A CUP OF TEA.
The Rigaum Methodist Tabernacle was in a suburb of Bombay called by
that name. It was a small oblong building, washed a pale blue, and
embedded in a nest of cocoa palms. To the right a Jain temple raised
its gold-tipped cupola, and the chimes of the bell which called
together the Christian worshippers of the chapel were often drowned in
the discordant shriek of the conch horn, the shrill blast of trumpets,
and the incessant beating of drums.
This had resulted in a lawsuit, which ended in leaving the parties
much as they were before, except that it was a virtual triumph for the
heathen, and his uncanny rejoicings on the Sabbath became more
intolerable than ever.
So strong indeed was the feeling on the point that Elder Bullin
concluded an extempore prayer one day with the words, "_And we pray
Thee, O Merciful Father! to teach us to forgive our enemies; but to
send down the lightning of thy wrath on the heathen, that they, the
revilers and mockers of thy worship, may burn in torment without
end--Amen_."
With the exception of the pastor, John Galbraith, and Halsa Lamport,
the congregation consisted of Anglo-Indians and Eurasians of the
middle and lower classes, the hereditary office hands of the Indian
government. The church and the congregation were the remains of a wave
of religious enthusiasm that had passed over Bombay some years ago.
This originated with an American evangelist, who sought the East to
carry, as he said, "the glad tidings to the heathen white."
The revivalist met for a time with a success beyond his hopes, and
established at least a dozen churches which were filled with devout
worshippers. When the "Bishop," as they loved to call him, left to
return home, matters were apparently on a firm basis; but in a few
years the zeal he inspired died away, and the light burned but in a
few places, one of which was in the chapel at Rigaum. Here, at any
rate, it seemed to burn almost as brightly as in the palmy days of the
Bishop, and there was no doubt that this was due to the pastor.
By no means a learned man, yet with a sympathetic manner and a fund of
quiet humour that attracted all who came under its influence,
Galbraith was enabled to hold his flock together when their naturally
flighty nature and mutual jealousies would have driven them to
dissolve with curses.
The pastor lived in a small house adjoining the church, from which it
was separated by a brick wall. A narrow gate allowed a passage from
the chapel enclosure to the "Manse," as it was called. In the little
plot of ground before the house Galbraith had tried to cultivate a
garden, but his efforts were not particularly successful. Nothing
would grow here except cocoa palms. There was an everlasting haze of
soft dust in the air. The people were accustomed to it, but on a
stranger the effect was suffocating. One felt choked in this spot
where no pure air ever penetrated the wall of palms. It was never
really cool, but a damp pall of dust hung over everything. On the
morning we speak of Galbraith rose at an early hour, and, sitting in
the small portico of his house, called for a cup of tea. After a
little time his Goanese servant appeared, bearing a tray in his hands,
on which was a tea-pot, a cup and saucer, with an electro-plated spoon
lying beside it; there was a toast also, set in a drunken fashion in a
rack.
Manuel's appearance was not attractive, as he shuffled along with his
burden, the ends of his toes stuck into a pair of slippers which
clicked under his feet. He placed the tea things down on the small
table beside Galbraith with a sulky slam that set the spoon twittering
in the saucer, and said--
"Master's tea ready."
The pastor poured himself out a cup, and looked for the milk and
sugar. There was none. "Boy," said he, "where is the milk and the
sugar?"
"Yessar," and Manuel disappeared into the house. "It's very odd,"
mused Galbraith; "Manuel has been with me nearly two years now, and he
persists in not bringing milk and sugar with my morning tea. I must
really speak to him--perhaps it is a judgment on me for employing a
follower of the Scarlet Woman." He stirred the tea he had poured out,
and tasted it, but set it down with a wry face. "The old Adam is still
strong within me," he said with a half-smile. "I can not bear tea
alone."
In the meantime Manuel reached the back of the house and looked round
for the goat he had forgotten to milk. The goat was there, in the
veranda, and at sight of him she fled toward the temple, the Goanese
in hot pursuit.
"Jesu Maria!" he exclaimed as he seized her at last. "But thou art
accursed among beasts--stand still, pig, and be milked."
He squeezed a certain amount of milk into a jug, and, giving the goat
a parting kick, ran back into the house, the jug held at arm's-length
in front of him.
On a sideboard was a small glass bowl, in which there were a few lumps
of sugar. Manuel transferred one to his mouth, and then taking up the
basin in his disengaged hand hastened into the portico. He placed the
milk and sugar on the table, and silently took up a position behind
his master's back.
"Manuel," began Galbraith.
"Yessar."
"Why is it that I have always to ask you about the milk and sugar.
Negligent in these little matters, I fear that you neglect also your
higher duties."
Manuel ran his fingers uneasily through his oily locks, and burst out,
"Nosar--confess, sar--reglar."
"Confess!" exclaimed Galbraith, roused at having his servant's
religious belief thrust before him; "confess to an idol."
"Nosar--confess to Father St. Francis."
"Pish!" and Galbraith helped himself to a fresh cup of tea, but said
no more.
When he had finished, the Goanese removed the tea things, and the
pastor remained sitting in his easy-chair. He would have liked to
smoke; in fact, an almost intolerable longing seized him, but he
thrust it down.
"I will not desecrate the Sabbath," he said. He would not even look at
his flowers; but after staring for a few minutes at the cheerless
walls of the meeting-house, rose and went in.