Yeats Levett - A Galahad of the Creeks; The Widow Lamport

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."

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!

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:

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.