THE DEVIL AT WORK.
A dull, miserable evening, gray clouds, drizzling rain, and a damp
heat. The loud blast of the conch horn from the Jain temple echoed in
the heavy air. The sound made the window panes in the study of the
manse rattle, and roused Halsa from her book. John had gone that day
some miles away to attend a meeting of pastors, and was not to be home
until late. His wife dined alone, and sat up in the study waiting for
him. As the prolonged notes of the horn reached her, Halsa put down
her book and held her hands to her ears. When the sound died away she
felt that, for the present, further reading was impossible, and
glanced at the clock which ticked in a dreary manner from the wall.
It was nearly nine. She rose from her seat, and, after pacing
the room for a few moments, stood before the window listening to the
soft patter of the rain. The sudden crunching of the gravel outside
under a firm tread roused her from the half-dreamy state into which
she had fallen. The footsteps were strangely familiar--yet not
Galbraith's--still, it could be no one else. In a moment she was in
the passage and at the front door. She opened this with a little cry
of welcome. "I am so glad you have come," and then she started back
with a faint shriek, for the man who stepped into the passage and
removed his dripping hat, diffusing a stale odour of damp clothes and
liquor as he came in, was not John Galbraith, but Stephen Lamport.
There was no mistaking him as he stood there, leaning somewhat
unsteadily on a stout cane, the light from a wall lamp shining full on
his face, the face she knew so well, and whose memory brought up days
of horror before her. There he was, his small beadlike eyes shining
brightly, and his red hair glistening.
"Well," he said shortly, "so you're glad to see me--sure there is no
mistake?"
Halsa made no reply. She leaned against the wall, one hand held
tightly over her heart; her face was white as death, and her lips
moved tremulously as if trying to frame a sentence.
"Well, Mrs. Lamport," continued her husband, "I happened to find
out that he"--he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, and Halsa
shuddered--"is on the preach, and I thought I should come and look you
up for old sake's sake, more especially as I have some business with
you, and I should like to settle this at once." He stretched out his
hand and touched her lightly on the shoulder. The touch seemed to
rouse her to fury. She sprang forward and seized the collar of his
coat with both hands.
"Yes," she said, "you have business with me. Well, then, come
here--quick!" She pushed rather than led him into the study, and,
closing the door, stood before him with clenched hands. "Now," she
said in a breath, "what do you want? I suppose that story of your
death was one of your trumped-up _lies?_"
Lamport laughed a little. "One question at a time. The story was not a
trumped-up lie, though I suppose you are sorry it was not the truth. I
ought to have died, but I was spared for you, don't you see? I haven't
got time to waste telling you all about it; here I am, and what I want
is--money."
"Of course," replied Halsa; "did you ever want anything else?"
"Not much, except to be even with you--and I have been even with you
and your psalm-singing parson. I found out some time ago that you were
here, and about to change your weeds, and I gave myself the pleasure
of attending your wedding as an uninvited guest."
"Oh, God, have you no mercy?" moaned his victim.
"You'd better ask God to give you the dollars--you'll want them badly,
if I mistake not," said Lamport as he seated himself in a chair.
"How much do you want?" asked Halsa in a faint voice. What she desired
was to gain a little time. All this had happened with such awful
suddenness. If she could persuade this man to go away with all she
had, even for a day, she could decide on some course of action. At
present, beyond the one idea of getting rid of Lamport, nothing else
crossed her mind.
"Oh, a thousand will see me!" said Lamport. "I suppose you can give me
a hundred now--take it out of the poor-box--and the rest I must have
in three days, or I blow the whole gaff. I will tell you where to send
it."
Halsa stood before him lacing and interlacing her fingers. While
Lamport was speaking she was thinking: money--there was no use in
giving this man money, even if she could lay her hands on the
impossible sum he named. She had never deceived John; she would not do
so now, come what may. She was a brave woman, and rose to her trouble.
"Stephen Lamport," she said slowly, "listen to me: you shall not have
one penny from me--you can do your worst. God will help me."
Lamport looked at her in amazement. "You damned fool!" he said; "do
you know what the consequences of this will be?"
"Go!" said his wife, pointing to the door; "I shall tell John
Galbraith all myself--he is a good man--he will know. Ah!" and she
sprang past Lamport, "John, you have come back--save me." She looked
at Galbraith's face, and the glance showed that he knew all. She slid
down and knelt at his feet. "Forgive me," she said; "God knows that I
was innocent."
As Galbraith entered the room Lamport retreated toward the corner,
and, laying his hand on the back of the chair, waited for what he
fully expected would happen. He was no coward, and was quite prepared
for a physical struggle. Galbraith had heard all. In their excitement
neither Halsa nor Lamport were aware that he had been in the passage
almost as soon as they entered the study. The first few words that
reached him rooted him to the spot, and he heard everything that
followed. For the first time in his life he felt the wild beast within
him awake. His breath came thick and fast, and then through it all a
voice seemed to shout in his ears that he had no claim--that they who
were before him were husband and wife, and he the outsider. The man
lived a lifetime standing there. At last he could bear it no longer,
and stepped into' the room. Gently, very gently, he lifted the woman
whom he loved, and supported her with his arm.
"I believe every word you have said; as for that man----" his voice
failed him. He stood before Lamport with an ashy face that quivered
with anguish.
But Lamport was not going to give up the struggle. He had wandered
here in a half-drunken state, bent on extorting money; if this could
not be done he was in the humour for any mischief. He was almost
sobered by what had happened, and his malice was ready to suggest the
means of inflicting further misery. There seemed no chance of the
physical struggle he expected. Well, he could wound in other ways than
with the blade of Bill's knife, over the haft of which he had gently
slipped his hand.
"Look here," he said; "that woman there is my wife--she dare not deny
it--I claim her."
Galbraith's hold tightened round Halsa's waist, but she drew herself
from him.
"It is true; every word he has spoken is true; but he has forgotten
the whole story--the ill-treatment, the wilful desertion, the devilish
malignity of his last action. Oh, God is very merciful, is he not?"
she cried hysterically; "and yet you," and she pointed to Lamport,
"are my husband, and I suppose the law gives you the right to claim
me. I am ready to go."
Galbraith walked to the table and sank into a chair. He buried his
face in his arms, and sat there silently. While Halsa spoke there had
been a short but mighty struggle in his heart between the man and the
priest, and as her voice ceased the priest had triumphed. The woman
looked at him as he sat there, motionless and silent. "Come," she said
to Lamport, "let us go--but first this----" She suddenly knelt at
Galbraith's side, and, taking his hand in both of hers, kissed it
passionately, and then rising walked out of the room into the night,
her companion following closely behind.
How long Galbraith stayed thus he never knew, but the gray light of
the morning was streaming into the room when he lifted his head and
looked around him. With a shudder he covered his face again with his
hands. A wild thought struck him that after all it might have been a
hideous dream, and he rose from his chair, but only to sink down again
in despair as the horrible reality of it all forced itself upon him.
He remembered it was Sunday, that in a few hours it would be time for
him to be in church. Of course this was impossible. He felt that he
could endure being in the house no longer, and, taking his soft felt
hat, walked out into the garden. Which way had she gone? A sob rose to
his throat as he thought of this--was he right? He began to doubt, and
then it struck him that he would see Bunny. He would tell Bunny all,
and act upon his advice; but as for the church, he felt he could never
enter one again. What had he done that this awful misfortune should
have come upon him? He bent his steps toward the road leading to
Bunny's house. Although the sun was barely up, he found the old man in
his garden, and he came forward cheerily to meet Galbraith. One look
at his face, however, told him that something dreadful had occurred.
"Come into my office," he said, and led John to the back of the house.