guard. Have we the men?"
"Yes," he said, "I can spare thirty men on Saturday, and will send
them up then. With fifty men Serferez Ali could hold out against ten
thousand dacoits."
"Very well, so be it."
"That's settled, then. Hola! what have we here, a _billet-doux?_" and
Hawkshawe held between his finger and thumb the gray envelope he had
taken from the messenger who brought it into the room and handed it to
Peregrine. "Is the fair Ruys asking you to dinner?"
For the life of him Jackson could not help the hot blood rushing to
his face, and there was something inexpressibly galling in Hawkshawe's
tone. "Excuse me," and he tore open the envelope. It was an invitation
to dine, and as he put it down Hawkshawe made a further remark that
stung him to the quick. He turned round upon his visitor and said
shortly, "Supposing we drop the subject or drop each other."
Hawkshawe stared at him, and then, pulling his cheroot slowly from his
mouth, apologized awkwardly. "Didn't mean to offend you, old chap--beg
pardon and all that--will come in and see if you can go out for a ride
later on."
He clanked out of the room and left Jackson to himself. Peregrine
picked up the note and read it again, and there was again a struggle
within him. Should he face or flee the temptation? He felt that the
latter alternative was hardly possible, and then it would be cowardly.
No, he was going to deliberately try his strength against himself; the
battle should be fought out to the end. He would face the trouble and
he would conquer. He felt that the love that had sprung into being,
like Pallas, full armed, could only be conquered by grappling it by
the throat. He could not run from himself, and he would not if he
could. So he wrote a few lines accepting the invitation, and then,
deliberately tearing Ruys's letter up into the smallest fragments,
turned to his files and plodded on steadily. He must have worked in
this way for at least a couple of hours when an unaccountable feeling
told him there was some one in the room. He looked up, but saw no one,
and was just about to turn to his work again when something was thrust
over his shoulder, and, turning round, he saw Anthony Pozendine.
"What is it, Mr. Pozendine?"
Anthony could hardly speak. He stammered out something about Mr.
Hawkshawe--abuse--damfool--and, placing his complaint on the table
before his chief, stood bolt upright at attention, for he was a
volunteer.
Jackson patiently read every line of the four pages of foolscap, and
then turned gravely on Anthony.
"Mr. Pozendine, you are on very dangerous ground. If your story about
the abuse is true, you have perhaps a little cause of complaint; but
as for the rest, it is absurd. Do you know what you are saying about
Mr. Hawkshawe?"
"Yes, sir. It is true. I will go into court and swear; so also will
Mr. Iyer."
Peregrine touched a bell. "Send Mr. Iyer here," he said to the
messenger.
A minute after Mr. Iyer came. He stepped into the room briskly, seemed
a trifle surprised to see Anthony, but said nothing. "Mr. Iyer," said
Jackson, "Mr. Pozendine here says you are prepared to bear him out in
certain statements he makes. Perhaps, Mr. Pozendine, you had better
explain."
"Yes, sir," said Anthony, while the Madrassee's face assumed an
expression of the utmost concern.
"You know what I have written here?" said Anthony.
"No," replied Iyer, holding up a deprecating hand, "I know nothing."
"Didn't Mr. Hawkshawe call me a damfool?"
"Every one say so, but I didn't hear. I know nothing."
"The man is frightened, sir," said Anthony to Jackson.
"There is no necessity to be frightened, Mr. Iyer; you can speak
freely."
"Frightened!" said Mr. Iyer. "Why should I be frightened? I am an
honest man, of a large family, and will speak the truth."
Anthony's face brightened up as he asked, "Didn't Mr. Hawkshawe take
money?"
"Iyoo!" exclaimed the Madrassee, flinging up his arms; "I never heard
these things. Sir, this man Pozendine is trying to get me into
trouble. He is my enemy since long time. He one big liar," and the
Madrassee shook a finger at Pozendine. "Mr. Hawkshawe take bribe! No,
not Mr. Hawkshawe, but Mr. Pozendine. He take bribe from Bah Hmoay and
Moung Sen over Dorian fruit--witness--all bazaar knows it. I will
bring four--five--one hundred witness. Sir, this one big scoundrel!"
It was too much for Pozendine; his nerves had given way, and with a
scream he flung himself at Jackson's feet and grovelled there.
"Pity!" he yelled; "I have twenty-four years' service--pardon!"
* * * * *
An hour later, when Hawkshawe came according to his word to see if
Jackson would go for a ride, he found Peregrine apparently idling
before his table.
"Ha! I see you've found nothing to do; come along."
"I can't," said Peregrine; "I want to think out something."
"Oh, don't let that little affair of Pozendine's bother you. It didn't
happen in your time, you know. You'll get all the credit of finding
out about the bribery and corruption."
"Do you know what has happened?"
"Ain't I your Fouche? Are you coming?"
"No, thanks. I must think this out."
Hawkshawe turned and went, whistling gaily. Mounting his horse, he
galloped down a long embankment along the river face, and then,
reining in, stood apparently watching Pazobin robed in the glories
of a wondrous sunset. "By Jove!" he exclaimed, "I very nearly made an
ass of myself over that police guard. Anyhow, if this comes off, no
more of it; but Ma Mie is getting dangerous. My nerve is not what it
used to be, but--I must get rid of her at all risks. Damn that
straight-laced fool Jackson! He's always bringing back recollections
to me, and I, Alban Hawkshawe, can not afford to remember--to think
that my honour was once as clean as the palm of my hand, and now----"
He put spurs to his waler, and galloped into the gray mist that
surrounded the forest.
* * * * *
A week after, the big native rice boat that slowly made its way up the
river to Rangoon bore with it two passengers. One, seated among a heap
of brass pots and pans, surrounded by eatables, principally fruit,
could be recognised as Mr. Iyer; the other, who crouched on a coil of
rope, was Anthony Pozendine. Neither spoke to the other, but in their
eyes was a sullen hatred which showed what their thoughts were, and if
either had the courage there would have been murder on the big boat
that worked its sluggish way upstream. One morning, however, the
Madrassee spoke to his companion.
"We are both ruined, Pozendine," he said. "What will you do?" Anthony
made no answer, and Iyer went on. "There is only one chance--let us
join together in Rangoon and tell all about Hawkshawe. We know true
things, and government will give us back our posts. I swear by Krishna
that I will be true; give me your hand."
Pozendine stretched out his sticky fingers, and the hands of the two
men met. Then they sat together and talked all day as if there never
had been any enmity between them, planning the coup which was to get
them back their post, with a mental reservation that when this was
accomplished there was yet another account to settle.
CHAPTER VII.
THE RUBY BRACELET.
Once was my shield as white as driven snow,
Once was mine honour clean, and I, a man,
Could gaze upon my fellows, meet their eyes
With eyes as honest--but all that is past.
_Old Play_.
"See," said Ma Mie, holding her arm to the light and displaying the
splendour of the bracelet, "is it not beautiful, Hawkshawe?" The pale
amber of her silken robe fell partially on the jewels as she said
this, and flinging it back with a graceful gesture Ma Mie again raised
the soft outline of her arm, and with lips half parted gazed upon the
red glow of the rubies with a childish delight. They were standing
near a window of Hawkshawe's house, at the very window from which the
light streamed out, a long banner of brightness, when Jackson went
back from his solitary ramble on the jetty. The glare that dazzled
outside fell softly through the bamboo _jalousie_, and warmed the
scarlet of the rubies on Ma Mie's arm to a thousand different tints.
A curious steely blaze came into Hawkshawe's eyes, and the wrinkles
around them gathered into deeper folds as he bent over the gems. For
the time the look of avarice in his features gave them a wondrously
Jewish cast. His aquiline nose seemed to fall over his lips, and the
lips themselves tightened into a long, hard outline. He gently
unclasped the bracelet and held it in his hand, then he tossed it
lightly in the air, and as it fell back like a star he caught it
deftly. "The stones are of the purest water, Ma Mie, but I alone have
the right to clasp them on you. Let me do so now." He fastened the
jewel once more on her. "Now," he said, "they look perfect--now that I
have put them on you myself, and you can feel that they have come from
me. Is it not so?" He drew her toward himself, while all the time his
eyes remained fixed on the gems with a terrible greed in their
expression. She remained as he had placed her, her head leaning
against his shoulder and her eyes half closed. "Shall I break it to
her?" muttered Hawkshawe. "It has to be done very soon, and might be
done now." They remained for a moment silent. "Ma Mie," said
Hawkshawe, "would you be very sorry if I were to go away for a short
time?"
She looked up at him with a startled air and drew back. "You go away;
you are not ill, are you? Yes, I think you are ill. You were ill that
night when that man Jackson came to dine here and cast his spell on
you. You have never been well since. At night I have heard you call
out strange things. Yes, if you like, we will go away--you and I, to
Ava; it is cool and pleasant there, and you will get well. You want
rest, and you are tired. Is it not so? You said so that night." The
woman seemed to know of the evil that hung over her, and was making a
desperate fight. All the pleasure that had brightened her face left
it, and left it in a moment haggard and wan. She had expected this
crisis a hundred times, and a hundred times nothing had come. Still,
the feeling that she was on the brink of a precipice never left her.
She knew that some day would come to her, as it came to all women of
her class, that parting which left the man free as air and the woman
in reality still in an abyss. This spectre was always in shadow before
her, unseen but felt, and now--she knew that it was coming--she gave a
quick gasp after her speech and waited.
"No, Ma Mie," said Hawkshawe, and he threw a very tender inflection in
his voice. "No, we can not go together this time. I want to go home to
my own country. I have not seen it for many years. I will come back
again, and in the meantime you must wait for me at your home. You have
money. This"--he touched the bracelet on the shuddering arm--"and
other things. Besides, I will see that you have more. I intend to go
in about a month, and it would be well if you were to start for Ava
in, say, a fortnight. Bah Hmoay will take you--or shall I send for
some of your people? There, don't cry!" He tried to draw her again
toward him, but she broke from his arms with an angry sob.
"You! you! you! To do this!" she gasped. "You, the father of my dead
child! You, who vowed and swore--you, who came with humble entreaty to
me! Oh, I was a fool, a fool! All women are fools, and all men liars!
Do you think my heart is a stone? Have I not been faithful? Ah,
Hawkshawe, do not send me away! See, I will follow you as a slave to
the uttermost parts of the earth. Don't go; I know you are not coming
back--don't," and she sank on her knees with a cry that came from the
soul. It would have melted any heart but Alban Hawkshawe's.
"Confound it!" he said, pulling savagely at his mustache, "I must end
this somehow.--Look here, Ma Mie, look at the matter sensibly; don't
be a fool."
"Fool!" and she sprang up--"fool! Yes, I am a fool to have trusted
you--trust a liar to lie!" and she laughed bitterly. "See, I have
given you my all, I have given my soul for you, worthless as you are,
and you are mine. You say you are going for a short time and that you
will come back to me. You lie, and you know it! You never mean to
come back. To think that you should perjure yourself at such a
moment! You are mine, I say; I have paid too great a price for you.
Where you go, I am; where you live, there shall I be. We shall never
part--never--until that which we call death comes between us!"
"Be sensible! I will give you plenty."
"Ah, heart of stone! It is nothing but gold with you. Yes, I will buy
you. Here, take this. Is it a fair price?" and, unclasping the
bracelet, she tossed it to him with an imperial gesture, and it fell
with a tinkling crash on the polished wood of the floor. Hawkshawe
paled to an ashy gray. He raised his hand as if to strike the proud
face before him, but his eyes sank as he met Ma Mie's fearless gaze,
and his hand slowly drooped again. Then he stooped and picked up the
bracelet. "It is worth ten thousand," he murmured to himself, and the
elvish light in his eyes answered the wicked sparkle of rubies in his
hand.
Gathering up her robe, Ma Mie stepped out of the room with a breaking
heart and head held erect and defiant, and when Hawkshawe looked up he
was alone. He slipped the jewel into his pocket, and, going to a
side-table, poured himself out a glass of brandy, and then another and
another, and while he stood near the table drinking feverishly Ma Mie
watched him through the curtain from the door of her room, her hand
clasping the jade hilt of the stiletto she wore at her girdle.
"Ah!" she thought aloud, "I could kill him now as he soddens himself
with drink. But he is mine, and---- Oh, the shame of it! I love him!
He is mine, and will remain mine if I have to drag his soul to hell!"
CHAPTER VIII.
THE SIRKAR'S SALT.
Have I not eaten the Sirkar's salt?
Wherefore then shall I tell a lie?
Wherefore lie? Nay, mine oath is true,
True as above us spreads the sky.
We lost, but a traitor hand was there,
And the soldier fell in the liar's snare.
_Lays of the Punjab_.
Loo-ga-lay said it was only a mistake, but the childlike innocence of
his face, his oaths and protestations, the twenty hired witnesses he
brought to prove him guiltless availed him not, and the richly
deserved three months' "rigorous" was duly awarded. With the giving of
this sentence, the details of which are of no account, the official
programme of the day was over, and Peregrine free from office routine
until Monday morning. He was to see Ruys this afternoon, and her face
appeared to flit before him and his heart bowed down to the vision;
but he set his teeth and put away the thoughts that came whether he
would or not. Was he not measuring the strength of his soul or will,
as he would have called it, against the strength of his passion?
He was going to pit the ideal against the real, and to his strong
young heart the struggle could have but one issue. He knew--none
better--that he was running a desperate risk, but there was no doubt
in his mind that the danger had to be faced, and there was a curious
pleasure in facing the danger. And all this war, which was to make or
mar him, was to be silently fought out in the drawing-room of a very
pretty woman. He found her there, looking the picture of repose, her
little dog coiled snugly at her feet, and a yellow-backed novel before
her. She put the book down with a smile as he came in, and held out
her hand.
"I am so glad to see you, Mr. Jackson. You must be horrified to see
me, a parson's wife, reading a yellow-back; but it is Armorel of
Lyonesse, and books like that make one feel good, do they not? One
seems to want so much support to keep on the straight path through
life."
He picked up the volume from the table.
"Yes," he said, "Armorel was a woman who would have made any man
great. She was one to die for."
"Or to live for, don't you think? I should certainly not like the man
I loved to die for me."
A subtle inflection of the voice made him almost start as he looked
up, but the gray deep of her eyes was pure and unruffled. "I would
rather," she continued, "die for the man I loved. I think women were
made for sacrifice."
"Don't you think that men are capable of it?"
"Of sacrificing women--yes. Is it not done daily? Look at that man in
this book--what do they call him? Ah, yes, Roland--Roland Lee. What a
worthless wretch he was, to what an abyss he sank! Did not Armorel
fling herself away on him? Is it not a terrible thing for a man to
bind a pure woman to him, knowing that she must find out things that
tell her her idol has feet of clay? Oh, yes! the woman builds herself
such castles in the air, and how they crumble and fade!"
"And does this never happen to man?"
"I don't think so. I don't think that a man ever loves in the sense
that a woman wishes to be loved." She bent forward and took the book
from his hand as she spoke.
The touch of her fingers almost made his limbs tremble as he put down
with a mighty effort the rush of words that came to his lips. He said
quietly enough, however, "I do not think you judge us fairly, and you,
at any rate, have nothing to complain of." Not a muscle of her face
moved as she folded the book, held half open in her hand, and placed
it in a small wickerwork basket that stood on a table near her. Over
this she cast a piece of embroidery work, and a moment after her
husband entered the room. He greeted Peregrine cordially, and then,
disjointing himself, sank into a chair with a weary look in his eyes.
"Are you feeling very tired?"
How the worn look passed from the man's face at his wife's question!
"No, Ruys; tired--not a bit of it." Peregrine cut in here and asked if
it was not an off day with the mission schools. "Yes, and that's the
worst of it. It means that on Monday one has to start fresh again.
Satan takes a long pull on Saturday and Sunday, and these Burmans seem
to have a natural affinity for him."
"I suppose I should hardly say it to you, but it seems to me we are
beginning at the wrong end. We are giving these people the Gospel
before they have been put in a state to understand it. How can they
understand the greatest of all mysteries, which even we--I say it with
all deference--do not understand?"
"'Knock, and it shall be opened,'" quoted Habakkuk. "Mr. Jackson, I
was once as you are, searching for a light, groping about in darkness
and----"
The flutelike voice of Mrs. Smalley intervened. "Come, and finish your
speech in the garden. I have had my tea-table set out there, and it
looks as if it were expecting us. Come along, Mr. Jackson, and come,
husband."
She put her hand slightly on Habakkuk's shoulder as she said these
words, and the face of the priest shone with a great joy; but
underneath the long lashes of her eyes she glanced softly on
Peregrine. Jackson's honest heart rebelled against this; he felt that
there was a double game being played, felt it indistinctly, but still
that perception gave him a little extra strength, as if there was a
flaw in the chain that bound him. Yet the thought was horribly
disloyal to this peerless woman, to impute to her the motives of a
common flirt, and it was with a conflict within a conflict in his
heart that he took his seat on the rustic bench near the tea-table and
watched the white hands of his hostess as she busied herself over the
delicate teacups. Habakkuk declined to sit down. He helped himself to
a huge slice of cake, and, holding this in one hand and his tea in the
other, paced up and down ready to carry on the discussion. He cut a
half-moon out of the cake with an enormous, bite, and, waving the
remnants in the air, resumed his speech. "Wal, as I was saying, I was
searching for a light. I had not then received my call to the
ministry, and while hunting for food for the soul was compelled to
shift round considerable for food for the body. I had taken my medical
degrees, but the Lord was good to the folk of Derringerville, and they
flourished and were strong. Hence I concluded to betake me down south,
and near the Sierra Blanca found an ideal spot for a doctor. There
were thousands of typhoid microbes in every square inch of air--in
fact, it was where typhoid had its office--but the inhabitants were
spry. At first they died rather than call me in, but Elder Bullin, a
real smart man he was, convoked the estates one day, and then a
deputation waited on me--there was Calvin Snipe, Dacotah Dick, and the
elder himself. They drank the half bottle of whisky I had left, and
then put the matter squarely to me. I was to be paid a thumping good
salary as doctor to the town. If any one was ill, however, the salary
should cease until he was well again or died; the committee was to
decide in the latter event if I had done my best, and, if the decision
was favourable, arrears would be paid me on the first clean bill of
health. I was, however, bound down for five years, and, seeing I was
on the hard pan, they offered to pay down an advance. I rose to the
situation, papers were signed then and there, and Dacotah Dick paid me
my advance on the nail. Next day the whole place was down with fever,
and I went to work--had to take off my coat to it. There was, of
course, no pay for me, but I had the advance, and rubbed along on
that. By-and-bye the money dwindled away, and I was once more
stranded. I applied for more, but was sternly refused. I then
suggested resigning, and Calvin Snipe pulled out his six-shooter and
asked if I could read the maker's name on it for him. Wal, things were
looking very blue, so one fine night I----"
"Good gracious! Here is Mr. Hawkshawe, and half a dozen men with him.
I wonder what the matter can be? He is coming straight up to us." And,
sure enough, there was Hawkshawe riding into the gate with a tail of
policemen behind him. He halted the men with a quick order, and,
dismounting, walked rapidly across the lawn toward the tea drinkers,
accompanied by one who appeared from his dress to be a subaltern
police officer. The man was travel-stained and bespattered with mud,
and he held one arm tightly to his side as he leaned heavily on a long
curved sword as if to support himself.
"How are you, Mrs. Smalley? Very sorry to interrupt your tea party,
but this is pressing business.--Good afternoon, doctor.--Look here,
Jackson, they've looted the treasury at Yeo. Here is Serferez Ali, my
inspector, who will tell you all about it--and great news, too, with
the bad. I think we have that scoundrel Bah Hmoay redhanded at last. I
heard you were here, and stopped on my way to tell you. I have, of
course, made an official report; you will find that the garrison was
weakened on the strength of a forged order from me--the order is with
my report."
Jackson was struck dumb for a moment by the enormity of the disaster;
he found voice, however, to ask if the whole of the money had been
stolen, and if Bah Hmoay had been arrested.
"The money's all gone," said Hawkshawe, "and Bah Hmoay isn't arrested,
but he will be, I hope, in twenty-four hours. In the meantime I've
placed a watch on the pagoda, and now there is not a moment to lose.
Stay"--he bent and whispered a few words in Jackson's ear, and then
with a hasty good-bye turned and went off. When Hawkshawe had gone
Jackson turned to the inspector and asked him to briefly detail what
had happened. Dr. Smalley's knowledge of the language was of great
help at this moment, and Serferez Ali, presenting the hilt of his
sword for Jackson to touch, began:
"I beg to represent that I was placed in charge of the money at the
sub-treasury at Yeo with a guard of twenty men. Night and day the
proper watch was kept. I have served the Sirkar for thirty years, and
was I going to neglect this? On the night before last Moung Sen, the
letter carrier, brought me a letter from Hawkshawe Sahib. That letter
has been sent to you with the Sahib's report. It was a forgery, as
Hawkshawe Sahib's letter will show; but I am a man little skilled in
writing, and I obeyed. Ten of our men were ordered back next morning
to Pazobin, as a disturbance was expected there, according to the
letter. In the morning I sent back the ten men and told the engineer
Babu what had happened, and said that until the guard came back
payments should not be made, as there were not enough men to attend to
these duties. The Babu sat down to write to you about it, and I
determined with the few men I had to double my precautions. There was
a bright moon that night, and during the day I had the trees near the
treasury gate cut down, so that men might not steal upon us unawares.
At eleven that night, after going my rounds, I sat down to my meal
with Hashim Khan, a fellow-countryman of mine from the Punjab. As we
sat down before the fire a shot was fired, and Hashim fell forward on
his face a dead man. Then I heard the sentries coming back, and I knew
the dacoits had attacked the treasury. There were nine men besides
myself, and we answered the fire of the dacoits; but presently the
woodwork of the building blazed up, and we, being choked with the
smoke, had to come forth, having Beni Sing and Jowahir dead, and
another, a man from Amritsur, was burned in the flames. Then we seven
who were left formed in a ring, and the dacoits closed in upon us.
With mine own eyes I saw Bah Hmoay, the priest, leading them on, and
struck at him twice, but God preserves him to die at the end of a
halter, and Moung Sen was there too, leading the robbers on. I will
swear that I saw them, for the light of the burning building was as
day. And we fought until all died, one by one, except myself, and I
too had died but that fate preserves me to see Bah Hmoay pass to hell,
and, making a dash into the darkness, I escaped. I travelled all the
rest of the night and all day, only meeting Hawkshawe Sahib an hour
ago----"
He swayed gently backward as he said this, and Smalley caught him as
he was falling. "He is wounded, I fear, and must be seen to at once."
CHAPTER IX.
HIS LADY'S GAGE.
Belle Mabel gathered a blood-red rose,
To give to her own true knight.
_The Ballade of the Rose_.
There was a price on Bah Hmoay's head, and if Moung Sen had come
within the pale of the law it would have gone hard with him. Their
stronghold in Pazobin was now a thing, of the past, for the pagoda was
watched night and day, and every little township and village was
placarded with a minute description of the robber priest and his
lieutenant. When Hawkshawe dashed out in pursuit, after the first news
of the robbery, he meant death to Father Fragrance. He was well aware
of the truth of the proverb that dead men tell no tales, and assuredly
Bah Hmoay would have found Nirvana if Hawkshawe had met him. The
policeman made a forced march all that night, and in the early gray of
the morning was at Yeo. He scoured the country for miles, and one by
one the dacoits fell into his hands. And when, three weeks later, he
was recalled to headquarters by an urgent letter from Jackson, there
were but two left of the Knights of the Silk Cotton Tree--two of the
ten who had taken the water of the oath--namely, the reverend priest
and the Red Diamond. It is true that there were a number of others who
had joined in the assault on the sub-treasury, and who, if caught,
would have paid for their crime with their lives; but these ten formed
the regular gang, and now eight of them were taken alive and two were
hunted men. Old Serferez Ali recovered from his wound, which was after
all but slight, took Hawkshawe's place on the track, and vowed by the
prophet's head that Hashim's death should be revenged tenfold, for was
not Hashim of Gugar Khan his father's nephew's cousin on the sister's
side? Moreover, he was a friend, and it was not the law that would
avenge his death, but Serferez Ali himself, who had learned many ways
of doing this. Serferez swore that they should not hang until he had
satisfied himself; the law could then work its will on what remained
of them, and the grim old man, hollow-eyed and gaunt, was relentless
in his pursuit. Information came to him somehow, and it was only the
impassable jungles that saved the criminals from his vengeance.
Hawkshawe was puzzled and annoyed at Jackson's letter recalling him to
headquarters. He had been working splendidly when this sudden stoppage
came. It will be remembered, however, that it was no ordinary interest
that spurred him on. The priest knew too much, and Hawkshawe's one
hope was to seal his lips forever, for now that he was hunted in this
way there was no knowing to what the dacoit might turn and cling for
safety, and it was in his power to do incalculable harm to, if not to
ruin, Hawkshawe. And therefore it was galling to think that, after
all, his prey had escaped him. As he rode back he pulled out and read
the official letter he had received and thrust angrily into his breast
pocket. There was nothing in it but an urgent request to come back at
once. "Confound him!" said Hawkshawe, "he might have written a line to
tell me what it was about." And it was with rage in his heart that he
rode into his house and, flinging the reins to his groom, went
upstairs. A big envelope marked "Urgent" was on the table, and Ma Mie
was there, with a troubled look on her face. As he came in she could
contain herself no longer, and with a cry flung herself on his breast
and called out:
"They have found out! they have found out! Fly, Hawkshawe!"
"What the devil does this all mean?" said Hawkshawe angrily, and yet
with a sickening foreboding in his heart. He snatched up the great
brown envelope and read with whitening lips. It was, in brief, an
order from government suspending him pending certain inquiries that
were to be made, and adding as a rider that he was not to leave
Pazobin until the final orders of the governor had been communicated
to him. He did not notice a small note that dropped out from the
official inclosure, but Ma Mie stooped and, picking it up, handed it
to him. It contained a few lines from Peregrine telling him to keep up
heart; that he, Jackson, was sure the charges were trumped up and
would fall to the ground. The letter closed with an earnest assurance
of sympathy and a brief intimation that his successor, Phipson, had
already arrived, and was of necessity staying with Jackson, there
being no other house available for him. The blow had fallen at last,
and fallen just as Hawkshawe had almost completed his most brilliant
departmental achievement. He guessed instinctively whose hands had
struck it--the wretched half-caste Pozendine and his former enemy Iyer
were leagued together in this. Perhaps they had no proofs, but that
was, after all, a straw to clutch at. He knew he was guilty, and for
the moment he was overcome. He sank back into a chair with an oath,
and his hand slid of its own accord to the butt of his revolver; but
Ma Mie was quick.
"Not that way! not that way!" she cried as she clung to his wrist and
wrenched the weapon away from his after all not unwilling hand.
But a still more terrible trial awaited Hawkshawe, and that was the
formal delivering over of his office to Phipson. He was treated with
the greatest consideration, but this sympathetic treatment only added
to the agony, though it was difficult to say who felt it most, honest
young Phipson, with his soft heart, or the proud and guilty man whose
place he had taken. When it was all over, Hawkshawe went back to his
house and shut himself up, going nowhere--not even to his garden
gate--doing nothing, but morosely sitting in his long cane chair
smoking and drinking.
"It is too cruel of them not to let the poor man go away," said Mrs.
Smalley; and Habakkuk thought that if he were to go and see him
Hawkshawe might be cheered up a bit.
"There is no use, doctor," said Jackson. "I went myself, but could
gain no admittance; perhaps it would be wiser to leave him alone. He
will come out of this trial all right, I hope----"
"If ever he lives through it," said Phipson, and they all understood,
though no one spoke another word.
Smalley now turned the conversation by speaking of a mission school he
had founded at Dagon, which had flourished in so remarkable a manner
that he almost thought it advisable to go and live there himself.
"And leave Pazobin?" said Jackson. "Why, we couldn't do without you,
doctor."
Habakkuk was flattered at the compliment, and explained that after all
it was only an idea that might never come to anything, and he and
Phipson strolled off together to look at some plants, for Phipson was
an amateur gardener and Smalley an enthusiast.
Ruys and Jackson were, alone. "You surely do not think that Dr.
Smalley will move to Dagon?" he asked.
"Why not?" was the reply. "If his work takes him there, and he feels a
call, he must go--and of course I."
"I know," interrupted Jackson, "of course you will go also to aid and
help him." Their eyes met, and his fell before the limpid light in
hers.
"Of course," she said slowly, "there is no other thing for me to do,
unless I were to stay here and look after what is left. There is much
to do, you know. And now take me to the garden. I want to see what
those two are looking at."
It was a wilderness of a garden for all Smalley's care, and one might
easily have been lost in it. Side by side they walked down a pathway,
and in the far distance they caught a glimpse of Phipson and his host
poring over a row of flower pots. Jackson was about to keep straight
on, when Mrs. Smalley deliberately turned into a bypath, and he
followed her, admiring the perfect outline of her figure and the easy
grace of her walk. "Isn't this an odd place?" she said, as on taking a
turn they came upon what was evidently the ruin of an old temple. All
that remained, however, was the plinth and a single griffin of
monstrous size, that stood up above the shrubbery around it and glared
down upon the intruders. "Fancy if such things really lived," and she
dug the silver-mounted cane she carried into the plaster.
"They did, I think, in the old days," replied Jackson. "It must have
been just such a monster who guarded Castle Dolorous and carried away
the White Lady to keep her a close prisoner."
"And of course a youthful knight came and blew on a silver bugle, and
then there was a fight."
"Yes, and the knight won, and the fair lady gave him a gage to wear,
and perhaps----"
"Oh, never mind the perhaps--she gave him her gage, did she? What did
she give?" and as Ruys said this she loosened with her hand a bunch of
mignonette that was pinned to her dress.
"Oh, a ribbon or a kerchief, or maybe a flower, and the knight wore it
as a charm against all evil, and a light to guide him on his quest."
"Yes," she said dreamily, "the good old days--I would we were now in
them. I can not picture a knight in a tweed suit--can you? How would a
gage look on that?" and with a sudden movement of her hand she placed
the flowers against Peregrine's breast and held them there.
"Will you let it rest there?" His voice sounded strange and hollow to
himself. Ruys bent forward and fastened the flowers in his coat slowly
and deliberately, standing close to him as she did this, and a mad
longing came over the man to clasp her to him, to ask her to put her
white arms round his neck and say she loved him, to tell her she was
loved with a love that could only end with his death. But he held out
somehow, God alone knows how, and when Ruys had pinned the flowers
over his heart she said softly:
"There, that is my gage; remember, it is to be an amulet to guide you
to the right."
The sweet scent of the mignonette floated around him, there was a
dreaming look in Ruys's face as she met his look, and now her eyes
fell before him, and she half turned her face away to hide the pink
flush that came into her cheek. There was a moment of breathless
anxiety to the man when he felt that he must yield, but he righted
himself with a mighty effort as he said:
"I will keep the gage forever, Mrs. Smalley, although I am afraid I am
but an unworthy knight."
Neither spoke a word after that, but, as it were, instinctively turned
to leave a place which was so dangerous to both. They walked back
together until they once more reached the broad road, and then Ruys
turned abruptly.
"I have got a headache, Mr. Jackson, and I think I will go in. Don't
tell my husband; it is a mere trifle. See, there are Mr. Phipson and
he talking; go and join them. I--I--want to be alone."
She turned and walked slowly down toward the house, and Jackson stood
still, staring after her with an uncomfortable feeling that her last
words suggested an understanding between them that did not exactly
exist. He bent his head down till his lips touched the flowers she
gave him, and then he went forward to meet his host and Phipson. In
the meantime Ruys reached her room, and, having carefully shut the
door, deliberately proceeded to have a good cry. It was a sheer case
of nerves with her, and the nerves had given way. She had played with
edged tools and now found that they could cut, and began to realize
that she was almost if not quite in love with this impassive youth.
The woman was a curious mixture of good and bad. She laid herself out
to do a wrong thing, and took a keen pleasure in so doing, then would
come the reaction and bitter regret. She went down on her knees in an
impulsive manner and prayed to God to forgive her sin, and she vowed
then and there to dedicate her life to his service. Then she got up,
washed off the traces of her tears, and came down to her husband. The
mail had come in, and Habakkuk was seated reading his paper. "Have
they gone?" she asked.
"Yes," replied Habakkuk, "left about twenty minutes ago."
She sat down on a rug near her husband's feet and rested her head on
his knee. Habakkuk put down the paper he was reading and stroked the
soft curls on her head with a gentle hand. She looked up after a
while.
"Did you mean what you said about going to Dagon?"
"Why?"
"Because, if you did, I want you to go at once, and take me with you."
"Why, little woman, what is the matter?"
She got up impatiently. "Oh, you men--you men! Will you never
understand?"
CHAPTER X.
AN ATONEMENT.
_Ruys_.--Can I give back? Well, then I will restore.
Death pays all debts.
_Maraffa: A Tragedy_.
In a solitary room of his house, shut out from the light of day,
Hawkshawe was drinking himself to madness and to death. The weary
weeks dragged themselves on, one after the other, in connection with
his case, and yet nothing was done beyond the order which kept him
under judgment. The government had not as yet even decided what steps
they were to take in the matter. Called upon for an explanation,
Hawkshawe had sent up a long memorial, full, as memorials always are,
of points that did not bear on the question. He clutched at any straw
to save himself, and there was without doubt a good record of good
work done by him. Practically, however, he was already condemned, and
the governor had made up his mind almost as soon as he heard of the
case. He was a man whose muscular morality could endure no
backsliding, and the taint of the old days still hung around Burma. He
had sworn to purify it, and he meant to keep his word. "These are the
men," he said, referring to Hawkshawe, "that we want to get rid of,
and any excuse should be seized upon, for they have dragged the name
of Englishmen in the mud; of course, however, Mr. Hawkshawe must have
every opportunity of defending himself."
The head of the police, to whom these words were spoken, went away
with misgivings in his heart about Hawkshawe. "He'll get over the
bribery and corruption part of the affair," he said to a confidential
friend--in other words, to his wife. "There's no real proof except the
statements of those dismissed scoundrels and half a dozen other
blackguards; but the other thing will smash him, and, with all his
faults, he is very nearly my best man."
"And he ought to be turned out," said the lady. "I have no pity for
men like Mr. Hawkshawe."
The chief remained silent, knowing that here argument was unavailing,
but nevertheless he still regretted Hawkshawe's fate. And from this it
will be inferred that a long connection with the seamy side of mankind
had more or less blunted the fine edge of his susceptibilities, and
that he was prepared to use any tools if they served his business,
which was the suppression and detection of crime; and perhaps he was
right.
In the meantime Alban Hawkshawe slipped down with frightful rapidity.
He was like a man sliding down a snowy slope beneath which yawned a
precipice, and he was reaching the abyss at a frightful pace. He would
have killed himself had he dared; once he had almost done so, but the
little hole in the muzzle of the revolver he held to his mouth looked
so pitiless that he drew it back shrinking. His nerves were weakened,
and there was a terrible bodily fear of that death which he felt could
alone be his release. It was open to him to have left Pazobin and run
the chance of arrest; but the very attempt at flight would establish
his guilt, and he was quick-witted enough to see that his only chance
was to fight, and, although the waters were over him, yet his arm was
stretched out to grasp the one little straw in which there might be
safety. Strange as it may seem, he began to feel an injured man. There
was the shame and indignity of being kept a prisoner at large, to feel
that every one around him knew of his fall, to know that they knew him
guilty, to know that they who crouched before him formerly were
laughing over their opium pipes at his downfall. The very servants
knew it. He saw this in their faces. These thoughts drove him faster
and faster on his course, and he vainly tried to flee from himself in
the stupor of drink. And then the time came when drink did not produce
forgetfulness. But Ma Mie clung to him with the affection of a dog.
She endured his abuse and his blows, for Hawkshawe had reached a stage
when he was no longer restrained from violence because the object was
a woman. The poor creature tried to keep him from his besetting vice;
she brought out all her little arts which were once wont to please and
to beguile, but to no purpose. Hawkshawe insisted on having her about
him, but it was not to console; it was because he wanted some one upon
whom to work off the fits of semi-madness that came on him. His
servants fled in terror, and after a time he began to feel that he
could not bear to be alone. His excited brain conjured up strange
images about him, and finally the wild beast within the man awoke in
its full strength, and he was no longer a human being, but had gone
back to that early time when man was as savage as a tiger is now. It
seemed as if the soul had flitted from him while he still lived. He
had now got out of hand entirely, and Ma Mie dared not approach him,
but she hung around trying to anticipate his wants and watching his
progress with a sickening heart. Finally the time came when she went
mad also, for one night Hawkshawe put a fearful insult on her. She
drew her dagger to kill him, but he had strength to wrench it from her
grasp and flung her to the corner of the room, where she lay stunned
and bleeding. After a time she picked herself up and stepped out of
the room without a look at the wretched Hawkshawe and his still more
vile companion.
"Order her to come back," said the woman who was with Hawkshawe; "I
want her to attend on me."
"So she shall," was the brutal reply. "Here, Ma Mie!" he shouted, but
there was no answer. He got up and staggered to her room. It was
empty, but from the open window he saw her figure as it flitted down
the road, and a wailing sob reached his ears. "By God, she shall come
back!" he yelled, and, bareheaded as he was, reeled out of the house,
followed by the mocking laughter of the she-devil within.
* * * * *
They had just dined, and Peregrine, leaning back in his chair, was
listening to a plaintive little melody played by Phipson on his
fiddle. Phipson fiddled; he did not play the violin, but his fiddling
was very sweet and good to hear. He finished his little air with a
flourish, and, resting the instrument lightly on the table before him,
said, "I wonder you don't play something or other; it is a great
distraction!"
Jackson had no time to answer; almost as the words left Phipson they
heard footsteps rushing up the stairs, and Ah-Geelong's voice raised
in expostulation. The next moment Ma Mie burst into the room. She held
in her hand a bundle of papers, which she flung before Jackson.
"There," she half screamed, "I give him up; he is a double traitor! O
Hawkshawe, Hawkshawe!"
"Yes, Hawkshawe, Hawkshawe!" answered a mocking voice, and Hawkshawe
stepped in, holding Ah-Geelong out at arm's length before him with a
grip of iron. He shook the Chinaman like a rat, and, flinging him
behind him, sprang straight at Ma Mie and struck a terrible blow at
her. It was well that Phipson saw what was coming and hit up
Hawkshawe's arm. The next moment the madman had flung himself on him,
and the two rolled over together. "He's choking me, Jackson!" and
Peregrine woke up as from a dream. With the assistance of Ah-Geelong
he managed to free Phipson, but it took the united efforts of all
three to hold the maniac down. Hawkshawe, when he found that he was
overpowered, lay perfectly still for a moment, a white foam round his
lips and his eyes shifting nervously about in their deep sockets like
those of an ape. He then said quite quietly, "Let me up; the game is
played out. I can do no more." Ah-Geelong gave a warning glance, and
whispered to Jackson, "Plenty dlunk." But both Peregrine and Phipson
felt that he would attempt no more violence, and, ordering the
Chinaman to stand back, helped him to rise, which he did slowly, and
then glared round him with his restless, fiery eyes. "Where is my
wife?" he asked, and then they saw for the first time that Ma Mie had
gone. The thought that she had escaped him seemed to rouse him to fury
again. "Devil!" he shrieked, and made a dash for the door. Peregrine
and Phipson were before him, however. "For God's sake, sit still and
pull yourself together, Hawkshawe!" said Phipson. He looked at them
and, throwing his head back, laughed, and his voice was as the howl of
a beast. "Sit still! How can I sit still? There is something broken in
my head; there are the fires of hell in my heart. A devil is ever
leaning over my shoulder, and---- Ma Mie, you traitress, where are
you? Let me pass," he shouted, "or I will---- Ugh! there it is!" He
turned and, glancing over his shoulder, saw Ah-Geelong moving softly
toward him, and then with a bitter curse sprang backward out into the
veranda, and the next moment there was a dull thud below, and all was
very still. They picked him up gently and bore him to Jackson's own
room. Phipson ran for Smalley, and when Habakkuk came he looked at the
man carefully. "I will do what I can," he said, "but no human art can
save him; he is most fearfully injured. I doubt if he will live
through until the morning." But when the morning came Hawkshawe was
still alive, and when the sun sank he was not dead. There was one who
came and took her place by the sick-bed as if it was her right, and
neither of the three men had the heart to forbid Ma Mie. All through
the long hours she never left him, and they were her hands that lifted
his head as the last breath came and Alban Hawkshawe passed away. He
never once regained consciousness, and it was only his extraordinary
muscular vitality that kept him living for so long a time.
When it was all over and Smalley had gone, promising to come again
with the morning, Phipson and Peregrine went back downstairs to the
dining-room and there sat up together. Sleep was impossible, and to
both of them death like this was a new and terrible thing. It was then
that Ah-Geelong came in softly and brought a message from Ma Mie to
say that she wished to see them. "Ask her to come in," said Peregrine,
and she came. She held in her hands a small inlaid casket, which she
placed on the shining woodwork of the table. Her eyes were tearless,
but her voice trembled as she spoke. "See," she said, "what was my
husband is lying dead above, and dead in dishonour. I have come to
make his memory clean and to restore----" With a quick movement of her
hands she opened the casket and scattered its contents on the table.
It was full of precious stones, and above them all coiled the ruby
bracelet, and the evil light of the gems seemed to blaze and sputter
through the night. "I restore, as he would have restored if God did
not make him mad; here they are, jewels for which he sold his honour
and I my soul. And now good-bye. You were good to him, and you saved
my life. Ma Mie will never forget."
They let her go without a word, and she passed out into the darkness
forever from their sight.
CHAPTER XI.
THE PATIENCE OF HABAKKUK SMALLEY.
To-night I pass the narrow straits
Which lead unto the Unknown Sea.
God, who knoweth the hearts of man,
Make Thou my pathway clear to me!
_Voyage of the Tobias_.
Ruys's repentant fit soon began to pass away, and there seemed every
prospect of an aftermath of backsliding. She had honestly and
soulfully tried to mend, and for a few weeks everything went
smoothly--at least outwardly--for there was a hard struggle going on
within. Then she began to think the air was getting too pure for her
to live in, and then in her desperation she again opened up the
subject of the removal to Dagon, and to her surprise and joy found her
husband met her more than halfway in this. She had no very definite
object in urging the move beyond that it would enable her to flee an
ever-present temptation. It would have been well for Smalley if he had
seen what was going on, but Habakkuk had never gauged that wayward
heart. With all his love for her, he had never been able to understand
his wife. It was a mystery to him how she had ever come to marry him,
how he had ever come to ask her to share his lot. She had accepted the
offer in one of those capricious moods in which women of her nature do
absolutely anything, and she was, in fact, nothing more or less than a
refined and educated Ma Mie, without, perhaps, the rugged nobleness of
the Burman woman. When she first knew Habakkuk he had just thrown
aside a lucrative practice as a physician to enter the ministry with a
view to going on the Eastern mission. This in itself was sufficient to
attract an emotional woman, and there was something also in the innate
nobleness of soul within his ungainly frame that drew her toward him.
She had one of her "good" fits on. Here was something so very
different from the smart young men of her set who worshipped the
almighty dollar, and dreamed of the almighty dollar, whose one idea
was to amass a fortune, and to whom a business operation which
successfully brought a friend perhaps to ruin was a creditable thing.
She felt that marriage with such an one was a moral abasement, and so
she signalled, in that silent way that women know, to the strong and
loving nature that was hovering near her, and he came at her call.
Something within him, he knew not what, prompted him to speak, and he
simply told her of his love, and turned to go. It never for one moment
crossed him that he would meet anything but a refusal, and when she
softly called him back and put her hand in his, he was unable at first
to realize that his apparently absurd ambition had been crowned with
success. They were married, and almost immediately left for the East,
and almost as immediately Ruys began to repent of the step she had
taken and wished herself back again. Those smart young men who
worshipped the almighty dollar--after all, they were not so bad. She
began to contrast them with her husband, and then she began to be
miserable. Habakkuk saw this much, that she was miserable, and put it
down to seasickness. By the time he reached Burma he reflected that
his wife had about fifty different characters, and could slip on one
as easily as she slipped on a dress. He was a sensible man and
resigned himself to his fate, and then she trampled upon him because
he yielded, and he bore it all with a silent misery eating at his
heart. Then after a time his love seemed to sleep into a kind of
intimate friendship; but Ruys saw this, and would fan it all up again,
and, as soon as she succeeded, relapse into an icy dullness that made
life almost unendurable. It was their last evening at Pazobin; the
parsonage had been practically dismantled of its ornaments, and Ruys,
with a straw hat in her hand, stood in what was once her very pretty
drawing-room. Habakkuk stepped in with his slouching gait.
"I wish," said she, "you wouldn't stoop so. Why don't you hold
yourself up? There!" and she straightened him; "if you always carry
yourself like that it would be so different."
"I'll try," said Habakkuk. "I must enroll myself as chaplain to the
Pazobin Volunteers. There are six men in the regiment, but I'll get
drilled. Will that suit?"
She was in a gay mood, and laughed blithely. "Yes, it will do very
well, and I shall have to work some colours and give it to the gallant
regiment. But you are not to go with them when they go fighting
dacoits," and she came close up to him. Habakkuk for once plucked up
courage, and, putting his arm round his wife's waist, kissed her, and
to his surprise the caress was returned. He could hardly believe it,
but she disengaged herself from his arm and said, "I want you to go
down to the boats and see that everything is ready, like a dear; then
you can come back for me, and take me on board."
Habakkuk felt that he could have gone to the end of the world. He was
off in a moment, and went away holding himself very erect.
His wife looked after him with a strange smile on her face. "I have
got him away for a good hour, at any rate," she said to herself, and
stepping out into the garden walked slowly down to the ruined temple,
and when she reached there she looked around as if expecting some one.
"I wonder if he will come?" she said, and almost as the words escaped
her Peregrine walked quickly across the side and came straight up to
her. "I only got your note this minute, Mrs. Smalley," he said; "of
course I was coming to see you off. It will be a great disappointment
to Phipson. There was news which took him out this afternoon. Our
friends the dacoits are to the fore again."
"I thought you would come this way," she said, "and walked up here to
meet you. Dr. Smalley will be back soon; he has gone down to the boats
to see after things."
"I wish I could have persuaded you not to go," said Peregrine. "You
don't know what a loss you will be to us." The young man had won a
great victory as he thought. Within the last few weeks Ruys's own
attempts at escape had helped him. He had seen the struggle, and as he
now stood over her his eyes were fearless with the strong light of
power and resolve. Her knight--he had sworn to be her knight, and was
wearing her token next to his heart. His hand should be the last to
drag her down, and therefore his voice was kind and courteous, but
nothing more, as he expressed his civil regrets at her departure.
With Ruys it was different. She had taken a hasty resolve to have one
more interview with Jackson, and then to say good-bye forever. She had
determined to meet him here and ask him never to see her again, and
now that the opportunity which she herself had foolishly made had come
she was unable to speak, and her lips whitened as she stood still
before him; and then he saw that she was crying, and took her gently
by the hand.
"Mrs. Smalley--Ruys," he said, "be brave. See, you are my sister; I
will look to you for help and counsel, and will be as a brother to
you. Be brave."
And even as she spoke the floodgates were opened, and all the
passionate woman spoke: "I love you! I love you! How can I be your
sister? Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?" And she burst into
hysterical sobs, and the next moment was in Peregrine's arms, with her
soft cheek resting against his shoulder and her heart to his.
For one wild moment Peregrine forgot all. "My queen! my queen!" he
said, and kissed her unresisting lips and held her to him.
He put her from him, and as she stood with downcast eyes and trembling
limbs before him, he spoke: "Good-bye; it must be good-bye forever
now."
She made no answer, but looked after his retreating figure with sad,
dreamy eyes, and then with a white face and aching heart turned and
walked backward to the house.
* * * * *
"_My God, thou hast forsaken me!_" Never did cry more bitter come from
the soul of the prophet than came from the heart of Habakkuk Smalley
from the spot where he had watched the whole meeting and seen the
parting of the two. He had been a witness to it all from start to
finish, and only perhaps a priest could have restrained himself as
well as he had done up to now. It seemed as if his life had crumbled
away. He now knew what he had never expected, and like an inspiration
the motives of his wife in forcing him to leave the place flashed upon
him. After all, the temptation had been resisted, and who was he to
judge. He thought of the lesson his Master had taught in a case of
terrible reality, and was he, a priest of the Gospel, to stop at less
than this? He kneeled down on the turf, and, holding up his arms to
heaven, prayed. "God," he cried, "thou hast hunted me like a deer on
the mountain side, and I am sorely wounded----" He could say no more,
but gasped out "Strength! strength!" and then after a while a peace
came upon him and he arose and followed the footsteps of his wife. He
found her sitting in their now cheerless room, and her features seemed
pinched and drawn. Never a word did Habakkuk speak of what he knew,
but his voice was as kind and gentle as ever. "Everything is ready,"
he said; "shall we go?"
Now Ruys made no answer, but simply rose, and they went forth
together.
CHAPTER XII.
THE EPISODE OF LI FONG.
"By the Prophet's head,
He shall die," he said,
"By the knife of the Khyberee!"
_Civil and Military Gazette_.
Li Fong, contractor and general shopkeeper, was wearied of Dorian
fruit, of _nga-pe_, and of Pazobin. Li was no "eleven o'clock
chink "--that is, a Chinaman born and bred out of the Celestial
Empire--but was a pure Hankow man, and had migrated to Burma with the
philanthropic motive of spreading enlightenment among the outer
barbarians, and to extract as much as he could out of the country he
was honouring with his presence. But he was tired of Pazobin. Pazobin
had no more to give, and for him the orange was sucked dry. His real
business did not lie among the lead-foil packets of bad tea, with the
cubes of China sugar, that crumbled to dust at the touch, with the
inferior writing paper, the preserved ginger, and the pickled bamboo,
with which his little shop was stocked. No, it had other and more
paying ramifications, or Li could not have looked so sleek and
comfortable as he sat in his cane chair beneath a green and yellow
paper lantern and inhaled a long cigarette, the _soupcon_ of opium in
the tobacco imparting a dreamy flavour to his smoke. But Li was not in
his usual spirits. "Allee pidgin gone," his thoughts ran on; "Li he go
too." Yes, this was true, too true. All business, really paying
business, had gone since Pozendine and Iyer were swept away with other
refuse, and there was nothing to be done with Mr. Pillay, who reigned
in their place. Profits had come down to zero, for Mr. Pillay was that
_rara avis_ of his class--an honest man. Li Fong's approaches toward
him had resulted in Li's being treated with indignity, and, what was
worse, in attracting the particular attention of Jackson toward the
Chinaman. And when the special attention of a district officer is
drawn to a person like Li, it is better for him or her to move on, and
our sleek friend, fully aware of this, was on the eve of his
departure. But he was going heavily laden. He had sold his shop, and
was for this night a care-taker only. Honest Yen Chow, of Myobin, was
the purchaser. Yen would come to-morrow, and then Li was free as air.
He smoked his cigarette comfortably through, and dozed off slowly.
When he awoke he found that the township was going to bed. It was not
a bad idea, thought Li. He would do the same. He turned down the
burner of the little kerosene lamp that was placed within the gaudy
lantern, locked his shop door, and went inside. Here, in a little back
room, in heat and stuffiness so great that only a Chinaman could
endure it, Li Fong lived his celibate life. He lit a small lamp
carefully and placed it in a corner of the room; then he kneeled down,
but not to pray. He merely fumbled under a heap of bedding and pulled
out a small box. His eyes sparkled with delight as he opened the
casket, and he gazed at the contents with a smile of deep
satisfaction. When he had gladdened his eyes he shut the lid slowly
with a regretful snap, and put aside the treasure. There was one more
delight before sleep came, and that was contained in his opium pipe.
He lit this with a luxurious slowness, and then, stretched out on his
pallet, smoked himself into paradise. What rosy dreams were Li's! He
would be a mandarin of the green button, his ancestors would be
ennobled, he might become an Amban! "To-mollow," he murmured to
himself; but to-morrow never came to Li on earth. Li dreamed on, sunk
in lethargy, and finally fell into profound sleep, and the lamp burned
low.
When he awoke again it was with the consciousness of physical pain,
and behold! the lamp was burning brightly in the room.
Two men were seated beside the light, and spread out on the floor were
the jewels the little box contained. The men were arranging them in
little heaps, counting them carefully. Li made a frantic effort to
call out, but he was gagged. Then he rolled over toward the men, and
the light of despair was in his eyes. "Keep him quiet, Moung Sen,"
said one of the two, and the taller man held his sharp _dah_ over Li,
who crouched still, making no effort to move. The other finished his
counting, and then swept the jewels into a bag. Then he turned
savagely on the Chinaman. "Beast!" he said, "and you were going away
with the earnings of honest men!" Then, changing his voice: "What! and
you wouldn't even come and say good-bye to an old friend--to poor old
Father Fragrance! It was very wrong of you, Li Fong, very wrong."
Moung Sen here pricked Li with the _dah_, and a shiver went over the
limbs of the bound man. Bah Hmoay then spoke again. "To think that you
can't even speak, Li Fong, that your wicked mouth is gagged, and that
all my money--_our_ money," and he pointed to Moung Sen, "has come
back to its rightful owners, and some more besides! Li Fong, you were
going a far journey with all that wealth. You will now go a farther
journey, where wealth will no longer avail you--where the gems of the
world are useless. Li Fong, you are going to die!" If eyes could have
spoken there would have been a piteous appeal for mercy, but being
merely eyes they could only look words, not speak them.
* * * * *
"I never knew a more atrocious thing in my life," said Phipson to his
chief. "We found the poor devil with his throat slit from ear to ear,
and on the wall of the room, scratched in charcoal, the respectful
compliments of Bah Hmoay to you. Confound the brute! I'd give ten
years of my life to see him swinging at the end of a rope!"
Jackson rose from his chair and slowly paced the room. After six
months of absolute quiet he had begun to think that the dacoit had
disappeared with the destruction of his gang, when here came a fresh
atrocity--an atrocity out-Heroding the others. It was too bad, and
yet, after all, in his heart Jackson could not help admiring the
daring of the man.
"By Jove!" he said, "that fellow should be bottled and kept as a
curiosity. Had he lived a hundred years ago, he would have died a
prince."
"He'll die very high up," grunted Phipson.
"The inspector sahib has come on urgent business," announced an
orderly.
"Tell him to come in," said Phipson, and Serferez Ali entered the
room.
He explained briefly that he had at last a clew to the hiding place of
the dacoits, and begged permission to start off at once.
It is needless to say that this permission was readily granted, and
Phipson himself expressed his intention of accompanying the party. He
noticed, however, the shade of disappointment that passed over
Serferez Ali's face as he said he would come, and, being a generous
young fellow, guessed its meaning. It was as if the old man had said,
"Do not rob me of the honour," and the mute appeal won its way. "No,
on second thoughts, I don't think I shall come, Serferez."
"May you end as a lord sahib!" said the inspector. "By sunset the
heads of the base born will be in your veranda."
"Take a strong body of men with you, inspector," said Jackson, and
Serferez said, "Huzoor!" saluted, and went out. He passed down the
drive with rapid strides, and regained the police barracks with all
speed. Here he picked out half a dozen men, and in a few minutes they
were in a long snake boat rowing steadily and swiftly toward the great
silk-cotton tree.
"One thousand rupees for Bah Hmoay dead or alive, and five hundred for
Moung Sen, my children," said Serferez from the tiller, "and I will
give up my share. You can all cut your names after this and go back to
the grants the Sirkar is giving on the Chenab without fear of that
jackal's spawn, Shankar the bunnia. Ahi! for the five rivers, but
Serferez must die here--die in the swamps of this ill-begotten land."
"Aho!" grunted the bearded Sikhs, and the boat fairly hissed along the
water. It was a long row and a stiff row against the main stream, but
presently they entered the backwater, and the boat slid like a huge
saurian on the ooze. They passed deeper and deeper into the jungle,
which hung so thickly about the creek that the men had to stoop below
the gunwale to prevent the branches from stopping their progress and
the terrible thorns from doing them injury. Finally they could proceed
no farther; so tangled was the maze of forest, so thickly did it
overhang the water, that it seemed as if the creek ran into the bowels
of the earth with a sudden abruptness. Very softly did Serferez ground
the boat, and one by one they all stepped out. "Stay you here and look
after the boat," whispered Serferez to the youngest of the men. "And,
fool! don't sit in the boat, but hide _here_--_here_ in the bushes,
and keep your eyes and ears open. Shoot the first Burman who comes
near it dead. Don't waste time in asking questions. Remember this, or
you will never see the white hills again, I swear by the Prophet's
head!" and he tapped his sword hilt significantly. After this no word
was spoken, but the five men with Serferez at their head made their
way in Indian file through the forest. Sometimes they were able to
walk, but most frequently they had to resort to the tedious process of
crawling through the jungle on all fours. They dared not use their
_dahs_ to cut the underwood, for the slightest sound might alarm their
quarry, and many a detour had to be made to find a passage. Serferez
himself acted as guide, and he made no mistakes. Finally they came to
the little clearing, and halted on its borders. A little to the left
the huge silk-cotton tree reared its white trunk and spread out its
huge ghostly arms like a forest giant struck with white leprosy. It
was in full bloom, and the magnificent scarlet and orange of the
bombax flowers starred its foliage, and ever and anon dropped with
soft heaviness on the turf below. But it was not this, nor the
hummingbirds that dipped their long beaks into the red cups of the
flowers, that made the eyes of the men watching from the jungle
lighten and Serferez's lips to draw back with a tigerish snarl.
There, under the tree, not forty yards away, seated, smoking
comfortably, were the two men whom they had sought for so long. Two of
the police put up their rifles, but at a glance from their chief put
them down again. "Alive," he whispered; "you two go round and then
rush them; they will come straight at us, and then----" The two men
sidled off like snakes noiselessly through the damp undergrowth. Moung
Sen now began to sing in a droning voice:
"Mah Se hath a dower of roses,
Mah Kit hath a dower of pelf;
And I sigh for the scent of the roses,
But die for the gleam of the pelf."
"But die for the gleam of the pelf," echoed the priest sonorously.
"Mah Se hath the grace of an angel,
Mah Kit she is crooked and old."
Crack! went the sharp report of a police carbine, and a bullet
whistled harmlessly over the singer's head.
"May hell burn those fools!" shouted Serferez. "Come on!" and almost
before the words had left him he was on the dacoits. The Boh sprang
straight at him, and aimed a terrible cut at Serferez. He parried
this, but it shivered his sword to splinters, and would have killed
him on the spot but for the folds of his turban. It bore him on his
knees, however, and had Bah Hmoay been allowed a moment's more time
Serferez would have slept in paradise. But the opportunity was not to
be lost; without a second's hesitation the dacoit chief sprang off,
and, cutting down another man with a back-handed sweep of his long
dah, dashed into the jungle and was lost. Not so Moung Sen. The
minstrel was overpowered at the outset, and was now sitting like a
trussed fowl securely bound with the long coils of a couple of
turbans. Serferez had regained his feet, and shouted out, "Who fired
that shot?" One of the men explained that his rifle had gone off by
accident--caught in a twig.
"You are a liar, Bullen, son of Bishen!" said the inspector; "and that
shot of yours has cost us a thousand rupees. Still, one remains in the
net.--Ho, Moung Sen! Red Diamond! Do you remember me? I have come to
pay back the debt I owe you."
Moung Sen made no answer, but strained at the bandages that bound him
until the muscles of his arms swelled out like knotted ropes.
"He will be very heavy to carry to the boat, will he not, my
children?" said Serferez. "And the law is uncertain--he may not hang."
"And nine men from the Doab died that day at Yeo," said one.
"We get no more for his head than for the rest of him," added another.
"And he attempts to escape," said a third, pointing to the man, who
strained desperately to free himself.
* * * * *
In the dusk of the evening seven men of the Sikh police rolled out
something from a cloth at the feet of Phipson.
"May it please the Feeder of the Poor," said Serferez, "the base born
attempted to escape as the other did, and there was no way but this,"
and he held the grinning head of Moung Sen out at arm's length before
him.
CHAPTER XIII.
AN OVERREACH.
Saddle me straight the red roan mare,
She of the Waziri breed;
The wings of death are beating the air,
Hola! the Waziri steed!
The wings of death are fleet and strong,
But we win the race, though the race be long.
_Lays of the Punjab_.
"Ruys, would you like to go home?"
"Home! This is my home, is it not?"
"You know what I mean," said Habakkuk. "This is getting too much for
you," and he stopped in a hesitating sort of way. A sad little smile
lit up his wife's face--a face that had grown stronger and braver with
the soul struggle of the past year. It was changed, too; the old
brightness, the old vivacity had gone, but there was a serious light
in the eyes that told of battle fought and victory won. And Habakkuk
missed that old brightness and saw not the struggle. He was always
dull, even if he knew how to suffer and be strong. But he thought that
his wife was dying for freedom, and he vowed in his heart that, in so
far as he could give her freedom, she should be free. Home--yes, home
was the best place for her. He would never see it again, but she would
be uncaged. He was not rich in the world's goods, and what he had he
gave freely to the cause for which he laboured; but he held his hand
back now, and during the past year the cause had suffered in this
respect. But this little wrong was necessary to lighten a stricken
heart. And while he thus laboured his wife saw it all with a woman's
quickness, and inch by inch he was gaining ground, unknown at first to
herself and through all utterly unguessed by him. At last the summer
madness of the past drifted away, at last she began to realize, and
just as she had done so this blundering fool asked her to go. It was
too bad! After all, she had her woman's rights. Why did he not try to
win her back with soft words? A new softness, a new mistrust of
herself had come over her, and she could not speak. And then she
dissembled and evaded the question. "I am very well," she said; "there
is nothing the matter with me."
Smalley made no answer, and his wife, rising, went to the door and
then stopped. For a moment the thought flashed upon her that she would
ask him to come with her as far as the schoolhouse of Dagon. But he
saw nothing in her hesitation. Finally she left him and went to her
daily duties; but as she walked down the grassy lane that led to the
school she thought to herself that if he had made any advance, ever so
little a one, that she would have spoken. After all, this was part of
her punishment, and she should bear it, her thoughts ran on.
"Alms, in the name of the Buddh!" An old man, shaking with palsy, held
out a gourd to her, and Ruys gave to him and walked on. The beggar
picked out the coin from the calabash and poised it lightly on his
finger. The palsy had all gone now, and his hand was as firm as a
rock.
"Three times," he muttered to himself--"three times has my hand been
crossed with silver to-day. By God! I have him now. Thanks to the
chattering tongue of that servant girl, I know her secret and his. I
will strike _there_--_there!_"--and he pointed to the retreating
figure--"and this will make him live with a heart wound. For a whole
year have I waited and worked and planned, and now the time has come.
Oh, that this were the day! But I will not disregard a single omen.
Thrice crossed with silver, therefore the third day from this.
Courage, Bah Hmoay!"
Once more palsy stricken, his feeble steps tottered along the lane and
led him toward the pagoda. There at the feet of one of the two great
griffins that guarded the gate he crouched, swinging himself backward
and forward, and ever and anon calling out, "Alms, in the name of the
Buddh!" So he sat until about the hour of sunset, when the womanfolk
of the place gathered to the temple, and then he saw one whose stately
step and carriage were unmistakable. It was Ma Mie, and as she passed
by he called out her name softly, and she turned with a start. At a
glance she recognised him. "_You_ here!" she said with a little gasp
that choked the word "devil!" which she hissed under the breath.
"Yes, but not alone. Where can we speak?"
"Come to my house; my mother is there, and there is no harm in
listening to the advice of a holy bonze."
"Ever ready with your tongue as usual," said the dacoit as he rose,
flung his saffron robe loosely around him and followed her with feeble
steps.
And as she led him toward the house Ma Mie was thirsting for revenge.
Here, here was the man who had led her into disaster, and he, above
all others, with a price on his head, was walking beside her, going to
her own house. The old fox was noosed at last, and it was with a
beating heart that she led him into her house, where her mother, old,
wrinkled, and hideous beyond measure, mumbled out a greeting.
"See, mother, this is a friend, a holy man, whom I have brought to
rest here a while. I knew him in the old days, and he has something to
say to me."
The hag chuckled out: "He is too old for a lover; let him speak, I
will not be in hearing," and she went out of the door and sat hard by
on a rude seat at the foot of a large palm tree.
"Now, what is it you want here?" said Ma Mie; "you with a price on
your head!"
"You, at any rate, will not give me away."
"And why not?"
"First, because your brother is one of us, and lies sick in a place I
know of; if I am lost, so is he--I have but to speak a word; and,
secondly, because you want revenge, and I offer it to you."
Ma Mie dropped her eyes for a moment to hide the fierce light that
came into them, and pretended to adjust the rich folds of her
_tamein_.
"Yes," she said slowly, "I want revenge," and she looked at Bah Hmoay
straight in the face.
"Then listen; I want your help. I am not alone, as I said. Away in
the swamp lie twenty good men who would raze this place to the ground
if anything were to happen to me. I, too, want revenge, and upon
Jackson--he who ruined your husband, he who has hunted me until I live
a beast of the field. I could kill him at any time, but that is not
enough. I want him to live with a wound on his heart from which he
will never recover. I will kill him afterward if it suits me, and
now--stoop--see here," and the dacoit rapidly whispered to Ma Mie
words that made her start back and say, "No! no!" "But I say
yes--think of it--it is a vengeance worthy of a Burman. We will sack
the place on the third night from this, and but one shall be spared. I
shall take her to my swamp, and she shall live as my slave; but these
white women are delicate, and I do not want her to die _yet_. I want
your help, therefore--a woman needs a woman. Soh! You understand? You
can name your price."
"Vengeance has no price," said Ma Mie, "and I agree."
"So be it," said the dacoit. "Then you will be ready?"
"Yes," she replied; "and now go."
"My blessing," and the dacoit rose and tottered out of the room.
"Ho, mother!" he said as he passed the old Mah Kit, "the night air is
chilly for old bones; you had better go in."
"Old bones," the hag mumbled--"old bones, but eyes young yet, young
yet. There is devilment abroad. What is it, daughter?" she asked as
she entered the room.
"It would have been death, mother, had he stayed another five minutes.
I would have put my dagger in his heart. But let me be; I will tell
you all. I must think."
And she sat moodily slowly drawing the point of her stiletto in little
crosses on the wood flooring. An hour or two passed in this way, and
then Ma Mie looked up.
"Mother," she said, "I am going on a journey. I shall be back on the
third day from this. If _he_ comes, make some excuse. Listen, it will
be worth a thousand to us."
"Clever girl! clever girl!" said the hag; "leave it to Ma Kit. I know
now. Oh, yes, I know many things that nobody else knows. He! he! When
are you going, child?"
"Now," said Ma Mie. "The little steamer touches here at ten to-night,
and it now wants but a half hour to the time."
Her packing arrangements were of the simplest character, and an hour
later she was leaning over the side of the small steamer that plied
between Dagon and Pazobin, with burning revenge in her heart and a
long cheroot in her mouth--bathos and tragedy hand in hand. The
morning brought her to Pazobin, and she went straight to Jackson's
house. To her dismay, she found he was not there--he had gone to the
district the night before, and Phipson with him. Then she bethought
her of the native deputy magistrate; but he was a Burman, and she
doubted him. Finally she thought of old Serferez Ali, and, seeking him
out, poured the information into the old man's ears. It was not the
reward she wanted, it was revenge; but not revenge upon Jackson, but
upon the fiend who had tempted and was now tempting again to drag her
to the lowest deep. "Is all this true, girl?" said the inspector, and
Ma Mie merely looked at him in reply. He was satisfied. "Go back at
once," he said; "the dispatch boat leaves this afternoon; you will be
there by the early morning; and stay--not a word of this to a soul.
You have money?"
Ma Mie laughed. "Yes," she said. "And see, I will add five hundred
rupees to the government reward if you have him this time." She turned
and was gone.
"Light of my eyes! thou art gone," said Serferez to himself. "Fool
that I was not to recognise her! But, Allah! this is no time for
words. Bullen! Bullen! thief from the Boab, saddle me the roan
mare--and listen, on your head! Bear this telegram, and let it be
despatched at once. I want the police steamer at Myo to-night; and
you, sergeant, be ready with twenty picked men at the quay to-morrow
morning at seven. Soh! Is the mare ready? On your heads, see that my
orders are carried out to the letter." He swung himself into the
saddle, and five minutes later was Debte riding at a breakneck pace to
Jackson's camp.
CHAPTER XIV.
PALLIDA MORS.
Ah! woe is me! They brought him home,
My winsome knight of Dee:
On lances four my knight they bore,
Who died for love and me.
_Old Ballad_.
Three men ride through the shivering moonlight--ride with teeth set
hard and eyes that looked straight before them. Neck and neck they
race across the open, and then the man on the left mutters a curse as
they come to a stretch of rice fields. The long rice stalks seem
planted in plate glass, but it is only water. Under the water lies
three feet of mud, and beyond, like a huge dismasted hulk, rises the
solid outline of the forest. The fields are divided by narrow
embankments, and, as it is impossible to gallop through the quagmire,
they resign themselves to circumstances, and pick their way slowly
in Indian file across the narrow ridges that separate the sloppy
water-logged fields. Yet they speak no word. After a time, short in
itself, but which seems endless to the leader, they reached the end of
the rice ground, and then the foremost horseman spoke.
"Good God! must we crawl through this as well?"
"By your favour, sahib, the road is to the right. Let me lead."
There is a scatter of dead leaves, and Serferez, galloping forward,
plunged into the dark archway of foliage. Through its deep gloom they
race, and the hoofs of the horses fall with a dead sound on the damp
bed of leaves below them.
Shurr-r-r-sh! A sound of wild boar plunges into the thickets, with
much grunting and hubbub over the strange sight that flashes past
them. The old boar peers after the horsemen with his bloodshot eyes,
the white foam hissing round his tushes, then with a peculiar
long-drawn moan of anger he turns and shambles slowly after his tribe.
Light at last!--the fires of a native hamlet and the indescribable
odours that always hang around it. They dash past. There is a yell of
rage from the napless yellow pariah dog, roused from his sleep in the
middle of the road. He was nearly killed, and he protests vigorously
against such reckless riding. A chorus of his fellows take up his
complaint, and the riders push on amid a storm of howls.
"Don't think this beast will hold out," said Phipson suddenly. The
horse was almost staggering in its stride under him, and he knew by
the ominous way in which the poor animal seized the bit between his
teeth at intervals and flung forward his head that it could not keep
up the pace for long.
No one answered, for at that time the loud, deep whistle of a steamer
reached their ears, ringing through the woods with echo upon echo.
"Allah ho Akbar! 'Tis the steamer!" shouted Serferez.
"Thank God!" came in deeper tones from the very hearts of the two
Englishmen. The horses themselves seemed to know it. Brave hearts!
They had won a race for life, and ten minutes later kind hands were
rubbing them down on the deck of the little Beeloo, and the old
Panjabi was purring over the neck of his roan.
"There is none like thee in the land, my pearl," he said softly as he
stroked her silver mane--"there is none like thee in the land. By the
Prophet's head, I swear that for this night's work I will never forget
thee--never!"
"What's the time, Phipson?"
"Two thirty," said Phipson, holding his watch out to the broad
moonlight. "We reach Pazobin at seven to-morrow, pick up the men, and
go straight on."
Peregrine made no answer, but his white face as it shone out of the
moonlight almost scared Phipson, so fixed and rigid was its look.
"I say, Jackson!"
"What is it?"
"That was a devil of a ride. Think I'll turn in and take a nap, and
you'd better do the same." This was the policeman's way of telling his
friend he looked worn to death.
"No, thanks, Phipson, I can't sleep; I must see this thing through."
Phipson stretched himself out in a long cane chair and watched his
friend as he paced slowly up and down the small quarterdeck. "He must
be devilish keen," he murmured to himself, "or devilish hard hit."
And then all the starlight seemed to dim, and he was asleep. In the
white mists of the morning they reached Pazobin, and, taking on board
their men, started on at once. Phipson had persuaded Peregrine to
rest. "Look here," he said, "this is all Tommy rot! You've got to
rest. Have some grub first, throw away that infernal cheroot, and go
and lie down. You've _fighting_ to do this evening, and will want your
head and your nerves in first-rate order."
There was no gainsaying this, and after lunch Jackson fell into a deep
sleep. He was aroused by a scrunching noise, and woke with a start.
"What's the matter?"
"The matter is that it's half-past six, and that damned idiot of a
_serang_ has stuck us fast into a sandbank, and we can only get off
with the next tide. There's only one thing to be done. Get the boats
from Thomadine village and row for it."
Thomadine village was half a mile below, but a small boat had raced
them as far as the scene of the disaster. Matters were rapidly
explained to the occupants of the boat, the explanation was made clear
by the line of shining barrels that was pointed toward them, and they
pulled up alongside the Beeloo. Some of the crew were temporarily
transferred to the steamer, three or four policemen took their places,
and the long canoe danced back to the village. It was fully an hour
before it returned, bringing with it two other canoes, and, leaving
the police tug with strict orders to come on with the next tide,
Jackson and his men embarked in the boats, and, hugging the bank,
rowed for their lives. It was no time for words, no time for anything
but to strain every muscle to reach their goal. Suddenly a broad sheet
of flame lit the sky, and the reports of half a dozen matchlocks rang
out in quick succession; then came the short, sharp crack of a
Winchester, then another and another.
"By God, they've begun!" shouted Phipson. "Row on, you devils!"
"There's a short cut by the creek, sahib!" called out Serferez, and
the snake head of the leading boat, steered by Jackson, turned
promptly round, and with a little white sparkle of foam fizzing over
her bows she shot into the creek, followed in quick succession by her
fellows.
The sky was one sheet of light, for the village had been fired in
several places, and the houses blazed up like touchwood. Long forks of
flame from the mission school sprang up to the sky, and a dense cloud
of smoke rolled westward with the breeze. Still the Winchester kept
speaking, and every shot gave the rescue party hope, for they knew
that Smalley was selling his life dearly.
"We divide here into two parties," said Phipson as they landed. "You,
inspector, take six men with you, and make for the boats. We will
drive on to you. By God," he added, pulling his revolver out, "I
rather think we're only just in time!"
Serferez needed no second bidding, but was already off, and Jackson
and his companion marched rapidly forward.
"We'll give them a volley from here," said Phipson as they reached the
skirts of the clearing round the little mission school, about which
the firing was concentrated. "By Jove! they're going to batter down
the door. Steady, men! Fire!" The crackling of the volley was followed
by a cheer, and in a moment the police had rushed forward and were
engaged hand to hand with the dacoits. Some one sprang straight at
Jackson, but his hand seemed to lift itself up of its own accord, and
a second after a huddled mass lay before the smoking barrel of his
revolver. The issue was not one moment in doubt, and in a few seconds
the dacoits were heading straight for their boats. Here they were
intercepted by Serferez and his party, who gave them a warm reception.
Three or four of the dacoits, however, among whom was the Boh, secured
a boat and rowed off for their lives.
"Follow them!" shouted Jackson, springing into the snake boat; "not a
man must escape!" Phipson and a few others took another boat, and
there was a hot pursuit. The dacoits realized, however, that it was no
use, and, evidently resolving to die fighting, ran their boat ashore
on a small island near the middle of the river and took to the
thickets, from which they began a smart fire.
"Go behind, and take them on the rear," called out Jackson to his
companion. Almost as the words were spoken Phipson's boat turned to
the left and was round the head of the little island.
"Sit down, sahib; don't stand up--we are quite close to them now,"
said the _naick_ of police, who was in Jackson's boat. Peregrine
laughed, and the next moment the _naick_ uttered a cry of horror, for
a red tongue of flame shot out of the covert, and Jackson, flinging
his hands up, fell forward on his face with a gasping sob.
With a yell of rage the police grounded their boat and rushed into the
jungle. There was but half an acre of ground, and Bullen, son of
Bishen, Sikh from the Doab, had gone Berseker.
As the men landed the dacoits made for the opposite side of the little
island, but to their dismay found Phipson there. With a curse Bah
Hmoay darted back into the cover, followed in hot haste by Phipson.
And here in the uncertain light, where the jungle was so tangled that
there was barely room to use a sword, there was a short but desperate
fight. "Come on, Jackson, we have the lot here! Where on earth are
you?" shouted Phipson as his revolver barked out like a snapping pup,
and one of the dacoits fell dead, and another, staggering backward,
was finished by a policeman with his _dah_. "Where are you, Jackson?"
called out Phipson again.
"Jackson is in hell--where you will follow him!" and the Boh sprang at
Phipson like a panther. A projecting branch saved him from the
downward sweep of the long _dah_, the revolver snapped out again, and
the next moment they had grappled each other by the throat.
"I'm afraid it's no use, Bah Hmoay," said Phipson as he shook off his
assailant like a rat, and, throwing him heavily, placed the barrel of
his revolver against his temple.
Click! click! The handcuffs were on him like a flash of lightning, and
the Boh was surrounded by a group of men.
"This is Bah Hmoay himself," said one of the policemen as he held a
rudely improvised torch at the face of the captive.
"There isn't another of them alive on the island," said Bishen. "Two
were killed by your honour, two I have accounted for, and this is the
last."
"Where is the sahib?"
"He awaits you in the boat," said Bishen, and a chill went through
Phipson's heart.
"Why--what is the matter? Speak, can't you?"
"The doctor sahib will tell. Some one from the island fired, and the
sahib, he was standing, fell back in the boat; but the doctor sahib's
knowledge is great. He will live."
Bah Hmoay was subjected to the indignity of being frog-marched to the
boat. He was flung in without much ceremony, and a loaded carbine held
at his head. When Phipson reached his friend he found him unconscious,
and sadly the two boats rowed back to the village. As they approached
Phipson saw by the still burning town the tall figure of Serferez Ali
talking to Smalley, and close by the white fluttering of a woman's
dress.
"By God!" he groaned, "I don't think it was worth it, even for this.
Jackson, old man, can't you speak?"
But there was no answer, and almost at this moment they reached the
landing place. A cheer went up from those on shore, and Smalley came
forward with outstretched hand. "I can't thank you enough. Come, let
my wife thank you, too. Where is Jackson?"
Phipson shook hands with them both.
"Where is Mr. Jackson?" asked Ruys.
There was no help for it but to speak out at once before her. As the
words left Phipson's lips Smalley was beside the boat, and they
tenderly lifted out the wounded man and placed him on an improvised
couch of greatcoats. They stood round him in a sad group while Smalley
with gentle hands examined the wound, and the silence was only once
broken when a great sob burst from honest Serferez Ali, and the old
man turned away with his head hanging down. Ruys held a lantern for
her husband, and Phipson noticed that there was not a quiver in her
hand, although her lips were blue.
After a time Smalley rose to his feet and shook his head. "He can not
even be moved from here," he whispered, "and all my appliances are
under that blazing roof. God works very hardly sometimes." The dying
man moaned feebly, and Ruys was on her knees beside him.
"What is it? Can't you speak? Oh, husband, can not you save him?"
"God knows that I would!" said Habakkuk sadly, and then his wife bent
low to hide the tears that fell fast down her cheeks.
That strange power of hearing, that supreme strength which comes to
persons at the last, came to Peregrine now.
"Die!" he said; "who says I am going to die? I am young yet; my work
is not done. Mother," he cried, "I am coming!"
Ruys bent down and kissed the hot forehead softly. There was a
shivering of the limbs, and the strong young spirit had passed.
CHAPTER XV.
THE PASSING OF THE WOON.
Pick up the threads, the web is spun;
For weal or woe, the task is done.
_Maraffa_.
"Good-bye, Phipson. We can never forget what we owe you--you and the
poor boy who lies there. Come to us when you can. We will give you a
warm welcome. It's a big country, and there's room for a young man
with hands and feet. Good-bye again!"
Habakkuk shook hands cordially with Phipson, and passed up the gangway
of the Woon to join his wife, who had already said farewell. The siren
whistle screamed shrilly, and with much laughter and good-humoured
hustling the crowd on board left the decks, the paddles drummed, and
the Woon sidled back from the quay, and then, turning gracefully
round, steamed down the river, followed by a multitude of boats whose
gaily dressed occupants formed bright groups of gorgeous colour on the
gleaming water. Phipson stood and watched, and answered the wave of
the white handkerchief from the stern; stood and watched until the
convoy of boats became but little black specks, and the Woon entered a
curve of golden water that reflected back the glories of the sunset
and was lost to view. In the fore part of the ship, beside his
belongings, sat Serferez Ali, who had cut his name, and was going back
to enjoy his well-earned pension in his home in the Salt Range of the
Punjab. He was rich with this and the rewards he had gained, and if at
times he had done things which our civilization does not approve of,
that did not the less make him a gallant old specimen of his class.
Occasionally he would rise, and, walking to the inclosed space
reserved for horses, caress the soft muzzle of his roan, a round,
black muzzle that thrust itself confidingly forward toward him.
"We are going back, Motee, my heart--going back out of this accursed
land of swamps. Didst thou think, thou of the Waziri, that I would
leave thee to die here? Nay, nay! We are going back to the land
where women bring forth men. But we saw the assassin hang before we
went--hang-like the dog he was; and Bullen, son of Bishen, thy old
comrade, brave, but a fool, is now inspector in _my_ place. But
comfort thee, my pearl, we are going _home!_"
The mare whinnied back to her master, and the old man sought his seat
again, keeping one eye on a heavy brass-bound box and the other on his
favourite.
At intervals he watched the broad fan of the electric light throw its
white radiance across the river, and murmured to himself as he inhaled
the grateful fumes of the hubble-bubble:
"Prophet of God! But these English are a wonderful race! Nevertheless,
except for their cursed engines, the _khalsa_ would still have been.
_Ahi!_ those were the battles of giants!"
On the quarter deck Ruys, very pale and white, leaned back in a lounge
chair, and Habakkuk stood beside her with a new light in his eyes.
They watched the thin scimitar of the new moon gleam out of the sky,
and the gray mists creep up the river and enfold the dim and now
distant outlines of the forest. They were leaving the country, leaving
the East for good. One felt that to other and stronger hands must be
left the work so well begun by him; and as for the other, she had gone
through the furnace and had come out pure gold. From his post by the
man at the wheel Skipper Jack watched the pair. He was a man whom the
ordinary cares of the world troubled not, but on the present occasion
serious misfortune had assailed him, and he was out of temper. His
tobacco had run out, and he had sunk to the degradation of filling his
pipe with the half-burned stump of a cheroot. Skipper Jack stood,
therefore, hard by the man at the wheel, and, while his keen eyes
evermore watched the ship's course, his tongue murmured strange oaths
under his beard. But what was that, seen through the gloom, that
crinkled up the gnarled features of the skipper into a sour smile of
amusement? He saw it again, and in his astonishment almost dropped his
favourite clay.
"Bust me foolish!" he muttered to himself. "Blowed if the parson ain't
a-spooning the missis! Gr-r-r! the old pipe is out!"
THE WIDOW LAMPORT
But I laye a-wakynge, and loe! ye dawne was breakynge,
And rarelye pyped a larke for ye promyse of ye daye:
"Uppe and sette yr lance in reste!
Uppe and followe on ye queste!
Leave ye issue to bee guessed
At ye endynge of ye waye "--
As I laye a-wakynge, 'twas soe she seemed to say--
"Whatte and if it alle bee feynynge?
There be better thynges than gaynynge,
Better pryzes than attaynynge."
And 'twas truthe she seemed to saye.
Whyles the dawne was breakynge, I rode upon my waye.
Q. (_Oxford Magazine_.)
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.