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CHAPTER VIII
CAST OUT FROM THE FOLD

A council, of which Galbraith was ex-officio president, controlled the affairs of the tabernacle, and adjudicated on all offences committed by members of the congregation against the rules of the body.

As far as he was able the pastor tempered the decrees of the council with mercy, and there was yet another thing which made this body weak in comparison with similar institutions in the West. This was the natural shallowness of the East Indian, and his inability to feel or think deeply. In this manner the gloomy tenets of a religious sect, which called themselves the elect of heaven, and condemned all others to eternal torment, were softened.

The instances were rare in which those terrible mental struggles so often described in the annals of Methodism took place. At the same time the belief in the direct interposition of the Creator in the smallest matters was intensified almost beyond imagination, and meanings were often assigned to the most ordinary actions of everyday life which, if they were not sad, would be laughable to contemplate.

Galbraith was an unconscious doubter, and he was perhaps the only man there whose faith, unknown to himself, was tottering on its foundations. In a dim sort of way he was conscious that there was something wrong with himself, and the impulse to throw off the chains of the cheerless belief to which he was bound was at times almost greater than he could endure. It was his hourly duty to exhort his flock to find Christ. Many of them asserted that they had made the discovery, and looked with complacent satisfaction on the certainty of future salvation.

But while John Galbraith was raising his voice and preaching to his people, there was that within him that told him that he himself was unable to find the haven of rest, and a longing for a warmer belief, one full of love and charity, would come upon him.

* * * * *

Elder Bullin, arrayed in a solemn suit of black, stood, hat in hand, at his doorstep. His brownberry was ready, the lamps flashing brightly in the darkness of the evening.

It was the date of the monthly meeting of the tabernacle, and the elder was determined to put Mr. Sarkies out of the fold, that "tainted wether," whose further touch was contamination. His daughters stood beside him to see him off, and the elder, rapping his stick on the fibre matting, impressed upon the girls the necessity for holding godly communion among themselves during his absence.

His speech was interrupted by the fact that in slipping his hand into his waistcoat pocket, he suddenly remembered that he had forgotten his spectacles.

Hastily stopping his discourse, he walked back to his room, and found the brown leather case lying on a square envelope on his writing-table. He picked up the case, and, pulling out the glasses, fixed them carefully over his eyes. He then picked up the envelope. It was not addressed, but carefully sealed. He rubbed it between his finger and thumb. There was evidently something inside it. The bright pink colour aroused his suspicions.

"The livery of the scarlet woman," he said, as he tore it open. As he read, the expression of his countenance changed from profound astonishment to anger, and then to utter contempt.

"Verses-poetry-Satan hath lain in wait for this unhappy young man, and his portion shall be of the wrath to come-verses-and to me-pah!"

He recognised the writing and the monogram, and was self-complacent enough to imagine that the verses were addressed to him.

When he returned to the hall his daughters were still dutifully waiting there. He said no word to them, however, but, entering his carriage, closed the door after him with a bang, and was rapidly driven off. The meeting was to be held in the church, and all the members of the council were already expecting the elder. On his arrival there was a solemn scene of handshaking all round, and then the pastor opened the meeting with a short but fervent prayer. At the conclusion of this, a decorous time was allowed for the members to recover a sitting posture, and Mr. Bunny, rising, begged permission to address the assembly. In a few words he explained that it was above all things desirable that their pastor should be a married man, and went on to say that the Lord had worked this out in his own manner, so that the spirit had moved Galbraith to seek the hand of their beloved sister, Halsa Lamport, in marriage, and that it was proposed to celebrate the ceremony with all the speed consistent with good taste. Mr. Bunny trusted that the assemblage would rejoice with their beloved guide in his choice.

It was scarcely possible to do otherwise than congratulate Galbraith, and the council did so, but in a half-hearted fashion that showed they doubted his wisdom. Elder Bullin alone raised his voice in protest. "She walks forth decked in gay colours that are not of the Lord's," he said, "and has not found the perfect peace. Far be it for me to interfere in this matter, but my conscience" – here he smote his breast with his hand-"tells me that it would have been wiser-" Mr. Bunny started up, but Galbraith laid a restraining hand on his shoulder.

"Gently, brother," he said; "let the elder say his say."

But the murmur of discontent that arose told the elder he had gone far enough. "I will say no more on this point," he said; "but as I am now addressing the meeting, desire to bring to its notice the scandalous conduct of our brother, James Sarkies, who, on the Sabbath before last, profaned the Lord's day by cursing within the precincts of the temple. Of what avail is it that such should be of our fold-better is it that we cast out the offending member. Does not the Scripture say, 'If thine eye offend thee, cast it out'?"

"The Scripture also says, 'Judge not, that ye be not judged,'" replied Galbraith. Elder Bullin lifted his eyes in smug satisfaction to the ceiling.

"I," he said, somewhat irrelevantly, "am sure of my salvation; are you of yours? Do you know where your footsteps lead you? Mine lead me to the golden gates."

At that moment the desire to say that he was walking blindly, and needed light more than any there, swept over Galbraith. He controlled himself with an effort, however, and sat still, leaning lightly on the table with his elbow.

"And furthermore," went on the elder, "the misguided youth has so far lost his respect for age that he has addressed me for forgiveness in poetry, and mocked me before my face." He laid the offending verses on the table as he spoke. "This is his writing," he said; "those who wish may read it."

Mr. Bunny stretched forth his hand and handed the paper to the pastor. Galbraith read it with an amusement he could not conceal.

"I think, elder," he said, "this was not meant for you."

Bullin fairly gurgled with rage. "I will read it aloud," he said, "and let the council judge." The paper trembled in his hand as he spoke, and it was with a voice quivering with anger that he read the unfortunate Sarkies's production.

Almost as the first verse was begun, however, a smile appeared on the faces of the members in assembly, and as the elder went on they burst out into uncontrollable mirth.

Bullin dashed the paper on the table, and made as if he were about to leave the meeting. "I will depart," said he; "the devil has possessed you that you laugh at the mockery to my gray hairs."

He had reached the door before restraining hands seized him, and he was brought back with many apologies.

Notwithstanding their amusement, the council were resolved to make an example of Sarkies. Galbraith, however, made an effort in his defence. He hoped, he said, to bring the erring youth back to better ways. But notwithstanding all his persuasions, he was outvoted in this instance, even Bunny taking the elder's side, and the expulsion of Sarkies was decided on.

Bullin was not inclined to let the grass grow under his feet. The formal letter was then and there written, signed by all the members, and handed to the clerk for despatch.

It was now deemed advisable to bring the sitting to a close, and this was done with the same formal ceremony of prayer which opened it.

The members now dispersed, the elder showing his gratitude for Bunny's support by insisting on driving him home.

CHAPTER IX
AT THE DIVAN EXCHANGE

When the news that Sarkies was cast out of the bosom of the church reached the family, there was at first consternation and despair. But pride came to their rescue. "I don't care," said Jimmy; and the mother and the aunt, tossing their heads, echoed his sentiments. Mrs. Sarkies returned a small box full of woolwork, the shop of the Dorcas Society, with a stinging note to Mrs. Bunny, in which she accused that innocent woman of having conspired to bring about the annoyance to which they were subjected. Mrs. Sarkies was convinced that it was solely through Mrs. Bunny's desire to have charge of the work of the Dorcas Society that all this had happened.

The next Sunday the whole Sarkies family drove slowly past the tabernacle in a hired phaeton just as the congregation were coming out after service, and cut every member dead. It was glorious. They came back to their midday meal feeling a calm satisfaction at having revenged a great wrong.

There was much discussion as to whether the family should join the congregation of the established church, or take the bolder step of going over to Rome-the latter for preference, as it would fairly spite their enemies. The question, however, was for the present left in abeyance, and until it was settled they decided not to go to any church at all. Mr. Sarkies himself felt a load lifted from his mind at this decision. He determined not to let his love affair rest, and, notwithstanding every precaution, managed to obtain an interview with Lizzie, by the simple process of clambering up the trunk of a cocoanut palm which leaned against the high wall surrounding the elder's garden. Mr. Sarkies climbed up sufficiently high to overlook the wall, and Lizzie stood on the ground below him. The glass-covered wall was, however, between them. The position was not dignified, nor was it exactly comfortable, and Mr. Sarkies dreaded the general publicity of the whole scene. Still, however, he came to a satisfactory understanding with Lizzie. When she finally turned and vanished amid the trees, her white dress flitting through the open spaces in a ghostly manner, Sarkies came down with a sigh of relief, and, arranging his somewhat disordered dress, walked slowly toward a cab-stand. Hailing a buggy, and jingling some coin in his pocket, he jumped in and drove rapidly toward the Fort. He had mentally determined to celebrate his success by having an evening at the Divan Exchange, a saloon kept by an enterprising American, who concocted wondrous drinks, where the billiard-table was good, and the ice-creams marvellous. There was quite a crowd of cabs collected at the door, and the place was full when Sarkies entered it. Over the bar was a huge transparency representing the face of a clock, with the legend "No Tick Here" inscribed in large capitals on its face-a motto often full of sore disappointment to the customers. Immediately below this stood Colonel William P. Tamblyn, the proprietor, watching the practised hand of his tapsters as they poured forth monkeys, dogs' noses, eye openers, maiden's blushes, and other drinks whose name is legion. From the rooms above came the click of billiard balls, and the monotonous call of the marker-"Fiftee-fiftee-two-good game, sar!" Little marble-topped tables were scattered about, and from a daïs in the corner half a dozen musicians regaled the company with a choice selection of airs, from the "Blue Danube" to "Yankee Doodle." The music was almost drowned in the buzz of voices. All nationalities except China were represented here. Colonel Tamblyn announced that he drew the line there, and a flaring poster both outside and inside announced that "Chinamen and Soldiers in uniform are not admitted."

Sarkies obtained a suitable drink; he chose that pink compound of rum, mint, crushed ice, and peach brandy which rejoices in the name of maiden's blush, and bore it away with him to the billiard-room upstairs. The tables were full, and Sarkies, making himself comfortable on a bench, waited for his turn to come.

Beside him sat a neat-looking man, clean-shaven, with red hair and small black bead eyes. His blue coat with brass anchor buttons explained his calling. His ducks were spotlessly white, and the pipe-clay on his canvas shoes evidently just dry.

"May I trouble you for a light?" said the man.

"Certainly;" and Sarkies handed him a small plated box containing wax vestas.

The stranger lit a cheroot, and, returning the box, inquired, "Come here often?"

"Ya'as-sometimes," and Sarkies took a pull at his drink.

"This is about the first time I've been here; my ship has only just come in. Pleasant place this." And the stranger watched the end of his cheroot keenly to see that it was burning properly.

"Have a game after this?" asked Sarkies, and the stranger agreed.

They were able to get a table, and a small bet was made on the game, which Sarkies, much to his delight, won. The stranger paid up, and as he did so he remarked:

"You play a very good game-may I ask your name?"

"Oh, Sarkies-I'm in Apcoon Brothers."

"The great shipping agents-delighted to meet you-allow me to present my card to you," and Mr. Sarkies's new acquaintance drew a card from a new leather case and handed it to him.

Sarkies regretted within himself that he had not brought a card-case with him, and determined in future never to be without one. He bowed politely over the outstretched hand of his companion, and took the card between his fingers; as he glanced at it an expression of surprise came over his face.

"Captain S. Lamport, Merchant Marine," he said aloud. "This is strange."

A shadow passed over his companion's face.

"I don't see anything strange in my name," he said a little sternly.

Sarkies looked at him; there was an ugly scowl on his face, and the Armenian felt a little alarmed. "Not that, captain," he said; "only I know a person named Lamport-and she is-I mean she is a widow, and is going to be married."

The stranger's brow cleared. "Let us sit down for a bit," he said. "I am much interested-and, sir, may I ask are you the happy man?"

"Oh, no-the padre of our-I mean the Methodist church-a Mr. Galbraith."

"Um! I see," mused Captain Lamport; "lots of money-eh!"

"I expect so." And then with a knowing smile Sarkies added, "The padre has the church funds, y'know."

"He! he!" laughed the captain, and poked Sarkies in the ribs; "sly dog-you're a deep one, you are."

Mr. Sarkies, much flattered by the compliment, proposed a drink, and the captain assented. In answer to his host's request to "name the poison," the captain suggested monkeys, and the monkeys were brought. Then there was more billiards and more betting, then a little rest and more monkeys, then monkeys, billiards, and betting combined, and finally Mr. Sarkies knew no more.

When he awoke again the stars were shining palely above him, and there was a faint flush in the east. His hands were resting on something damp on each side of him; he looked, and realized that he was on the open plain in front of the Fort. Instinctively he felt for his watch chain. It was gone. Mr. Sarkies rose to his feet, and the horizon swam before him. He placed his hand to his burning head, and staggered rather than walked toward the road. A late cab passed. Into this he entered and drove home.

CHAPTER X
EXIT MANUEL

During the last few days there had been great changes in the interior of the manse. The worn-out matting was renewed, and the squatter spider expelled from the corner where he had long revelled in security. The tumble-down sofa was condemned, and a comfortable lounge took its place. Everywhere there was a look of freshness. All day long there was the sound of hammering and cleaning up. Halsa and Mrs. Bunny personally superintended the reformation. Galbraith was willing enough to help, but he had no "hands," and was therefore relegated to his study. But with Manuel it was different. For the first time in his life Manuel realized what work was, and he was profoundly convinced that he and true labour would never agree. It was not enough that he had been called upon to clean and scrub, to hew wood and draw water, but insult was added to injury by Mrs. Bunny inquiring into the arrangements of the menage.

"Two bags of sugar a month!" said that excellent woman, holding up her hands in despair; "why, if it were all used, the man must be a lollipop shop inside."

"Who keeps the keys?" asked Halsa. She was halfway up a ladder, a small hammer in her hand. Manuel stood at the foot of the ladder holding it firmly with one hand, so that it should not slip, while with the other he held out at arm's length a plate full of tin tacks. The position was strained and unpleasant. "Who keeps the keys? Oh!" she shrieked, "how sharp those nails are!" and she drew back her fingers smartly and began to examine their tips. To one of them a tack was clinging. Halsa hastily descended, and Mrs. Bunny removed the offending tack. It left a small blue mark on the finger tip. In the meanwhile Manuel remained silent. He had no intention of replying to the question, and his yellow eyes glistened with pleasure at the little accident, which had apparently called away attention from an embarrassing inquiry. But Manuel was mistaken, for when Halsa had examined the mark for a moment, and was satisfied that it was only a prick, she returned again to the charge and repeated her question.

"I keep keys," replied Manuel sulkily.

"I told you so, Halsa," said Mrs. Bunny, waving a damp duster in the air. Mrs. Bunny had not mentioned the fact, but it was a little weakness of hers to refer to former prophecies after a thing had happened.

"Never mind," Halsa said, "you couldn't expect John to look after these things." There was a sense of proprietorship in her tone that was delightful to Galbraith, who had come in to see how things were going on, and had been an unobserved witness of the scene. Halsa was looking very pretty. Her arms were bare up to the elbows, and there was a bright flush on her cheeks. The brown hair, usually neatly braided, had become a little disarranged, and curled in an unruly manner over her forehead. Mrs. Bunny suddenly remembered that there was something to do in the study, and Manuel, ever watchful for an opportunity to escape, laid down the plate of tacks and vanished noiselessly. Galbraith glanced round him, and then his arm stole forth. Halsa avoided the caress by stepping back, and asked him how he thought the room looked.

"I never thought it could look so well," he replied, and he spoke truly. The magic of feminine hands had changed the cheerless-looking room into a bright, cosy chamber. It was not that the things were valuable; fifty pounds might have covered the cost of everything, except the American harmonium, which stood where the fireplace ought to have been. All the effect lay in the nameless power of arrangement which only a woman possesses-a touch here-a touch there-and the thing is done.

"I am glad you like it," said Halsa, as she stepped nearer to Galbraith. "See how I've hurt my finger;" and she held the wounded member up for inspection.

John took the small hand in his, and looked at the blue mark on her finger tip. It was hardly perceptible. The shadow of a smile flickered across his face as he kissed the little fingers tenderly, and then, drawing Halsa closer to him, kissed her once more on the lips-she nothing resisting now.

Mrs. Bunny's discreet cough in the next room warned them of her impending return, and when the good lady came in Halsa had once more mounted the ladder. When she had finished her work she came down, and they all took a final survey of their labour, and were pleased by it. Then Manuel was recalled from the back of the house, where he was employed in solacing his feelings with a native cigarette, and cursing his existence in the patois of Goa.

A few orders were given to him with regard to clearing up some débris, and then the party, including Galbraith, went into the hall, where the ladies put on their hats, and, escorted by the pastor, returned home. The whole home party of the Bunnys, except Eddy, were to dine at the manse that night with Galbraith, and he was nervously anxious about the success of the entertainment.

Manuel watched them as they went down the road. He shook his fist after the retreating figures.

"Oh, yes!" he said, "Manuel this and Manuel that-Manuel light fire-light lamps-clean house-make fuss-class dinner-Sancta Maria! what Manuel not do! – Iyoo!" He crossed himself fervently, and went on-"Missus come-missus want keep keys-Manuel not a dog-Jesu!" he exclaimed, "there is that accursed goat among the new flowers." He hastened out of the door, drove the milch goat to the back of the house, and fastened her up securely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Galbraith looked at him. "But I will increase your pay."

"No, sar; all pay same like to Manuel when in service, but when missus come-I no stay. My mother berry ill."

Galbraith smiled. "I thought your mother was dead," he said; "but it does not matter, you can go."

Manuel bowed again, and retired.