"You'd better ask G.o.d 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. G.o.d will help me."

Lamport looked at her in amazement. "You d.a.m.ned 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; "G.o.d 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 pa.s.sage 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, G.o.d 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 pa.s.sionately, 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.

CHAPTER XIII.

HUSBAND AND WIFE.

On leaving the house Halsa and her companion walked toward the gate.

She had s.n.a.t.c.hed up a hat from the stand in the pa.s.sage as she pa.s.sed through, but had not thought of taking a cloak, and even by the time they reached the gate the steady drizzle had drenched her light dress.

She stopped here for a moment, and, turning, looked back at the house.

Through the mist of rain she saw the windows of the study and the lamp burning brightly. Within the study was--as she thought of him, an uncontrollable sob burst from her.

"Are you going to stay here all night?" asked Lamport roughly.

"Which way are we going?" she replied.

"Any way I choose; go straight ahead. Keep alongside of me if you can; if not, follow. I want to get out of the rain."

And Lamport, plunging his hands deep into his pockets, stepped forward at a pace so rapid that his wife was only barely able to keep up with him. They spoke no word to each other, but at intervals Lamport swore aloud to himself, and cursed Halsa. He was bitterly disappointed at the failure of his plans; he was furious with Halsa for following him as she had. He had not quite expected this. The drink was working in his brain, rousing him to madness.

Halsa felt that every step was taking her away from the best part of her life, and yet with all the sorrow was mingled a proud sense of the sacrifice she had made. Then a great doubt came upon her. Had she acted rightly? Was this man--this fiend who had deliberately allowed her to commit a crime--worth the sacrifice? No, a thousand times no.

She had it almost in her heart to turn back and throw herself at Galbraith's feet, to be his slave, to be anything, rather than parted from him. Then the horror and shame of it all made the hot blood rush in madness to her face. And so, on they went through the dark street, where lamps shone only at long intervals amid the ghostly gloom of the cocoa palms, and the rain now pouring fast. Her clothes were drenched through, and Halsa felt that her strength would not enable her to keep up with her companion much longer. At last she could endure no more, and slackened her pace. Lamport walked on for a little, and then, apparently suddenly missing her from his side, turned sharply.

"Did I not tell you to keep up with me?" he said.

Halsa made no reply, but the strain was too great for her, and she burst into a pa.s.sion of tears. Lamport looked on her for a moment, and then, raising his clenched fist, he struck her down.

"d.a.m.n you!" he said, "you can die there if you like." He had longed for this opportunity ever since they had left the house. He looked at the motionless body before him. "I have a mind to finish the job,"

said he aloud, and his knife seemed to slip into his fingers of its own accord. He glanced round him for a moment, and as he did so he heard the rumble of carriage wheels and saw the flash of lights as they turned the corner of the dark street, not fifty yards ahead.

Quick as lightning Lamport dashed down a narrow side road between two walls, and disappeared in the darkness. Almost as he did this the carriage came up. The horses shied backward on their haunches, and then stopped dead. There was the alarmed cry of feminine voices, and an anxious inquiry made in deeper tones. The groom, descending from the seat behind, went forward.

"'Tis some one lying on the road dead or drunk, Padre."

"Most likely the latter," was the reply as the Padre stepped out of the carriage and went forward. "Here, Pedro, hand me that light. Good G.o.d!" he exclaimed as he bent over the prostrate figure, "it is a woman--a European, too; there has been some devil's work here. Hold the light up, Pedro, while I lift her--thanks--Mother," said he to another figure, that of a woman clad in a long dark gown, who had followed him out of the carriage, "this is work for you; help me with her to the carriage."

He raised the body in his arms, and with the a.s.sistance of the nun and two others, her companions, who had come out of the carriage, put Halsa in.

"Is she dead?" asked one, evidently a young woman from her voice.

"No," said the nun whom the Padre had addressed as mother, "she breathes yet. Pedro, drive on quickly."

Pedro needed no further bidding; he waited but for a moment until the Padre climbed on to the box seat beside him, and then urged the horses on almost at a gallop through the endless avenues of palms. Finally they stopped before a large gate, and after much shouting it was opened, and the carriage drove in. They were met at the door by two nuns, and with their a.s.sistance the unconscious body of Halsa was carried in. The Padre examined the wound; there was a deep cut on the forehead, but nothing else. "There is no necessity for a doctor," he said, "but I shall tell D'Almeida to come to-morrow. This is a case of----" He touched his hand to his heart, and, giving the nuns his blessing, entered his carriage and drove off.

Very tenderly the nuns cared for Halsa. She regained consciousness in the morning, but when the white-haired Doctor D'Almeida came he p.r.o.nounced her in high fever. Then came a long illness, and after that convalescence. When she was better at last, she called the superior, Mother St. Catherine, to her side and told her her story. "And now,"

she said with a faint voice, "I am better and must go." Then the good nun spoke to her long and earnestly, and Father St. Francis came. He bore her news that made her cheek flush and then grow pale. "Take time to consider," said the priest as he left her. A week after Halsa saw the lady superior once more. "I have considered," she said. The superior looked into her eyes: "It is well," she said, as she stooped and kissed her.

CHAPTER XIV.

JOHN GALBRAITH GOES.

About half an hour before the time fixed for morning service, Mr.

Bunny, his face very grave and set, stepped out of the portico of the manse. He pa.s.sed through the narrow wicket-gate and entered the church enclosure. The Sunday-school cla.s.s was over, and a few children were loitering at the main entrance. Others were making their way home in little groups, a feeling of relief in their hearts, and with the consciousness of an unpleasant duty done. Bunny entered the tabernacle by a side door. The clerk was already there, and with him the elder, who had just dismissed his cla.s.s. They were talking in low tones, and looked up quickly as their ears caught the sound of Bunny's footsteps, which rang with a harsh clang on the stone floor. A whisper had gone forth from the servants' quarters at the manse that something terrible had happened during the night. The attendant who cleaned the church, and who during the service pulled the huge fans which swung in a monotonous manner over the heads of the worshippers, echoed this whisper to the clerk. It is the way news is carried in the East, and it is very rapid. It is impossible to tell how, but the mysterious thing called bazaar gossip travels from ear to ear, from mouth to mouth, telling strange tales which afterward unfold themselves in the press as news, or are discovered in a government resolution. And so the clerk heard a story from the puller of fans, news of the last night, thick with strange scandal, and he was dropping this into the elder's attentive ears. They stopped their conversation as Bunny approached, and somewhat awkwardly wished him good-morning. Bunny merely nodded in reply, and, turning to the clerk, begged him to excuse him as he had something of importance to tell the elder.

"If it is about Mrs. Galbraith, sir," replied the clerk, "I have just been telling the elder of it."

Bunny looked at him sharply from under his gray eyebrows, and the clerk, who was also his official subordinate, quailed under the glance.

"If so, you have been speaking of what you had no right to mention; but, as you appear to know something, stay and hear what I have to say, and you will hear what is the truth." Bunny then turned his back upon the clerk, and in as short a manner as possible described what had happened to the elder. He was no waster of words. He put what he had to say clearly before his listener, but his voice shook as he went on.